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It didn’t matter to Elma whether she was crowned in a month, or in five, or that afternoon. As soon as the crown was hers, she would become like Bertram and Maurice, these aging men who clung with gnarled fingers to the snow and black rock of Frost. And when she died, her flesh would remain forever preserved in the frozen earth, never rotting, never changing.
“You did well today.”
But Godwin’s words fell on unwilling ears. Elma had done nothing. She walked with him to one of the smalldinner rooms, a retinue of guards and pageboys swarming at their heels. Elma’s duties for the day would be finished after this meal, after what felt like a day that would never end. She regarded her uncle sidelong. He had shown no sign of grief or shock since her father’s passing. She was grateful for it.
“One more dinner,” he went on, “though it may be a quarrelsome one.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that your advisors will be in attendance, and…” he looked pointedly straight ahead, “there is one last matter of diplomacy to discuss.”
Elma stopped in her tracks. Luca and her guards, watching more closely now, halted behind her. “We’ve been discussing diplomacy all day,” she said, her tone treacherously close to petulance.
“And what’s one more hour on top of so many?” Godwin grinned, a wan baring of teeth. He extended a hand. “Come, Your Majesty. You are needed.”
The advisors were in good form that evening, laughing uproariously at their own middling jokes, fingertips oily with goose fat and noses red from hot wine. Elma sat at the head of the table. She felt like a child playing monarch in her father’s chair. She had worn her best gown, a sweeping thing of dark red, with draped sleeves and a gold braided belt that hung low over her hips. It had seemed queenly in her rooms, when Cora had fastened gold and pearl webbing over Elma’s black hair. Now, it seemed silly. What good was a gown when a kingdom lay at her feet, hoping she wouldn’t trip and stumble, crushing it beneath her awkward gait?
“I’ve never seen anyone so jolly in mourning,” Elma said, watching as Lord Bertram laughed so hard, he choked, forcing Lord Ferdinand to slap him on the back.
The room went quiet, save for the crackle of the fire, the distant howl of wind outside.
“We celebrate the life of a great king,” said Lord Maurice. He peered at Elma over the top of a hammered gold goblet.
Elma knew these men. She had known them for seven years against her will. And while she knew they had respected her father’s reign, loved him as a man might desperately love a father who withheld affection, they had never liked King Rafe. They were, like all men adjacent to the throne, happy to wait patiently until the opportunity arose to take some of it for their own. And Elma knew that she was the only thing that stood between them and a fistful of raw power.
“You celebrate the death of my father,” she said.
When the men began to protest, spluttering and wide-eyed, Godwin raised a hand to quiet them. “Her Majesty is in mourning,” he said. “As are we.”
The others muttered agreement, nodding and glancing between one another with solemn expressions. Elma’s pulse quickened. With a flash of satisfaction, she imagined what it might be like to take her dinner knife and plunge it deep into Lord Bertram’s neck, right where the vein throbbed against the papery skin of his throat.
Only the memory of Orchard House, of her three mothers’ arms around her, brought Elma back to earth.
“What is the final matter you wished to discuss?” Elma asked, failing to hide her ambivalence.
Godwin lowered his chin. “Majesty, you must be aware that King Rafe was not a diplomat of great renown. At best, he was feared by our neighboring realms. At worst, hated. And Rothen is not rich in natural resources. Our only asset has ever been…”
“Weapons,” Elma finished for him, bored already. She knew what Godwin would say next. That she ought todeclare war on some nearby nation, raid their villages, steal their crops and burn their homes. It was all the same with these men — war, the answer to every one of life’s mysteries.
“Indeed,” said Godwin. “Frost’s blacksmiths must be fed, their people housed and cared for. Our ties with Navenie and Mekya are unstable, our trade and commerce are hanging by a thread. Your father did his best, but…”
“But clearly he didn’t,” Elma said, almost resigned. “And here I am, about to sit on the throne of a starving country. What did you have in mind, Godwin?” She was tired, her words more liberal and cutting than the advisors were used to. Lord Ferdinand had the sense to look slightly abashed. The rest only regarded her with a touch more shrewdness.
“A mission of diplomacy,” said Godwin, folding his fingers together. “Rothen’s heir, arriving in person to broker a trade deal with the King of Navenie…”
“Rothen’s queen,” Elma corrected him.
Lord Maurice cleared his throat. “We think it prudent, Majesty, to withhold the news of King Rafe’s death until after your coronation.”
Godwin nodded. “We say he’s fallen ill. On the mend, of course, but not able to make the journey to Ordellun-by-the-Sea.”
Elma glanced from lord to lord, realization dawning. “You want me to travel all the way to Ordellun-by-the-Sea? Now? With no one on the throne while I’m away?”
“It would be a grand statement,” said Lord Bertram, clearly wanting to appear involved. “The heir ambassador, so devoted to her people that she journeyed far and—”
“Be still,” Lord Maurice growled, his dark eyes silencing the other lord.
Godwin watched Elma unwavering, and she knew he was assessing her behind those eyes. Gauging to see what shewould agree to, what sacrifices she’d make. Ordellun-by-the-Sea, the shining southern city of Navenie, would take almost a week to reach by horseback. The way would be treacherous, cutting through mountain passes and remote old-growth forests. Godwin knew this, and he knew that Elma understood the request.
