The two of us stop and stare at each other.
‘I see your point,’ I say slowly. ‘However, we don’t have an infinite supply of food and crew, so we can’t exactly hang around. Either we’re going in, or we’re not.’
‘And I concede that,’ Finlyr replies tightly. ‘But I’d prefer us all to make it to the other side in one piece.’
‘Fine,’ I admit. ‘But we can’t exactly anchor at the Maelstrom. How do you propose we get through safely?’
Finlyr laughs. ‘Let’s worry about that when we get closer, eh?’
I hear the undertone, something unspoken, a shadow to the lightness of his tone. I’ve seen the darker side of him, the smuggler he was – the core of him at his sharpest, most ruthless. What is he not telling us? What happened to him out there? And how in Paranish will we avoid the same fate?
chapter thirty-two
hanan
Pocket is justover thirteen weeks alive when the baby begins to move within the queen’s body.
The door to the library shakes as a fist pounds on the wood and I jolt up from my pile of books and papers.
Salvacion appears at the door, pale-faced with bags under her eyes. ‘The queen fares very ill. You must come at once.’
I disentangle myself from my parchments and ink and hurry in her anxious footsteps, with barely a moment to blow out the lamps and lock up. Pocket looks at me dolefully as I leave; Salvacion doesn’t even notice the bird.
We weave down corridors, and I have to run to keep up with Salvacion’s long and urgent strides.
‘What has happened?’
‘It’s best you come quickly,’ she responds.
The curtains are drawn, and the room is bathed in candlelight. Even so, I can see the bloodied sheets and the waxy sheen on the queen’s skin. Despite her earlier protestations, there are midwives and herbalists surrounding her now. She seems to have given over to anything in the hopes of relief. The herbalists press tinctures and tonics at her and she takes everything, seizing every bottle and vial with shaking fingers.
‘Your Majesty, Priestess Hanan is here,’ Salvacion announces, and I rush to the queen’s side.
She grips my hand, and I feel the bones crunch together. I collapse into a kneel, and the heat from her palm is excruciating. Perhaps I misjudged her; perhaps she fears being alone rather than craving it. There is no one left except the baby inside her. Marriage tilts the world only for the elites, who use it as a game. But perhaps an accomplice is better than nothing.
‘Hanan,’ she implores, her voice weak and reedy. The child is partially out of her, its small feet visible. A breech birth.
‘Why is no one doing anything?’ I demand, surprised at the sharpness of my tongue. Bile rises in my throat as I examine the queen, and the herbalists and attendants finally spring into action.
I turn to Salvacion and whisper, trying not to let the queen hear: ‘The child should have been moved within her beforehand.’
‘It all happened so quickly,’ a herbalist demurs. ‘The baby came too soon.’
‘Evidently,’ I snap, frustrated by their mawkishness. They are despondent, resigned to it all. No wonder the king had fallen into death under such hands.
The queen reaches for me, and I’m stunned by the strength she has left. ‘Hanan, don’t let me die,’ she whispers, tears and sweat dampening her pillow.
I don’t know how long it takes. Time passes unknown to us within that room as the queen labours to no end, herbalists and midwives clamouring.
‘Ease her passing,’ it slips off their tongues. ‘Protect the babe.’
They have written her off, and they look towards the heir sliding out from between her legs. I feel anger rising in me at their looks at the queen, a mere chalice, a vessel emptying.
‘Get me more towels,’ I bark at them as I kneel beside the queen.
She’s cold now, her skin pale blue like chips of ice.
‘What is happening?’ she asks, trying to sit up on her elbows.
