The Queen of Sorrow

by Sarah Beth Durst

  And then she severed the connections, one by one.

  Like a scissor cutting a string.

  With each, she felt the recoil. Merecot held her hands and did not let go.

  Daleina thought she heard words around her, in the grove, but they were distant, as if underwater, and she couldn’t make sense of them. She felt so very alone. She reached out with her mind—but nothing was there.

  She didn’t remember feeling this weak before. Or this empty.

  Distantly, she heard howls, but not with her ears—they were the howls of the spirits, now free, streaming across Aratay toward the grove, coming for her.

  “Tell them to choose,” she heard.

  She grabbed on to those words and pushed them outward.

  Choose.

  Choose!

  And then she heard Merecot’s voice, reverberating inside her, “Choose me!”

  Merecot felt as if lightning skittered beneath her skin as the spirits flooded into her mind. Yes! She stretched, her mind expanding, to hold all the new wants and needs that tugged on her. She could sense the trees around her, tall and deep, and the wind that chased between them. She felt the water in the air and the hint of ice in the sky above.

  This was what she needed.

  This was power!

  She laughed from the sheer magnitude of it. She’d held nearly as many spirits in her mind when the wild spirits were in Semo, but the feel of spirits who were tied to the land was entirely different. She felt the strength of their connection to Renthia, and she made it hers.

  I can do this.

  All her planning and all her dreams . . . felt only a finger-touch away. Casually, as if she weren’t about to change the world, she projected one thought: You are done.

  It was simple, but wrapped in that one sentence was all that it implied: you have completed your destiny, and then now you may rest. You have finished. You can move on and evolve and cease to plague this world. Your hatred and anger are obsolete, for you have completed the task for which you were created.

  The Great Mother of Spirits is pleased with you.

  I speak for her.

  Change.

  And the spirits heard her words. Across Aratay and Semo, her words sank into the minds and hearts and into the very essence of the spirits. She felt them grow limp and sink down from the sky, from the trees.

  It’s working!

  Merecot pushed harder, boring down on them.

  Let go.

  Be free.

  Be gone.

  Watching Merecot, Daleina could not hear her commands. She saw the threads, connecting them to Merecot, not to her, not anymore. She couldn’t hear the spirits, except as a distant haze that made her head ache if she reached for them.

  But she felt the moment that the trees began to die.

  Creeping around her, the air tasted stale and sour. She heard a cracking sound, as if a piece of paper were being crumpled over and over. Or as if winter ice were breaking in a stream. Looking up, Daleina saw the golden leaves, once glorious in their autumn brilliance, shrivel into brown and begin to fall.

  All the leaves, falling around the grove, in a shushing sound as they drifted down through the still air. It’s not working, she thought. “Merecot? Merecot, you have to stop! The land is dying! Merecot, stop!” Grabbing Merecot’s shoulders, Daleina shook her.

  But Merecot did not respond.

  She did not stop.

  West of Aratay, beyond the borders of Renthia, Ven knew the spirits of the untamed lands were in a killing frenzy, attacking Naelin’s spirits. He couldn’t feel them the way that Naelin could, but after so many years fighting spirits, he didn’t need to. Besides, the tornadoes kind of give it away, he thought.

  Just beyond the ridge of rocks, three funnels of wind rose toward the sky. They looked like dark undulating snakes, defying gravity to stand upright, swaying. Between them, fires burned bright. Shielding his eyes, Ven tried to see into the battle.

  “Take the children,” Naelin ordered him. “Get them across the border. I’ll hold the untamed spirits back and then meet you in Redleaf.”

  “Not leaving you,” Ven said as both Erian and Llor clung to their mother, crying and screaming at her to not make them leave her.

  She hugged them, clearly not hearing what he’d said. “You must go with Champion Ven. I’ll rejoin you. I promise. But as soon as I leave here, the spirits will follow me—and their attackers will follow them. You need to get across the border.”

  Lightning branched across the sky, struck the earth, and a water spirit burst out from between two rocks. It rose higher and higher, the watery shape of a serpent with wings. A water dragon. As it reared, it knocked boulders from the top of the ridge, and water gushed over the edges. “One of yours?” Ven asked.

  Naelin didn’t answer—she was concentrating.

  He saw ice spirits dart at the water dragon, and ice crystallized along its wings. Howling, it stretched, and the ice shattered. He heard the cracks from where he stood. The dragon spirit lunged forward, and water gushed over the ridge. And then Ven realized something else: the camp of humans was in the water spirit’s path.

  “Naelin, the children are safest with you,” Ven said. “There’s something I have to do.” He adjusted his grip on the handle of his sword. He bent his knees, trying to convince himself he was still good for one more outnumbered, terrible-odds fight.

  “No, Ven! There are too many. I won’t let you!”

  “Not your job to protect me.” He kissed her quickly on the cheek.

  “You know I can stop you if you make me.”

  “There’s a camp full of people down there,” Ven said. “And this time, I’m not too late to save them. I’ve been too late so many times, Naelin. Let me at least try.”

  Naelin’s hands were in the air, sketching patterns, and her spirits were obeying her, flying the patterns she sketched, holding back the air and fire spirits. “Fine. Stubborn idiot. I can keep a path clear for a little while, but you have to move fast.”

  He didn’t wait to discuss it any further. He leapt forward, bounding across the rocks that shifted beneath him. Slicing his sword at spirits that whisked over him, he ducked, dodged, and ran toward the camp where they’d left the people.

  He found it besieged: men, women, and children were running through knee-high water, trying to find a safe path out. “To me!” he called. He sheathed his sword and unhooked his bow. Notching an arrow, he aimed it at a fire spirit that was diving toward an older man. He shot it through the forehead, and the arrow incinerated, but not before the fire spirit reared back.

  Ven leapt down into the valley, splashing into the icy water. “Come on, this way, follow the rocks up!” He guided the people into a line. A stream of fire shot over them, and he charged forward, firing another arrow into the cometlike core of light.

  Above, the water dragon screamed. It clashed with a host of fire spirits that flew at it. Steam billowed from its body, and Ven lost sight of it. The mist rolled across the camp. “Grab hands!” Ven ordered.

  His command was repeated by the people, and he hoped they were obeying—those nearest him were clutching one another, at least. “Follow me!” he called, and he hurried to the front of the line. “Toward the cave! Head for the grave!”

  He pointed them in the right direction and then hurried down the line, ensuring there were no stragglers. As he did, an earth spirit burst from the rocks beneath him and grabbed his ankle. Other earth spirits, made of rocks and shaped like small men, burst through the rocks, seizing the legs of people, yanking them down. He drove the butt of his bow into the face of one, knocking it back, and then he leapt between people, whacking spirits with his bow as if it were a staff. As soon as he caught his breath, he reached for his sword. As he sliced, he heard the sound of pebbles, and then a louder rumbling.

  “Avalanche!” one of the women cried.

  And then it got worse.

  Water slammed into them, waist-deep, and people screamed. T
hey grabbed the children, who were crying and shrieking, and lifted them out of the water.

  He’d never fought so many on such unstable terrain—the air, the earth, the sky, it was all his enemy. But he wasn’t going to fail these people.

  Never again.

  Naelin felt as if her mind were fracturing. She knew what she had to do: keep a channel clear until Ven returned with the villagers, and then escape, all together, to Aratay. Her spirits could hold off the untamed spirits long enough . . . Couldn’t they?

  They’ll die, she thought.

  She squashed the thought as quickly as she could.

  But she was so closely linked to the spirits that they felt her think it. Despair rippled through them, flowing back to her. Don’t leave us, they whispered back to her. Please, don’t leave us to die.

  It disturbed her, hearing their pleas. They were killers. Their kind hunted humans. Hated humans. Wanted everyone dead and gone, so they could have their world back the way it was before the Great Mother of Sprits died, before the humans came too soon. Why should I save them?

  Spirits like these had killed her parents while she’d huddled, hidden. She’d lived in fear for so many years—

  Through her bond, Naelin felt a spirit torn in half, its limbs ripped apart, by an untamed earth spirit, and her knees buckled. She looked up, and there was no more thought about helping the spirits. Her spirits.

  Remembering how she’d practiced with the spirits before she left for Semo, she pushed her mind out, forcing them to work together, guiding the ice spirits to freeze the wings of a water dragon. She sent her fire spirits skittering over the ice crystals of ice spirits. Her wind spirits whipped faster, creating a wall of wind on either side of Ven and the people. They were making their way toward her, step by step. She couldn’t tell if he had them all and couldn’t spare the attention to look. An untamed fire spirit was clinging to one of her tree spirits, and she felt its pain as the flames scaled his barklike skin. She directed a water spirit to douse it, freeing it, and she felt a shiver of gratitude as the wounded tree spirit scuttled away as fast as it could.

  There were too many of them, though.

  Don’t let us die, the spirits whispered.

  But Ven hadn’t reached her yet, and they were all still deep within the untamed lands, backed against the cave. Bayn positioned himself in front of Erian and Llor, protecting them, and she let him guard her children as she focused on the spirits, driving them back but losing ground.

  Hurry, Ven.

  The circle around them tightened as the untamed spirits advanced, and despite all her strength, her spirits began to die.

  It felt like part of her was dying with them.

  Chapter 33

  Daleina kept screaming at Merecot. “Stop! Merecot, you have to stop!”

  Around them she heard the trees creak and crack. Leaves were falling faster, like rain, and coating the grove in a thick blanket of gold. Every breath felt wrong, and the air tasted sour. She couldn’t reach far enough to feel the damage throughout Aratay, but if it was here, it was everywhere—the spirits touched every piece of her land. And Semo.

  “You’re killing both our countries!” Daleina shouted. “Stop! It’s not working!”

  But Merecot’s eyes were vague, and her lips were curled into a smile. She was elsewhere, deep within the spirits. Why can’t she feel them dying? Even Daleina could sense it—the threads that linked Merecot to them were gray and frayed.

  Daleina felt herself shoved aside. She stumbled, and Hamon caught her as she fell into the leaves. Dust billowed up from the too-dry earth beneath the leaves, and the leaves crinkled as they shriveled. Garnah had pushed past her and was kneeling beside Merecot. Reaching into her robes, she pulled out a vial and held it up to the light, checking its contents. It was thick and ruby-red, the viscous fluid clinging to the glass of the vial.

  Yanking away from Hamon, Daleina lunged forward. “No!”

  Garnah shook the vial, mixing the liquid until bubbles formed. “She must be stopped. You have to see that. This is the only way. This is why you asked me to come!”

  She’d asked her in case Merecot betrayed her. But this wasn’t betrayal!

  “I can’t watch another friend die,” Daleina cried. She’d lost so many. Linna, Mari, Revi, Iondra . . . all of them had died, so many of them here in this very grove. Their bodies were deep in the earth beneath the leaves. She couldn’t add another to their number. “There has to be another way!”

  “Daleina.” Hamon’s voice was soft, gentle, a healer’s voice, her lover’s voice. “You have to let her go. With her death, the spirits will be released. Aratay will be saved.”

  “And Semo,” Garnah added. “You’re letting two countries die out of sentiment.” She spat into the leaves and unstoppered the vial. “It will be quick, I promise you that.”

  The spirits will be released . . .

  “Thank you,” she said to Hamon, and she knocked the vial out of Garnah’s hand. Both mother and son watched, startled, as the vial shattered on the ground, and the poison spread into a puddle—Garnah would have more, but Daleina didn’t give her a chance to reach for it. She shoved her mind at the frayed threads connecting Merecot to the spirits.

  And she severed them.

  Thousands of spirits, unleashed at once.

  Merecot hissed out air, and her eyes focused on Daleina. “What have you done?”

  Around them, the spirits flew into the grove. They tunneled through the earth. Out of the corner of her eye, Daleina saw Garnah reach into her robe, pull out a new vial, and hurl it at the spirits. It exploded into sparks.

  Hamon rushed to Daleina’s side, but was knocked back as an earth spirit burst through the ground in front of him. Daleina reached for the spirit’s mind to stop it, hold it—and Merecot slammed into her.

  “You took them!” Merecot screamed, clawing at her.

  “I saved you!” Daleina yelled back. She pushed against Merecot.

  Merecot drew a dagger from within her robes. Daleina tried to send the command Choose . . . But Merecot was striking at her, filled with as much fury as a spirit. “Listen to me!” Daleina cried, dodging. “The land was dying! Your plan was failing!”

  Merecot was beyond listening. She was as consumed with the same rage as a spirit. As she hacked at Daleina, Daleina dodged as well as she could even as she reached for her own knife, the one that Ven always insisted she carry.

  She fought back.

  Merecot was swinging wildly—she was untrained. But Daleina had been trained by the best champion alive. Kicking, dodging, twisting, and striking, she used what Ven had taught her as both Merecot and the spirits attacked her.

  Choose, she thought at the spirits. But she couldn’t hold on to the thought, not with Merecot striking at her and the spirits diving for her. Caught in the swirl of spirits, she couldn’t see Hamon and Garnah.

  “Merecot, stop!” She struck hard, knocking Merecot backward.

  A spirit wrapped its vinelike arms around Merecot.

  Across the grove, Daleina heard Hamon scream, and she ran for him—in time to see a fire spirit drive its fist through his shoulder.

  She ran faster and knew she’d be too late. And knew without a doubt that spirits everywhere were attacking across both Aratay and Semo, and people in both lands were dying. “Hamon!” she screamed. And a thought flashed through her mind: of Arin and her parents, who should have been safe, but now weren’t, because of what she and Merecot had done.

  We failed . . .

  In Semo, people were dying.

  The earth spirits shook the mountains, and the water spirits overflowed the rivers. Entire towns slid down the slopes in rivers of water, fire, mud, ice, as air spirits plucked men, women, and children from the rocks as they tried to flee.

  Inside the castle, Ambassador Hanna wheeled through the corridors while her four guards fended off earth spirits who were tunneling through the floor both behind and in front of them. Evenna was in the lead, wit
h Serk behind Hanna and the other two on either side of her. Their swords were sticky with blood, sap, and dirt. They fought well, but they were tiring too. She could see it. And yet, what really worried her was why they were fighting in the first place.

  What, by all the spirits, has Merecot done?

  She’d received Queen Daleina’s letter, and she’d been impressed with the audacity of the plan. For Merecot to believe she could do what the Great Mother, the creator of all, could not . . . The arrogance was mind-boggling, but the theory had been sound. She’d told Daleina that in her reply. She’d also told her that the most probable outcome was Daleina’s death, with Merecot left as queen of both countries and the spirits unchanged.

  Still, though, Hanna had honored Daleina’s request. In fact, she’d just come from identifying several possible successors, before earth spirits caused half the castle to slide down the mountain. She didn’t know if the heirs had survived.

  Hanna called the command as loudly as she could, Choose! and hoped that the heirs and other women of power were doing the same—and hoped there were enough of them to be heard. She didn’t want to think about what would happen if there weren’t. “Get to the other Aratayians,” Hanna ordered her guards.

  Jogging ahead, Evenna yanked open one of the doors, then another.

  Champion Havtru, Cajara, and Arin burst out into the corridor. Havtru’s sword was drawn. “It’s happening again,” Arin said, her voice shrill, near panic. “Like before. When Daleina . . .” Her eyes were bright, as if she were on the verge of tears, but she blinked them back.

  “Not Daleina,” Hanna corrected. These are Semoian spirits. “Merecot.”

  “We have to get somewhere safe, the heart of the castle,” Havtru said. He issued orders to Hanna’s four guards, directing Coren to scout ahead and Serk to watch their backs.

  Arin ran to Hanna’s chair and began pushing her faster through the corridor. Havtru and Cajara ran on beside her. Folding her hands on her lap with her knives, Hanna concentrated on projecting the command. Choose, choose, choose! Please . . . choose.