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It will turn on you, Rune had told her, back in Slödava.Ifa heart is ruined with greed or selfishness… one cannot manifest Rime Ice properly.
Whether it was Godwin’s cruelty, his hatred for his own niece, his desire for war, or perhaps his rotten heart itself — whatever it was, the Rime Ice had deemed him unworthy.
And though this was what she had wanted, what she had fought for, Elma stood over her uncle’s frozen body and felt nothing but sorrow.
No horn sounded in the arena. For a moment, all was silent but for Elma’s heavy breathing. And then a yell went up from the crowd, a deafening roar that washed over Elma like a wave.
But she only had eyes for Rune. Falling to her knees, she gathered him in her arms. Miraculously, he was still breathing, and still awake. His eyes fluttered open, and the corner of his mouth twitched. A hesitant joy pressed at Elma’s heart, wanting to be let in.
“You’d better not die,” she said, hot tears streaming down her face, “or I’ll follow you into the after and drag you back here to me.”
“I have no doubt,” Rune said, squinting up at her, still half smiling. “But how embarrassing for me, to need saving by a Volta.”
Elma laughed through her tears, kissing his brow, brushing the hair out of his face. “The moment you’re well again,” she murmured, “I’m going to hurt you for that.”
A slow grin spread across Rune’s face. “I look forward to it.”
The crunch of footsteps sounded in the snow, hundreds of footsteps coming down from the stands to join them in the arena. Whether they were coming to kill her or celebrate her, Elma couldn’t tell. In that breathless moment, she didn’t care.
Epilogue
Afestival day was held to celebrate the arrival of the ambassadors from Mekya and a new dawn of trade between nations. It was the height of summer, but even then, a weak frost clung to the carriage as it rolled to a stop at the foot of the Frost Citadel. The ambassadors wasted no time in clambering from the carriage, swarming around it to greet the queen of Rothen.
Elma Volta rushed forward to meet them; all thoughts of propriety and queenliness fled in the face of her mothers. Dae, Tammir, and Sharra crashed into her like a hot summer wind, and they stood in the courtyard for a long time, embracing and weeping.
At dinner that evening, Tammir leaned close to Elma, her words and wide smile barely hidden behind a hand. “Your man is something to look at,” she said. “Did you give him that scar?”
“She may as well have,” Rune said, cutting himself a dainty bite. “Bloodthirsty, this one.”
“Only where it counts,” Sharra laughed, raising a glass.
“She means in bed,” Dae added, giving Sharra a playful shove.
The three women erupted in laughter, tears streaming from their eyes, wine sloshing from their cups as they rocked together with mirth.
Elma shot Rune a long-suffering look.I’m sorry, she mouthed.
But Rune was laughing too, refilling the ambassadors’ goblets. He had been taken with them immediately, leading them around the citadel, sharing histories that Elma had only just learned, truths about the Volta legacy that had been lost for generations. Stories of friendship between Rothen and Slödava, of harmonious relations with Navenie and Mekya. Rothen had thrived, once.
And Elma would help it to bloom again. She would plant a garden where there had only been stones.
After dinner, Rune and Elma took a carriage with the ambassadors to the festival grounds, so brightly lit and joyous in the night. Colorful bunting fluttered in the chill breeze, and lanterns hung from barren trees and sat in clusters on pale, frosted grass. A bright moon hung overhead. There was music, and dancing, and ridiculous games that only ever ended in embarrassment. But Rune and Elma played them, making spectacles of themselves along with the people of Frost, donning crowns of flowers — brought in from Mekya — and spinning in the moonlight.
When the festival had begun to quiet, Rune found Elma standing at the edge of the festival grounds, twirling a flower between her fingers. It had fallen from her crown, and she hadn’t had the heart to leave it on the ground to be trampled.
“Everyone loves your mothers,” Rune said, coming to stand next to her, and she loved that he wanted to be in her personal space, to share her warmth.
“Almost as much as I love them,” Elma said, turning. She hesitated, knowing what she was about to ask, and still not certain of the answer. “But… what about you?”
“Do I love them?” Rune raised an eyebrow. “I suppose, although—”
“No, no,” said Elma, “I mean, would you… like them to be your mothers, too?”
He blinked. “I’d rather not be your brother if that’s what you’re asking.”
She laughed, pulling him to her and wrapping her arms around his neck. “I mean, you idiot, that I would like to marry you.”
“Oh,” said Rune, his eyes bright, as if not quite understanding. Then his gaze sharpened, and he grinned. “Oh.”
