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Elma had to look away while she donned her own cloak.I am a queen,she reminded herself.I can survive this, along with everything else.
Stepping out into the night, Elma couldn’t help but be overwhelmed by the unfamiliarity of it. She had walked the same stone, stood under the same sky, for the past several years of her life. But Slödava was nothing like Frost. Where Frost felt as if it clung stubbornly to the mountains, angrily holding off winter storms with its solid walls and dark stone, Slödava seemed to rise out of the landscape. It was part of the fabric of the north. There was no sense of stolid strength, no push and pull between the landscape and the people who resided there. It felt peaceful. As if this city, with its rising spires and delicate arches, had simply formed at the beginning of the world. As if it belonged there.
They walked along narrow and steep roads, free of snow and ice. They were largely empty, though Elma could hear laughter and smell the aroma of cooking as they passed well-lit windows. When they did come across the odd Slödavan, no one seemed to notice Rune, or care that the Crown Prince was out walking among them, unprotected and unannounced.
Their path took them vaguely downward, away from the palace, toward slightly busier streets. And with every step, Elma became increasingly awed by the beauty of the city. It was unlike anything she’d ever seen. Not even sun-drenched Lothyn, with its lush gardens and colorful mosaics, was so arresting in its intricate architecture, the balance and design of buildings and shop fronts.
“My father never told me how beautiful it was,” Elma said, unthinking. They passed beneath a series of buttresses,vaulting outward from a cathedral that seemed to glow from within, blue and glacier-like.
“Well, he wouldn’t,” Rune said, glancing up to follow Elma’s gaze. “I’m well aware of the way they paint us in Rothen. Brutes from the north, practically inhuman, probably living in caves and practicing cannibalism. Inaccurate, of course, but I suppose it fosters a sort of superiority among your people. Justification for your crimes, etcetera.”
Elma bristled. “You speak as if the Slödavans have done nothing wrong, but I’ve seen the slaughter. I’ve heard your men — the things they’ve said to me while in chains.” Her lip curled at the memory of a particularly vile Slödavan, one of her father’s many hostages, a man who had leered at her with the empty gaze of a hungry lizard.
“Tell me who it was, and if he’s not dead already, I’ll have him killed for you.” Rune’s words were lazy. He didn’t even meet Elma’s eye as he spoke.
“This isn’t a joke,” Elma said, stopping dead in the street.
Rune paused, blinking. “I never said it was. And if you’re determined to have this discussion here,now, I suppose you’ve conveniently forgotten about the fact that the Rothen nobility have no qualms about capturing and enslaving my people.”
Bile rose in Elma’s throat. The bed slaves offered as a birthday present, executed in the wake of her father’s death. The white-haired men she’d seen slaughtered in the arena or dragged through the dark citadel corridors, down toward the dungeons. She said nothing.
Rune studied her closely. “You’ll notice a distinct lack of Rothenian slaves in Slödava.”
Elma remained quiet as she followed the Crown Prince in ashamed silence, hating herself for her ignorance, the lack of self-awareness. But how could she have known better? Until now, shehad imagined Slödava to be, while not exactly as brutal as Rune said, a land shrouded in mystery and darkness. A place where Rothenians would be slaughtered on sight. A warlike enclave.
But while Elma was subjected to the occasional inquisitive glance from the people they passed, no one regarded her obviously Rothenian features with anything more than passing curiosity.
“I thought we were going to dinner,” Elma said when they had been winding through the city for quite some time.
“We are,” Rune replied. “It’s not far. The Snowbitten Stoat.”
“The what?”
He grinned. “You’ll see.”
Rune spoke true — they turned down another narrow street lined with shop fronts that spilled honey-thick light out onto the cobbles. He stopped short in front of one of the shops, which Elma now saw was an inn of some kind. An ornate, white-painted sign hung out front, decorated with a dancing weasel-like creature.
“We’re having dinnerhere?” she said, incredulous. Elma had never taken a meal in the city of Frost, not outside the arena. Not even in Lothyn had she been inside an establishment like this.
“It’s a tavern, Your Majesty. The purpose is to eat and drink and, if you’re not the Queen of Rothen, perhaps even be merry.”
“I know what a tavern is.”
Rune smiled. “Then why don’t you indulge me,” he said, pushing open the door.
Sound and light and music swept over them. Elma was momentarily set off balance. She was used to cacophony, the sound of drunkenness and lechery. But there was joy in thesesounds, true laughter. The carefree intimacy in the atmosphere was so unlike anything in the Frost Citadel that it weakened Elma’s knees.
“In you go,” said Rune, guiding her inside with a hand at the small of her back. “Before you let the cold in.”
They found themselves at a wooden bar that was sticky with spilled wine and things Elma couldn’t begin to identify. She perched uncomfortably on the stool that Rune had shown her to, arms crossed over her chest. There were bodies everywhere — laughing, raucous, and drunk. The couple closest to her at the bar was playing some kind of game, both of them placing bits of bone in small designs and bursting out in peals of glee whenever some unknown achievement had been reached in the game.
People kept bumping into her, practically shoving. And when Elma spun accusingly, she saw that the offenders were pink in the cheeks, eyes shining, and so drunk that they likely wouldn’t have understood her even if she tried to demand respect. Not that any of these tavern patrons owed it to her. They were Slödavan, down to the last person. And from the looks of it, none of them had any idea who Elma or Rune were.
“Doesn’t anyone recognize you?” Elma muttered in Rune’s ear. He had finished ordering for them, a task which Elma had outright refused to attempt.
Rune turned, eyes bright. He shoved a tankard of something sweet-smelling and hot toward her. It struck Elma that he seemed different here, more at ease. No more was he the haughty prince, nor was he the bloodthirsty assassin he had seemed to be in Frost.
“Of course they do,” he said, taking a long swig of his drink. “I come here all the time.”
