The Cursed Queen (The Impostor Queen #2)(11)
The feeling goes as quickly as it came, dropping me limp onto the planks with a sudden thunk. My head cracks against the wood. My eyes blink open.
I’m alone on the raft. I bolt upright, looking around, my vision blurred.
Perhaps six feet from the makeshift boat, two heads bob in the dark water. Thyra and Sander. Both of them are staring at me with round, terrified eyes. “What happened?” I ask, still rocked by the aftershocks of whatever it was.
“Y-you—you . . .” Thyra swallows hard.
“You were struck by lightning,” Sander says weakly.
I look down at myself, sinking backward because I’m too weak to stay upright. My clothes are intact. Nothing is singed. The only thing that burns is the mark on my calf. “No, I wasn’t.”
“You were,” Thyra says, her voice high and tremulous. She swims toward the raft. “Hold still. I’m coming aboard.”
“Me too,” says Sander.
She gives him a hard look. “We’re done fighting tonight. If you truly wish to join my sister so soon, stay in the water.”
Sander lets out an annoyed breath, and the two of them heave themselves up on either side of me, landing at the same time and somehow managing not to tip our raft. Their clothes soak me, leaving me shivering between them as we all look up at the cruel stars, panting.
“We lost our oars,” Thyra murmurs. “They floated away when we fell in.”
“And both your daggers. And Cyrill’s. I’m sorry,” Sander mumbles.
“Fine by me, since all the two of you were doing was threatening to kill each other,” Thyra retorts. She turns her head. “I can’t believe you’re alive. When I saw that bolt come from the sky, I thought—” She closes her eyes, and I know she’s envisioning her father, charred and ruined within the fire.
Our faces are only a few inches apart. On any other occasion, this would make me unbearably happy. But right now, it’s too sad. We’re floating on an endless expanse of blackness, with no way home.
I would give everything I have to make it back. I would kiss the stony beach, dig my fingers in until grit burrowed beneath my fingernails. I would twist my hands in the long blades of grass that mark the edge of the dunes. I would lie by a warm fire and sneak glances of Thyra’s face when she’s asleep.
“I confess that this is not the way I wanted to die,” Sander says quietly. The desperation is stripped from his voice, and he sounds like a little boy again, the one who I was friends with before he lost his love and turned cruel and careless. “I didn’t want to have this much time to think about it.”
“I know what you mean.” I let out an unsteady breath. I have never been eager for death, but I always imagined it would be quick, a sudden, merciless slice instead of a slow unraveling.
“I still have a knife in my boot,” Thyra whispers.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “No. It won’t come to that.” I find her hand and clutch it tightly. Her fingers are stiff as icicles, and the feel of them makes my eyes burn. What I wouldn’t give for a good wind, a warm, blessed breeze to carry us to shore.
My hair flutters as a gust rushes over us, like a breath of summer.
“Oh, that felt good,” Thyra says, scooting slightly closer to me so that our bare arms touch. “I’m so cold.”
If Sander wasn’t here, I would offer my embrace and take the risk she’d rebuff it. But since he is, and with all that’s happened today, I don’t think I can take another failure without breaking. I settle for imagining the wind is an ally that will dry her clothes and warm her skin as it moves us along the smooth surface of the placid lake. I close my eyes and hold her hand, focusing on that wish so completely that it’s almost as if I can feel it stroking over me. I lose myself in the dream of it, even though I’m not sleeping. I’m too absorbed by the feel of Thyra’s skin, the way she’s caressing the back of my hand with her thumb, the way she’s looking at me like she never wants to look away. If I move, if I sleep, I’ll lose this final gift.
“I don’t believe it,” Sander mutters from beside me. “Is this really happening?”
I lift my head, but my vision blurs with dizziness, so I let it fall to the planks again. Waves of chill are cramping my muscles, but as soon as the pain makes me want to cry out, the cold is replaced by flashes of heat that make me sweat. I shudder. “Sorry. I’m still recovering from whatever happened earlier. Everything is moving. Spinning.”
“We are moving,” says Thyra, whose hand slips from mine.
My eyes meet hers. “What?”
Her hair is standing on end, blown by the warm wind that is gusting steadily now. Her pale eyes are wide, but no longer filled with fear and horror. Instead, they’re filled with awe—and hope. “This wind,” she says softly. “This wind . . . it’s blowing us to the northeast.”
I sit up, clutching my aching head and looking around. Sure enough, our makeshift raft is leaving a small wake behind it as we’re carried along the surface of the water. I let out a surprised chuckle, shivering as I feel the air caress my face. More, I think. I want to be home.
I sit there all night, fighting a squirmy, gut-churning feeling akin to snakes writhing beneath my skin, scared the miracle will end at any moment. But it doesn’t.
By the time the sun rises, the shore is in sight. The very harbor from which we launched our massive force just a day ago. I can already see people gathering on the docks, the small group of warriors who made up the secondary force, and the andeners who sacrificed so much to prepare us to go into battle. Sander looks over at Thyra. “What are you going to do?” he asks her, sounding uneasy.