The Queen of Blood

by Sarah Beth Durst

  But Mistress Baria was still talking, praising her, saying her power shone through, and everyone had known it. Another lie. Or perhaps just a false memory.

  And perhaps one she could leave the old woman with.

  Daleina extracted herself. “My family isn’t expecting me. It’s a surprise visit. So I’d better surprise them before they hear from someone else. You know how villages are.”

  “Oh my yes. Why, once I had a raccoon break into my pantry, and by breakfast, everyone knew and appeared at my door with pastries—”

  Pulling Ven and Hamon with her, Daleina made her escape across the platform. By now, she was certain that word of her arrival had spread to her family. She just wanted to make it there without any more interruptions.

  “That explains a lot,” Hamon said blandly.

  Daleina shot him a look.

  Another voice called to them. “Daleina?” This voice was far more welcome: Arin, her sister, who was emerging from the bakery. “Is it truly you?”

  She looked so much older than the last time Daleina had visited. She’d sprouted at least three inches, and her hair was pulled back into a bun instead of the braids she used to wear. But most noticeable was the cast that encased her leg from ankle to mid-thigh. She had crutches under her armpits and a bag with bread loaves slung over her back. Swinging her crutches forward, she stopped just outside the bakery door. “If you’ve come to lecture me about being more careful,” Arin said, “I’ll hit you in the head with my crutches.”

  Daleina stared at the crutches. Lacquered black, they’d been carved with their mother’s signature designs, curled vines and flowers, and decorated with fresh charms. “I’m not . . .” Words failed her. She hadn’t been told of any accident. “Are you all right? Arin, what happened?”

  Smacking the wood with her crutches, Arin propelled herself forward. On past visits, Arin had run out of the house and jumped into Daleina’s arms. She’d been smaller then. Now Daleina wasn’t certain how to greet her, especially with the crutches. Daleina stepped toward Arin to embrace her or kiss her cheek, but Arin’s momentum carried her past Daleina toward one of the bridges. “Aren’t you coming? Mother and Daddy will be thrilled to see you.”

  Following Arin, Daleina asked, “How did you . . .”

  “Fell out of a tree. It happens. Please don’t make a big deal out of it.”

  If she’d been here, she could have ordered an air spirit to catch her. “Were you pushed? Who did this to you?” As a kid, Arin had been as surefooted as a squirrel . . . Or, no, that was Daleina. Arin had needed help on the thicker branches. But that was when she was little. By now, she should know every inch of the village trees—the ladders, the bridges, the ropes.

  “Of course no one pushed me. What a terrible thing to say! I was distracted, and I didn’t lift my foot high enough. Caught my toes on the lip of a bridge, and wheeee.”

  “But the railings—”

  “Flipped right over. It was remarkably ungraceful, and thank you for making me relive it.” Pausing, Arin adjusted the pack higher on her shoulder.

  Daleina reached for it. “Let me—”

  Arin pulled away. “I can do it. Not an invalid.”

  “Hamon is a healer. He could look at it later.”

  Matching his pace to theirs, Hamon began, “I would be happy to—”

  “Multiple breaks. It just will take time to heal. So you really didn’t come to check on me? I thought Mother would have sent you a message immediately.”

  “She didn’t. Or I didn’t receive it. I’ve been training in the outer forest.” But there should have been a way to get messages from her family to her. Headmistress Hanna sent the warning messages to Champion Ven; she could have forwarded a letter, especially if it involved Arin hurting herself. “How far did you fall? Is it just your leg? You could have broken your neck.”

  “You realize I have heard this lecture daily from Mother and Daddy.”

  “But not from me yet,” Daleina said. “Arin . . .”

  “We’re home!” Stopping, she waved her arm at the house.

  For a fleeting moment, Daleina thought, It’s not my home. Not anymore.

  Last time she had been here, it had been a one-story cottage nestled in the crook of a large branch. The roof had been thatch, and the walls were raw wood, weathered from the wind and rain. Now the roof was pottery tiles, layered in shingles, and the walls had been painted the kind of green that appeared on too-old bread. Charms, both old and new, were around the door and every window, as well as tucked into the shingles on the roof, twice as many charms as on an ordinary house, as if her parents had been adding new ones daily.

  “Oh, you haven’t seen it with the new paint! Do you like it? I did it myself. And look.” She pointed to swirls around the edges that looked like squashed flowers. Arin might have been excellent at baking, but her skill with paint was . . . less impressive.

  “Very lovely,” Hamon said, and Daleina could have hugged him for that. Her throat felt squashed in on itself. She didn’t know why she’d expected the house to stay exactly the same as her last visit. She knew intellectually that time passed. She’d changed. Everyone was older. But there was a piece of her that expected home to remain frozen in time, waiting for her to return and start the clock again.

  Flinging open the door, Arin announced, “Daleina’s here!”

  She heard her parents cry out her name, a clatter of pots and pans as they stopped cooking and then rushed to the door, squeezing through together. Both of them embraced her at once, and then her mother pushed her back at arm’s length. “You aren’t eating enough. You need more bread. Arin, did you buy extra bread?”

  “Of course I did. That’s why you sent me.” Maneuvering herself inside, Arin carried the bag of bread into the house.

  “Should she be running errands, with her leg?” Daleina lowered her voice, but Arin heard her anyway.

  “If they had their way, they’d wrap me in cotton and tuck me back in the crib,” Arin said. “Don’t you start too. It was a silly accident. It could have happened to anyone.”

  But it hadn’t happened to anyone. It had happened to Arin. And it could have been so much worse. Arin still hadn’t said how far she’d fallen or if she’d sustained any other injuries, or if her leg would recover. She could walk with a limp after this. Breaks didn’t always heal right. “You should let Healer Hamon—”

  “Oh, you’re a healer!” Mother said. “Naturally you are. And you must be Champion Ven. I am Ingara. This is my husband, Eaden, and my youngest daughter, Arin. We are so honored by your presence. Come in, please, come in.” She ushered all of them inside as Daleina wished she’d been quick enough to introduce them first. Instead she felt as if she were wading through muck, and she couldn’t understand why she felt this way. I’m home. I should be happy.

  “We were hoping we could impose on your hospitality for the night,” Hamon said, as graciously as any courtier. She admired how he could slip into city manners so easily, as if they hadn’t been sleeping in hammocks strung between branches for the past three months.

  “If I’d known you were coming, I would have cleaned.” Mother wrung her hands as she looked around the house. Recently washed clothes were drying on various lines throughout the house. Scurrying, Mother collected them into a pile. Dishes were out on the table, stacked and ready to be set. It wasn’t a mess, but it occurred to Daleina that home never looked like this when she came for her usual visits. She wondered how much they cleaned up before she came, or why they felt they had to put on a show.

  “I can help you,” Daleina offered, moving to intercept her mother.

  Mother shooed her away. “You, rest! I know how difficult training must be. And you have the trials! Oh, Daleina, we’re so very proud of you.”

  “I know.” She looked again at Arin, who had maneuvered her way around the table to begin peeling carrots at the sink. “How have you all been?”

  “Well! Of course, well.” Mother guided Ven and Hamo
n to seats, shooing dust off one and moving books off another. She added her pillows, embroidered with platitudes, as cushions, plumping them before placing them on the chairs. Daddy was watching them with wide eyes, as if they might suddenly sprout wings and sparkle. Daleina wished she could have given them a little warning that she was coming. She hadn’t realized what a difference it made having her other visits planned so far in advance. They’d had time to adjust their lives to accommodate her. Now she felt as if she were intruding. “Your father works hard. He’s been taking on some commissions from the capital. Can you imagine?”

  “Some of my chairs will be sat upon by silken—” He stopped himself and changed his sentence. “It’s an honor to have my work appreciated.”

  Ven examined one of the chairs. “You do fine work.”

  Daddy’s cheeks tinged pink. All of them were so very nervous that it made Daleina nervous. Family should be easy. Not this . . . awkward dance. What’s wrong with us? Or is it me?

  Mother beamed at them. “You’re in luck—we’d made stew tonight, so there’s plenty, and Arin had a hand in the seasoning. She’s a natural.”

  Soon, all of them were seated around the table, chairs squeezed in to fit them all, elbow to elbow. Arin’s crutches had been placed in the corner of the room, and her leg had been maneuvered to the side, where no one would knock into it. Mother scurried from the stove to the table, laying out food, while Daddy sliced and buttered the bread.

  Carrying the bread to the table, Daddy said, “In the beginning, there was only light and darkness.” He distributed the bread, one slice for each plate. Ven reached for a piece, but before Daleina could tell him to wait, he put his hands back in his lap, like everyone else. “And we were alone, hungry, thirsty, and cold. We floated in the light and dark for uncounted time, until at last a child was born, a tiny baby girl, no larger than a fist, who could speak as soon as she took her first sip of her mother’s milk. She spoke one word, ‘Earth,’ and the spirits of the earth were born from her command. They fashioned earth beneath our feet so we could stand. She spoke again: ‘Air,’ and we breathed freely for the first time. ‘Water,’ and we drank. ‘Fire,’ and we were warm. ‘Wood,’ and we had trees for homes and plants for food. ‘Ice,’ and we had seasons to grow and seasons to rest. And so we multiplied, until at last there were too many for our patch of the world. We began to fall off the earth back into the air. And she spoke again, one more time, ‘Die,’ and the spirits who had made our home became our scourge and sought our deaths.”

  Mother served the stew, ladling it into each bowl, but still no one ate. Daleina felt Hamon’s hand brush hers beneath the table. She entwined her fingers in his.

  “And we cried out to the baby, ‘Save us!’”

  Struggling to stand, Arin fetched the drinks. Daleina stood to help her and was shooed back down, without words to interrupt the story.

  “So she laid her own body in front of the spirits. Ice froze her skin. Fire burned her. Water drowned her. Air tore her limbs. Earth buried the pieces. And then Wood caused her to grow. From the pieces of her body grew stalks that blossomed, turned to fruit, and ripened. When the seed fell it was in the shape of little girls, and the spirits listened to what they said. The first to fall from the fruit of their mother became our first queen. It is she we thank for this meal, for our home, and for our lives. Her blessing on us.”

  Mother and Arin repeated, “Her blessing on us,” and Daleina joined in belatedly.

  Mother smiled. “Eat, eat, please!”

  “That’s a lovely version of the story,” Hamon said as he bit into the bread.

  Daleina felt as if her cheeks were red from fire. Her parents hadn’t always recited that before meals when she was home. In fact, she remembered once asking them not to, when she was in the academy. I don’t want to be the legacy of some long-ago self-sacrificial baby.

  “We tell it every dinner,” Daddy said.

  “Except when Daleina is home,” Arin said.

  “But since she begins the trials soon, it seemed appropriate.” Daddy smiled at her.

  “Only if the queen approves of me,” Daleina said. “It’s still not certain. I might have to wait until the next time.”

  “She’ll choose you,” Arin said confidently. “You’re the best.”

  Daleina squirmed in her seat, feeling like a child again. She wished Ven and Hamon weren’t here, though she couldn’t identify why she felt so embarrassed. It wasn’t as if her family’s faith in her was unappreciated. Their support meant the world to her. Even when her teachers despaired, Daleina knew her family still believed. But it wasn’t as comforting as it should have been.

  “Tell me how things have been here,” Daleina said.

  Daddy preened. “Arin has begun her apprenticeship! Every afternoon, after school is over, she works at the bakery. She’s even been commissioned to bake the wedding cake for Soria Eversten and Ysi.” He paused. “I don’t think you know them. Lovely people.”

  Daleina tried to smile. “That’s wonderful! When did you decide you liked baking?”

  “I’ve always liked baking,” Arin said.

  “And the baker’s son,” Mother said.

  “Mother!” Arin blushed.

  Vaguely, Daleina remembered Arin talking about the baker’s son. Surely she was too young to be thinking seriously. “Is he . . .” She didn’t know what to ask. “Nice?”

  Arin blushed harder. “Very. We’ve promised to wait until we’re eighteen, but then we plan to start our own bakery in the next village, Fawnbrook. It doesn’t have one, you see, and the villagers travel a fair distance to reach ours here in Threefork. We’re going to specialize in fancy cakes, the kind with elaborate decorations, and leave the ordinary bread to Josei and his family, so we won’t be taking their business.”

  “Indeed, that wouldn’t be kind, after all they’ve done for you,” Mother said.

  “He wants all the same things I want.”

  “Including children,” Mother said. “I want many grandchildren. But only once you’re old enough. Start your business first. Settle in your home, not too far away and with no rickety bridges that you can fall over.”

  “It was one fall!”

  “Just one fall can be enough,” Hamon said seriously. “I have seen cases of improperly set limbs that healed badly.”

  “I set it myself,” Mother said. “I assure you she’s healing fine.”

  “I meant no disrespect.” Hamon bowed his head.

  “Let the boy look at her,” Daddy said. “He’s experienced, I assume. You’ve been working with Champion Ven? Isn’t it unusual for a healer to accompany a champion?”

  “Daleina needed my assistance when she went blind,” Hamon said calmly.

  Daleina closed her eyes and wished she could disappear as her family erupted in shouting, each louder than the other, until her ears rang.

  “I’m fine,” Daleina said when they’d quieted, somewhat.

  Arin snorted. “At least you’ve all stopped fussing about my leg.”

  THEY SLEPT, CRAMMED INTO DALEINA’S FAMILY HOME. HER parents insisted that Daleina take their bed, Hamon slept on one of the chairs, and Ven chose a spot by the fire, claiming he preferred that after all the cold nights outside—the fire was good for his old joints, which Daleina knew was nonsense, since he didn’t have old joints, but worked well enough to satisfy her parents’ need to host them all comfortably. The alternative was kicking Arin out of her bed, and Hamon pulled his rank as healer to prevent that.

  Before sleep, he examined Arin’s leg and pronounced it healing. The fall had happened two months earlier—two months, and Daleina hadn’t known!—and it would be a while before the bones stitched themselves strong again, but they would mend.

  Daleina slept poorly, dreaming of her sister falling from the top of the wire paths or being dropped by the ermine air spirit from above the clouds. She saw Arin’s body fall, and as much as her mind shouted to the spirits to catch her, none did. Arin plummet
ed toward thorns on the forest floor.

  Daleina woke, sitting upright, with the house still filled with shadows. The fire crackled in the hearth, burning low, the embers glowing across the room, and she suddenly felt as if the walls were too close. She slipped out of bed and walked silently through the house. She remembered which boards creaked and which didn’t. She lifted the latch on the door and let herself outside.

  Outside, she breathed in. But it didn’t help. It still smelled thick with the scent of cooked dinners and washed laundry. Daleina climbed to the roof of the house and sat on the cool pottery tiles, between the bits of charms. She looked up at the leaves. High above, she saw a strip of night sky, pricked with stars. She stretched her awareness out, checking for spirits, and felt a few, around the edges of the village, but none close.

  She sat for a while, trying not to think about tomorrow and the trials, or what it would be like to meet the queen, or what she would do if the queen refused, or what Ven would say. Instead she thought about Arin, who belonged here, and her plans to start a bakery with the baker’s son.

  She heard the latch below and felt the tiles react when Ven climbed up onto the roof with her. He didn’t say a word. He sat beside her and looked up at the sliver of night sky.

  “Coming home is hard,” Ven said.

  “It shouldn’t be,” Daleina said. “They love me. I love them. It should be easy.”

  “Once you leave, it’s never easy again. Or at least it’s never the same. You’re not the same. You can’t expect them to be.”

  She nodded. “Sometimes they feel like strangers. And still, I’d die to protect them.”

  “If you think I’ve been spending all this time to teach you how to die, you haven’t been paying attention.” Quieter, he said, “You will live, little Dally. You must live.”