Ven checked a cabinet and pulled out a smattering of cooking herbs, which Naelin proceeded to sniff, then crush into a second bowl. An onion and a potato were hanging in a net over the sink. She handed them to Ven. “Dice them,” Naelin ordered. He pulled out his knife. “Clean it first, then dice them.”
Behind them, Mother said, “A queen, cooking in my kitchen . . . Your Majesty . . . I . . . Ven!” She turned on him, and he instinctively sidled beside a stool so it was between him and his mother. Mother did not like surprises. I probably should have taken that into account. And yet . . . it was almost worth it, seeing her expression. “You’re not going to say anything further about the fact you’re traveling alone with a queen?” Mother demanded. “Where are the palace guards? Where’s her escort? Are you crossing the border with the queen? This is unprecedented. And didn’t the stories say her children were dead? How did they end up with Queen Merecot? Forgive my frankness, Your Majesty.”
A soft voice, sweet as spring wind, whisper-sang from the doorway. “Oh, but it’s not unprecedented. Queen Renna the Delighted enjoyed surprising tiny villages with visits. She’d tuck in the little children with a lullaby.” Sira stood just inside, her wild hair even wilder than Ven remembered, in a cloud around her petite face, as if it wanted to swallow all her features. She looked smaller than he remembered too, her bird-thin arms and legs like the stick limbs of a tree spirit. But she was smiling at him, and that was all that mattered. “Ven, you came home!”
He crossed the house in two strides, scooped her up, and swung in her in a circle. She laughed like she did when she was a little kid, a peal of bells escaping her grinning lips.
“Silly bear, put me down. You’ll break me!”
He put her down and growled like a bear before he remembered that his beloved queen was standing only a few feet behind him watching this entire exchange. He felt his face heat up beneath his beard, which only made Sira laugh louder. “Naelin, this is my sister, Sira.”
“We heard you singing,” Naelin said. “You’ve a beautiful voice.”
“I sing to the birds,” Sira said. “They’re the beautiful ones.”
“You sing just as beautifully,” Ven told her firmly. She’d always downplayed her gifts. He never let her, though, not while he was around. “The birds are envious of you.”
Mother interrupted. “Sira, this is Queen Naelin, joint queen with Queen Daleina. She’s on her way north to bring her children home—apparently, the rumors were wrong. They’re alive.”
Sira dropped into a curtsy as gracefully as if she’d spent her life in a palace. She was naturally graceful. A fact that Mother never noticed, Ven thought. Mother had always focused on Sira’s limitations, but she had many strengths. “I know your songs, Your Majesty. I’m so pleased to meet you, and even more pleased to hear your children are well.”
Naelin looked startled. “I have songs?”
“Oh, yes. My favorite is ‘The Ballad of the Reluctant Queen,’” Sira said, beaming at her. “The descent into minor during the bridge to the second verse is lovely.” She sang the melody wordlessly, holding out the last note for an instant, then fading it. “It’s for sunset after a particularly beautiful day, when you don’t want it to be night yet.” Ven was watching Naelin’s expression closely and saw it tighten, the instant before she turned back to add herbs into the bowl of eggs. She’s thinking she should have stayed reluctant. It was easy to guess her thoughts these days. Too easy. But his sister couldn’t know that, and went on. “I sing it to the dawn and the night, to the wind and the rain, and they come to listen.”
“You know they’d come anyway,” Mother said.
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Sira was as patient as ever, with her secret little smile. She’d always known how to let Mother’s words roll off her. He wondered how she did it—they stuck like burrs into Ven.
“Your singing is important,” Ven told Sira. “Gives the rest of us a reason to keep fighting.” He felt Naelin studying at him, and he focused on the potato, skimming off the skin with his blade and slicing it into chunks. He hadn’t directed those words at her, but he didn’t regret that she’d heard them. She’d probably accuse him of lacking subtlety, which Daleina had so recently commented on.
I carry at least five weapons at all times. Subtlety isn’t what I do.
They fell into silence as Naelin prepared the rest of the meal, issuing the occasional order. Sira set out plates, even scrounged up napkins, which she folded into flower shapes.
Mother watched it all from her seat, feet firmly on the table, crushed leaves stuck to the soles of her boots. All of them sat when the eggs were ready, and the kitchen was filled with the smoky, oniony, thick scent of an ordinary midforest home—a smell that he didn’t associate with this eagle roost of a place.
“Thank you for your hospitality,” Naelin said as she spread her napkin on her lap.
“You cooked, Your Majesty,” Mother said.
“With your food,” Naelin pointed out. “I like to cook.” To Ven’s surprise, she sounded cheerful. Could she actually be enjoying this visit?
“Food serves a purpose: keeping a body strong,” Mother proclaimed. “Never saw much point in fancying it up. People who waste their time on that are fools.”
Ven put his fork down. Didn’t slam it. He was proud of that. “You’re insulting your guest, Mother.”
“Your guest,” she snapped. “Told you, I don’t do hospitality.” Then her eyes widened. He crossed his arms and leaned back as Mother ducked her head in a bow. “Beg pardon, Your Majesty. Of course you are welcome here. These are your woods. Ven will tell you—I’m a woman with strong opinions who speaks her mind.”
“Except when you don’t,” Sira said, still sweet and gentle.
“Always,” Mother said.
“Not always. You haven’t told Ven that you missed him yet.”
Ven reached across the table and covered his sister’s hand with his. That’s Sira, he thought, always seeing good, even where there wasn’t any. He shouldn’t have stayed away for so long. As long as she was here, he could weather whatever Mother said. Sira beamed back at him with the same wide, guileless eyes she’d always had. Changing the subject, he asked Mother, “How’s the border?”
“Tense.”
“Any hint what’s going on beyond it?”
“Been tense over there for years. Worse now. There was some hope when the new queen took over, but then after the invasion failed . . . Yeah, they don’t like us much. Your Majesty, speaking from my professional opinion, if you’re planning a visit, you should bring a squadron with you. Or at least more than just my son.” Mother fixed her eyes on Ven, and he felt like squirming as if he were thirteen and caught borrowing her longbow without permission. “Why didn’t you bring your candidate?”
“I don’t have one at present,” Ven said. “Queen Daleina has released me from my duties as champion in order to escort Queen Naelin on her mission.”
“I see.”
He braced himself as she stared him, an inscrutable look on her face—he couldn’t decide if it was better or worse than her usual look of profound disappointment.
“After dinner, spar with me, Ven.”
Her words surprised him . . . and yet didn’t.
“Of course, Mother.”
Ven stripped off his armor, leaving him in just a shirt and pants. He laid his knives in a pile, joined by his bow and arrows—when Mother said “spar,” she meant swords and only swords. He then climbed down onto one of the platforms, where she was waiting, just below Mother’s house. “Live steel or wood?” he asked.
“Live,” Mother said.
“Wood,” Naelin said, coming out onto the platform behind him. He turned to face her, but he couldn’t read her expression. Her eyes looked hollow, as if she hadn’t slept in days, though he knew she had. Or thought she had.
“Your Majesty, with all due respect . . .” Mother began.
“I need him whole,” Naelin said.
Ouch. “I can handle myself,” Ven said. He’d sparred with the best champions in Aratay, trained for years, kept himself at peak readiness. His mother was seventy years old. Surely she must have slowed by now.
Surely . . .