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Elma exhaled sharply, ignoring the telltale prick of emotion in the back of her throat. Her uncle had lit a defiant fire in her, and she would not back down easily. “If our people are hungry, give them grain from the citadel’s stores. Our kitchens are stocked.”
“A temporary—”
“And when I’m finished with the Slödavan, I will write personally to Queen Antigone,” said Elma. “I would rather we take advantage of our trade alliance with Mekya than charm King Alaric.”I’d rather lean into the alliance that doesn’t require me to ride through mountains for a week, she thought, but honesty in this matter served neither her nor her uncle.
“As you know, trade negotiations with Mekya are ongoing,” said Godwin, “They offer us little.”
“Little beyond food, you mean?” Elma said. “We don’t need military might, no matter what Bertram says. Even if I were to win over King Alaric, Navenie would never grant us soldiers in addition to the food we so badly need. And for what war, Uncle? Does Lord Bertram expect to fight snow demons?”
The atmosphere in Godwin’s study was thick with tension. Elma had begun to sweat beneath her furs, but she refused to shift, to rearrange herself more comfortably. Godwin would see her discomfort and equate it to weakness.
After a long moment, Godwin ran a scarred hand over his face. When he again caught Elma’s eye, his gaze was searching. “Let’s not argue, Niece. Not while your father’s spirit remains to hear us. We’ll spar about trade after his body is put to rest. Get some sleep. You look pale. Tomorrow, we’ll talk.”
“If I sleep,” Elma said, desperate, “you and I both know that when I wake, the assassin will be dead.”
“We would never—”
“You executed the slaves,” she cut in. “They were my birthday present. They were helpless. And you had them killed.”
Godwin’s gaze sharpened. “I suppose you’ve forgotten that they share blood with the man who nearly murderedyou. Elma, there is war in Rothen’s future, just as her past is rife with it. Slödava has all but declared, signed, and sealed it. Had they taken your life…” he paused for a moment. “Rothen would have had no choice but to declare open war for the first time since your father, gods rest him, was a young man.”
“We’ve been at war with Slödava since I was a baby,” Elma said.
“A war of attrition,” Godwin replied, almost pained. “Raids in the night, assassins, thievery, lies, and plots. Nothing that required an army to cross the Frozen Sea. You know that such a campaign against Slödava would take months, perhaps years. And the number of resources… it would be untenable, as you are well aware. You should have continued to Navenie.” This last was said to himself, laced with regret.
“You will let me question the assassin,” Elma said, with as much of an air of queenliness as she could muster. “I’ll find out who sent him. He may be working alone, or with some splinter group that has nothing to do with—”
“You’re grasping at straws,” Godwin said.
Elma stared at her uncle. He had always been a teacher to her, a guide in this frozen citadel, a friend. But he was only a general. She was Queen of Rothen. And it washerlife the assassin had almost taken. She deserved to question him.
“Godwin,” Elma said, meeting his gaze with a ferocity shehadn’t known she possessed, “This isn’t a request. I will interrogate the prisoner now, alone.”
For a moment, her uncle returned the strength of her stare, as if he might try to deny her. Then the tension broke, and he shrugged one shoulder. “As Her Majesty wills it,” he said.
The Frost Citadeldungeons were a slow and miserable death sentence. Just cold enough to cause frostbite and misery but not cold enough to kill with haste. They were warmed by a series of massive and generally ineffective hearths along one wall; cell blocks lined the other, and there was an unending howl as the wind swept angrily past tiny cell windows.
Elma was led past cells that held things she refused to look at: huddled shapes, dark stains on dark stone, muffled and broken sobs. Or was it the wind? Elma chose to believe it was the latter, keeping her gaze locked on the back of Luca’s head as he led her down the entire length of the dungeon.
“Here,” he said at last, turning to indicate the last cell in the row. It was also furthest from any fire, and an icy draft cut through Elma’s thick wool stockings, licking at her ankles.
Elma almost didn’t want to see. He remained a ghost to her, a spirit of the snow. To see the assassin here, in the confines of her world, threatened to make him solid. Even so, she turned to look into the cell. It was dimly lit, as the torches in the dungeon were few and far between. The sight of him was a blow to the chest.
He was almost more striking here, somehow brighter and stranger in the dingy muck of the citadel dungeon. He sat in the far corner of his cell, arms flung out torest on bent knees, his head hanging down between them. His hair, matted with dirt and blood and sweat, was still so white it seemed to glow in the low light.
As she studied him, he raised his head. The movement was not without a clear amount of pain and effort, and yet when his icy gaze met hers, fear bloomed in her chest.
I’m in over my head, she thought before she had a chance to silence her own doubt.
A faint smirk hovered at the edge of the assassin’s mouth. As if he knew what she was thinking and agreed.
“Bring him to a private interrogation room,” Elma said.
She waited with the rest of her guards while Luca unlocked the cell, while he unhooked the assassin’s chains from the cell wall. She stood stiffly, hardly daring to breathe as Luca dragged the prisoner past her and toward the interrogation room. The Slödavan’s icy blue gaze met hers for a split second, and a sharp pang caught in her chest.
She refused to admit to herself that she had no idea what she would say to him when they were finally alone. She had been angry, and still was. Not just angry — enraged. This was a man who spoke gleefully of carrying her disembodied head back to his crown prince. This was a man who wanted to see her dead, would see her legacy destroyed and her kingdom laid low. What else could a Slödavan want but the utter annihilation of Rothen? It was all they had ever wanted.
And because it was the only thing in the world that was truly hers, she refused to let him have it.
