She could spare some guards . . . a third from each city?
The door opened, and the seneschal poked his head in. “You’re needed in the Chamber of Champions, Your Majesty. Many apologies for the interruption.”
She rose. “I will consider this. You will have my answer after I return from the champions. I thank you both for your wisdom and intelligence. Please, take a moment to rest. If an invasion is coming, it can wait an hour.”
Chancellor Quisala didn’t seem willing to accept that, though. “She is positioned to move quickly, and we are not positioned to stop her. I ask you to remember that your people live on the border, not merely in the cities. Everyone in Aratay is deserving of protection, and it is your sworn duty to provide it.” Her face was flushed, and Chancellor Isolek laid a hand on her arm. She looked at his fingers as if she were considering biting them off, and he hastily removed his hand. She looked back at the queen. “I beg you: send troops, with no delay.”
As if her skin were being scratched by a thousand nails, Daleina felt the spirits disperse from above her. They skittered down the side of the palace and sank into the earth. They melted into the breeze and sped around it. She tasted them in the air. Ven must have called an end to Naelin’s training session—he’d be making his way to the chamber now. “I have not said no. I have said I will consider it.”
“Then that must suffice,” Chancellor Quisala said, and Daleina felt as if she’d been scolded by the grandmother that she couldn’t remember ever having. She sank back into the throne as the seneschal led the two chancellors from the throne room. As he held the door open, a fire spirit slipped into the room and lit one of the lanterns.
She watched as it buzzed like a bee around the flame, and then she forced herself to stand. She’d need to meet her champions in the chamber. Up again. And this time, she was dreading reaching the top more than the climb itself. She would have to look her champions in the face, with the suspicion that at least one might want her dead badly enough to endanger all of Aratay.
Climbing the stairs, Daleina was surrounded by spirits. The ermine spirit flew above her, circling, while tree spirits flitted between her feet. She stepped firmly, unwilling to let them trip her. The spirits hadn’t spread far from the palace. In fact, the majority had stayed close after Naelin’s training session. They felt like a weight pressing down on her. She wished she could order them to leave, just so she’d feel as if she could breathe. But she didn’t dare risk hastening the next false death. She’d been lucky so far, but someday her luck would run out . . . at least until they found the poisoner and the poison.
If she found the poison sample, then she would happily move troops to the border. If she had a viable heir, the same. Without either, she couldn’t leave her people defenseless from the dangers within while she prepared for the dangers without. She had to hope the champions would tell her they were ready for the trials. If they said yes, then she could meet the chancellors’ requests.
She was panting by the time she reached the top of the spiral stairs. She halted, hands on her knees, and breathed in. Illness or lack of exercise? She hadn’t been clambering around the forest the way she used to, but then she hadn’t been sedentary either. She made a note to talk to Hamon. It was easy to act as if she weren’t sick while she didn’t feel sick, but if that changed, her plan for secrecy might have to change as well.
All of the champions were in the chamber as Queen Daleina swept into the room. Air spirits hovered around the arches, and an earth spirit had covered itself with white roses. It clung upside down on one of the pillars, blending in except for its face, which poked between the thorns and leaves. She didn’t dare tell the spirits to leave.
She suddenly felt too tired for games. Sinking into her throne, she looked at the faces of her champions. Champion Ven had claimed the center chair, directly across from her. He was staring at her as if his eyes could pierce through her skin and sear away the poison inside. At least he didn’t want her to die, she was sure of that much.
On his left was Champion Ambir, the eldest champion. Seeing his candidate dead had broken something inside of him, aging him several decades, until his hands shook and his eyes watered always, but still he had chosen a new candidate to train. She found it hard to believe he could be the poisoner, despite Alet’s words. She has to be wrong. His sadness hadn’t soured into anger, as far as she could tell. He still carried around a core of that grief, looking out at the world through eyes that seemed perpetually disappointed. She felt sorry for his new candidate, to train under such a cloud of misery.
Beside him was Piriandra. Could she be the assassin? She was polishing one of her knives as she waited for the meeting to begin. She bore down on one edge and did not look up at Daleina. She’d moved quickly from grief to anger after the massacre. Daleina agreed with Alet that she was high on the list of possible poisoners. Even though her candidate had died, that didn’t remove her from suspicion—plans sometimes went awry. But could she truly want the queen dead, badly enough to risk destroying Aratay? Even with Alet’s suspicion to fuel her own, it was hard to believe.
Next to Piriandra was Sevrin, who had never approved of Daleina. He’d made it clear from the beginning that he found her to be an unsuitable queen. He was an unlikely suspect simply because he didn’t hide his distaste. But that didn’t clear him entirely either.
Havtru hadn’t been a champion at the time of the massacre. He’d have no reason to hate her. But she also knew little about him. He’d lost his wife during Queen Fara’s rule and had ample reason to hate the former queen. Perhaps he’d transferred that hate to Daleina.
Tilden and Gura?
She ranked them in the middle—both had lost candidates in the massacre, both had kept their distance from her, both swore loyalty to the Crown and Aratay and only lastly to her. They seemed more likely than Sevrin because they hadn’t been vocal in their dislike. . . .
All fifteen of her champions were here, each of them training one or more candidates in the capital. Studying them, she realized her answer to “Could it be him?” or “Could it be her?” was almost always, “It’s possible. Unlikely, but possible.”
She settled again on Piriandra, trying to gauge from her expression how deeply her hatred ran. She’s a champion! Champions protected Aratay.