Ven left Daleina’s throne room feeling as if he wanted to punch something. He hated Daleina’s plan and had expressed his views clearly, logically, and with minimal shouting. Her plan might save the northeast and Mittriel, or it might kill both Daleina and Naelin and not save anyone. She was trying to do it all and be the hero, but there was no good option here.
He stalked through the corridors of the palace.
She’d told him she planned to cancel the trials. At dawn, she’d announce that she was declaring Naelin her heir. There were no other candidates who were remotely ready, and Daleina claimed Naelin had been tested enough with what she’d endured already. Instead of facing the trials, Naelin would face the Queen’s Grove and the coronation ceremony, alone.
And Her Royal Majesty had left it to Ven to inform Naelin.
Bad, bad idea.
All of it.
Naelin was going to hate this. He hated this. She should have the trials so she could test herself before she faced the minds of every spirit in Aratay. She shouldn’t have to bear this responsibility so soon. And Daleina shouldn’t give up so fast. Hamon and his mother were still working to find a cure! Investigators were still searching for the poisoner! According to Daleina, Alet hadn’t yet cleared all the champions. In the meantime, three more candidates had died—killed by spirits, they’d told the public, but Hamon and Ven were convinced it was an assassin. They’d had no progress on that investigation front either.
They needed more time!
He heard a whoosh of wind and had a sword out before he was finished turning around. Three air spirits were diving for them. Daleina! She’d lost control! She’d—
But there was no screaming.
He tipped the sword up at the last moment, and the air spirits flew beneath him, sweeping him off his feet. He braced, expecting to feel their teeth and claws . . . but the spirits cradled him, flying him fast—faster than he could run, as fast as the wind, up the stairs, out the window, and then straight up the side of the palace tree. He kept a grip on his sword.
They dumped him onto a balcony.
He absorbed the scene: Naelin, slumped against the balcony railing, holding her side. Blood stained her fingers. Alet, pinned to the ground by roots and vines. Half her face was burnt, and a pool of blood lay beneath her.
He felt his heart lurch. He clamped it down fast.
Sword ready, he scanned the area, looking for their attacker.
A half second later, the air spirits deposited Hamon next to Ven. The healer hurried to Naelin’s side. Naelin—brave, selfless Naelin—shook her head. “No, see to Alet.”
“You’re the one who must live,” Hamon said.
“Deflected it. Just a scratch.”
“I’ll decide that.” Hamon forced her to lift her hand, and he applied pressure. Kneeling beside him, Ven saw she was right: it was a shallow cut. A knife cut. She’ll live, he thought—and the relief hit him like a tidal wave. “Hold the gauze,” Hamon ordered, then turned to Captain Alet.
“What happened?” Ven demanded. He noticed Bayn was standing over Captain Alet, guarding her—no, guarding Naelin, he corrected. “Did you lose control?” He wanted that to be the answer. But she’d sent the air spirits to fetch him and Hamon. That wasn’t the act of someone who had lost control. And the cut was a single slice, straight as if from a blade, not claws . . . All the clues were there in front of him. He didn’t want to add them together.
“Don’t be dense,” Alet croaked. She coughed and blood spattered. “I tried to kill her. But you . . . you trained her well, when I . . . wasn’t looking. You should be . . . proud.”
“Don’t try to talk,” Hamon told her. “You may have a pierced lung. I’ll need these roots cleared so I can see to work.” He glanced at Naelin, who nodded. Tree spirits began to unwrap the wood.
Ven leveled a sword at Alet’s throat. “Move, and you die.”
“Dying anyway,” Alet whispered.
“Why?” Naelin asked. Her voice was so raw that Ven felt her pain like nails against his skin. He wanted to comfort her. Or skewer Alet. Or both. “I thought . . . You’re my friend. I trusted you.”
Ven had trusted her too. He’d trusted her with Daleina’s life, as well as Naelin’s. She’d journeyed with him through the forest, helped him find Naelin, watched Daleina when he couldn’t. He’d thought he knew her! He’d considered himself good at knowing when someone was hiding a secret—he remembered he’d even bragged to her about it once, yet he’d never suspected this.
I should have guessed, somehow, he thought. He was supposed to be observant, alert to all threats. He’d failed, and Naelin had nearly died.
“I’m sorry, Naelin.” Alet tried to turn her head to face Naelin. He saw her wince, and he heard Hamon suck in air as the wood retreated, revealing her wound. It was, to put it bluntly, bad. She’d been torn apart. Those are spirit wounds. Naelin must have called on the spirits to defend herself, after she’d deflected the blade. He wanted to tell her he was proud of her.
“Stop!” Hamon cried. “Put the wood back! It’s holding her together.”
Naelin’s lips moved, and the wood began to reknit itself. The spirits chittered to one another. Bark sealed over Alet’s torso. Alet coughed again. Her breath sounded like a rattle. Ven knew that sound—he’d heard it too many times to mistake. Alet was dying.
Ven placed a hand on Hamon’s shoulder.
Hamon backed away. Squatting by Naelin, he pulled more supplies out of his healer’s robe and began to work on Naelin’s injury.
Naelin batted at his hand. “Healer Hamon, see to Alet. She’s hurt worse . . .”
“Hush,” he told her. “I can’t help her; I can help you.”
Ven knelt beside Alet. “Why did you do it?”
“Because she didn’t walk away,” Alet said. Her voice was a broken whisper. “She could have refused. I thought she’d refuse. I thought I wouldn’t have to . . . but then . . .” To Naelin, she said, “If you had said no, I could have left you alone. But you didn’t, so I couldn’t . . .”
“Ask your questions quickly,” Hamon advised Ven as he worked on Naelin.
“Did you kill the other candidates?” Ven asked. The knife thrust. He remembered the bodies—he’d wondered how the killer could have gotten so close.
“Yes.”
“Why?” He tried to keep his voice even. He would not kill her. She was already dying.
But he sorely wanted to.
He didn’t expect her to answer, but she did. She pushed her cracking voice louder, as if she wanted to be sure he heard her, as if she needed him to understand. “So there would be no one strong left when Queen Daleina dies. Merecot . . . needed it done. It will be a peaceful takeover. She will take care of our people.”
Ven tried to keep his anger in check. He squeezed the hilt of his sword. He hadn’t sheathed it, even though there was no longer any danger. Not from Alet. Never again from her. “Murder is not ‘peaceful.’”
“I killed a few to save the many.” Alet closed her eyes. “Merecot needs Aratay. In Semo . . . there are too many spirits and not enough land. She must . . . Semo needs . . . She has a plan. Good plan. She won’t be stopped. Aratay and Semo, united. There will be peace.”
“There was peace, before you started murdering people,” Ven said. He couldn’t keep the harshness from his voice. Didn’t want to. “You’re a royal guard, Alet! Trusted by your queen!” A dark thought came to him. “Did you try to kill her too? Did you poison Daleina?”
Hamon froze. “Ask her what poison she used. Ask her if she has any left.”
Alet’s eyes fluttered.
“Keep her alive,” Ven ordered.
But Hamon was already at her side. “I can’t work miracles. I can extend her life for only a few minutes. Maybe less.” He was pulling herbs out of pockets. He found one and, hands shaking, poured it into his hand. He then funneled it into her mouth. “Taste it. There. That’s it.”
“Helps,” Alet said. Her eyelids fluttered again.
Ven knelt closer so he could hear her. He’d failed to suspect Alet. But he wouldn’t fail now. “The poison. Where is it?”
“Too late,” Alet said. “I am sorry. Tell Daleina . . . I’m sorry.”
“Why is it ‘too late’?” Hamon asked. “What is the poison?”
Alet didn’t answer. She just breathed, shallowly, with a horrible rattle that made Ven want to scream. This woman had all the answers they needed, and she was slipping away.
“Tell us!” Ven demanded. He couldn’t threaten her. He had no leverage. And she had no reason to tell him anything—
“Merecot, my sister,” Alet whispered. He could barely hear the words. “Naelin, you understand . . . what you do . . . for family. Did it for my sister. Tell Daleina . . . I’m sorry. So very sorry. It was for the best. Greater good . . . You must understand: for the greater good. I am a hero.”
You’re a murderer, Ven wanted to say. He didn’t. “Alet, where is the poison?”
“Medicine good. No pain. Thank you. Kindness . . . I didn’t expect. You will understand, when Merecot comes. You will forgive. I did what was necessary, for the future of our people.”
“Why is it ‘too late’?” Hamon asked again. His voice was calm, soothing, as if he were merely tucking Alet into bed. “Tell us, Alet, why is it ‘too late’?”
“Because I already told her. About the trials. She will begin at dawn.”
“Who’s ‘she’?” Ven demanded. “Queen Merecot? Begin what?” But he thought he knew the answer. “She’s beginning the invasion?”
“Tell my sister: I died a hero.”
She didn’t speak again.