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She pulled Rune to her, fingers buried in his hair, and found his mouth with trembling, blood-flecked lips. She bit down and tasted iron, and the tang of it brought her back to earth. Back to herself. All was suddenly in sharp, vibrant focus.
And here was Rune, vivid, immovable. Strands of white hair clung to the muck of his face, curling against his ears. His lip bled where she’d bit it. He looked terrible.
Don’t fall in love with him.
“That’s the last of them,” Rune said, breathless. His Rime Ice blade was gone now, dissipated. Somehow, Rune looked more human then, his eyes dimmer, his hair less bright. But he was still very much alive, and it took everything in Elma not to let him consume her.
Shouts rose up from the remaining men about camp. Shouts of affirmation, of safety —they’re gone, we got them. But Elma looked around her and saw only death. The heavy reality of their situation fell like a mountain around her, and she staggered, Rune taking her arm to hold her steady. Was this fated to be her legacy, then? Not peace, but death?
“Take stock of the situation,” she said dully, her throat tight, as she tried to be a queen again. She shoved her bloody knife into its scabbard, and stood as tall as she could, thoughher hands shook, and her breaths were labored. “I want a full report.”
Elma foundLuca’s body easily, retracing her steps. The fire still crackled merrily, free of the torment that lay cloak-like on her shoulders. Firelight illuminated Luca’s face, handsome even in death.
“We have a report, Your Majesty.”
Elma looked up, and saw Hugh standing with Rune, at full attention. She searched Hugh’s face for grief of terror but saw only the practiced calm of a man trained for war. How many deaths like this had he seen? How many of his men had fallen to the warriors of the north, or highwaymen like these?
Elma was once again reminded of how truly sheltered she had been. How little she knew and understood of war, of her own kingdom, of the ways in which it interacted with the world.
“Hugh,” she said, his name an exhalation of relief. She gathered herself together, exuding as queenly an aura as she could manage. “Report, please.”
“It was highwaymen, Your Majesty. Probably heard us from miles away and waited for the cover of night to attack. We lost sixteen men. Two more are injured and must take the carriage.” He paused, glancing sidelong at Rune, who remained silent. “There is a full day’s journey ahead of us on the ice. Even if we travel at speed, we will not reach Slödava until after sundown. And with the carriage…” he trailed off, nostrils flaring, his jaw tight.
“Speak your thoughts, Hugh,” Elma said, her heart sinking even as she spoke.Sixteen men. With two injured, that meant only seven able men remained, including Rune.
“Her Majesty is asking for my opinion?”
“Yes.”
The guard shook his head. “We can’t continue like this. Not with only seven of us to protect you. There could be more highwaymen. Or Slödavans. Anything could…” he paused, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. A shadow crossed his face, the only hint that he was as affected by the slaughter as Elma was. “I recommend returning to the Frost Citadel.”
By now, more of Elma’s men had drifted over, their gazes sharp with grief and anger. She knew they must all be thinking the same. That this was folly, a suicidal mission across the ice. But if Elma turned back now, nothing would change. The aggression with Slödava would continue on and on, perhaps forever. Elma would begin to find comfort in the citadel, in the throne, and settle there until her body and the stone of the citadel became indistinguishable. She would watch the Death Games and call for blood. She would send her men on raids to Slödava, calling for death. More men, countless more bodies, would fall on the Frozen Sea.
Above all, if Elma turned back now… Rune had no place in that life. No reason to stay, no reason to remain loyal to a queen who had given up on peace, on his people. Who had given up on him.
She caught Rune’s eye, a safe haven among the rock-hard stares of her men. She knew he would follow her to Slödava, even if all others abandoned her. She read it in the tilt of his head, in the gleam of his eyes.
“I am not prepared to abandon the hope of peace for Rothen,” Elma said, her voice carrying across their small camp so that all could hear. “I’m not prepared to let your children, and their children, inherit a legacy of war. If you wish to, you may depart, and return to Frost. I will not mark you as a deserter, nor will anyone blame your choice. Ahead lieslikely death. But as your queen, I cannot give up hope. I will continue to Slödava.”
Her words hung on strained silence. The corner of Rune’s mouth curved upward.
Hugh hung his head and sighed, a long and weary breath. The men shifted, sharing dark glances. They weren’t happy about it, but Elma knew they wouldn’t desert her. Their pride was too strong. At last, Hugh lifted his eyes to meet Elma’s gaze. A small inclination of the chin was all he gave, his shoulders tight and his lips twisted in disapproval. But for Elma’s purposes, it would do.
They would continue to Slödava.
Twenty-Seven
Flames licked the grey sky of morning. A column of black smoke rose up from the bodies, expanding and spreading as it rose until it merged with the low cloud cover. A light snow fell, flakes landing cold on Elma’s face.
All was quiet as the remaining travelers spoke prayers to the winter star, to the Frozen Sea itself.Keep their spirits safe. Guide them well to the after.
There was nothing to comfort Elma, no soft words or sweet drink. She did not want comfort in that moment. She welcomed the agony, the visceral stench of the bodies of her own men, burning on a makeshift pyre, two days from home. In one hand, she clutched the hilt of a sword. Luca’s sword. She had taken the sword belt too, for safekeeping. When they returned safely to Frost —they would return safely, she assured herself — she would give it to his family.
How had her father lived like this, knowing so many men had died for him? Had he built a wall of stone around his own heart? Or had it always been there, and the killing had come easy from the start.
Rune’s presence at her shoulder should have been acomfort, but it felt like a curse. She could not turn to him for words of warmth, and the memory of his Rime Ice hung bright in her memory. She hadn’t asked him about it, and he had said nothing. The time wasn’t right. Yet the knowledge of it burned in her, the revelation that this weapon her father had fought and killed for, a weapon that countless men had died for… was magic.
But she could not think of it then, couldn't carry the weight of it along with everything else. Not yet.
