by Natalie Mae
MY new room overlooks the sparring arena.
I suppose so I can remember, every day, just how close I was to having everything.
It’s a much smaller space than I’m used to. The military wing houses hundreds, and so its plain marble walls barely fit my desks and a bed, with a simple en suite bath comprising a basin, toilet, and tub. No balcony. The windows of other rooms open, but not mine. That was the first enchantment Zahru commissioned for the room, along with the second, that seals even the smallest cracks and holes in the walls, lest I’m tempted to slip through them in another form.
And always there are convenient guards wandering outside my door, trailing me if I leave, undoubtedly reporting my every move back to her. I don’t know where she thinks I’ll go. But I find I like it more than I should, that she’s so afraid of losing me.
I sigh and push away from the window, pacing again, restless from two weeks without seeing her. Her other advisors don’t trust me, and especially not the two of us together, and so Zahru sends my orders on parchment, and trielle officers use Obedience spells every evening to ensure I’m not leaving anything out of my daily reports. I work in the murmuring noise of my new room, trying to break forsvine as Zahru and I did in the armory. I’ll admit I’m motivated to succeed less for the good of Orkena and more so Zahru will come to me. So she’ll let me out of this half imprisonment and let me prove I was almost there, that I can be what she needs.
Why I didn’t do this before, I can’t remember. Maybe something was holding me back. Maybe that’s what she took from me in the armory, an absence that gnaws at me now like a constant hunger.
I intend to get the answer to that, too. But first I need her to remember what we achieved together; the real reason why she couldn’t put me in chains.
I’ll make it up to her.
She’ll come.
I settle into my desk chair, pressing my hands through my hair, glowering down at pages of failed formulas. I’m lifting the quill to start over yet again when a knock sounds at the door.
It opens, the bubbling conversations of a dozen passing soldiers breaking through the silence, along with a bright slice of sunlit hallway and—finally—the sharp bronze feathers of a crown, a doll’s curve of a jaw, and the guarded amber eyes of the girl who ruined me.
She’s alone. I wonder if her advisors know where she is.
I almost smile.
Zahru clears her throat, glancing around the room, her focus hitching on the glass instruments of my laboratory, the mountain of crumpled parchment in the waste bin. I might be fooled into thinking she was simply curious if her magic wasn’t already slipping into my head, searching for how I feel. Something about my Shifter power interferes with her Influence. I should not know she’s using it on me; I should not remember how she controlled me in the armory. And yet I do. I’m careful to keep any clear thoughts from surfacing for her Whisperer’s magic, either. If it’s not enough that she can physically move me, she can also read my mind.
Which is fascinating on a scientific level, and extremely frustrating on a personal one.
“Mestrah,” I say, the word snapping her attention back to me. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
The phantom fingers of her Influence retreat, and she bristles. “Stop it. We’re way past formalities. And how are you not angry with me at all?”
I shrug. “Do you really think there’s anything I wouldn’t forgive you for?”
She closes her eyes, and I would point out that she seems excessively stressed for someone who got everything she wanted, but I’m finding I don’t want to provoke anything near a repeat of what she almost did to me two weeks ago.
She groans. “I can still hear you thinking. And can we both agree things got way out of hand? I’m still really mad at you for the knives, but—I’m so sorry I almost melted you.” She leans her head on the doorframe. “Are you at a stopping point? I have something to show you.”
I nod, and her gaze flits down my black tunic—I couldn’t stand white anymore when they asked what I would keep from my wardrobe—before she turns to go. I follow, the clamor of the military wing rising around us. Soldiers touch their foreheads as Zahru moves, parting for us like fish before a boat, their eyes catching on me with the smallest twist of their lips. Some rumors say I got better than I deserved. Others warn I was the only one who could keep Zahru’s power in check, and look where I am now.
How amused they would be to know both are true.
“Has Wyrim finally surrendered, then?” I ask, guessing at what she’d show me.
She doesn’t look over. “No, we’re—” She turns, taking us toward the archway to the outdoor arena. “It’s complicated. I’ve confirmed all three of the alliances we set up, and their armies are on standby to defend us. Even the Pe are uncertain about aiding Wyrim, since we didn’t retaliate after their attack. But the Wyri queen still won’t talk to me. All we can hope at this point is that the war will be fast.”
I scoff. Always hope with her, even still. “Then what do you need me for?”
“You’ll see.”
An irritating answer, but I don’t press her. I follow her outside into the afternoon heat; past the training arena, where Zahru stares pointedly in any direction that is not at me or it; up the stone stairs that climb the north wall of the palace. The guards straighten as we top the wall, stepping back when we pass, their grips tight on staffs and spears. We’re overlooking the civilian docks now, not the royal ones connected to the palace but a section of wide shore at the corner of the city where the largest of the trading ships stop. Three of them currently line the river, Orkena’s white-and-gold banners hanging from their railings. Children dart along the glass decks, shouting and waving to the people on land.
Of which there are hundreds, holding one another and pacing.
Zahru leans on the stone balcony, her wavy hair trailing over her shoulder as she looks to me. I don’t understand what she wants. Are these allies? Refugees she doesn’t know how to handle?
“I sent your letter off for the Forsaken,” she says as wooden planks lower from the boats to the shore. “But I thought it would be best to return the youngest to their families.”
A lance hits my chest. I didn’t think she could break me any more than she already had, but something new cracks inside me, and I clutch the rail for support. Children pour down the planks, a tide of longing, and I watch what both was and never was my life as they run into open arms. Fathers weep. Mothers laugh. Families welcome the Forsaken as if they were missed, as if they are loved.
I see my father’s cold eyes all those years ago, when I asked what would happen if my magic didn’t surface.
Zahru’s hand slides over mine, warm and steady. I can’t move. She has a war to prepare for. She didn’t have to show me this . . . she didn’t have to do this at all.
“No one will ever go through what you did again,” she says. “And I imagine the same thing is happening in the afterlife, too. I asked the gods to allow all the Forsaken into Paradise. And I’m going to open schools and create jobs for them, some as high in honor as our Wraiths. I’m thinking of calling them Scholars.”
A new name. A new eternity. It’s no longer mine, but that doesn’t mean I’ll overlook what she’s done. That even after everything, she continues to find the good in me and bring it to light.
Her hand slides from mine, but I grab it again, not wanting her to go. Zahru goes still, her Influence already flexing through my head, but whatever she finds there, her magic vanishes again just as fast.
And she does not let go.
If only she knew the kind of power she holds over me, even without magic.
“Thank you,” I say.
My grip relaxes. Zahru stares at our hands, the long shadow of an Orkenian flag sweeping over her.
“Could you really have done it?” she asks. “Made me hurt the
Wyri, if you’d gotten your way?”
A familiar anger curls in my chest, pressing against my lips, ready to ask how she could not want to hurt them, especially now—but I think of her in the armory, how I’d watched my own ruthlessness come alive in her, and I think of the devastation on her face when she looked over the unconscious Pe assassins, as if she’d lost a part of her she could never get back. I imagine standing with her before an army and making her do it again.
And the answer shifts. “No. I couldn’t.”
Her fingers tighten, her brow pinching, like I’ve said something strange. But she can feel the truth of it in my veins. Perhaps it took this long to work, that kindness she poisoned me with so long ago, when I told her I was nothing and she saw so much more.
She laughs bitterly, her hand dropping from mine. “But, see, I think you were actually right. Their queen is vicious, just like you warned me. We’ve thrown every peaceful solution we can think of at them. They don’t care about new trade agreements, or apologies, or reparations. Nothing I’m doing is working, and”—she leans against the half wall, fingers pinching between her eyes—“they sent my last messenger’s head back in a box.”
Her amber eyes glitter, the pain in them like looking into a mirror, and I’m moving before I can think better of it, slowly, giving her time to stop me, but she doesn’t, and when I bring my arms around her, she exhales and relaxes her head against my chest. It’s the first time I breathe right in weeks. Her hands slide around my back, trembling, and I try to remember what she’s taught me about mercy—I try—but feeling how much Wyrim has broken her cuts against me like teeth.
“Will you help me fix it?” she whispers.
I know what she’s asking. She wants me to hurt them, to break them, and I’m very sure now that her advisors don’t know she’s come to me. Or at least they don’t know she’s asking about this. But I tighten my arms and look out at the Forsaken, and decide that if I’m going to do this right, I can’t let her give up as I once did. If she wants peace, I can’t let her forget it. And if that means my only purpose from here forward is to sew her back together as she did for me, to remind her that good can come from even the most lost of causes . . . then I must do it.
And maybe then, when nothing else in my life ever has been, it will be enough.
“I am yours,” I say, resting my chin on her hair. “Tell me what you’ve tried.”
GLOSSARY
Adel: Esteemed One; formal address for a member of the nobility
Aera: Your Highness; formal address for a prince or princess
Dōmmel: Divine One; formal address for the crown heir
Fara: Papa; endearing term for father
Forsvine: A magic-neutralizing metal invented by the Wyri. Translates to “to vanish.”
Gudina: Holy One; formal address for a god/goddess
Jener: A gender-neutral address similar to sir/madam
Jole: An elaborate wrap dress favored by the nobility, often embellished with gemstones or decorative threading
Kar-a: My heart; term of endearment
Mestrah: Your Majesty; formal address for the ruler
Mestrah, the: The supreme religious and political ruler of Orkena, believed to be divine (translates to “Master”)
Mora: Mama; endearing term for mother
Stefar/Mamor (Stef/Mam): Grandpa/Grandma (Pa/Ma)
Tergus: A formal kilt tied with a colorful sash
Trielle: Superior magicians capable of manipulating many types of magic through written spells
Valeed/Vala: Formal word for father/mother
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THIS is the first sequel I’ve ever written, and also the first book I’ve ever completely rewritten at a late draft stage during a pandemic on a seven-week deadline. Needless to say, after having years to write The Kinder Poison with the luxury of no deadline at all, The Cruelest Mercy was an Experience. How grateful I am to have such a phenomenal support system who not only helped me survive it, but made this into a story I love just as much as the first.
For God, always, who keeps me hopeful and grounded, and continues to connect me with the most amazing, generous people.
For my husband, who keeps the house afloat when I need to work nights and weekends, and knows exactly when to bring me a gigantic box of chocolates.
For my daughter, who possesses more energy than should be legal, and constantly inspires me with her creativity, joy, and the kinds of hilarious life observations that only four-year-olds can make.
For my parents, who taught me to love stories and always bolstered my creativity. For my second parents, Rob and Kathy, who are always there when we need them. To my siblings, Brent, Ty, Gentry, and Bailey, who make everything more fun.
For Lori Goldstein, who is not only an incredible friend but also has a wicked eye for editing and helped me find the heart of this story in more ways than one. For my Kinder Poison blurbers: Brenda Drake, Lori Goldstein, Colleen Oakes, and Chelsea Bobulski, who made time for me in their very busy schedules to read on a tight deadline, and constantly inspire me with their generosity and kindness. I’m so grateful for you.
For Marisa Hopkins, literal angel who read all 416 pages of The Kinder Poison on her phone so that she could design the epic maps you see every time you open these books. You have a gift, my friend, and I can’t wait to see your artwork take over the world.
For my agent, Bri Johnson and the rest of the Writers House team: Allie Levick, Cecilia de la Campa, and Alessandra Birch, who are my support pillars and continue to champion these books like their own. Thank you for all you tirelessly do.
For my editor, Chris Hernandez, whose brilliant notes always bring my work to the next level. Thank you for answering a million questions and helping me shape stories I’m proud of. Many thanks also to Gretchen Durning, Krista Ahlberg, and Kat Keating for the valuable final touches you helped apply, and for ensuring both that I’m writing in actual sentences and that characters are properly dressed before they go outside.
For my publicist Tessa Meischeid, actual rock star who shouted so much about The Kinder Poison that it made its way into People magazine, amongst many other outlets I could only imagine in my wildest dreams. I am so, so grateful for how hard you work to get my books out there.
For Shannon Spann, who I would like to hug, for the incredible marketing content and excitement you created around this series and for being a stellar human in general. Thank you for yelling about these books and riling up #TeamKasta. For Felicity Vallence and the rest of the Penguin Teen marketing team, a million thanks for being delightful and getting my work in front of readers.
For Theresa Evangelista, who blew my mind again with this incredible cover and interior design—your work is magic.
For Jesse Vilinsky, who brought Zahru and the rest of the cast to life as only an audio goddess can. Thank you for making these characters real. And for the rest of my audiobook team, especially Joe Grimm, Emily Parliman, Rebecca Waugh, Brieana Garcia, and Molly Lo Re, thank you for your excitement for these books and for everything you do.
For the rest of the team at Penguin Random House and Razorbill who have worked with me or helped my books reach readers—thank you, thank you, thank you.
And last but certainly not least, my infinite gratitude to my readers—to every bookseller, librarian, reviewer, and fan who has passed these books on, especially my Kinder Poison army and my Kinder Poison cult. You are the lifeblood of this series, and it is an honor to write for you.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Natalie Mae is an ex-programmer, a dark chocolate enthusiast, and an author of young adult novels. She has also been a freelance editor and a Pitch Wars mentor, and she feels it notable to mention she once held a job where she had to feed spiders. When not writing, she can be found wandering the Colorado wilderness with her family. Find her on Twitter and Instagram @ByNatalieMae,
and online at nataliemaebooks.com.
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