The Reluctant Queen

by Sarah Beth Durst

  “No!” Alet wailed.

  “Stop it, Alet,” Daleina said, calm. “Hysterics won’t help. And it isn’t your style anyway. You’re a fighter.”

  Kneeling on the side of the bed, Alet pledged, “Then I will fight this—”

  “It can’t be fought, not with knives or words or any tool or herb or potion known,” Hamon said wearily. “You have the False Death.”

  Daleina nodded, as if she had expected it all along. Inside, she felt as if she were crumbling, but outwardly, she merely clasped her hands tightly together. It did explain what had happened in the grove. “That’s why the spirits broke my command. And that’s why they didn’t kill me. They thought I was already dead.”

  “You were dead,” he said. “For a moment.”

  That’s what the False Death was: moments that mimicked death, gradually leading to a true death. Daleina swallowed, but her throat felt dry. “How long do I have?” She was surprised that her voice sounded so steady.

  He reached out as if to take her hand again, and then stopped. “I have an herb, glory vine, that will help slow the symptoms. In the meantime, I will search for a cure. Simply because one doesn’t exist yet doesn’t mean—”

  “How long, Hamon?”

  He sighed. “Three months. Maybe more, but maybe less. And the false deaths will become more frequent and last for longer as time passes.”

  “Can we predict them, the false deaths?” If she could predict them, she could avoid the spirits at those times and avoid disasters like what happened at the new village tree. As long as no spirits witnessed her collapse and as long as she wasn’t actively connected to any of them . . .

  He shook his head. “In most cases, no. But there is evidence that suggests that using power may trigger a false death—that is most likely what happened to you earlier. You should resist commanding the spirits as much as possible.”

  She could do that, couldn’t she?

  “But even if you avoid using your power entirely, that will only slow the disease. The false deaths will still come, and eventually . . .” He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t have to.

  Daleina saw the grief in his face and in Alet’s. She looked up at the lace canopy instead of into their eyes. She wanted to rage and cry and scream, shout that he had to be wrong, that this couldn’t be happening, that it wasn’t true. But she didn’t, and she couldn’t. Not yet. Hold it together. You’re a queen. Behave like one. “Summon my champions.”

  “Now?” Alet said.

  At the same time, Hamon said, “You should rest—”

  “Call them quickly and quietly,” Daleina ordered. “Do not alarm anyone in the palace.” She fixed her gaze first on one, then the other. “We cannot afford a panic. Do you understand? What I have to tell the champions is for their ears alone. Alet, gather them now, as many as you can, and brook no argument. Hamon, fetch me a painkiller, one that will allow me to walk to the champions’ chamber without anyone suspecting my wounds. I must be seen as strong, for as long as that is possible.” She held out her arm so that he could help her stand. She swung her legs out of bed and placed both feet on the floor—pain swept through her body, and she hissed. She forced herself to breathe evenly and straighten. I will not panic, she thought. I will not break.

  “What will you tell the champions, Your Majesty?” Alet asked.

  “The truth,” Daleina said, her voice steady, even though she felt like screaming inside. “That they must find me an heir before I die.”

  Chapter 3

  Carved into the top of the palace tree, the Chamber of the Queen’s Champions was known far and wide as a marvel. It was said to have been created by one hundred tree spirits, working together under the command of a long-ago queen, in a mere instant. It was enclosed by arches of curled wood—living wood with leaves that whispered together when the wind blew. Sunlight poured into the center of the chamber, illuminating the queen’s throne in a perfect star pattern. The champions’ chairs circled it, each chair alive, budded from the tree. Higher than the surrounding trees, the only way to reach the chamber without using spirits was to climb the stairs that spiraled up from the palace on the outside of the tree’s vast trunk.

  It was indisputably impressive, but today Queen Daleina hated it. She also hated the nameless long-ago queen who’d thought it was a grand idea to construct so many stairs.

  Hitching her skirt up, she climbed higher. Halfway there. She could summon an air spirit to fly her to the top, but if she blacked out . . . Eyes were watching her, from the branches, both human and spirit. Chin held high, she kept her expression blank and continued step after painful step.

  Of course, if I black out from the pain walking these stairs . . .

  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 d
idn’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.”

  She saw them exchange glances.

  “Your Majesty.” Sevrin spoke, his voice smooth and urbane as always. “Many of us have chosen candidates already. Indeed, we began our searches the day after the massacre. But cultivating a suitable candidate takes time, and given the severity of—”

  Daleina shook her head. “Ready an heir. Not in your own time. In mine. You have three months.”

  Ven’s hands tightened on hers as the other champions broke into talking, overlapping one another so they sounded like birds startled from their roosts. She waited, letting the words tumble out of them, until she heard them repeating themselves. She stared into Ven’s water-pale eyes and let them soothe her, like looking across the tops of the trees, Aratay’s green sea.

  At last, the champions fell silent.

  “I have the False Death,” Queen Daleina said. Saying it out loud hurt, each word like a hammer in her heart. The words tasted like poison in her mouth, and for the first time, it felt real. She did not let her expression change.

  The silence deepened.

  Releasing her, Ven stood.

  She looked up at him. The sun was behind him, and his face was in shadows. “You must train your heirs before three months end,” she told him.

  “Impossible!” Sevrin said. Others cried out, echoing him.

  “There is no doubt,” Daleina said, eyes on Ven. “I have experienced the blackness multiple times now. My blood has been tested. The diagnosis is certain.” His jaw was clenched, and she saw the muscles in his cheek twitch. His entire body was tense, as if he wanted to punch something or someone. It was, she thought, an entirely appropriate response. If she could punch this sickness out of her body, she would. “Champion Ven, take your seat.”

  He obeyed.

  One of the champions, Ambir, had tears rolling down his weathered cheeks. He was the eldest of them, and Daleina knew he’d hoped to retire before ever facing another trial. He’d lost his candidate, Mari, in Greytree, and it had broken his spirit as thoroughly as the spirits had broken Mari’s bones. Across the chamber, Champion Piriandra was tossing one of her knives from hand to hand, a nervous habit.

  “My healer is working on a cure,” Daleina said. As the champions began to speak, she held up one hand to silence them. “But as there is none known yet, we must proceed as if he will fail. If you do not already have a candidate, you must choose one as quickly as possible. If you do have a candidate, you must accelerate their lessons. All of you will present your choices to me in two weeks’ time. That’s fourteen days, understood? Once I have approved your candidates, you will have one month to train them, and then we will begin the trials to determine which of them have the skills to be an heir.” Standard was: training first, then an audience with her, but this reversal would push them faster.

  Another champion, Havtru, spoke. “You said three months.”

  “I will weaken sooner than that,” she pointed out. “It would be a shame if I weakened too much to help your candidates because of your slowness.”

  “There are no candidates advanced enough,” Sevrin objected. “One month is impossible!”

  Daleina and her friends had had only a few months to train with their champions when Queen Fara had called for the trials. Of course, they had all had years in the academy first. She suspected most of the new candidates had far less experience. But what choice did any of them have? “This is the time we have. It is what I have. Consider yourself lucky to have any warning at all.” She felt herself growing angry. Good. Be angry. Anger would fuel her. She seized the emotion and rose to her feet, pushing aside the pain in her leg. “My champions, Aratay needs you, and I am calling on you to answer that need. You have proven yourself before. You must do so again. For if you fail, all our people fail with you.”

  Ven leaned forward. “We will not fail you, my queen.”

  Sevrin began, “But we must discuss—”

  Daleina cut him off. “The discussion is over. There is nothing more to say. Your queen is dying without an heir. It is your sworn duty to ready an heir. You must do it quickly. I strongly suggest you begin now.”

  Ven was on his feet instantly, as were the other champions. As one, they bowed and stayed bowed as Queen Daleina swept past th
em toward the stairs. She did not look back. Keeping her chin high and back straight, she walked down, her hand on the trunk. The bark scraped her fingertips. Pain from her leg radiated through her body, and her head began to throb. Keep walking. Don’t collapse. You can do this.

  Where the stairs curved into the heart of the palace, Alet waited for her. Coming inside, out of the sight of the watchers, Daleina leaned on her friend. Drawing out a handkerchief, Alet wiped away the sweat from the queen’s forehead. “How did they take the news, Your Majesty?”

  “Not as heroically as one might hope.” Daleina looked back at the stairs, which wound around the tree, out of sight, as if it were swallowed by the green. “They’re afraid.”

  “But they’ll find you an heir?” Alet asked.

  She heard the hope in Alet’s voice, but she didn’t have the strength left to lie. “They’ll try.”

  After she reached the privacy of her chambers, Queen Daleina peeled the bandages away from her leg. The wound had reopened, and blood had soaked the gauze. She’d need to re-dress it. But first, she had to rest, only for a moment. Leaning back, she closed her eyes and breathed in and out, trying to keep her mind clear and calm.

  She heard a hiss.

  Opening her eyes, she saw a wood spirit perched on the back of a chair.

  “I didn’t summon you,” Daleina said. Its eyes were bright, as if the sun reflected off the sunken eye sockets, but it was entirely in the shade. She could see the shape of her wardrobe through the spirit’s translucent body.

  This spirit was small and gnarled, with arms and legs that looked like twigs. It was covered in leaves, as if that were its fur. Daleina thought it could be a child, but that didn’t make her trust it.

  It pointed one twig-like finger at the blood on her leg.