Trees slowly lean toward the center of the valley like they’re bowing to God. Then a series of massive pops 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.”
“You are my loyal subject.”
He stares at me.
“But I’m not powerless.” I continue. “I’ve always had my Godstone and its minor magic. I healed Hector in Brisadulce, you know, so there are things I can still do just by reaching through the skin of the earth.” It would be useless to tell him that I’m done sacrificing other people for my own gain. I won’t whip innocent kitchen workers, I won’t burn down buildings, I won’t ask anyone to give up an inheritance for me, and I certainly won’t leave a friend at the mercy of a mysterious magical force—merely for the sake of my own power. I press my fingers to the stone at my navel, taking comfort in its familiar pulsing. What I tell him is, “And I have me. I will be enough.”
The camp is silent and somber and half emptied when Storm and I step from the trees. Mara sits alone near the fire pit. She holds up a steaming fish speared on a stick and is about to take a bite, but she sees us and lets it drop into the embers, jumping to her feet. “Elisa?” she whispers, and then she’s running toward me, wrapping me in her arms. “Oh, God, I knew you had probably gone off alone, that you weren’t taken, but when I heard all that rumbling a bit ago, I thought that . . . I thought maybe . . .”
I return her hug fiercely. “I’m sorry,” I say.
She steps back. “Did you find it?”
“Yes.”
“And what happened? Did you . . .” she makes a vague gesture with her hand.
“Can I tell you about that a little later, maybe? I need to . . . think.”
Her eyes drift to Storm’s shackles, then back to my face. “All right,” she says, but her gaze is troubled, maybe a little bit wounded.
“Where is everyone?” I ask, though I think I know.
“Looking for you. Hector is sick with worry.”
I wince, dreading the moment I will face him. I say, “I need to walk. I’ll be at the beach.”
“Do you want something to eat first?”
“No, thank you.” I feel her puzzled gaze at my back as I step away.
The half moon sends ripples of gold across the water. In the distance floats the black, battered shape of the Aracely, her main sail hanging limp in the windless night. The air is hot, the water calm.