Oh no.
She raised her head to look at Naelin.
“It seems I owe you an apology,” Daleina said, trying to keep her voice calm. She forced herself to steady her hands so no one would see they’d begun shaking. “Your children are alive. This is, in essence, a ransom note.”
Across the room, Naelin made a strangled kind of sound.
“I believe it’s written by Merecot herself, not a scribe.” Daleina held the parchment out so Headmistress Hanna could see.
“Yes,” Hanna confirmed. “I remember her script. She always scrawled like that. Lousy penmanship.”
Continuing, Daleina read out loud, “‘Please accept my most profound apology for the inconvenience and pain I have caused you through my actions.’”
Naelin hissed. “‘Inconvenience’?”
The fire spirits crackled.
“Control your emotions,” Hanna cautioned.
Naelin glared at the headmistress, but she did, in fact, seem to calm—or, at least, the spirits did.
“‘The fact that I have had to resort to such methods horrifies me, but I must put the needs of my people before my own personal views. Let me lay bare to you the truth: I sent six air spirits into Aratay with two purposes: one, to eliminate the Protector of Queens, the wolf known as Bayn, who would have surely stood in the way of my ultimate goal.’”
“Bayn?” Ven said.
Daleina lowered the letter. “Does anyone know what she means by ‘Protector of Queens’?” She’d never heard the term before, least of all applied to her wolf, whom she hadn’t even allowed herself to truly mourn. He was my friend, but “Protector”?
“What of my children?” Naelin said.
Daleina read on. “‘And two, to secure your children, to be used as leverage against your good behavior. I have taken this action to ensure that you fulfill what you have already promised. It was never my intent to harm a single human of Aratay, least of all your children. And I have not harmed but a single hair on their heads.’”
Hamon frowned. “Isn’t the expression ‘not a single hair’?”
“Apparently, the queen of Semo has a delightful sense of humor,” Garnah said. She lifted a clump of hair from the box. “She’s not much for subtlety, though, is she?” Daleina guessed it was snipped from one of Naelin’s children.
Naelin let out a noise, half like a growl and half a moan. She looked as if she wanted to tear the world apart with her bare hands. Ven clamped his hands down on her shoulder and whispered furiously in her ear. Headmistress Hanna also wheeled closer to her, talking rapidly.
Daleina waited for the next earthquake.
It didn’t come.
She’s learning control. Daleina was impressed. This letter makes me want to cause an earthquake. How could she have misjudged Merecot so badly? She’d been so convinced that Merecot couldn’t be responsible, that she wouldn’t be so stupid.
She’d been wrong.
Daleina quickly summarized the rest of the letter. “She demands one of us come to Semo and assist her with the ‘overabundance of spirits’ in her lands. She claims she only took the children to provide incentive and that she had to take dramatic action in order to catch our attention. She goes on to promise they’ll be treated like honored guests and will be returned as soon as negotiations are concluded.”
“It’s a trap,” Ven said.
Garnah snorted. “Obviously.”
“Not so obviously,” Hanna argued. “She’s desperate. She was desperate enough to try to kill Queen Daleina, desperate enough to invade, and now desperate enough to kidnap Naelin’s children. She wants to save Semo, and since we haven’t helped her do that yet—”
“We’ve been healing Aratay! Healing it from her actions!” Daleina had planned on sending an ambassador sooner, but with winter coming and the harvest in danger . . . “There were other priorities.”
“Not for her,” Hanna pointed out.
Closing her eyes, Daleina crumpled the letter in her hand. She knew she should be done feeling betrayed by Merecot—after all, her former friend had had her poisoned—but this was a fresh surprise. I shouldn’t have stopped Naelin from attacking. She should have joined in, thrown all the spirits of Aratay against the border and broken through. “If you want that invasion, Naelin, you have it.”
Naelin didn’t respond.
Daleina opened her eyes.
She saw Naelin had crossed the room to the box that held the locks of her children’s hair. She’d taken a curled strand away from Garnah and was stroking it. “Attacking would endanger Erian and Llor. Ven, you were right. We needed to know who and why.”
“Now that we do, how do you want to proceed?” Daleina asked. “This isn’t merely a move against your children—an attack on our soil is a direct challenge to our sovereignty. It must be answered.” She wondered if Naelin understood that. This wasn’t just about Naelin’s children; it was about all the children of Aratay. If Merecot thought she could simply take the queen’s children . . .
It can’t be allowed. It’s an act of war.
“I go to Semo,” Naelin said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I help her with the spirits, and then I bring back my children.”
Garnah heaved a dramatic sigh. “Did you miss the part where this is a trap? You step foot in Semo, and she will kill you. She’s already confessed to trying to kill your wolf ‘protector’ . . . which, I might add, is a bit unhinged.”
Hanna rolled forward. “Accept my offer to be ambassador. Let me assess the situation and determine whether or not this is actually a trap or if the children are in fact there and alive. Merecot won’t refuse an ambassador—it’s a clear indication that we’re taking her seriously and a logical precaution. I’ll make my assessment as quickly as possible, and if she seems sincere, I will send word for Queen Naelin to come.”
“You’d be placing yourself in danger,” Ven objected.
“I work with spirits,” Hanna said. “I’ve always been in danger. Besides, those children are worth the risk to me.”
It’s not a terrible idea. Not only would Hanna be able to determine whether Merecot was sincere in her plea for help, but she might be able to gather information that would lead to a successful rescue. “If Merecot truly wants our assistance, she won’t hurt our ambassador.” Daleina looked to Naelin.
“If,” Ven emphasized.
“I should go now,” Naelin said. “I’m their mother.”
You’re also a queen, Daleina wanted to say, but she didn’t because she didn’t think it would help. Naelin hadn’t forgotten she was queen, or that they had no heirs. She simply doesn’t care. Her children come first. “This is the safest way to proceed, for them and for Aratay.”
Naelin had never hated before.
Not like this.
This . . . felt like the hatred of the spirits. She wanted to rip the very mountains from the ground and bury Merecot beneath them. But she knew Daleina was right. And Headmistress Hanna was right. Even Garnah was right.
It could be a trap.
And if she went, without any plan or preparation, she could be killed and her children doomed. But if she were to be patient and agree to send an ambassador . . . she might learn a way to rescue Erian and Llor without springing whatever trap the northern queen had planned.
And yet everything inside her screamed, Save them now!
She desperately wanted to. Wanted to find the person who thought it was okay to take her children, to take their hair, and show that person just exactly what it felt like to have something taken from them.
Quite simply, their blood.
But she had to be smart and careful. She had proof they were alive, or at least almost proof, and it would be foolish to rush in and jeopardize the chance of keeping them alive.
How she was tempted, though . . .
“We send Headmistress Hanna,” Naelin ultimately agreed. “She confirms they’re there and sends us a report as quickly as possible—the second she k
nows they’re alive. Then I go in and save them, either by helping with the excess spirits in Semo if this is not a trap or by force and guile if it is one.”
Garnah clapped her hands like a gleeful child. “And then you kill Queen Merecot?”
“Yes,” Naelin said and met Daleina’s eyes. She has to see we can’t show mercy this time. What Merecot did wasn’t just against me; it was against all of Aratay. It was an act of war, and as Daleina said herself, it must be answered.
She saw the younger queen’s shoulders sag and then straighten. Naelin waited, not breaking eye contact. At last, Daleina said, “Yes, then we kill her.”
Chapter 10
The air was still. No breeze.
The rain didn’t fall. It misted in a weak drizzle that only dampened the canopy and didn’t reach the forest floor. Grayness obscured the sky.
Fires wouldn’t light quickly. Even the most skilled woodsmen had to strike multiple sparks before anything would catch, which shouldn’t have been the case, given the lack of a proper rain.
Fruit rotted before it ripened, or failed to ripen at all.
Across Aratay, the people counted their canned fruit, preserved meat, and sacks of flour—and then counted again, hoping they had missed something that would help when the cold struck so that they’d be able to feed their families through the winter, but knowing it wouldn’t be enough and that counting wasn’t changing the fact that the harvest had failed.
That the queens had failed.
As she traveled north as the new ambassador to Semo, Hanna could feel the anguish coating the land in a musty gauze that dampened all joy and darkened all colors. She had coached Queen Naelin as much as she could before she left, but the new queen was too powerful and already too set in her ways on how she used her power. It was why heirs were always found as girls, to be trained while their minds were still malleable. With half a life already in hand, Naelin couldn’t just shake the foundations she had built that informed who she was. And yet that very foundation had been shaken—her belief in her ability to keep her children safe—and now her emotions leaked through every time she wasn’t consciously blocking them, even in her sleep.
While she fretted, the land fretted too.
In all honesty, it matched Hanna’s mood as well. She wanted to believe this wasn’t a trap, that Merecot was merely desperate on behalf of her people, that the children were alive and unharmed and would be returned safely to their mother . . . but after all she’d seen and everyone who had died, it was hard to believe that everything would be all right. That it even mattered what Merecot’s intentions were. She felt as if she’d used up the last vestige of her optimism during the queen of Semo’s invasion. It died while I watched children die. Over the years, she had watched too many die, and yet this somehow felt worse.
Because betrayal always hurts more than random violence.
Wrapped in her thoughts, Hanna traveled north without talking to the four guards who accompanied her about much more than practicalities: would she be more comfortable sleeping in a hammock or on a platform, did she feel she could wheel across this bridge, would she wait while they attached the safety harnesses to her chair, could she be patient while they fetched the basket for her to ride in. She was aware it was not simple to travel through the trees with an old woman who couldn’t walk, even with a chair adapted to the forest, and she prided herself on keeping any complaints about her own discomfort to herself and handling her aches and pains as best she could.
Champion Ven would have told her not to be a martyr. But I am so very good at martyrdom, Hanna would have replied.
She noticed when the forest began to change, switching from hearty oaks to spindly, stark-white birches. With their golden fall leaves, they looked like bright candles against the dark pines. After another day of traveling, the guards called a halt to ask her, with respectful bows, how she would prefer to continue: on the forest floor—which would be easier to wheel over, since it lacked the vast roots of the deeper woods but would leave them more vulnerable to bears, wolves, and other predators who hunted below—or the bridges, which ran nearly all the way to the border but were often rudimentary at best. The chair was well suited for the capital, but this far out . . . “I leave the decision in your capable hands,” Hanna told them. “This is not my area of expertise.”
The truth was, even when she didn’t need the chair, she hadn’t left the capital in many years and rarely even left the academy—and then, usually only when she was summoned to the palace. She found, as they continued on via the bridges, that she was beginning to look forward to seeing Semo. She’d never imagined she’d have the chance to travel beyond the forests. “I very much hope the experience is not the death of me,” she said.
“Your pardon, Ambassador?” one of the guards asked as he carried her across a swaying rope bridge. Another guard carried her chair.
“Talking to myself,” Hanna said with a wave. “It’s one of the joys you’ll discover as you get older: the amusement of your own company.”
“I see, Ambassador.”
She patted his weathered cheek as he lowered her back into her chair. “No, you don’t. But you’re polite, which is important for our new role.” She looked at each of her guards. Queen Daleina had spared four of her personal guards, two men and two women. When Hanna had objected that it was too many, Daleina had said, Possible trap, remember? I don’t want to receive a message that you’ve been assassinated and have to listen to anyone say “I told you so.” Hanna pursed her lips and hoped that they were all worrying too much and that Merecot’s letter had been truthful. “So that we’re clear, I do not expect any of you to take a knife in the gut for me. It would be far better to deflect the blade in the first place. Be alert. We don’t know what we will find when we arrive.”
All of them agreed, because it was sensible, obvious advice, but she felt better for having said it. She had to trust that they were trained enough to avoid obvious mistakes. And I have to hope that I don’t make any either.
She made a point to memorize their names, scolding herself for being so self-absorbed that she hadn’t done it earlier: Evenna, Serk, Tipi, and Coren.
Evenna, the head guard, had a husband back in Mittriel, a scar on her left cheek, and skin as black as Healer Hamon’s. She was middle-aged and had been a palace guard for twenty-four years. Serk, the oldest, was bald except for a blue ponytail. He used to be a border guard before he moved to the capital to take care of his aged parents. Tipi was young, energetic, and had a twitch in her right hand that she controlled when she climbed. Coren, the youngest guard at nineteen, fidgeted a lot, mostly because he was nineteen. All of them were much younger and more fit than Hanna and seemed to take their roles as her guards very seriously. That bodes well for their survival, Hanna thought. Or at least for mine.
As they journeyed closer to the border, she found herself thinking more about what was to come than what she’d left behind. She also felt the sun on her face more often as the forest began to thin. The canopy above was no longer a thick snarl but instead a lacework of leaves that allowed light to filter through in golden shafts. But what was amazing was she could still hear canopy singers high above, even though the upper branches were as thin as a child’s arm.
While the guards made their camp on a platform that straddled three trees, Hanna listened to the canopy singers. There were two: a baritone and a soprano, one to the east and one to the west, singing back and forth to each other.
It was an old song, about the Great Mother, who died to save humans from spirits. Some stories referred to her as a baby or a young girl, but this ballad treated her as if she had been a grown woman. The soprano sang her verses. Hanna let the melody soak into her as it soared with the breeze in between the leaves and up toward the night sky.
“What’s she saying?” Serk asked.
“She’s singing her sadness, knowing she must sacrifice herself if humans are to survive,” Hanna answered. “In the beginning, all of Renthia was l
ike the untamed lands, with wild spirits making and unmaking the earth we stand on and air we breathe. It took the death of the Great Mother to give us the power to defend ourselves. Before that, there were no queens. Listen—the next bit is the Great Mother singing to the first queen.”
The baritone chimed in, taking the part of the Great Mother:
You alone within the storm
of hunger and unfinished pain
must touch the minds unfettered
and be the spirits’ bane.
The soprano answered back, a cry of loneliness that pierced higher than the sounds of the crickets and evening birds:
I cannot breathe another breath,
without you.
I cannot see the sky
with evening stars and golden moon,
their beauty is a lie;
do not let me walk alone—
And the baritone harmonized with her, telling the first queen that while she must touch the spirits alone, she has not been forsaken. The Great Mother has sent a protector to stay by her side and guard her from harm while her mind tames the wildness all around.
Hanna wondered aloud at the word “protector.”
“The first champion,” Evenna responded.
That was the most likely interpretation, Hanna agreed. It made more sense than having a wolf as some kind of special protector. She wondered what Merecot had been thinking, though. She must have had a strong reason to go after Bayn. I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.
It was an appropriate song for the canopy singers to sing, while the forests were gripped in the queen’s sadness. It held sorrow but also hope. Hanna wished that Naelin were here to hear it, but since she wasn’t, Hanna was determined to wring as much meaning from it as she could.
Even when we feel the most alone, we are not. Even when things are the most bleak, they will get better. There is always hope. A lovely, if simplistic, sentiment. Listening to the glorious vocals, Hanna almost believed it.
Chapter 11
The Queen of Sorrow Page 11
