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“My advisors constantly push me,” Elma said, turning to gaze out a tall window at swirling snow beyond, her guards hovering at a respectful distance. She couldn’t focus on the banter, theindulgence of verbally sparring with Rune. “They demand that rations go to the army when there is no war. I suggest other uses for the rations, they refuse. They plan for my journey to Navenie after I’m crowned; little good it will do. And all the while, I’m forced to endure Ferdinand and Bertram watching me like ravenous hogs.”
“A queen doesn’tsuggest, she orders,” Rune said, coming up beside her. “You balance on a knife’s edge. With those clumsy long limbs, you’re bound to fall.”
She turned to glance at him sidelong. “Do you stay up late at night practicing these jabs?”
He laughed, a short quick exhalation through the nose. “If that’s the sort of thing you imagine I do alone in my rooms, then you don’t know me at all.”
Their hands were close enough to touch, if Elma were to extend a finger, to brush her cold skin against his. The storm outside seemed almost lovely, a symphony of blue-grey and white, so removed from her, and yet, only glass and stone stood between her and an icy death. She had never noticed it before, the beauty in the storms.
“Let’s keep it that way,” she said.
“Why not have them executed?” Rune asked, his tone lacking its characteristically sharp edge. “It would send a message.”
Elma regarded him with a raised brow. “And you’d be free of your bargain.”
He turned to face her, arms crossed. “Isn’t it what your father would do?”
Uneasiness curdled in Elma’s gut. It was exactly what her father would do. But she wasn’t Rafe. She didn’t want to be. “I’d rather not show my hand just yet. There might be others plotting against me. It’s better if I look ignorant. Weak.”
“And how do you suppose that game plays out?” Runeasked. “You’re crowned queen, and suddenly nobody wants to kill you anymore?”
“No,” Elma said, the unease in her belly souring to anger. “As queen, I will have power at my disposal, with the laws of the land on my side. More resources.”
“You’ll end up doing exactly what King Rafe would have. You stay your hand now, but in less than two weeks, you’ll be calling for blood. And the people of Rothen will be reminded that they exist at the whim of a cruel tyrant.”
“If I call for blood,” Elma said through clenched teeth, “it will be yours, first and foremost.”
“Now, now,” said Rune, taking a step toward her. “That’s not what we agreed. But if you play nice, I might let you sample my wares before I go.”
Elma almost turned away, but the assassin’s gaze caught at her like an irresistible web. “Your wares,” she scoffed, glancing over her shoulder to ensure her guards weren’t within earshot, that the corridor was empty. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
His grin turned to a lecherous smirk. “Oh, I think you know. The conclusion to our prelude in the courtyard, Majesty. Don’t pretend you haven’t thought about it. Using me, playing out your sadistic fantasies.”
Embarrassed heat fluttered in Elma’s chest, coloring her cheeks. “I don’t have fantasies.”
“Your body’s response to me tells a different story. I wouldn’t mind it, you know.”
Where her skin had been cold before, Elma now felt hot, itchy in her woolen stockings and heavy gown. She couldn’t meet Rune’s gaze. “There’s something deeply wrong with you,” she said, turning to go.
“The offer stands,” he said, keeping upwith her easily, their gaits evenly matched. “I’m not above fucking my enemies. And you could use a distraction.”
Elma said nothing, clutching her skirts in her hands like some kind of scandalized maiden. She knew it was all a game, another attempt to set her off balance. Because when Rune spoke like that, she couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.
He spoke of her body’s reaction, her pupils, the way her breaths came shallow in her tight bodice. But that was only what he saw. When he said things like that, her thoughts blazed with him. He was the only bright thing in a world of frostbitten death. And with each shaking breath Elma took, she proved herself a traitor — to her kingdom, her father, the crown, and most of all, herself.
Because she yearned to kill this man, but with every passing day, he embedded deeper within her like a thorn. She could not extract him.
Fifteen
Elma had practiced smiling in the mirror that morning. It wouldn’t do to ride through the city of Frost with her brows furrowed and her mouth a thin line. But her practicing had done little good. What was there to smile about? She rode on horseback, Rune and Luca at her flanks. They rode slowly through the streets of Frost to the sound of flutes and drums and lyres, while brightly colored pennants flapped in the cold wind. It was a coronation parade, and Elma was its star.
She hated every moment of it. It had been years since Elma rode through Frost like this. The act seemed ostentatious, brash, almost boastful.Look at your soon-to-be queen, look how splendid her garments. Look how shiny her horse, how heavy her shoulders under so much finery.
And so, the smile, plastered on her face at first like a rictus grin, quickly gave way to her usual grim expression.
“They will think you hate them,” said Luca, glancing sidelong at the crowd that had come out to watch them parade through the city.
The streets were hardly packed with bodies, but Elmafound it to be a shockingly large turnout. Children darted in and out of the road, goggling up at the horses and bright-armored guards, gazing in wonderment at the gilded royal carriages. A ballista, for some unknown reason, had been brought out for the occasion, was draped in brightly colored flags, and was being wheeled along with the procession. Elma couldn’t imagine what might impress these people about a ballista, but she didn’t care enough to question.
