The Reluctant Queen

by Sarah Beth Durst

  “We’ve had a . . . strained relationship.”

  His mother enlisted the caretaker and three guards to help her carry her luggage across the bridge toward him. She herself carried only a hat box, which—if she remained consistent with past behavior—held her most rare herbs, powders, and potions.

  And poisons.

  “You’d better leave,” Hamon told Arin. “The fewer people she meets, the fewer she can hurt.” He’d already requested guards on his mother’s rooms—for her safety, he’d tell her.

  “You could give her a second chance,” Arin said. “People change.”

  “Not all people.” He strode forward and took a box from one of the guards, forestalling his mother from flying at him, arms open, for an embrace. “Greetings, Mother. Thank you for coming so quickly.”

  “Oh my darling boy, of course I came! I have been so worried about you!”

  “Let’s not begin with lies.”

  “Whyever not? Lies are the foundation of civilized society.” She clapped her hands together in apparent delight as she turned on Arin, who hadn’t left. “Oh, and is this your girlfriend? She’s very young, isn’t she, Hamon? But I suppose you have your pick as a royal healer, and young means more childbearing years. My dear, am I embarrassing you?”

  “Only yourself, Mother,” Hamon said.

  “Well then, I’ll have to try harder.”

  He studied her. She matched the woman in his memory. She was still beautiful, with a smile built to charm and eyes that sparkled and a face that could turn heads. But she was also smaller, frailer, and grayer. Her skin was wrinkled around her eyes. Her hands looked shriveled and ash-gray in spots—clearly she hadn’t stopped messing with dangerous materials.

  “Yes, I’m older. Frail, weak, and ugly. I can see you thinking it.”

  “You know you’re still beautiful, Mother.”

  “Aw, how sweet.” She puckered her lips. “Come, give your darling mummy a kiss.” Her lips were apple red.

  Hamon did not move. “Did you paint your lips with one of your own concoctions?”

  Grinning, she smacked her lips. “Secret ingredients.”

  “Then no.” To Arin, he said, “She used to paint her lips with a sleeping powder and then kiss men. Stole from them while they dozed.”

  “Ah, but they had delightful dreams.” She hooked her arm through Hamon’s. “How about you lead me to my hopefully palatial quarters, request a feast to dine on, and then explain how you are going to compensate me for the years of pain of knowing my only child had willingly abandoned me? While you’re at it, you can also explain your hubris in believing that I would now aid you, after you so cruelly rejected all of my pleas for help and love.”

  He led the way into the palace. “You came.”

  “I wanted to see my only son. Also, the palace.” She waved at the shimmering walls and then toward Arin. “You’ll see about that feast, won’t you? That’s a good girl. I’ve been eating travel food for days, and I am certain it’s rotted out my insides. I want cake. Frosted cake, with fruit and three different sauces.”

  “I’ll make it myself,” Arin offered, and then—thankfully—veered off down another corridor. Hamon made a mental note to tell Daleina to caution Arin to stay away. She was too young and impressionable to handle a woman like Mother. In fact, he couldn’t think of anyone in Renthia who wasn’t too innocent for Mother.

  “Good girl. I like her. You should marry her. Give me grandchildren. I’m supposed to want grandchildren, aren’t I? I’d be a doting grandmother, always giving them treats and surprises.”

  “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s barely more than a child herself.” And I would never, ever let you near any grandchildren. He felt a throbbing in his temples. Behind him, he heard one of the guards stifle a laugh and knew others would see only the flighty, funny act and not the crafty, morally void woman behind it. “You have been invited here for serious reasons, and I expect you to act accordingly.”

  “So exceedingly pompous, Hamon. I never taught you that.”

  “There’s a lot you never taught me.” Such as empathy and compassion and kindness. He’d worked hard to become the opposite of everything she was. Halfway up the main tower, he stopped outside a thick green door with iron hinges curled to look like vines and leaves. Swinging it open, he half bowed to welcome his mother to her quarters. She swept past him inside, and the guards followed with her belongings. They stacked them to the side as she examined the four-poster canopy bed, the marble washbasin, the alabaster fireplace, the lounge chairs that had been grown from the tree itself and matched its polished white look. Curtains hung over the wall as if over a window, but when his mother swept the curtains aside, she faced only a mural of red, gold, and black stones inlaid in the wood.

  “A lovely prison.”

  “A temporary home,” Hamon corrected. “I will return with samples for you to study. Please, make yourself comfortable, and”—he forced himself to say the words—“thank you for coming, Mother.”

  The last part seemed to genuinely startle her. She was silent as Hamon and the guards backed out of her room and shut the door. “Two guards at all times,” Hamon said quietly, so his words wouldn’t travel through the wood. “You don’t talk to her. You don’t take anything from her. You don’t touch her, or let her touch you. Understood?”

  The guards saluted, and Hamon left to find his queen and bleed her.

  Queen Daleina watched the spirit pick its way around her chambers, flitting to the top of her mirror and then scrambling over the beams to the wardrobe. It nibbled on a curtain, chewing the fringe, before it settled on a chair. “You aren’t dead yet,” it announced.

  “I’m not.”

  “Why not? Thought you’d be dead by now.”

  “Are you here to frighten me?” She refused to let it see that it was working. The spirits were bolder, coming into her chambers. They’d noticed she was unwilling to use her powers, though she didn’t know if they’d guessed why. Hamon had said using her powers could trigger more false deaths, and she believed him. She’d had one blackout after she’d encouraged a fire spirit to douse the palace lights, and of course there was the blackout at the new village tree. Luckily, no one else had died since then.

  It bared its teeth and then giggled, a shrill sound that made shivers crisscross her skin. “Your fear is delicious.” It skittered closer, moving so fast that it seemed to wink in and out, and less than a second later, it was beside her, close enough to lick her. Its tongue flicked in and out, and she pulled back.

  “You will leave now,” she told it.

  “Aw, will you hurt me?”

  “He will.” She whistled, once, sharp and high, and with a growl, the wolf Bayn leapt through the curtains across the balcony. Jaws open, he sprang for the spirit.

  Squealing, the spirit bolted out a window and disappeared with a rustle between the branches of one of the trees. Daleina scratched Bayn’s neck, and the wolf leaned against her leg. “Good job,” she told him. “Sorry to disturb your nap.”

  He padded back out to the balcony, circled twice, and then laid down. She spared him a smile, though it faded quickly. The spirits had noticed she was avoiding commanding them, and it wouldn’t be long before they did more than merely mock her—this was a test, to see how she’d react. She wasn’t convinced she’d passed.

  A knock sounded on the door. “Yes?” Daleina called.

  A familiar voice answered in crisp tones. “Captain Alet, returning to duty, Your Majesty.”

  Smiling, Daleina crossed the room and opened the door herself. “Alet!”

  Alet began to bow, but Daleina hugged her friend instead. “Delighted you’re back, and that you weren’t eaten by bears or wolves—”

  Bayn made a huffing noise from the balcony.

  “Sorry, Bayn.” Stepping back, she surveyed Alet. She looked well. No visible wounds. She’d bathed recently—her skin had that fresh-scrubbed look, and her hair was smoothed back beneath a traditional
guard helmet. “Were you and Ven successful?”

  Alet closed the door and didn’t answer. She was frowning at Daleina. “You haven’t been eating enough. Or sleeping enough.”

  “I take it I don’t look majestically ethereal?” She’d been avoiding mirrors—she could tell she was beginning to look sickly, even if no one else had commented on it. Alet, though, would never lie to her. This was part of why Daleina had missed her so much.

  Alet moved to pivot toward the door. “I’m calling for food.”

  Daleina stopped her with a hand on Alet’s arm. “I’m fine. Well, not fine. But I’m not hungry. I’d rather hear about your journey. Did Ven find a new candidate?”

  “He did.”

  She felt tension run out of her legs and arms like water. Her knees wobbled—she hadn’t realized exactly how much she’d been counting on that answer. “And do you think she will do? Is she strong? Is she good?”

  Alet hesitated—and in that pause, Daleina felt her newly formed hope crumble. “She is both strong and good,” Alet said at last.

  “But . . . ?”

  The guardswoman crossed to the balcony as if checking to be sure the room was secure.

  “Alet?” Daleina said. “You might think you have perfected the stoic soldier face, but those of us who know you well can read you like a book. No secrets between us, Alet. Did Ven find me an heir?”

  “I’m sorry,” Alet said, and when she turned, Daleina saw both pain and sorrow in her friend’s eyes, “but I don’t believe he did.”

  Daleina closed her eyes and, for a moment, let the pain of that disappointment roll over her, and then she locked the feeling away with bricks around her heart. “I see. Well, Aratay thanks you for your efforts.”

  “Now that I have returned, I request to resume my duties as your guard.” Her tone was formal—an official request. She’d worn her palace guard armor, Daleina noticed, clearly expecting a yes.

  Daleina opened her mouth to reply yes, of course, but the words stuck in her throat. She had a sudden image of Alet, fighting the spirits while Daleina was semi-dead. Dying, while Daleina was helpless to save her. “Hamon says the false deaths will become more common and last longer. Any guard near me is in danger.”

  “All the more reason it should be me. I am the best.”

  “Alet . . .” Daleina couldn’t say she wanted to protect Alet because she was a friend. She shouldn’t value one guard’s life over another. And Alet was correct: she was the best. If anyone had a chance of surviving an onslaught of spirits, it was her. “I would be honored to be guarded by you.”

  “The honor is mine,” Alet said, and then hesitated again. “And I am glad . . . that is . . . it’s good to see you. I didn’t . . . I mean, while we were gone . . .”

  Daleina managed a smile. “I missed you too.”

  Bowing, Alet opened the door and stepped outside to resume her position as guard. Daleina heard her dismiss the other guard and then greet Hamon. As she listened, Daleina tried to think nothing and feel nothing, but the insidious thoughts kept running through her head, Ven failed. And I’m a danger to everyone I love.

  She watched Hamon enter and close the door behind him. Not trusting herself to speak, she waited for him to tell her why he was here. She didn’t ask if he’d found a cure, or even clues. She couldn’t shake the horrible feeling that she’d just doomed her friend.

  Stopping at a table, he unrolled a packet of medical supplies. “Your Majesty, I’ve come to take more samples, if you feel well enough.” Selecting a syringe, he prepared it and laid out two additional tubes. “Are you feeling light-headed, weak, or dizzy?”

  “Fine.” She watched him for a moment, noting that he hadn’t met her eyes since he began fiddling with his needles and test tubes. “Hamon, what is it?”

  Crossing to her, he rolled her sleeve up and then tied a ribbon tight around her arm. “Make a fist.” She obeyed and watched as he tapped her inner elbow, feeling for her vein. He inserted the needle. “My mother has arrived. I will be asking her to examine your blood. I won’t be telling her who owns the blood.” He drew the blood evenly, then removed the needle and pressed a piece of cotton to the pinprick. “Pressure on this, please.”

  She pressed down on the cotton as he stoppered and stored the tubes. He labeled each of them and secured the needle in his pack, covered with a sheath to show it had been used. Everything had its place in Hamon’s pack. Everything he did was done with precision. “How do you feel, seeing her again?”

  “There’s no time to feel anything,” Hamon said. “She’s here to serve a purpose. Once she’s done, she will leave. I feel nothing.”

  Leaning forward, she brushed her lips against his. “Nothing?”

  “Nothing for her,” he amended. “Everything for you.” And then he was kissing her back, hard, as if he could hold her to life by the strength of his lips, his tongue, his hands.

  How she wanted this to be the cure.

  Peeking around the doorway of the palace kitchen, Arin listened to the familiar sounds of pots, pans, knives thumping on cutting boards, spoons tapping on edges of bowls, and let the smells of nutmeg and cinnamon and sage roll over her. Inside was a comforting amber glow, spilling from the vast fireplaces, at least three that she could see, each manned by a boy who poked at its embers with an iron rod. Stacks of wood were next to them, waiting to be fed into the fires. A fleet of cooks buzzed around several long tables.

  “You there!” a voice boomed, a deep male voice that cut beneath the chatter and clanking of the kitchen. “This is a kitchen, not a tourist spot. If you need a meal, talk to a caretaker.”

  Arin glanced behind her before realizing that he was addressing her. A second later, she spotted the speaker: a barrel-sized man with a full red beard that was laced with flour. He was swinging a ladle around him as if it were a conductor’s baton.

  “I’m Arin, the queen’s sister.” Sound ceased for a moment, and all eyes stared at her. Stepping into the kitchen, she smiled at them. “I’d like to bake a cake.”

  She was welcomed in, wrapped in an apron, and given her own table plus three dedicated helpers. Mixing bowls and spoons appeared at her elbows, and as soon as she asked for ingredients, the helpers delivered them. She tried asking for a few obscure ingredients, and those were delivered as well. Grinning to herself, she dove in, determined to make the finest cake she’d ever made.

  Soon, she was just as speckled in flour as the head chef, and the heavenly smell of baking cake wafted from the oven. She’d done five layers and was mixing the filling, pausing to taste it. Scooping a spoonful, she turned and snagged the nearest cook. “Here. Try.” She pushed the spoon between his lips.

  His eyes flew open and he nodded.

  “More vanilla? Touch more vanilla. Right. Thought so.” She turned back to her filling and saw, out of the corner of her eye, one of the helpers sliding a cake layer out of the oven. “Not yet. Puffed and golden, not curved and slightly yellow. Back in.”

  This. This she could do. Not comfort a queen, or even a sister. Not protect against a disease she couldn’t see. But select ingredients, stir, and bake. Make food that made people smile. She could control this. Allowing the cake layers out of the oven, she let them cool while she prepared the frosting. Under her direction, the helpers smeared the filling between the layers, but she was the one who did the icing, pouring it into tubes to add rosettes and ribbons of sugar. She shaped it into petals and added vines and leaves. So absorbed in her work, she didn’t notice that half the cooks in the kitchen had drawn closer and now circled her table, watching her decorate.

  “You have an artist’s hand,” the head chef told her as she stepped back, breathed, and noticed her audience. “Is it for the queen?”

  “It is for a guest of the queen.” Perhaps this would sweeten the woman’s attitude. She was clearly here for a reason—and knowing Hamon’s devotion to her sister, Arin felt safe assuming that reason was directly related to Daleina. “Can I borrow a platter?�
�� Better than a platter, a cake plate and lid were found, and she carefully lifted it. Two helpers scurried forward to balance it.

  “Bring it to the lift.” The head chef gestured to a cabinet alone in a wall. He lifted the door and revealed an empty cupboard inside—a dumbwaiter. “Place it in. How high up?”

  “Clever.” She’d seen lifts outside in villages, used to haul harvests up from the forest floor, but never within a tree. “Six staircases up.” The cake just barely fit. The door to the dumbwaiter was about the size of a child. He showed her the crank and let her turn it—the cake rose up into the heart of the tree.

  He handed her a token imprinted with an image of an oven. “This will tell the guards you have permission to handle the item and that the ingredients have been screened for poison. If it were going to the queen, you would need to call for a taster to sample it first, but for a guest, this will suffice.” One of the helpers continued turning the crank, raising the cake upward.

  She thanked him and the helpers, handed back the apron, attempted to shake the flour off her hair and clothes, and then headed up the stairs with the token clutched in her hand. Any envy she felt for the staff of cooks and the stocked kitchen was balanced by the thought of tasters, sampling every bit of food before it could be trusted. They’re overcautious, she thought. Everyone loved the queen—or if they didn’t, they at least acknowledged that they needed her, especially while there was no heir. This was, in a way, the safest time for Daleina. If she weren’t sick.

  On the sixth level, Arin handed the token to the guards and was allowed to remove the cake from the dumbwaiter. One of them helped carry it to Hamon’s mother’s room. Two guards were posted. Since her hands were full of cake, one of them knocked for her.