“May I be excused to prepare?” Garnah asked Daleina. She looked as giddy as a child who’d been presented with a three-tier cake.
“Of course, and thank you,” Daleina said. She was silent as Garnah retreated from the tower and began to huff and puff as she descended the many stairs. “Hamon . . .” Turning to him, she saw a strange expression in his eyes—a bit of shyness.
“I do want to marry you,” Hamon said, “if you’ll have me. I had thought . . . there was your coronation, then the poisoning, then the invasion . . . I didn’t think you wanted the extra stress of a wedding, but if you do . . .”
Leaning forward, Daleina kissed his cheek. “That’s the most unromantic proposal I’ve ever heard. And you are right—I don’t have time for a royal wedding now. But I do have time to make love to you.” She kissed his neck and unbuttoned his collar.
“Here?”
“Like you said, it’s the most secure place in Mittriel,” Daleina said, and then drew him to her against a pillar. Far to the west, the spirits of Aratay felt a wave of joy splash over them, calming their fear and distracting them, as Daleina very deliberately did not block them out.
Chapter 26
Every Renthian knew that to enter the untamed lands meant certain death, which was why Ven decided he should sharpen his sword. Sitting on a branch at the border, he methodically ran the edge over his whetstone and tried to avoid pessimistic thoughts. Or really any thoughts at all.
Beside him, Naelin was looking out into the haze. She jumped as a rock punched upward in the middle of the untamed lands. Mist swirled around the rock, and it didn’t move again. The only sound was the wind between the trees of Aratay behind them and the shick-shick whisper of Ven’s blade on the stone.
“Is this a profoundly stupid idea?” Naelin asked.
“Not profoundly,” he said lightly, trying to make her smile—and failing. “Worst case, my sister will get a great song out of this.”
“Your sister will never forgive me if you die.”
“She forgives easily.” Ven inspected his sword, tilting the blade so that it caught the sunlight. “But I don’t plan to die today.” He jumped to his feet.
“Me neither.”
“Glad we’re agreed on that.” He hooked Naelin’s hand with his and drew her in to kiss her. “If they’re still alive in there, we’ll find them. I promise.”
She smiled, though it was a shaky smile. “You’re very good at being heroic.” She drew in a deep breath, and Ven could tell she was about to say something difficult for her. She’s going to tell me not to come, he thought. Sure enough, she said, “But you don’t have to be. You should stay in Aratay. Return to being a champion.”
Knew it. He considered arguing with her, convincing her that his love was true and he’d follow her literally beyond the ends of the earth, but instead he leapt off the branch and skidded down the curved trunk of the tree as he called, “Last one in cooks dinner for a week!”
He heard her surprised laugh behind him, and he slowed so she could catch up with him—and then he saw her shooting past him, on the back of a tree spirit with mossy skin and six-prong antlers. She plunged into the mist, and the wild spirits streamed around her. Sword drawn, Ven ran in with them.
All laughter died.
Whiteness curled around him. He squinted into the haze, but all he saw was the shifting shadows, different degrees of whiteness, swirling and spinning around him—it was like the fog that builds when fire meets ice. “Naelin?” he called, and his voice came out as a combination of a whisper, a squeak, a growl, and an echo.
The ground felt spongy as he walked forward. Sword raised, he twisted his head in all directions, walking forward, then sideways, then backward, trying to see everywhere at once, but there was nothing to see.
A whistle of wind rushed past him. He readied his sword.
A cackle, high, unearthly.
The palms of his hands were sweaty, and he cursed himself for not holding on to Naelin as they entered. He didn’t think the haze would be as thick as this. “Naelin, answer me!”
He heard his own fear, tasted it, as thick as mucus coating the back of his throat. He gripped his sword tighter, then swept it through the mist. Bits of whiteness clung to it, like cobweb strands. He began slashing in front of him as he strode forward.
They’re here.
He felt spirits all around him, brushing past his legs, around his sword, and he heard them laughing at him. He couldn’t tell if they were Naelin’s spirits or other, wilder spirits from the untamed lands, and at that moment, he didn’t care. They were between him and Naelin.
He charged forward, clearing the haze out of the way with his sword—and as if his sword were the wind, the haze cleared for him, and he realized the mist wasn’t empty air at all.
It was full of spirits.
All around him, the world was choked with spirits.
“Ven!”
He ran toward her voice.
From his left: “Ven!”
His right: “Ven!” Higher pitched. A mad giggle.
It wasn’t Naelin.
He halted.
He couldn’t be certain any of those voices were her. The mist curled closer to him. He felt a long finger stroke his arm. Steadying himself, he lifted his sword eye level. The spirits pressed in, murmuring and crooning and cackling.
He waited, counting his breaths.
He felt prickles on the back of his neck. A spirit was there, breathing close to him. Closing his eyes, Ven drew in air.
And then he exploded into movement.
The spirits who had drawn close weren’t fast enough to evade him—he’d switched so suddenly from stillness to motion that they were caught off-guard. His blade slid through them. He felt them die.
Swing right.
Drop down.
Kick and jab. Elbow back. Palm upward, slamming into the face of a spirit, and then he stabbed, felt it slide in, heard the cry, pulled back, and twisted to slice at the whisper of wind behind him. An ice spirit shrieked as his sword bit into it. He drew back then struck again, a whirl of motion.
And the untamed spirits retreated, as if unused to anyone fighting back. He heard them rustling, and he opened his eyes to see he stood in a clearing of gray stone. Pale-blue sky was visible overhead, and the whiteness had retreated.
At the edge of the haze, he saw a flash of color: Naelin.
He ran toward her with his sword ready. Around him, in the mist, he saw light flash—lightning strikes within the clouds. Beneath his feet, the earth shifted. He didn’t let any of it distract him and ran across moving ground, his feet landing lightly, knees bent deep, never depending on the earth to hold him as he sprang across the clearing.
Midair, he swung his sword, and he felt it impact. A spirit reared back in pain, and as he landed, he saw it tower above him: an earth spirit with a stone face and a body of brambles. It clawed at him, and he dodged in a roll, blade protected against him.
And then he was at Naelin’s side.
Her eyes were closed, and her arms were spread wide, fingers splayed. Positioning himself at her back, he fended away spirits that dove for her.
The ground rumbled beneath them, and he felt it rising up higher and higher. He crouched for balance, but Naelin stood straight and tall. The earth rose up and up until they towered above the swarm of whiteness.
Lowering her arms, Naelin looked back at him. “The spirits of the untamed lands don’t want us here.”
“Yeah, noticed that. Where are your spirits?”
“Coming,” she said, and then hundreds of spirits circled them, on the ground around them and in the air above them, driving back the whiteness.
Naelin felt the vastness: hundreds of thousands of spirits, stretching out toward the horizon—if there even was a horizon in this place. It felt endless. She drew her own spirits closer, in a tight circle around her and Ven. They felt pitifully few.