“Trying.” She forced herself to take a slow breath and then exhale it. There wasn’t less air. It only felt that way. The spirits pressed closer to her. She felt their claws touch her skin, dragging along the surface without breaking it. She was aware of her blood pulsing through her and how easily they could spill it.
A tree spirit breathed on her neck, its breath hot and smelling of wet moss, and it took every bit of willpower in her not to rip it away from her and fling it across the room.
“Used to them yet?” Ven asked.
“No. You?”
“No, this may have been a terrible idea.”
“Told you so.” She realized he’d moved next to her. His sword was in his hand, ready. His eyes were darting around them.
“How long would you like to do this?” Ven’s voice was polite.
“As long as it takes.” Lowering herself, she sat cross-legged on the floor. Water from a trio of water spirits pooled around her, soaking into her skirt. A fire spirit landed on the back of her hand, and she flinched. It giggled and flew off.
“And how will you know when it’s done?” Still polite. It was starting to get a touch infuriating.
“Either I’ll be cured of my paralyzing fear, or I’ll end up so traumatized that I’ll be a twitching mess on the floor.” Naelin laid her hands on her knees and focused on breathing in and out, while a hundred or so of her worst nightmares spun and laughed and crawled and flew and slithered around her.
“Sounds good.”
Hamon paused outside his mother’s quarters. “Has she tried to leave?”
The guard on the left straightened. “Not on our shift, sir.”
“Before that?” He didn’t believe she hadn’t tried to push the boundaries he’d set in place—she might not even have an agenda outside her quarters, but that wouldn’t stop her from poking and prodding until she found any weakness. She was a caged predator.
“Prior shift reported no movement.”
Since Hamon hadn’t seen these particular guards before, he repeated his warning: “Don’t talk to her. Don’t take anything from her. Don’t ever eat anything she has touched or been near or even breathed on. It’s best if you don’t let her touch you, or even let her close enough so she could touch you. She’s a venomous snake.”
The guards looked startled. The one who hadn’t spoken yet said, “She’s your mother.”
“Precisely why you should trust me on this.” He nodded toward the door. “Unlock it. And do not engage, even if she addresses you directly.” The first guard nodded and undid the lock. It slid back with a solid thunk. He twisted the handle, and Hamon saw he was as tense as a spring, ready to jump away from the door. The other guard had his hand on his hilt. Good, Hamon thought.
Hamon stepped inside and waited while the guards shut and locked the door behind him. Only then did he step into the room. “Hello, Mother.”
His mother was sprawled on the couch, her bare feet propped on a letter-writing box that had been embossed with gold and was probably worth more than his childhood home. At the long worktable, Arin was hunched over a test tube. She didn’t move when Hamon entered. Concentrating, she frowned at a teaspoon of powder as she carefully transferred it to the glass tube.
She shouldn’t still be here! he thought. Why was she—
Mother held a finger to her lips, and Hamon halted, the words he’d planned to say stuck in his throat. As Arin finished pouring the powder, her shoulders dropped and she exhaled. She stuck the teaspoon back into the jar.
“Seal it, and then drop the gloves into the basket,” Mother instructed. “You don’t want to risk contamination.”
Arin obeyed, adding her gloves to an already-large pile in a basket underneath the table. Hamon wondered how they’d obtained so many gloves if Mother hadn’t spoken to the guards . . . and then he realized the answer was right in front of him. He’d given the guards no warnings about the queen’s sister. She was free to come and go as she pleased. She’d most likely procured the gloves, as well as anything else Mother needed or wanted, including that pear wine and all the chocolates. That was why Mother hadn’t pushed at the boundaries of her cage. She didn’t need to. She’d found herself a loophole. “Clever,” he murmured.
“Yes, I know,” Mother said. Then, “To what are you referring to?”
He didn’t answer. His instinct was to grab Arin and send her as far away as possible, but that wouldn’t be smart, not until he knew what Mother had done to her. “What do you have her doing?”
“Practicing.” Mother swung her feet off the letterbox. “No, girl, you don’t cap it. You have to let it breathe. Oxygen is a key ingredient. Just be careful you don’t knock it over, or you’ll be spitting up blood for an hour.”
“You’re teaching the queen’s sister to make poisons.” His voice was flat. His hands curled into fists, and he forced them to relax. If she was doing this to poke at him, he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of showing it was effective. “The queen would not approve.” He kept his voice mild.
“No, Hamon, I am teaching my assistant to make poisons.” Mother beamed at Arin. “And a wise queen would not disapprove of any knowledge fairly and freely won. Arin is an apt pupil, and she has a steady hand.”
Looking at him for the first time since he’d entered, Arin flashed a smile. “It’s the bakery training. You have to be precise to replicate a perfected recipe, and you need a steady hand to decorate. Ever tried to shape a flower petal out of sugar?”
“Bah, she’s been wasted in bakeries,” Mother said. “I have given her a true calling, and a noble purpose!” She widened her arms for effect.
“I told you to fix her,” Hamon said. “This is not acceptable.” This was Daleina’s sister! Mother had to release her now before Daleina heard, before any permanent damage was done, before this became irreversible and unforgivable.
His mother smiled in that condescending Mother-knows-best smile that he hated. Sweetly, she said, “Is this truly what you came to talk to me about?”
He opened his mouth, shut it, fumed, and opened it again. He should insist she release Arin. He’d promised Daleina . . . But Mother was right—he’d come for another favor, and he knew her well enough to know he’d never convince her to help if he insisted on this.
Daleina wouldn’t thank him when she learned he’d allowed his mother to enspell Arin. In fact, she might not forgive him. But as long as she was alive to hate him, that was what mattered the most. The issue of Arin could wait. Right now, she was safe enough. Mother wouldn’t want to damage her new assistant, not while she was being useful.
Forcing himself to look away from Arin, he ground out the words. “We’re in need of your expertise again, Mother.”
Sitting up straight, Mother clapped her hands together. “Delightful! Do you have more blood for me to test? This time I’d like my assistant to try her hand—”
“We need your knowledge of people. Poison makers, to be specific. Queen Daleina requires the name of everyone with the skill to craft the False Death poison.”