The boys—they were three boys, all young, all suddenly terrified—froze. A more sensible reaction would have been to run, but if they were sensible, they wouldn’t be here. Sata called out again silently. Hold them.
Mud hands reached up through the gaps in the stone floor and clasped their ankles. The boys started to struggle and scream and babble incoherently. “Don’t hurt me!” “We just wanted to look!” “Let us go!” “We didn’t do anything!”
“You can’t tell me you accidentally crept across the perimeter.”
“It was dark!” one of them tried.
She rolled her eyes at him. “Tell it to the palace guards.” Sata sauntered past them and plucked a knife out of one of their pockets, relieved another of a short sword and the third of a dagger tucked into his boot. She passed a trio of guards who were rushing toward the pavilion, and handed over the thieves’ weapons. “Three young idiots. Nothing to get too excited about. Just threaten to tell all their girlfriends and every potential girlfriend they may ever have that they were caught within two seconds of trying to commit their crime.”
One of the guards grinned at her. “Thanks, Heir Sata.”
“And now, I’m off to sleep and enjoy time with my husband, not necessarily in that order.” With a wave, she headed out of the pavilion. Catching a hand on a branch, she swung up into a tree. She was thinking about young thieves and bad life choices when the attack came.
There was no warning. None at all. And she’d had the best of training, relentlessly drilled by Champion Ven, one of the finest champions that Renthia had ever seen. He used to hide in the bushes at daybreak and send spirits after her while she slept, to try to catch her off guard. She had a few scars she owed to that little exercise, but by the time she was proclaimed heir, even he couldn’t catch her by surprise.
But these spirits did.
Six wood spirits melted out of the trees. They formed a ring around her, closed hands, and then melted their bodies into one another, until they grew into a solid ring of wood.
Let me pass. She pushed the words at them as she pushed forward.
The ring tightened.
“Let me pass,” she said out loud. She hurled more power into the words, wrapping the command in all her exhaustion, frustration, desire, ambition, and every other thing she’d felt in the last few hours. It should have sliced right through them and sent them scuttling away from her, but it didn’t. Instead, the spirits continued to meld together, their bodies fusing into a single bark-encrusted circle. Their faces stretched and spread until they were only hideous lengthened grins. “Why are you doing this?”
None of them spoke.
She pulled out her knives, one in each hand. Ven had taught her this too, in case of a time when her power wasn’t enough, and she’d kept up her training, even after he pronounced her perfect. She became a whirl of blades, slicing at the wood.
But for every slice she landed, the spirits coated the gash in bark, thickening it into a wood scar. There were no faces to hurt, no limbs to slice. She realized that their bodies had melted into the branches below her, solidifying into a solid bowl. Looking up, she leaped, reaching for the limbs above her.
But the limbs retreated, slipping away from her fingers, and she fell backward. She was back on her feet instantly, but not fast enough. The wood sealed above her, closing off the sight of the forest and the night sky. The wind was suddenly silenced, and she was in complete darkness, not her familiar shadows. She felt the wood bump her shoulder—it was closing in on her. She felt it touch her head—the ceiling was shrinking.
She was forced to her knees.
Gathering a breath, she focused. She was a trained heir, able to control numerous spirits. They hadn’t disobeyed her in years. She took that confidence, wove it with her desire to be free, her need to see her husband again, her duty to her country and the Crown, and threw it into a command, Release me!
But the wood, now a sphere, closed in. She was forced into a ball. Hitting it with all her strength, she pounded her knives into the wood, trying to carve her way out. Soon, the wood was too tight around her to move her arms.
Only then did it occur to her to call for help. She’d never needed help before. She was an heir, a protector. Others called her for help. But now, with the wood closing in around her, she called, “Help! Spirits attacking! Someone, help me! Stop them!”
She felt dizzy. The air—there wasn’t enough. She tried to conserve, tried to stay calm, tried to reach out beyond the wood shell to any spirits who could help her. Fire, to burn the wood away. Earth, to decompose it. Air, to break it apart. She felt the spirits respond . . . and then they stopped, as if commanded to ignore her orders.
No! she cried. Help me!
And during all this, the sphere closed tighter in, squeezing her body until her arms pressed against her ribs and her knees jabbed into her chin. Her head swam as if she’d been shoved underwater. She couldn’t string her thoughts together.
She lost consciousness as the wood crushed the life from her body.
CHAPTER 12
Only one death this time. Ven didn’t say that out loud. The berry picker wouldn’t see it as a blessing—his wife, the village’s schoolteacher, had been killed. As Ven bandaged the man’s arm, he didn’t say a word. There were no words that could make this easier and no point in calling for the healers. Ven could patch up an arm, but no one could heal the empty look in the man’s eyes.
“You’ll send word to the queen?” the berry picker asked.
“She’ll be told,” Ven promised. He still always reported the deaths, even though after four years of acting on her cryptic warnings, he had no proof that Queen Fara ever acted on his information. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Only woman who could have ever loved a lout like me. Used to make me charms. Keep me safe from the spirits. Made extra charms too: keep me safe from falling trees, keep me safe from spoiled lunches, keep me safe from the bookseller’s wife—she always admired me. Just pretend charms. Except the spirit ones. Those were real and strong. They should have kept her safe. The queen should have kept her safe.”
“Accidents happen,” Ven said, and then winced at himself. What an asinine thing to say. It was never an accident when a spirit killed. Spirits wanted to kill. Ven knew that better than anybody.
The man met Ven’s eyes. He wasn’t crying, thankfully. Ven wasn’t good with tears. But there was a sheen in the man’s gaze as if he were perilously close. “Why? Just tell me why. The queen . . . she built us a library, you know? In the center of our town. Gorgeous thing, inside a tree, with books that came out of the pulp she’d had the spirits carve. Spirits flew for days, back and forth, taking the books to the wordsmiths, bringing them back printed up nice, with tales inside. Have you seen our library?” As Ven shook his head, the man continued, “My wife, she loved it. Loved the carvings in the bookshelves. Said they looked like every flower in the forest. And she loved the books. She learned to read when she was a kid but hadn’t had much chance to after that. But since the queen built the library, she’s been hauling home stacks of books and reading them to me at night. Puts me right to sleep every time. She’d tease me about that. But I think it made her happy, whether I slept or not. She called that library our own miracle. So tell me, why, if the queen could make such a miracle, couldn’t she protect my wife? How can there be miracles like that and still ‘accidents’?”
“It shouldn’t have happened.” That was true. Maybe not comforting, but true.
“If she can’t protect her people, doesn’t matter how many miracles she can build. My wife . . .” Tears finally streamed out of his eyes and down his cheeks. The berry picker looked away, his fists clenched in his lap. “Makes a man wonder if the spirits chose the right woman to be queen.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “Forgive me.”
Fara had been the perfect heir. She’d been the shining star at her academy, and she’d excelled throughout the trials. No spirit had ever harmed her or even come close.
She’d escaped unscathed while the other heirs struggled. She’d been a natural choice, both for the champions and the spirits. She was also instantly beloved by the people: regal, beautiful, smart, wise. They showered every adjective on her. And Ven had worshipped her right alongside them.
And yet he couldn’t help wonder if the berry picker was right . . . and that worried him.
Ven finished the bandage on the man’s shoulder. He knew he should leave right away, send a pointless message to the capital that would be ignored, and resume patrols that never seemed to put him where he was needed, but instead he sank onto the branch beside the berry picker and looked out at the dark-green leaves, heavy pinecones, and thick mat of vines. The forest was calm now, the wind still, and the birdcalls a low warble. “What’s your name?”
“Havtru. And I love our queen, Champion Ven.”
“Relax. I don’t blame you for what you said. And I’m just Ven now.”
He snorted. “Uh-huh, that’s why you’re roaming the woods, saving people like me, because you’re ordinary folk now. Yeah, I’ve heard of you. We’ve all heard of you. My wife used to talk about you, you know. Said that we were blessed to have a legend looking out for the common people.”
Ven felt the guilt twist like a knife inside his rib cage.
“I don’t blame you for not saving her,” Havtru said. “It happened too quickly. In fact, you gave her that gift. If you hadn’t come, the spirit would have made it slow. And I’d have lost her all the same.”
Intellectually, he knew that Havtru was right. He couldn’t have saved her—he’d been busy saving the children caught by spirits inside the school at the same moment she was trying to save those outside the school. He couldn’t be everywhere he was needed when he was needed. Only the queen could be everywhere at once. And she wasn’t.
Why? It was an excellent question, and there were only two answers:
One, the queen had sent the spirits to kill on purpose, because she suspected traitors. That was what she’d told him nine years ago to explain Greytree, but he didn’t believe it then and he didn’t believe it now. He’d found no hint of any rebellion in the outer villages. Besides, if she did intend for people to die, then the cryptic warning notes she sent through the headmistress made no sense—she couldn’t be certain he’d save the correct people.
Two, the spirits were killing on their own, and she wasn’t able to stop them, even when she knew their plans. She was losing control and soon she’d lose control entirely, and they’d kill her, instead of random villagers.
He hated both answers. He hated everything about this.
“Please, can you ask her to stop the deaths?”
Ven flinched. “Told you I’ll send word. That’s the best I can do.” Pushing himself off the branch, he landed on the bridge below. “Keep yourself safe. Stay in the village until the guards are sure there will be no more incidents. And see a healer about your arm. I recommend Popol’s assistant, a young man named Hamon. He has real skill, and he won’t drive you crazy with babble.”
“I’ve met Popol. He’s a talker.”
“Hasn’t changed.”
Havtru raised his bandaged arm. “Thank you.”
Ven thought of their beautiful queen, whom he used to believe was more perfect than the sun, and of the berry picker’s wife, dead because of the queen’s weakness. “Don’t thank me.”
Running across the bridge, he stretched his muscles. If his queen was really failing, then it was more imperative than ever that he keep moving, keep patrolling, keep protecting the people he could. And when she fell—he forced himself to think the thought—when she died, an heir would take her place, and maybe he wouldn’t be needed out here anymore. He could be a champion again and do what he was supposed to do.
He reached the healers, Popol and Hamon, who were working on the villagers’ injured children. He’d sent them a message as soon as he could, and as always, they’d responded quickly—he hated that after four years, this had become depressingly routine. He should consider asking one of them to travel with him permanently so there would be no delay between the headmistress’s warning and the healing. As he stopped beside them, Hamon looked up.
“She didn’t make it; he did,” Ven reported. “Here?”
“Just injuries,” Hamon said. “But . . .” He hesitated, and his eyes slid to his master.
“There’s news from the capital,” Popol said, his voice booming. All the villagers were watching them. A few of the kids were crying, but quietly.
Ven tensed. Fara, he thought. It had happened already. But then why hadn’t the heirs frozen the spirits? When a queen died, the heirs had to issue the coronation command—
“One of the heirs has died,” Popol said. “Dreadful business. They should be taking precautions. You never know—”
“Who?” Ven asked.
“The heir Sata,” Hamon said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
VEN HAD KEPT AWAY FROM THE SO-CALLED GLORIOUS CITY OF Mittriel, the capital of Aratay, for nine years. But by keeping to the wire paths, he was able to return in a mere three days, in time for Sata’s funeral. She was to be buried in Heroes Grove, with the other fallen queens, heirs, and champions.
By the time Ven arrived, it was full of mourners, including a chunk of the palace guard. The other heirs had coaxed flowers to cover the ground and now the blossoms were crushed underfoot, and he could smell the thick perfume of their scents. It permeated the air so strongly that his head began to throb. He slipped in with the crowd, steering clear of anyone he knew. He wasn’t here to talk to anyone. He was only here for Sata.
She was one of the best heirs he’d ever trained. Always had a sense of humor, even when they were drenched with rain, covered in mud, and beset by overly irritated spirits that they’d intentionally annoyed. When she was a child, she’d had dreams of being one of the forest acrobats, the Juma, who traveled from town to town, performing for people who never traveled more than a few miles from their homes. But when she’d shown an affinity for the spirits, her family had encouraged her to enroll in one of the academies. She’d excelled there, and that’s where Ven had found her. She’d liked him because he valued her physical ability as much as her power, and he’d liked her because she’d laughed at his admittedly bad jokes and never complained, even when he pushed her hard. She’d been an excellent heir and didn’t deserve this.
No one deserved this.
He’d yet to get a solid answer out of anyone as to what had happened to her, but he knew she’d been working with the palace guards. He could talk to one of them later, when he wouldn’t be seen by the queen or any of his former colleagues. He didn’t want to hear their smug sympathy, or their relief that it wasn’t their trainee who had died. Standing in the crowd, he kept his hood up.
The ritual began with bells, first chiming softly from high above and then cascading down until it became a waterfall of bells ending in a low tolling bell in the center of the grove. A man in all end-of-summer green—his face painted green, his hands covered in green gloves—hit the final bell one more time, its low ring vibrating through the forest, radiating out from the grove, and then all the bells fell silent.
Her body was carried in by her closest kin and friends—all palace guards, he saw. He knew she’d been working with them in recent years. She lay on a litter and was draped in a white lace cloth that covered her entirely. Usually, the cloth was translucent, so the mourners could see the hint of the face and shape of their loved ones, but Sata was covered first in a thick summer-green sheet with black trim.
How did she die? he wanted to ask. He’d heard crazy stories as he’d traveled: she’d been crushed by a tree, she’d been trapped inside a trunk, she’d been smothered by spirits. It wasn’t the kind of thing that happened to an heir, especially one as skilled as Sata.
The guards carried her body into the grove, and the mourners parted. As one, they laid her at the base of a tree, cradled in its roots. One by one, each of them spoke, sharing a
moment, a memory from Sata’s life. Her husband spoke last, in a voice that was thick with unshed tears but strong, the way Sata had been strong.
Ven wanted to step forward. He’d been her champion. He’d chosen her, trained her, known her better than anyone, at least for those few years until he’d taught her everything he knew. She was the best thing he’d ever done. She could have been queen. A great queen. She was meant to be. She deserved . . . so much more. But he didn’t know what words to say that would encompass all that. There was no one moment that personified Sata to him. It was a compilation of all the moments: the way she’d woken up cheerful, even when they’d barely slept at all, thanks to the wild wolves that howled all night; the way she refused to eat snake for the first few weeks of training and then the day he found her chowing down on leftover water snake. Good with pepper, she’d said. She’d been clever. Quick to learn how to be silent in the woods. Fast with a blade. And economical with the way she used the spirits. She preferred not to, if she had a choice, and he’d liked that about her. She didn’t see them as toys, the way some candidates did, the ones who hadn’t seen or couldn’t imagine the damage they could do. She saw them as tools, and she used them for serious purposes. She took her role as candidate and then heir seriously, and he’d been proud of her. He should say all of that. But his throat felt thick and clogged with the perfume of all the flowers, and before he could decide to step forward, Queen Fara swept into the grove.
She looked unaged from the last moment he’d seen her, nine years ago. Her golden curls were piled on top of her head and wreathed in vines that tendrilled down from her crown. She wore black and green, the traditional mourning colors, and she looked every inch the strong, regal queen that she was supposed to be. Looking at her, it was hard to picture the berry picker’s wife and the other deaths in the outer villages and think that she was in any way responsible. A queen this perfect could not have let that happen.
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