Hamon had offered to walk with her. Alet had insisted. Daleina had overridden them both. She also hadn’t taken the painkiller, not yet. She hadn’t wanted it to dull her mind. She’d need her wits to face the champions. Not all of them were fond of her—seeing her as queen was a constant reminder that their chosen candidates had died. She wondered how many would be secretly glad she was dying, and then she banished the thought as quickly as it bloomed. It doesn’t matter what they feel; it only matters what they do.
As for what she felt . . . that didn’t matter either. She couldn’t allow herself to feel. She must be as heartless as the stone, as unfeeling as the lake, and as steady as the tree. In that, the pain helped. She couldn’t dwell on her emotions when she had to focus on not yelling out curses like a forest-floor woodsman with every step.
By the time she reached the champions’ chamber, sweat ran in a trickle down her spine and her cheeks felt flushed. Leg throbbing, she sank into the wooden throne. She allowed herself one moment to breathe, and then she straightened her back, blanked her face, clasped her hands on her lap, and waited.
One by one, her champions came.
Sevrin, from the northern forests, his beard black and eyes blacker, with an ax strapped to his back and a sword at his side. He’d been champion to Berra, an heir that Daleina had met only once before she’d died.
Piriandra, from the east near the mountains, her face scarred from a fight with wood spirits—a fight she’d won, despite her own lack of magic. The tales said she’d fought them with bare hands, sharp stones, and a clever mind. But all her strength hadn’t helped when her candidate, Linna, one of Daleina’s dearest friends, was in the coronation grove.
Havtru, from one of the outer villages, who had been a berry picker until his wife was killed by an earth spirit. He was new to their number, but not new to loss.
Ambir. Tilden. Gura. And more, until the chamber was full of warriors. Many of them reminding Daleina of her lost friends. She noted that several chairs were empty, though. One of the missing champions had been wounded in a skirmish with bandits by the Semoian border. Three others were too far away to be summoned, absorbed in training their new candidates out in the forest—word would have to be sent to them. The last . . . As she wondered where he was, the final champion walked into the chamber: Ven, her champion, the one who had chosen her as his candidate, the one who had believed in her and trained her and never once failed her, even after she quit believing in herself. Looking at him, she felt a lump in her throat. Her news would hit him hardest of all. They’d survived so much, to lose now to an unfightable illness . . .
No, she commanded herself. She would not crumble in self-pity. She would do what had to be done, as she always did, as queens of Renthia always did.
Still, Daleina watched him as he crossed the chamber floor, his boots silent on the wood. He wore hunter’s green and brown, designed to blend into the trees, and he had a bow and arrow slung across his back, as well as a sword at his waist. She remembered when she’d first seen him, when she was ten. He’d leapt from branch to branch, like a hero from a tale, trying to save her doomed village.
Laying his bow and quiver against the side of his chair, Ven sat. He stretched his legs in front of him and crossed his feet at his ankles. He didn’t so much as glance at the other champions; he looked only at her. She wondered what he read in her face: sorrow in her eyes, or regret, or anger, or if she merely looked tired? I wish I could shield him from this. He regarded her steadily, his pale blue eyes unwavering. When she’d told Alet to summon the champions, when she’d climbed up here to share the news, she knew this was going to be tough.
But she hadn’t thought about how difficult it would be to tell this to him.
“Your Majesty, what does the Crown require of us?” Piriandra asked. Her voice was clipped, as if she didn’t want to waste the time it took to say the words. Champion Piriandra, she knew, was one who had never forgiven her for becoming queen. She’d rejected Daleina on her search for a candidate, labeling her not good enough, and had believed Linna would be a better queen. It would be easier to take if Daleina hadn’t agreed with her—Linna should have been queen, or Iondra or Zie or any of them. Anyone but Daleina.
Belatedly, Daleina realized the champions had been waiting patiently for her to speak while she’d been lost in thought. She felt herself start to blush and struggled to keep her expression under control. She was queen, for as long as she lived. She must look and act it, even when she felt like a schoolgirl playing dress-up in stolen clothes. “Word of what I am about to say must not leave this chamber. I will have your pledge on this. Unless the need outweighs the cost, you must be silent. I trust you to weigh that need appropriately.”
She heard shifting as the champions straightened in their chairs. She had their attention, certainly. Queen Daleina fixed her gaze on each of them, deliberately silent now, to let the weight of her seriousness fall onto each of them.
“Have you taken precautions?” Ven asked.
Her gaze shifted to him. It was a teacher’s question, and she had been an excellent student. “Of course,” she said. There were no spirits anywhere near the chamber. She was certain of it. They were in the trees below, out of hearing—she’d always been good at sensing spirits, even before she had the power of a queen. She could sense them without commanding them, without risking triggering another false death. She also knew Alet was positioned at the base of the stairs, to prevent any human listeners from creeping too close.
He nodded approval.
It was amazing how much that gave her strength. She still would do anything for that approval. He had been harder on her than any teacher she’d ever had in her training school, testing her daily, forcing her to fend off spirits while she ate, slept, and traveled. He’d trained her body and mind. I’m sorry, Ven. She owed him better than this. She was supposed to have a long reign, to keep their people safe for decades. She felt as if she was betraying him.
His lips shifted into a frown, and she knew he’d seen something in her face that he didn’t like, something she’d not meant to show. Her hands trembled. She’d faced hordes of spirits, controlled the wills of hundreds, but controlling herself in this room was harder.
As she fought to stay strong and calm, Ven stood and crossed to her. He knelt in front of her throne and took her hands in his. His scarred, strong hands engulfed hers, hiding her trembling. Whereas Hamon and Alet’s touch was full of pity, his gave her strength. “You have orders for us, milady,” he said. “We will obey. We are yours to command.”
Following his lead, all of the other champions—some quickly and some slowly—rose from their chairs and then knelt. Thanks to Ven’s melodrama, he had effectively communicated that this was no ordinary meeting and reminded them she was queen, not a candidate or an heir, while at the same time distracting them from her discomfort. She owed him thanks, yet again.
Raising her voice so all the champions could hear, Queen Daleina said, “Your orders are this and only this: find me an heir.”