Cerúlia had seen several Raiders get stitches; now she didn’t understand how they had kept from screaming and cursing. “Lots of places,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut and biting her lips. “Leaving Wyndton for one. Matwyck’s men had chased me down. Wilim warned me. That’s why I left.”
“Hmm,” said Stahlia. “We’ll talk about this another time. Hold still. Stop breathing. Your chest keeps moving.”
“Kind of hard not to breathe,” muttered Cerúlia. “And you were the one who wanted to know everything.”
“Hold still, I said!” admonished Stahlia, biting her tongue in concentration.
Through the intense discomfort, Cerúlia realized that if Stahlia was sewing her wound and chastising her, her foster mother had not disowned her even though now she knew the reason behind Wilim’s suicide.
Nana’s voice floated into Cerúlia’s dizzy consciousness. “You’ve got her, missus? Looks like the fire is getting worse. I’ve gotta go and see if I can help.” As she was almost out the door she threw over her shoulder, “I’ll send up some victuals. You’ll both need fortifying, I’d wager.”
Cerúlia took shallow little pants while the stitching proceeded. She grabbed Whaki’s ruff for comfort.
In idle moments on Misty Traveler she had predicted that when she became queen she would feel transformed—grander, nobler, wiser—but she still felt disappointingly just like herself, only a version of herself jabbed in the arm. She tried to relive the moments when Whitsury anointed her and when she pulled out her very own token of Nargis Ice. She reached her free hand up to make sure she still had the necklace. The events of the morning had happened so fast that she’d hardly had time to absorb them.
“There!” said Stahlia, tying off and snipping the thread from the more jagged exit wound. “It’s still bleeding, though.”
“Yes, it will, for a few days. Let me see.” Cerúlia scooted to the side of the bed. “Help me up?”
Stahlia put her arm under her shoulder. Cerúlia led the way to the large looking glass, but the shreds of her white shirt obstructed her view.
“Get this off of me?” she asked Stahlia.
“I need to cut it,” she answered. “No loss. ’Tis ruined anyway.”
“Here. Use my dagger,” offered Cerúlia.
Stahlia pulled the dagger from its sheath. “Oh, the Waters! Look at this!” She marveled at the golden catamount heads. Then she cut the fabric from the neck down the shoulders so it fell away without Cerúlia needing to move her arms or torso.
Turning sideways and stretching to look over her shoulder, Cerúlia examined the wounds on both sides of her arm in the mirror. “Nice job, Teta,” she said. “Cerf would be pleased.” But in the glass she saw that Stahlia was not listening; her foster mother was distracted by the burn scars on her back.
“We’ll talk about that some other time,” Cerúlia announced firmly. “Right now you want to put a soft bandage on the stitches and find a cloth to wrap around my arm so it will stay.”
Cerúlia sat down on a chair while Stahlia finished dressing the wound with fabric she tore from linens she found in the wardrobe.
From the lower floor of the palace the new queen heard screams, the sound of running feet, and growls. The smell of smoke also grew more pungent. Cerúlia yearned to be in the midst of the action, but she accepted that right now her shaky presence would only hamper others’ efforts. She had to trust that the dogs and her supporters could deal with the remnants of Matwyck’s forces and this unforeseen fire.
“Now,” said Cerúlia. “Yonder is my moth—Queen Cressa’s wardrobe. You’ve never fancied how I dressed. Find a gown for me to wear, the more regal the better.”
Cerúlia sat, holding her throbbing arm, while Stahlia pulled out various possibilities. They decided on a loose, dark blue velvet sleeveless shift (which wouldn’t bind her wound), and its matching robe with a trim of soft white feathers.
After Stahlia helped her dress, her foster mother turned to her hair, grabbing the loose locks from each side of Cerúlia’s face, twisting them, braiding them together in the back, and tying off the braid.
Cerúlia stood and gazed at herself in the looking glass. The gown fell too short; everyone’s eyes would immediately be drawn to the scuffed leather boots she still wore. But then she looked up from this defect.
Who is this woman in velvet, with cascading blue hair and a shimmering necklace of Nargis Ice?
I’ve played other roles so long: now I must play Queen. Or finally … is this not a role, but the real me?
A knock on the door woke her from her self-contemplation.
Cerúlia glanced at Whaki, who looked alert, but whose ruff lay smooth. She nodded at Stahlia, who called, “Enter.”
A blue-caped shield held the door for a servant carrying a heavy tray.
“Who are you?” Cerúlia asked.
As the servant carefully set the tray down, the guard made a formal bow. “Your Majesty, I am Yanath of Riverine. I was a member of Queen Cressa’s Shield. It is my honor to lead your Shield until such time as you choose your own captain.”
“No. I don’t want a new captain—you and your men performed admirably today. But I am afraid I don’t remember you from my childhood. Whom do I recall?…” She rummaged in the storehouse of long-ago memories. “There was a sergeant who protected us that night—a Sergeant Bristle. And I was quite taken with Shields Pontole and Seena.”
Captain Yanath gave a dim smile at the familiar names. “Your Majesty, most of those are no longer with us. From Queen Cressa’s original troop, myself, Branwise, and Pontole are all who remain. Shield Pontole was injured in the Throne Room just now.”
“Would you find out how he is doing? And after I have eaten, I wish to talk to you more.”
She turned to the servant, whom she didn’t recognize. The servant sank into a low curtsey. “Your Majesty, Nana asked me to bring you this tray.”
“Good. You’ve brought enough for an army; I can feed my guards too. You are?”
“If it please you, I am one of the under-cooks. My name is Kiltti.”
“Kiltti, I need you to find me a bottle of willow bark syrup and either oil of thyme or oil of tarragon to ward off miasmas in my wound. Those would be in the healers’ cabinets. Can you do that?”
The under-cook nodded, smiled, and curtsied again. “Welcome home, Your Majesty. Most of us is overjoyed to see you. Anything we can do.”
“Thank you,” said Cerúlia, but neither Yanath nor Kiltti left the room.
The captain cleared his throat. “Forgive me, Your Majesty, but it is customary to say, ‘You are dismissed,’ when our presence is no longer required.”
“Ah! Yanath and Kiltti, you will be my private tutors in royal protocol. For now, though, you are dismissed.”
They departed. Stahlia made her sit, poured her tisane, and bade her eat. Cerúlia had lost her appetite in worry over what was happening throughout the building, but she forced herself to eat a few pieces of cold meat and fruit. Whaki sat on the floor beside her, resting his head on her knee, gazing up at her face with sighs of adoration.