And she forced herself to look around her, at the grove. It took a moment, but her eyes at last told her mind what they saw. Spirits, dead, many of them. And the other forty-nine heirs, all of them, strewn over the roots and rocks, lying in the wet earth.
“No,” she whispered.
She stumbled forward, toward where Zie lay, her eyes open, her body twisted at an impossible angle. “No,” Daleina whispered again. Standing, she ran from one to the next to the next. Evvlyn, her hands clutched to her torn chest. Revi, her body slashed, red streaking her white gown. Linna, on the root, hands still clinging, mouth open as if she were about to speak, eyes sightless. Iondra. Heirs she’d recently met, Chidra and Berra. Others, whose names she didn’t know. All of them.
All of them.
In the center of the grove, Queen Daleina fell to her knees in the blood of her friends as the spirits wove a crown of wood and flowers and placed it gently, reverently, on her head.
Not a crown, she thought. A wreath, to memorialize this grave.
OUTSIDE THE GROVE, VEN WAITED. HE HATED WAITING. STUPID tradition, that the champions weren’t allowed to accompany their heirs. It was a private ceremony, Fara had explained once, a beautiful moment of harmony and joy that belonged only to spirits and heirs. He should have been there, though. Whether Daleina saw it or not, she was meant to be queen. She had to be. Fara couldn’t have died merely to be succeeded by someone who was inferior. Only Daleina had the strength of character . . .
The trees of the grove shifted, their roots moving aside as if they were a curtain parting, and the wolf Bayn charged through. No one else moved. They waited, at a polite distance, ready to proclaim the new queen. It felt as if they were all holding their breaths at once, as still as the air around them.
The wind, slowly, began to blow.
He heard whispers before he saw her. A ripple of words too indistinct for him to decipher. He felt Hamon grip his arm, tight.
The wolf trotted first, his muzzle red, his fur matted. Behind him, Daleina in blood-spattered white walked forward.
Blood? There was never blood at a coronation.
One of the other champions—Piriandra—rushed past Ven. Without slowing, the champion ran past the new queen and into the grove. Daleina halted, not moving, her expression as unreadable as Fara’s had been.
“They’re dead,” Hamon gasped beside him. A guess, but he said it with certainty.
The words did not make sense inside Ven’s head. This wasn’t how it happened. For hundreds of years . . . this was not how it happened! The heirs walked into the grove and then walked out again, one of them crowned queen. It was a peaceful, beautiful, gentle ceremony. All the songs about it—they sang of its majesty and beauty, the most solemn and sacred moment, when all of the spirits united together to reclaim their power . . .
The other champion, Champion Piriandra, walked slowly out of the grove. Her cheeks pale, her eyes haunted. Ven saw the blood on her boots before he heard her words:
“All hail Queen Daleina! Long live the queen!”
CHAPTER 31
She buried them there, in the grove, and she allowed the mighty earth spirit to swallow their bodies while the wood spirits blanketed the turned soil with tiny white blossoms, so many that it looked like snow. She then went to Heroes Grove and blanketed the hand-dug grave of Queen Fara in the same blossoms. Only then did Queen Daleina claim her throne, with her champion at her side.
The people called it the Coronation Massacre, and Daleina knew there were songs written about it and about her, the Queen of Blood, who’d been crowned in loss and sorrow. She refused to hear them. Postponing her coronation celebration, she announced that she would speak to the families of the heirs and left the palace nearly as soon as she entered it, to travel the forest to them. Her champion, a healer, and a wolf went with her, or so the tales said.
Tales are sometimes true.
She started with the families in the capital, Zie’s parents and siblings, Revi’s cousins and mothers, Linna’s courtier parents . . . She took the wire paths to the border to sit with Evvlyn’s border-guard parents, and she climbed to the canopy to visit Iondra’s. She learned the names and families of the other heirs who had died in the grove, and she visited them all. She saw the barren places that now marred the once-perfect green of Aratay—the dead places where nothing grew and no rain fell, the places that had died when spirits died—and she mourned them as well, the lost forest. And then she returned to her own family, in their garish green house nestled in a tiny village.
Arin greeted her at the door. Wordlessly, she brought Daleina inside as Ven assumed a guard position outside. The wolf Bayn prowled below, and Hamon climbed onto the roof to check the charms. They took no chances with the new queen’s safety.
Daleina looked at her sister. The crutches were gone, and her sister’s arms were coated in flour up to her elbows. Her hair was tied back in braids, and she wore a stained apron. She had a smudge of flour on one cheek. “I’d hug you, but you would end up looking like a frosted cookie—” Arin began.
Without a word, Daleina hugged her anyway.
“Your gown!” But Daleina only held her tighter, until Arin folded her arms around her sister. “Was it as bad as they say it was?”
“I didn’t mean to become queen,” Daleina said, muffled, into her little sister’s shoulder.
“Yes, you did.” Arin patted her back. “You just didn’t mean for it to happen this way.” Pulling away, Arin guided Daleina to a chair, and Daleina let her. “Mother and Daddy will be thrilled to see you. They’re at the market. It’s being rebuilt, not sure if you saw. Everyone’s been working together, with only a little of the usual arguments and typical small-town melodrama.”
“How are you?”
Arin seemed startled that she’d asked. “Better.” She wiggled her leg. “See?”
“Wonderful. But how are you?” Daleina studied her sister. She didn’t have dark circles under her eyes, and her cheeks were their usual plumpness. She’d been sleeping and eating, which was good. The flour on her arms showed she was back to baking—a pie, she judged from the pile of peeled apples on the counter.
“I miss him, every second of every day. And everyone tells me that it will get easier with time, and I hate that they say that. I don’t want it easier. I don’t want to forget him.”
Daleina nodded. She’d memorized every tidbit that the heirs’ families had told her, and she’d told them as many stories about their lost loved ones as she knew. With every visit, she wished she had more to tell, wished she knew more moments, wished she didn’t remember so imperfectly. But it was all she had to give them.
“Are you done now, seeing the families?”
“For now.” She’d promised a few she’d return. For some, she was the only link to the memories of their daughter. Others had borne her presence but never wanted to see her again. She didn’t blame them. She’d have loved to get far away from the person she’d become and the memories she carried, if that were possible.
“What are you going to do next, now that you’re queen? Live in the palace, I know. The old hedgewitch’s shop wouldn’t be appropriate.” Arin gave a little laugh, tight and forced.
“I suppose not,” Daleina agreed. “You could come with me. Mother and Daddy too. Live in the palace.” She clasped Arin’s hands, dry with flour. Her hands had grown, thin and long, like their mother’s hands.
“You can ask them, but no. This is our home. Besides, what would we do in the capital? You have bakers enough. And Daddy’s a woodsman. He wouldn’t like the city. We’ll visit.” Arin attempted a smile. “You can send me pretty sparkly things from the treasury, if you want.”
Trying and failing to smile back, Daleina nodded. She hadn’t truly expected more than that. She released Arin’s hands. They sat in silence for a few minutes more, and then Arin stood again and bustled over to the stove. “Tea?”
“Yes, please.” She didn’t like tea. It didn’t matter.
Her sister poured blackberry tea for both of them, and they sat and drank it together. Outside, a few scattered tree spirits watched the house from the nearby branches, and a trio of air spirits spiraled up to the sky. As Daleina listened to her sister talk, she also flew between the clouds. As she laughed with her sister, she also burrowed into the earth. And as they cried together, she bloomed with the tiny white flowers that now covered the graves of the hedgewitch and the baker’s boy and the other villagers who had died.
Later, when her parents returned, she cried with them as well. And then, when the moon was fat and full, Queen Daleina left her parents and sister and journeyed through the forest, with Ven and Hamon and the wolf, to the palace, her home, and climbed the stairs to her chambers.
Lieutenant Alet—now Captain Alet—stood guard by her door, as Daleina had requested. She’d wanted a guard she could trust. Daleina nodded to her before going inside, and Alet returned the nod. “Welcome home, Your Majesty.” Daleina walked out onto the balcony. She thought she’d be alone, alone with her thoughts and the night and the moon and the forest, but the branches around the palace were filled with people. Her people. Men, women, and children from all across Aratay had come, drawn to the palace, to be here when her journey ended. She saw woodsmen and city dwellers, shopkeepers and schoolteachers, children and babies, old men and women, healers and soldiers . . . Each of them held a lantern of firemoss, so it looked as if the trees were filled with caught starlight.
And when they saw her on the balcony of the palace, they cheered so loudly that she thought the forest was shaking. Drums beat, and they sang—every throat, loud, for her.
She saw a hint of movement out of the corner of her eye. Ven. Stepping onto the balcony, he stood beside her. “You will be a great queen, Daleina.”
“You still believe that? After . . .” She didn’t speak Queen Fara’s name.
“Yes.” He placed his hand on her shoulder.
On the other side of her, Hamon stepped forward and took her hand, cradling it. “We all believe in you.”
She didn’t know what to say. Out in the trees, the men, women, and children were dancing and embracing one another and laughing and singing and waving to her.
“Look at them, Daleina. Listen to them.” Ven squeezed her shoulder. “Because of you, all these people are still alive.”
“I won’t fail them.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s why I chose you.”
But it wasn’t about his choice. And it wasn’t about her choice. It was about the people below her . . . and the spirits. They all chose to live, and that meant someone had to wear this crown.
I wanted it, and then I didn’t, and now I truly don’t. But it’s mine, and I will make sure that if I’m the Queen of Blood, that blood will have meant something.
As the singing and laughing and cheering rose up toward the night sky, she covered Ven’s hand with one of hers and held Hamon’s hand with her other, as she looked out on the people of Aratay, and allowed herself to feel hope.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I was ten years old when I started creating worlds. I used to collect all the pieces of scrap paper I could find, tape them together with masking tape, and draw massive room-size maps of imaginary lands. I also kept a box of index cards, and on each card I wrote a made-up name, plus a list of his or her magical powers and talking animal friends. In school, I doodled pictures of fantastical creatures in the margins of my notebooks. And I wrote stories, lots of stories, about wizards and warriors and magic.
I think Renthia was born on those maps and in those index cards.
So I’d like to thank my parents for all the scrap paper. And for all the books that made me dream of filling that paper with other worlds: the Belgariad by David Eddings, Arrows of the Queen by Mercedes Lackey, The Sword of Shannara by Terry Brooks, Alanna by Tamora Pierce, Dragonsinger by Anne McCaffrey, The Blue Sword by Robin McKinley . . .
I’d like to thank my fantastic agent Andrea Somberg, who said, “Yes, let’s do it!” when I sent her my idea for the Queens of Renthia. And I’d like to thank my wonderful editor David Pomerico, who looked at what I’d written and said, “What if this is book two and you make Daleina’s story book one?” Without them, this book would not exist. I am extremely grateful for their belief in me, as well as their overall awesomeness. Huge thanks as well to all the amazing people at HarperCollins for everything they did to bring this book to life.
And thank you with all my heart to my family and friends, who willingly walk with me into magical worlds, and to my husband and children, who make this world magical every day. I love you all so much.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SARAH BETH DURST is the author of ten fantasy novels for adults, teens, and children, including The Lost, Vessel, and The Girl Who Could Not Dream. She was awarded the 2013 Mythopoeic Fantasy Award and has been a finalist for SFWA’s Andre Norton Award three times. She is a graduate of Princeton University, where she spent four years studying English, writing about dragons, and wondering what the campus gargoyles would say if they could talk. Sarah lives in Stony Brook, New York, with her husband and children. Visit her at www.sarahbethdurst.com.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
CREDITS
Cover design by Richard L. Aquan
Cover illustration © Stephan Martiniere
Map illustration by Ashley P. Halsey
COPYRIGHT
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE QUEEN OF BLOOD. Copyright © 2016 by Sarah Beth Durst. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
Harper Voyager and design is a trademark of HarperCollins Publishers L.L.C.
ISBN 978-0-06-241334-5
EPub Edition SEPTEMBER 2016 ISBN 9780062413369
16 17 18 19 20 OV/RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
Australia
HarperCollins Publishers Australia Pty. Ltd.
Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street
Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia
www.harpercollins.com.au
Canada
HarperCollins Canada
2 Bloor Street East - 20th Floor
Toronto, ON M4W 1A8, Canada
www.harpercollins.ca
New Zealand
HarperCollins Publishers New Zealand
Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive
Rosedale 0632
Auckland, New Zealand
www.harpercollins.co.nz
United Kingdom
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF, UK
www.harpercollins.co.uk
United States
HarperCollins Publishers Inc.
195 Broadway
New York, NY 10007
www.harpercollins.com
Sarah Beth Durst, The Queen of Blood
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends