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“Look at it,” Rune said, disgust in his words. “It’s been dyed, the color bleached out. And don’t worry, I took the liberty of checking the hair between his legs before I turned his body over to your men. It didn’t match.”
“You mean you have white—” Elma said, then bit her tongue.
“Yes,” Rune said impatiently. “I’ll show you later, you depraved thing. But first, care to shed any light on these events? Any idea why a man might be traipsing through your citadel disguised as a Slödavan? I can think of at least one reason.”
He wasn’t the only one. Elma knew exactly why another Slödavan might be here, coming for her throat. Bertram and Ferdinand would not give up on their coveted war. She stood, and as she did, realized suddenly she was wearing only her nightgown. “Where is Luca?” she demanded, crossing herarms tightly across her chest. “My uncle should be informed. We ought to convene—”
Rune leapt to his feet, cutting her off. “Whatever you were going to say, don’t. You and I are the only ones who know of this ruse. I spoke to your men already and gave my full report. I confirmed that the assassin was Slödavan, that he was the one who tried to poison you. They allowed me to come in here alone to present my gift to you.” He nudged the head with the toe of his boot. “As I said before, when you so frustratingly refused to listen,” he took a step toward her, “Something iswronghere. All of your men, even Lord Godwin, saw this creature and his lank, dreary hair and said,that's a man of Slödava.”
“If you’re suggesting that my uncle is in on the lords’ plotting,” Elma said, “you’re mistaken. It’s not so obvious this man is in disguise. Seen in the dark, from a distance, or already dead…”
Rune raised an incredulous brow.
Elma scowled. “They wouldn’t be looking fordyed hair,” she finished. “It’s another one of Bertram and Ferdinand’s attempts to start a war. Perhaps they were unable to summon another Slödavan assassin and… went for something more readily available.” Suddenly, the sight of that head made her feel dizzy and sick. As if she were fourteen again, seated by her father at her first Death Games. At last, she let out a resigned sigh. “My own advisors are so vile that they would knowingly sentence their own men, men of Rothen, to death. Just to steal a throne, or to make a reckless attempt to obtain your cursed Rime Ice.”
“Good luck to them in their endeavor,” Rune said cuttingly. “I’ve only seen true Rime Ice wielded twice in my life. If anyone in Rothen has seen it in battle and lived to tell the tale… well, I’d owe your men an apology for severely underestimating them. It’s rare, and not every Slödavan has the ability to use it. We don’t just swing Rime Ice around like a dick in the hand. I knew something was wrong when your attendant claimed to have seen a man wielding an ice blade here, at the Frost Citadel.”
“Cora wasn’t lying,” Elma said defensively. “She was frightened and confused. Any blade could glint in the light and look like ice.”
“No need to lose your head,” said the assassin. He smirked, glancing at the severed head. “Yet.”
“This is both of our lives at stake,” Elma said, hugging herself. The room was cold, and her feet were bare. “If I die, so do you. And best of luck to your darling kingdom when the might of Rothen is at its doorstep.”
“Mmm, so you say.” Rune tilted his head and ran his gaze languidly from her feet to her face. “You can stop looking so uncomfortable, Majesty,” he said. “Yes, your nightgown is very thin, but I’ve already seen everything. Relax.”
Elma inhaled sharply, squeezing her arms even tighter around her midsection. Marching to her wardrobe, she shrugged on a robe, knotting its belt tightly around her. She took a long, steadying breath, then turned back to the assassin. Ice crackled in her gaze. “I can’t talk about this here. You’re dressed, and I’m not. There is a head lying on my floor.”
“Then where do you suggest we discuss the matter?” Rune asked, frowning deeply as he nudged the head around in a circle with his boot.
“Stop doing that,” Elma said. “You’re going to get blood everywhere. I need to clear my head.” She paused, collecting her thoughts. She needed fresh air, the sky, to move her body. She glanced at Rune, wondering if it was too much to ask, if such a thing might cross a line. But she was exhausted,confused, and most of all she wanted to get out of her room. “Would you… spar with me?”
The assassin blinked, his eyebrows slightly raised. “As in…”
“Spar with me,” Elma repeated. “Nothinglewd. Swords. Sparring.”
A slow grin spread across his face, fingers flexing on the pommel of his sword. “Your Majesty, I thought you’d never ask.”
Eighteen
“I’ll go easy on you, Your Majesty.”
Rune’s wide smile cut through something rigid yet fragile in Elma, and she tightened her grip on her sword pommel. The day was oddly quiet, the grey sky still and low. Sunlight bounced between the clouds and the citadel, so bright that Elma had to squint to see properly. Rune’s hair shone in contrast to his skin, his dark leathers. He seemed kinetic in his movements, where he stood waiting across from Elma in the sparring ring, unable to keep still.
Elma patted her chest, the feeling of it dulled by her reinforced fencing doublet. It would not protect her from a proper blow from Rune’s sword, but she trusted — perhaps foolishly — in her ability to block him and his reluctance to kill her. Yet.
“No points below the waist or above the neck,” she said, rolling her shoulders to loosen them. It had been so long since she’d sparred properly. And despite it all, the poison in her wine, the head on her floor… standing there in the courtyard, sword in her gloved hand, she feltvivid. Asif nothing existed but this moment, the cool air in her lungs, the strain of her muscles as she lifted her weapon.
“Ready?” Rune asked.
Elma lifted her blade in salute, and Rune mirrored her.
“Ready,” said Elma, allowing a small smile to creep across her lips. “Begin.”
He moved like a specter. Elma had never seen anything like it. He first came at her with a sweeping blow, which she barely deflected. Her lungs burned, her nerves sang, and she almost laughed as she spun and parried, lunged, ducked, dodged, and spun again. It was a dance, a deadly one, but she couldn’t deny the freedom in it. The way her hair flew around her ears and clung to her forehead. The unselfconscious grunts she made with every block, every sweeping attack. This was not a queenly activity; this was raw and breathless. It wasfun.
“Had enough?” Rune asked, circling her slowly with a predatory smile. “I see you’re tiring. Swordplay isn’t for the weak.”
Elma scoffed. “Tiring? I’m just getting started.”
