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“Winifred,” breathed Elma.
The girl beamed and held out her hand, palm up. “For you, Queen Elma,” she said. A smooth green stone lay in her palm, no larger than a knuckle.
“Thank you,” said Elma, and unable to think of anything else to do, she plucked the stone from the girl’s hand. It was warm, no doubt having been clutched in the child’s hand for quite some time.
Before she could ask the girl what it meant, or why she’d given it to her, a lanky man came hurrying out of the crowd, his expression apologetic. Elma recognized the girl’s father from the parade. “Winny,” he gasped, breathless. “Come.” Then he glanced at Elma, and she recognized a glint of fear in his eyes.
“It’s all right,” she said. “Your daughter gave me this.” She held out the stone, assuming the girl’s father would take it back. For all Elma knew, it was an important item and shouldn’t be given to a woman about to die.
But the man shook his head, his expression softening. “She meant for you to have it. She’s been talking about it all morning, though Itoldher she was forbidden from trying to give it to you.”
“What’s all this?” said one of Elma’s guards, striding over to investigate.
“Nothing,” said the man, growing pale. “I’m sorry. We’re going.”
“You’re not permitted to speak to the prisoner,” said the guard, shooing them away. He turned to Elma. “And you’re not permitted to speak to the populace.”
But she ignored him, watching the girl and her father go. Winifred clung to her father’s hand, but before they were swallowed by the crowd, she turned and waved to Elma. It was a silly thing, a tiny gesture, but Elma’s chest ached as she fingered the stone, clutching it firmly in her hand. She had failed this child, just as she’d failed the rest of them. Whatever hope that had lit in these people’s hearts when Elma was crowned, it was just as surely snuffed out in the wake of her disgrace. Godwin had no intention of feeding them, of paving the way for trade, of holding the people of Rothen in a gentle embrace. Instead, he meant to bleed them dry, use them as kindling in the blaze of war.
Elma hated him. She wanted to rip his throat out with her fingers.
“This way,” the guard said gruffly, steering Elma away from the crowds and toward the arena entrance reserved for royalty and members of the court. Her usual five guards flanked her. She knew there would be no chance of escape once she entered the arena, but even if she tried, she couldn’t imagine where she’d run if she made a break for it. She would freeze to death as soon as she escaped. There was nowhere left to go but the fate that had been laid out for her.
Godwin had disappeared while Elma was distracted, no doubt in search of hot wine and hot stones. Elma would be subjected to him soon enough and didn’t bother to ask. But as they approached the arena, Elma’s guards shuffled her past her usual entrance, aiming instead for a nondescript side door.
I’m not even fit for a noblewoman’s door, she thought bitterly. This was the criminals’ entrance, where thosedestined to die in the Death Games were funneled down into the belly of the arena and outfitted for their final battles.
The realization hit Elma when they turned to descend a narrow stair, rather than taking the corridor that would lead them up to the arena seats. She froze for a moment, until the guards prodded and swore at her to hurry up. She could have asked for confirmation, turned, and asked where they were going.
But she knew. She was going to be stripped of her clothes and outfitted in armor. She would be handed a sword, or a pike, or perhaps even a bow and arrows. She was going to fight in the Death Games.
There would be no clean kill, no blade through the spine. Even in death, she’d be stripped of all honor. The Death Games were brutal, bloody, and horrific. She would likely die scrabbling desperately, sliced up, and sobbing like a hare in the jaws of a hound.
She clutched the green stone in her palm and prayed to the stars or whoever might be listening.Let me die quickly. Let me go home soon.
Thirty-Nine
Elma was given her own armor to wear when she died. She had expected one of the usual affairs, a dented chest piece and perhaps a pair of chainmail gloves if she was lucky. Instead, after being handed off to the gruff men who ran the Death Games, Elma was presented with a set of queenly armor.
She had never worn it except for a painting her father had commissioned on her eighteenth birthday, the year she came of age. It was ceremonial but functional, made up of interlocking plates of steel that shone in the torchlight. Her shield, which had once been bright with the Volta colors, was painted over with flat black. A black plume fluttered from the helmet in place of a red one. But the intricate gold filigree carved into the edges of her armor remained, and Elma felt a bitter sort of pride swell within her as the men laced her into her armor.
“What weapon will I be given?” she asked when she was fully outfitted. The usual roar of the arena seemed subdued, but she could still feel it vibrating above them like a greatcreature breathing. She tried not to think about Rune. Whether he was there in the arena with her, whether they’d be forced to face one another in battle, or if she would simply be led out into the arena to see his body there, crumpled on the packed snow.
“Sword, if you like,” said one of the men genially, smiling through his beard. These were not the hateful soldiers or citadel guards. They were trained men of the arena, used to outfitting criminals and traitors, motivating them to fight well in battle. A disgraced queen must be a treat for them.
“I would like very much,” Elma said.
“Want to know who you’re fighting first?” asked another man, though he was barely more than a boy, his beard thin and patchy.
A third handed Elma a sword, which he’d retrieved from a rack of weapons. It was old and the blade was chipped in places, but it was sharp and sturdy. Elma twirled it once, twice, testing its balance. She would have to adjust for its weight — it was heavier than her own sword, but it would do.
“I’d rather not,” she said, answering the question.
“But youwillfight,” said the younger man, somewhat pouty. “I bet my lads three coppers you’d win the first three, easy.”
Elma gave him a long, withering look. “I’d prefer not to drag out my inevitable death if it’s all right with you.”
“You’re just going to sit down and die, then?” the bearded one asked, sounding disappointed. “You may be many things, Queen Elma, but you’re not a coward, surely.”
