Ven kept his sword sharp and his bow ready—there were always spirits who didn’t want to be tamed, who wanted to destroy more than they wanted to create, who tested the limits of Naelin’s control. Queen Naelin had a simple and elegant solution to such rogue spirits: sever their connection to her and expel them from her country, exiling them into the vast expense of still-untamed lands that lay beyond her borders. But sometimes she missed one or two. Sometimes she was busy with other problems. Or asleep. Even queens needed to sleep. So Ven had claimed the responsibility of leading the guards who watched for occasional rogues.
It was rather enjoyable. And it had the added benefit of keeping the land safe.
He’d told Naelin he wouldn’t be her champion. Another would have to play the role of training her successor. He was committed to keeping her on the throne for as long as she wanted it. Frankly, he was surprised she hadn’t argued with him, but he wasn’t going to complain.
One afternoon, after he’d chased an ice spirit away from the lake, Ven was whistling to himself as he sharpened his sword, when a barefoot boy ran onto the training field. “Visitor to see you, sir! From Aratay!”
He sheathed the sword and stood. Who would visit me?
New arrivals were unusual enough that half the village was gawking out their windows or coming outside to gawk directly as Ven trotted between the houses to greet his visitor. She was walking toward him and singing—the singing part wasn’t surprising, given who it was, but the walking was. “Sira!” he called. “You’re on the ground!”
“Yes,” his sister replied, breaking off her song. “I always said I’d walk on the ground again, once it had an interesting story to sing.”
He hurried to embrace her. “But how did you get here?”
“Aren’t you happy to see me? I’m happy to see you!”
“Of course I’m happy,” he told her. “I’m just also surprised.” Sira wasn’t the type to trek across all of Aratay, braving its dangers. She’d been content in her canopy, singing in the dawn. “Is Mother okay?” Mother would never have let Sira wander on her own. She’s dead, he thought, and he tried to control his reaction and keep his breath even, his heart from clenching in his chest, his hands from shaking. I should have known. With the dribs and drabs of news that had trickled in from Aratay . . .
“She’s fine. Grumpy, though.”
He exhaled, feeling as if he could breathe again. “Then why . . .”
“Because Queen Daleina told me you lived. And that the songs were true! They said you were prince of a new land, and I knew you wouldn’t have any singers to welcome the dawn or say good night to the sun and so I came, because I knew you’d need me.”
He smirked. “Prince?”
“Prince Ven! It rhymes well with many lyrics.”
“You came all this way on your own? On foot?”
Beaming at him, Sira nodded, then shook her head. “She wanted to surprise you.”
He looked up over Sira’s shoulder to see his mother tromping across the flower-filled fields. She had a sword in each hand, unsheathed, and was glaring at him as if this were all somehow his fault. Briefly, he wished he’d stayed in the training yard. “Mother? This is a surprise.”
His mother reached him, sheathed both swords, and hugged him. “You married a queen, founded a nation, and didn’t invite us to any of it.”
“Well, um, you were busy.” He hugged her awkwardly, her hard leather armor pushing against his, causing his chest piece to dig painfully into his skin. He smothered a wince as she released him.
“And what are you doing? Are you champion to your new queen? Where’s your candidate?” She peered over his shoulder as if expecting one to trot into view. Ven glanced beside them and saw several of the village’s children were clumped together, whispering, and a few of the adults were watching while pretending to go about their daily tasks. Two new arrivals was exciting news.
“I’m head of her guard.”
She snorted. “Do you even have champions? Heirs? Have you done anything right here?”
“I didn’t die,” he pointed out. “And neither did Queen Naelin.”
She dismissed that with another snort.
“Mother, you need to tell him how proud you are,” Sira said. “She told me. And she’s happy to see you.” Mother shot her a glare, crossed her arms, then transferred her glare to Ven. Ven wondered which part of everything he’d done she was most upset about, and then he decided it didn’t matter.
“Yes, I can tell.” To Mother, he said, “Would a blanket apology work?”
Mother snorted again. “You didn’t answer my question: does your queen have any champions?”
“Not yet.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Honestly, there have been a few details to work out. Housing people. Feeding people. Building cool castles.”
Sira looked admiringly at the odd red-rock towers that framed the view. “I like them.”
“Then I’m her first champion,” Mother said decidedly. “You were right, Sira. He does need us. Come on, boy, show us to our quarters. Your queen did make guest quarters, didn’t she? She can make us a permanent home later. There’s work to be done first.”
Ven didn’t have any answer to any of that, except to nod.
“And, Ven.”
“Yes, Mother?”
“I am proud.”
On her return to Semo, Arin went straight to the throne room. She was announced, and the castle guards opened the great doors for her, then shut them behind her.
“Your Majesty,” Arin said.
Queen Cajara smiled. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come back.”
Arin grinned at her, basking in her smile. “Like you could keep me away.” She crossed the throne room at a half-run. Laughing, Cajara jumped out of her throne and hugged her.
“Guess what? My parents came with me!” Arin said. “They’re settling into their rooms now, but they want to meet you.”
She saw Cajara’s pale eyes cloud with worry.
“They’ll love you,” Arin reassured her.
“The Semoians don’t love me,” Cajara said, pulling back and sinking into the throne again. She looked small in it. Carved from marble, it could have easily fit two or three queens. Checking to be sure there were no fussy courtiers lurking in any corners, Arin plopped onto the throne next to her. Together, they fit nicely.
“Tell me everything,” Arin said.
Cajara made a face. “It’s the dukes. Or barons. Or I don’t know. I can’t tell which is which, and I think the castle seneschal has been lying to me about who’s who because she wants me to embarrass myself.”
“So we’ll find a new seneschal,” Arin said. “What does Ambassador Hanna say?”
“She says give it time.” Cajara sighed. “But I don’t think time will help. I can’t do this, Arin! They look at me, and they see a little girl. Worse, a little Aratayian girl who doesn’t know their land, their people, or their customs.”
It was the longest speech Arin had ever heard Cajara say, which said a lot for how worried the new queen was. She squeezed Cajara’s hand. “Then we change their customs. Start with this: you don’t need them to love you. You don’t even need them to like you. You just need to be their queen, and that means keeping them safe from spirits, right?”
Cajara nodded slowly.
“So you take care of the spirits. Let Ambassador Hanna deal with the dukes and barons and so forth. You don’t need to meet with everyone all the time. Ask her to help.”
“Do you . . . do you think she will?”
“I think—”
But Arin didn’t get a chance to finish her thought. The throne-room doors slammed open, and Arin leapt off the throne. She scooted to the side as Cajara sat up stiffly—Arin quickly reached over and straightened Cajara’s crown, which had slipped askew.