"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.