As soon as she felt the queen take control of the spirits, Naelin ran. Scrambling over the roots that bulged out of the walls, she squeezed down the stairs. There were caretakers and courtiers in every room and every hall, with healers moving between them. She saw sheets over bodies, far too many bodies. People—many who looked wounded themselves, who shouldn’t even be up—were cleaning the residue from fires and hacking at tree limbs that had grown out of walls. She didn’t pause.
Erian. Llor.
She burst into their room—and saw no one. “Erian! Llor! Are you here? Please answer me. Come out. It’s safe now. Please be okay.” She ran for the curtains that blocked the beds and threw them back. There were drops of blood on one of the sheets. Her knees began to buckle, but she didn’t let herself collapse. “Erian! Llor! Come out! It’s Mommy!”
She forced herself to stop and listen. She’d trained them to hide. They were sensible. As soon as they knew there was danger . . . but had they had a chance to know there was danger? They’d felt safe in the palace. Quiet, listening, she searched. Under the bed. In the wardrobe. Behind the couch. The upholstery had been shredded. Vines were wrapped around a mirror, and a crack ran down its center.
“Naelin?” Ven was in the doorway.
She ran to him. “I can’t find Erian and Llor.”
“It was you, wasn’t it? You held the spirits.”
“Help me look. Please. They would have hid, but there’s blood on the bed and . . .” Her heart felt as if it was thumping in her throat. Her children were clever and quick. And small. They could squeeze into places. She scanned the room.
A wardrobe was encased in vines, sealed shut by spirits. Crossing to it, she pressed her ear against the wood. “Erian? Llor?”
She heard a voice from inside, faint, muffled by the thick wood. “Mama?” Llor!
“Llor, baby, are you okay? Is Erian with you?”
“She pushed me in! Mama, I can’t get out! It’s dark!” She could barely make out the words. She heard him start to cry, or continue to cry, in great heaving hiccups and she turned—but Ven was already there. He swung his sword at the vines, hacking at them.
“Search for Erian,” Ven told her. “I’ll free him.”
“Llor, baby, stay back against the wall. Back! Understand? Champion Ven is going to get you out. I need to find Erian. Do you know where she hid?”
He was still crying, but the answer was no. Erian had pushed him into the wardrobe, told him to be quiet, and promised to get the spirits away from him. My brave girl, Naelin thought.
She stood still for a moment, trying to put herself in Erian’s shoes. Erian must have realized something was wrong and gotten her brother to the wardrobe, but maybe there hadn’t been time for her to hide too. Maybe the spirits were too close. Maybe she wanted to distract them from Llor. She must have run—she could have tried the door, but if the spirits had come in through there . . . the only other way out was the balcony.
Erian had never liked climbing, but if it was the only way, she’d do it. My brave girl. Naelin ran onto the balcony. “Erian? Erian!” Leaning over the railing, she looked down.
Clinging to the vines about fifteen feet below the edge was Erian.
Her eyes were squeezed shut, and she was shaking. Naelin saw blood on her arm, a smear of brilliant red against her white dress. “Hold on, Erian! We’re coming! Ven! Ven, she’s out there!”
Erian screamed.
The vines were retracting from the palace, as if being withdrawn.
“Don’t let go!” Naelin called.
“Mama!”
The sound of her cry pierced Naelin. Before she could even call for him, Ven was at the balcony and vaulting over the side. He stabbed his knife into the wood of the tree, using it as a handhold. “I’m coming, Erian,” he told her. “Hang on.”
Naelin felt a solid weight thump into her thigh. Llor gripped her waist and buried his face in her stomach. “Mama!” She cradled his head but didn’t move her eyes off the scene below.
She’s too far down, Naelin thought. The vines were shrinking back into the palace. Gripping the balcony, she concentrated. She reached into the tree and touched the wood spirits who were unraveling the vines and disentangling the mess. Stop, she told them. Grow.
She guided them toward the vines that held her daughter from plummeting.
They resisted.
The queen had given them another command—she could feel it within them, an echo that reverberated: Restore. They were fixing the palace. They had to fix it. The queen was making them, and her strength was like iron around their brains.
Naelin chipped at that iron. She pushed, she shoved, she sawed. Grow. Now. Grow. And she felt them shatter inside as her command penetrated. They forced the wood out, jutting a new balcony beneath Erian’s feet. As the vines vanished into the bark, she collapsed onto the new balcony.
Ven climbed down, sticking knives into the wood, until he reached her. “Grab onto me,” he said gently to Erian.
Sobbing, she clung to him, and he began the climb back up, using his knives again. The process was slow, and Naelin squeezed Llor as she watched them climb up. When they were close enough, she reached over, helping pull Erian onto the balcony. She bundled Erian into her arms and held her. Erian wrapped her arms around Naelin’s neck, tight.
Ven jumped onto the balcony beside them. “Is everyone all right?”
Naelin peeled away from her children to look at them. “There’s blood. Who’s bleeding? What hurts?” Erian and Llor dove toward her, hugging her tight again. She rocked backward but steadied herself.
Eventually, she got them calmed down, bandaged up, and tucked into bed, where they clung to each other as if they were each the other’s teddy bear. She sat across the room from them and watched them as they whispered to each other and then fell asleep. Dropping her head in her hands, Naelin wished she could sleep.
She felt Ven’s hand on her shoulder. “You did well,” he said.
“She could have died. Both of them. I could have lost them.”
“You saved them. You saved a lot of people.” He crouched beside her and took her hand. She felt the warmth of his hand, the strength of his fingers, comforting her. “I knew you could. Now do you understand why you’re needed?”
“No. I don’t understand at all. Why did that happen? We’re in the palace!” She lowered her voice. “We should be safe here, with the queen.”
Ven was silent.
He still held her hand.
As the silence stretched, Naelin looked up at him. His eyes were fixed out the window but not as if he were looking at anything, as if he were thinking, and his mouth was twisted into a grimace. “What is it?”
“The queen has been poisoned. She’s been given the False Death. All of the champions were in the chamber when she experienced her latest blackout—I believe the spirits were watching as well, waiting for their opportunity. Her commands have no effect while she is dead.”
Naelin stared at him. She had a dozen questions: How was it possible? Who would do such a thing? Why? She settled on the most important one. “If it’s a poison, is there an antidote?”
“Maybe. We don’t know yet.”
“How much time does she have?”
“Months, I hope. But most likely weeks. That’s why we need you.” He squeezed her hand lightly. “Naelin, you’re the most powerful candidate that I have ever seen or heard of. You are the only one with enough raw power to be ready fast enough. I believe there is no one else who can do this.”
She heard the truth in his words. He believed everything he was saying, and she had no reason to doubt it. In fact, a number of things now made more sense. Naelin had always considered herself a practical person. She wanted one thing: for Erian and Llor to be safe. If the dying queen did not have an heir, then Naelin’s children were in danger. And if there truly was no one else . . . “I’ll do it.”
A voice from the bed: “Mommy, no!”
Erian.
She left Ven and went to them. Llor was fast asleep, curled around his pillow, but Erian’s eyes were wide. Naelin wrapped her arms around her daughter and held her close.
“Please don’t do it, Mommy,” Erian whispered in her ear. Her breath tickled. Naelin inhaled, breathing in the scent of lilac soap, dried sweat, and little girl. Erian still fit in her arms, though her legs spilled out beyond Naelin’s lap.
“I promise I will be as careful as I possibly can be. Even more careful than Llor when he climbed his first tree. Do you remember that?” She tilted her daughter’s chin so Erian would see that Naelin was smiling and unafraid—or at least faking it as hard as she could.
A tiny tentative smile touched Erian’s lips. “You made him wear two safety ropes, in case one broke, and wrapped him in so much padding that he looked like a sausage.”
“And the helmet? Remember that?”
“It was a pot! You padded it with towels.”
“And when he fell?”
Her smile wavered. “You caught him.”
Naelin stroked her hair. “The queen needs me to catch Aratay. And I have to be ready to do it. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mama.”
She’s lying, Naelin thought. But then again, so am I.
The funerals started at dawn, when the pale yellow light filtered in patches through the leaves and the birds chirped so perkily that Daleina wished she could ask her archers to shoot them all. It felt wrong that the birds were chirping, wrong that the sun was shining, wrong that the sky was blue and the wind was mild, wrong that the spirits around the palace were flittering through the roses and playing in the fountains as if they hadn’t just tasted the blood of Daleina’s people . . . Calm, she told herself. Serene. She kept her pace even as she processed from the palace to the burial grove, flanked by both guards and courtiers. Captain Alet was on her left, and Champion Ven marched on her right. People lined the bridges and paths, silently watching the queen pass by.
She’d buried too many people in the last year. First her friends, and now . . . These were people she was supposed to protect! People who trusted her, who relied on her, who . . . It’s not my fault. But it is someone’s fault. Someone, perhaps someone in this crowd, had poisoned her. That someone was responsible for these deaths.
He or she was what her archers should shoot. Not the birds.
Bells were ringing, sweetly, a hopeful sound. She was supposed to speak about hope and life within sorrow. She’d prepared a speech as she’d mechanically swallowed her breakfast—Hamon had stood beside her, making sure she ate every bite. She didn’t taste any of it.
He was somewhere in the crowd, nearby. Her eyes fell on him, and she tried to draw strength from the calm, peaceful, measured way he walked. Looking back at her, his eyes were full of compassion.
Ahead, the grove was wreathed in flowers. The families of the fallen . . . Fallen, she thought. As if they’d merely collapsed. As if they hadn’t been violently torn apart. Ripped from life. She felt their eyes on her, and she felt the accusation behind their gaze.
Beside her, a courtier drew a bell from the pocket of his robes. He rang it. Another, a caretaker, rang his bell. And another, hers. The families kept their hands clasped, in silence beside the fresh graves, as throughout the grove, bells rang together, their high tones melding into one shrill sob.
Stepping forward, Queen Daleina raised her hands, and the bells silenced. Hope. Sorrow. She knew what she was supposed to say.
She chose not to say it.
“You hate me right now,” Daleina said, raising her voice to carry across the grove. Her words fell into the silence like raindrops on a still pond. “You blame me. I am alive, and your loved ones are not. You see me standing here, dressed in silks and jewels, and you think, ‘If the queen is not dead, my father, mother, brother, sister, child, friend shouldn’t be either.’” She’d been lucky—her sister was still alive—but so many weren’t.
Listening, everyone was silent. Not everyone, she corrected. Flying through the leaves above, the birds cried and sang. Squirrels scurried through the branches. The spirits burrowed through the earth and slipped through the air.
She did not look at her champions or her courtiers or her caretakers. Not even at Alet or Ven or Hamon. She looked instead into the eyes of the families of the dead. “I want to say I am sorry. I am sorry that I’m standing here, not your loved ones. I’m sorry I couldn’t save them. I’m sorry for the emptiness you feel.” She smoothed the paper she had in her hand, the notes for her speech, and then crumpled it, and then smoothed it again as she spoke. “I could tell you that time will heal you, but I think that’s a cruel thing to say, because right now you don’t want time to heal you. You don’t want to forget. Because forgetting means that they’re really gone.” She thought of her friends—Linna’s smile, Mari’s voice, Revi’s laugh. She thought of Master Bei and of her childhood friends, the ones who died in Greytree. “I don’t want you to ever forget them. But I do want you to forget this, the pain you feel today that feels as if it’s eating your skin and consuming your soul. I want you instead to remember the joy these people brought to your lives. I want you to remember the moments they made you smile, or cry, the moments they made you feel alive. I want you to honor the ways they shaped who you are and who you will become. For they are a part of you, now and forever. And I know that it’s not the same. I know that it’s not enough. I also know that I cannot truly understand your pain, because your pain is not my pain. It is yours, uniquely yours, and it is all right to feel it fully and deeply for today and for as many days as you need to feel it, until you can feel joy again.”
The birds kept singing. The squirrels kept scurrying.
But the spirits were listening.
And so were her people.
“Feel the pain. Feel the anger. Feel the sorrow. Feel the loss. And then when you have felt all of it, forgive them for leaving you. Forgive yourself for still being here.” Forgive me, she wanted to say. “Forgive life for being fragile and brief. Forgive time for passing. Forgive . . .” She faltered as her eyes locked onto a child’s eyes. He was tiny, maybe four or five years old, and enveloped in too-big clothes that must have been borrowed for the funeral. He was clutching the right hand of a man in caretaker garb. His hand was swallowed in the man’s hand, and he was staring at Queen Daleina with red, puffy, angry eyes.
Abruptly, Daleina said, “You deserve to know why.”
She heard the champions shift and murmur. One of them said, “Your Majesty . . .”
She quelled them with a look. Raising her voice so that she could be heard beyond the grove, she said, “I am sick. As a result of my illness, I was unable to contain the spirits for a period of time—during that period, your loved ones died. It may happen again, and I may or may not recover. During this time of uncertainty, I ask you all to make every effort to protect yourselves. Prepare charms. Do not travel alone. Keep away from spirits as best you can.”
The crowd began to murmur. Some were crying. A few were shouting.
The queen held up both hands. “I have asked my champions to prepare their candidates. Trials for heirs will be held in ten days.”
Now the champions were talking, protesting—it was too soon! They couldn’t! She was asking the impossible!
“Ten days until the trials!” she said.
And the spirits, without her command, all cried together, “Ten days!”
At the sound of their voices, the people huddled together, looking up at the sky and the trees. Into the silence, Queen Daleina said, “In ten days, you will have an heir. If I am cured by then, the heir will ensure a safe future. If I am not cured by then, I will step down, and your new queen will protect you. Until then, be safe.”