She felt a breeze in her face, warm and smelling of spring blossoms, an impossibility this far into fall, but she breathed it in and opened her eyes, lifted her face to see the spirits spiraling above her through the branches of the tree. The tree spirits sank into the trunk of one of Redleaf’s trees, and the bark began to pulse and bubble. Yes, there, she told them, and directed them as the bubble grew and stretched and split into spires.
Naelin had the spirits hollow the spires and widen holes to be windows. They grew stairs from another branch, and vines wrapped around one another to make the railings. Swirling her finger, she told them to curl the ends into flourishes, and then raised her arms to direct them as they spun banners made of leaves out from the tips of the spires. Around her, she heard the awed murmurs of the villagers, but she didn’t let that distract her. She led the spirits like a conductor leads an orchestra, creating her own kind of music.
Fill it with stories, she ordered the spirits. She harnessed a dozen for this task—a dozen of the smartest, who could understand a complex command. Stories that will make the people laugh and cry and feel whole. Stories that break, and stories that heal. Find them stories, to give them hope in the bleakest of times. She imprinted the image of books. Cross all of Aratay. Go to the wordsmiths. The wordsmiths would provide them with books, illustrated and bound. In exchange for their books, you will strengthen their roofs, fix their doors if they need it, and repair their bridges.
As she finished issuing her orders, Naelin released them and sank back into her own body. For an instant, she felt as if she had touched something wonderful and beautiful—for an instant, she had forgotten what happened.
She’d forgotten they’d been taken.
She’d forgotten they could be dead, that it was likely they were dead, that spirits didn’t kidnap people—they killed them.
She’d forgotten she’d failed to save her children.
And as the knowledge crashed back into her, she felt as if she couldn’t breathe. She fell to her knees. Around her, Naelin heard the shouts of joy, the gasps of wonder, all the awe in the voices of the men, women, and children of Redleaf.
She felt arms around her—familiar arms—as the throbbing in her head finally receded and the cloudy chaos of her wriggling thoughts cleared at last. She was herself again, her mind whole and her heart broken.
Ven.
“They took them,” Naelin told him. “Erian and Llor. The spirits took them north. And they drove Bayn west, into the untamed lands.” She felt his arms tighten as he absorbed her news.
Into her ear, he said, “Just keep breathing. One breath, then another.”
“And then it will get better? Then I’ll be able to accept that they’re gone? Then I’ll admit that I failed them and the spirits killed them and rescue is hopeless?” Even she heard the danger note in her voice. With her mind clear, she remembered how Ven had shouted for her to stop, and how Daleina had interfered with her attack. Anger ate at her pain, and she wanted to scream and rage:
It’s not hopeless! The spirits took them into Semo! Alive!
He was silent a moment, only then admitting, “No. I don’t think it will get better.”
That was, oddly, the right answer. She hadn’t thought there was one. Keep breathing. It won’t get better. Keep breathing anyway. It wouldn’t be better until her children were back in her arms and Merecot was dead.
Chapter 7
Queen Merecot of Semo allowed the spirits to destroy a mountain. She watched from above, through the eyes of an air spirit, as earth spirits gnawed at the granite cliffs and ice spirits froze and thawed the mountain streams, causing the fissures to widen on the face of the mountain. Fire spirits tossed molten rock over the once-dormant crater as if they were children playing catch. She felt their glee, a wild kind of joy that burned in her veins.
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.”