The Queen of Blood

  “What’s it want?” Popol asked, in what for him was a hushed voice. It still grated on Ven’s ears. The man had no idea how to preserve himself in the forest. City-bred idiot.

  He didn’t dignify the question with an answer, and neither did the apprentice. All spirits wanted the same thing: the eradication of humans. Short-term, though? There was no way to know. Spirits didn’t think like people or like animals. Their intelligence level varied dramatically within their own kind as well. Some were capable of a measure of reason; most weren’t. It could be this spirit was curious. Or it could be judging them, seeing if they made easy targets. Ven scanned the other trees, to determine if it was alone, a scout, or, worse, acting as a distraction for others. He’d known that to happen: one spirit would draw attention while others would attack. It was one of their more clever maneuvers. It required a spirit that could plan, rather than one that acted on pure instinct, but there were such spirits, contrary to what people safe and snug in the cities liked to think.

  He bet the apprentice Hamon was from one of the outer villages. He moved like he knew the danger. Popol moved like a blundering bear, woken too early from hibernation. Next time Ven picked someone to guard, he’d choose someone who was slightly less accustomed to safety.

  The spirit flew between the trees, weaving to keep them in sight, veering closer and closer. They’d definitely caught the spirit’s attention, for whatever reason. “If it attacks, drop and curl into a ball,” Ven told Popol. “Present the smallest possible target.”

  “I’m not small,” Popol objected.

  No kidding. “I’ll guard you.”

  “You’d better.”

  Ven resisted saying that’s what his fee was for. If Ven had been able to act as a proper champion, he wouldn’t have needed to sell his services this way. The crown would have continued his steady income, and Ven wouldn’t have had to seek work like a common mercenary, but these days, Ven had to be practical. “Drop now.”

  Obeying, Popol thudded down and curled his head against his chest. He wrapped his arms around his head.

  “You too,” Ven told Hamon.

  “I can help.” Hamon drew one of the surgical knives. It wasn’t suited for fighting, but it was sharp. Ven didn’t bother arguing with him, especially once he noted that Hamon was clever enough to position himself behind Ven—he’d be a second line of defense for Popol, but he was smart enough not to try to be front line.

  The spirit swooped onto the bridge. It landed lightly, like a leaf settling onto the ground. Without a word, it pulled a roll of parchment out from under its arm. It held it out toward Ven.

  For an instant, Ven stared at the parchment and then at the spirit. Someone had sent this? Who? Queen Fara? Dare he hope . . . a pardon? An end to his exile? Perhaps after five years, she had realized the needs of Aratay were more important than the needs of the moment, or she’d realized the error of what she’d done and was ready to admit the truth and restore his reputation . . . Except that Fara never admitted errors.

  Kneeling on one knee, he took the message from the spirit.

  Without a word, the spirit darted back into the air and then disappeared between the trees.

  Behind him, he heard Popol shift. “Is it gone? Did it go to fetch others? Is it coming back? Are we still in danger?”

  Hands shaking, Ven untied the ribbon and unrolled the parchment. He saw his queen’s handwriting. He touched the lettering as he read it. Birchen. Tell him. He checked the ribbon and recognized the mark on it: Hanna, headmistress of Northeast Academy, the school where Fara had trained many years ago.

  It wasn’t forgiveness.

  It was . . . a warning? A plea?

  A chance.

  He rose. “We’ll send word to Ogdare. You will be late.”

  FAST, AND HE’D LOSE THE HEALER THAT THE VILLAGERS OF Birchen might need.

  Slow, and there might not be anyone left to heal.

  He didn’t know when the queen had sent the message to the headmistress, or how many days it had taken the air spirit to find him. The attack could have already taken place. Or he could be misreading the message, and there might not be an attack at all—it could be a surprise birthday party or a special sale on armor or . . . no, definitely carnage. Tell him, his queen had said, and the headmistress had decided that he, the Disgraced Champion, was that “him,” which meant that whatever waited in Birchen would not be pleasant. He had to be prepared for anything from a rabid raccoon to a disaster like Greytree. Beside him, Healer Popol puffed and wheezed. His pack bounced on his back, and Ven reached over, grabbed it, and lifted it off, adding it to his own. Meanwhile, the boy didn’t complain. Head down, lips pressed together, he was running along the bridge without a word. Popol didn’t have breath left for words. Otherwise, Ven was certain he’d be hearing many.

  He pictured Greytree, the destroyed village from five years earlier, the rubble on the ground, the family all alone amidst the debris, the bodies strewn around them. He never knew what had happened to that family. He should have checked on them, he supposed, listened to them thank him for coming when he did, or not thank him, since he’d come too late. Besides, hadn’t they saved themselves? It was blurred with the memory of other fights, other disasters, other tragedies, perhaps none as broad and thorough as that—a whole village. Spirits picked off occasional travelers, hermit houses, herders, or other solitary woodsmen and woodswomen, but that kind of attack was, thankfully, rare.

  Here, though, another village. A name. A warning. He hoped. His thoughts spurred him faster until Popol and the boy fell behind him.

  There had to be a faster way!

  Higher. He could go up.

  Yes. “Do you trust me?” he asked, rounding on Popol and the boy.

  “Of course. Hired you, didn’t I?” wheezed Popol. “You might not be good enough for the capital anymore, but you’re good enough for an old man. ’Course I trust you.”

  It wasn’t a rousing endorsement, but it was acceptable. “Get out the harnesses,” he ordered the boy.

  “Wait, what do you have in mind?” Popol asked.

  Ven didn’t answer him. He scanned the trees for a reasonable path up. Hamon took the harnesses out of the packs and began strapping them around his master and himself. He then turned to Ven with the clips outstretched. Despite the circumstances, Ven smiled. Bright boy, he thought. “There’s a wire path above us. Canopy singers use it.”

  “Oh no,” Popol said, backing up. “No, no, no, thank you very much, but that is out of the question. I do not—”

  “Do you want to explain to the people of Birchen why there was no healer to help them? Word will reach the other villages too, how you were too cowardly to travel quickly. It won’t do good things to your reputation, the frightened healer who valued his own comfort over the lives of his patients. That kind of blow to the reputation can take years to recover from.” As the healer’s pasty face paled even more, Ven added, “Believe me, I know about tarnished reputations.”

  It was the last that decided him, Ven could see. Everyone knew about the legendary Champion Ven’s fall from grace. Queen Fara had done her best to spread word far and wide, about how he’d attacked her in a spurned lover’s rage.

  Popol squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath as if to fortify himself, and then nodded.

  Even with cooperation, it took the better part of an hour to travel the bridges to a spot where they could access the wire paths, and then they had to climb a ladder up the trunk before they reached the platform. “All you need to do is hang on,” Ven told them. “And even then, the ropes will hold you. You’ll be cargo. I’ll do all the work.”

  Popol looked too terrified to speak, which Ven thought was an improvement. He and Hamon positioned the packs on Ven’s back and then attached the harnesses so that Popol and Hamon were strapped to him as well. Then Ven clipped himself to the wire paths.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Are you serious?” Popol demanded. “I am not ready. And if
you—”

  Ven kicked off the platform. They sailed down the wire, between the trees. Wind whipped against them. Leaves and branches smacked Ven’s legs, and he felt the others huddle against the packs. A grin pulled at his face, a fierce grin.

  This time, he would not be late.

  Faster, they flew through the air. He readied the next clip. As they approached the intersection of wires, he counted down . . . three, two, one . . . He clipped on to the next wire and a half breath later, unclipped the old so that they sailed onto the new path without interruption.

  This fast, he couldn’t hear the birds, only the wind. Leaves blurred into a smear of green, gold, brown, and burnt red. He watched the wires ahead, every muscle alert for the next switch. Miss it by a second, and—

  “Watch out!” Popol screamed.

  But Ven was ready. He switched wire paths effortlessly. Again and again.

  Below, down in midforest, signs pointed to their destination. It wasn’t easy to read them or spot the landmarks at this height and speed, and Ven felt as if all his senses were heightened, every fiber of his body awake and vibrating.

  “Brace yourselves!” he called.

  “For what?” Popol yelled back, terror driving his voice an octave higher.

  Aiming, Ven raised his feet into the air. He tensed his arm muscles—and then slammed into the side of a tree, feetfirst, absorbing the impact with his knees. He braced, keeping Popol and Hamon from crashing into the trunk, and they all hung for a second from the wire.

  “Grab that rope ladder, would you, Hamon?” Ven asked.

  Leaning over, Hamon pulled the rope ladder closer. Ven climbed onto it, unclipped from the wire, and climbed, carrying his two passengers and all the packs, down to the midforest bridge. Once there, he undid the harnesses. Hamon landed lightly, and Popol collapsed into a heap.

  “Let me catch my breath!” Popol pleaded.

  “Almost there,” Ven said, hauling him up. He missed his years training candidates, when he didn’t have to feign sympathy in his voice. He had no sympathy for people who let their own comforts endanger others. Healer Popol should have prepared himself before leaving his cushy city home. On the other hand, at least he had left it. Not many did. He added, “The people of Birchen will be grateful for your heroism.”

  “Yes.” Popol straightened. “We do what we must.”

  Ven and the boy Hamon exchanged a look, and then they were moving again, quickly along the bridges, toward the village.

  They heard the screams long before they saw anything through the thick trees. “Stay behind me,” Ven ordered, and drew his sword and knife. One in each hand, he charged forward. His feet were silent on the bridge.

  He burst out of the leaves into the town square, a platform suspended between a trio of trees. It was market day, bright-colored tents set up in a row, and people were running between them as air spirits flew around them, talons outstretched, tearing flesh as they flew past. Bodies already lay on the ground.

  “Inside!” he bellowed to the people. “Take cover!” And then he ran forward to give them the distraction they’d need. Leaping and slicing, he threw himself into the center of the market.

  Shifting their target, the air spirits flew at him—three in all, each medium size, with jewel-colored wings, angelic faces, and more deadly claws than any natural creature should have. They whipped in a circle around him, and he spun to keep his eyes ready for movement. His knife was tucked by his side, blocking his torso, and his sword was ready to strike.

  With ear-piercing shrieks, the spirits howled at him, and then they attacked. He didn’t think. He spun. He struck. He sliced. He jabbed. As one scraped its knifelike claws down his calf, he leaped, stepped on a crate, and launched himself up on top of the tents. The canvas bowed beneath his weight, and he ran across the tent poles, forcing the spirits to fight higher, above the level of the fleeing villagers.

  Keep their attention, he thought. Draw them away.

  The three spirits darted around him, wary now of his sword. He ran across the tent poles and then slid on his feet down an awning. Two spirits—where was the third?

  As he hit the end of the awning, the third flew up from below him, aiming for his throat, its ethereal face twisted. He sliced, his sword catching the spirit in the torso and flinging it backward. It smacked into one of the houses, and the house shook.

  The other two spirits screamed with so much rage that it poured into Ven, and he had to fight to keep his mind clear. Their scream dove deep inside him, fusing with his bones, until he could taste it in the air he breathed.

  He had to lead them higher.

  Leaping off the awning, he ran at the fallen spirit. Sword raised with both hands, he prepared to strike: a clean swing, slice its head from its neck. Not even a spirit could recover from a strike like that. But before he could land the blow, wind blasted in his face, driving him backward. Spinning through the market, the other two spirits used their power, spiraling the wind faster and faster, ripping fruits and stacks of clothes and blankets and tools and nails from their stalls and flinging them through the air. Ven dove for the ground, behind one of the stalls, until they ripped the stall itself back.

  Howling, the two uninjured spirits flew at him, and he dropped his sword, reached into his shirt, and pulled out two charms. As their mouths opened, he hurled the charms at them, first one and then the other. The charms hit the backs of their throats.

  “Go!” he shouted, standing, his sword again in his hand. “Leave this place, and don’t come back.”

  Whimpering, the two spirits fled. The third crept behind them, its wings weakened, scuttling over the side of the platform and then disappearing.

  Only then did Ven realize he’d been hurt.

  He sagged as pain radiated from his ribs.

  Blackness crept into his vision, and his last sight was the healer boy Hamon leaning over him. “Your turn,” he said to the healers. As he lost consciousness, it occurred to him to wonder why his queen had sent this warning—why him, why here, why now? But he had no answers.

  Only darkness.

  CHAPTER 8

  Queen Fara surveyed the Council of Champions and thought, They’re all idiots. All they do is talk, talk, and talk. A few of the older ones should have retired years ago, but try explaining that to them. Her own champion, the one who had chosen and trained her, had stayed until he was delirious and ill, dying in the middle of a council meeting. The others had seen that as admirable. She’d been horrified. Of the current crop, many had flab instead of muscles, while others seemed to be there purely to show off their muscles. Spare me the posturing of hypocrites and innocents. None of them understood what had to be done to keep Aratay thriving. No concept of the sacrifices or of the choices she had to make. And they were supposed to be her staunchest supporters. Surrounded by her best allies, Queen Fara felt the most alone.

  She leaned back in her throne and let their words wash over her like the rain. Concern over the border, over trade, over what coronation gift to send to the new queen of Chell, over how to appease the berry farmers and still please the timber barons—as if any of their babble mattered. No amount of discussion could fix the problems or fulfill the needs of Aratay. Only action.

  Her action.

  Champion Ambir had the floor, and he was using it, pacing back and forth over the inlaid wood, until Queen Fara wondered if she should worry about the shine. “The population of the capital bursts at the seams. We need more infrastructure: bridges, paths, ladders, to handle all the people coming in and out of the shops and schools every day. As it is, the crowds are too much of a temptation for the spirits.”

  There, at least, someone was saying something remotely useful. The spirits were drawn to crowds, resenting them even more than solitary travelers. Crowds caused harm to the forest, wear to the trees, hardening of the soil, overharvesting of the fruits and berries, overhunting of the animals, all of which riled up the spirits. But paradoxically, crowds were also safer. Spiri
ts would rarely attack a large number of people, especially so close to the palace, where there were an overabundance of hedgewitches, guards, and overeager heirs itching for more practice so they’d be ready when their beloved queen died. As such, Ambir—like the rest of them—was wasting her time. “You don’t need to concern yourself,” Queen Fara said. “The capital is strong, and the spirits may salivate, but they won’t act against us.”

  “If we had more bridges—”

  “It will be done. Next?”

  Next, apparently, was that more schools had to be built and rebuilt. And a few of the towns to the east were clamoring for a new hospital. There were petitions for additional secure orchards, a new area to harvest walnuts, permission to plant more blueberry bushes within an area not granted that kind of protection, even libraries and playgrounds that needed her approval. One of the cities, the Southern Citadel, wanted new housing for its poor, as they lacked the funds for fixing it themselves, due to the inconvenience of poverty.

  She didn’t know when being queen had become about minutiae. But no one wanted to live or work anywhere that the queen hadn’t sworn to protect. As the champions prattled on, Queen Fara held up her hand. “Compile me a list. Rank it in order of importance, and I will attend to it. What is your report on your candidates?”

  This was what the council of champions was supposed to worry about: the security of the crown. Her security, and the assurance that if she were to fall, the forests of Aratay wouldn’t fall with her. One by one, the champions reported: all of them had candidates, and a few were overseeing heirs—about thirty-five heirs at present. Her people would be well cared for if she were to fall. Not that she had any intention of falling. Truthfully, she never liked listening to the champions report on her replacements. It made her feel expendable, and she was not that.

  Never that.

  “Enough.” She waved them silent. “I have matters to attend to, as do you.” Rising, she stood in front of her throne as each champion bowed to her and filed out of the council chamber, then down the stairs that spiraled down the outside of the palace tree. One of the last champions handed her the list she’d requested, all of the demands distilled from the various factions who petitioned the champions for the ear of the queen. Probably bribed them too. Fara took it without looking at it and instead watched her champions leave.