The Reluctant Queen

by Sarah Beth Durst

  “I am sorry, my queen, but I have not.”

  Daleina closed her eyes briefly, absorbing this blow, and then opened them again. “Are you at least then able to clear the champions of suspicion?”

  “Again, I am sorry, but I cannot.” She described how she had visited each of the champions, surprising them in the middle of training, asking them innocuous questions designed to catch them off-guard. In the cases where she could, she’d watched them covertly as they conducted their day. “Most are, I believe, truly loyal to you. But it only takes one.”

  Daleina felt her hands curl around the throne’s arm rests. “Who?”

  “I have no proof. Only suspicions,” she said. “And I wouldn’t qualify those suspicions as anything more firm than a hunch.”

  “I trust your hunches.”

  “I’ll need to do more observation. Perhaps if I could have permission to search their quarters—”

  “Granted. Do what you must, Alet. Thousands of lives are at stake—and that is not an exaggeration. But please, I must know: who do you suspect?”

  “There are two whose actions merit further investigation: Champion Ambir—”

  Daleina jolted forward. “No!” Her cry startled Bayn. The wolf rose to his feet. Ambir was a sweet old man, nearly broken by the loss of his candidate, Mari, during the trials. Daleina had cried with him over Mari, felt his pain. It couldn’t be him!

  “Again, I have no proof,” Alet cautioned. “It’s only that his grief runs so deep that it permeates all he does.”

  Daleina nodded. She tried to imagine Ambir as the poisoner, but she couldn’t. He was filled with sadness, not hate . . . But despair can turn to rage. “And the other?” She braced herself.

  “Champion Piriandra.” This name, at least, wasn’t as much of a surprise. Daleina exhaled as Alet continued. “She’s been vocal in her disapproval of you as queen, plus she has pushed two candidates so hard in training that they have died.”

  Daleina had heard about the deaths and blamed herself. She’d approved Piriandra’s candidate, even though she knew the girl was too young. “I told the champions to push hard. I bear responsibility as well.”

  “As I said, I have only suspicions. But I believe it is enough to warrant continuing the investigation. May I have your permission to do so?”

  “Yes, of course,” Daleina said. “You are relieved from guard duty until further notice. Alet . . . I’m asking as your friend, not your queen . . . Do you believe a champion could hate me so much?”

  Alet’s voice softened. “No one could hate you.”

  Bayn made a huffing noise, as if in agreement.

  “But,” she continued, “that doesn’t mean they wouldn’t kill you.”

  Captain Alet dismissed herself, and Daleina leaned back against her throne. The wolf pressed against her leg, and she ran her fingers through his fur. She wished she’d kept Arin with her. She wanted to talk to someone, be comforted by someone, but once again, she’d told her sister that she was safe enough with Bayn and her guards, and Arin hadn’t lingered to argue. She’d fled as if she had somewhere else she wanted to be. At least Arin is safe, Daleina consoled herself, again.

  Beside her, Bayn growled softly, and Daleina saw that the seneschal had entered the throne room. He was standing patiently by the door, his sheaf of papers clutched to his chest. She didn’t know how long he’d been there.

  “Come,” she said.

  He bowed and then scurried forward.

  She studied him: he was a small man with mottled-brown skin and features so delicate and perfectly shaped that his face looked carved out of wood. He reminded her of a doll that Arin used to have, carved by their mother. She realized she didn’t know anything about him, not even his name. “Forgive me, but what are you called?” she asked.

  He bowed again. “The seneschal.”

  He was very good at not conveying any emotion in his perfect face. “Your name,” she clarified. “I have always called you my seneschal, but you must have a name beyond that.”

  He hesitated for a moment, as if she’d asked a personal question and he was weighing if the social faux pas was overcome by her position. “Belsowik, Your Majesty.”

  “And where are you from?”

  “Here, Your Majesty. Always here. My father was seneschal before me, his mother before him, back seven generations.”

  She blinked. “I was not aware it was a hereditary position.”

  “It is not. But the skills required are hereditary.” He tapped his head with one finger. “Forgive my immodesty, but if you are looking to replace me—”

  “Of course not. I simply realized I know very little about you.”

  He shrugged and seemed to relax minutely. “There is very little of interest to know, Your Majesty. I live to serve the Crown.”

  She noted he said “the Crown,” not her, and wondered if that was significant. “You serve it admirably. Your predecessors would be proud.”

  The seneschal bowed for the third time. “Your kindness is appreciated. However, we have a schedule to keep. Chancellors Quisala and Isolek await outside. May I show them in?”

  Daleina suppressed a sigh. She doubted they had good news. “Please, proceed.”

  He paused for one moment by the door. “You should know that Chancellor Quisala has family in the north near Birchen, by the border. Her interests in this topic are not wholly academic.”

  That was interesting information. She straightened. “Thank you, Seneschal.”

  Inclining his head, he opened the door. The two chancellors filed in. Daleina studied them—both looked as if they hadn’t slept since they last spoke. Chancellor Isolek’s eyes were sunken in so far that his bushy eyebrows overwhelmed them, and Chancellor Quisala looked brittle. She trembled as she walked, slightly but it was there.

  “You have news?” Daleina asked.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” Chancellor Isolek bowed.

  “Please, be seated.” Daleina gestured to the chairs. “As the seneschal either has or will inform you, I am scheduled to meet with my champions shortly, but of course I can spare a few minutes for your news.” She hoped that would keep this meeting shorter than the last. She was certain that the seneschal had arranged it this way deliberately—the champions were the only ones who outranked the chancellors and therefore the only ones whose meeting could take precedence.

  “There has been an incursion.” Chancellor Quisala thumped her hand on the arm of her chair as she sank into it. The throne-room chairs were unpadded, to discourage long visits. Daleina’s throne was cushioned with velvet.

  “An accidental crossing of borders, they called it,” Chancellor Isolek clarified. “One squadron of Semoian soldiers left their station at just short of midnight last night, on a night hunting expedition—”

  “So they claimed,” Chancellor Quisala interjected.

  “So they claimed,” Chancellor Isolek repeated. “During the expedition, they lost their bearings and accidentally crossed into the northeastern forests of Aratay. They were located by our border patrol three miles west of the line, near Ogdare.”

  “Three miles!” Chancellor Quisala cried. “Three miles is not an accident. I tell you, this was a deliberate incursion to test our border security, and they were able to penetrate three miles with a squadron before being intercepted by our patrol. They know now we are weak. We do not have enough guards to monitor the full length of border night and day, much less guard against any serious invasion.”

  “Queen Merecot won’t invade,” Daleina said. “She has given me reassurances.” Prettily worded, on elegant stationery. Merecot had been shocked at the suggestion of anything that would mar their friendship. She was still fond of Daleina and treasured her memories of their childhood together. She felt a special kinship with both Daleina and, through her, the people of Aratay, and she professed her firm desire to rekindle that friendship at an unspecified future date . . . It had sounded nothing like anything Merecot would ever say. But the station
ery had been quite nice. “Though I cannot promise that means anything.” In fact, she was reasonably certain it didn’t, knowing Merecot.

  “Then you must send troops!” Chancellor Quisala said. “We are vulnerable!”

  She’s right. Given the False Death, though . . . She wished she could tell the chancellors the truth about why she hesitated. Closing her eyes, Daleina reached out with her senses, feeling for the spirits in the capital. They’d been drawn into the palace again. It was part of Candidate Naelin’s training, Ven had explained. She was trying to desensitize herself to the presence of spirits. For the past three days, she’d drawn them into the palace. Hundreds of them in the late Queen Fara’s chambers. It was a reminder of how many were lurking even in such an overcrowded area as the capital. They were the real danger, not Semo.

  But maybe ignoring Semo completely was a mistake.

  She could spare some guards . . . a third from each city?

  The door opened, and the seneschal poked his head in. “You’re needed in the Chamber of Champions, Your Majesty. Many apologies for the interruption.”

  She rose. “I will consider this. You will have my answer after I return from the champions. I thank you both for your wisdom and intelligence. Please, take a moment to rest. If an invasion is coming, it can wait an hour.”

  Chancellor Quisala didn’t seem willing to accept that, though. “She is positioned to move quickly, and we are not positioned to stop her. I ask you to remember that your people live on the border, not merely in the cities. Everyone in Aratay is deserving of protection, and it is your sworn duty to provide it.” Her face was flushed, and Chancellor Isolek laid a hand on her arm. She looked at his fingers as if she were considering biting them off, and he hastily removed his hand. She looked back at the queen. “I beg you: send troops, with no delay.”

  As if her skin were being scratched by a thousand nails, Daleina felt the spirits disperse from above her. They skittered down the side of the palace and sank into the earth. They melted into the breeze and sped around it. She tasted them in the air. Ven must have called an end to Naelin’s training session—he’d be making his way to the chamber now. “I have not said no. I have said I will consider it.”

  “Then that must suffice,” Chancellor Quisala said, and Daleina felt as if she’d been scolded by the grandmother that she couldn’t remember ever having. She sank back into the throne as the seneschal led the two chancellors from the throne room. As he held the door open, a fire spirit slipped into the room and lit one of the lanterns.

  She watched as it buzzed like a bee around the flame, and then she forced herself to stand. She’d need to meet her champions in the chamber. Up again. And this time, she was dreading reaching the top more than the climb itself. She would have to look her champions in the face, with the suspicion that at least one might want her dead badly enough to endanger all of Aratay.

  Climbing the stairs, Daleina was surrounded by spirits. The ermine spirit flew above her, circling, while tree spirits flitted between her feet. She stepped firmly, unwilling to let them trip her. The spirits hadn’t spread far from the palace. In fact, the majority had stayed close after Naelin’s training session. They felt like a weight pressing down on her. She wished she could order them to leave, just so she’d feel as if she could breathe. But she didn’t dare risk hastening the next false death. She’d been lucky so far, but someday her luck would run out . . . at least until they found the poisoner and the poison.

  If she found the poison sample, then she would happily move troops to the border. If she had a viable heir, the same. Without either, she couldn’t leave her people defenseless from the dangers within while she prepared for the dangers without. She had to hope the champions would tell her they were ready for the trials. If they said yes, then she could meet the chancellors’ requests.

  She was panting by the time she reached the top of the spiral stairs. She halted, hands on her knees, and breathed in. Illness or lack of exercise? She hadn’t been clambering around the forest the way she used to, but then she hadn’t been sedentary either. She made a note to talk to Hamon. It was easy to act as if she weren’t sick while she didn’t feel sick, but if that changed, her plan for secrecy might have to change as well.

  All of the champions were in the chamber as Queen Daleina swept into the room. Air spirits hovered around the arches, and an earth spirit had covered itself with white roses. It clung upside down on one of the pillars, blending in except for its face, which poked between the thorns and leaves. She didn’t dare tell the spirits to leave.

  She suddenly felt too tired for games. Sinking into her throne, she looked at the faces of her champions. Champion Ven had claimed the center chair, directly across from her. He was staring at her as if his eyes could pierce through her skin and sear away the poison inside. At least he didn’t want her to die, she was sure of that much.

  On his left was Champion Ambir, the eldest champion. Seeing his candidate dead had broken something inside of him, aging him several decades, until his hands shook and his eyes watered always, but still he had chosen a new candidate to train. She found it hard to believe he could be the poisoner, despite Alet’s words. She has to be wrong. His sadness hadn’t soured into anger, as far as she could tell. He still carried around a core of that grief, looking out at the world through eyes that seemed perpetually disappointed. She felt sorry for his new candidate, to train under such a cloud of misery.

  Beside him was Piriandra. Could she be the assassin? She was polishing one of her knives as she waited for the meeting to begin. She bore down on one edge and did not look up at Daleina. She’d moved quickly from grief to anger after the massacre. Daleina agreed with Alet that she was high on the list of possible poisoners. Even though her candidate had died, that didn’t remove her from suspicion—plans sometimes went awry. But could she truly want the queen dead, badly enough to risk destroying Aratay? Even with Alet’s suspicion to fuel her own, it was hard to believe.

  Next to Piriandra was Sevrin, who had never approved of Daleina. He’d made it clear from the beginning that he found her to be an unsuitable queen. He was an unlikely suspect simply because he didn’t hide his distaste. But that didn’t clear him entirely either.

  Havtru hadn’t been a champion at the time of the massacre. He’d have no reason to hate her. But she also knew little about him. He’d lost his wife during Queen Fara’s rule and had ample reason to hate the former queen. Perhaps he’d transferred that hate to Daleina.

  Tilden and Gura?

  She ranked them in the middle—both had lost candidates in the massacre, both had kept their distance from her, both swore loyalty to the Crown and Aratay and only lastly to her. They seemed more likely than Sevrin because they hadn’t been vocal in their dislike. . . .

  All fifteen of her champions were here, each of them training one or more candidates in the capital. Studying them, she realized her answer to “Could it be him?” or “Could it be her?” was almost always, “It’s possible. Unlikely, but possible.”

  She settled again on Piriandra, trying to gauge from her expression how deeply her hatred ran. She’s a champion! Champions protected Aratay.

  For an instant, Daleina imagined accusing all of them, announcing she’d been poisoned and one of them was to blame, then watching them turn on one another. Maybe the guilty one would emerge . . . Or maybe it would distract them from their primary goal, training the next heir, and the guilty party would only be warned of her suspicions. He or she could destroy whatever was left of the poison, if there was any to begin with, and she could lose her chance.

  What was best: the slim chance of saving herself, or the great chance of saving Aratay?

  She felt the arms of the throne under her hands, the weight of the crown on her head, the feel of the spirits hovering nearby . . . “Tell me of your progress. Are your candidates prepared for the trials?”

  Sevrin exploded to his feet. “This! You called us here for merely an update?”

 
“Sit down, Champion Sevrin,” Daleina said. “Tradition calls us here. It is the third moon of the month, or have you forgotten?”

  He flushed and stammered an apology.

  “You’re looking for someone to be angry at,” she guessed. “I respectfully request you choose someone other than me. I do not like this situation any more than you do.” She moved Sevrin a few notches down on her list of suspects. He may wish her dead, but he didn’t wish her dead as quickly as the poison would kill her. If he were the assassin, he’d wait until he was sure he had a trained candidate and then dispose of her. He also lacked the subtlety for poison. “Champion Jalsia”—she turned to the champion at the far left—“report, please.”

  She rose. “My first candidate died within a week of training, but my new candidate has shown mastery of five spirits. The sixth eludes her. She has summoned earth, but weak, inconsequential spirits only. But I am pleased with her dedication, and she will not rest until she is ready. One month, I estimate.”

  “Thank you, Champion Jalsia. Champion Keson?”

  One by one, they reported on their progress, and she noticed a disturbing trend: candidates had been dying. At least four, including Piriandra’s newest, the young redheaded girl from the academy. The one I just met. She’d been too young, too unready. My fault. The champions were pushing them too hard, per Daleina’s command.

  She opened her mouth to tell them they had to take more care, and blackness swam up into her eyes. Gripping the arms of the throne, she felt hundreds of spirits converging on the palace. She tried to shout a warning. But before she could, she died.

  Again.

  Ven saw her slump to the side, the queen’s eyes blank, her arms limp, and he leapt to his feet with his sword drawn. “On your guard!” he shouted.

  Only seconds behind him, the other champions sprang from their chairs. Piriandra jumped on top of her chair and then onto one of the arches—and the next instant the air was filled with the inhuman screams of spirits.

  Air spirits descended on the chamber with talons like sharpened knives, flashing in the sun. Others with sharklike teeth came fast from the sides. It was as if they’d been waiting. Perhaps they had. Dozens of them, of all sizes, some smaller than Ven’s fist, others twice his height, flew at the champions. And the champions fought.