"What will you tell the champions, Your Majesty?" Alet asked.
"The truth," Daleina said, her voice steady, even though she felt like screaming inside. "That they must find me an heir before I die."
Chapter 3
Carved into the top of the palace tree, the Chamber of the Queen's Champions was known far and wide as a marvel. It was said to have been created by one hundred tree spirits, working together under the command of a long-ago queen, in a mere instant. It was enclosed by arches of curled wood-living wood with leaves that whispered together when the wind blew. Sunlight poured into the center of the chamber, illuminating the queen's throne in a perfect star pattern. The champions' chairs circled it, each chair alive, budded from the tree. Higher than the surrounding trees, the only way to reach the chamber without using spirits was to climb the stairs that spiraled up from the palace on the outside of the tree's vast trunk.
It was indisputably impressive, but today Queen Daleina hated it. She also hated the nameless long-ago queen who'd thought it was a grand idea to construct so many stairs.
Hitching her skirt up, she climbed higher. Halfway there. She could summon an air spirit to fly her to the top, but if she blacked out . . . Eyes were watching her, from the branches, both human and spirit. Chin held high, she kept her expression blank and continued step after painful step.
Of course, if I black out from the pain walking these stairs . . .
Hamon had offered to walk with her. Alet had insisted. Daleina had overridden them both. She also hadn't taken the painkiller, not yet. She hadn't wanted it to dull her mind. She'd need her wits to face the champions. Not all of them were fond of her-seeing her as queen was a constant reminder that their chosen candidates had died. She wondered how many would be secretly glad she was dying, and then she banished the thought as quickly as it bloomed. It doesn't matter what they feel; it only matters what they do.
As for what she felt . . . that didn't matter either. She couldn't allow herself to feel. She must be as heartless as the stone, as unfeeling as the lake, and as steady as the tree. In that, the pain helped. She couldn't dwell on her emotions when she had to focus on not yelling out curses like a forest-floor woodsman with every step.
By the time she reached the champions' chamber, sweat ran in a trickle down her spine and her cheeks felt flushed. Leg throbbing, she sank into the wooden throne. She allowed herself one moment to breathe, and then she straightened her back, blanked her face, clasped her hands on her lap, and waited.
One by one, her champions came.
Sevrin, from the northern forests, his beard black and eyes blacker, with an ax strapped to his back and a sword at his side. He'd been champion to Berra, an heir that Daleina had met only once before she'd died.
Piriandra, from the east near the mountains, her face scarred from a fight with wood spirits-a fight she'd won, despite her own lack of magic. The tales said she'd fought them with bare hands, sharp stones, and a clever mind. But all her strength hadn't helped when her candidate, Linna, one of Daleina's dearest friends, was in the coronation grove.
Havtru, from one of the outer villages, who had been a berry picker until his wife was killed by an earth spirit. He was new to their number, but not new to loss.
Ambir. Tilden. Gura. And more, until the chamber was full of warriors. Many of them reminding Daleina of her lost friends. She noted that several chairs were empty, though. One of the missing champions had been wounded in a skirmish with bandits by the Semoian border. Three others were too far away to be summoned, absorbed in training their new candidates out in the forest-word would have to be sent to them. The last . . . As she wondered where he was, the final champion walked into the chamber: Ven, her champion, the one who had chosen her as his candidate, the one who had believed in her and trained her and never once failed her, even after she quit believing in herself. Looking at him, she felt a lump in her throat. Her news would hit him hardest of all. They'd survived so much, to lose now to an unfightable illness . . .
No, she commanded herself. She would not crumble in self-pity. She would do what had to be done, as she always did, as queens of Renthia always did.
Still, Daleina watched him as he crossed the chamber floor, his boots silent on the wood. He wore hunter's green and brown, designed to blend into the trees, and he had a bow and arrow slung across his back, as well as a sword at his waist. She remembered when she'd first seen him, when she was ten. He'd leapt from branch to branch, like a hero from a tale, trying to save her doomed village.