The Cursed Queen (The Impostor Queen #2)(10)
“Cyrill’s gone,” I say unsteadily. I let out a shuddering breath and brace my palm on the planks. The birthmark on my leg is throbbing steadily now, to the point of pain. I can’t tell if it’s hot or cold, only that it burns. Thyra gives me a concerned look, and I wave her off. “I’m fine.” I think I am, at least. The shivers haven’t stopped, even though I’m sweating. Perhaps it’s the scalding I took in the water. I’ve had fevers before, but it hasn’t felt like this. Something inside me has gone unsteady and brittle, one collision away from shattering.
“We have to get rid of him,” says Sander. “We’ll be lighter if he’s gone.” He reaches over and plucks Cyrill’s dagger from the sheath at his side, and I feel a pang of memory. Just last night, his beard dripping mead, his mouth split into a drunken grin, Cyrill drew that very blade and joked about how he’d ram it into the guts of any Kupari who stood between him and the twenty fine horses he planned to own before the invasion was done. His andener, Gry, laughed and kissed him, her fingers twisting in his beard, her joy and pride and love so big that all of us could feel it.
“Put that back,” I say quietly, wishing I could stop shaking. My mouth suddenly feels too dry, like I could drink the entire Torden and still be parched.
“Why?” says Sander. “It’s an excellent blade, and it’ll do me a lot more good than it will him.”
“It’s his,” I snap. “And a warrior is buried with his weapons.” If he’s not, he goes to the heavenly battlefield unarmed and shamed.
“We’re not burying him, Ansa—you see any dirt around here?” shouts Sander, his voice breaking, his fingers white-knuckled on the hilt of Cyrill’s dagger.
“He died with honor!”
“Stop it, both of—” Thyra begins.
“Death is pathetic, no matter how it strikes, and Cyrill died helpless and wounded and weak,” roars Sander.
“Like Hilma did?” I ask quietly.
Sander hurls his broken oar blade at me, but I duck and snatch my dagger from the planks. Its edge reflects the moon. My palm is so sweaty that I almost drop it, though. “Stop letting your grief twist you up, Sander. Cyrill earned your respect in life, and I won’t let you take it from him now!”
“How will you stop me, runt? You look like you’re about to join him.”
“You first.”
Thyra yelps as Sander strikes with Cyrill’s dagger, but I draw a second blade from the sheath along my calf. I block his strike with the back of my forearm, the impact rattling my teeth but forcing Sander to catch himself with his other hand to keep from falling into the lake. Taking advantage of his stumble, I straddle Cyrill’s back to slide my blade up against Sander’s throat. “Drop it,” I growl, my teeth chattering. It feels as if someone’s sunk a red-hot brand into my calf, and it’s all I can do not to groan.
“Do it.” Sander smiles as the blade bites his skin, and he leans forward to show he isn’t scared. His dark eyes are full of rage and challenge. “Do it before I rip this knife from your grip and cut you open.”
I am shaking so violently now that I can’t hold the blade steady. Sander is grinning. “We’re all going to die,” he whispers, even as his smile crumples into a grimace. “Do you think she’ll be waiting for me?”
Thyra reaches for Cyrill’s dagger, still locked in Sander’s grip. “Sander—”
“Shut it, Chieftain,” Sander snaps, his eyes glittering.
Our eyes are locked. He is past caring, past respect, past hope. Suddenly, the urge to kill him is almost as powerful as the massive, tremulous thing inside me that has been growing by the minute, taking me over. Sander used to be full of light and life, and now he courts death like he wants it for his new mate. I brace to make the cut before I fall apart, but Sander rears back, perhaps because his body wants to survive even though he has lost his will to live. But his weight and the sudden movement sends the other end of the hull rising into the air. As Cyrill’s body starts to slide, I dive for the higher edge while Thyra tumbles off the other side. With a splash and a cry, Sander goes into the lake too, and Cyrill’s body promptly lands on top of him. The hull splashes back flat onto the water, soaking me. I hear Thyra begin to shout at Sander, but a roaring fills my ears, deafening me.
I gasp as something monstrous in me stretches and spreads its wings, drawing its talons along my ribs. My red mark throbs once more, wrenching a cry from my mouth.
“Thyra,” I say. Or, I think I say it. I’m not sure the sound ever leaves my mouth. An unseen force flips me onto my back and slams me down against the hull. My eyes open wide, but I’m blind, everything white. It feels like a giant’s hand has descended from the sky and is holding me down. My heart is beating so fast that it’s one long, painful squeeze. Panic and terror flash so hot inside me that I’m burned. Has the witch queen returned for us? For me? Is this her final victory?
My backbone bows, my chest and hips rising while my shoulders and legs stay pinned. I can’t control my body at all. Fire bursts inside my mind, followed just as quickly by knives of ice that slice away my thoughts. I’m in a cage of flame and swirling snow, extremes that rip me apart and knit me together again, over and over. The feeling of being torn down my center is unbearable, but the force inside me is so huge that it cannot be denied or contained. It grows and grows and makes its home in my chest, crowding out everything I thought I was. Tears turn to ice crystals on my cheeks, then sizzle on my skin. The pain goes on and on. Now I’m the one who craves death as a mate.