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“...not equipped to wear the crown, blood be damned. She’s never had the guts.” She recognized Lord Bertram’s usual bluster.
“But even if she were,” said Ferdinand, his voice more difficult to hear — he must be facing away from the door. “She’ll never call for war. She deflects. Delays. If I’m to be frank, it’s a great pity the assassin botched the job.”
Elma’s blood ran cold. Had she heard them correctly? Had she understood? The way Ferdinand had spoken, it sounded as if… as if the assassin had been hired by him and Bertram. It wouldn’t be such a shocking revelation. If they didn’t believe in her ability to rule Rothen, Elma knew these men would stoop to any level to get what they wanted. And she knew what they wanted — war with Slödava, a thing she had no interest in supporting.
What else could he have meant bybotched the job?
Her ears rang as she stood, back pressed against the wall, waiting for something more. Something to confirm the advisors’ involvement in her attempted assassination. But their talk turned to more banal topics, money and women and the Games.
Afraid of being caught spying, Elma took a different route to her dressing room and changed, grateful that one of her spare gowns was easy to put on and lace. Her fingers would not stop shaking.The conversation was out of context, she thought.They were joking. Drinking wine. It meant nothing.And yet fear would not relinquish her heart.
They did not trust her to rule. They did not believe she was equipped.
And these were not men whose opinions could be ignored. Elma had seen who they really were, had heard them at feasts and at the Death Games when they thought no one was listening. She had heard Bertram speak of his eldest daughter like a prize horse, hoping to sell her to the highest bidder. She had seen Ferdinand fondle servant girls and warned them not to tell.
They were vicious, selfish men, and she was right to be afraid.
Elma was halfway back to the royal box when Godwin found her, his face set in grim lines.
“For god’s sake, Elma, I saidtenminutes.”
She crossed her arms to hide her shaking. “I lost track of time.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Godwin said, offering his arm. “Take better care of your own life,” he said as they made their way back to their seats. “You’re not a princess anymore. Your father is gone. You are all we have.”
“You needn’t remind me,” Elma said.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know that too.”
If there was one man Elma could not come to with her suspicions about Bertram and Ferdinand, it was her uncle. She loved him almost as much as she had loved her father, in the way one loves their armor in the midst of battle. But she did notknowhim. And while she hoped she could trust him, hoped he would stand his ground with her no matter the danger, there was no proof of it. He, like the other lords, was a man adjacent to power. Elma was the only obstacle in their way, and any manner of weakness might push a man like him to betrayal.
But Elma didn’t have time to think or mull on what she should do. The next fight was beginning, and the horns blared, announcing Rune’s next opponent.
“You see,” said Godwin, slapping his knee. “I knew it.”
Because the man that Rune would fight next was the Fang.
Ten
Elma found it hard to breathe as the gates were opened, as the challenging warrior emerged from the shadows and onto the blood-soaked snow. He was almost unnaturally tall, with long corded limbs and a sharp toothy grin. A wolf pelt was draped over his shoulders, and he held no weapon.
But it wasn’t the Fang himself that made Elma tremble with anticipation. It was the wolves that flanked him. There were two, one black and one snow white. Red ribbons were tied in their fur, one for each of their slain foes. Elma had once tried to count the ribbons, but it was impossible — there were so many, and more were added all the time.
“Too soon,” Elma murmured. She didn’t want Rune to die so soon. Not when she’d only gotten a taste, a hint of what he could do in battle, the extent to which he might draw out this punishment. She wanted to see him fight and win, to battle until he couldn’t, until he was exhausted and bleeding. She wanted to see him suffer. She was realizing belatedly that the Death Games were far too quick a death.
Godwin glanced at her. “You think he’s outmatched?”
An icy wind ruffled the fur at her neck. “He’s beeninjured,” she said. “My guards brutalized him. Do you see his face?”They marred him.
Her uncle squinted. “Care to bet on it?”
“Fine, we’ll add to the pot. Ten gold coins says he wins.”
“Is this confidence or wishful thinking?”
She shrugged. “Does it matter?”
