“Figuratively speaking, they have. But they’ll be calmer once Queen Naelin has crossed the border.” She quickly explained what occurred in Semo, and Naelin’s solution.
Garnah absorbed the news without changing expression. “She does have style.”
Daleina felt her lips quirk into a smile, and then she felt a jolt of rage from the west—she quickly shouted with her mind, Calm! Peace! Do no harm!
The spirits snarled, but subsided. Her hands had tightened into fists as her previous confidence dissipated. It was going to take constant vigilance until she felt secure about the fate of her people. She uncurled her hands and massaged them. Her nails had dug half-moons into the flesh of her palms. Crossing to her, Hamon took her hands in his and rubbed them.
“Suffice it to say, this information is not to be shared,” Daleina said, “at least until she’s left Renthia. After that, I’ll issue an explanation—I’m sure her spirits have been seen, and people must have questions.”
“Sounds as though you have it figured out,” Garnah said. “So how do I fit in?”
“Once the spirits are in the untamed lands, it should be over. Semo should be safe. Aratay should be safe. Queen Merecot should have gotten everything she wanted and have no more reason to threaten Aratay.”
Cocking her head, Garnah narrowed her eyes. “But you don’t think it’s over. Again, though, is there a reason I had to climb all those stairs?”
“Because she asked you to, Mother.”
Cutting off whatever clever retort Garnah had, Daleina said, “Because I need to be sure, for my people’s sake. I am inviting Queen Merecot to Mittriel for a peace summit. If all goes well, we’ll sign treaties ensuring there aren’t any more invasions or murder attempts.”
“And you want me to . . .”
“Make sure there aren’t any murder attempts.” Holding up one finger, Daleina sent her mind spinning west to slap down another earth spirit who was trying to burrow beneath a foreign spirit. Leave them alone. She then drew her attention back to Garnah. “Hamon was right: I’d like you to be my adviser for Queen Merecot’s visit.”
“You mean your poison tester,” Garnah corrected. “The new title is appreciated, but—”
“I mean adviser,” Daleina said. “If I may be blunt—”
“Oh yes, I love blunt!”
“You and Merecot share a lack of morality. You may be able to read her better than I can. Predict her next move. If she comes, she’ll have ulterior motives—I want to know what they are, and whether they pose a threat to Aratay or to me.”
Garnah blinked. “You have style too, Your Majesty.”
Hamon began to speak. “Daleina, my mother can’t be trusted—”
“You love me,” Daleina said to Hamon.
“Of course.”
“Well, as much as you hate it, Garnah loves you, in her own way. If I die under her watch, you won’t forgive her. She wants—spirits, needs—your forgiveness. I can trust her in this.”
Hamon nodded. She could tell he wanted to argue with her, but she could see he also knew she was right. “I’ll never trust her. But I trust you.”
Gifting him with a smile, Daleina turned back to Garnah. “I’ll expect you to be at my call throughout the entire visit. You may use whatever means you wish to observe.”
“You want me to spy on her?” Garnah said, delight in her voice. “Your childhood friend? A neighboring monarch with whom you’re trying to forge an alliance based on mutual trust? Oh my dear, has the crown corrupted your sunny optimism at last?”
Daleina elected to let the “sunny optimism” comment lie. “She is my friend. And I do love her and will always love her. But I don’t trust her.”
“Wise,” Garnah said. “Those we love can betray us the most.”
Hamon murmured, “You’d know all about that.”
“That hurts,” Garnah said, her voice barely registering she knew what the word “hurts” meant.
Daleina squeezed Hamon’s hand to silence him. She knew it was asking a lot of him, to allow his mother so close to her. But she also didn’t need the two of them to bicker about this. She respected that he disagreed, but now wasn’t the moment. Now she just needed everyone to do their jobs, and his job was to support her, plain and simple.
Not that it wasn’t a risk, of course—the Queen’s Poisoner could have her own agenda—but Daleina felt certain she was reading the woman right. Garnah was unscrupulous, but she also loved Hamon, in her own way, and she was desperate for Hamon to see that. Daleina was offering her a chance to prove herself. “Will you accept?”
“Is there a catch?” Garnah asked.
“My word is final in any decision.” To be as clear as possible, she added: “That means no murder unless I say it’s necessary.”
Garnah nodded as if this were a normal request. “Always good to include an ‘unless.’ Exactly when do you expect Queen Merecot to arrive?”
“I have already sent a message to Champion Havtru with instructions to deliver the invite in person with all the appropriate pomp and circumstance so that it’s clear it’s an official invitation,” Daleina said. “Of course, Merecot may fear a trap and say no.”
“That would be sensible,” Garnah agreed. “Is Queen Merecot sensible?”
“Not in the slightest,” Daleina said. “She’ll come.”
Garnah grinned wolfishly. “Then I accept.”
Daleina held out her hand, and Garnah knelt on one knee and kissed Daleina’s knuckles. If Merecot came with death in her heart, Garnah would ferret it out. Daleina was certain of it. And if she comes with hope instead . . . I’ll greet her with open arms.
Standing, Garnah dusted off her skirts and adjusted the feathers on her hat. “Oh, this is so exciting! And here I thought all royalty was noble and boring. I am so very pleased with my Hamon’s choice. Hamon, you should marry her before she discovers how noble and boring you are.”
“Thank you for your advice, Mother,” Hamon said stiffly.
“May I be excused to prepare?” Garnah asked Daleina. She looked as giddy as a child who’d been presented with a three-tier cake.
“Of course, and thank you,” Daleina said. She was silent as Garnah retreated from the tower and began to huff and puff as she descended the many stairs. “Hamon . . .” Turning to him, she saw a strange expression in his eyes—a bit of shyness.
“I do want to marry you,” Hamon said, “if you’ll have me. I had thought . . . there was your coronation, then the poisoning, then the invasion . . . I didn’t think you wanted the extra stress of a wedding, but if you do . . .”
Leaning forward, Daleina kissed his cheek. “That’s the most unromantic proposal I’ve ever heard. And you are right—I don’t have time for a royal wedding now. But I do have time to make love to you.” She kissed his neck and unbuttoned his collar.
“Here?”
“Like you said, it’s the most secure place in Mittriel,” Daleina said, and then drew him to her against a pillar. Far to the west, the spirits of Aratay felt a wave of joy splash over them, calming their fear and distracting them, as Daleina very deliberately did not block them out.
Chapter 26
Every Renthian knew that to enter the untamed lands meant certain death, which was why Ven decided he should sharpen his sword. Sitting on a branch at the border, he methodically ran the edge over his whetstone and tried to avoid pessimistic thoughts. Or really any thoughts at all.
Beside him, Naelin was looking out into the haze. She jumped as a rock punched upward in the middle of the untamed lands. Mist swirled around the rock, and it didn’t move again. The only sound was the wind between the trees of Aratay behind them and the shick-shick whisper of Ven’s blade on the stone.
“Is this a profoundly stupid idea?” Naelin asked.
“Not profoundly,” he said lightly, trying to make her smile—and failing. “Worst case, my sister will get a great song out of this.”
“Your sister will never forgive me if you d
ie.”
“She forgives easily.” Ven inspected his sword, tilting the blade so that it caught the sunlight. “But I don’t plan to die today.” He jumped to his feet.
“Me neither.”
“Glad we’re agreed on that.” He hooked Naelin’s hand with his and drew her in to kiss her. “If they’re still alive in there, we’ll find them. I promise.”
She smiled, though it was a shaky smile. “You’re very good at being heroic.” She drew in a deep breath, and Ven could tell she was about to say something difficult for her. She’s going to tell me not to come, he thought. Sure enough, she said, “But you don’t have to be. You should stay in Aratay. Return to being a champion.”
Knew it. He considered arguing with her, convincing her that his love was true and he’d follow her literally beyond the ends of the earth, but instead he leapt off the branch and skidded down the curved trunk of the tree as he called, “Last one in cooks dinner for a week!”
He heard her surprised laugh behind him, and he slowed so she could catch up with him—and then he saw her shooting past him, on the back of a tree spirit with mossy skin and six-prong antlers. She plunged into the mist, and the wild spirits streamed around her. Sword drawn, Ven ran in with them.
All laughter died.
Whiteness curled around him. He squinted into the haze, but all he saw was the shifting shadows, different degrees of whiteness, swirling and spinning around him—it was like the fog that builds when fire meets ice. “Naelin?” he called, and his voice came out as a combination of a whisper, a squeak, a growl, and an echo.
The ground felt spongy as he walked forward. Sword raised, he twisted his head in all directions, walking forward, then sideways, then backward, trying to see everywhere at once, but there was nothing to see.
A whistle of wind rushed past him. He readied his sword.
A cackle, high, unearthly.
The palms of his hands were sweaty, and he cursed himself for not holding on to Naelin as they entered. He didn’t think the haze would be as thick as this. “Naelin, answer me!”
He heard his own fear, tasted it, as thick as mucus coating the back of his throat. He gripped his sword tighter, then swept it through the mist. Bits of whiteness clung to it, like cobweb strands. He began slashing in front of him as he strode forward.
They’re here.
He felt spirits all around him, brushing past his legs, around his sword, and he heard them laughing at him. He couldn’t tell if they were Naelin’s spirits or other, wilder spirits from the untamed lands, and at that moment, he didn’t care. They were between him and Naelin.
He charged forward, clearing the haze out of the way with his sword—and as if his sword were the wind, the haze cleared for him, and he realized the mist wasn’t empty air at all.
It was full of spirits.
All around him, the world was choked with spirits.
“Ven!”
He ran toward her voice.
From his left: “Ven!”
His right: “Ven!” Higher pitched. A mad giggle.
It wasn’t Naelin.
He halted.
He couldn’t be certain any of those voices were her. The mist curled closer to him. He felt a long finger stroke his arm. Steadying himself, he lifted his sword eye level. The spirits pressed in, murmuring and crooning and cackling.
He waited, counting his breaths.
He felt prickles on the back of his neck. A spirit was there, breathing close to him. Closing his eyes, Ven drew in air.
And then he exploded into movement.
The spirits who had drawn close weren’t fast enough to evade him—he’d switched so suddenly from stillness to motion that they were caught off-guard. His blade slid through them. He felt them die.
Swing right.
Drop down.
Kick and jab. Elbow back. Palm upward, slamming into the face of a spirit, and then he stabbed, felt it slide in, heard the cry, pulled back, and twisted to slice at the whisper of wind behind him. An ice spirit shrieked as his sword bit into it. He drew back then struck again, a whirl of motion.
And the untamed spirits retreated, as if unused to anyone fighting back. He heard them rustling, and he opened his eyes to see he stood in a clearing of gray stone. Pale-blue sky was visible overhead, and the whiteness had retreated.
At the edge of the haze, he saw a flash of color: Naelin.
He ran toward her with his sword ready. Around him, in the mist, he saw light flash—lightning strikes within the clouds. Beneath his feet, the earth shifted. He didn’t let any of it distract him and ran across moving ground, his feet landing lightly, knees bent deep, never depending on the earth to hold him as he sprang across the clearing.
Midair, he swung his sword, and he felt it impact. A spirit reared back in pain, and as he landed, he saw it tower above him: an earth spirit with a stone face and a body of brambles. It clawed at him, and he dodged in a roll, blade protected against him.
And then he was at Naelin’s side.
Her eyes were closed, and her arms were spread wide, fingers splayed. Positioning himself at her back, he fended away spirits that dove for her.
The ground rumbled beneath them, and he felt it rising up higher and higher. He crouched for balance, but Naelin stood straight and tall. The earth rose up and up until they towered above the swarm of whiteness.
Lowering her arms, Naelin looked back at him. “The spirits of the untamed lands don’t want us here.”
“Yeah, noticed that. Where are your spirits?”
“Coming,” she said, and then hundreds of spirits circled them, on the ground around them and in the air above them, driving back the whiteness.
Naelin felt the vastness: hundreds of thousands of spirits, stretching out toward the horizon—if there even was a horizon in this place. It felt endless. She drew her own spirits closer, in a tight circle around her and Ven. They felt pitifully few.
I never thought I’d come to the point where I felt safer with spirits.
But these were her spirits. And even though they had come from the untamed lands originally, they were bonded to her now, and that made them instantly different from the unleashed spirits who roamed this land. Her spirits knew what it was like to have a queen, to be controlled and have control, to be able to create and destroy but with restraint. Unlike the ones here . . .
How can Erian and Llor be here? How can they survive here? And how can I find them either way? She felt like a single leaf in an overwhelmingly massive forest. She’d thought she was strong, but this place . . . From their vantage point on top of the rock, she surveyed the untamed lands in all directions.
The forests of Aratay were no longer visible, though she could feel the border to the east, a sharp cutoff to the sense of wall-to-wall spirits.
They’re not wall-to-wall, Naelin told herself. It only seemed that way because there were so many, and they flitted so quickly that many were almost indistinguishable from the gauzy fog. She felt the attention of the spirits shift away now that she and Ven were motionless. They have the attention span of children.
“Which way?” Ven asked.
She studied the sea of mist. It all looked the same—except no, it didn’t. Squinting, she saw a flash of blue in the distance, far to the southwest. It widened, and the mist shifted away from it. A river? A lake? Perhaps an ocean.
Ven pointed north. “Mountains.”
She saw gray peaks above the clouds. She could have sworn they hadn’t been there before, but they must have been hidden by the mist. Even unleashed spirits couldn’t form mountains that quickly. Smoke curled from the peak of one of the mountains, and it was ringed with blackness. She thought she saw a streak of red, like a bloody tear on the side of the peak.
“Northwest,” she decided, between the sea and the volcano.
He nodded. “It’s the clearest path. A sensible choice.”
Nothing about this place feels “sensible.”
It felt as foggy as a dream. Su
mmoning a spirit with leathery bat wings and a cat body, Naelin climbed on its back, with Ven behind her. He kept his sword unsheathed and held her waist with only one arm. The spirit kicked off the rock and flew westward.
As they flew farther in, the mist became more wisplike, and she saw it wasn’t all blankness like it seemed from outside. There were colors here.
Red. Fire that danced across stone.
Blue. A snake of a river that shifted and then tumbled into a waterfall.
Gold. Lightning that chased from the sky but never hit the earth.
Black. A crevasse in the earth that was so deep it was only darkness.
They flew over a canyon that looked as if a great hand had scraped it from the earth, and they flew over a single tree whose branches snaked in twisting braids for miles. In the north, the volcanoes bubbled and boiled. In the south, the seashore seemed to shift and undulate.
Stones molded themselves out of the earth into towers that then tumbled into dust. Naelin and Ven flew between them. A field of ice erupted into frozen shards.
All of it was ever-changing. The more she saw, the more she felt the hope inside her wither. No one could survive in a land like this, she thought. The spirits recarved the landscape every moment: a canyon became a lake became a field of ice became a cliff became a waterfall. Down, Naelin ordered the spirit. “There.” She guided them to a circle of brilliant green. Flowers were blossoming throughout the field, a riot of colors on plants from spring, fall, and autumn all at once, cycling through the seasons right before her eyes.
She spotted the spirit in the center of it. The earth spirit looked like a green-skinned man with black antlers. His eyes were black as well; even the whites of his eyes glistened black.
She thrust an image of Erian and Llor at the spirit. We seek a boy and a girl.
She felt its confusion.
She couldn’t read it as well as the spirits she’d bonded to, but she could sense it, the same as she could before she became queen. It was agitated. It hadn’t expected them to come to it. It didn’t like them here. It wanted to be left alone, yet it also yearned—for what, she couldn’t sense, but she felt it reach achingly toward them.