“Stupid child.” Fodur swept a hand up, gathered water into a sphere three times the size of his head, and froze it. “You have gone too far this time. Council, I move to strike the Heir from her position by Rite of Challenge.”
“So stricken,” Stellan was quick to proclaim.
Kyrja planted her feet shoulder width apart. “You mean ‘somoved.’ I need to lose the Challenge before I can be stricken—and if I win, it is you who will stand deposed, Fodur. Count your costs before you do this.”
She could feel the water all through this mountain—the springs that fed the baths that had soothed Mamma when nothing else could, the mineral-rich streams that fed the public fountains, the steam rising ever upward through this cone that opened to the skies above.
The frozen orb in her father’s hand. “You will be no great loss, Valkyrja. You were always such a disappointment.”
Ulna stepped forward, the light in her eyes looking suspiciously like glee. “The rules of a Challenge to a royal of Fjordlandi state that the winner gains the crown, and the loser forfeits his or her own position and is stripped of all title, lands, and authority. Death is mercy—life is punishment.”
“And they say the first Sea King was a barbarian.” Perla walked toward the cliffside…and then off it. Into the air, which held her as steadily as the ground had done. She strode—flew?—several yards into the space above the lava and then turned with a smile. “You might need the room. Hey, Nik? Hang tight a minute. Kyrja just needs to do a bit of reorganizing up here, and then you can climb back up.”
Kyrja didn’t know if Nik could hear anything over the sound of boiling rock, but then, the words hadn’t really been for him, she knew.
Reorganizing indeed. Nerves tingled, buzzed, danced as she locked eyes with Ulna, Stellan, and each of the others in turn. She could feel them reaching for the water too, feel her father letting them slip into his control. Reinforce him.
Frost and snow. She wouldn’t just be fighting him—she’d be fighting all of them. “If any of you interfere, it amounts to a separate Challenge, and it isyourseat and title on the line.”
“For that matter,” Perla called, “I’m happy to play referee. If anyone makes a move without this official Challenge, consider yourself banished from the game.”
A tug, foreign yet unmistakable, and the underground streams all churned. Out of the Council’s hands. Into Perla’s.
Ulna’s magic tugged. Pulled. Lost. She stepped forward. “I Challenge the princess.”
“I Challenge the princess.” Stellan.
“I Challenge the princess.” Lars.
The other nine followed, one by one, and true to her word, Perla released the streams to them when they did.
It should have made fear overtake Kyrja. Should have made her tremble. Should have made her clutch at Einar’s instruction.Focus. Will. Act. Should have made her back down and be content that Nik had survived the lava, to insist he would be fine, to decide she didn’t need to risk her own life.
But the water in the air called to her, small and separate and fragmented, like the crystals she used in her “pretty and useless” art. Invisible when alone. Beautiful when together. The water in the streams, in the springs, was content enough to be held in the nets of magic the others had cast over them, like Einar had always taught her to do. But that wasn’t her way. She called instead to the smallest particles, and they slipped right through, coming to her instead.
One more breath, and then her father sent the globe of ice hurtling toward her head. His Council summoned what water they could, brought it bursting from vents and slithering toward her like a snake, freezing and melting and freezing again.
Time slowed, giving her ample time to study each stream, each snowball, each icicle coming at her like an arrow.
It wasn’t like Einar’s lessons on the arena floor—pointless, stupid, with nothing at stake beyond impressing a man who would never want her, never approve of her, never trust her. It was something so much more basic.
So much more complicated. It wasn’t her brother’s magic against hers. It wasn’t the Council’s power bearing down.
It was the Giver’s gift, which he gave according to the rules he’d designed, whether the recipient would use it well or not. Choice, always left to his creation.
But his promise never faltered. He didn’t recall it just because they betrayed his purpose, treated each other so poorly. He still gave. He still provided the reconciliation. He still waited for them to hold out their hands, open their hearts, and ask him to fill their empty places.
She held out her hands, as she’d done in the Grand Kyrka a month ago. Opened her heart to the giver of the Song that still sang in her veins. And sent skyward the admission she’d fought so hard against when Einar pushed her on and on, only for her to fail.
I cannot. Alone, I cannot. But I am not alone. You are here. Use me how you will. Make me an instrument in your hand.
Fodur’s frozen globe reached her, and she smiled a hello at each drop of water inside of it and bade it find a better purpose.
It burst into snow that danced upward, out of the volcano’s cone.
The icicles hung motionless, the frozen ropes of water halted and dripped, the snowballs puffed into confetti.
They reached for more, but this time she said no. Showed the water how to evade their nets of magic, watched the shock on the Council’s faces as they came up empty. Watched fury compound on Fodur’s as the streams ignored him.
