The Queen of Blood (10 page)

“Oh no,” Popol said, backing up. “No, no, no, thank you very much, but that is out of the question. I do
not
—”

“Do you want to explain to the people of Birchen why there was no healer to help them? Word will reach the other villages too, how you were too cowardly to travel quickly. It won't do good things to your reputation, the frightened healer who valued his own comfort over the lives of his patients. That kind of blow to the reputation can take years to recover from.” As the healer's pasty face paled even more, Ven added, “Believe me, I know about tarnished reputations.”

It was the last that decided him, Ven could see. Everyone knew about the legendary Champion Ven's fall from grace. Queen Fara had done her best to spread word far and wide, about how he'd attacked her in a spurned lover's rage.

Popol squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath as if to fortify himself, and then nodded.

Even with cooperation, it took the better part of an hour to travel the bridges to a spot where they could access the wire paths, and then they had to climb a ladder up the trunk before they reached the platform. “All you need to do is hang on,” Ven told them. “And even then, the ropes will hold you. You'll be cargo. I'll do all the work.”

Popol looked too terrified to speak, which Ven thought was an improvement. He and Hamon positioned the packs on Ven's back and then attached the harnesses so that Popol and Hamon were strapped to him as well. Then Ven clipped himself to the wire paths.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Are you serious?” Popol demanded. “I am
not
ready. And if you—”

Ven kicked off the platform. They sailed down the wire, between the trees. Wind whipped against them. Leaves and branches smacked Ven's legs, and he felt the others huddle against the packs. A grin pulled at his face, a fierce grin.

This time, he would not be late.

Faster, they flew through the air. He readied the next clip. As they approached the intersection of wires, he counted down . . . three, two, one . . . He clipped on to the next wire and a half breath later, unclipped the old so that they sailed onto the new path without interruption.

This fast, he couldn't hear the birds, only the wind. Leaves blurred into a smear of green, gold, brown, and burnt red. He watched the wires ahead, every muscle alert for the next switch. Miss it by a second, and—

“Watch out!” Popol screamed.

But Ven was ready. He switched wire paths effortlessly. Again and again.

Below, down in midforest, signs pointed to their destination. It wasn't easy to read them or spot the landmarks at this height and speed, and Ven felt as if all his senses were heightened, every fiber of his body awake and vibrating.

“Brace yourselves!” he called.

“For what?” Popol yelled back, terror driving his voice an octave higher.

Aiming, Ven raised his feet into the air. He tensed his arm muscles—and then slammed into the side of a tree, feetfirst, absorbing the impact with his knees. He braced, keeping Popol and Hamon from crashing into the trunk, and they all hung for a second from the wire.

“Grab that rope ladder, would you, Hamon?” Ven asked.

Leaning over, Hamon pulled the rope ladder closer. Ven climbed onto it, unclipped from the wire, and climbed, carrying his two passengers and all the packs, down to the midforest bridge. Once there, he undid the harnesses. Hamon landed lightly, and Popol collapsed into a heap.

“Let me catch my breath!” Popol pleaded.

“Almost there,” Ven said, hauling him up. He missed his years training candidates, when he didn't have to feign sympathy in his voice. He had no sympathy for people who let their own comforts endanger others. Healer Popol should have prepared himself before leaving his cushy city home. On the other hand, at least he
had
left it. Not many did. He added,
“The people of Birchen will be grateful for your heroism.”

“Yes.” Popol straightened. “We do what we must.”

Ven and the boy Hamon exchanged a look, and then they were moving again, quickly along the bridges, toward the village.

They heard the screams long before they saw anything through the thick trees. “Stay behind me,” Ven ordered, and drew his sword and knife. One in each hand, he charged forward. His feet were silent on the bridge.

He burst out of the leaves into the town square, a platform suspended between a trio of trees. It was market day, bright-colored tents set up in a row, and people were running between them as air spirits flew around them, talons outstretched, tearing flesh as they flew past. Bodies already lay on the ground.

“Inside!” he bellowed to the people. “Take cover!” And then he ran forward to give them the distraction they'd need. Leaping and slicing, he threw himself into the center of the market.

Shifting their target, the air spirits flew at him—three in all, each medium size, with jewel-colored wings, angelic faces, and more deadly claws than any natural creature should have. They whipped in a circle around him, and he spun to keep his eyes ready for movement. His knife was tucked by his side, blocking his torso, and his sword was ready to strike.

With ear-piercing shrieks, the spirits howled at him, and then they attacked. He didn't think. He spun. He struck. He sliced. He jabbed. As one scraped its knifelike claws down his calf, he leaped, stepped on a crate, and launched himself up on top of the tents. The canvas bowed beneath his weight, and he ran across the tent poles, forcing the spirits to fight higher, above the level of the fleeing villagers.

Keep their attention,
he thought.
Draw them away
.

The three spirits darted around him, wary now of his sword. He ran across the tent poles and then slid on his feet down an awning. Two spirits—where was the third?

As he hit the end of the awning, the third flew up from below him, aiming for his throat, its ethereal face twisted. He sliced, his sword catching the spirit in the torso and flinging it backward. It smacked into one of the houses, and the house shook.

The other two spirits screamed with so much rage that it poured into Ven, and he had to fight to keep his mind clear. Their scream dove deep inside him, fusing with his bones, until he could taste it in the air he breathed.

He had to lead them higher.

Leaping off the awning, he ran at the fallen spirit. Sword raised with both hands, he prepared to strike: a clean swing, slice its head from its neck. Not even a spirit could recover from a strike like that. But before he could land the blow, wind blasted in his face, driving him backward. Spinning through the market, the other two spirits used their power, spiraling the wind faster and faster, ripping fruits and stacks of clothes and blankets and tools and nails from their stalls and flinging them through the air. Ven dove for the ground, behind one of the stalls, until they ripped the stall itself back.

Howling, the two uninjured spirits flew at him, and he dropped his sword, reached into his shirt, and pulled out two charms. As their mouths opened, he hurled the charms at them, first one and then the other. The charms hit the backs of their throats.

“Go!” he shouted, standing, his sword again in his hand. “Leave this place, and don't come back.”

Whimpering, the two spirits fled. The third crept behind them, its wings weakened, scuttling over the side of the platform and then disappearing.

Only then did Ven realize he'd been hurt.

He sagged as pain radiated from his ribs.

Blackness crept into his vision, and his last sight was the healer boy Hamon leaning over him. “Your turn,” he said to the healers. As he lost consciousness, it occurred to him to wonder why his queen had sent this warning—why him, why here, why now? But he had no answers.

Only darkness.

Q
ueen Fara surveyed the Council of Champions and thought,
They're all idiots. All they do is talk, talk, and talk
. A few of the older ones should have retired years ago, but try explaining that to them. Her own champion, the one who had chosen and trained her, had stayed until he was delirious and ill, dying in the middle of a council meeting. The others had seen that as admirable. She'd been horrified. Of the current crop, many had flab instead of muscles, while others seemed to be there purely to show off their muscles.
Spare me the posturing of hypocrites and innocents
. None of them understood what had to be done to keep Aratay thriving. No concept of the sacrifices or of the choices she had to make. And they were supposed to be her staunchest supporters. Surrounded by her best allies, Queen Fara felt the most alone.

She leaned back in her throne and let their words wash over her like the rain. Concern over the border, over trade, over what coronation gift to send to the new queen of Chell, over how to appease the berry farmers and still please the timber barons—as if any of their babble mattered. No amount of discussion could fix the problems or fulfill the needs of Aratay. Only action.

Her
action.

Champion Ambir had the floor, and he was using it, pacing back and forth over the inlaid wood, until Queen Fara wondered
if she should worry about the shine. “The population of the capital bursts at the seams. We need more infrastructure: bridges, paths, ladders, to handle all the people coming in and out of the shops and schools every day. As it is, the crowds are too much of a temptation for the spirits.”

There, at least, someone was saying something remotely useful. The spirits
were
drawn to crowds, resenting them even more than solitary travelers. Crowds caused harm to the forest, wear to the trees, hardening of the soil, overharvesting of the fruits and berries, overhunting of the animals, all of which riled up the spirits. But paradoxically, crowds were also safer. Spirits would rarely attack a large number of people, especially so close to the palace, where there were an overabundance of hedgewitches, guards, and overeager heirs itching for more practice so they'd be ready when their beloved queen died. As such, Ambir—like the rest of them—was wasting her time. “You don't need to concern yourself,” Queen Fara said. “The capital is strong, and the spirits may salivate, but they won't act against us.”

“If we had more bridges—”

“It will be done. Next?”

Next, apparently, was that more schools had to be built and rebuilt. And a few of the towns to the east were clamoring for a new hospital. There were petitions for additional secure orchards, a new area to harvest walnuts, permission to plant more blueberry bushes within an area not granted that kind of protection, even libraries and playgrounds that needed her approval. One of the cities, the Southern Citadel, wanted new housing for its poor, as they lacked the funds for fixing it themselves, due to the inconvenience of poverty.

She didn't know when being queen had become about minutiae. But no one wanted to live or work anywhere that the queen hadn't sworn to protect. As the champions prattled on, Queen Fara held up her hand. “Compile me a list. Rank it in order of importance, and I will attend to it. What is your report on your candidates?”

This
was what the council of champions was supposed to worry about: the security of the crown. Her security, and the assurance
that if she were to fall, the forests of Aratay wouldn't fall with her. One by one, the champions reported: all of them had candidates, and a few were overseeing heirs—about thirty-five heirs at present. Her people would be well cared for if she were to fall. Not that she had any intention of falling. Truthfully, she never liked listening to the champions report on her replacements. It made her feel expendable, and she was not that.

Never that.

“Enough.” She waved them silent. “I have matters to attend to, as do you.” Rising, she stood in front of her throne as each champion bowed to her and filed out of the council chamber, then down the stairs that spiraled down the outside of the palace tree. One of the last champions handed her the list she'd requested, all of the demands distilled from the various factions who petitioned the champions for the ear of the queen. Probably bribed them too. Fara took it without looking at it and instead watched her champions leave.

Soon, the Chamber of the Queen's Champions was empty, except for the queen. She breathed in. The chamber always smelled like flowers. White blossoms wound over the archways in clusters that looked like snow. She'd never seen anyone tend the flowers, and she'd never cared for them either. They merely grew there, every season, even in the worst of winter when the branches were laced in ice and the chamber was slick with frost. The chamber had been grown by one of her predecessors, shaped from the top of the palace tree, with arches that surrounded it and a throne that grew out of the center. It was open to the sky.

Standing by her throne, Queen Fara watched the blue expanse above. Her visitor always knew when she was alone here, no matter how carefully the champions checked for assassins and spies. Clouds stretched and separated, forming shapes that looked as if they were fleeing from one another. It was late morning. By now, the deed was done, and Champion Ven had either received her message in time or he hadn't. Sending the message to Headmistress Hanna had been her one burst of inspiration, her one gesture of defiance.

As usual, she didn't see the spirit arrive. One second she was alone, and another . . . it perched on her throne.

It was a wood spirit, with the face of an owl and the body of a woman, with owl wings that lay down her back. Her feathers were patterned with a hundred shades of brown, as if she wore a mosaic of all the bark of all the trees of the forest. Her bare feet had talons in place of toes, and they were digging into the soft wood of the throne.

“Are you satisfied?” Queen Fara asked, and she couldn't help the hostile tone creeping into her voice. She tried to swallow it back. It wouldn't help to let the spirit see her emotions. The spirit wouldn't understand, as it had none itself. Except rage. And now the satisfied smugness of a hunter who has claimed her prey.

“Yes, indeed,” the owl woman said, her voice nearly a purr.

Queen Fara thrust the list of demands at her. “This is what my people need. Your spirits will assist me.”

“Of course,” the spirit said. “We honor our promises.”

And unfortunately, so do I
. Queen Fara kept her face blank. “Do not grow accustomed to this arrangement. This will not happen again.”

But she knew she'd said those words before.