The Queen of Sorrow

by Sarah Beth Durst

Behind her, miles from the destruction but inches from her, she heard the familiar tap of a cane—the former queen of Semo, Queen Jastra. Merecot hadn’t summoned her, and the old queen hadn’t knocked. She’d simply strode into Merecot’s chambers as if she were always welcome. Used to obeying the ex-queen, the guards hadn’t thought to stop her.

  I’ll to speak to them about that. Sternly, with colorful language and a few choice threats.

  She contemplated requesting a lock, but she knew it wouldn’t be wise—her guards had to be able to reach her quickly, in case of any assassination attempts. Given her past experience . . . well, she knew sometimes people tried to kill queens. And if she were asleep when an attack came, she’d need the guards—the spirits wouldn’t defend her if she wasn’t awake to summon them. Instead they’d happily watch her be murdered. Probably while eating snacks and cheering as if it were a sporting event.

  Jastra spoke. “I’d thought that, after the demands of the crown were lifted and all my lovely power at last diminished, I’d want nothing more than a peaceful life where I could putter in a rose garden and meddle in the lives of my grandchildren. But it has been so much more satisfying to stay and meddle in yours.”

  Merecot’s lips twitched, but she kept her focus on the faraway spirits. What is the old woman getting at? The word “meddle” was at least accurate. Jastra never shied away from expressing an opinion or doling out advice.

  “Choosing you was the best decision I’ve ever made.”

  She means it, Merecot thought with a shock.

  The truth and warmth in Jastra’s voice was undeniable. Merecot felt a lump in her throat and tears prick her eyes, which was an annoying and embarrassing reaction when she was trying to concentrate. She’d never had anyone appreciate her before. Not her teachers at Northeast Academy—they’d expelled her despite her skills. Certainly not her parents—they’d resented the very fact she’d been born. “Careful,” Merecot said. “You’ll make me feel emotions that I’m not equipped to process. Like gratitude.”

  Jastra cackled. “Then I’d best think up an insult.”

  On the mountain, the fire spirits dove into the crater and then flew up in a billowing cloud of ash and fire. Switching focus, Merecot ordered the air spirits to funnel the toxic smoke upward before it could spread.

  She heard Jastra ease into a cushioned chair. It creaked beneath her. “Or I could insult your sister instead. If she hadn’t failed, you would be queen of Aratay by now, and there would be no more need to play catch-the-lava with fire spirits.”

  All the warm, fuzzy feelings fizzled away. She should have known the moment was too nice to last. “Nice” wasn’t for Merecot; “nice” was for other people and their lives. And that’s fine. I don’t need nice, not from Jastra and not from anyone.

  “Admit it: your sister was foolish. She allowed sentiment to slow her hand.”

  Lava crept down the side of the mountain. Merecot didn’t have to direct the ice spirits to freeze it—they pounced on it with savage joy. Howling, the fire spirits spewed more. Inwardly, she howled with them. Outwardly, she was silent.

  Jastra sounded smug. “You’re learning control. Good. A year ago, you would have flown into a rage if I’d dared make such a statement. It is gratifying to see you mature. Not many queens have the opportunity to observe their successor grow and blossom. I am blessedly lucky.”

  If it weren’t for my “control,” you’d be dead. “It would be prudent of you to remember you aren’t here because of luck, blessed or otherwise.” Merecot delivered a pointed look to the older woman. Queens who abdicated (the very few who did) were always targeted by the spirits they used to command and typically didn’t live long before suffering some kind of “accident.” Without a queen’s additional power, they couldn’t defend themselves against all the spirits who hated them. Merecot was protecting Jastra—that had been the agreement when Merecot was crowned, and she’d abided by her promise. So far. “You test my patience. It is not wise.”

  The old woman laughed again. “Perhaps I’m merely testing to see if you will crack, so that I can take the reins of power back again.”

  “Unlikely. You’ve become a coward in your dotage, content only to criticize from the shadows. If you were to become queen again, the people might remember you caused all their problems.” As two fire spirits charged down the mountain pulling a river of lava, Merecot sent three air spirits to blast them back into the crater. The lava hardened, and the earth spirits shattered it from beneath.

  “Ah, my child, you do make me proud.”

  Merecot didn’t know if the old queen was impressed with her power over the volcano or her ability to insult the weak and elderly. And the annoying. Don’t forget that. But Merecot couldn’t stay angry with Jastra. No one had forced the former queen to abdicate. She’d done it of her own free will for the good of her people and had tapped Merecot as her chosen replacement—in Semo, the queens selected a solitary heir. Only Merecot had been permitted into the hidden grove to claim the power.

  The fact that Merecot had maneuvered to be in that position was beside the point.

  Jastra had believed in her. And despite my failure in Aratay, she still does. Merecot felt the cloying lump in her throat again and chose to ignore it.

  “Why exactly are you here?” Merecot asked.

  She meant why was Jastra in her chambers, but the former queen chose to interpret the question more broadly. “To make amends for past wrongs, to complete my destiny, to aid you as you complete yours—pick one, Your Majesty. Or perhaps I am here because the palace chefs make a wondrous soufflé.” Jastra pushed herself to standing, wobbling as she took a step forward. Quickly, Merecot retrieved the old queen’s jewel-encrusted cane and presented it to her. Jastra patted her cheek in a condescending manner—or what Merecot thought of as “Jastra’s manner.”

  “Such a good girl. Don’t you worry. Everything will work out.” With her cane, she toddled across Merecot’s chamber. “Let me know when you’re ready for our next step.”

  “My next step,” Merecot corrected. “You aren’t my puppet master.”

  “Of course I’m not.” Jastra looked aghast at the thought, an expression Merecot thought was a trifle overdone. “I merely offer sage advice. It’s a prerogative of cowards in their dotage.”

  “I know what needs to be done,” Merecot replied, but she couldn’t help a small smile. Dotage indeed, she thought. Jastra may have walked with a cane, but her mind was sharper than most Merecot had met. Granted, most people are idiots, but still . . .

  “I know you do, my dear,” Jastra said. All traces of mockery and condescension were gone from her eyes. Instead her expression was a mix of pride and sadness, and Merecot felt as if she were looking at the true Jastra, not the royal face she showed to others.

  Merecot wanted to say something. Such as Thank you for believing in me. But she was afraid it would sound sentimental. Or un-queenlike. Jastra could mock her for showing emotion, and Merecot couldn’t risk that. I’m supposed to be the ruthless queen, after all, who puts the needs of Semo—the needs of Renthia—before my own.

  Jastra cupped Merecot’s chin in her wrinkled hand. “I meant what I said: I chose well when I chose you. You can do this. You can do what I could not. You can change the world.”

  Merecot swallowed. “I won’t let you down.”

  “I know.” Jastra gave her a gentle smile, the kind that said she meant it. She then thumped on the door with her cane, and the doors were swung open.

  The guards bowed as the old queen hobbled past them, and they bowed again to Merecot as they shut the door. For an instant, Merecot wanted to call her back to keep her company, to talk to her, to bolster her confidence some more. But she didn’t.

  It was enough to know there was one person in Semo who was on Merecot’s side.

  Sinking onto a pillow-laden couch, Merecot checked on the spirits at the volcano. All seemed well. Half the crater had been eaten down by lava, and the mountain was riddled wit
h fissures. But the lava and smoke seemed to have died down, and tree spirits were scurrying over the cooling earth, causing stubborn little plants to sprout in the crevasses. In a few hours, the mountain would be dormant again, and she’d be able to release the tame spirits she’d forced to guard the wild ones. I saved thousands of lives, again, and no one knows. I am the unsung hero. Perhaps I should hire a few musicians to record my heroics. And sculptors. She had yet to employ any artisans to immortalize her reign. Somehow it seemed more appropriate to hire them after she’d saved the world.

  But I will do it.

  Jastra believes I can.

  “This is too slow,” Naelin declared.

  Ven was securing a rope to a tree—the bridge ahead was damaged. He’d already shot an arrow with a rope into the next tree, burying the bolt deep into the trunk.

  Grabbing the minds of three nearby tree spirits, Naelin propelled them toward the bridge. Fix it. She formed an image of a finished bridge. Obeying, the spirits began to grow branches from the trees and weave them together.

  “That isn’t necessarily faster,” Renet pointed out. “We can just use the rope.”

  “It needs to be done. Regardless, we aren’t taking the bridge. We’re going to fly.” Closing her eyes, she reached for the three nearest large air spirits.

  “Uh-uh, Naelin, you know I’m not comfortable traveling—”

  “Then don’t come,” she cut him off. She didn’t understand how he could talk about comfort when their children were missing. The more time we waste . . . She chose not to finish that thought. The faster, the better.

  Lifting up her face, she watched three air spirits slice through the canopy. Sunlight wavered as the leaves shook and fell all around them. The air spirits she’d called looked like jaguars, with orange-and-black markings on their fur, but they had blue-and-purple iridescent wings like peacocks.

  Rejoining Naelin and Renet, Ven shielded his eyes as he looked up at the spirits. “Yours?”

  “We’re going too slow.”

  “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

  Renet fidgeted beside her as the three spirits landed. “Naelin, can’t we discuss this?”

  There’s nothing to discuss. The longer this took, the longer Erian and Llor were in danger. She strode toward the spirits. “If we stay on foot, it will take us five days to reach Mittriel.” She swung herself onto the back of the closest one. It hissed like an angry cat as she settled her weight onto it and grasped its neck fur. “If we fly, we can be there tomorrow.”

  “Naelin . . .”

  Ven clasped Renet on the shoulder. “No shame if you choose to continue on foot. I’ll leave you enough supplies.” He handed Naelin’s ex-husband a coil of rope and an extra knife.

  Renet refused them. “I’m not traveling alone. Are you crazy?”

  “Your choice.” Climbing over the branches, Ven mounted a second air spirit beside Naelin. He looped a length of rope around the spirit’s neck and around his waist. “Secure yourself?” he suggested.

  “I won’t fall,” Naelin said. And if I do, so what? She’d make another spirit catch her. Gone were her qualms about drawing the attention of spirits. All her carefulness hadn’t protected the two people who mattered the most.

  “Do it anyway,” Ven said.

  Reminding herself she had no rational reason to be angry at him—if he hadn’t carried her away from the battle, she’d be dead and her children would still have been taken—Naelin tied herself onto the spirit.

  Swearing under his breath, Renet climbed onto the back of the third spirit and tied himself on. The jaguar spirit snarled, flicking its fat tail. “This is a bad idea,” Renet said. “Just want to be on the record saying that.”

  She also had no rational reason to be angry at Renet. He wasn’t a warrior. It wasn’t his fault he hadn’t been strong enough to protect the children.

  But logic didn’t keep her from wanting to growl at him.

  “Duly noted,” Naelin bit off, and then she commanded the spirits, Fly!

  With a roarlike cry, the spirits launched themselves up from the branch. Naelin felt the wind in her face as they soared upward between the branches. Orange and yellow leaves blurred around them until they burst through the canopy into the sun.

  Her stomach felt as if it had stayed behind down in the branches. But she just gritted her teeth and held on. The wind yanked on her hair, pulling it into her eyes, and she wiped it back so she could see.

  Below, the forest looked like a toddler’s painting: reds, oranges, and yellows spattered everywhere, on a backdrop of dark green. The sun bathed it all in light, so bright that it even washed the blue out of the sky. If she’d turned around, she would have seen the haze of the untamed lands, where Bayn might or might not be alive. If she’d looked north, she would have seen the mountains of Semo, where her children might or might not . . .

  She didn’t look.

  They flew until the sun began to sink and the stars began to poke through the darkening blue. Beneath her, Naelin felt the spirit’s wingbeats begin to slow. Touching their minds, she felt their exhaustion. It seeped into her bones and muscles.

  As much as it annoyed her to stop, she guided them down into the trees. Landing on a broad branch, she slid off the spirit’s back and sagged against the trunk of the tree. Her legs felt wobbly, as if they’d forgotten how to stand. Beside her, Ven and Renet both dismounted. Renet dropped immediately into a crouch and hung his head between his knees.

  Leave us, she told the spirits.

  The winged-jaguar spirits obeyed, taking off from the branch and then gliding between the trees. They disappeared into the gathering shadows.

  “Decent place to camp,” Ven noted.

  Lowering his pack, he took out a tangle of rope. Ven strung hammocks, and Renet tied their packs securely to the trunk. “I can start a fire,” Renet offered. His voice sounded rough, as if he hadn’t used it in days. He wasn’t meeting her eyes either, which was fine with Naelin. If he met her eyes, she’d see all the memories they shared together: first steps, first words, the time when Erian first toddled out of her own bed and climbed into theirs, Llor crafting drums out of boxes, crates, pots and pans . . .

  “I’ll do it,” Naelin said, stopping him before he gathered any wood. She tried to make it a kind of peace offering. He had to be going through the same kind of agony she was, clinging to the belief that it wasn’t too late, that they could still be saved.

  Ven handed her a fire stick, but she rejected it. Instead she reached out with her mind and grabbed control of a nearby fire spirit. Yanking it to their camp, she instructed it to burn in the crook of the tree.

  Not far from their camp, a tree spirit cried out.

  Naelin silenced the cry, holding the tree spirit still with her mind as if pinning it with her hands. At the same time, she kept the fire spirit pinned in place in the fire pit. This fire spirit looked like a lizard with red, orange, and blue flames for scales.

  “Ven, do we have dinner?”

  Unstrapping his bow, Ven selected three arrows. “We will.” He then bounded off over the branches while his hands fitted the arrow to the bow.

  Naelin unpacked a few herbs. She had no appetite but was aware she had to fuel her body to keep it functioning. Which is exactly what she was doing right now: functioning. Soon, though, she’d need to be more—if she was going to attack the queen of another country, she’d need every ounce of strength.

  “I can never decide if it’s arrogance that he doesn’t bring more arrows, or if he just knows he’s that good,” Renet said, watching Ven leap from branch to branch.

  “He’s experienced.”

  “So am I, but I take a quiver.”

  “Your idea of hunting involves a visit to town and a nap. Besides, I can help him.” Turning her attention to where Ven stalked, several branches above them, creeping up on a hole in a branch, Naelin snatched a nearby tree spirit and made it collapse the squirrel’s hole.

  The squirrel darted out.r />
  Ven shot it between the eyes.

  It fell from the branch, and Naelin instructed a hawklike spirit to retrieve it. Winging down from the upper branches, the spirit scooped the carcass up in its talons, then dropped it into her hands. She pulled the arrow out and handed the animal to Renet while she cleaned the tip. “You’re scary when you’re like this,” Renet told her. “You know that, right?”

  “You wanted this. Me using my powers. Me wielding a queen’s powers.”

  “Yes, but . . .” He stopped, and she knew what he was going to say: not at the cost of their children. He didn’t say it, and she felt her anger toward him soften. “Never mind.”

  She wanted to apologize for snapping at him, for feeling so much like a volcano about to erupt and destroy everyone around her. He didn’t deserve that. No one did. Except Merecot.

  Bending over the squirrel, he skinned and prepared it. He dropped the remnants down the trunk of the tree, to be scavenged by animals far below their camp. “You don’t need to forgive me. I won’t forgive myself.”

  She knew the words she was supposed to speak: It’s not your fault, you couldn’t have fought the spirits, you did your best, but she couldn’t make herself say them. Ven shot two more squirrels, one arrow each, and Naelin repeated the process, fetching the bodies via spirit and giving them to Renet to skin. Taking the meat, Naelin skewered it onto a branch and positioned it over the fire spirit. Flames licked the edges.

  As Ven climbed back to their camp, he said, “You drove them out, didn’t you? Not sporting that way.” He took back his arrows, checked to be sure the points were clean, and put them back in his quiver. He stowed the bow as well.

  “I want to reach Mittriel as quickly as possible,” Naelin said. “We eat, we sleep, we go. Whatever you’re going to say, I don’t want to hear it.” She rubbed herbs onto the squirrel meat, twisted the stick, and instructed the fire spirit on how to hold the flame and how hot to blaze.

  They waited in silence while the meat cooked, then ate in silence when it finished. Naelin watched the fire spirit coil and uncoil itself in the crook of the tree, shedding embers as it moved. If she stared at it long enough then closed her eyes, the light twisted behind her eyelids—a dance only visible after she stopped watching. It helped to have the fire spirit instead of a real fire. It didn’t remind her of the fire in the hearth at home that had kept Erian and Llor warm on cool autumn nights like this.