The Reluctant Queen (The Queens of Renthia #2)(95)

"I'm your cat. You experimented on me."

"I had to be certain it would work on a person before I tried it on my Hamon. Emotions are fine, but I needed to be sure they wouldn't dim a person's intelligence. Frankly, I didn't expect it to work so well."

Now she felt a rush of anger. There it is, she thought. Her own emotion, untouched by the tin-ease. "It worked because I wanted to believe in you. I wanted to trust you." The potion enhanced her feelings, especially the positive ones. But it didn't dictate them. It didn't force them to all be positive. This anger-it came from inside her, focused but hers. She gripped that anger as if she were in a storm and it was the strongest tree. Slowly, as she nurtured her anger, she felt the clouds lift in her mind. "It won't work on him."

Mistress Garnah's smile vanished. "Why do you say that?"

"Because he doesn't want to love you."

"And you did? You barely knew me, and surely what you knew was bad. I saw Hamon, whispering his warnings to you. Don't trust me. Don't believe me. Don't even look at me, hideous monster that I am."

"He brought you here to cure my sister," Arin said. "So yes, I wanted to believe in you. Very badly. You didn't need to use any potion on me for that." She felt clear now, at last. Her thoughts were her own again. Her emotions, her own. The anger had burned away whatever Mistress Garnah had done to her.

Mistress Garnah studied her. "Humph. I'd say the potion wasn't strong enough. You've shaken it off, haven't you? It's the anger. Self-righteous anger is a difficult emotion to smother." She sighed. "I knew you were a smart girl. That's why I wanted you for my assistant. But now I suppose you'll flee from me, like everyone does."

She should. After all, Mistress Garnah had used a potion against her. But Arin hesitated. She looked at the worktable, at the microscope, at the test tubes, at the herbs and powders.

The potion hadn't made Arin good at this. That was Arin herself. Arin had absorbed the lessons, prepared the ingredients, performed the experiments, and found the cause of her sister's illness.

If she learned more . . . perhaps she could find the cure.

"Teach me everything," Arin bargained, "and I will stay. I will be more than your assistant; I will be your apprentice."

Mistress Garnah's eyes brightened. "Oh, really?"

"Yes, Master Garnah."



Across the burial grove, Naelin watched Queen Daleina. The young queen held herself perfectly still, as if she were posed while an artist painted a portrait. Her shoulders were back, her chin was high, and her hands were clasped lightly together. She was the picture of regal poise. Poor girl must be terrified, Naelin thought.

"She doesn't look sick," Erian whispered.

"Her skin isn't sick," Llor whispered back. "It's all the stuff inside. Right, Mama?"

Leaning over, Naelin pressed her lips onto the top of Llor's head. "That's right, sweetie. Sometimes people get sick deep inside, and sometimes there's nothing anyone can do to fix it."

Around them, people were crying. Some wailed loudly. Others were silent, their shoulders shaking and their face in their hands. A few were motionless, staring at the queen as if they could unhear the words or as if they were awaiting a punch line to a morbid joke.



       
         
       
        

"Are we all going to die, Mama?" Llor asked. "I don't want to die. Ever. It makes everyone cry. And I hate itchy clothes. Why do I have to wear itchy clothes?"

"I won't let you die," Naelin told him. "And it's polite to dress nicely for a funeral."

"But you told me it's not polite to itch in public, and I'm itchy."

She wanted to laugh, but this was not the time or place. Glancing again at the queen, she saw the first hint of emotion on her lovely face: the briefest moment of panic. Around her, the champions were arguing. Some were shouting. And the crowd was growing louder . . . "There's a time and a place for things," Naelin told Llor. "This is a funeral, and we must all be respectful." Guiding her children, she tried to melt backward into the crowd. She suddenly didn't want to be here, with all these people and all their emotions. It could be dangerous. This much emotion, this many people . . . It didn't feel like a solemn occasion anymore; it felt like embers inside of dried tinder.

The queen's eyes landed on hers.

Naelin stopped.

She can't fix this, Naelin realized. She'd said what she had to say, the truth, and it was up to the people to react. They aren't going to react well.

Naelin staggered to the side as someone bumped hard into her. She hugged Erian and Llor tighter against her. People were shouting and beginning to shove. She saw the guards press closer around the queen, their hands on their sword hilts.