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The room contained a bed,and the hearth was wide, a crackling fire within. It was more than Elma had hoped for. Björn had shown her in without fanfare and left her there alone. When Elma put her ear to the door a moment later, she heard the low voices and creaking of leather and metal that indicated Björn’s men had stayed to guard her.
She hadn’t expected any less.
Elma was standing in the middle of the room, wondering what to do next, when a knock sounded at the door. Before she could answer, it swung open. The boy at the door, flanked by guards, appeared to be a pageboy. He was decorated in blue and white livery, a floppy velvet hat on his head. He carried a bucket and a sponge.
“For Her Majesty’s bath,” he said when Elma stared questioningly. “In case she desires to smell less… potent.”
Elma bristled. “Thank you,” she said stiffly, knowing that a pageboy was not the source of her pain or her ire.
“With pleasure,” he said pleasantly, setting the bucket and sponge near the fireplace. He turned back to her and gave her a pertinent once-over. He had the sharp blue eyes and delicate features of the Slödavans that Elma had come to know, but his hair was pale grey. “Surprised they don’t have you lockedup in the dungeon,” he said. “The Volta name doesn’t inspire much kindness here.”
There was no way to respond to this comment without sounding sullen or ungrateful, so Elma simply returned the boy’s stare with her own.
He shrugged. “The Queen will see you in an hour. See that you’re presentable by then. Ring the bell if you need something.” He pointed to a length of rope that hung from the ceiling near the bed. “No one will bring you anything, of course, but the bell sounds nice.” Then he bowed at the waist and took his leave.
The door slammed behind him, and Elma was alone again. She wished she had thought to question the pageboy, to ask after her men or Rune. Then again, she knew exactly where Rune was — lounging somewhere, reveling in being a prince, no doubt. Probably laughing at her, her naivete, the way she’d been so easily taken in. He had undoubtedly colluded with her advisors, planned her death, perhaps planned all of this, from the start.
Elma squeezed her hands into tight fists until they ached, her nails digging into her palms. After a few long breaths, she willed her fingers to relax.
I will get through this alive. My men will get through this alive.
The mantra did nothing to soothe her, but it distracted her from more dire thoughts. Since there was nothing else to do, she went to the bucket and was surprised to find that the water was, indeed, hot.
Unwilling to undress in the enemy citadel, Elma made do with washing her face and hands. The hot water was a welcome relief from the grime of the road, the chill of travel. But her spirits remained cold, her heart rimed with subtle agony. She could not keep the image of Rune, head held highas he gave the order to arrest her, out of her thoughts. It gnawed at her, pulling her down and down.
Despair is what he wants, she thought desperately.Give in and he has you exactly where he wants you.
When she was finished washing, Elma inspected the room more thoroughly. It was small, but fine — in the Frost Citadel, such a room would have been given to traveling merchants who held favor with Rothen, or members of court without a title. But this far north, in the isolated city… Elma could only imagine who might need a room for the night. Like the rest of the Slödavan palace, this room’s ceilings towered upward. All was made of white stone.
The only item of note, other than the bed and hearth, was a decorative sword hung over the hearth. Elma spent several minutes trying to pry the sword from the wall but only succeeded in loosening its fastening. It wasn’t a proper weapon, anyway — it would not protect her from Slödavan steel, let alone Rime Ice.
She was on her hands and knees behind the bed, feeling around for any weapons or sharp objects that could have been abandoned and forgotten there, when another knock sounded at the door.
Certain that an hour had not yet passed, Elma stood abruptly. Blood rushed to her head. A man in the most beautifully ostentatious clothes she had ever seen strode into the room.
He wore dark leather hose of navy blue, a pair of grey leather boots reaching almost to the knee. His doublet matched the hose and was embroidered at the shoulders with intricate silvery threads that looked like a light snowfall. The full sleeves, narrowing at the wrist, were slashed to reveal pale grey damask silk beneath. The collar of his doublet hung open just enough to reveal a tan chest draped with silverchains of opal. A sword hung at his waist. Fingers heavy with silver rings, he tapped the pommel of his sword and regarded Elma with a thoughtful expression.
“Your Highness,” Elma said, the chill on her heart solidifying to ice, expanding through her until she was frozen with unspent rage.
Rune smiled and closed the door behind him.
Twenty-Nine
The air lay taut between them, a held breath, both Rune and Elma waiting for the other to make the first move. Rune’s scar seemed out of place here in his finery, in this palace. There was still a ferality to him that wasn’t to be contained. Elma hated that she saw it in his eyes — the man she thought she knew.
“What do you want?” she finally said, breaking the silence as she made her way casually toward the fireplace. It would do her no real good, but if she could wrench the display sword from the wall, she might at least give Rune another scar.
“You, obviously.” Rune moved toward her, almost brash in his swaggering confidence.
He truly doesn’t care at all, Elma thought.He never did.
“I’ve only just managed to speak with the Queen—”
As Rune spoke, Elma made her move. She darted to the hearth, and using all her strength, at last pried the display sword free from the wall. It was far too light, its edges too dull to pierce properly let alone kill.
But she could take an eye.
“Oh for—” Rune said, and Elma lunged.
