“She hasn’t mellowed,” Ven said. “I thought she might have.” He turned to Naelin, and she noticed the shadows under his eyes, exaggerated by the angle of the firemoss light. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks.
This has all been hard on him too, Naelin thought. He cared about Erian and Llor. And he cares about me. She laid a hand on his cheek, against his beard. His expression softened, and he took her hand. She thought about Queen Fara and the heir Sata and the losses he’d already suffered. He didn’t talk much about them, but knowing his kind heart, they must have cut him deeply.
“Coming here may have been a mistake. We can camp in the woods. Certainly done it before. I’d thought . . . I don’t know what I thought, but it was a bad idea.” He made a face. “Sorry to subject you to this.”
“If you want to stay, I can handle it,” Naelin said gently. Hanna had confirmed her children were being treated well. She could set aside her own impatience for one night, for Ven. “You can see your sister at least.” Besides, she was curious to learn more: who were these people who had shaped Ven? What had his childhood been like? She found herself wanting to meet his sister and see his home, which was surprising since all her thoughts lately had been consumed with Erian and Llor. I haven’t been fair to him. I haven’t been thinking of anyone else at all. For all her fine words about being the Mother of Aratay, everything she’d done had been for her children, to the exclusion of all else.
“Please don’t hold me responsible for whatever she says,” he said. “It’s not aimed at you; I’m the disappointment.”
“You’re the epitome of a hero. How can she be disappointed in you?” The longer she knew him, the more impressed she was. The more in love. She smiled to herself. After Renet, she never thought she’d feel this way about anyone again—and in truth, I never felt like this about Renet.
“She probably keeps a list,” he said, pulling out a length of rope and a clip. “Which she’s probably going to recite to you. Attach yourself to me. The upper branches can be precarious.”
Reaching out with her mind, Naelin brushed against the presence of a few spirits, mostly small and none close. “If you’re willing to wait a few minutes, I could summon an air spirit. There aren’t any close by.”
“Not many spirits would dare be near my mother,” Ven said. “Best leave them be. No sense upsetting her any more than I already have.” He drew out an arrow with a ring at its end and tied on a rope. Notching it, he aimed into the darkness and shot. She heard the thunk as it embedded itself into tree. He looped one arm around her waist, and Naelin wrapped her arms around him. Ven kicked off and swung on the rope through the upper branches. Dry autumn leaves brushed against her arms, and she heard them rustle and crackle as they swung through the shadows. She felt Ven raise his knees, and then they impacted on a platform. He tied off the end of the rope to one of the branches and unhooked the clips that held Naelin. “There should be a ladder . . .” He felt around the trunk. “Here. Follow me.”
Ven climbed first, followed by Naelin. She couldn’t imagine going higher than they already were—soon, they’d be among the very tops of the trees. “Did you grow up in a bird’s nest?”
“Nearly,” he said. “Mother’s not a people person.”
Ven stopped, and that made Naelin stop as well. She heard a melody carried on the breeze: a light, wordless tune in harmony with the birds, dipping low to match the owls and then high to imitate a songbird in her nest for the night.
“That’s my sister,” Ven said, and this time there was real warmth in his voice.
“I look forward to meeting her,” Naelin said, and she meant it.
Ven hadn’t thought about home in a while, and he certainly hadn’t planned to return. It wasn’t until Arin planted the idea and he had the thought that the distraction would be good for Naelin—a way to slow her down, to keep her from doing anything rash—that he warmed to it. He hadn’t bothered to think about whether it would be good for him.
I’ve had worse ideas, he supposed. Not many, but a few.
At least no one was likely to die from this mistake. He’d just have to suffer through a night of belittling parental disapproval in front of the one woman he wanted to think well of him. Yeah, definitely on the list of bad ideas.
He saw home from the top of the ladder. It looked the same as he remembered: platforms that straddled the upper branches, evenly distributing their weight so they stayed balanced, with bridges between them and tarps on top of them. It was more a collection of tents than a house like you’d find midforest. “It’s nicer than it looks,” he told Naelin. “There are real beds inside.”
“It looks very nice,” Naelin reassured him.
He knew she was lying. Mother didn’t believe in fancy decorations—their home looked like it belonged to a soldier, because it did. Mother had been a champion for years, until she became border patrol. He’d learned from her to consider all of Aratay his home, not one nook of it. She used to say every tree was their bed, every rock their table, every stream their sink. Still, this didn’t feel like just another tree.
I am getting sentimental in my old age, he thought.
“You should know that my sister is . . . She’s gentle.” He didn’t know how else to describe her. He wondered what Naelin would think of her—and what Sira would think of Naelin. He toyed with lying to Sira about who Naelin was, to put his sister at ease, but he’d never lied to her. He couldn’t. Not to Sira.
“I’m sure she’s wonderful. I can’t wait to meet her.” Naelin’s smile was genuine, and no matter what, he felt like he was giving his heart to the right woman.
He just hoped that smile remained when she went inside the house.
He climbed up, swinging onto the platform in front of the door—or, rather, a tarp that bore the seal of a border guard, embroidered badly. He lifted it and ducked inside, holding it up behind him for Naelin.
Naelin entered—he was relieved when she looked around, interested. Maybe this won’t be a total disaster, he thought. As he’d told her, it was nicer than it looked from the outside. Lots of wood furniture. Lots of quilts. And not a speck of dirt. Even dirt fears disappointing Mother, Ven thought.
Mother marched through the kitchen, plucked a kettle off a hook, and shoved it onto a rod that spanned the fireplace. “If you’re expecting a victory feast to celebrate your triumphant return home, you’re going to be sorely disappointed. Rations are in the barrels. Serve your friend whatever you like.”
Nope, definite disaster. His mother was determined to be unpleasant. Really, he shouldn’t have expected anything less. He did leave without saying goodbye, and he hadn’t sent word or tried to visit, unlike his sister, who’d never left, and his brother, who visited on every holiday and undoubtedly sent bushels of flowers on random occasions, purely to make Ven look bad.
“You’ve eggs,” Naelin said, with a nod toward a basket of blue bird eggs on the counter. “I can cook for all of us.”
“Suit yourself. You travel with my son, so you’re welcome here.” Mother plopped onto a chair and put her feet up on a worn table. “All right, Ven, explain yourself.”
“Believe it or not, Mother, I’m not here to see you. This is Queen Naelin. We are traveling north to Arkon, to retrieve her children from Queen Merecot of Semo. Naelin, this is my mother, Zenda.” He crossed to the kitchen—he still knew where the skillet was. He set it over the fire for Naelin. She’d already located a bowl and begun to whisk eggs together.
“Herbs?” Naelin prompted.
Mother, meanwhile, had snapped to her feet. “Your Majesty!”