It was strange, but sometimes it still took a little reminding that as queen, all of this was technically hers (hers and Daleina’s, anyway). As that seeped in, so did Arin’s suggestion, and it was registering as a fairly good idea. Everyone could use more spirit-protection charms, and thanks to her power, hers always had been potent. The more she thought about it, the more she found herself without a reason not to do it. It was late, well after cleanup had been completed from the evening meal, and no one was going to disturb them.
With a confidence she hadn’t felt in days, Naelin busied herself with choosing ingredients from the myriad shelves. She pushed aside a stack of bowls to clear room to work, opposite Arin. For a while, both were silent—Arin with her bread and Naelin with her herbs. She wove a simple earth-spirit protection charm made of forest-floor herbs and laced with dried peppers. The secret was the combination of herbs, to create a scent that seemed both natural in its components and unnatural in its combination, that would repel the spirits.
“You could add more oomph to that,” Arin said. “A few sprigs of basilwort, combined with this powder that I’ve been working on—it won’t just repel them; it will burn them.”
“You’ve been learning that?” Naelin asked. “I thought you were apprenticed to the Queen’s Poisoner. Aren’t you learning about poisons?”
“Only against spirits. Every apprentice choses a specialty—though I think Master Garnah may be disappointed in mine. She likes human targets.” Arin shook her head in disgust, then looked at Naelin. “It doesn’t matter—here, I can show you what I’ve been working on, if you like,” Arin said, wiping off her hands. She had a smudge of flour on her cheek. “Can you call a fire spirit?”
Naelin called to one as if whistling for a dog. It darted down the chimney and landed in the fire in the kitchen fireplace. Embers popped out onto the hearth, and the wood crackled. The tiny spirit was humanlike with a child’s eyes and metallic red scales over its body.
“Better stand back,” Arin warned.
Naelin retreated to an alcove that held a table and stools, where the kitchen staff took turns resting on busy days. She watched as Arin drew a vial out of her pocket and shook it. Arin pursed her lips and steadied her aim—then threw.
The glass shattered on the bricks in the fireplace, and purple powder exploded into a cloud over the fire. Naelin jumped as it boomed.
She heard shouts from above, then footsteps.
“Oops,” Arin said.
“Everything’s all right!” Naelin shouted up at the palace guards.
They didn’t believe her, of course, and came pouring into the kitchen. But as the purple smoke cleared, it was clear there was no danger. Only one tiny fire spirit knocked out on the hearth. Naelin crossed to it. Picked up its arm and dropped it. The thin charred arm flopped back onto the brick. She touched the spirit with her mind—it was alive, but it was . . . asleep?
The guards, reassured that their queen was neither in danger nor causing danger, retreated to the stairwell, and Naelin faced Arin. “Let’s definitely put that into charms.”
Arin grinned, and Naelin found herself grinning back.
Side by side, they worked late through the night, until the predawn hours, when the kitchen workers began to drift in, to begin their morning preparations. Gray light was warming the windows when the two finally ceded the kitchen to its staff. Swarming around them, the staff helped them put away the leftover herbs and ingredients, despite Naelin’s protests that she could very well clean up herself—she’d made the mess; she should clean it. The staff, though, was far more efficient, and Naelin and Arin found themselves scooted over to an alcove, along with Arin’s bread and a stack of powder-laced charms.
“If you weren’t queen, I’d say we should open up the best hedgewitch shop in the city,” Arin said, hugging the charms.
“It would have been a thriving business,” Naelin agreed.
“I’d planned to open my own bakery—that was my dream, with Josei. He was the baker’s boy in the town where my family lived. He was my best friend. We’d even talked about marrying when we were older.”
Naelin heard the past tense. “Spirits?” she guessed.
“Yes, when Queen Fara died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“After he died, people kept saying that: ‘I’m sorry.’”
Naelin thought of the people in the palace and the villagers in Redleaf and their endless, empty sympathy. She supposed it was the only thing they knew to say.
And she’d just done it to Arin.
“At first it didn’t help,” the girl continued. “I kept wanting to scream at them, ‘If you’re so sorry, why didn’t you save him?’ But it’s not as if anyone could have saved him. It just happened. And suddenly every dream I had, every plan we’d made, were all dead too.” She looked at Naelin. “I’m not saying it’s the same as for you. I know Erian and Llor aren’t dead, and maybe Bayn isn’t either, but . . .” She trailed off, as if she wanted to say more but didn’t know what words to use.
Reaching across the table, Naelin squeezed Arin’s hand. Arin squeezed back, and then she broke apart one of the loaves she’d baked, sharing it with Naelin.
Naelin bit into a piece. Sweet, soft, and flaky, it was one of the best breads she’d ever eaten. Despite her apprenticeship to a poisoner, Arin clearly had a gift for baking. She should’ve had the chance to open that bakery with her boy. Strange, the twists that come while we make other plans, Naelin thought.
“Guess we should probably sleep,” Arin said, watching the kitchen staff scurry through, preparing to make breakfast for the courtiers, guards, and everyone.
“I think we may have missed that chance,” Naelin said, nodding to the stairwell. The seneschal had just poked his head into the kitchen and was looking around. His eyes lit up beneath his fluffed eyebrows when he spotted Naelin, and he trotted across the kitchen to the alcove.
With full formality, despite this being a kitchen not a throne room, the seneschal bowed. “Queen Naelin, a spirit has arrived, bearing a report from Ambassador Hanna. Queen Daleina was in the middle of meeting with the champions when it came. She insists on waiting for you before sharing it.”
Naelin sprang to her feet. “Keep the charms,” she told Arin. “And . . . thank you.”
Naelin followed the seneschal up the winding stairs. She wanted to run like an impatient child. Please let it be good news! Please!
He led her up—and up and up—to the Chamber of the Queen’s Champions, at the top of the easternmost tree. “Couldn’t some queen have installed a lift?” Naelin puffed. She was used to climbing through the trees, but this was a ridiculous number of stairs. Aren’t we there yet?
“Your predecessors have expressed similar sentiments,” the seneschal said blandly—he didn’t seem to be laughing at her. He wasn’t panting at all, though, she noticed. “Some used spirits to convey them to the chamber.”
“I won’t use spirits for my convenience. Only when it’s necessary.” And there was only one scenario she currently hoped would make it necessary: rescuing her very-much-alive children.
She climbed the stairs faster.
Guards greeted her at the top of the steps, and she barely nodded to them as she passed. All the champions, including Ven, were seated in a ring around the edges of the chamber.
She’d been up here only once, after she was first crowned, to meet the champions. Since then, the vines that circled the arches had withered, with only a few golden leaves still clinging to them. A second throne had been added, this one not grown from the tree itself but still just as beautiful, made of a deep cherry wood and decorated with curls of white pine. Still panting from the climb, Naelin plopped into the throne. She felt the eyes of all the champions on her.
Naelin studied them right back. She didn’t know many of them, but most appeared . . . the kindest word was “grizzled.” Most looked as if a bear had chomped on them, then spat them out because they were too tough.
Then came back for seconds.
It was an amusing thought, but then she noted the empty chairs too. Champions who had died and hadn’t yet been replaced.