Uprooted(127)
The Wood-queen didn’t see it. She was standing at the stone coffin, her hands spread over the top of it, uncomprehending as Marisha had been. She didn’t understand death. She stared at the blue flame, watching it leap; she turned all around in the bare stone room, looking around it with a wounded, appalled face. And then she stopped and looked again. Bricks were being laid in the small opening of the wall. She was being closed up inside the tomb.
She stared for a moment, and then rushed forward and knelt before the remaining opening. The men had already pushed blocks into most of the space, working quickly; the cold-faced man was speaking sorcery while they worked, blue-silver light crackling out of his hands, over the blocks, mortaring them together. She reached a hand through in protest. He didn’t answer her; he didn’t look at her face. None of them looked at her. They closed up the wall with one last block, pushing her hand back into the room with it.
She stood up, alone. She was startled, angry, full of confusion; but she wasn’t yet afraid. She raised a hand; she meant to do something. But behind her, the blue flame was leaping on the stone tomb. The letters around the sides were catching the light, shining out, completing the long sentence from the stairs. She whirled, and I could read them with her: REMAIN ETERNAL, REST ETERNAL, NEVER MOVING, NEVER LEAVING, and they weren’t just a poem for the king’s rest. This wasn’t a tomb; this was a prison. A prison meant to hold her. She turned and beat against the wall, she tried vainly to push against it, to work her fingers into the cracks. Terror was climbing in her. Stone shut her in, cold and still. They had quarried this room out of the roots of the mountains. She couldn’t get out. She couldn’t—
Abruptly the Wood-queen heaved the memories away. The light of the Summoning broke and ran away over the stones of the tomb like water. Sarkan staggered back; I nearly fell against the wall. We were back in the round room, but the queen’s fear rattled against the inside of my ribs like a bird beating itself against walls. Shut away from the sun, shut away from water, shut away from air. And she still couldn’t die. She hadn’t died.
She stood among us, only half-hidden behind Queen Hanna’s face, and she wasn’t the queen in that vision anymore, either. She’d fought her way out, somehow. She’d won free, and then she’d—killed them? She’d killed them, and not only them, but their lovers and children and all their people; she’d devoured them, become as monstrous as they had been. She’d made the Wood.
She hissed softly in the dark, not a snake’s hiss but the rustling of leaves, the scrape of tree-branches rubbing in the wind, and as she stepped forward vines came boiling down the stairs behind her, grabbing all the remaining men by ankle and wrist and throat, dragging them up against the walls and ceiling, out of her way.
Sarkan and I were still struggling to our feet. Kasia put herself before us like a shield and chopped the vines away from us, keeping us free, but others snaked around behind her and into the tomb. They lashed around the children and started to drag them forward, Marisha screaming as Stashek hacked at the vines uselessly, until they seized his arm, too. Kasia took a step away from us towards the children, her face in agony, unable to protect us all.
And then Marek sprang forward. He slashed the vines apart, his own sword gleaming around the edges. He put himself between the queen and the children, and thrust them with his shield-arm back into the safety of the burial-chamber. He stood before the queen. She halted before him, and he said, “Mother,” fiercely, and dropped his sword to seize her by the wrists. He looked down into her face as she turned it slowly up towards him. “Mother,” he said. “Fight free of her. It’s Marek—it’s Marechek. Come back to me.”
I pulled myself up the wall. He blazed with determination, with longing. His armor was washed with blood and smoke, his face smeared with one bright red streak, but he looked for a moment like a child, or maybe a saint, pure with want. And the queen looked at him, and put her hand on his chest, and killed him. Her fingers turned into thorns and twigs and vines; she sank them through his armor, and closed her hand like a fist.
If there was anything left of Queen Hanna, any thin scraping of will, maybe she spent it then, on one small mercy: he died without knowing he’d failed. His face didn’t change. His body slid easily off her hand, not much altered; only the hole in his breastplate where her wrist had gone in. He fell to the floor on his back, his armor ringing on the flagstones, still clear-eyed and certain, certain he would be heard, certain he would be victorious. He looked like a king.
He’d caught us all in his own certainty. For a moment we were all shocked into stillness. Solya inhaled once, stricken. Then Kasia sprang forward, swinging her sword. The queen caught it on her own blade. They stood fixed, pressed against each other, a few sparks glittering away from the grinding blades, and the queen leaned in and forced her slowly down.
Sarkan was speaking, an incantation of heat and flame rolling off his tongue, and fire came gouting out of the ground around the queen’s legs, yellow-red and searing. The flames blackened Kasia’s skin where they licked against her; it ate up both the swords. Kasia had to roll away. The queen’s silver mail melted and ran off her in streams of shining liquid that puddled on the floor and covered over with blackened crust; her shift billowed into hot smoky flames. But the fire didn’t touch her body; the queen’s pale limbs stayed straight and unmarred. Solya was throwing his white lash against her as well, the flames crackling to blue where his fire and the Dragon’s met; that mingled blue fire ran twisting all over her body, trying to seek out a weakness, find a way in.