Were this just an exercise on an arena floor, she would have left it at that. But the weight of the Challenge wouldn’t allowit. She couldn’t just not lose. She had to win, or it was all for nothing. Nik would remain in the volcano. The oppression would continue. Justice would never be found in Fjordlandi.
Her people deserved better. Her people deserved peace, security, equality, freedom.
So she asked the ice to help her, the snow to join the dance, the underground streams to carry them to something better.
Thirteen people were soon encased in ice, only their faces free. She’d left enough space for them to breathe, of course, but not to move otherwise.
Their magic ranted. Tugged. Tunneled. Slashed.
Einar had always found a way through her defenses—but that had been when she tried to maintain the forms as he’d taught her. Bold movements, big heaves.
He’d been right though, all along. She’d mastered the details long ago—and the details could serve her well, when she needed them. It didn’t matter what swipes they made with their magic. It made no more difference than a hand waving through a windstorm. Fingers passed straight through the wind, and the magical equivalents passed straight through the water now.
Behind her, Perla clapped and whistled. “Good show!”
If only that’s all it had been. Kyrja searched the shadows until she spotted Henrik, still holding his crystal recorder but with his mouth hanging open and eyes wide with shock. “Let the record reflect the results of the thirteen Challenges, scribe. Isidor has forfeited his crown and each of the twelve High Council members their seats and titles.”
Shouting sounded, a cacophony that nearly overpowered the Song. She raised the ice on the twelve to immobilize their mouths.
Her father’s lips she left free. Though she regretted it when he cried, “Guards!”
Blizzards, she hadn’t considered the Vektors. They were such a constant presence she’d scarcely noticed them when she’d charged into the Council chamber, though of course they’d been stationed everywhere and had followed them here, at least a dozen of them—thirteen, more likely. One for each of the members, plus her father.
They must have been but steps away, in the shadows, because a second of shuffling and a line of them appeared. The familiar uniforms of white and silver, the spears that were largely ornamental but still capable of delivering deathblows or jabs. The faces as stern and emotionless as Fodur’s had always been.
“Seize this imposter.” Her father didn’t sound so emotionless now. He was all anger, all indignation, all rage.
His chief guard stepped forward, met her gaze. Viggo, the same one who had been outside Fodur’s each day when she gave her report. Given his salute that day she’d refused to hand over the Ice Prison, he could probably be trusted. But the others?
He tapped the end of his spear to the ground, held it aloft. “Hail, Queen Valkyrja.”
A dozen more taps, a dozen shifting spears. “Hail, Queen Valkyrja!”
Her breath eased out. There would undoubtedly be more fights to come. But not today.
12
The drumbeat summoned Daemon from his work, each thump a hammer’s blow to his soul. Drums in the corridor that connected the palace to Helviti’s throat could only mean one thing—and having heard Isidor’s claim that the terror-maker’s accomplice would be dealt with soon, he wasn’t surprised to hear them.
Even so, his limbs weighed heavy as he climbed from the tube he’d been working in and met up with Eldrid and Logi.
His brothers’ eyes were as troubled as he knew his were. Logi ran a hand down his full blond beard. Eldrid passed his over his shaven head. Ember and Elianne appeared in the opening to the living space, where they’d been smoking the meat Isidor had delivered to them—meat Elianne was to take with her when she escaped. Daemon expected them both to turn back to their work, as they had the other times the drums had sounded. And Ember did. They hadn’t time to lose, after all. Isidor’s period of mourning would be over tomorrow.
But Elianne moved forward instead, jaw clenched. “I’ll join you.”
She never had before, and he’d been happy to spare her, and Ember too. More often than not, the victims who tumbled overthe edge of rock and into the lava were dead before they landed, gone within seconds. But their screams lingered. Their terror moved through the tunnels like a toxic cloud, choking them all.
They’d tasted it before, when they were the ones falling toward molten doom. None since Elianne had survived it. Decades of screaming death was good for none of them. But Daemon still needed to be there. Needed to witness. Needed to stand ready in case, this time, another brother or sister stood from the fire.
Eldrid must have swiped one of the new sets of leathers from the freshly formed shelves, because as he fell in beside him, he clutched the black fabric in one meaty fist.
Daemon nodded his approval and led the way. He stopped them at the mouth of their primary tunnel, opening a few scant feet above the lava pool.
Elianne moved to his side, her eyes directed up, toward the ledge. Was she remembering when she stood up there? Not with the High Council standing in judgment like the rest of them, but with Isidor still. Did the words echoing down about the condemned walking freely make her shiver as it did him?
Brandr had fought to the last—it had taken six Vektors and the magic of three Blessed to wrestle him over the edge, and he’d pulled a hapless guard in with him. Logi had stood for a moment with his toes over the edge and then jumped in, like a boy into a swimming hole at the hot springs. Eldrid had backed over the edge, hands raised in a rude gesture.
Daemon had done what this newest sacrifice did. He’d run, leapt, and willed the lava to rise to meet him. He saw himself in the form—arms out, ankles together, body in a straight line—if not in the coloring or features. Dread shifted to hope as the man fell through the heat and didn’t burn, didn’t scream, didn’t even panic. Hope turned into satisfaction when Daemon felt a new tug on the lava, a silent voice he didn’t yet know, and thecauldron of liquid rock rose up to cushion the man’s fall, then lowered with him and crusted over, giving him a foundation to stand on.
