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.
Ven laid his sword into every spirit that came at him, hacking right and left, spinning and kicking. Around him, he saw the others do the same.
"Ven, down!" Piriandra shouted.
Ven dropped to the ground, and her knife sailed over his head and embedded itself in the wing of a spirit. He nodded thanks and then scrambled toward the throne, through the fighting. Champion Ambir had made it there first and thrown his body over the queen's to protect her-and died there, his throat torn.
Dropping beside the queen, Ven kept fighting with one arm and felt for a pulse in the queen's neck with his other. He felt nothing. Her flesh felt soft and warm but it did not move.
False death, or real death?
He would only know when-and if-she woke.
Until then . . . Ven somersaulted forward and then stabbed up, piercing a doll-like air spirit that had latched onto the ankle of Champion Tilden. Tilden nodded thanks and returned to methodically swatting smaller spirits out of the air with a mace.
On the edges of the chamber, Sevrin was whirling nearly as fast as the spirits themselves. He held two knives, curved blades, and was slicing so fast that the silver blurred.
The champions were trained not to kill the spirits, only hurt them enough so they fled, but these spirits didn't flee. They bled red, silver, and blue blood on the polished wood, and they kept attacking.
Ven noticed, though, that it was only air spirits attacking the champions. Where were the earth spirits, the fire, the water, the wood, the ice? Below us, he thought. In the palace. "Follow me!" he cried, and charged for the stairs.
"But the queen!" Champion Gura cried.
The spirits wouldn't hurt Daleina. She was already dead. But there were plenty more in the palace who weren't dead yet, and if-when, he corrected-Daleina woke, she'd want him to have saved as many as he could. As he ran down the spiral stairs, the air spirits attacked him from the sides, and the wood spirits reached out from the tree. They grabbed at his ankles and arms, pierced him from below and beside. He kept his blade swinging, slicing them away from him. He tried not to think what he'd find when he reached the bottom.