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“No one,” said the physician, softly. “His heart gave out.”
Someone wailed.
I’m the one who should be wailing, thought Elma. “How do you know?”
“I’ve seen this many times,” said the physician. “There was no poison. The royal tasters are alive and well.”
Elma said nothing.
“The slaves,” someone said from the crowd of courtiers, which had quieted in Elma’s presence. “They did this.”
“Yes,” came another voice. “The Slödavan slaves poisoned him!”
In a moment, the cry was taken up by the entirety of the surrounding courtiers, a chorus of rage and impotent grief, no doubt fueled by the bloodthirst of the arena.
“Stop them,” Elma said, turning to Luca and her guards. “Silence them.”
“Only you can do that,” said Luca, apologetic.
Elma stood over her dead father and watched as the Court of Frost worked itself into a blood frenzy.Only you can do that. The words rang in her ears. Her father was dead. King Rafe Volta was dead. She was all that was left of the Volta bloodline.
“The slaves!” came the boiling cry.
No one was left to stop this. Elma’s hands clenched into fists, her breaths fighting against a too-tight chest. She could not stop this. She wasn’t meant for it.
“Your Highness,” said the physician, matter-of-fact, her voice cutting through the chaotic noise. “Your father’s body. What are your orders?”
Elma stared at it, the thing that had been her father. Part of her wondered if the slaves were still alive or whether they’d already been torn limb from limb, disemboweled right there in the stands of the arena.
“YourHighness.”
“Take the king to his bedchambers.” A deep, resonant voice cut through the chaos, and the noise abated until it was nothing but a dull hum.
Elma looked around for the source of the voice, relief and fear and grief all threatening to drown her. Because she would have known that voice anywhere. Her uncle, Lord Godwin, appeared at her side in his military garb. He must have beencalled in from his post atop one of the arena battlements. Tiny icicles clung to his dark beard.
Elma opened her mouth to speak, but her uncle’s hand fell heavy on her shoulder, silencing her. That gesture alone, the weight of his presence, soothed her.
“King Rafe will be seen by the kingdom’s best physicians,” said Godwin, addressing the room at large. They hung on his every word, for he was the king’s general, his brother by marriage, and trusted as the sovereign’s right hand. “There, the method of his death will be determined. While this is being done, the Slödavan slaves will be held by my own men. I can promise you that justice will be carried out, and your king’s memory will be honored as he so deserves.”
Then Godwin turned to Elma, his voice far lower, and said, “Go back to the citadel. There’s nothing more you can do here.” He made a sharp gesture for Luca’s benefit —keep her safe, get her home.
Elma did not object. She didn’t want to spend another second in that arena, that horrible blood-stained place where her father had been and where only a body remained. And as she hurried into the arena corridor once again, Cora and her guards at her sides, she felt distinctly that she had been subjected to some kind of test. A test that only a queen could pass, and that Elma — a mere princess — had utterly failed.
Three
Elma was allowed to see her father’s body just past midnight on the day of her twenty-first birthday. It seemed as though no one in the citadel slept; the halls were so brightly lit. Even the shadows were full of solemn servants and courtiers. Silken handkerchiefs dabbed at wide eyes as Elma passed.
Elma was relieved to see that her father’s wing of the citadel was quiet, empty of prying eyes and listening ears. Only her guards accompanied her until she was left alone at the door of the king’s rooms.
Indecision gnawed suddenly. Was she meant to knock or simply enter the room? A queen would do the latter, but Elma had been King Rafe’s obedient daughter. She tapped a knuckle softly on the heavy wood.
At once, the door swung open, aided by a pair of solemn pages. She went in, aware of how she moved, the set of her chin, and every nuance of her expression. They would be watching, curious, or hoping for guidance.
Without her father, Elma was about to be the highest power in Rothen. She would be their mother, their war chief,their protector, their judge, and their jury. In her hands, she held a power unwanted, writhing in its eagerness to undo her. She had never wanted to be queen.
As she came to the bed, the physicians moved away from it in tandem, heads bowed. “Your Majesty,” they murmured, using the title out of deference, even though Elma had yet to be officially crowned.
The words fell on her ears and sat like a rock in Elma’s gut.
