The Queen of Blood

by Sarah Beth Durst

  And that was the moment that the earth spirit tried to kill her.

  She felt the wolf stiffen as she plucked the last burr out, and she twisted around, expecting to see Ven stride into the clearing. But he didn’t. None of the leaves rustled. She cast her senses out, checking for the spirits—and beneath her, the earth dissolved.

  “Bayn, run!”

  The solid dirt shifted into a mucky sand, and she sank to her waist. Ignoring her command, Bayn lunged for her and snapped Daleina’s shirt in his jaws. Daleina wrapped her arms around the wolf’s neck. Bayn scrambled his paws backward, trying to yank Daleina out of the shifting sand, but the sand was oozing outward, dissolving more of the solid ground—it was going to trap the wolf too.

  “Get Ven!” Daleina ordered the wolf, and then she released his neck. Her shirtsleeve tore as he refused to open his jaws. “Now!” The wolf obeyed, releasing her and bounding into the forest, as the sand pulled Daleina faster, down to her armpits.

  She cast her mind down—the earth spirit was beneath her. This wasn’t a tiny spirit. This one’s mind felt old, smart, and aware. It extended far under the earth, embedded in the bedrock, with tentacles that reached through the stone, deep.

  She knew instantly it was more powerful than she was, so she cast upward toward the other, smaller spirits. Help me, she commanded. To the wood spirits, she called, Grow the roots. She pushed a picture toward them, thickening the roots, growing them toward her, and the wood spirits emerged from the trees. Gleefully, they pounced on the roots.

  To the water spirits, she called, Wash the sand away! Flood it!

  The roots thickened and spread through the loose sand. Rain trickled between the leaves, and then fell harder. Daleina reached for the roots. As she tried to kick her legs, the sand seemed to melt around them. She sank up to her neck.

  Grow faster!

  More wood spirits piled onto the roots, and they continued to thicken, plumping like loaves of bread in an oven. She grabbed one. And then she felt a meaty hand clasp around her ankle and yank her downward.

  She lost her grip on the root. Her mind screamed for the wood spirits as rain poured into the sand, but not quickly enough. The sand closed over her head, stinging her eyes, filling her nose, and seeping into her mouth. The hand pulled her deeper, and she flailed her arms as she screamed with her mind. Her lungs burned.

  Help me! she called to the spirits.

  She felt them above her, growing the roots and flooding the sand with water, but neither the roots nor the water reached her. She sank too quickly, deeper and deeper, with the hand clutched tight around her leg, its fingers reaching from her ankle to her thigh. Her leg ached from the pressure. Her whole body felt compressed by the sand, as if it wanted to shrink her.

  Ven will come, she thought. Bayn will find him. He won’t let me die.

  Unless this was a test. And she was failing.

  She tried to cling to those thoughts as her mind fragmented. Her mouth opened—to breathe? To scream? Sand poured down her throat. It tasted, she thought, like burnt toast.

  And then she thought and felt and tasted nothing.

  VEN LINED UP HIS SHOT: A PLUMP SQUIRREL, ABSORBED IN TRYING to crack a nut by bashing it on a branch. One flick of his wrist, and it would have a knife through its throat. A quick death. He pulled a charm out with one hand and draped it onto the hilt of the knife. The wood spirits would ignore his blade buried in the tree, at least for long enough for him to retrieve their dinner.

  “Champion Ven!” a voice boomed. Popol, the healer.

  The squirrel froze, and then, clutching the nut, scampered out of range. Sighing, Ven lowered the knife. “You couldn’t have waited?”

  “You asked us to meet you,” Popol said, genuinely perplexed.

  Apologetically, his assistant Hamon held up a bag, which Ven assumed held food. He hoped it was fresh. Ven accepted it. “I’ve taken on a candidate,” he said with no preamble.

  Popol blinked. “You what? But I thought you were in disgrace. Oh, that’s splendid news! The queen has lifted her exile? I knew her benevolence—”

  “She hasn’t,” Ven interrupted. “But I have my duty.”

  “Oh.” For once, Popol was out of words.

  “I am about to initiate the next stage of her training, and I need a healer on call. I don’t plan to go easy on her, and I don’t want her dying unnecessarily.”

  Popol frowned. “I am depended upon by upwards of twenty villages for—”

  “I’d like Hamon,” Ven cut in.

  Popol’s eyes widened. “Hamon? But he’s just a boy.”

  “Actually, I grew up,” Hamon said. “Time has that effect.” He said this without any hint of disrespect in his voice, which Ven found impressive.

  “It’s time to grant him journeyman status,” Ven told Popol. “Past time.”

  Popol looked at Hamon as if seeing him for the first time. The boy had grown into a young man with clean-shaven cheeks and well-earned muscles. “But he’s the best assistant I’ve ever had.”

  “Exactly why you should set him free.”

  “Exactly why I need him,” Popol said. “The outer villages need him. I’m—we’re—stretched thin enough as it is. The demands—”

  “He will also have the chance to gather and study rare plants and herbs, found only in the less-populated areas—I remember he was interested in that. A unique opportunity.” The trick with Popol was never to let him work himself into a rant. He was a good man, but he liked the sound of his own voice and he was overly impressed with his own sense of logic. “Truthfully, it isn’t your decision. It’s Hamon’s.”

  Popol huffed. “It’s the master’s right to declare when the student is ready.”

  “And you already said he’s the best you’ve ever had,” Ven said, trying to stay patient. Popol should have released Hamon a year ago. “Hamon? What say you?”

  Hamon bowed to Popol. “It has been an honor to serve and be trained by you, sir. You are a credit to healers, and songs should be written about you. Now it’s time for me to humbly take my training out in the world, so that more can see the results of your mastery.”

  Popol preened. “Well. Yes. But I’ll miss you, boy.”

  The goodbyes were suitably awkward, and Ven spent a while watching the trees while they each praised each other and wished each other well, repetitively. At last, Popol trundled off down the bridge, toward the nearest village.

  “Laid it on a bit thick, didn’t you, boy?”

  “Master Popol feeds on praise the way other men feed on bread. Besides, it costs me nothing to make him happy.” Hamon attached his pack to his back. He flashed Ven a rare smile. “I trust you don’t require constant compliments?”

  “Just a few now and then.”

  Straight-faced, Hamon said, “I’m honored to be working alongside someone with such expert woodland knowledge, superior battle skills, and an impressive beard.”

  Ven stroked his beard. “Indeed you are.”

  They left the path, heading back toward where Ven had left Daleina. Hopefully, whatever Hamon carried in his pack would make up for the dinner that Ven had failed to shoot. He knew Daleina would be hungry after the intense training from earlier in the day. He was working on her physical reflexes, climbing up and down the trees and practicing her knife throws—she was surprisingly adept at both, most likely thanks to her outer-forest upbringing, but he also had to credit the survival classes. Unlike some candidates, she hadn’t neglected those. With a fully trained body, she’d be free to devote her mind to her powers. Her muscles would know how to react on their own, freeing her mind to focus on the spirits.

  “Tell me about your candidate,” Hamon said.

  “She’s too concerned with doing things perfectly, a habit from the academy. Though they’d deny it, they teach that it’s more important to be strong than smart,” Ven said. “I’m trying to break down the structure they’ve imposed. Their training is excellent for a certain type of student, but for Daleina
, she needs to allow herself more flexibility in her thinking—”

  He heard branches break. Automatically, he stepped in front of Hamon and drew his knife. Crouching, he prepared to strike, as a wolf burst through the underbrush.

  “Hold!” he told Hamon.

  It was Bayn.

  He knew instantly something was wrong—he’d never heard the wolf be anything but stealthy. Without waiting to explain to Hamon, he ran after the wolf. He heard the boy—young man—scramble after him, as Ven swung from branch to branch, leaping while the wolf ran just ahead of him below, leading the way.

  The wolf burst into a clearing and then halted abruptly and howled.

  Ven ran after him toward the clearing. Jumping in front of him, Bayn snapped at Ven’s legs. He stopped just on the edge of a morass of loose sandy earth. The wolf howled again, and the message couldn’t have been clearer if he spoke:

  Daleina is down there.

  Quickly, Ven dropped his pack and yanked out a rope. He secured it around a tree and then tied it around his waist. He then sucked in as much air into his lungs as he could, and he dove into the shifting sand.

  He kept his eyes squeezed shut, but felt the sand fill his ears and nostrils. It moved around him, shifting, as if he were diving through oatmeal. He kicked his legs, propelling himself downward, and his hands encountered soft flesh. Daleina!

  He closed his hands around the limb—an arm—and he grabbed back at the rope, pulling on it. But Daleina didn’t budge. He pulled harder—it didn’t matter. Something was holding her. He pivoted and dove down farther.

  His lungs began to burn. He had to work fast, release whatever was holding her. He expected to find a knot of vines. Instead, it felt like stone, clamped around her. Dammit, release her!

  Moving his arm through the sludge of sand, he drew his sword and plunged it into the stone. Let her go! The stone loosened, and Ven tugged Daleina upward, yanking himself up on the rope.

  The rope itself began to pull upward. He burst out of the morass and gasped in air. Sand filled his mouth, and he spit it out as he hauled Daleina out of the quicksand.

  Hamon and Bayn were both pulling the rope, helping him out. Hamon rushed forward and dragged Daleina out and lay her on her back. Ven crawled out on his elbows beside her. “Is she alive?” Ven spat out sand.

  “No,” Hamon said as he tore open his healer’s pack.

  CHAPTER 16

  Daleina woke in darkness. Her eyes felt as if they’d been scalded, and when she blinked, it felt as if knives were being plunged into the back of her skull. She reached up to wipe the grit from her face, and her wrist was caught by a hand. “Don’t fight,” an unfamiliar voice said.

  Every instinct screamed at her to claw the sand from her eyes and to run, far away from the shifting sand, from the monster, from the pain. But then she felt cool water poured over her eyelids. A cloth was rubbed gently across her face, and then more water. Her head was tilted to the right, and she coughed, splitting up bile mixed with sand. It scraped her throat like a thousand fingernails, and tears popped into her eyes. The tears were rinsed away, along with more sand.

  Reaching with her mind, she felt deep into the bedrock, for the spirit . . . Nothing. No monster beneath the rocks. The water continued to pour, washing her eyes. Moving hurt. Breathing hurt. Who are you? she wanted to ask.

  “Is she going to live?” Ven’s voice.

  She clung to his voice as if it were a rope tossed to her as she drowned. She wanted to say yes, she was alive, she wasn’t beaten.

  That he hadn’t broken her yet.

  “Her heart stopped,” the unfamiliar voice said, calm, as if commenting on the weather.

  “I know, but is she going to live?”

  My heart? It was impossible to imagine. Her hand twitched, and she raised it to lay over her heart. She tried to feel the heartbeat through her sand-encrusted shirt.

  “Yes. But there may be damage.”

  “Fix it,” Ven said.

  “Stop talking, please.” The other voice was mild, calm, and male. She couldn’t tell the age, but she thought he must be a nice singer. His voice was a smooth baritone. “Relax, Daleina—you’re safe now.”

  She lay still and let the healer continue to pour water over her eyes. At some point, she must have lost consciousness again, because the next moment she became aware, she tried to open her eyes and couldn’t—her head was swaddled in soft cloths. Reaching up, she touched the bandages. “Hello?” she tried to whisper. Her throat felt raw, as if it had been scraped with a fork all the way down to her lungs. Ow.

  “Lie still,” the baritone said. “You need to rest.”

  “Who are you?” There, that sounded louder, more human.

  “My name is Hamon. I’m a healer.” His voice flowed over her, like the water. It made her feel as if everything was all right, as if she was being taken care of, as if she were home. She’d never heard a voice with that kind of power in it.

  “Where’s”—she stopped, tried to swallow, tried again—“Champion Ven?” Her voice creaked, like a rocking chair made of brittle wood. A thousand times ow.

  “He’s hunting. Said he wants to make you soup.” Hamon sounded amused. “I didn’t know he knew how to make soup. His usual cooking technique is to stick meat into a fire until it’s burnt.”

  She knew she should smile, but her face felt stiff. “My eyes?”

  “Need to heal.” She felt his hand laid over hers. His hand was warm, like a blanket.

  “How long?”

  He didn’t answer. “How are you feeling?”

  She considered being stoic and strong. She was a candidate, after all—she wasn’t supposed to be slowed by pain—but he was a healer, and it felt stupid to lie. “Everything hurts.”

  “You have no breaks, miraculously, but your body was under tremendous strain. You were the rope in a tug of war. Do you remember any of it?”

  She shook her head and then wished she hadn’t as pain blossomed fresh through her skull.

  “Champion Ven dove into the quicksand after you and stabbed the spirit with his sword. I don’t think anyone has ever fought a spirit within the earth before. As he told it, the spirit was surprised enough to release you, and Ven pulled both you and himself out.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “What do you mean, ‘why’?” He sounded startled, unusual in such a soothing voice. His voice reminded her of chocolate, she decided. “He wanted to save you.”

  “I failed.” She wanted to elaborate, but every word still scraped her throat. She’d failed her test. She was unworthy. By all rights, he should have left her in the soupy earth. As soon as she was well enough to move, he’d be taking her back to the academy, dumping her on the doorstep. Some hero she’d turned out to be. She couldn’t even protect herself. No one wanted a queen who needed saving.

  “You encountered an old, strong spirit,” Hamon said. “There’s no shame in that.”

  “Lots of shame. I can’t move.” The truth of that last sentence echoed in her head. “Why can’t I move?” She tried to shift her leg.

  She felt calming hands on the sides of her face. “I had to give you a large dose of medicine—a mix of firebrand and moon-moss, which if you combine three to one and . . .” Hamon began then stopped. “Your muscles will remember how to move. In the meantime, you need to be patient and rest. The forest won’t fall down around us if you sleep a little more.”

  “And my eyes?”

  He was silent for a moment. “You need to be patient—”

  “Am I blind?”

  “Your eyes were scratched by the sand. They need to rest.”

  “But will I—”

  She felt fingers pressed to her lips, stopping her. “Rest,” Hamon told her.

  Daleina tried, truly tried, but her mind churned, replaying every second that she could remember, trying to pinpoint what she did wrong and what she could have done differently. If she’d summoned the spirits faster . . . If she hadn’t clung to Ba
yn . . . If she’d been more aware to begin with . . . She spread her awareness out as she “rested,” and felt the location of every spirit around her, from the tiny ones in the upper leaves to the ancient slumbering ones within the trees. She’d never felt one as large as the one within the bedrock before, and she couldn’t find it now. It must have fled the area, or burrowed deeper.

  She heard Ven’s voice. “How is she?”

  “Stubborn. Like you. She pretends to cooperate, but she’s lying there, awake, most likely berating herself for not being instantly well. Speaking of which, you should let me examine you.”

  “I’m fine. Will she recover?”

  “It’s too soon to tell. Give her another few days to sleep, and then we’ll see.”

  She wanted to speak up then, tell them she couldn’t sleep for a few days, she couldn’t afford to lose the training time, she didn’t want to fail . . . But then she felt sweet, syrupy liquid on her lips.

  “Drink,” Hamon commanded. “It will help.”

  She drank. And then she slept again.

  At some point, she woke and ate soup, which tasted like burnt meat. Some time later, she woke again and was able to sit up. Later, Hamon helped her stand. He steadied her as she relieved herself, and she realized he must have been cleaning her before now. She was grateful for the syrupy liquid after that realization. Maybe it would erase the memory of how terrible it was to feel so helpless.

  She didn’t know how much time had passed before she was strong enough to feel her way over roots without help. Bandages were still wrapped around her eyes. Underbrush scraped her legs. Bayn nudged her knees, guiding her behind a tree so she could relieve herself on her own. It was her first triumph since her failure with the quicksand.

  That night, she sat still as Hamon unwrapped the bandages. Ven told her he’d douse the fire so the brightness wouldn’t hurt her eyes. She blinked them open. The lids felt crusty.