Calm.
Outside of Garnah’s room, Daleina waited while the palace guards checked for threats. From within, she heard Garnah say in a mild voice, “You may not want to touch that.”
And then Daleina’s sister, Arin, chirped, “Definitely don’t touch that! Or that. Or . . . no, not that either, unless you want to itch. And spit up blood . . . You can touch that one. It just smells nice.”
Another familiar voice—Hamon: “I can vouch for them. For now. But we thank you for your conscientious thoroughness.”
“We do not thank them,” Garnah said. “Oafs.”
That was enough. Daleina swept into the room. She knew she looked regal—she wore her tiara of curled vines and her silver gown, the one she’d picked because it made her look older and she’d wanted to impress the chancellors with her seriousness—and she was rewarded with Garnah, Hamon, and Arin all falling silent, bowing and curtsying. She thought about telling her sister not to curtsy to her, but it was important right now that Garnah see her as the queen of Aratay, not a piece in whatever game she was currently playing. “We require your assistance,” Daleina declared.
Garnah cleared her throat. “Is that plural, or the royal ‘we’?”
Depends on how royal Naelin is feeling, Daleina thought.
Ven stepped forward. “The queen of Semo has sent Their Majesties a message. We wish for you to examine it before the queens read it.”
“Ah, you think poison?” Garnah asked. “Unlikely, since that approach already failed once. Granted, it’s a classic for a reason, and I can’t help but be flattered that you would come to me, Your Majesty. Unless you chose me for my expendability, rather than my expertise.”
“Queen Daleina isn’t like that, Mother,” Hamon said.
“She’s a queen,” Garnah countered. “She should be like that. Have no fear, Your Majesty, I would be delighted to be of service in any way I can. I am anxious to prove my loyalty, though some would say I already have.”
“Those people just haven’t met you yet,” Hamon muttered.
Garnah laughed. “Delightful boy.” Reaching over, she patted his cheek, and Hamon flinched. Looking from one to the other, Daleina wondered what they’d been talking about before she’d entered. Hamon didn’t visit his mother willingly.
The guest room had been converted into a laboratory with long tables running against the walls, and dozens of beakers and test tubes and other glassware. Containers of powders labeled in Arin’s neat handwriting were stacked beneath one table, and all the rugs had been rolled up and taken away. Even the curtains had been removed. Except for one divan, the furniture in the room was practical: tables, benches, stools, and one gurney. Thankfully, it did not hold a body. Or worse, a live “patient.” Hamon had told her plenty about his mother’s old experiments. Garnah had sworn up and down that she didn’t engage in that sort of “basic research” anymore, and Daleina had made Arin promise to tell if she encountered anything of questionable morality. But still . . . I’ve become just as paranoid as Ven.
It was no more than a few awkward minutes before Queen Naelin arrived, which did nothing to diminish the awkwardness. In fact, the presence of the Queen of Sorrow (as Daleina had heard a few courtiers call her) increased the tension in the room to such a level that Daleina thought she could taste it: thick and sour.
Queen Naelin pushed the wheelchair that held Headmistress Hanna, who had been attempting to teach the older queen more techniques to control her thoughts and emotions. Hanna had reported privately that it was like trying to teach a rock—she listened but she was so set in her ways, you didn’t know if she absorbed any of it. Still, Hanna was trying to squeeze in as many lessons as possible, in case Daleina agreed to send her to Semo. But I haven’t agreed yet, Daleina thought. It depends on what Merecot says.
“I am sorry for your loss, Your Majesty,” the Queen’s Poisoner said with a bow. “Know that I and my skills are at your disposal, should you require it.”
“Mother,” Hamon growled.
Garnah blinked. “What? What did I say?”
“It’s not certain they’re dead,” Ven said. There was a hardness in his voice that Daleina hadn’t heard before, as if he wanted to hit something or someone.
Naelin growled, “They are not.”
“We are pursuing diplomatic answers,” Daleina said firmly.
“Ahh,” Garnah said. “So that’s why you’re having me check her letter? Because ‘diplomacy’ involves possible death?”
“A precaution,” Daleina said, and wished the letter would arrive already. She looked at Naelin and thought she’d never seen a person look so hollow. She wondered if it would help to have Havtru talk to her—he’d lost his wife in a spirit attack, before he became a champion—or if there were something in Garnah’s repertoire of potions that would ease Naelin’s pain. Even with Hanna’s impromptu lesson during the earthquake, she could feel the despair and anger leaking through to the spirits.
Queen Naelin didn’t speak again.
“Your Majesty . . .” Arin hesitated, opened her mouth, and then shut it and shrank back as if she’d changed her mind.
“Go on,” Hamon encouraged her, always kind. Daleina spared a smile for him.
Daleina also smiled at her sister, and Arin said in a rush, “Erian and Llor were two of the bravest kids I’ve ever met. Two of the bravest people. And I just . . . I mean, I can’t help thinking if they could have survived . . .” She swallowed. “I just wanted to say I believe you. I believe they’re alive.”
“That makes three of us, then,” Naelin said. “You, me, and Ven. The rest of Aratay seems to have already condemned them.”
Tentatively, Daleina reached out to touch the nearby spirits, to make certain they weren’t going to explode into violence again, but they felt subdued, as if they were absorbing more sadness than anger. She met Ven’s eyes and saw pain in them. The silence in the room was oppressive.
At last, two palace caretakers and more guards arrived, thankfully breaking the somber spell. Escorted by the guards, the caretakers carried a thin lacquered black box that appeared to be shaped from a single piece of wood. Smooth, it had no joints, only a lid. They placed it on one of the worktables, bowed, and retreated.
This must be the letter. And . . . a gift?
Garnah stepped forward. Reaching into the pockets on her skirt, she withdrew a variety of powders and began to sprinkle them on the box. She muttered to herself as she examined it from every angle, and Daleina watched as fingerprints appeared in the dust—Garnah then tossed a few drops of liquid, and the powder puffed into a cloud above the box. It dissipated in the air. “Outside is fine,” she announced.
“Did you test for—” Hamon began.
“Obviously.”
“But what about—”
“Don’t be an idiot.”
“You can’t know—”
“It’s safe.” She opened the lid and lifted a parchment out. “The gift itself is wrapped in velvet, and here is the letter.” She sniffed it and then applied an assortment of different powders, which turned purple then white. She knocked them to the floor. “Nothing alarming about the letter. You may read it.” She held it out.
Hamon took it and then passed it to Daleina, who read. “It’s addressed to Queen Naelin, not to me.” Curious, she thought.
“Read it aloud,” Naelin said without turning around. Her eyes were fixed on the fireplace, where two fire spirits curled between the logs.
“‘To Queen Naelin of the forests of Aratay, long may you reign in Renthia.’”
Garnah murmured, “A pleasant beginning.”
“Quiet,” Hamon said.
“Merely expressing an opinion.”
“Read on,” Naelin said.