The champion hesitated—she saw the moment of hesitation. “Yes.”
She narrowed her eyes, the way she looked at Llor when he claimed to have brushed his teeth but still had bits of his dinner stuck to them. “You’re lying.”
He shrugged—at least he respected her enough to be called out on the lie. “It’s possible the spirits will realize they’re yours. Some are . . . vengeful. But I can promise they will be as safe here as anyplace in Aratay, and safer than they would be with you. In fact, the less contact you have with them, the safer they’ll be.”
“You really are horrible with people,” the guard said to the champion.
He glared at her. “You can do better?”
Naelin wanted to turn and walk out of the shop. No, she wanted to run. Far and fast, beyond Aratay if she had to, she’d take her children as far as necessary to keep them safe. “You are asking me to give up my children? On the chance they might be safer? But you can’t promise their safety.”
“No one can promise safety, except the queen,” the guard said. It was a saying that Renthians often repeated, usually when people were about to begin a journey. She said it like rote, but the familiar words sank into Naelin. “Life is unsafe,” the guard continued. “That’s why we need you. You have the power—”
“I want the queen to promise their safety,” Naelin interrupted.
Everyone fell silent.
“I will come, I will train, but the queen will protect Erian and Llor.” She felt Erian stop crying, her shoulders stilling and her body pressing against her, trusting Naelin. “You want me? That’s what it will take.”
Champion Ven studied her, and Naelin held herself still, steady, and strong under the force of his gaze. “Done,” he said. “Now tell the spirits to release us.”
Release them, she thought at the spirits. As easy as turning a faucet, they flowed away from the champion and guardswoman. Solidifying again, they spread wings and flew out the door and up toward the sky.
Llor broke away from her and ran to the door, watching them leave. “You did it, Mama!”
Yes, I did, she thought.
“Come, take your pack” was all she said. She held out Llor’s pack to him. Beside her, Erian shrugged on her own pack. “We have a journey to make.”
Chapter 9
“I know five songs about the False Death.”
Daleina cracked one eye open and rolled onto her side to look at Hamon. “Tell me there’s one with a happy ending.” She watched him, mortar and pestle on his lap, as he mashed the petals of a glory vine. Its overly sweet scent hung in the air of her chambers, suffocating the fresh air from the open window.
“I thought there was one about a dying lover who drinks a miracle cure procured after completing seven quests. But then I realized that’s the ballad of Tyne, about the farm boy from Chell who was dying from the bite of a jewel snake—the antidote was so rare that only a single recluse had it, and she demanded that his lover, a sheepherder’s daughter—”
“Hamon?” she said his name gently. He didn’t babble often, but he hadn’t slept much in the past few days, or left her side. She’d had to encourage the rumor that they were lovers again, in order to explain why a healer was constantly in her chambers. If he’d ever stop working, she’d happily make it not just a rumor, erase his worries and any thoughts of this illness she had. In the sliver of moonlight, he looked sweetly handsome.
“Oh, sorry, what I meant to say is that all the songs about the False Death describe the same symptoms: shortness of breath, heart palpitations, organ failures . . . Obviously, they use more poetic language, the stilling of the heart, the slowing of the wind, but what strikes me is that you did not have any of the warning signs and still don’t. You began with the false deaths and have few other symptoms, aside from tiredness, which could be due to simple stress.”
She closed her eyes and then opened them again. Her lids felt heavy, and she wondered what time it was. Very late. Or very early. She didn’t want to think about her sickness—it felt unreal, as if it were happening to someone else. “Do you think that’s good or bad?”
He was silent.
“Bad,” she guessed.
“It means rapid onset, which is unusual.” He chose his words carefully. “I don’t know of any cases like this.”
“My father always said I was special.”
He carried his mixture over to her and held it up to her lips. She propped herself up on her elbow, took the bowl from him, and drank without help. She winced—the glory vine tasted like dirt and moldy berries, with an aftertaste of chalky salt. “All right?”
She licked her lips. “Delicious.”
He nearly smiled. “You are a bad liar.”
“Let’s hope I’m not.” She stayed propped up, watching him as he carried the bowl back and carefully washed it out. “If people guess I’m sick, there will be panic. I want at least a few candidates approved and in training before word gets out. It would be even better if I could have at least one actual heir in place.” She wondered why she could talk about it so calmly. It was as if the knowledge of what was happening had separated from how she felt—she felt fine, therefore she would always be fine. I suppose I’m an optimist, she thought. A pragmatic optimist.
“You’re going to need help, someone you trust. Early onset could mean you will worsen faster than we thought, and I can’t be with you all the time if I’m going to be researching a cure.”
“I trust Ven, but he’s searching for a candidate with Captain Alet.” She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to think about this. It was bad enough that she had the False Death, but early onset? A kind that Hamon didn’t even recognize? I don’t think this is precisely what Daddy meant when he said “special.” “Sing me one of the songs, about the False Death. I want to hear how someone made this pretty.”
He began to sing, his soothing voice rolling over her,
“Soon but soon, little dove, I’ll be here by your side,
to drink the wine, taste your tears,
don’t cry, little dove, I’ll be here by your side,
when darkness comes, I will not feel,
but when day returns, I’ll be here by your side,
by your side, little dove, for death is not goodbye.”
“Very pretty,” she murmured. Her limbs felt as if they were stuffed with wood. She wanted to ask, Is this normal? but she felt too tired to form the words. Tomorrow she’d cry again. Tomorrow it would feel real, and she would face whatever needed facing. But for now, her pillows were soft, and she felt her thoughts drift apart, disintegrating as she reached for them.
“Will you think about it? Someone you trust? Who do you trust?”
“My sister,” Daleina said, either out loud or only in her head. “I miss my sister.”