The Reluctant Queen

by Sarah Beth Durst

  Who are you fooling? she asked herself. They couldn’t camp, not with so many spirits watching them. She’d been naïve to think she could walk away from this mess and nothing would notice or follow her.

  “Mama?” Erian whispered, her voice tight.

  “I know. I see them.”

  “What do we do?”

  That was the question. They could return home, seal the house with as many charms as she had, and try to wait it out. They could flee faster and hope the spirits lost interest, but there were more now than before, and the spirits would keep following them.

  Naelin forced herself to stop.

  Stop her legs from striding forward faster than Llor could follow.

  Stop her thoughts from tumbling in knots faster than she could untangle.

  It’s too late. She’d used her power, and the spirits had noticed her. The fact that they hadn’t attacked yet was luck, and she couldn’t trust her children’s safety to luck. She needed to get the spirits to stop noticing her, and she had no idea how to do that. But she did know two people who were experts on spirits . . . though she doubted they’d want to help her after she’d turned the spirits against them. They caused this mess, she thought. They have to fix it. “We’re going to visit Aunt Corinda,” she said at last.

  Llor brightened. “Will she let me play with Master Wuggles?”

  Naelin stared at him for a moment. “What?”

  “The cat,” Erian said.

  “She named it Master Wuggles?”

  “Yes!” Llor trotted happily forward now. “I said she should name him Lord Mouser the Third, because she’s always saying he acts like he’s ruler of the house, plus he catches mice.”

  She shouldered Erian’s pack along with her own, after it snagged on a bush. A glitter of yellow eyes flashed from within the bushes—a wolf, she guessed, much too close. Naelin kept her voice deliberately light. “Was there a Lord Mouser the First and Second?”

  “No.”

  She took Llor’s pack as well, hurrying them toward the ladder to town. She shot glances at the bushes, watching for the wolf. “Then why would he be the third?”

  “Because he’s not the fourth,” he said, as if she were the stupidest person in the world.

  “Ahh. Of course.”

  “Mama,” Erian whispered. “There’s an animal in the bushes.”

  “Just keep moving,” Naelin said.

  “Mama, I think it’s a wolf!” Fear shook her voice.

  Just what she needed. Fate must have been very angry with her. “Shoulders back, chin up, look like a predator, not prey. Let’s make it a game. Be a bear.”

  Tears were leaking out of the corners of Erian’s eyes, but she nodded and held her back straight and chin up, trying to look brave. Llor stomped and growled, “I’m a bear! Grrrr!”

  “That’s it. More noise!” Naelin growled too. “Roar!” She stretched her arms up and crashed her feet deliberately on the loudest twigs and driest leaves. At least this might scare off the wolf. She had no hope for it scaring the spirits.

  They reached the ladder, and she shooed them up, climbing up behind them. Below, earth spirits prowled around the base of the ladder. She felt like a target, dangling in the air, with both hands occupied on the rungs, but she focused on climbing rung after rung until they reached the bridge.

  She shepherded Erian and Llor ahead of her, feeling the sway of the bridge beneath them, wondering at what moment the spirits would attack. It might not even be a direct attack. She’d heard of perfectly sound bridges suddenly fraying, ropes snapping and wood rotting beneath the feet of woodsmen who had angered the spirits. Soon, she saw the marketplace ahead of them, the bright canopies, torn and fluttering in the wind. A few people scurried between them, but most doors were shut and windows barred. She headed directly for the hedgewitch’s shop. “Stay behind me,” she told Erian and Llor, “and don’t enter until I say it’s safe.”

  Ducking into the shadows, she squinted, trying to force her eyes to adjust quickly—there were figures across the shop, behind the counters. Corinda was huddled in one corner, her face buried in her arms, squeezing herself as small as possible beside a barrel. The two strangers, Champion Ven and Captain Alet, were plastered against the wall, visible as blurred figures through the translucent bodies of the spirits.

  They were still here. Good, she thought.

  Now she had to convince them to help, after she’d just refused them. And trapped them.

  The air spirits were amorphous and had spread like jellyfish into one undulating mass, with eyes and mouths that floated in the top nodules of their bodies, and appendages that wrapped into one another. Both the champion and captain had swords drawn, aimed toward the center of the gelatinous bodies, and were speaking to each other in low voices.

  “Mama, what are they doing?”

  She felt every muscle tense, ready to hurl herself between danger and her child. “Llor, I asked you to wait outside.”

  Erian jumped in. “Sorry, Mama! I tried—”

  “Are the spirits going to hurt them?”

  She walked forward, just a step, watching the spirits. Their bodies continued to flow into one another, but they didn’t seem to be moving closer to the two. They’d made themselves into a wall, keeping them there, like she’d told them to. She hadn’t imagined her command would last so long. “I don’t think so.”

  “Are they going to hurt to the spirits?”

  Same answer. “I don’t think so.” Naelin had no doubt they could kill the spirits if they wanted to. She also knew what would happen if they did—their deaths would destroy a part of the forest, perhaps even the village tree itself.

  “Shush, Llor, you aren’t supposed to kill spirits,” Erian said. “Bad luck.”

  “Bad things happen when you do,” the champion agreed, calmly, his sword steady. “I’ve seen a spirit die and a tree crumble to dust, the moisture sucked from the air, the land barren. We try to avoid killing them.”

  “I am sorry about this . . .” Naelin began, and then she stopped. She wasn’t sorry—this wouldn’t have happened if they hadn’t called the spirits down on her. Maybe at least now she had the upper hand. “I’d like to offer you a bargain. You teach me to how to keep the spirits away from my family, and I will order the spirits to set you free.” She felt Erian slide her hand into hers. Llor was clinging to her leg. She wrapped her free arm around his shoulders.

  “You tried to run and they followed you,” the champion guessed.

  “They noticed me because of you. Now I want you to fix this. I want my life and my family back the way it was.” Minus Renet, she thought with a pang. She couldn’t trust him anymore, especially now that she’d seen how precarious their safety was.

  “You can’t change what happened,” the champion said, “and you can’t deny who you are.”

  Naelin held her children closer and kept a very tight rein on her thoughts. She wanted to leave the smug, self-righteous bastard to the spirits, but he was the one with the knowledge she needed. “Who I am is a mother, a woodswoman, a charm maker.” She didn’t add wife. “It is my right to define me, not yours.”

  The guardswoman snorted. “I like her.”

  “I don’t care,” Naelin shot back. “I don’t need your approval, and I don’t care if I fit your image of what a woman with power should be. Find yourself a little girl to brainwash. Just help me fix what you broke.”

  “Aratay needs you,” the champion said.

  “My family needs me more.”

  He shook his head. “Are you truly this selfish?” Through the oozy bodies of the spirits, he seemed to blur and bobble.

  Llor piped up. “Don’t call my mama selfish! I don’t care if you are a hero. You are not a nice man. I hope the spirits eat you!”

  Kneeling, Naelin gathered Llor and Erian closer, their warm bodies as comforting as blankets. Llor was vibrating in anger, his pudgy fists curled up. Erian looked pale, her lips pursed, as if she were concentrating hard to u
nderstand what was happening. Naelin didn’t tell Llor to apologize or take his words back—she felt the same way. Trying to bargain was a mistake. But she couldn’t think of any other options. No one in Everdale could help her.

  The guardswoman sighed heavily. “Tell her.”

  Champion Ven objected, “Queen Daleina wouldn’t—”

  “Not that. About her power.”

  Naelin’s eyes narrowed. She trusted them about as far as she could throw them, which was not at all, given how many muscles they both had. It was clear they had secrets, and she was one hundred percent certain she wouldn’t like them. “What about my power?” She hated using the word “my.” She never asked to have power, and she would not let it leave her children motherless. “I don’t want it. Never wanted it.”

  The champion pinned her with his pale blue eyes. She didn’t know how they could look so clear through the blur of the spirits’ bodies, but they were sharp and bright. “You’re strong.”

  “Ludicrously strong,” the guard put in. She poked one of the spirits with the tip of her sword. “These spirits refuse to budge. We hurt them, and they still stayed.”

  “I told them to hold you here,” Naelin said.

  “Yeah, a while ago, and then you left,” the guard said. “Your command should have faded, but look”—another poke—“freakily obedient. I’ve never seen anything like it, at least in someone who’s not a queen. Or even trained.”

  “She’s right,” the champion said. “You have more raw power than I’ve ever seen, and if I know that, you can be certain the spirits do too. They aren’t going to leave you alone, no matter where you run.”

  Naelin clutched Erian and Llor harder, until Llor squawked. She forced herself to loosen her grip. “And if I order them to leave me alone? If I’m so very powerful, they’ll obey, right?”

  “Or they’ll leave the entire village, and no plants will grow, no fires will start, and you’ll destroy your home,” the champion said. From the corner, Corinda chirped, a half moan half cry. “You’re untrained. That makes you dangerous.”

  Naelin’s mouth felt dry. She swallowed and tried to form words.

  “I have a bargain for you, Mistress Naelin,” he said. “Come with me to Mittriel. Meet the queen. Talk to her. And I will teach you to control your power.”

  Suddenly, Erian gripped her arm. “Mama, he wants you to be an heir?”

  He smiled. “That’s right. Your mother can be a hero.”

  Both Erian and Llor burst into tears. “No! Mama, no!” Llor wailed. Erian clung to her and cried, “No, Mama, the heirs died! They all died! I don’t want you to die!” Kneeling, Naelin wrapped her arms around them both and held them.

  “Nicely done,” the guard said.

  The champion swore. “I never claimed to be a people person.”

  Naelin murmured into their hair. “Queen Daleina didn’t die, did she? They want to teach me how not to die. They want to show me how to keep you safe. I won’t let them make me an heir. I won’t let them take me from you.”

  They cried as if their hearts were breaking, and she felt her own heart twisting. All she wanted to do was kiss their damp cheeks and heal what this day had shredded inside them. She wanted to knit their lives back together, take them home, pretend none of this had happened, erase it from their memories. “Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go!” they cried.

  I don’t want to!

  From the corner, Corinda, with her voice quivering, said, “You have to go with them, Naelin. Renet can—”

  “I’ve left him,” Naelin said firmly. Speaking the words out loud made it official. As she said the words, she felt her body shudder once and then she felt calm. At least there was one decision she was certain about.

  “Witnessed, and gladly,” Corinda said. “Leave Erian and Llor with me. I’ll watch them as if they were my own—”

  “No, Mama, we aren’t leaving you!” Erian shouted, with Llor echoing her.

  Naelin fixed her eyes on the champion. Every fiber of her body screamed, Don’t leave them. “Will they be safe here, with Corinda?”

  The champion hesitated—she saw the moment of hesitation. “Yes.”

  She narrowed her eyes, the way she looked at Llor when he claimed to have brushed his teeth but still had bits of his dinner stuck to them. “You’re lying.”

  He shrugged—at least he respected her enough to be called out on the lie. “It’s possible the spirits will realize they’re yours. Some are . . . vengeful. But I can promise they will be as safe here as anyplace in Aratay, and safer than they would be with you. In fact, the less contact you have with them, the safer they’ll be.”

  “You really are horrible with people,” the guard said to the champion.

  He glared at her. “You can do better?”

  Naelin wanted to turn and walk out of the shop. No, she wanted to run. Far and fast, beyond Aratay if she had to, she’d take her children as far as necessary to keep them safe. “You are asking me to give up my children? On the chance they might be safer? But you can’t promise their safety.”

  “No one can promise safety, except the queen,” the guard said. It was a saying that Renthians often repeated, usually when people were about to begin a journey. She said it like rote, but the familiar words sank into Naelin. “Life is unsafe,” the guard continued. “That’s why we need you. You have the power—”

  “I want the queen to promise their safety,” Naelin interrupted.

  Everyone fell silent.

  “I will come, I will train, but the queen will protect Erian and Llor.” She felt Erian stop crying, her shoulders stilling and her body pressing against her, trusting Naelin. “You want me? That’s what it will take.”

  Champion Ven studied her, and Naelin held herself still, steady, and strong under the force of his gaze. “Done,” he said. “Now tell the spirits to release us.”

  Release them, she thought at the spirits. As easy as turning a faucet, they flowed away from the champion and guardswoman. Solidifying again, they spread wings and flew out the door and up toward the sky.

  Llor broke away from her and ran to the door, watching them leave. “You did it, Mama!”

  Yes, I did, she thought.

  “Come, take your pack” was all she said. She held out Llor’s pack to him. Beside her, Erian shrugged on her own pack. “We have a journey to make.”

  Chapter 9

  “I know five songs about the False Death.”

  Daleina cracked one eye open and rolled onto her side to look at Hamon. “Tell me there’s one with a happy ending.” She watched him, mortar and pestle on his lap, as he mashed the petals of a glory vine. Its overly sweet scent hung in the air of her chambers, suffocating the fresh air from the open window.

  “I thought there was one about a dying lover who drinks a miracle cure procured after completing seven quests. But then I realized that’s the ballad of Tyne, about the farm boy from Chell who was dying from the bite of a jewel snake—the antidote was so rare that only a single recluse had it, and she demanded that his lover, a sheepherder’s daughter—”

  “Hamon?” she said his name gently. He didn’t babble often, but he hadn’t slept much in the past few days, or left her side. She’d had to encourage the rumor that they were lovers again, in order to explain why a healer was constantly in her chambers. If he’d ever stop working, she’d happily make it not just a rumor, erase his worries and any thoughts of this illness she had. In the sliver of moonlight, he looked sweetly handsome.

  “Oh, sorry, what I meant to say is that all the songs about the False Death describe the same symptoms: shortness of breath, heart palpitations, organ failures . . . Obviously, they use more poetic language, the stilling of the heart, the slowing of the wind, but what strikes me is that you did not have any of the warning signs and still don’t. You began with the false deaths and have few other symptoms, aside from tiredness, which could be due to simple stress.”

  She closed her eyes and then opened them again.
Her lids felt heavy, and she wondered what time it was. Very late. Or very early. She didn’t want to think about her sickness—it felt unreal, as if it were happening to someone else. “Do you think that’s good or bad?”

  He was silent.

  “Bad,” she guessed.

  “It means rapid onset, which is unusual.” He chose his words carefully. “I don’t know of any cases like this.”

  “My father always said I was special.”

  He carried his mixture over to her and held it up to her lips. She propped herself up on her elbow, took the bowl from him, and drank without help. She winced—the glory vine tasted like dirt and moldy berries, with an aftertaste of chalky salt. “All right?”

  She licked her lips. “Delicious.”

  He nearly smiled. “You are a bad liar.”

  “Let’s hope I’m not.” She stayed propped up, watching him as he carried the bowl back and carefully washed it out. “If people guess I’m sick, there will be panic. I want at least a few candidates approved and in training before word gets out. It would be even better if I could have at least one actual heir in place.” She wondered why she could talk about it so calmly. It was as if the knowledge of what was happening had separated from how she felt—she felt fine, therefore she would always be fine. I suppose I’m an optimist, she thought. A pragmatic optimist.

  “You’re going to need help, someone you trust. Early onset could mean you will worsen faster than we thought, and I can’t be with you all the time if I’m going to be researching a cure.”

  “I trust Ven, but he’s searching for a candidate with Captain Alet.” She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to think about this. It was bad enough that she had the False Death, but early onset? A kind that Hamon didn’t even recognize? I don’t think this is precisely what Daddy meant when he said “special.” “Sing me one of the songs, about the False Death. I want to hear how someone made this pretty.”