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“I need fresh air,” she announced. “A walk in the courtyard.”
Rune sighed. “I suppose you’re aware that I’m unable to protect you from death by freezing.”
“One more joke,” said Elma, “and I’ll have an addendum put in your contract: no sarcastic remarks on pain of death.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Rune, rising from his chair, “you adore my japes. One day you’ll outright laugh at something I say and hate yourself for it.” His eyes shone. “I can’t wait.”
Thirteen
There were several courtyards in the Frost Citadel, but Elma had a favorite. It was the largest of them and the only one in which someone had, long ago, attempted to grow hedges and trees. But the winters in Rothen were too harsh, the summers too brief and pale. So now, only black shapes rose up where trees had been planted, a stark reminder of Elma’s birthright. But they were still trees, dead or not, and their silhouettes against the snow gave her some small measure of peace.
Statues also graced this courtyard. Statuary was rare in Rothen; art was deemed a frivolous pursuit. Yet one of her ancestors had ordered these marble works from Mekya, had them hauled all the way up that treacherous road, and installed them in the courtyard.
Elma was glad they had. This courtyard, with its sad attempts to break away from the relentless bleakness of Rothen, comforted her. It reminded her that somewhere, art was being made for the sake of it. Trees were reaching up to the sun, and flowers were blooming. Even though shecouldn’t see it, might never see it again, it eased the heaviness in her heart.
Snow crunched under her feet as she went to her favorite statue, a woman draped in a filmy dress with tree boughs in her hair. There was an echoing crunch as Rune followed.
Not caring what the assassin thought of her, Elma reached out to touch the statue. Snow clung to its divots, and she brushed it away to free the woman’s feet.
“Mekyan marble,” Rune said, coming up to stand beside her. “I didn’t realize your kind had any concept of art.”
Elma bit her tongue. He would prick her with a thousand needles, but she refused to grant him the satisfaction of reacting.
“Indeed, we do,” she said evenly. “My great-great-great-grandfather commissioned these statues from Dagomari De Rixiis himself. The cost was exorbitant. There are twelve in total, most in this courtyard. I used to love coming here in the summer when I first returned to Rothen. Sometimes, the snow even melted, and there was green underneath. It reminded me of Mekya. My father always hated the statues but never got around to removing them. I suppose he saw how much I…” she stopped herself. The tense conversation with Cora had set her off balance; she had not meant to share so much.
“Didn’t you grow up in Rothen?” Rune asked.
Elma turned to face him, ready to make some biting retort. But his gaze was clear; no cruel joke threatened there. A chill breeze ruffled the fur of his cloak, brushing white hair over his forehead.
“I was born here in the citadel,” Elma said, “and the next day, I was sent with a wet nurse to the city of Lothyn. My father wasn’t a trusting man. He had many enemies. I wasborn after years of failing to produce an heir. He didn’t want to lose me.”
“So, he banished you to Mekya.”
“It wasn’t a banishment.” If Elma closed her eyes, she might be able to feel the hot sun on her skin, hear the rustle of thick green leaves in the Orchard House courtyards. “I loved Mekya.”
“Then go back,” Rune said.
“I can’t justgo,” said Elma, and the admission hurt to voice aloud. “I’m the Queen of Rothen.”
He leaned against the statue, arms crossed. “Why not? I don’t see a crown on your head.” His eyes flashed, perhaps realizing that he had found a weakness in Elma’s armor, that if he prodded and chipped away at it enough, she might strike back.
The answer caught in her throat.Why not? There had never been a choice for her. She was Elma Volta, her fate laid out before her since the first Volta placed a crown upon his head and called himself King. Her blood was tied forever to Rothen.
The crown was nothing to Elma but a cage.
She closed her eyes briefly to hide the sting of rising grief. Would she ever see a clear blue sky again? Or walk barefoot through a garden? Or feel the heat of a summer wind in her hair? The thought nearly broke her, and she might have fled the citadel there and then if it weren’t for the fact that she had nowhere to go. Godwin would stop her; she would be dragged back to Rothen and placed on the throne like a doll. That was her destiny.
“It is my duty to reign,” Elma said at last. “Though I don’t expect you’d understand duty on such a scale.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“How could I forget. A hired killer with a sense of duty.”
He shifted, leather creaking in the quiet courtyard. “AVoltawith a sense of duty, on the other hand… Shocking. Your bloodline is rife with liars, tyrants, murderers, and traitors.”
“You know nothing about me,” Elma said, moving in on the assassin, cornering him against the statue. “You can’t begin tofathomthat there might be a person behind my name. That I’m flesh and blood.”
Rune allowed her to crowd him, to fill up his space. He never turned his gaze from hers. “On the contrary,” he said, his voice low and intimate. “I know more of the Volta character than even you. What do you really know of your father’s cruelty? Your uncle’s, or even your mother’s?”
