The Queen of Blood (12 page)

“Caretaker Undu? For the record, it wasn't Merecot's fault,” Daleina said. “It was mine and mine only. I was alone in my room, and I made the decision to summon spirits alone.”

“You'll discuss it with the headmistress,” Caretaker Undu said. “She wishes to speak to you.”

Daleina swallowed and exchanged another look with Merecot. Neither of them had said more than a few words to the headmistress, not since the day they were admitted two years ago. She was a distant presence, always there, always watching, but never involved. Certainly never in any disciplinary action involving students, at least to the best of Daleina's knowledge. Was what she had done so very bad? Surely other students had had accidents with spirits. Lots of accidents. The teachers were always telling cautionary tales about former students who had summoned spirits too large for them to control. Sometimes those tales even included tours around the academy, pointing out locations where students or teachers had died or been dramatically injured. Not that Daleina had ever seen it happen. The masters were careful to have their students summon only controllable spirits—that was the point of the training. Don't mess with the big ones. You needed the extra power that came with coronation to tangle with those. Every teacher sported scars from times when past students had tangled with the wrong spirits—they were all living object lessons, at least those who still lived.

At the top of the spiral, Caretaker Undu knocked on the headmistress's door. In response, it swung silently open, with no one touching it. Daleina peered around, looking for spirits who could
have opened it, but saw none. “Thank you,” came the headmistress's voice from inside. “You may leave us, Undu.”

Bowing, Caretaker Undu retreated past them down the stairs. She didn't look back.

“If she lowers my scores because of this, I'm not forgiving you,” Merecot murmured to Daleina.

“She won't,” Daleina said. “It wouldn't be fair.” She stepped forward. “I'll go first.”

Merecot blocked her. “I will. She won't be as angry at me, since I did keep the academy from burning down.”

“But you shouldn't be punished at all—”

“I know. And I'll speak up for you.”

“I'm not going to let her—”

The headmistress's voice cut across them. “Predawn wanes. Come in before old age claims me and all that remains is bones.”

Both of them walked in together—with a little maneuvering and brushing of shoulders against the jamb—side by side.

At her desk, the headmistress was crowned in candlelight. An array of candles flickered behind her, the reflection of flames shimmering on the windowpanes. She had parchment on her desk, notes and maps, and a pile of half-eaten fruits and breads lay beside her, as if she'd been there and working for some time.
Does anyone in this place ever sleep?

The spirits know I haven't
.

Daleina bowed, and Merecot, a second later, followed suit. “Headmistress Hanna, I take full responsibility for my actions—”

“And I for mine,” Merecot jumped in.

“I was attempting to practice, and I lost control,” Daleina said. “Merecot was merely trying to contain the damage I'd done. She stopped an accident from becoming a tragedy. I don't think she deserves to be punished—”

“And you?” the headmistress asked, looking at Merecot. “Do you believe you deserve punishment?”

“I don't,” Merecot answered. “And neither does Daleina. It was an accident. Daleina has difficulty controlling spirits. She's easily overwhelmed if they come in either strength or numbers. It
wouldn't surprise me if the nearby spirits noticed this and came in droves on purpose.”

That was a bit more honest than helpful. Daleina shot her a less-than-friendly look. The headmistress didn't need to know all of Daleina's failings. It would have been far better if the headmistress hadn't noticed her at all, at least not for two more years, until after she'd passed her exams and been chosen by a champion.

Headmistress Hanna folded her hands on her desk. “Accidents happen. They are part of how we learn. And you are here to learn.”

Daleina bobbed her head hard. “If my punishment could be more practice, I'd appreciate it. I'd rather not lose time in the classroom. We're so close to midterm exams.”

“Yes, exams.” The headmistress tapped her fingers on a stack of parchment.

Merecot frowned and craned her neck as if trying to read the papers. “Are those mine?”

The headmistress pushed back from her desk, walked toward her window, and clasped her hands behind her. “Can you tell me why this academy exists?”

“To train those with the affinity for spirits to use their powers,” Merecot said, promptly and loudly, as if answering a drill.

“Indeed. Why?”

“So that the champions can choose the best candidates to become heirs,” Merecot said. “The queen must be the best of the best.”

“And why do we need a queen?” the headmistress asked.

Daleina glanced at Merecot. That felt like trick a question. Only a queen could touch all the spirits at once. After the coronation ceremony, her powers were magnified, her strength and range increased until she could impose her will on all the spirits within her borders. She and she alone could maintain the do-no-harm command for every spirit and keep the spirits from destroying everyone. “To protect the people,” Daleina said. “A queen must use her powers to ensure the well-being of everyone in her land.”

“It is an enormous responsibility, to be queen. It requires sacrifice,
compassion, and wisdom. A queen must be morally unassailable. She must be strong of character, as well as affinity. It is seldom discussed, but the fact is that a bad queen can be as dangerous as no queen.”

Daleina wasn't sure that was true. No queen meant certain death. Her village, writ large. It was the reason that
every
woman, regardless of level of power, was taught the coronation command—after a queen died, the spirits had to be, in essence, frozen so that they didn't slaughter everyone before the next queen was chosen.
Choose
. That simple command suspended their bloodlust, their power, the forest itself. Drastic but necessary. To be without a queen . . .

“This academy exists not only to shape the kind of power required to be queen but to shape the kind of
person
required to be queen,” the headmistress said. “Your courses in history, politics, and ethics are of equal importance to summoning and survival.”

“With all due respect, Headmistress, we know this,” Merecot said. “Please just tell us our punishment so we can return to our studies.”

Daleina winced. She might know diplomacy was important, but Merecot still needed to work on it.

Headmistress Hanna turned from the window to face them again. “I took the liberty of requesting your records, after the incident last night, and I'm afraid I found a disturbing trend. Your papers and your exams over the last two years in history, politics, theory, and ethics . . .” The headmistress gestured at the stacks of parchments. “I believe you two have engaged in unethical behavior, repeatedly. Your work is too similar for any other explanation, unless you would care to offer one?”

Daleina stared at the headmistress as the words linked and unlinked in her head, her brain trying to make sense of them. The headmistress couldn't mean . . . She couldn't think . . . “We didn't cheat. Not on an exam. Or a paper. Or anything. Ever.”

“I worked hard,” Merecot said. “I deserve my scores.”

“Merecot has helped me in summoning classes,” Daleina said, “but only during classes and practices, not during anything
official.” Not much, anyway. Not enough to constitute cheating. Everyone helped one another.

Headmistress Hanna shook her head. “Summoning classes don't concern me. I am concerned with your coursework in your other classes, with your written assignments and exams.”

This didn't make sense. It was unfair. Untrue! “We study together, a lot.” Or at least Daleina studied with Revi and Linna. Merecot didn't come to their study sessions. Still . . . “It makes sense that our answers would be the same. We learned at the same time, from the same books and same lectures. We discuss the lessons. We're supposed to do that!”

Headmistress Hanna plucked two papers from two different stacks and laid them side by side. “First-year exams, history.” She pointed to answers, one after another. Leaning forward, Daleina read—she remembered this exam. She'd studied hard. Some of the answers had been obscure, and she'd been proud of herself. She'd even written to her parents and Arin, telling them how she'd done. They'd been proud of her, even sending her a necklace of whittled wood as a congratulations present. “And this, second year, ethics.” The headmistress drew out two papers and displayed them before Daleina and Merecot.

Daleina looked up from the papers. “You're mistaken. We did our own work.”

“Test results don't matter anyway,” Merecot argued. “It's the power that matters. The spirits chose the strongest and the best. They won't choose anyone to be queen who hasn't mastered all six kinds of spirits. The greater the control, the greater the queen.”

“Power without ethics is a recipe for disaster beyond imagining,” Headmistress Hanna said. “And this sort of rampant disregard for the integrity of your own work concerns me greatly.”

No, this can't be happening!
She'd studied. She'd agonized over papers, pounded facts into her head, and pored over textbooks. All the notes that were drying in the kitchen were proof that she'd done her own work! Except that she'd be lucky if any of them were legible—her proof was charred and shriveled. Her stomach felt like a charred stone inside her.

“Give me a reason why I shouldn't ask you both to leave this
academy.” There was sadness in her eyes, Daleina saw; the headmistress didn't want to do this, but she believed they'd both cheated. Daleina felt sick, the charred stone churning over.

“Because I am the best student you've ever had,” Merecot answered without hesitation. “Because I
will
be queen.”

“And you, Daleina?” the headmistress asked.

A thousand answers tumbled through her. Before she could answer, though, Merecot spoke again, “Because she didn't cheat. I did.” Sauntering up to the desk, Merecot rifled through the pages and then flung them on the floor. They fluttered together like fallen leaves. “All of this . . . it's a waste of time. The only thing that truly matters is the spirits. How strong you are. That's how I chose to spend my time. Every waking moment, I've honed my power. See?” Holding out her hand, Merecot faced the window, and an air spirit slammed into the glass.

Daleina jumped back as the window shattered.

The spirit flew directly to Merecot's hand and alighted on it. Merecot stroked its head as if it were a pet. “Aw, you broke a window,” Merecot said to the spirit. “We must fix it.”

Nodding once, the spirit flew to the shards of glass. It gathered them in its arms, oblivious to how the shards cut into its thin skin. Blood dotted the bits.

“Merecot . . .” Headmistress Hanna began.

Merecot held up her hand again. “I'm not done yet.”

More air spirits swarmed through the window, gathering the bits of glass. They held the pieces into place. And then fire spirits ran over the cracks, and the glass heated, brightening to a glowing orange. The cracks melted together, fusing back. With a flick of her wrist, Merecot dismissed the spirits, and then turned to the headmistress.

Daleina walked to the window. She'd never seen Merecot do anything like that. She'd never seen
anyone
do anything like that. She hadn't even known it was possible. Reaching out toward the fused cracks—

“Don't touch,” Merecot warned. “Still hot.”

She withdrew her fingers. There were streaks of reddish pink within the glass, where the air spirits had bled on the shards, and
the healed cracks were still visible. It was far from perfect, but the level of power and control—“I used my time to practice, instead of wasting it with irrelevant nonsense,” Merecot said. “Is that so very wrong?”

“This”—the headmistress tapped her desk and the few papers that hadn't been scattered—“is indeed so very wrong. And the fact that you admit it with pride and do not seem to comprehend the seriousness—”

“I have a gift, and I want to use it!” Merecot said.

“Why?” Headmistress Hanna asked. “Why do you want to be queen so badly?”

“Because it's what I was born to do,” Merecot said. “It's why I exist. It's why everything that's happened to me has happened. It's my purpose, my life.”

The headmistress turned to Daleina. “Why do you want to be queen?”

Daleina swallowed and thought of her sister Arin. Her answer was the same as it had been on the day she took the entrance exam. That hadn't changed. “To protect people.” But that sounded so weak next to Merecot's claim of destiny and her display of power.

Merecot snorted. “Seriously? You're parroting back
that
answer? Can't you be honest with yourself at least about why you're here? You aren't as good and pure as all that.”

Daleina shook her head. It wasn't about goodness, and she wasn't trying to get the right answer. Whenever she thought about why she was here, whenever she closed her eyes at night, whenever she sat in the practice ring or listened to a teacher wax on about the importance of their studies, whenever she was so tired that she wanted to quit, she saw her village, except now the torn bodies were her family and her friends: Revi, Mari, Linna, Merecot, her teachers, the caretakers, her parents, her sister . . . It was their bodies she pictured in the wreckage. “I think not wanting people dead is a reasonable answer. Be honest: it's your answer too, Merecot. You want to protect people too. You have this incredible power, and you want to use it to be everyone's hero.”