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Elma returned to her rooms with her gut in knots; Rune followed in her wake. Her thoughts were in a worse state, her uncle’s words of warning ringing in her ears.To trust wholly is to embrace weakness.But how could a person function, live day to day, let alone rule a kingdom, without trust?
No, Elma did not trust Rune. There were very few people in her life that she did trust, and her assassin was not one of them. But she trusted in his loyalty to Slödava, his desire for peace. She trusted in his depravity. She trusted in his cutting words, his lopsided grin. He was an amalgamation of sureties, known bits that made up an enigmatic whole.
Pain expanded in her chest as they walked together through the citadel. A pain so fierce that she couldn’t hold it in, no matter how she desperately fought it. She wanted so badly to trust Rune if only for the peace it would bring her. To believe that he could save her — from death, from the crown, from dangers unimagined.
But he was her enemy. He had tried to kill her. And the ache of loneliness overtook her.
The fire was built high in her rooms as Elma went tochange out of her sweaty dueling gear. The blood on the floor was gone. Only the faint smell of vinegar remained to indicate that an assassin’s head had recently been rolling about on it. Elma had a wild fancy that the head had all been some kind of dream, that Rune and her life in Rothen had been a dream, and she would wake up suddenly in her room at Orchard House, the sun streaming in.
“Your Majesty?”
The voice startled her back to reality. Elma turned to see Cora standing in the doorway. “Cora,” Elma said, “you startled me.”
“I knocked,” said Cora, apologetically. “You didn’t hear.”
Distracted, Elma began unbuckling her sword belt. “I’m sorry, I’ve… I didn’t sleep well. The assassin. And I’m sure you…” she trailed off, unsure how to continue, whether she should discuss the taster or the Slödavan in the corridors. Instead, Elma moved the subject to safer topics. “Is there anything you need, other than… I mean, is there anything I can give you? It’s been a while since I sent any food, and my dowry won’t miss a few items if you need them.” She laid the belt on her bed while Cora came forward and set about unbuckling Elma’s doublet.
“No,” said Cora, her fingers working nimbly. “Thank you. My brother’s apprenticeship ended at last. He’s working as a blacksmith now. It’s honest, and it keeps us fed and clothed.”
Elma hesitated while Cora was in the middle of pulling off Elma’s doublet and turned to face her maid. Cora’s cheeks were pink, her smile hesitant. “That's wonderful news,” said Elma. “But you know I always—”
“I know,” said Cora, shaking her head. “It’s all right. We’re doing all right, now. On our own.”
“I’m glad,” said Elma, frowning slightly.
“You have a letter,” the maid said, after putting away Elma’s doublet in a strained sort of silence. She held up a roll of parchment, sealed with blue wax. “I’ll leave it here, Your Majesty.” Bowing deeply, Cora laid the letter on a table by the door and took her leave.
Elma’s heart leapt at the sight of the blue wax. Even Cora’s abrupt departure could not lessen her excitement. This was a letter from her mothers, from Orchard House. This was a letter from home.
Pigeons could not easily make the flight from Lothyn to Frost. It was a few days’ journey, even in the summer, and often birds returned home when the winds were too fierce and the cold cut too deep. Thus, Elma didn’t often hear from her mothers, nor did she often write to them. It was easier that way, after all — she could pretend that therewasno other home, no mothers far away who loved her.
Even the act of rubbing her thumb across the seal, of unrolling the letter, opened badly healed cracks in Elma’s heart. She needed her mothers now more than ever. After King Rafe’s death, she had written to them, alone and desperate, begging for help. For wisdom. Foranything.
And Dae, at last, had responded. She wrote on behalf of the three women, the only women in the world Elma trusted with every cell of herself. She read the letter, first quickly and then again more slowly, savoring each word. It was filled with love, as if the paper itself were imbued with her mothers’ embraces. But even though the words were kind and encouraging, Elma’s sadness grew as she read it.
Because there was no answer to her pain. Her mothers had not sent a needle and thread with which to stitch up Elma’s broken heart. They had not gifted her a new kingdom, one made of long summers and birdsong. Instead, they onlyurged her to be brave. To believe in herself. To stay strong, fight, and persevere.
Elma crumpled to the floor, holding the paper in shaking hands. Wear your heart like armor, they had said. Grow a craggy, hard shell. Open up for no one. You are loved. You are ready. You are Queen of Rothen.
A hot tear ran down her face. She didn’t want any of that. She ached to be soft again. She yearned to open up like a bloom, to trust, to be vulnerable.
This wasn’t the letter Elma wanted. There was nothing she wanted but escape from the harshness of her life, and only death would bring it.
Gritting her teeth, Elma crumpled the letter in her fist and hurled it into the fire. And then she allowed herself to truly weep, a guttural, despairing, lonely act.
You are loved, her mothers had said.You are ready. You are Queen of Rothen.
But Elma didn’t feel any of those things. She was alone, and death waited at her doorstep.
She sat on the floor, sobbing gently, losing track of time. When she finally wiped her tears on her sweat-stained sleeve, watching as the fire licked the air, it occurred to her how childishly she was behaving. She was a queen, not an infant.
Elma stood, her legs stiff from being curled under her. She changed out of her sweat-stiffened shirt and leggings, washed herself hastily, splashing her face with cold water from the basin. Then she donned a simple gown of wool with a silk overdress and a corded belt. And taking a deep breath, she decided that it was time to return to old comforts, to do what her mothers would have done in her place. She would light a candle and pray.
Elma hadn’t turned her thoughts to the heavens since leaving Mekya. Not in the way that her mothers had taughther. They spoke not to any deity, but to the heavens themselves — the wheeling stars, the sky, souls who had passed and waited in the after. The ritual had comforted Elma, once. In Rothen, it had only served to feed her isolation.
But she still had her candles, tucked away in a drawer, wrapped in colorful cloth, and bound with soft twine. Reverently, she unwrapped them and tucked each one into its clay holder. Going to the fire, she lit one candle and used it to light the rest.
When she was done, she knelt before all seven candles. She had arranged them on the floor, near the fire where it was warm. Taking a long, deep breath, she closed her eyes and murmured the prayer that would open her mind to the beyond, allowing her to listen to the sky and understand. As her breathing grew slower, her thoughts moved inward until even the crackle of the fire was barely audible to her. She existed in the quiet of her mind, in candlelight, and between the stars.
