But it had happened. And Sata had happened.
He wanted to stride across the grove, shake her shoulders, and yell, Why?
This wasn’t the place or the time, though. This was for Sata, and he would not disgrace her memory by causing a scene. He’d keep his memories to himself and his presence a secret.
He watched the queen glide across the grove toward Sata’s body. “We thank you on behalf of Aratay, on behalf of all of Renthia, for your service and your sacrifice.” She said other ritual words, ones he’d heard too many times and didn’t think he would hear applied to Sata. He’d had such faith in her. She was supposed to live. Even outlive him. She was supposed to be queen, when Fara died.
He stared across the grove at Queen Fara, as if his gaze could pierce the royal shell that she wore and reveal the real woman beneath the ritual. Fara may be his past, but Sata had been the future. She was supposed to make everything right, control the spirits, protect their people—all the people, even the ones in the outer villages. He knew there were other heirs, ready to take the crown as soon as they were needed, but he didn’t know those heirs. He hadn’t chosen them, tested them, trained them, prepared them, shaped them like he had Sata. Other champions had done that. Some he respected, and some he didn’t, but none he trusted to have trained an heir as capable as Sata.
Queen Fara never returned his gaze, but then again, he didn’t want her to notice him. Finishing the words, she raised her hands. Silently, the earth opened beneath Sata’s body, and the roots parted. Spirits killed her, and now they helped bury her.
Sata’s body sank into the earth, and the dirt closed over her. Roots sealed on top of her, and tiny white flowers, hundreds of them, blossomed all over where she lay, at peace.
But the queen wasn’t done.
She kept her hands up, and the air above them exploded with spirits. Dancing in the air, dozens of winged spirits swirled, each carrying a white rose. They spiraled in a circle as if Queen Fara were stirring them, and then they released the flowers. As the roses spattered onto the grove, white doves burst from the branches of the tree. They funneled up toward the open sky. And then Queen Fara closed her hands, and the spirits all fled. Ven thought he saw a hint of a satisfied smile on the queen’s lips before she bowed her head.
He left the grove without a word to anyone, happy to be away from the cloying scent of her flowers.
He hadn’t seen or spoken to Sata since his exile. He’d avoided everyone from that life, as if he truly had done something wrong. Maybe that had been a mistake. Maybe if he’d stayed closer, she’d still be alive. Maybe if he’d taken her with him, she could have helped him in the outer forest. But he hadn’t wanted his disgrace to spill over to her. Her reputation was pristine, and if she was to be queen, she would need the approval and support of the people. He hadn’t wanted to tarnish her, or her future, or the future of Aratay.
He didn’t slow until he’d crossed half the capital and realized he’d gone into the city, rather than out of it. Part of him, the unthinking part, had already decided to stay, at least until he had some answers to how a queen with as much control as Fara had just displayed could have allowed an heir to die. He owed Sata—and the future she should have had—at least that much.
If he was going to stay, he needed a place to go. So he spent the afternoon on mundane details that distracted him temporarily from the reality of Sata’s death: He found a place to live, hunted for his dinner, and rounded up a few other necessary day-to-day items. He paid the landlord a week in advance, out of the money he’d earned from guarding the healers. He hadn’t told the man his name, and the man hadn’t asked. It was that kind of area.
The place wasn’t much more than a few boards lashed together to be the floor and a tarp overhead to protect against the rain, plus a brick-lined area for a cooking fire that funneled smoke up between the branches, but it was close to the wire paths and far from neighbors. He’d stuffed his green armor into his pack and wore a tan tunic common among the laborers of the capital. He wasn’t hiding per se, but just like at the funeral, he wasn’t going to announce his presence either.
As he crisped a skinned squirrel over the fire for his dinner, it occurred to him that he could have come back to Mittriel anytime, as long as he didn’t try to enter the palace uninvited or speak with the queen alone. He’d stayed away from the capital by choice, and truthfully he hadn’t missed it. He’d missed the council, the work, the feeling that what he was doing mattered. And yet, at the same time, he didn’t miss the way the sounds of the city blotted out the sounds of the forest, and the way he couldn’t smell the trees over the scents of other people’s meals and, worse, their garbage.
He lifted the squirrel off the flame and blew on it until it cooled. And then he drew his knife and in one quick motion threw it toward the roof of his tarp.
It embedded in the fabric, and he heard a shrill yip. A shadow fluttered. He plucked the knife out of the tarp and used it to cut the cooked meat off the bones, as the air spirit limped through the doorway.
“I don’t like spies,” he told the spirit.
Glaring at him, it handed him a scroll of parchment, and then it limped out.
Heart beating, he unrolled it, expecting to see the queen’s handwriting and the name of a town he was now too far away to help. But it wasn’t. Instead, it was the headmistress’s own lettering: “You are still welcome here.” She’d signed it with her name and title, headmistress of Northeast Academy, as if defying anyone who intercepted the message.
Ven held the parchment over the flame until it caught fire and crumpled into ashes. He then packed up the squirrel meat, washed his hands with water from a pitcher, and took his weapons with him. He wondered who had seen him at the funeral and reported to her. Or had she merely guessed he’d come? It didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to say no, not to the woman who had helped give his life a purpose over the last few years.
He remembered the way to the academy easily. Joining the people on the bridges, he made his way through the crowds. Most were heading home from work, their thoughts most likely on dinner or their families or the minutiae of their days. Head down, he didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. He doubted there was anyone who would recognize him, or care, but he didn’t want to have a conversation explaining why he was here, where he’d been, or what he was doing next. Or really, any conversation at all. The people around him were chatting with one another as they strode or strolled down the bridges. He heard fragments of their conversations: about what was for sale at the market, about what the queen had worn at her last address, about the condition of the bridges, about the newest library that Queen Fara had built, about the weather and if it would rain. It grated on his skin like a hundred fingernails, lightly clawing him. None of these people knew what it was like beyond the comfort of the capital. And they shouldn’t, he reminded himself. The queen was supposed to take that worry away from them. But what would happen when she couldn’t? Who was the next best heir, now that Sata was gone?
Ahead, the academy soared, the jewel of the northeast corner of the capital. The low sun bathed it in its amber light, filtered through the leaves. The trees around it all held homes, crammed onto the branches, but the outer walls of the academy were smooth. Every window, he knew, faced inward into the center court. It was designed to keep its students isolated and focused. Cut off from the rest of the world. Their interface with the outside world was supposed to be the champions.
Ven jumped off the bridge without bothering with the ladder. A few of the citizens glanced at him before he remembered he’d decided to play it low-key. Oh, well. He didn’t intend to stay in the capital for long enough for the queen to care. He strode in through the main gate of the academy. “Ven to see Headmistress Hanna,” he told the caretaker at the gate.
The woman studied him head to foot.
He added, “Per her invitation.” He’d always been admitted to the academy before without any question, but this time, he’d deliberately left off
his title, “Champion.” He wasn’t sure if he was one, and not just because of his status with the queen. Since he had neither a candidate nor an heir, he didn’t know if he had a right to claim the title anymore. His hands clenched as he thought of Sata, and he forced his fingers to relax.
“Please wait here. I’ll inform her.”
He waited, pacing back and forth. Everything felt familiar and distant at the same time. He’d been in this foyer many times over the years, yet it felt like it was from another lifetime—the smooth curved walls, the pillars of spiraled wood, the chairs that had been grown from the roots that crisscrossed the floor. He’d known that of course everything continued, of course the academy continued to train students while he was gone, but a part of him expected it to have disappeared. To see it still here, still the same, while he felt as if he’d lived a dozen lives . . .
“She’ll see you in her office. Do you need a guide, sir?”
“She still likes her osprey nest?”
The caretaker smiled. “She enjoys the view.”
“How is she? It’s been . . . a while.”
He had the sense that the caretaker knew exactly who he was and exactly how long it had been, but she was too polite to point that out. “She’s well. She ages but won’t acknowledge it, so we don’t acknowledge it either, except to include more juice with her meals.”
“Good.” He was glad they were taking care of her. Even better that they were doing it without her noticing. Knowing Headmistress Hanna, she’d probably forbid them to and order them to focus only on the students. She’d never admit that she was the heart and soul of this place, not the students who revolved in and out barely leaving a mark.
He wondered if that was what he was like, drifting through places, barely leaving a mark for all his efforts to be everyone’s protector. His mark had been Sata, and now she was swallowed by the earth and crowned only in flowers. He headed for the spiral stairs.
As he walked up and looked down at the ever-changing practice ring, he realized how much he would have liked to call a place like this home. In another life, maybe he would have been a teacher at an academy like this one.
Faces were pressed against windows, watching him as he climbed the spiral stairs. Classes were over for the day, he guessed. If the schedule was the same as it used to be, the students were supposed to be squeezing in extra studying before dinner. Had they always looked so young? He remembered them as older, but now he could barely tell the youngest from the oldest. Surely, Sata hadn’t looked this young when he’d started training her, though she must have been. He wondered what her life would have been like if he hadn’t chosen her, if she’d never become heir. She could have become an acrobat, traveling and performing, like she’d wanted—though she still would have had the affinity. The spirits still would have been drawn to her. At least with his training she could defend . . . She should have been able to defend herself.
Dammit, Sata, what happened? His girl could handle anything. She was beyond capable. He hadn’t worried about her because she was fine, always fine. She was supposed to outlast him.
Higher, he was free from the stares and whispers of the students. If only there were a height to free himself of his own internal whispers.
Stopping at the door to the headmistress’s office, he knocked. Immediately, the door swung open. He peered inside but didn’t see any air spirits.
“It’s on a string.” The headmistress smiled. “I don’t tell many that. Maintains the mystique, but there’s a thin wire that leads to my desk, plus the door is angled so its weight tends inward. Pull the string, it unlatches, and gravity pulls the door open. Magic. Don’t tell the students.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He shut the door behind him.
Headmistress Hanna looked exactly the same. A few deeper wrinkles on her cheeks. Thinner. He hoped the caretakers were feeding her more than just juice. But she had the same warm smile that he remembered. Her office too was as warm and glowing in the sunlight as always. The wide window behind her had thin cracks in it that looked as if they’d been inexpertly seamed together. Given the number of women with power in the building, he was surprised she hadn’t had it done correctly.
“It’s good to see you,” he said. “You look great.”
“You didn’t add ‘for your age.’ I appreciate that.”
“Objectively great. Being headmistress hasn’t killed you yet.”
“Being the Disgraced Champion hasn’t killed you yet either.” She stood, crossed to him, and embraced him. “They’ve written songs about you, you know. Horrible songs with meandering verses that go on and on about your fall from grace and your rise as the savior of the outer forest. You’ve gained quite a reputation.”
He thought of the berry picker’s wife. He didn’t deserve a shiny new reputation. Especially when it meant he hadn’t been here to save Sata.
“Tell me: has your exile ended? Has she forgiven you?”
Crossing to her window, he studied the fused glass. Outside, it was sunset, and the sky was stained amber. Looking out across the top leaves of the forest, he could see the spires of the palace tree, rising up above the capital. On one spire was the council chamber, perched like a crown. Another spire was the Queen’s Tower, where she could see across the forest or look at the stars. In the failing light, the pale bark glowed rose. He’d been up there once, with Fara, shortly after she became queen. She’d been so very beautiful that night, beyond the beauty of any of the stars. “You can see the mountains of Semo from that tower.”
“You are changing the subject. Badly, I might add.”
“Does she go up there anymore, to look over the forest? It was built to remind the queens that they rule more than a single tree. To remind them that there’s more to the world than what they see in their throne room every day.”
“Fara hasn’t come to visit me in longer than you have.”
Ven considered that. Once, Fara had considered Hanna like a mother. It wasn’t good that that had changed. “Have you visited her?”
Hanna’s tone was guarded. “I have.”
“And? How is she?”
“If you’re looking for me to say she misses you, I won’t,” Hanna said. “I went to plead with her, twice, on your behalf. Once, shortly after she exiled you. Again a few years later. You should have kept things simple between you.”
Ven sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “With Fara, nothing is simple.”
“True enough. But she should have forgiven you by now. I thought . . .” She trailed off and fidgeted in her chair, as if she were a child about to confess. “There’s a thought I had, and it is . . . You will not like it.”
“Tell me.”
“I believe she’s losing control, slowly but inevitably. Worse, she is in denial and is deliberately hiding the fact from everyone. And you”—she paused, and the pity in her eyes made Ven flinch—“are enabling her. With you out there being a hero, she doesn’t need to feel guilt about her failures. She has no need to address them or even admit to any loss of control, if you are there to ameliorate her disasters. I believe she hasn’t rescinded her exile because she’s using you.”
The words felt like a punch. “She wouldn’t . . . That’s not . . . I saved people! Not all. But some. It wasn’t . . .” He paced back and forth, tigerlike. The problem was, it did make sense. He stopped, took a breath, and focused on another thing she’d said. “You believe she’s losing control?” It was of course the most likely explanation, but after seeing her today he was less certain. Her display at Sata’s funeral—that wasn’t the act of a queen losing control.
Hanna nodded. “Sata shouldn’t have died.”
“But I saw at the funeral . . .”
“I know. I was there. Why do you think she did that? To silence those who doubt her. To prove she isn’t losing control. Overcompensating.”
He ran his fingers through his hair again. “How did Sata die?”
“She was found encased in a sphe
re of wood near the palace. Crushed and smothered. I’m sorry, Ven. I wish it was otherwise, but it was clearly a deliberate act by multiple spirits. Queen Fara has been in damage-control mode ever since, trying to prove that her people are safe. She’s spread a lie that Sata’s death occurred outside the city, far from the palace. She’s even . . . Word from the palace is that Sata was to blame. The people prefer to think that, rather than believe their queen is weak.”
“Sata wouldn’t call more spirits than she could handle.” Ven noticed he’d clenched his fists. He deliberately opened them before his next instinct was to bash his fist into a wall.
“And yet that’s what they say she did.”
“She wouldn’t. I trained her.”
“I know.” Hanna was watching him.
Ven felt as if she were looking inside his skull, watching his thought process. Either Sata provoked the spirits, or Fara’s control was truly failing. As much as he wanted to deny it, he couldn’t hide from the truth. He’d seen it in the outer villages. No, there was no other explanation. Fara’s control was failing, and she was trying desperately to hide that fact, starting with the day she’d exiled him. “Why won’t she admit—”
“Why do you think? She doesn’t want to die. If people think she’s not a strong queen, they’ll want a better one. And what’s the only way to get another queen?”
He sighed heavily. “The old queen has to die first.” Fara didn’t want to die. He almost laughed at the thought—no one wants to die—but the queen was almost religious about it. She clung to life more fiercely than anyone he’d ever known. That was one of the things that had drawn him to her in the first place. Sinking down in an empty chair, he put his face in his hands.
“Exactly,” Hanna said. “We both know Fara’s always been a fighter, willing to do what was necessary to assure her place. In the beginning, that kind of drive and ambition was exactly what was necessary, and we applauded her ascendance to queen. But Sata died—an heir killed so close to the palace—and that means Fara’s control is slipping even more, no matter how much she tries to hide and deny it. But neither you nor I can say that. You can’t, because she’s already discredited you. And I can’t, because I’m needed here. I can’t afford to lose the Crown’s blessing, or I will lose the academy. But while we can’t directly address the problem, we can be part of the solution.”
The Queen of Blood Page 14
