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“Do you contest it?” Godwin’s voice was sharp, and Elma realized he had repeated the question.
“No,” she said.
“Very well,” said Godwin. He laid the document on a small table and signed it with aflourish of ink.
“Elma Volta,” said Lord Bertram, clearly relishing every moment of this, “you are hereby stripped of the crown, which was afforded to you by right of birth. As a result of your treachery, you forfeit the crown of Rothen and your life.”
Elma tensed, thinking she would be expected to speak again and not knowing if she could trust herself to do so over the lump in her throat.
But the ceremony seemed to be over. Godwin rolled up the document, tucking it into a sleeve. He gave Elma a searching, thoughtful look. And then she was taken roughly by her arms and ushered from the room, her retinue of guards in tow. She was no longer the Queen of Rothen. No longer even the traitor queen.
She was simply Elma Volta. And the world felt colder than it ever had.
When dawn creptin the next morning in grey curtains of snow, Elma was already awake. She hadn’t slept. Today, she would watch Rune die, and then she, too, would be put down. There was no preparation she could make, no way to quiet the rising tide of panic in her mind. She wished she could at least relax, at least rest, before the grip of eternity took her.
She couldn’t stop wondering if it would hurt, the blade through her skin, her muscles and sinews, her spine. Would she feel her head separating from her shoulders? Would she see blood spreading out below her, the last seconds of consciousness blessing her with one final glimpse of violence?
Elma was already dressed when the summons came that she would join Godwin at the Death Games before her execution. She had worn her best, as only seemed right. She woulddie draped in silks and furs, fit for a woman who had been queen. That, at least, was in her control.
Her guards escorted her out of the Frost Citadel and into a quiet, snowy morning. She wondered if this would be her last glimpse of it. Knowing Godwin, he would have her executed in the arena after the Death Games. What better way to make a spectacle of her and to secure his future as king of Rothen?
Elma wasn’t ignorant; she understood that Godwin stood next in line for the throne. But he would not be crowned until after her death, as was the custom. And by that time, Elma’s worries would be over.
To her surprise, Elma climbed into her carriage and found that it was already occupied. Godwin sat straight-backed in his lord’s regalia, his eyes colder than the sky. Elma wanted to turn around and leave, to request her own carriage, but of course, there was no point. Godwin wanted to ride with her through the city; to gloat ‘til the very end. She had seen him behave with pettiness before, but it hadn’t occurred to her that it was in his nature to be cruel and boastful.
“What a lovely surprise,” Elma said scathingly as she settled herself across from her uncle. “Taking my crown in disgrace wasn’t enough? Had to get a few additional blades between my ribs as well?”
Godwin made a mirthless exhalation through his nose and tapped his fist on the ceiling. As the carriage lurched forward, he tilted his chin, regarding his niece with narrowed eyes. “You think I act out of some personal vendetta rather than the good of the nation.”
“The uncle I thought I knew would have trusted me,” she said, her throat tight. “Of the two of us, I would have thought I’d be the bloodthirsty one. The heartless one.”
“Instead, you were weak,” he said as if this were a regrettablefact of nature. “I advised your father against sending you away to those women in Mekya. I knew their tenderhearted notions would pollute you. I should have seen it sooner. You can be mean, Elma. And you’ve always been cold, perhaps even bloodthirsty — to a point. But you lack the requisite cruelty. You cannot rule Rothen with love. The only reason Rothen still stands is because it has always been led by one who is willing to kill, and kill, and kill again.”
“Rothen clings to life by an unraveling thread,” Elma said between clenched teeth. “You know this. The men in your army eat nothing but dried meat. The people of Frost are starving, little by little.”
Godwin listened with a cold gaze, almost distantly amused.
Elma sat back. “But you know that. That’s what you want. You want a weak kingdom, easily crushed beneath your bootheel. What’s next after you conquer Slödava, then? Navenie? Mekya? You realize it’s impossible to—”
“You speak of things you don’t understand,” said Godwin, his voice dangerously soft. “You’re a confused little girl, nothing more. And you’ve given me everything I need to conquer whomever I choose.”
“A crown will only get you so far,” Elma said, crossing her arms tightly and gazing out the window. They had already descended from the citadel and were approaching the city of Frost. They sat in antagonistic silence as the gates of Frost swung open, and the carriage, along with its retinue of guards in Godwin’s colors, entered the great city.
Elma stared out the window as they went and, knowing it would be her last glimpse, she saw the city as if through new eyes. The streets were wide enough for a carriage to travel with ease, much wider than those of Slödava. Buildings of dark stone were painted pale grey by snowfall, already the steepeaves of their rooftops collecting layers of powder. Elma had always thought of Frost as a dour city, colorless and cold, just like the citadel. But as they passed shopfronts and inns, and rattled through squares marked with frozen fountains, she saw that it was beautiful in its way.
Tavern signs were painted with bright colors, and the doors of many homes were painted with flowers or suns, as if in defiance of the frostbitten landscape. Passing one home, Elma heard the sound of a harp and singing voices drifting out from within. A few people gathered along the streets to wave at the passage of Godwin’s procession, mostly children with wide eyes, their parents gripping their shoulders with white fingers.
Are they afraid? wondered Elma, studying their faces. Most were pale and drawn. And there were far fewer people in the streets than there had been at the parade. Perhaps they weren’t eager to show deference to a dethroned queen.
But as they drew closer to the arena, the streets began to fill, though most still wore frowns, their brows drawn.
Elma wanted to make some cutting remark, to draw Godwin’s attention to the fact that nobody seemed particularly excited to witness her execution or the downfall of the Slödavan Crown Prince. But the words stuck in her throat. She didn’t have the heart or the energy to trade more insults with him.
At last, the carriage stopped just outside the area. Elma scrambled out with as much dignity as she could muster and stood waiting in the snow as Godwin followed. She supposed they would now go to his seats, where she would be forced to witness Rune’s death in aching detail. Godwin would not let her look away — it was the perfect opportunity to fully crush her spirits.
While Godwin was busy issuing orders to the guards, afigure broke free from the press of people entering the arena, darting around a guard. She skidded to a halt in front of Elma, her eyes wide, her cheeks pink. It was a child, a young girl. She held out her hand, offering something to Elma.
Elma stared, taken aback. It was the girl from the parade, the same girl who had made a pennant of Elma’s colors with her initials sewn lovingly in the center.
