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Rune knelt, felt around in the snow, then stood again. He held out her dagger. “You dropped this.” His expression was contrite, though a haughtiness burned behind his eyes.
“The next time you speak ill of my family,” Elma said, returning the blade to its place in her belt, “will be your last.”
She could have sworn she saw a flash of eagerness in the assassin’s eyes, but it passed in an instant, replaced by a cocky smirk. “Understood, Your Majesty.”
No matter how hard Elma scrubbed her dagger that night, no matter how thoroughly she polished it, she could not stop seeing blood.
The next day, she put a new blade in her belt.
Fourteen
King Rafe Volta’s funeral was held high in the mountains, where all his ancestors had been laid to rest. Reaching the hallowed place required a long hike up a narrow path that wound between walls of sheer ice and stone until it opened up on a flat valley. Rafe’s body lay on a tower of black wood, oiled and ready to be lit.
“I don’t seem to recall mountaineering in the list of my duties,” Rune practically shouted into Elma’s ear.
Even then, she hardly heard him. The winds were fierce that high in the mountains, far above Frost Citadel. The air was thick with snow that fell from a blue-black sky and picked up from the ground, pummeling her face like tiny frozen blades. Their company was primarily made up of those who had been present at the family feast. A few additional lords and ladies attended, though Elma could have counted them on one hand.
They numbered two dozen in total. Elma had known her father was not widely loved. But so few to see off a kingdom’s ruler… she shook the thought from her mind. There were more pressing matters than her father’s legacy, even on the day of his funeral. Rune had warned her that the threat of attack would be high that day, despite the remote location. Anyone who knew it was King Rafe’s funeral would also know that Elma would attend; the deep mountain shadows and the howling weather made for effective hiding.
As Elma made her way toward the funeral pyre, Rune held out a hand to stop her. “Careful,” he said, his lips against her ear. “Let someone else go first.”
Elma glared back incredulously, unwilling to shout to be heard over the howling wind. If an assassin was already waiting from some vantage point, no arrow would fly true in this weather.
They had not discussed that day in the courtyard. It was as if it had never happened, as if Elma had not imagined the taste of Rune’s blood on her lips. She almost wished he would taunt her about it, make some cruel joke. She was beginning to think it had been a figment of her imagination, evidence of true madness taking hold.
Elma and Rune continued as they had since the day of their deal, with a taut animosity humming between them, setting Elma’s skin ablaze. Only two weeks remained until her coronation. The time had swept by, and she didn’t feel remotely ready.
Elma took her place by the pyre, shoulder to shoulder with Godwin. Rune remained behind her, a respectful distance away. The remaining attendees gathered around the pyre, watching. No words were spoken. It would have been pointless, in that wind. But when a servant came to hand Elma her torch, a massive lance-like thing with a flickering flame at its end, Godwin laid a hand over hers. Just for a moment. It was all she needed from him — reassurance, loyalty, support.
Horns rang out over the wind. They were carved from thehorns of mountain sheep and had been passed down for thousands of years. It was an eerie sound.
As the horns rang out, a lump rose in Elma’s throat. Carrying the torch aloft, she lit the pyre. At once great flames licked upward, hungry for the dry wood, and soon enough, the king was engulfed.
Elma imagined her own body on the pyre, flames dancing on her corpse. Would she be mourned? Would citizens line the paths to the mountaintop, carrying herbs and gifts for the dead? She couldn’t see it; she had done nothing to deserve such a thing. She was her father’s daughter, and that was all. Queen Elma was a stranger to her.
“You must accept in your gut that you are better,” her father had always told her. “A king is not made. He is born. You were born a queen, imbued with power. Chosen by the earth, the sky, the snow. When the time comes, Elma, it will feel right.”
But as King Rafe burned on the pyre, Elma stood below, watching, feeling as if she were a teenager again. Nothing felt right. Least of all, the man whose presence lurked ever in her peripheral, a white-haired shadow. What would her father have thought of her working with a Slödavan assassin? Putting herself at risk in the hope that a wild thing might prove loyal?
Perhaps she was delusional, but Elma hoped that her father would have been proud, in his way. He knew that effective queens took risks for the greater good. But was her life worth all that, she wondered. Was she good for the people of Rothen? Or would she sit impotently on the throne, letting others make decisions for her, time and inaction washing over her until she was gone and lost to memory?
Elma watched until the pyre was burnt to nothing, a pile of black cinders in the snow. Most of the other attendees hadgone, peeling away and heading down the mountain pass, eager not to miss the remaining daylight. The wind had died down, and an evening chill began to seep into Elma’s bones. Only Godwin and Rune remained with her.
“Your father was a great man,” Godwin said, turning to take Elma’s hands in his. “You’ll be an even greater queen.”
She thought she heard Rune scoff behind her and wished he would miss a step and fall off the mountain. “Thank you, Uncle,” she said. “I hope you’re right.”
The mutual hatredbecame almost like a game. Elma would toss out an insult, and Rune would return it in kind, with a twist of his own. They might sidestep one another, avoiding the barb. But with each passing day, the game became more engaging, and Elma found herself enjoying it in some distant, perverse way.
“You’ll never rule a kingdom if you can’t even control a roomful of fools with shriveled balls,” Rune said to Elma, only days after her father’s funeral.
Elma had just swept from a meeting with her advisors in a foul mood, her thoughts a tangled mess. The usual retinue of guards traipsed several paces in her wake while Rune strode easily beside her, one hand on his sword pommel. She turned to glare at the assassin. “And how might you be aware of the state of theirballs?”
“I have many secrets.”
“All of them repulsive, I’m sure.”
His eyes danced. “Naturally.”
