The Unready Queen

  written and illustrated by

  William Ritter

  Algonquin Young Readers 2020

  Contents

  Before

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  For Teresa.

  You’re magical, and I’m proud of you.

  Before

  There once was a woman who lived deep in the heart of the Wild Wood. She was fierce and fearless. And she was alone.

  She did not miss people. People had turned their backs on her, and so she turned her back on them. When men from the nearby town set up camps or hunting blinds in her forest, the woman would turn more than just her back. She would turn big rocks and logs on them from the surrounding hills. It was her favorite hobby. Just before their tents were flattened, the men would hear the mad cackling of the woman in the woods.

  Stories spread. The woman was a cursed thing. She was a witch. She had shared her soul with the forest to become the Queen of the Deep Dark. The woman heard these stories on the breeze and she breathed them in. She let them fill her up until she could burst. She became them.

  But still, she remembered.

  She remembered a child with bright hazel eyes and tiny, chubby fingers that reached out for hers. She remembered lullabies and good-night kisses—and she remembered a thief and an empty crib. The memories burned.

  Every day the woman spoke her daughter’s name on the breeze. Raina. Every day she gazed into the shadows of the forest, willing the darkness to surrender what had been taken from her. Every day, the forest gazed back.

  Years passed. The woman learned to listen to the trees, and the trees learned to listen to her. If an animal was injured, the woman dressed its wounds. When hungry beasts of the Wild Wood came prowling, the woman stood tall and looked them in the eyes until they bowed their heads. The forest gradually bent to the will of the Queen of the Deep Dark.

  But it could not give back what had been taken from her.

  The woman grew old. Her hair became as white as daisy petals, and her hands shook. She knew the end was coming, but still she listened to the trees and cared for her creatures and defended her forest.

  One quiet morning, the door to her cabin rattled on its hinges, and the woman rose with a start.

  “If you’ve come to finish me off, get on with it,” she snapped, stumping stiffly across the floor. “I haven’t got all day. Or at least I wouldn’t have all day if you’d stop dawdling.”

  She threw open the door.

  There was nothing there but a dusty walkway of polished river rocks and the whisper of a breeze.

  The woman sniffed the air.

  “Better not be any thieving little goblins out here!” she yelled hoarsely. “I may be one foot in the grave, but don’t think I won’t drag a few of you with me. Hello?”

  The wind died away and the forest crackled with invisible energy. The hairs on the woman’s arms prickled. She held her breath. In front of her, the empty air opened with a clap of thunder, and a bulky shape tumbled out of nothing onto the forest floor.

  Suddenly the woman was not alone.

  There once was a child whom the goblins stole away. She was a sweet child with joyful dimples and thick curls of rich brown hair. One night, her mother kissed her forehead tenderly and tucked her into her crib, and the next day the girl awoke in a palace full of glittering lights and heady aromas. She did not remember being secreted away through the forest by goblins. She did not remember being sold at a reasonable price to the fair folk. She did not remember crossing through an invisible gate to the wrong side of the veil (even after many years, it would always feel wrong), but she remembered that kiss, her mother’s good-night kiss, long after she had grown. Some days, she could almost feel her mother’s lips on her forehead, could almost hear her mother calling her name. Raina.

  The fairies were not unkind. She was treated like a precious pet, fed meals that tasted like sweetened sunbeams, and clad in dresses that shimmered like starlight on water. The fairies loved her, in their way, and they called her Florabelle. It was a fine name, but it was not hers. Raina knew that it was not her name, although there were days she could barely remember what her real name was. There were days she nearly forgot herself completely.

  Time passed more slowly in this place than it did on the earthly side of the veil, but still it passed.

  As the child grew, the magic of the palace pressed up against her and she pressed up against it, until they began to grow as one. The fairies taught her spells and charms, intrigued that a mortal was able to perform them. They looked on with pride, noticing that their human child had become something more than human. One particular fairy smiled all the more kindly as he noted that she had become something more than a child, as well. He was young by fairy standards and fair by any standard. He made no advances, but the girl called Florabelle found herself wishing that he would.

  With time, childhood fell away from her completely, like a snakeskin, and what emerged was a woman of remarkable talents. Her handsome fairy waited. He did not age. He did not sour. When she was ready, she made her own advances. She slipped her hand into his and pressed her head against his chest. He did not protest.

  There was a courtship and there was a wedding, and in time the woman called Florabelle conceived a child of her own. Her husband saw joy in her face, but also sadness. She confessed she did not want her baby to be born so far from her home. It pained him to hear her say it, but he promised her that he would take them back across the veil when the time came. He drew a map. He told her about a secret gate. Their child would know the Earth.

  Florabelle’s time approached, but the war approached faster. With their baby expected within the month, her husband was summoned away to defend the barrier. Florabelle begged him not to leave her, but he told her that he must. The fairy court had allowed his union to a human, but he was still fae. Rich or poor, male or female, it was the duty of all fair folk to defend the realm. Before he left, he gave her a gift. “If I should fall in battle,” he told her, “take this and go—bring nothing else from this land with you.”

  Florabelle unfolded a thick, warm cloak of bearskin. It was rough and ragged, so unlike the silken gowns that filled her closet.

  “Put it on before you leave this place,” he told her, “for the way is cold and unforgiving.”

  And he left. The world shook. Days passed. Weeks. It became clear her husband was not coming back. Florabelle, whose true name had all but forgotten her, now shed her beautiful clothes and all her lovely trinkets. She kept nothing she had been given there, except that bearskin cloak, which she wrapped snugly around her shoulders.

  And then the girl whom the goblins had stolen away finally stole herself back.

  The frozen air bit her cheeks, but the cloak was warm ag
ainst her skin as she slipped into the forest. In her belly, her baby kicked impatiently.

  Miles passed under her bare feet. The sun dipped low in the sky, but she was nearing the passage—she could feel it. She was so close.

  Noises erupted in the brush. Creatures lurked ahead. The musk of something vile crept through her nostrils: the stink of rot and the coppery scent of blood. Her heart pounded in her chest. A chill flooded through her like ice spreading across the surface of a stream. She could see flashes of teeth and talons between the branches, and for a moment she froze. She pulled the cloak tighter and slipped the hood over her head. As she did, she changed. She felt the hide settle heavily against her skin . . . and then settle a little deeper. She felt hot and powerful. The veil-gate was there, just ahead. It was ten feet away, atop a mossy mound in the forest. She took a deep breath and bounded toward it, paws hammering against the forest floor.

  It was quiet on the human side of the veil, except for the gentle hum of insects and the whisper of a soft breeze through the leaves. In a world called Earth, in the middle of a thick forest known by the locals as the Wild Wood, a great brown bear erupted from the empty air and landed heavily on the leafy ground.

  The bear breathed in deeply. She savored the smell of the wind and the dirt and the pine trees. Her head was spinning, and her eyes swam with tears. She was in a strange new wood in a strange new body, but for the first time in as long as she could remember, the world felt right. It felt like a warm embrace, like a tender kiss on her forehead. The forest rustled with excitement. It had been waiting, too.

  The bear lifted her eyes to the golden sunlight and remembered. Raina. It was the name her mother had given her. Raina. It was a name that meant queen, and it was her name, and no one could take it from her.

  Twigs snapped, and Raina turned around. A woman was standing in the clearing behind her, as thin as a birch tree, with soft white hair that caught the sunlight and fluttered in the breeze like cobwebs. The woman shook, but she did not shy away.

  Slowly, the bear drew back her head, and her thick hide became a cloak once more. Rich brown curls fell across her shoulders as she lowered the hood.

  For a long time, the two women gazed into each other’s hazel eyes.

  “Raina.” The old woman’s voice was barely a whisper. “You came home.”

  By week’s end, the woman in the woods had died. Raina knelt and kissed her mother’s forehead, and then she wept. The forest wept with her, and as they wept, the skies darkened and sheets of rain poured down the hills and flooded the valleys. The mire swelled and swallowed up the mossy glens around it, and creatures huddled in their burrows and dens as thunder shook the hills.

  When at last there were no more tears to shed, the sun cut through the clouds and the Wild Wood wrapped itself around its long-lost daughter. Raina felt it settle on her shoulders like a mantle. Her mother’s mantle. Her mantle, now. The Queen of the Deep Dark.

  And then the contractions began.

  One

  After thirteen years of falling leaves and creeping ivy, the clearing still had not changed. Not really. The moss was a little thicker, the trees a little taller.

  An anxious wind swept through the high branches of the forest. Pine needles and birch leaves spun to the earth, and the bushes quivered with eager energy. The birds had stopped chirping, and even the insects had ceased their incessant buzzing. An uneasy quiet fell. The forest held its breath.

  “Okay,” said Raina, the Queen of the Deep Dark. “Your turn.”

  Fable swallowed. “It isn’t going to work. They don’t listen to me.”

  “They will.”

  “They never do.”

  “Try.”

  Fable took a deep breath. She scrunched up her eyes and focused on the sound of the leaves. The wind was dying down, and silence was settling over the woods like a blanket.

  “Concentrate.”

  “I am.”

  “Listen.”

  “I am listening.”

  “You’re not listening. You’re trying too hard.”

  “You told me to try!”

  “Just listen.”

  “I’m listening. They don’t listen to me!”

  “Just breathe.”

  “I’m breathing.”

  “And concentrate.”

  “MOTHER, I AM LISTENING AND BREATHING AND CONCENTRATING!”

  The entire forest shuddered, and birds erupted into the sky all around them. Like a dam breaking, the myriad sounds of the Wild Wood rushed back over the clearing. A single bright green leaf spun lazily down to land atop Fable’s frizzy curls. She snatched it off her head and tore it up.

  “This is stupid.” Fable kicked a pinecone across the forest. “Why do we even have to practice listening to stupid trees?”

  “Listening is the most important skill a queen must master. When you listen to the trees, they will listen to you.”

  “The trees don’t ever listen to me. The forest doesn’t even like me.”

  “It will. You just haven’t gotten your roots in yet. You will grow, like the Grandmother Trees near the forest’s four corners. They are pillars of the forest, Fable, just as you will someday be a pillar. They are sturdy, and their roots are deep. They know where they stand, and so no wind can blow them over. You need to feel the roots beneath you and come to know where you stand.”

  “I know where I’m standing. I’m standing in the middle of your vine circle for the millionth time practicing the same spells as always, even though they never work.”

  “Magic takes time.”

  “Not my magic! My magic is easy!”

  “Fable, please.”

  “I can transform! I can do slappy sparks!”

  “No.” The queen was firm. “You are not practicing spark again until you’ve gotten better at extinguish.”

  “Ugh.” Fable rolled her eyes. “I’ve spent hours on extinguish. I can’t do it.”

  “You just have to learn to reach—”

  “—reach out for the flame in my mind and grasp it with a hand that cannot be burned,” Fable recited in her mother’s voice. “I know. You’ve said it a million times. Pretty sure I don’t have the same fireproof brain-hand that you have.”

  “You do. The magic is in your veins. But real magic requires discipline.”

  “What do you mean real magic? I can do real magic! Last week I turned a pinecone into a hedgehog!”

  “And you were only trying to make it spin! That’s my point! Fable, it’s not enough to have power if you don’t know how to use it, how to do it on purpose—how to undo it if necessary.”

  “You want me to turn Squidge back into a pinecone?” Fable gasped. “But she loves being a hedgehog!”

  “I don’t want you to do anything to Squidge.” The queen pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed. “I want you to concentrate on your lessons. What about compel? You’ve made real progress with compel.”

  Fable took a deep breath. “You want me to try to make stuff move with my brain again?”

  “I prefer to think of it as strongly encouraging things to move, but yes. Let’s review first. What sorts of things can you compel?”

  “Pretty much nothing,” said Fable. “Because it’s hard and it never works right.”

  “What could you move,” the queen pressed, “if it did work?”

  Fable fiddled with a patch of sap in her hair as she echoed the lessons she had been taught for years. “Stones and other minerals are difficult to compel because their energy is stubborn. Wind and water can be compelled more easily by redirecting their natural currents. Plants can also be compelled, because their growth and subtle movements need only be”—she gave her mother a sidelong glance—“strongly encouraged to move more quickly or to take on specific shapes.”

  “Good,” said the queen. “And . . . ?�
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  “And living creatures are nearly impossible to compel, although some insects will succumb to suggestion, like ants.”

  “That’s right. Not all insects, though. Ladybugs are surprisingly strong-willed.”

  “Birds and reptiles and other more complex animals might feel the push, but generally ignore it unless otherwise motivated,” Fable rattled on. “And people cannot be compelled at all.”

  “Correct.” The queen gave a nod. “Why not?”

  “Something about how a person’s life force is like a rushing current, too strong to be turned from its course.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Have you ever tried?”

  “Tried?” the queen said.

  “Compelling a person. Have you ever tried?”

  “Manipulating a human being against their will would be wrong,” said the queen.

  “That means you did! If you hadn’t you would just say no.” Fable grinned. “How’d it go?”

  The queen pursed her lips. “I would have a much easier time keeping interlopers out of our forest if it had gone well,” she admitted. “You cannot compel a human being. It would require unimaginable power to elicit even the tiniest reaction.”

  “What about dead people?”

  “Fable!”

  “What? I’m not gonna do it.”

  “We do not meddle with that manner of magic. Not ever. When you cast a spell over something, you enter into an exchange. For a short time, you share your energy—you welcome in the essence of the subject you are compelling. When you compel a tree, you become the tree, and the tree becomes you.”

  “So compelling dead stuff would make me part dead?”

  The queen’s expression was dark. “More or less,” she answered. “Let’s try something lighter, shall we? What do we call it when we compel the wind?”

  “Gale,” said Fable without enthusiasm. “But you know gale is one of my worst spells. I’m not going to be able to do it.”

  “You will. Just take a deep breath through your lungs and let it out on the breeze.”

  Fable took a deep breath in, and blew it out again.