The Cerulean Queen Read online

  There, thought Gunnit, that was why the Spirits sent me here.

  Cerúlia now stood next to the Fountain and the Basin.

  She raised her hands over her head and shouted, “Cease!” When the fighting continued, the four catamounts roared as one, a horrific noise that echoed off the walls.

  The fighting paused, midstrike. Two or three hundred people stared at the small figure on the dais.

  “Though I have gone by many names, I herewith claim back my true identity,” she called out in a ringing voice, stretching her arms wide. “I am Cerúlia, the daughter of the late, brave Queen Cressa the Enchanter and the heroic Lord Ambrice.

  “I. Am. Your. Queen.”

  A chorus of shouts rang out, but Gunnit couldn’t tell if the speakers were joyful or dismayed.

  “I order all of you to cease this fighting.”

  An under-footman yelled, “But yesterday, you was a village wench from Wyndton.”

  Another voice yelled, full of reproach, “If you’re the queen, where have you been all these years?”

  “Yes,” shouted a man Gunnit recognized as Matwyck’s secretary. “No one should accept her just at her word. And even if … Well, Cerúlia deserted us, while the Lord Regent kept us safe.”

  “Listen,” Cerúlia commanded. “After Matwyck the Usurper tried to assassinate my mother, I kept in the shadows, hiding from him and his powerful allies. I grew to maturity in Androvale. As Fate would have it, I was sheltered and protected by the very Wyndton family this palace feted yesterday.

  “I was forced to flee the Eastern Duchies when the Lord Regent’s hunt for me came too close.”

  She turned to address Matwyck directly and pointed up at him on the balcony. “Your relentless pursuit caused the death of my foster father, Wilim, the peacekeeper of Wyndton, who—once my mother’s Enchantment weakened—sacrificed his own life rather than betray my secrets. This is just one of the multiple crimes I will demand you answer for.

  “Since I left the realm,” Cerúlia continued, her voice growing stronger with each sentence, “I have pursued retribution. I traveled far and fought Weirandale’s enemies.

  “I will hide no longer. I have come to take my rightful place on the Nargis Throne.”

  “She’s a fake!” Matwyck yelled. “A fraud in a blue wig or colored hair. An imposter. A witch.”

  “Not so!” contradicted Water Bearer, her voice squeaky with outrage. “I know her. She is our own princella, finally returned to us.” Faces turned doubtfully from one speaker to the other.

  “No! No!” shouted Matwyck. “Will you listen to a doddering nursemaid? Shoot her before she poisons your minds with more of her lies.” He gathered his strength and continued in a reasonable, persuasive tone. “Everyone in this room knows me; I have governed well. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for Weirandale. She is a stranger, tainted with foreign ways—some inexperienced female—I am your rightful ruler.”

  “Really, Matwyck?” Cerúlia asked sarcastically. “But you should know, if you are a faithful regent, that the hallmark of a true Nargis Queen lies not in her hair,” (she deliberately tossed her long hair over her shoulder) “but in her Talent.”

  “Ah!” shouted Matwyck. “But Princella Cerúlia was never Defined, was she, Sewel?” He pointed at a small, well-dressed man standing amidst the chaos on the ground floor. “She never went through a Definition! Sewel! Tell the truth, now!”

  “Alas,” the man called out. “’Tis true she was never Defined—”

  “Ah, Chronicler Sewel,” Cerúlia interrupted, inclining her head. “It is nice to see you once more. Do you now recognize my Talent?”

  “Aye, Your Majesty,” he said, and he knelt. “And I pray you forgive my earlier ignorance. Thou art Cerúlia the Gryphling.”

  “What?” Matwyck shouted. “What kind of Talent is that?” With purposeful mockery he forced himself to laugh and looked around, inviting others to join in. “No one even knows what that means. This is not one of the recognized Royal Talents. Note, my friends, that this imposter doesn’t even claim to be an Enchanter or a Warrior. Did I hear you correctly? Did you say, ‘gryphling’ or ‘piffling’? This piffling girl, and her band of—of—overdressed mercenaries, have caused a great deal of ruckus and a great deal of unnecessary bloodshed this morn.”

  His voice deepened and grew stern. “I demand that you lay down your weapons and surrender to the proper authorities. You are under some sad delusion, so you will be dealt with mercifully, I give you my word. Order will be restored.”

  A duke shouted, “This breach of the peace is a scandal. If this woman has a claim, let her come before us and the Circle Council will judge her story. Only an imposter would assault the Throne Room by force!”

  Watching the room, Gunnit saw doubt creep into some people’s eyes. Gentry on the balconies shouted comments supporting Matwyck. Many palace guards gripped their weapons with renewed intent.

  Instead of answering Matwyck or appealing to the onlookers, Cerúlia remained silent. In fact, she closed her eyes.

  Then she motioned with her hands as if she were conducting the musicians who had played at the wedding feast yesterday.

  First, the crowd in the Throne Room heard the dozens of dogs in the palace kennels. Every dog began to howl or bark. But the kennels stood some distance away, and while the noise surprised everyone, it struck them as more curious than distressing. Then, every horse in the stable started a frenzied neighing, a sound so loud it penetrated the building, especially when it was accompanied by a tremendous clatter, as if the horses kicked against their stalls. The next moment, a flock of birds of all kinds—hundreds, maybe thousands of birds—landed on the stained glass roof of the Throne Room in a crashing wave, blotting out the sunlight with their numbers. They sang, cawed, shrieked, and tapped the glass with their beaks as if they would break it. Finally, the four mountain lions within the hall jumped up to the dais. At this point no one could hear their roars, but their wide-open mouths and claws slashing the air presented a terrifying sight.

  People shrank from the noise in terror, putting their hands over their ears. All had a sense of the tremendous army of creatures—an army capable of destroying every person in the Throne Room, every person in the palace—controlled by the slim woman with her eyes closed and her arms raised. If any still harbored doubts that this woman wielded a Talent granted by Nargis, such doubts fled.

  Cerúlia moved her hands again with a flourish, and the roar of the animals abruptly cut off. The birds lifted off and light streamed back in.

  The abrupt silence was equally awe-inspiring.

  Someone standing on the balcony took advantage of the moment to situate himself behind the Lord Regent and deliver a mighty shove. As watchers screamed, the lord teetered at the balcony railing, tumbled over, grabbed at a vertical baluster with one hand, held on for a moment, and then lost his grip, hitting the marble floor with a stomach-turning thud.

  Cerúlia regarded the crumpled man for a moment. Then she raised her gaze to the balcony.

  “Whoever did that, you have done us no service. You may have deprived the realm of the chance to learn the truth about the assassination attempt on Queen Cressa and the full extent of the Lord Regent’s treachery.”

  A guard close to the crumpled figure exclaimed, “He’s alive.” Another voice called, “Where are the healers?”

  Cerúlia displayed no interest in her injured enemy; she was intent on a different goal. She looked around the room. “Is there a Brother or Sister of Sorrow with us?”

  “Brother Whitsury is nigh, Your Majesty,” called out Water Bearer. “It’s fitting. ’Twas he who officiated at Your Naming when you was just a wee babe.”

  Gunnit recognized Brother Whitsury, slim and serious in his gray robe, from all the messages he had furtively taken to the abbey. The Brother pushed his way through the crowd and climbed the six steps. He walked to the Dedication Fountain.

  From centuries of Weir lore, the crowd knew the rituals of
a Dedication. With a collective sigh of satisfaction, everyone knelt, one knee on the floor, the other leg bent at the knee, hands resting on the bent knee, head bowed low. If members of the crowd still supported Matwyck, they feigned devotion so as to blend in.

  Gunnit alone—who was not a Weir, who served another Spirit—stood erect, intent on observing every detail of the ceremony.

  Brother Whitsury placed both of his hands in the spray of the water that spewed over the enormous, jagged quartz rock. He took the water he had gathered and trickled it over the young woman’s head, saying, “By this anointing with Nargis Water I pronounce you Queen Cerúlia of Weirandale. Do you Dedicate your life to the welfare of the realm and to the security of its citizens?”

  “I do Dedicate my life,” Cerúlia answered.

  “Do you Dedicate yourself as the champion and protector of all Weirs, young and old, lowly or high, poor or wealthy?”

  “I will Dedicate myself,” she vowed.

  “And do you Dedicate yourself to safeguarding her Waters, the Waters that grow our food, quench our thirst, and grant us life?”

  “I do Dedicate myself, from now until I perish.”

  Then Cerúlia walked over to the waist-high golden Basin that continually caught the flowing water and continually let it overflow its rim. She plunged her right hand into its swirling pool. She pulled out of the water something small and shimmering.

  This was a piece of Nargis Ice. The new queen held it aloft for a long moment, showing it to the hushed assembly. It flashed in the sunlight that shone through the stained glass. Gunnit saw a figurine that was part eagle, part lion, hanging from delicate threads.

  Cerúlia handed the symbol to Brother Whitsury; he fastened the transparent chain about her neck. The figurine nestled in the hollow of her throat, shimmering slightly, lighting up her face.

  She turned her body slowly around on the dais, facing first east, then south, then west, then north, so that all the people in the Throne Room could see her wearing her token of Nargis Ice. A majority of guards flung down their weapons. Quite a few people, including Water Bearer, began to weep.

  The church bell began chiming again, now with a continuous peal, and the sound echoed slowly through the room and throughout the city.

  As Cerúlia turned around once more, her eyes happened to meet Gunnit’s. His heart soared at the expressions of surprise, recognition, and happiness that swept across her face. She brought two fingers to her forehead in a jaunty salute.

  But out of the corner of his vision, Gunnit, who was practiced at keeping an eye out for threats to his flock, saw an arm that extended from a shadow on the second balcony behind her nock an arrow. For the second time that morning he screamed a warning. “Watch out!”

  Cerúlia startled at his shout, but the arrow was already in mid-flight. It struck the newly anointed queen, who fell down with a muted cry.

  At that same instant Gunnit registered a dog barking loudly and the acrid smell of smoke.

  6

  Tilim thought himself fortunate that Sergeant Athelbern of the palace guard, whom the boy had frozen with a sword point poking his kidneys, turned out to be one of those guards who quickly dropped his sword and bent his knee when Cerúlia revealed her true identity. Tilim trembled with relief, because otherwise he would have had to kill the man in cold blood.

  He would have done it, he could have done it (he was almost sure), but he was glad he didn’t have to.

  Tilim, who had never been enchanted by Queen Cressa, and who had always thought his foster sister magical, was not as dumbfounded by Cerúlia’s revelation as his mama, whose face looked anguished as events unfolded before them. He placed a hand on his mother’s shoulder when the queen said something about Lord Matwyck being responsible for his father’s death.

  When the queen dropped from sight, struck by an arrow from above, Tilim was already running toward her. He fell in with several blue-caped soldiers, but they had to push onlookers and combatants out of their way, whereas Tilim wiggled through small openings, so he got there first. The catamounts had formed a protective circle about her, and Brother Whitsury crouched at her side, holding her up against his knee. The arrow stuck out of her upper right arm, but Tilim saw little blood.

  Tilim took her left hand, and she smiled at him. He thought he was going to have her to himself, but suddenly a yellow-haired boy, not quite as tall as he was but stockier, showed up on her other side. Around them, Tilim became vaguely aware that fighting had broken out once again.

  Wren—no, Queen Cerúlia—addressed both boys. “Tilim and Gunnit, I didn’t want to do this, but it seems we must.

  “I want you two to run and unlock the kennels. Let loose every dog you can find. And while you are at it, free the horses too. And then open every door in this blasted building so that the dogs have full access.”

  Just after she said the word “dog,” a large, white-patched face thrust itself into the huddle of the three of them and licked her chin.

  “Hey there, Whaki,” she greeted it.

  The yellow-haired boy interrupted, his voice urgent. “There’s a fire. I smell smoke.”

  “What?” The queen half tried to sit up, grimaced, closed her eyes, and grabbed her arm.

  “Move out of the way,” a man’s voice ordered.

  Looking up, Tilim saw a stranger in a black-and-white outfit, his hair—some locks the most outlandish color—in intricate braids.

  “Foolishness,” the stranger said to the queen, “to leave me behind! Look at what has happened!”

  “Sir!” said Brother Whitsury, aghast. “You address the Queen of Weirandale!”

  “Queen? Ah, I see the hair blue and pretty piece of ice.” Meanwhile, his dagger had cut through her shirt where the arrow protruded, and his long fingers gently explored the area. “Truly, what I see is foolishness.”

  A sword entered the tight circle of people gathered around the queen’s supine body, and its point moved straight to the stranger’s throat. Following the sword upward, Tilim saw a soldier in a blue cloak, shining breastplate, and bright helmet. The dog growled.

  “Drop your dagger and back away,” the soldier ordered the stranger.

  Tilim’s sister opened her eyes. “Everyone, let’s not fight one another. This is Ciellō. He’s been my bodyguard for half a year. He will do me no harm except chastisement. Who are you, Shield?”

  “Your Majesty, I am Captain Yanath, I served Queen Cres—”

  The stranger, this Ciellō, interrupted. “She is injured. Later we will make the introductions.” He swooped the queen into his arms with one hand under her back and another under her knees. “Lead me,” he ordered the soldier. This captain and another blue-caped guard clustered close to Cerúlia’s form and moved quickly in the direction of the East Entrance, the dog at their heels.

  Tilim stood up and saw that some of the blue capes had bunched tapestries together as if they were ropes and were now climbing up these priceless artworks to get to the first-floor balcony. Fierce fighting raged there between gentry loyal to the old order and the soldiers. He wouldn’t want to be the tapestry climber if Mama got ahold of them.

  He turned to the yellow-haired boy, who wore the uniform of a page boy. “Introductions later, I guess. Do you know where the kennels are?”

  The two boys pushed in the direction of an exit, but in struggling through the crowd Tilim crashed into the broad belly of stableman Hiccuth.

  “Come with us!” Tilim shouted. “We’re on an important mission.”

  Hiccuth hustled with the boys to the kennels, where the dogs were barking and growling loudly, jumping against their pens. Though wary of setting them free, Tilim followed his orders. The dogs broke up into packs of four or five, streaking toward the building, noses to the ground.

  The yellow-haired page said to Tilim, “You’ve got the dogs well underway, right? I’ve gotta go see about this fire.” And he ran off toward a wing of the palace from which smoke had started to billow.

&nbs
p; Meanwhile, Hiccuth began to turn the horses loose into a large fenced paddock, so Tilim sprang to help. The horses milled about, nervously rolling their eyes, intermittently breaking into wild, short spurts. They made no attempt to join the fight, but neither would they be penned up, easy at hand for anyone seeking either to flee or to gather reinforcements.

  The boys had thrown open a few doors on their way out; now Tilim and Hiccuth rushed back to the royal residence, opening any barriers dogs pawed or growled at. Already they could hear the results of their efforts, because the packs set themselves on the new queen’s opponents.

  Brawls spread all over the central structure, into outbuildings and the grounds, as people tried to flee and the dogs chased them down, grabbing their ankles or leaping for their throats. Armed men turned to skewer the dogs with swords or daggers. Women desperately climbed on furniture while dogs lunged up at them, sometimes connecting with flesh, sometimes just rending the air with their gaping mouths. People—and dogs—died.

  Tilim witnessed a pack corner one man dressed in a servant’s outfit. The man raised his hands up high and knelt down in a gesture of submission, reminding Tilim of how a beaten dog shows his belly. The dogs then held back from pouncing; they just watched him with sidelong glances, their ruffs high and heads low.

  “If you lay down your weapons and give up, the dogs won’t attack!” Tilim started running about screaming at the top of his lungs. Others took up the call. “Throw down your weapons! Surrender to the dogs!” Men and women, guards and gentry, realized that fighting back meant being mauled to death. They capitulated.

  Escorted by watchful canines, Tilim led people who gave in to the stable and locked them in a horse stall.

  Hiccuth copied his lead, but just as Tilim realized that the task of locking up all of the Lord Regent’s confederates was too big for the two of them, Chamberlain Vilkit appeared.

  “Yes, yes,” the chamberlain said, rubbing his hands. “We will use this stable as a temporary jail: it has several advantages in that it is large enough, away from the fire, and water is handy.”