But sorrow was an old friend by now, and she welcomed it in, embraced it, and then moved on to the business of being both freshly married and queen. Whatever mistakes she’d made, Aratay still needed her. Life goes on, and we live with our choices, she thought, and then smiled at herself, wondering when she’d become sanctimonious inside her own head. Maybe for my next feat, I’ll become a wise queen.
She sat in her throne and waited while her champions huffed up the stairs and filed in to claim their seats in a semicircle around the chamber. Several of them had left behind their armor and wore silver silk that clashed with their scarred faces and muscled arms, but it was nice to see them less battle-weary. All of them still carried weapons, of course—feeling safe didn’t mean being foolish. “My champions,” she addressed them when they’d all arrived, “please update me on your progress with my future heirs.”
Leaning back in her throne, she listened as one by one they made their reports. Several candidates sounded promising, and she asked to meet with them—Belsowik would set up audiences with them in between her other engagements. When they’d finished their reports, the champions went on to discuss the state of Aratay and the spirits, what they’d observed and what they thought the people needed. She listened carefully to all of it, nodding where appropriate, and thanking them all.
After everything, they still trust me, Daleina thought.
Unbidden, the old child’s chant came into her mind:
Don’t trust the fire, for it will burn you.
Don’t trust the ice, for it will freeze you.
Don’t trust the water, for it will drown you.
Don’t trust the air, for it will choke you.
Don’t trust the earth, for it will bury you.
Don’t trust the trees, for they will rip you,
rend you, tear you, kill you dead.
But they trust me, Daleina thought. Both the spirits and the humans. I am still their queen. And I’m not dead yet.
Queen Daleina of Aratay smiled at her champions and, reaching out to touch the minds of her spirits, allowed the first snow of winter to fall.
The wolf heard the humans talking and thought they were being silly. They wanted a name for Naelin’s new country, and everyone seemed to like the name that the boy Llor had suggested: Renetayn, a mushing together of Bayn’s name and Llor’s father’s.
It wasn’t that Bayn was particularly possessive of his name. It was more that the idea of naming a land as if it were your pup was ridiculous. He preferred to think of it merely as home. He supposed he’d never fully understand humans.
Trotting away from the thriving new village, Bayn climbed the rocky path to the cave of the Great Mother. He went inside.
The villagers kept the torches lit, but he could have found his way in the dark. He trotted through the tunnel until he reached the chamber with the bier. He sat beside the mossy body. He didn’t dwell on memories often—wolves existed in the moment, and he was more wolf now than anything he was before, whatever that was. But he did remember when the Great Mother died. He’d protected her until the end. Just as he’d then protected the young girls who grew to be the first queens. Just as he’d protect the new queen Naelin.
He was aware he was unusually old for a wolf. He was also aware that he’d done well. Contentedly, he curled himself beside the mossy body of his dead goddess.
She would have been pleased, he thought.
Even without her, her world lived on.