“Why?” Naelin asked. Her voice was so raw that Ven felt her pain like nails against his skin. He wanted to comfort her. Or skewer Alet. Or both. “I thought . . . You’re my friend. I trusted you.”
Ven had trusted her too. He’d trusted her with Daleina’s life, as well as Naelin’s. She’d journeyed with him through the forest, helped him find Naelin, watched Daleina when he couldn’t. He’d thought he knew her! He’d considered himself good at knowing when someone was hiding a secret—he remembered he’d even bragged to her about it once, yet he’d never suspected this.
I should have guessed, somehow, he thought. He was supposed to be observant, alert to all threats. He’d failed, and Naelin had nearly died.
“I’m sorry, Naelin.” Alet tried to turn her head to face Naelin. He saw her wince, and he heard Hamon suck in air as the wood retreated, revealing her wound. It was, to put it bluntly, bad. She’d been torn apart. Those are spirit wounds. Naelin must have called on the spirits to defend herself, after she’d deflected the blade. He wanted to tell her he was proud of her.
“Stop!” Hamon cried. “Put the wood back! It’s holding her together.”
Naelin’s lips moved, and the wood began to reknit itself. The spirits chittered to one another. Bark sealed over Alet’s torso. Alet coughed again. Her breath sounded like a rattle. Ven knew that sound—he’d heard it too many times to mistake. Alet was dying.
Ven placed a hand on Hamon’s shoulder.
Hamon backed away. Squatting by Naelin, he pulled more supplies out of his healer’s robe and began to work on Naelin’s injury.
Naelin batted at his hand. “Healer Hamon, see to Alet. She’s hurt worse . . .”
“Hush,” he told her. “I can’t help her; I can help you.”
Ven knelt beside Alet. “Why did you do it?”
“Because she didn’t walk away,” Alet said. Her voice was a broken whisper. “She could have refused. I thought she’d refuse. I thought I wouldn’t have to . . . but then . . .” To Naelin, she said, “If you had said no, I could have left you alone. But you didn’t, so I couldn’t . . .”
“Ask your questions quickly,” Hamon advised Ven as he worked on Naelin.
“Did you kill the other candidates?” Ven asked. The knife thrust. He remembered the bodies—he’d wondered how the killer could have gotten so close.
“Yes.”
“Why?” He tried to keep his voice even. He would not kill her. She was already dying.
But he sorely wanted to.
He didn’t expect her to answer, but she did. She pushed her cracking voice louder, as if she wanted to be sure he heard her, as if she needed him to understand. “So there would be no one strong left when Queen Daleina dies. Merecot . . . needed it done. It will be a peaceful takeover. She will take care of our people.”
Ven tried to keep his anger in check. He squeezed the hilt of his sword. He hadn’t sheathed it, even though there was no longer any danger. Not from Alet. Never again from her. “Murder is not ‘peaceful.’”
“I killed a few to save the many.” Alet closed her eyes. “Merecot needs Aratay. In Semo . . . there are too many spirits and not enough land. She must . . . Semo needs . . . She has a plan. Good plan. She won’t be stopped. Aratay and Semo, united. There will be peace.”
“There was peace, before you started murdering people,” Ven said. He couldn’t keep the harshness from his voice. Didn’t want to. “You’re a royal guard, Alet! Trusted by your queen!” A dark thought came to him. “Did you try to kill her too? Did you poison Daleina?”
Hamon froze. “Ask her what poison she used. Ask her if she has any left.”
Alet’s eyes fluttered.
“Keep her alive,” Ven ordered.
But Hamon was already at her side. “I can’t work miracles. I can extend her life for only a few minutes. Maybe less.” He was pulling herbs out of pockets. He found one and, hands shaking, poured it into his hand. He then funneled it into her mouth. “Taste it. There. That’s it.”
“Helps,” Alet said. Her eyelids fluttered again.
Ven knelt closer so he could hear her. He’d failed to suspect Alet. But he wouldn’t fail now. “The poison. Where is it?”
“Too late,” Alet said. “I am sorry. Tell Daleina . . . I’m sorry.”
“Why is it ‘too late’?” Hamon asked. “What is the poison?”
Alet didn’t answer. She just breathed, shallowly, with a horrible rattle that made Ven want to scream. This woman had all the answers they needed, and she was slipping away.
“Tell us!” Ven demanded. He couldn’t threaten her. He had no leverage. And she had no reason to tell him anything—
“Merecot, my sister,” Alet whispered. He could barely hear the words. “Naelin, you understand . . . what you do . . . for family. Did it for my sister. Tell Daleina . . . I’m sorry. So very sorry. It was for the best. Greater good . . . You must understand: for the greater good. I am a hero.”
You’re a murderer, Ven wanted to say. He didn’t. “Alet, where is the poison?”
“Medicine good. No pain. Thank you. Kindness . . . I didn’t expect. You will understand, when Merecot comes. You will forgive. I did what was necessary, for the future of our people.”
“Why is it ‘too late’?” Hamon asked again. His voice was calm, soothing, as if he were merely tucking Alet into bed. “Tell us, Alet, why is it ‘too late’?”
“Because I already told her. About the trials. She will begin at dawn.”
“Who’s ‘she’?” Ven demanded. “Queen Merecot? Begin what?” But he thought he knew the answer. “She’s beginning the invasion?”
“Tell my sister: I died a hero.”
She didn’t speak again.
Chapter 29
Hope.
That’s what the dead woman was, Hamon thought. As soon as he’d stitched Candidate Naelin’s wound—which would heal; she’d managed to keep the blade away from anything vital—he dropped to his knees beside the assassin.
He’d need to search her and search her possessions. She may not have told him what the poison was or if she’d had any remaining, but at least he at last had somewhere to look! He refused to think about the possibility that she had tossed the rest or that there was none left.
“Keep my queen alive,” he told Ven. His eyes were only on the body. He began to check her pockets, outer first. “All I need is time.”
“Time is one thing we may not have,” Ven told him.
“Make time. Find a way to delay.” Nothing in the outer pockets. Inner? “Tell her I’m close to a cure. Just give me time!”
“I won’t give her false hope,” Ven said.
“It’s not false! I will find her cure. And when I do, she has to be alive to take it. Don’t let her be a martyr.” He jumped to his feet and grabbed the front of Ven’s armor, curling the leather in his fist. “You’re her champion. Be it.”
Ven’s expression didn’t change. “Work fast.”
“I will.” He strode to the door and flung it open. “You and you”—he pointed to two startled guards—“will carry a body and come with me.” He wouldn’t be working alone. He’d bring the dead woman and all her belongings to his mother. Together, they’d save Daleina.