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“I like it,” said Lord Ferdinand at last, in a tone that suggested he hadn’t expected to feel that way. “The people of Frost will love it. An execution, a Death Game, and a coronation event in one. How could they resist?”
“To rush into war without a queen firmly on the thronewouldbe imprudent,” said Lord Bertram, his tone reluctant.
“A fine solution, Your Majesty,” said Lord Maurice, his ever-sharp gaze locked on Elma. “The Volta blood runs strong in your veins.”
The meeting dispersed soon thereafter, with the advisors satisfied and already planning the events of the Death Games.
Elma walked alone through the halls of the citadel, her retinue of guards trailing behind. She couldn’t shake the words that Lord Maurice had said.The Volta blood runs strong in your veins. The Volta family had ruled Rothen for hundreds of years, holding off invaders and conquering small townships until the kingdom was vast and the borders strong. But Elma’s ancestors were not known for their honor, their mercy, nor their strategic prowess.
The Volta line had always been known, even celebrated, for one thing: a thirst for blood.
Eight
Elma found Godwin in his study, asleep. His head lay cradled on one bent arm, and a soft snore rumbled through his nose as she approached. She hated to wake him, especially so soon after the advisors’ meeting, but she couldn’t wait to broach the topic of Cora’s father with him.
Before she came to the desk, however, her uncle jolted awake, sitting up and blinking at her in the firelight.
“Sorry,” she said.
“It’s all right,” he said thickly, running thick fingers through his hair and rubbing his eyes. “It’s all right, Elma. What is it?”
There was nowhere to sit except at the desk, so Elma remained standing, hands clasped at her waist. “I have a favor to ask of you. A favor that I thought you might grant the queen.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Can’t the queen simply say the word, and then it is so?”
She wrinkled her nose at his attempted levity. “I don’t know who has the power to… to do this,” she said. “It’s a favor for a friend, really.”
Godwin frowned. Elma wondered if he was wracking his brain for evidence of Elma having any friends and coming up empty.
“For my maid,” Elma added helpfully. “Cora Mannering.”
“Mannering,” said Godwin. “I know that name.”
“Yes,” said Elma quickly, hoping to avoid any pointed questioning. “Her father was stripped of his lands and title some years ago. They’re struggling to make ends meet. I only came to you because I don’t know who issues titles.”
There was an uneasy moment of quiet, in which Godwin studied Elma thoughtfully, and Elma wished she knew what he was thinking. That she was overstepping? That she wasn’t being forceful enough?
At last, he spoke. “I cannot help you in this matter.”
“Then who can?”
“Nobody. I sign the title documents.”
Elma blinked. “But… why not? Cora has been loyal to me, the only woman in the citadel who isn’t bound to some horrible man, the only person other than Luca who speaks to me, the—”
Godwin held up a hand to stop her. “This has nothing to do with your maid. Do you know why Lord Mannering was stripped of his title?”
“No. Some disagreement, or…”
He shook his head. “It was not some disagreement. I won’t speak of it. I don’t have the time or the desire. I am sorry, Elma. The Mannering name will not have land, it will not be titled ever again. Not while I have the power to keep it that way.”
Elma spentthe rest of the afternoon avoiding Cora. She hadn’t told her attendant that she would be inquiring about her father’s title so soon, but she knew herself. She knew she would give it away with a look the second she saw Cora.
So instead of returning to her rooms, she wandered the citadel aimlessly, feeling less and less a queen with every step she took. She missed the first few years of her life at the citadel, when she had been allowed to clamber down to the training grounds with her father’s soldiers, dressed in boys’ clothes and swinging a wooden sword in the blowing snow. She even missed her tutor, a stern woman who had never said a kind word to Elma, but who had always brought her sweets from Frost and made certain that Elma knew everything a princess ought to know: geography, mathematics, history, philosophy.
A thought occurred to Elma, pausing in the drafty corridor. Luca had often practiced sword combat techniques with her. They’d been almost indistinguishable then, both lanky and dark-haired and dressed like boys. Elma had even asked her father once if Luca was her bastard brother, but King Rafe had only laughed. “He is a son of Rothen,” he’d said. “We are all cut from the same frozen land.” But as the years passed, Luca became increasingly busy with his guard duties, and eventually, they stopped sparring altogether.
Elma turned in the corridor, a mote of levity growing in her chest as she met her guard’s gaze. “Luca,” she said, “I’m rusty. Would you spar with me, like old times?”
