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She spun on her heel, not waiting to see how her uncle would react, no matter how her heart seemed to break andbleed within her, no matter how every cell in her body said to stay, to make things right again. She was finished arguing with him. And she could not give up on her kingdom, not now. Not like this. All she could do was act as a queen would and see how the bones scattered.
A sound of warning came from Rune and was cut off.
Before Elma could turn to see what had startled him, he slumped to the floor, a bloody gash at his temple. She froze in horror, unable to look away. She had misjudged her uncle’s sense of honor.
Godwin wasted no time. He stepped easily over Rune, taking full advantage of Elma’s shock. She was unarmed, swathed in furs and a heavy gown. She attempted to block him as he came for her, but it was no use. She had been utterly outplayed and was outmatched in strength and speed.
In a flash, Godwin had both of her arms twisted behind her. “I gave you a chance,” he said, and he sounded almost sad. “I would have followed you, had you only been more like your father.”
Then he barked a command, and the tent flap opened, and in a moment, the place was swarming with soldiers. Rothen soldiers. Elma’s men.
She grit her teeth, too enraged to cry, though her heart was breaking. She had failed.
“Secure the Slödavan prince. Put him in one of the wagons,” said Godwin, handing her off to one of the soldiers. “Tie the traitor queen’s hands, but leave her with me. She and I depart for Frost within the hour.”
Thirty-Six
Elma was allowed to ride alongside Lord Godwin, and her hands were freed accordingly. Rune had been loaded into a supply wagon that now served as a traveling jail, but Elma was not permitted to go near him. And within the first few hours of riding, they lost sight of the wagon behind them, its small retinue of guards fading into the snow-lashed landscape.
The last Elma had seen of Rune, he had still been unconscious, his hair matted and red where it stuck to the wound on his head.
“If he dies,” she had said, her voice thick with blood and spit, “I’ll rip the flesh from your body with my bare hands and shove it down your throat.”
Godwin had only chuckled and left her in the hands of his men while he’d prepared their horses to ride out. Elma hadn’t bothered trying to reason with the soldiers. None of them were known to her by name, a failing which fell all the harder on her heart when she realized that, had she gone out of her way to get to know them, to earn their loyalty, perhaps she wouldn’t be their prisoner now.
But it was too late to try to turn any of them now. The army remained camped on the ice at Slödava, waiting for the arrival of Godwin’s siege weapons. And when those were within range of the city, all-out war would break out.
And once Elma and Rune were back in Frost, made examples of before the people of the kingdom, Elma was certain that the desire for war within Rothen would boil to a frenzy. They would see Elma as a traitor queen, a Slödafucker who cared nothing for her kingdom.
Nausea, a persistent headache, and a writhing fear for Rune’s safety were Elma’s companions as she and her uncle rode, mostly silently, across the Frozen Sea.
At least she was allowed to ride, she weakly consoled herself. She would have been miserable inside a wagon or carriage, not knowing where she was, unable to breathe the air. She had briefly contemplated escape, but where would she go? Back to Slödava, where an army waited to arrest her? Or forward to Rothen, where she’d be welcomed in kind? There was no hope of running off into the frozen landscape — such a move would only end in death.
Her thoughts often went to Queen Hildegard. She wondered what the woman was thinking, back in her tower. Did she assume Elma had betrayed her? There was no reason to think otherwise. Elma was a Volta, after all. For all Hildegard knew, it took more than a few romps in the bed to turn a Queen of Rothen against her own uncle.
The thought of it made Elma’s blood curdle, her stomach writhe and knot.
“Stop twisting the reins,” said her uncle, glancing sideways at her across the ice. “You’ll confuse the horse.”
Elma said nothing.
They had been riding all day, and dusk was beginning to fall. They would camp on the ice that night.
When the sun was nearly below the horizon, Rune’s carriage and guard contingent caught up to them. Tents were quickly erected, and Godwin himself escorted her to her tent — private but hemmed in on all sides by guards. She turned to her uncle. “Let me see him,” she said, the words falling out despite herself. “I need to know he’s alive.”
“You have my word that he is,” Godwin said icily.
“And I have no reason to trust you,” Elma shot back.
For a moment, she thought he might relent. That the human part of him, perhaps some remnant of softness in his heart, would allow him to buckle just once. Just for one small thing. But his expression hardened. His jaw worked as if he might say something more, but at last, her uncle shook his head and turned away.
Elma stood there for a moment, wondering again if she ought to make a run for it. If she could just get to Rune, if he was safe… if the wound hadn’t been as bad as it looked…
But soldiers stood all around her, most regarding her with outright hostility, and the rest ignoring her as if she were nothing. As if she were vermin, skittering through camp.
“Into the tent, Slödafucker,” said the nearest soldier.
As if struck, Elma’s breath caught. She ducked inside her tent, hot with shame and anger. These were her men, her army, and her own uncle had reduced her to nothing but a disgrace.
