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“Out of sorts,” mumbled Elma, pulling the blankets up to her chin. “My father is dead. The throne is vacant for the next month. And here I lie, an absolute wreck after a botched interrogation.”
“I’m certain you didn’t botch it,” said Cora, smilingsoftly. She had always been good at comforting, at being a rock in the storm of Elma’s life.
“How is your family?” Elma asked, half distracted. She couldn’t get that cocky grin, that blood-flecked white hair out of her thoughts.
“My brother no longer has a fever,” Cora replied, her eyes downcast. “My father continues to seek a pardon for the family name.”
“You’ll get one,” Elma said, now realizing that she had the power to at least right one wrong in the world. Cora’s father had been stripped of his title and land decades earlier, due to some minor indiscretion that even she couldn't keep straight. She had asked King Rafe to make amends with Cora’s father more than once. But he had always refused.
Cora’s mouth fell open, her eyes wide. “You… you’ll pardon him?”
Elma sat up. “Of course, Cora. You’ve always been a friend to me. I’ll do what I can to reinstate your father’s… what was it? An earldom?”
Her cheeks on fire, Cora nodded eagerly. She was younger than Elma by almost three years, practically a child, and Elma felt protective of her.
“I’ll see it done,” said Elma.
Cora beamed, color high in her cheeks as she drew a hot brick from beside the fire and settled it at Elma’s feet, and soon Elma was alone. Sleep did not come easily, and when at last it did, it was tainted with visions of white hair, icy blue eyes, and blades of ice at her throat.
“You’remad if you don’t see this as a declaration of war.” Lord Bertram’s sharp voice, and thefollowing slam of his fist on the table, cut through the fog of Elma’s thoughts.
“Nobody here is mad,” said Godwin, looking as if he’d been awake since Elma’s return to the citadel. Dark shadows hung beneath red-rimmed eyes, and his hair — usually neatly styled — was in utter disarray.
“You will be if you don’t get some sleep,” Elma said, pushing a mug of black coffee toward her uncle. “Drink this, and stop arguing.” She turned to the rest of the advisors, all of whom were in various states of distress. “Can’t this wait until after the coronation?”
Lord Bertram and Lord Ferdinand glanced at one another. Lord Maurice regarded her with a keen eye but was otherwise silent.
“You can’t think we ought to just… sit here andtakeit,” Lord Bertram said at last.
“Take what, exactly?” Godwin cut in. “We’ve questioned the prisoner thoroughly, and he gave us nothing.”
“What I’d like to discuss is Her Majesty’s interrogation of the Slödavan prisoner,” said Lord Maurice, speaking for the first time since the start of the meeting. “If I’m not mistaken, she came away with less than nothing.”
Elma lifted her chin defiantly. “I did learn something. Rune only came for me because my father was already dead.”
“Rune,” Lord Bertram muttered dismissively.
“And that tells us what,” said Lord Maurice, ignoring Bertram, “that Slödava, or at least this assassin, wants the Rothen monarch dead. Forgive me, but it’s hardly a revelation.”
“Speak to your queen with respect,” said Godwin, mug of coffee in his hands so that the steam might warm his face.
“I meant no disrespect,” said Lord Maurice. “But I ratherthink we ought to refrain from allowing the queen to reside in rooms alone with her would-be assassin. In the future.”
“Thank you for the input, Lord Maurice,” said Elma, eager for this breakfast to end. “I realize you’re all eager to declare war on Slödava, but I believe it would be a mistake.”
“Rumors are spreading in Frost, Your Majesty,” Lord Ferdinand said, chin resting daintily on his folded hands. “They say your father was murdered by the assassin, that you single-handedly defended yourself against him. They are angry on behalf of their queen. They see you as a hero at the moment and want to protect you. They’re slavering for justice. If you do not send Rothen to war against Slödava, your subjects will see it as weakness.”
“Cowardice,” added Lord Bertram.
“Thank you, Bertram,” Godwin said, shooting a look at the lord.
What do I care if my subjects think I’m weak? Elma wanted to say.They’d be right. Instead, she said, “What good would war do with Rothen in such a precarious position? I need a crown in order to lead an army, and you well know it.” She glanced around at the seated lords, who were listening intently for once. “After I’m crowned, we’ll discuss this war you insist on having. I’ll even ride down to Navenie and ask King Alaric for aid, if I must.”
“Months,” said Lord Bertram, slamming his palm against the table again. “That would take months. The people hunger for justicenow.”
“And they’ll see it carried out,” Elma said. “In the Death Games. We’ll hold a great coronation event, a blood tournament. Put the assassin in the arena with the rest of the common criminals. But let him be the star. Let him die to the fanfare of trumpets and the roar of the crowd.”
The advisors were quiet for a moment. Godwin inclined his head slightly in approval.
