The Queen of Sorrow

by Sarah Beth Durst

  Belatedly, she realized Ven was talking, telling her a story about him and his sister and the first time they’d visited the forest floor. “. . . she’d heard so many stories about wolves and bears and boars that she was convinced she was going to die if her feet touched the soil,” Ven was saying. “So you know what my mother did? She brought me down to the forest floor and said to my sister, ‘If you’re right and the floor is death, then you’d better save your brother before he’s gored. And if you’re wrong and he doesn’t die, then you can admit it and go down without any more fussing. Either way, you’re going down to the forest floor.’”

  “How old were you?” Naelin asked.

  “Three. It took all night, but by dawn my sister had decided she’d better save me. So she came down to the forest floor and carried me back up. I was too small to climb on my own. Don’t know how she did it either. She was only five, and I was a big three.”

  “You weren’t eaten by wild beasts or mauled by earth spirits, so she must have found a way. Did your sister stop being afraid of the forest floor?”

  A woman’s voice said, “Backfired, unfortunately. Can’t get her out of the treetops. She hasn’t been to the floor in over thirty years.” Ahead of them, a woman dropped onto the rope bridge. She had a bow and a quiver of arrows on her back, and was dressed in all green leather, with the pin of a border guard of Aratay affixed to her collar. She had moonlight-silver hair and dark eyes. “This is a surprise, Ven.”

  “Hello, Mother,” Ven said. “It’s nice to see you. You’re looking well.”

  She snorted. “You look old, flabby, and soft. Have all the champions abandoned strength for sentiment, or is that only you?”

  Well, this explains a few things, Naelin thought.

  “Mother, we have a journey ahead of us and were hoping to take advantage of your hospitality for the night.”

  Naelin had never heard him sound so polite or so formal. She studied him carefully. He was as tense as he’d been in the Queen’s Grove when they’d been waiting for Queen Merecot and her army. His fingers twitched as if he wished he could close them around the hilt of his sword.

  “I’m not hospitable,” his mother said. “You know that. Is this your new candidate?” She walked in a circle around Naelin, examining her. Naelin thought about introducing herself, but was curious what Ven’s mother was going to say, and if Ven hadn’t introduced her . . . I’ll follow his lead. “Bad choice,” Ven’s mother proclaimed. “She looks as if she’s better suited to picking herbs. She’ll face one difficult spirit then she’ll crumble. Honestly, Ven, I know you believe yourself infallible since you chose Queen Daleina, but her ascension was a fluke. You can’t afford to be complacent when your role is so vital to all of Aratay.”

  He sighed and shot Naelin a look that was so full of apology that Naelin nearly laughed. “I take it you’re still angry at me,” Ven said to his mother.

  “You left without even a goodbye. And you sent no word. For years, I have to hear news about my youngest child only through stories and songs. Your sister knows more about you than I do, and all she knows is in verse.”

  He raked a hand through his hair. “I was busy.”

  “You were hiding from me.” She gave another snort. “You knew I’d disapprove. What were you thinking, involving yourself with a queen?”

  Naelin flinched. His mother knew about them already? And disapproved? That wasn’t anything she thought she’d have to contend with. She was a grown woman, for goodness’ sake. Parental approval hadn’t been a concern in decades, and it hadn’t occurred to her that it would be an issue now. After all, she wasn’t even certain that they were still in a relationship—they had barely touched since Redleaf.

  “You should have been focused on your duty,” his mother continued. “Queen Fara should have been untouchable.”

  Oh.

  Not me.

  Naelin didn’t know whether to be irritated or amused. Clearly, Ven’s mother was a woman with strong opinions who didn’t hesitate to express them. Naelin didn’t blame Ven for keeping his distance. The only surprise was that he’d offered to come here now.

  “I don’t want to talk about her, Mother.”

  “Bah, you never did want to talk about anything important. I’d expected that by now, you’d have learned to face straightforward honesty.” His mother tapped her foot on the branch. “You’d better come inside. Your sister won’t forgive me if she doesn’t get to see you. Brace yourself for tears. She’s liable to get emotional.” Without another word, she pivoted and then leapt across the thin branches of the upper canopy, as nimble as a squirrel. She barely disturbed the leaves in her wake.

  “She hasn’t mellowed,” Ven said. “I thought she might have.” He turned to Naelin, and she noticed the shadows under his eyes, exaggerated by the angle of the firemoss light. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks.

  This has all been hard on him too, Naelin thought. He cared about Erian and Llor. And he cares about me. She laid a hand on his cheek, against his beard. His expression softened, and he took her hand. She thought about Queen Fara and the heir Sata and the losses he’d already suffered. He didn’t talk much about them, but knowing his kind heart, they must have cut him deeply.

  “Coming here may have been a mistake. We can camp in the woods. Certainly done it before. I’d thought . . . I don’t know what I thought, but it was a bad idea.” He made a face. “Sorry to subject you to this.”

  “If you want to stay, I can handle it,” Naelin said gently. Hanna had confirmed her children were being treated well. She could set aside her own impatience for one night, for Ven. “You can see your sister at least.” Besides, she was curious to learn more: who were these people who had shaped Ven? What had his childhood been like? She found herself wanting to meet his sister and see his home, which was surprising since all her thoughts lately had been consumed with Erian and Llor. I haven’t been fair to him. I haven’t been thinking of anyone else at all. For all her fine words about being the Mother of Aratay, everything she’d done had been for her children, to the exclusion of all else.

  “Please don’t hold me responsible for whatever she says,” he said. “It’s not aimed at you; I’m the disappointment.”

  “You’re the epitome of a hero. How can she be disappointed in you?” The longer she knew him, the more impressed she was. The more in love. She smiled to herself. After Renet, she never thought she’d feel this way about anyone again—and in truth, I never felt like this about Renet.

  “She probably keeps a list,” he said, pulling out a length of rope and a clip. “Which she’s probably going to recite to you. Attach yourself to me. The upper branches can be precarious.”

  Reaching out with her mind, Naelin brushed against the presence of a few spirits, mostly small and none close. “If you’re willing to wait a few minutes, I could summon an air spirit. There aren’t any close by.”

  “Not many spirits would dare be near my mother,” Ven said. “Best leave them be. No sense upsetting her any more than I already have.” He drew out an arrow with a ring at its end and tied on a rope. Notching it, he aimed into the darkness and shot. She heard the thunk as it embedded itself into tree. He looped one arm around her waist, and Naelin wrapped her arms around him. Ven kicked off and swung on the rope through the upper branches. Dry autumn leaves brushed against her arms, and she heard them rustle and crackle as they swung through the shadows. She felt Ven raise his knees, and then they impacted on a platform. He tied off the end of the rope to one of the branches and unhooked the clips that held Naelin. “There should be a ladder . . .” He felt around the trunk. “Here. Follow me.”

  Ven climbed first, followed by Naelin. She couldn’t imagine going higher than they already were—soon, they’d be among the very tops of the trees. “Did you grow up in a bird’s nest?”

  “Nearly,” he said. “Mother’s not a people person.”

  Ven stopped, and that made Naelin stop as well. She heard a melody carried
on the breeze: a light, wordless tune in harmony with the birds, dipping low to match the owls and then high to imitate a songbird in her nest for the night.

  “That’s my sister,” Ven said, and this time there was real warmth in his voice.

  “I look forward to meeting her,” Naelin said, and she meant it.

  Ven hadn’t thought about home in a while, and he certainly hadn’t planned to return. It wasn’t until Arin planted the idea and he had the thought that the distraction would be good for Naelin—a way to slow her down, to keep her from doing anything rash—that he warmed to it. He hadn’t bothered to think about whether it would be good for him.

  I’ve had worse ideas, he supposed. Not many, but a few.

  At least no one was likely to die from this mistake. He’d just have to suffer through a night of belittling parental disapproval in front of the one woman he wanted to think well of him. Yeah, definitely on the list of bad ideas.

  He saw home from the top of the ladder. It looked the same as he remembered: platforms that straddled the upper branches, evenly distributing their weight so they stayed balanced, with bridges between them and tarps on top of them. It was more a collection of tents than a house like you’d find midforest. “It’s nicer than it looks,” he told Naelin. “There are real beds inside.”

  “It looks very nice,” Naelin reassured him.

  He knew she was lying. Mother didn’t believe in fancy decorations—their home looked like it belonged to a soldier, because it did. Mother had been a champion for years, until she became border patrol. He’d learned from her to consider all of Aratay his home, not one nook of it. She used to say every tree was their bed, every rock their table, every stream their sink. Still, this didn’t feel like just another tree.

  I am getting sentimental in my old age, he thought.

  “You should know that my sister is . . . She’s gentle.” He didn’t know how else to describe her. He wondered what Naelin would think of her—and what Sira would think of Naelin. He toyed with lying to Sira about who Naelin was, to put his sister at ease, but he’d never lied to her. He couldn’t. Not to Sira.

  “I’m sure she’s wonderful. I can’t wait to meet her.” Naelin’s smile was genuine, and no matter what, he felt like he was giving his heart to the right woman.

  He just hoped that smile remained when she went inside the house.

  He climbed up, swinging onto the platform in front of the door—or, rather, a tarp that bore the seal of a border guard, embroidered badly. He lifted it and ducked inside, holding it up behind him for Naelin.

  Naelin entered—he was relieved when she looked around, interested. Maybe this won’t be a total disaster, he thought. As he’d told her, it was nicer than it looked from the outside. Lots of wood furniture. Lots of quilts. And not a speck of dirt. Even dirt fears disappointing Mother, Ven thought.

  Mother marched through the kitchen, plucked a kettle off a hook, and shoved it onto a rod that spanned the fireplace. “If you’re expecting a victory feast to celebrate your triumphant return home, you’re going to be sorely disappointed. Rations are in the barrels. Serve your friend whatever you like.”

  Nope, definite disaster. His mother was determined to be unpleasant. Really, he shouldn’t have expected anything less. He did leave without saying goodbye, and he hadn’t sent word or tried to visit, unlike his sister, who’d never left, and his brother, who visited on every holiday and undoubtedly sent bushels of flowers on random occasions, purely to make Ven look bad.

  “You’ve eggs,” Naelin said, with a nod toward a basket of blue bird eggs on the counter. “I can cook for all of us.”

  “Suit yourself. You travel with my son, so you’re welcome here.” Mother plopped onto a chair and put her feet up on a worn table. “All right, Ven, explain yourself.”

  “Believe it or not, Mother, I’m not here to see you. This is Queen Naelin. We are traveling north to Arkon, to retrieve her children from Queen Merecot of Semo. Naelin, this is my mother, Zenda.” He crossed to the kitchen—he still knew where the skillet was. He set it over the fire for Naelin. She’d already located a bowl and begun to whisk eggs together.

  “Herbs?” Naelin prompted.

  Mother, meanwhile, had snapped to her feet. “Your Majesty!”

  Ven checked a cabinet and pulled out a smattering of cooking herbs, which Naelin proceeded to sniff, then crush into a second bowl. An onion and a potato were hanging in a net over the sink. She handed them to Ven. “Dice them,” Naelin ordered. He pulled out his knife. “Clean it first, then dice them.”

  Behind them, Mother said, “A queen, cooking in my kitchen . . . Your Majesty . . . I . . . Ven!” She turned on him, and he instinctively sidled beside a stool so it was between him and his mother. Mother did not like surprises. I probably should have taken that into account. And yet . . . it was almost worth it, seeing her expression. “You’re not going to say anything further about the fact you’re traveling alone with a queen?” Mother demanded. “Where are the palace guards? Where’s her escort? Are you crossing the border with the queen? This is unprecedented. And didn’t the stories say her children were dead? How did they end up with Queen Merecot? Forgive my frankness, Your Majesty.”

  A soft voice, sweet as spring wind, whisper-sang from the doorway. “Oh, but it’s not unprecedented. Queen Renna the Delighted enjoyed surprising tiny villages with visits. She’d tuck in the little children with a lullaby.” Sira stood just inside, her wild hair even wilder than Ven remembered, in a cloud around her petite face, as if it wanted to swallow all her features. She looked smaller than he remembered too, her bird-thin arms and legs like the stick limbs of a tree spirit. But she was smiling at him, and that was all that mattered. “Ven, you came home!”

  He crossed the house in two strides, scooped her up, and swung in her in a circle. She laughed like she did when she was a little kid, a peal of bells escaping her grinning lips.

  “Silly bear, put me down. You’ll break me!”

  He put her down and growled like a bear before he remembered that his beloved queen was standing only a few feet behind him watching this entire exchange. He felt his face heat up beneath his beard, which only made Sira laugh louder. “Naelin, this is my sister, Sira.”

  “We heard you singing,” Naelin said. “You’ve a beautiful voice.”

  “I sing to the birds,” Sira said. “They’re the beautiful ones.”

  “You sing just as beautifully,” Ven told her firmly. She’d always downplayed her gifts. He never let her, though, not while he was around. “The birds are envious of you.”

  Mother interrupted. “Sira, this is Queen Naelin, joint queen with Queen Daleina. She’s on her way north to bring her children home—apparently, the rumors were wrong. They’re alive.”

  Sira dropped into a curtsy as gracefully as if she’d spent her life in a palace. She was naturally graceful. A fact that Mother never noticed, Ven thought. Mother had always focused on Sira’s limitations, but she had many strengths. “I know your songs, Your Majesty. I’m so pleased to meet you, and even more pleased to hear your children are well.”

  Naelin looked startled. “I have songs?”

  “Oh, yes. My favorite is ‘The Ballad of the Reluctant Queen,’” Sira said, beaming at her. “The descent into minor during the bridge to the second verse is lovely.” She sang the melody wordlessly, holding out the last note for an instant, then fading it. “It’s for sunset after a particularly beautiful day, when you don’t want it to be night yet.” Ven was watching Naelin’s expression closely and saw it tighten, the instant before she turned back to add herbs into the bowl of eggs. She’s thinking she should have stayed reluctant. It was easy to guess her thoughts these days. Too easy. But his sister couldn’t know that, and went on. “I sing it to the dawn and the night, to the wind and the rain, and they come to listen.”

  “You know they’d come anyway,” Mother said.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.” Sira was as patient as ever, with her secret little s
mile. She’d always known how to let Mother’s words roll off her. He wondered how she did it—they stuck like burrs into Ven.

  “Your singing is important,” Ven told Sira. “Gives the rest of us a reason to keep fighting.” He felt Naelin studying at him, and he focused on the potato, skimming off the skin with his blade and slicing it into chunks. He hadn’t directed those words at her, but he didn’t regret that she’d heard them. She’d probably accuse him of lacking subtlety, which Daleina had so recently commented on.

  I carry at least five weapons at all times. Subtlety isn’t what I do.

  They fell into silence as Naelin prepared the rest of the meal, issuing the occasional order. Sira set out plates, even scrounged up napkins, which she folded into flower shapes.

  Mother watched it all from her seat, feet firmly on the table, crushed leaves stuck to the soles of her boots. All of them sat when the eggs were ready, and the kitchen was filled with the smoky, oniony, thick scent of an ordinary midforest home—a smell that he didn’t associate with this eagle roost of a place.

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” Naelin said as she spread her napkin on her lap.

  “You cooked, Your Majesty,” Mother said.

  “With your food,” Naelin pointed out. “I like to cook.” To Ven’s surprise, she sounded cheerful. Could she actually be enjoying this visit?

  “Food serves a purpose: keeping a body strong,” Mother proclaimed. “Never saw much point in fancying it up. People who waste their time on that are fools.”

  Ven put his fork down. Didn’t slam it. He was proud of that. “You’re insulting your guest, Mother.”

  “Your guest,” she snapped. “Told you, I don’t do hospitality.” Then her eyes widened. He crossed his arms and leaned back as Mother ducked her head in a bow. “Beg pardon, Your Majesty. Of course you are welcome here. These are your woods. Ven will tell you—I’m a woman with strong opinions who speaks her mind.”

  “Except when you don’t,” Sira said, still sweet and gentle.