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“I don’t think anyone in Rothen knows the meaning of levity,” said Elma.
The room went quiet. It was the first time she had spoken in hours, and she was convinced some of the men gathered had forgotten she was still there. She couldn’t blame them — she had never found the need for her voice before, had never found it important to disagree or to weigh in. What need did a prisoner have of an opinion when her chains might never break?
A log snapped in the hearth, sending up a shower of sparks.
Godwin, no longer dressed as a general but as a lord of the citadel in a tunic and cape of fine silk and fur,broke the silence with a chuckle. “Her Majesty has a sharp tongue. A boon for the kingdom.”
“What good does a tongue do if we are overrun by Slödavans?” grumbled Lord Bertram. His hair and skin were grey, and he was set in his ways. Elma tended to see him as an embodiment of the kingdom: old and stalwart and brutal, rotting from the inside.
“Licks its wounds,” said Lord Maurice. Half-shrouded in shadow where he sat at the far end of the table, he had said little that morning. His craggy countenance and dark eyes had always made Elma uneasy. He was a man who seemed to have always been ancient, as if a part of the mountain had crumbled off and become a man.
“Do we have evidence of an impending Slödavan invasion?” Elma asked.
She knew there was more to the aggression between Rothen and Slödava than some long-standing, pointless feud. Slödava had something that Rothen wanted — Rime Ice. Her father had waxed poetic on the subject countless times. The magic-imbued weapons were supposedly forged directly from the ice of a glacier in the far north, which only the people of Slödava could access. They were indestructible weapons of legend. It was said that the damage these weapons inflicted was far beyond any a mortal blade could cause, their wielders granted unnatural strength and speed.
King Rafe had desperately wanted Rime Ice, but Slödava had refused to even acknowledge its existence. But Rafe, and the kings before him, had never stopped hunting it, as if obsessed. Their intermittent attacks on the kingdom of Slödava were unending.
This was why, Rafe had once explained to Elma, the Slödavans battered themselves against the walls of Frost in snow-born raids, why the Queen of Slödava would doanything to put an end to the line of Volta and take the throne of Rothen for her own, and to prevent the knowledge of Rime Ice from ever reaching the southern kingdoms.
“Every month we are attacked,” said Lord Maurice, somehow subsiding further into gloom as he spoke, though his eyes shone darkly. “They come out of the snow and assault the walls; they scale ice as if born to it. They are inhuman, bloodthirsty, unrelenting.”
“It has been decades since a full-scale assault was launched upon Frost,” Godwin said. “To cross the Frozen Sea alone would be a feat for any army.”
“Not impossible,” said Lord Bertram. “We must strike first, and decisively.”
Elma rested her chin on folded hands, more than ready for this discussion to end. “No evidence, then.”
Lord Maurice said nothing. Lord Bertram spluttered, as if about to protest, but Godwin held up a hand. “Unless there is a pending threat of attack, I see no reason to rush the coronation. Her Majesty became queen the moment her father’s heart ceased to beat. A coronation is a formality.”
“A formality that bears legal weight,” Bertram insisted. “If we declare all-out war on Slödava, which I say wemust, then Rothen would be in a position of weakness. An uncrowned queen declaring war without an heir? None of our allies would have reason to support us. The laws of the land and the kingdom would not yet bind her, and Frost Citadel would be open for the taking.”
Elma listened, her own thoughts muffling the lords’ words. A delayed coronation meant more formal events, invitations to host far-flung family members, a parade of miserable pretending and smiling. She would be forced to grin all the way to the chopping block. Yet a quick coronation meantan ax at her throat before she was ready. If one could ever be ready to rule a kingdom.
“Your Majesty,” Godwin said, turning to Elma. His eyes were softer than they had been all morning, though it might have been the firelight. Or the reflection of late morning sun glancing in through the window, pale and weak off the drifts of snow. “When shall the coronation be held?”
The question caught her off guard. Since returning to Frost, Elma had seldom, if ever, been asked for any meaningful input. She had been asked questions, of course — what would Her Highness like for breakfast? What color dress would she like to wear to the Death Games? How many logs would she like in the hearth? But the real decisions, the ones that affected her life, had never been left to her. The only true rebellion she had ever been allowed was the length of her hair, which she had refused to grow long since leaving Mekya.
Now that a true decision was left up to Elma, she found that she hated every option. Would she prefer to hurdle headfirst into queendom, to rule a kingdom before she had even accepted that her father was gone? Or would she rather delay the inevitable, allow time to crawl all over her uneasy skin until she ached for the release of finality?
What do you really want?
The question came softly, from a place of longing that Elma had tried hard to forget. From the memory of her mothers at Orchard House. A ghost of warmth, of tenderness and love passed over her. For a brief moment, she felt Mekya’s hot sun, Orchard House’s cool stone under her bare feet, and drew her fingers along a broad green leaf.
I want to go home.
“Your Majesty?” Godwin said.
Elma knew what she wanted. And she could never have it.She glanced at Godwin. “In a month,” she said, the end of her words upturned like a question.
Godwin nodded once. “Very good, Your Majesty. Let the coronation be held in a month. Two weeks from the day of King Rafe’s funeral. There will be time enough for preparations, a ball,” he tossed Lord Ferdinand a generous smile, “and for a tournament. Even if an army were on its way to Frost now from Slödava, which is unlikely, an army in full force would not evade our notice. There is always the option to hasten the coronation if need be.”
The gathered lords seemed to find no reason to object. Why should they? It was Godwin who had spoken the words, who had made the real decision. Perhaps Elma could rule this way, allowing Godwin to guide her, to speak for her. It would be a pale life, but what did Elma know about being queen?
Everything your father taught you, she thought, her mouth twisting.Would you fail his memory so quickly?
“I will see to it that the preparations are carried out,” said Godwin, magnanimous.
“Thank you,” Elma said tonelessly.
