The Queen's Rising (Untitled Trilogy #1)(32)

I was standing on a mountain; below me, lush green hills rolled around as the waves on the sea, the valleys veined with sparkling streams and bordering woods. The air here was sweet and sharp, like a blade that cuts to heal, and the mist hung low, as if she wanted to touch the mortals who lived in the meadows before the sun burned her away.

I had never been here, I thought, and yet I belonged.

That was when I became aware of a slight pressure around my neck, a humming over my heart, as if I wore a heavy necklace. And as I stood on this summit looking down, I felt a dark thread of worry, like I was searching for a place to conceal me. . . .

Her song ended, and the vision faded away. I opened my eyes, watched Merei lower her violin and smile at me, her gaze glistening with passion and fervor. And I wanted more than anything else to tell her how exquisite her music was—that this was my song, and somehow she had known the very notes to string together to encourage my heart to see where it should be.

The hills and the valleys, the mountain in the mist, had not been Valenia.

It had been another glimpse of Maevana.

“Did you like it?” Merei asked, fidgeting.

I rose and embraced her, the violin trapped between us as a complaining child. “I love it, Merei. You know and love me so well, sister.”

“After I saw Oriana’s portrait of you,” she said as I let her go, “I thought of your heritage, that you are two in one, north and south, and how marvelous yet challenging that must be. And so I asked Master Cartier if he could find some Maevan music for me, which he did, and I wrote you a song inspired from the passion of Valenia but also the courage of Maevana. Because I think of both when I think of you.”

I was not one to cry. Growing up at the orphanage had taught me that. But her words, her revelations, her music, her friendship punctured the stubborn dam I had built a decade ago. I wept as if I had lost someone, as if I had found someone, as if I was breaking, as if I was healing. And she wept with me, and we held each other and laughed and cried and laughed some more.

Finally, when I had no more tears left, I wiped my cheeks and said, “I have a gift for you too, although it is not nearly as marvelous as yours.” I opened the lid of my chest, where six little booklets rested, each one bound by leather and red thread. They were filled with poems, written by an anonymous passion of knowledge I had long admired. And so I had bought the booklets with the small allowance Grandpapa sent me every birthday, one for each of my arden-sisters, so they could carry paper and beauty around in their pockets and remember me.

I set one in Merei’s hands. Her long fingers turned the pages as she smiled at the first poem, reading it aloud after clearing the trace of tears from her throat.

“‘How shall I remember thee? As a drop of eternal summer, or a blossom of tender spring? As a spark of autumn’s stirring fire, or perhaps as the frost of winter’s longest night? No, it shall not be as one of these, for these shall all come to pass, and you and I, though parted by sea and earth, will never fade.’”

“Again,” I said, “not as beautiful as your gift.”

“It doesn’t mean I will cherish it any less,” she responded, gently closing the booklet. “Thank you, Bri.”

It was only then we realized the state of our chamber, which looked as if a windstorm had passed through.

“Let me help you pack,” I offered. “And you can tell me of the patron you have chosen.”

I began to help her gather her music and fold her dresses, and Merei told me of Patrice Linville and his traveling consort of musicians. She had received offers from all three of her patrons, but had decided to choose a partnership with Patrice.

“So you and your music are bound to see the world,” I said, awed, as we finished at last with her packing.

Merei closed her cedar chest and sighed. “I don’t think it has quite caught up to me, that tomorrow I will receive my cloak and leave this place for constant travel. All I know is I hope that it was the right decision. My contract with Patrice is for four years.”

“I am sure it is right,” I answered. “And you should write to me, about all the places you see.”

“Mmm.” She made that sound when she was worried, nervous.

“Your father will be very proud of you, Mer.”

I knew she was close to her father; she was his only daughter, and had inherited the love of music from him. She had grown up beneath his lullabies, his chansons, and his harpsichord. So when she had asked to attend Magnalia when she turned ten, he had not hesitated to send her, even though it put vast distance between them.

He wrote her faithfully every week, and oftentimes Merei would read his letters to me, because she was determined I would meet him one day, that I would visit her childhood home on the island.

“I hope so. Come, let’s get ready for bed.”

We donned our night shifts, washed our faces, and braided our hair. Then Merei climbed into bed with me, even though it was a narrow slip of a mattress, and we began to reminisce all of our favorite memories, such as how shy and quiet we had once been our first year rooming with each other. And how we had climbed onto the roof with Abree one night to watch an asteroid shower, only to discover Abree was terrified of heights and it had taken us until dawn to get her back in through the window. And about all the holy day celebrations, when we had a week free from lessons, and the snow arrived just in time for snowball fights, and our masters and mistresses suddenly felt more like older brothers and sisters during the festivities.