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You are a queen, she thought.Do something.
But dozens of Slödavan guards surrounded them. They had ridden right into the heart of the enemy, broken and battered. There was nothing to be done. Nothing.
Her assassin’s voice rose above the general din, making orders. He, too, had dismounted. But she did not want to see him. Even his voice was wrong, too formal, too like a prince. He wasn’t her assassin anymore.
A slow creep of frost grew over Elma’s heart as she was jostled and led roughly with her men through the throng of Slödavans. Hostile blue-bright eyes glanced off her as she went. Her knees weakened, but she remained upright, her chin held high.
She had trusted him. She had believed him to be a friend. She had thought foolishly that he might love her. That she might… But he was not her Rune, her assassin. He was Rune, the Crown Prince of Slödava. His mother was Queen Hildegard.
And he had led Elma straight into a trap.
Twenty-Eight
Björn himself led Elma to what she imagined must be the Slödavan palace. She had been separated from her men and tried not to think of what the Slödavans would do to them, without her protection. The walk to the palace wasn’t far from the city gates, but the climb up to its doors consisted of several stone stairways and steep narrow roads. By the time she was led roughly inside, Elma’s lungs burned with exertion. Her legs, still sore from riding for three days, shook.
But she said nothing, tried not to pant. There could be no sign of weakness or fear. At last, when she had gathered her breath enough to stop gasping, she spoke. “Where are you taking me?” she asked, glancing around them. Björn and a small contingent of guards were leading her through eerie corridors, lit only with quivering candles. Unlike the heavy low-ceilinged corridors of the dark-stone Frost Citadel, this palace towered like a spire. The ceilings were impossibly tall and arched, and something high above them in the rafters seemed to glow blue-white.
“Down,” said Björn. That was all.
So, Elma followed him down, down to thebelly of the palace. They had spent so much time climbing up, and now they descended into a dismal cold. The clatter of guards’ armor echoed in time with their footsteps. Elma was glad to be wearing her traveling clothes; if she had been in one of her gowns, she would have been shivering in the chill. This was colder even than the dungeons of the Frost Citadel.
At last, a narrow stair leveled off into a corridor, along which were barred cells. Elma peered in as they passed but saw no one.
“Where are my men?” she demanded. “If you harm them or me, it will be war with Rothen.”
“Isn’t it always war with Rothen?” Björn replied, sardonic. “Your men are being taken to another location. We can’t have you strategizing.”
Elma wanted to say something sarcastic, cutting.Thank you for assuming we can strategize our way out of a fortified dungeon in a fortified palace in a fortified city. But she was no longer a haughty princess; she must be a stately queen, even as a prisoner. She would remind herself of that until the belief held.
At the end of the corridor, Björn halted. They stood before a dark cell, furnished only with a blanket draped over a pile of straw and a bucket.
Elma balked. “You cannot be serious,” she said, despite herself.
“Can’t I?” Björn said. Without pausing, he unbuckled Elma’s sword belt and handed Luca’s sword to another guard. Then he patted her down, locating two other daggers and handing them off.
Elma seethed. Her teeth were clenched so hard her head began to ache. But she said nothing. Petulance would get her nowhere. Instead, she tried to imagine what her father would do. He had been welcomed into the court of Slödava onceand treated like royalty, until he slaughtered them without cause. But if she could leverage the Slödavan sense of honor, perhaps…
“Björn,” she said, turning to face the guard.
He raised his eyebrows, gesturing for her to enter the cell. “Can I get you something, Majesty? A hot bath, perhaps? Someone to braid your hair?”
“Only this,” Elma said, standing her ground. “I believe it would behoove you, my lord, to treat the Queen of Rothen with the proper respect. If Navenie and Mekya hear that I’ve been tossed in a cell like some street rat—”
“Navenie?” scoffed Björn, turning to his men to laugh. “Mekya? They are leagues away. Another world. Nice try, though.”
“Not as far as you think,” Elma said, speaking louder. Allowing her chest to fill, to project her voice just as her father had. “King Alaric and Queen Antigone are aware that the Queen of Rothen is on a mission of peace to Slödava. If they hear that you have taken me captive, they will join Rothen in declaring outright war on Slödava.”
Björn snorted, but the mirth in his expression faded. “You’re bluffing. And even if you weren’t, Mekya and Navenie would never go to war if they knew what you’d done to our Crown Prince. They’d let you take the beating you deserve.”
Elma raised her eyebrows. “Is that a risk you’re willing to take on behalf of your realm?”
He regarded her with reluctant thoughtfulness. “You’re in no place to make demands.”
“A room with a bed and a fire in the hearth,” she said. “That is all I ask. Is this a request that the honorable kingdom of Slödava would deny its neighboring monarch?”
Björn sighed, rolling his eyes. Then he waved a gauntletedhand, gesturing at his men to turn around and go back the way they’d come. “The Queen of Rothen has made her request,” he said, “and the hospitality of Slödava will not deny her.”
Elma was silent as she allowed Björn to lead her back out of the dungeon and upward toward the warmth and light. And with every step, she felt a faint warmth bloom in her chest. Something like pride. Something like power.
