The spirits, he realized, were trying to trap him against the border of the untamed lands. He’d seen this hunting technique before. In fact, he’d used it himself.
No one ever went into the untamed lands. Not even if they faced death. He’d taken down prey within inches of the border, tearing them to shreds when they’d stopped, terrified, their deeply ingrained fear of the untamed lands overwhelming their fear of a predator.
And now he was the prey.
He sensed the spirits, flanking him, so he dodged right. The children held on as he veered around the trunk of an oak tree and then plowed through the underbrush. Two spirits darted in front of him. He ran left. Another spirit shot forward, forcing him to swerve again.
I am not fast enough, he realized.
Soon, they’d have him corralled.
Ahead, he caught a glimpse of the untamed lands. Through the branches, it looked like the haze above a waterfall. It shimmered and darkened, and Bayn had a brilliant and terrible idea. Switching directions, he did what no ordinary animal would do: he ran toward the border.
Caught off-guard, his pursuers faltered for a moment before chasing after him.
Once more, he heard the whimpers of Erian and Llor. He felt the crunch of fallen leaves beneath his paws. If I can just reach it, the spirits won’t dare follow. . . . Ahead, he saw the haze trembling and shifting as, beyond the borders of the known world, mountains rose and fell, trees sprouted and died, and streams flooded and dried. He heard Erian cry, “Bayn, no!”
But before he could reach the border, two of the spirits broke from the others and attacked from above. He felt Erian and Llor being pulled from his back. He heard them scream. Pivoting, Bayn leapt and snarled, but the other four spirits closed around him.
He was driven back, as the two spirits carried the screaming children up toward the canopy. Fighting, he tried to run after them—but it was impossible. The other spirits cut him off. He retreated, losing inch by inch, backing toward the untamed lands.
As the two spirits carrying Erian and Llor burst through the canopy, he knew he’d lost. Oh, Great Mother, he prayed, I’m sorry my best was not good enough. And then to the children, he thought, Stay alive. Until we meet again.
He broke off fighting and did the unthinkable.
Turning, he ran without stopping, without slowing, without even hesitating. Behind him, he felt the spirits pull up short, watching, as he plunged into the untamed lands.
And the haze closed around him.
Chapter 4
Another queen would have said yes.
But Queen Naelin had no problem with saying no—not to her children when they asked for something ridiculous (such as “Mama, can we please climb to the top of the canopy without safety ropes or adult supervision, where we will imperil our lives by recklessly daring gravity until inevitably we plummet down, breaking all our bones on multiple branches before we crash onto the forest floor to be devoured by wolves, bears, and wolverines? Please, Mama?”).
And certainly not to the villagers when they asked for her to summon spirits in order to build them a new library.
“You can build one yourselves,” she told them. “You have hammers and nails.”
Shifting in their seats, the villagers whispered to one another. Naelin raised her eyebrows at them, waiting for them to argue. She did not come all the way out to the farthest northwest corner of Aratay to add improvements to their already very nice trees.
“Summoning spirits draws their attention,” she said, for what felt like the hundredth time.
“Your Majesty, forgive us,” a woman began—she was younger than Naelin, with a baby swaddled against her hip. Judging by her pressed apron and the starched scarf holding back her hair, Naelin guessed she was the village laundress. Redleaf was larger than Naelin’s old home village, which wasn’t saying much—East Everdale hadn’t been more than a few disparate huts tucked into the trees. Redleaf was large enough to have a laundress—not to mention a baker and its own schoolteacher—all housed within multiple trees that had been grown and shaped by candidates during the last heir trials, back before nearly all of them had been killed in the Coronation Massacre. Today, nearly a hundred villagers had squeezed themselves into the town meeting hall, a chamber hollowed out of the middle of the largest tree. “The spirits already know we’re here. Why not use them for good?” The laundress ducked her head and bobbed in a half curtsy. The baby at her hip gurgled. “Please forgive our presumption for asking.”
Naelin waved her hand. “Nothing to forgive.” She was never going to get used to people groveling at her. It was ridiculous. Before Champion Ven had plucked her from her quiet, happy life, she’d been no different from them.
Now, though, the crown she wore put distance between them.
As did the power she could wield.
But power came in many different forms, and in this case, it was more important to display restraint rather than give in to these ridiculous demands. She worked out a way to say that more . . . queenly.
“It would be irresponsible of me to command the spirits for any reason but dire emergency,” Naelin explained patiently. “They’re conscious beings, not tools, and using them as tools only fuels their hatred of us. Do you truly want all the nearby spirits to hate you more?” Naelin fixed her gaze on the gurgling baby. “To hate your children more?”
The laundress cradled her baby closer.
One of the woodsmen, a grizzled older man with a scar that split his left eyebrow, shrugged. “Begging Your Majesty’s pardon, but we already live in constant danger. Be nice to live in constant comfort too. ’Sides, we can’t spend the manpower or supplies to build it ourselves. We aren’t city folk here. Everyone already does what we can. All we want is a little something special for the children.” He waved at the baby too, who cooed, unaware she’d been elevated to be the metaphorical standin for all the children of Redleaf. “You could do it, we heard. You don’t have problems like the other queen.”
Naelin felt her eyebrows shoot up as she fixed him with the same look she gave her children when their mouths moved without consulting their brains.
He was immediately shushed by the nearest villagers.
“Long live Queen Daleina!” one shouted. And then quickly, “Long live Queen Naelin!”
Naelin felt a headache form between her eyes. “I will consider it.”
A few cheered. A few looked worried. Sweeping out of the town meeting hall, Queen Naelin fled as gracefully as she could. Outside the heart of the tree, she inhaled fresh air. Ven was waiting for her—he’d been standing guard outside while she met with the villagers.
“Go well?” he asked mildly.
“Shut up,” she told him.
He grinned at her. “You’re their queen. In their eyes, you work a dozen miracles before breakfast and eat rogue spirits for lunch, on a crisp bed of lettuce.”
“I expect that kind of behavior in the capital, where they can call on the queen anytime, but out here? So far from the palace, where help can’t come quickly?” She strode away from the hall, passing by the shops and market stalls that clustered on a platform in the center of the village. In a few minutes, she was beyond the town center, out on the thinner branches—homes dangled from them as well, a few built but most budded directly out of the tree itself, but it was blessedly quieter.