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“He’s ready.”
Luca’s voice startled her. Elma blinked, drawing her furs tightly around her shoulders. She murmured her thanks and allowed Luca to escort her to the interrogation room, where she instructed him and her guards to wait just outside. Theytried to fight her on it, but she was queen now, whether she liked it or not. So, she gave the order, and they obeyed.
And when the heavy wooden door slammed behind her, she was utterly alone with the assassin.
The room was empty of furniture but for a chair, various torture devices crowded against the walls, and a tray of metal implements that Elma didn’t want to look at too closely. The assassin was in the chair, his ankles bound to its legs, his arms behind his back.
Before Elma had a chance to collect herself, to decide what to say, the assassin smiled. “Come to finish the job, Your Majesty?”
“Speaking of unfinished jobs,” Elma said, not daring to get any closer. She stood just inside the door, perhaps ten feet from the prisoner. She wondered if he could break his bonds, even though they were iron. Wondered if he could turn into snow or fog like some of the old folk tales said.
“I underestimated you, little queen,” said the assassin, tilting his head. Blood flecked his face, and the scar over his eye was starkly white against his skin. “I thought you’d be such an easy kill. I dreamed of your blood on my fingers, sticky and hot.” He smiled wider. “But you surprised me.”
“Don’t call melittle queen,” Elma said. “I’m taller than you.”
The assassin chuckled, a cold and cruel sound. “Unbind my legs, and let’s put that to the test.”
Elma clenched her teeth. “Who sent you to kill me? And why?”
He rolled his head back, sighing as he did. “Is that all you’ve got in your repertoire?Who sent you and why? My delightful queen, you make me wish you were immortal so I could kill you twice. A thousand times. I’m already bored of you.”
The dagger in Elma’s belt, hidden by folds of fabric and fur, seemed to call for her fingers to close around it, for her to jam it once again into the assassin’s neck. She stood her ground. “Answer the question.”
His expression darkened, his grin curling into something more sinister. “Why should I? What have you offered me in return?”
“I owe you nothing,” Elma said, aware of the rage, the helplessness apparent in her voice. Some part of her had always accepted that her father would die violently, in battle or at the hands of an assassin. Despite his natural death, she felt strangely as if this Slödavan had killed her father. Hewouldhave, if given the chance. What was the difference? She took a long, shaking breath. “Tell me who you are, who sent you, and what else they’re planning. Are more assassins going to come for me? Is an army on its way across the Frozen Sea?”
“Oh, Elma,” said the assassin, pity painting his features. “You’ve never conducted a single interrogation in your life, have you?”
Seven
Elma was grateful for the ever-howling wind and the chill of the room. Otherwise, the assassin might have heard her shaking intake of breath, seen pink heat rise in her cheeks.
“I have,” she said, realizing that she was losing the upper hand in this conversation. If she’d ever held it to begin with.
“And who did you interrogate, then? I’m dying to know.”
“That’s not…” Elma slammed her mouth shut, glaring, trying to regain her composure. This man had too much of an effect on her. He made her angry, set her off balance.
He watched her with an ice-blue gaze. She noticed then that his breathing was slightly labored, that every once in a while, he moved his shoulder in an odd way, almost a flinch. She was stupid not to have seen it before. His wound, cleaned and bandaged though it was, still hurt him.
Elma took a step toward the assassin. “Tell me your name.”
“My name is irrelevant.”
“You know mine,” Elma persisted, not quite knowing why it was so important to her to knowhis name. But itwas, the need to understand this creature who had come down from the north to kill her, this man who seemed so unaffected by the thought of her severed head or her ruptured heart in his hands for the taking.
The assassin watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he shrugged. “Rune,” he said. “There. Are you happy? Do you feel fulfilled?”
Rune. Somehow it seemed too nice a name, its edges too rounded to belong to him. He was sharp, dangerous. He pierced skin. He reminded Elma of everything she wasn’t, of all she’d lost and the few things that were left to her — cold things, dangerous and deadly things. And yet…
She took another step toward him. They were close enough now to see one another quite clearly, each nuance of expression, each twitching muscle. “Rune,” she said. “Is that all?”
He grinned. “Maybe. Are you going to use those instruments on me?” He cocked his head, indicating the devices against the wall, the pile of metal things on the table nearby. “You should try. I might enjoy it. Then you might get something useful out of me, after all.”
Elma ignored the tiny thrill that tickled her skin at the thought. “How about this,” she said, going on a hunch. “I’ll tell you what I think your motives are, and you can tell me whether or not I’m right.”
Rune snorted. “I’d prefer the torture devices, but it’s your interrogation.”
