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Shades of white, grey, and blue spread out before them like a painting. The breath caught in Elma’s throat as they rode, her eyes stinging. Mountains loomed ahead, grand and eternal. Elma had seen those mountains from the citadel and thought them foreboding; now, she found them beautiful. Snow blanketed their valleys, and great peaks of grey-black rock rose up from the white.
Even the growing storm, which roiled upward and began to daub part of the sky in rich blacks and wild grays, filled Elma with a sense of wonder. This was not a forgiving landscape, nor would it ever be. Nothing about it was soothing or calm. Yet Elma felt, for the first time, not joy… but something right and easy in her chest.
She had never seen it like this before, her kingdom.
“Haven’t you traveled beyond the borders of your city?” Rune asked, as if Elma’s feelings were written across her face.
“Not since the day you tried to kill me,” she said, shooting the assassin a wry look.
Rune nodded, his expression thoughtful. “It’s a lovely country if you look at it with the right eyes. You’re fortunate.”
“To rule a frozen wasteland?” Elma said, only half joking.
“To have experienced it at all,” Rune said, turning. “How many Navenians do you suppose come up to Rothen for a holiday? How many Mekyans?”
Elma stifled a laugh. “They wouldn’t make it an hour. You should have seen me when I first came to Frost. I’d been floating around in Mekya with short hair, gauzy gowns, and bare feet. I nearly died of shock.”
Rune’s face brightened in surprise. “Gauzy gowns, you say? I’d love a more detailed description when your guards aren’t looming in every direction.”
Elma snorted, glancing at Luca, who rode two horse lengths in front of her. “I was fourteen.”
“But you aren’t fourteen now,” he said, eyeing her appreciatively. “Though you still have the short hair.”
She reached up self-consciously, pulling at the black curls where they brushed against her jaw. “My neck is always cold. But…”
“It’s a reminder. Of the girl you used to be.” Rune tilted his head, studying her. “It suits you. Makes you look powerful.”
Elma bit her lip to keep from smiling. “I’m beginning to suspect you killed Rune and replaced him with a doppelganger,” she said. “I almost prefer you when you’re cruel.”
“Oh,” Rune said, leaning sideways so only she could hear his low voice, “I can still be cruel. Next time I have you alone…”
“We approach the Hell Gate,” Luca’s voice rang out. He twisted in the saddle, catching Elma’s gaze with his own disapproving one. “We make camp in an hour.”
By the time the pale sun was setting over the vast frozen plain to the west, camp had been made. It consisted of many squat tents, low enough to avoid being blown away, and a shallow hole that served as a firepit. Wood had been broughtfrom the citadel for fires. The men worked so efficiently that a fire was already crackling and cured meats were being passed around within minutes of stopping to camp.
Elma’s tent was larger than the rest and marked by a pair of wildly fluttering pendants in red and black. She wondered whether this was the best choice in the event of an attack — someone might creep in under cover of night, slit her throat, and sneak away, all without being caught. But Luca insisted that she have the best tent, that guards would be on rotation throughout the night.
And so, wrapped in furs, her feet tucked against a hot stone from the fire, Elma ate her dinner with the traveling party. As the sun’s light diminished, orange firelight danced on faces old and young, all of them familiar to her. She prayed silently that no harm would come to them on this journey.
When she was finished eating, Elma noted that the men were solemn, their voices hushed as they spoke with one another. Even the skins of wine were being passed around quietly and only a few sips were taken by each guard. They wouldn’t be able to relax while their queen sat among them. So, Elma took her leave, pressing a hand to Luca’s arm as she did. Rune got up with her, trailing her to the tent.
“Your Majesty,” said Luca, coming up behind them.
Elma turned, blinking against the firelight that still danced in her vision. “I’m going to bed,” she said. “You and your men deserve time to… be merry.”
“I’ll post guards around the tent,” Luca said, glancing at Rune even as he spoke.
“No need,” said Rune, his white hair and blue eyes shining ethereal in the firelight. “I’m as good as ten of yours.”
“Majesty,” Luca said, ignoring the assassin and plying Elma with an adamant gaze. “We are no longer within the walls of the citadel. Let me do my job.”
“Of course,” Elma said. “You may ignore my bodyguard. He is full of himself.”
Rune’s sharp glare in response made her skin tingle.
Luca inclined his head, returning to the fire. Within moments, half a dozen guards were arranged at strategic points around Elma’s tent, and she was finally allowed to go in. She had to duck to enter it, but it was surprisingly warm and piled high with blankets, furs, and pillows. A pile of hot stones waited for her in one corner. Her men had been efficient, and she was grateful.
Rune had stayed at the tent entrance, where he claimed he would remain all night, barring a few hours’ sleep. Elma didn’t like the idea of her men freezing in the snow all night while she curled up in fur-lined blankets. But there was a fire, and hot stones for their boots, and spiced wine. It would have to do.
