Page 9

To the Break, and the monster.

To war.

This was a worse threat than the vast dungeons, worse than being taken to the far northern mountains and left shoeless in the high snowy peaks.

For the war at the Break was a war they would lose.

Celestyna knew it.

Farver Pickery knew it.

Probably even lightning-girl Brier Skystone knew it.

But still they fought, because what else was Celestyna, Queen of the Vale, supposed to do? Let the Gulgot climb out of the Break and devour them all at last?

Not that she hadn’t thought about that more than once—sitting back in her throne, putting on her most comfortable slippers and her most beautiful gown, and drinking a steaming mug of tea as the world crumbled around her.

At least, from her throne room, she would have a good view. And it would be such a relief to stop fighting.

She listened to Farver Pickery speak, watching her reflections in the glass lining her throne room.

It was a hall of windows and glass doors and mirrors. Sitting on her throne, Celestyna was surrounded by images of herself: a too-small, too-young queen with hazel eyes and fair skin dusted with shimmering cerulean powder to match the mistbirds. Her hair was a long fall of soft waves and smooth ringlets—silver streaked with lavender, sky blue, and stormy gray, just as her parents’ hair had been. And against her cheek fell two alarmingly crimson curls that called to mind her father’s bright red blood.

Celestyna stared at her reflections and suddenly felt too tired and hopeless to even clench her fists. The eyes of her entire court were fixed on her. She wondered bleakly what they werethinking, and wished that she could go to one of them, so they could hold her and stroke her hair, and tell her that she could rest for a while, and that someone else would worry about the Gulgot, the Break, the realm.

But there was no such person left for Queen Celestyna the Twelfth. Besides Lord Dellier, her family’s oldest adviser and friend, she was alone. The eyes in her throne room did nothing but stare in silence. Some of them, wondering how they could bribe her to bring their loved ones home from the war. Others, hoping she might marry them.

“We’re worried the lightning is changing.” Farver nervously took off his cap, smoothed down his wild gray hair, then put the cap right back on his head. “It went at young Brier with ill intent, Your Majesty. It was waiting for her like a hunter stalking its prey.”

“What was today’s harvest?” Celestyna interrupted once more.

She ignored the lords and ladies and advisers gathered in her throne room. They were growing restless; they were starting to whisper behind their satin gloves and beaded fans. A few merchants in tasseled coats, sitting at a table in the corner, scowled and glared. They’d been so desperate for trade thatthey’d traveled to the Vale from their distant southern forests and far northern mountains—and now here was the Vale’s queen before them, overwhelmed and useless.

Celestyna tried not to look around at anyone, but her mind buzzed with nervous questions.

Did they think she sounded afraid?

Did she sound too young, too weak?

Would the merchants soon flee the dying Vale, as had so many others before them?

Would they take what remained of her people with them, leaving her truly alone at last?

Farver shook his head. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but we harvested enough lightning for only seven eldisks today. What with young Brier hurt—”

“Seven?” In her shock, Celestyna forgot about being too young or too weak. She shot to her feet, her silver-and-violet skirts swirling about her ankles. “You dare to come before me with so little?”

The courtiers milling about the room stopped their murmurings. Bright eyes latched onto her from beneath lace veils and feathered hats.

Vicious, the eyes were, and amused.

And afraid.

Celestyna stood trembling before her throne. “You insult me.” Her voice came out just as shivery and red-hot as her tired insides. “I provide you with unicorns, I pay you wages. I entrust the safety of our people to you, and this is what you grant me in return? A good day’s harvest should yield us two hundred eldisks.”

She paused, swallowing with difficulty. “And you bring me seven. Only seven weapons with which to fight the end of our world.”

Farver Pickery raised his hands. “Your Majesty, it’s the storms, they’re changing!”