The Deepest Blue(62)
Kelo dressed quickly, ignoring the twinge in his wrist, and then hurried out, nodding a quick thanks to the innkeeper, who hadn’t moved from the hall outside his room. He guessed it wasn’t often that a guest at a cheap inn was summoned to the palace. “I’d be delighted to accept your hospitality when I return,” he said as he ran down the stairs, two at a time.
“Of course!”
He strode quickly through the street, nearly at a run, and reached the palace in half the time it had taken yesterday. His heart was beating hard in his chest.
This is it. My chance. Mayara, you’ll be home soon.
Presenting himself to the guard—yet a third soldier—he stated his name and his business. “Kelo of Olaku Island. The queen requested to see me.” He pitched his voice to sound confident, as if this sort of royal summons happened to him every day. He wasn’t sure he succeeded.
The same moustached man as yesterday consulted his book, then gave a nod, and the guard stepped aside. Kelo continued across the blue stone bridge into the palace, slowing as he stepped inside the grand entry chamber.
Whereas the outside of Yena was scarred by weather and wear, the inside of the palace looked exactly the way it was supposed to: sheathed in polished shell, lit by chandeliers of firemoss, and draped in sumptuous ivory-colored buntings. A broad staircase led up, and four gilded doors led away. It was absolutely gorgeous . . . and he had no idea which way he was supposed to go.
“Artist Kelo of the island of Olaku?” a voice asked briskly. He turned to see a woman in a gold tunic that mimicked the doors. Her face was smooth, as if she never laughed nor cried. “You will follow me, please. Her Majesty has a full schedule, but she insisted I make time for you.” The woman sounded as if she didn’t approve.
Kelo wondered if she was one of those people who believed art was frivolous, an extra to life rather than central to it. He’d never understood those kind of people. But he trailed after her obediently. Obviously, Queen Asana can’t be like that, or I wouldn’t be here. That thought gave him hope.
He was led to another chamber, just as stunning as the entryway, but much smaller in scope, with murals of glass on the walls and two chairs carved of a red-colored wood he’d never seen. The woman left him there, with instructions to wait until he was summoned.
He didn’t sit. Instead he studied the artistry of the mosaic and tried to stay calm.
He heard a door open. Another, older woman entered. Unlike his smooth-faced escort, this woman had laugh lines in her cheeks and around her eyes that looked like the tracks of a sandpiper. She also wore clothes utterly unlike anything he’d ever seen an islander wear: a yellow concoction with ruffles on top of ruffles. It made her look as if she were drowning in fabric. She also wore a hat of feathers that was so garish it made his eyes hurt. She studied him openly, as if assessing an outfit she wanted to buy. “So you’re the one who carved the shiny shell. You made the queen cry.”
Kelo felt a flutter of worry. He’d meant to touch her heart, but he’d explicitly set out not to add to her sadness. Had he mis-carved? “That wasn’t my intent.”
The court lady snorted. “Of course it was. All art is about manipulation. Tricking someone into seeing things your way.”
Offended, Kelo couldn’t let that comment slide. “That’s not how I’d describe it.” Yes, he’d had certain goals with his carving, but it wasn’t about manipulation. Art was about reaching out, connecting with another person, and giving them what you knew they needed, even if they didn’t know . . .
Wait—was she right?
“Luckily for you, Queen Asana was impressed with your tricks. She’ll see you now.” She gestured to the door she’d come through. “Just as a reminder, you should bow, be polite, and don’t say anything you’ll regret later. Regret is for those who lack conviction.”
Unsure if that was a warning or advice, his heart pounding harder than he’d ever felt, Kelo walked through the door to face his queen. The courtier followed behind him, closing the door. She then plopped herself onto a chair next to Queen Asana. Her ridiculously voluminous ruffles poofed up around her.
Queen Asana sat straight-backed on a thronelike chair. His carving was displayed in front of her on a table made of suka wood. It lay in a nest of black velvet.
In some ways, Queen Asana looked like a work of art too: the skirt of her dress was paneled with painted scenes of the sea, and the bodice was embroidered with countless pearls. Her hair was wrapped in intricate braids and woven with strands of both white and black pearls.
In other ways, though, she looked like she could be any woman from his village. Her cheeks were soft and lined with wrinkles. Her eyes looked weary, and her smile was as kind as Kelo’s own mother’s.
Kelo bowed. “Your Majesty, you honor me.”
“It is I who am honored. You are the artist who made the shell portrait? Am I correct to think it is a portrait of me?”
“It is you, my queen, embracing Belene, as you do every day.” He added, “And it was made with the hope of speaking with you.”
Her lips pressed together, and he could sense her withdrawing. “I see.”
He glanced at the court lady, who looked smug. It’s not manipulation. “And the hope of bringing you joy. I think”—he took a risk and plunged on, thinking of Mayara diving into the cool blue sea—“you don’t have enough of it in your life.”