Rae Carson - The Crown of Embers

He’s right. Even now, I hum with strength, like I can do anything. It’s wonderful to feel such breathtaking power. I’m almost dizzy with it.

“But the zafira needs a living sacrifice, a conduit,” he says. “Without a gatekeeper, it’s useless to you.”

All I do is walk away from this place, and I become the most powerful sovereign who ever lived. “Storm, I never meant—”

“You told me you would choose your own life over mine, remember? So do it. Choose now and leave me alone. You know I prefer to be alone than in your miserable company.”

Tears prick at my eyes, and I suck in air through my nose to keep steady. “Will you . . . How will you . . . ?”

“The zafira will sustain me. Even now it heals my burns. Just promise me that when you face Invierne—and you will face them—that you’ll tell them about me.”

“What do you want me to say?” I ask in a small voice.

“Tell them that the man who failed as an animagi, who failed as a prince, and who failed as an ambassador, found the zafira and restored his honor by becoming its living sacrifice. Will you do that?”

“You never cared about honor! You’ve been content to live without it, so long as it meant you could live .”

“It’s all that’s left to me. Please?”

I nod, voiceless.

He lowers himself to the ground, crosses his legs, and closes his eyes. “Go now, Elisa. Go be the queen you couldn’t be on your own.”

I turn away, even as his words bore into my chest, twisting like barbs. Go be the queen you couldn’t be on your own. I have what I came for. Power beyond imagining.

Why then, with it coursing though me, filling me to overflowing, do I feel like a hollow shell of a girl?

I have passed through the doorway, and my foot is on the first step leading out of the cavern when I freeze.

Channeling all the magic of the world is no different from choosing a regent or making a desperate marriage alliance. It’s just an instrument. A crutch.

Hector’s voice, low and intimate, echoes in my head. If you were like this, with this kind of confidence, this clarity of thought, no one would dare challenge your rule.

The zafira is not what I need.

What I need is to be a better queen.

I turn back around. My heart flutters and my knees tremble at what I might do. Is this the right choice? But there is no response, or if there is, it is so overwhelmed by the rush of the zafira that I can’t detect it. I must make a choice wholly independent from God’s voice, from his stone, from his power.

I take a deep breath. “Storm.”

His head whips up.

“Come with me.”

“What?”

“To the surface. Now, before I change my mind.”

He bolts to his feet and hobbles toward me as quickly as his manacles will allow. “How will you get the chains off? And if you do, the zafira will be lost to you forever. To all of us. What if—”

“Do you want to stay here for thousands of years?”

“No.”

“Then shut up and follow me.”

Before we enter the archway, I cast my gaze around for one last look at this catacomb of Godstones. So beautiful. So much history and remembrance and even worship, so much magic.

Think like a sorcerer, Storm said. But what I need to do is think like a queen.

And as the stones shine brighter than the brightest sapphire, I think: so much value.

Quickly I pry a Godstone out of the wall. It comes loose with a soft plink, and I shove it into my pocket. I grab a few more, until my pocket bulges.

“Let’s go.” Together, chains clanking behind us, we spiral up the steps and into the sunshine.

“Now what?” he asks, gasping for breath.

I look around the tiny clearing. The trees are very close.

“Keep still,” I order.

I gather power into myself until my muscles thrum with it. I cast my awareness into the earth, to everything growing there—tiny grass roots, a colony of ants milling about in oddly organized industry, a worm. I feel them all, as if they’re an extension of myself. With the zafira coursing through me, perhaps they are.

There. A mass of cypress roots, twisting together like a nest of snakes, perfectly sized.

I coax them toward us. They writhe through the ground, poke out of the grass, weave through the links of Storm’s chains. I shove them hard, and their widening girths strain the links. Something groans like a dying animal as I torque them mercilessly.

The links snap.

“Run!” I yell. I have no idea if the chains will reform, if the zafira will grab him back with a relentless light tentacle.

Storm sprints away, and I dash to keep up. His manacles rattle with each step, dangling lengths of broken chain that threaten to catch in the foliage and yank him down.

For the first time since entering this valley, my Godstone turns to ice. The earth begins to rumble, and Storm freezes, but I shove him on. “Just go!” I hope I have not broken the world.

We scramble up the footholds toward the entrance to the cavern, chased by the sounds of grinding rocks and splitting earth. I tell myself not to look back, to concentrate on moving forward, but when we gain the top, I can’t help it. I turn around and gasp.

Trees slowly lean toward the center of the valley like they’re bowing to God. Then a series of massive pop s echoes all around as roots rip from their moorings and the trees topple over. Clouds of dust explode into the air.

The valley is caving in on itself, forming a giant sinkhole where Leaf’s tower used to be.

I press shaking fingers to my lips. What have I done?

A stream diverts, collides with another in a thunderous spray of water and mud. Their joined force is relentless as it sweeps boulders and uprooted trees into the gaping sinkhole.

My teeth rattle in my jaw as the valley booms, again and again. No, it’s not just the valley. The sound comes from above too. The mountain is about to tumble down on us.

“We need to move,” Storm says. “Fast.”

His words spur me to action, and I sprint toward the cavern. It gapes darkly before us. “We need light!” We don’t have time to feel our way down the dark stairs. But by traveling in haste, we will surely fall to our deaths. “Do you see night bloomers? Anywhere?”

“Just the ones we discarded. Nearly dead.”

“They’ll do.” I grab the wilting vines from where I dropped them. Drawing on the zafira, I reach inside their stems and coax them to life. But the power bleeds away from me even as their leaves straighten with health, as the petals unfurl. By the time their stamens have brightened into a steady glow, the power is gone.

I allow myself the tiniest moment of grief. I brush the night bloomers against my cheeks, breathing in their honeysucklelike scent. Then I step into the booming mountain.

Dust and pebbles rain down on us, urging us on as we descend. Our way becomes slick with mud. Twice I slip on my heel, but Storm is quick at my elbow, shoring me up with a strength that belies his delicate frame.

We dare not stop when we reach the waterfall, for we are still too close to the shaking mountain. Dusk has fallen, and as we clamber across the boulders lining the lake I find it nearly impossible to distinguish between cracks and sinkholes and shadows.

It is nearly full dark when we reach the stream, and living night bloomers unfurl in the trees all around us. The noise of the collapsing valley fades, and I dare to hope that we are safe.

We stop to catch our breath. Storm bends over, hands on his knees, heaving for air. His face and robe are covered in drying mud, tinged gruesomely blue in the night bloomers’ light. I imagine I look the same. “Why?” he manages between gasps. “Why did you save me? My own people would not have done so much. Stupid queen. You are powerless now.”