The Cursed Queen (The Impostor Queen #2)(19)
“Jaspar,” whispers Thyra.
Unease churns in my gut as he reins in his horse and halts perhaps ten yards from our assembled warriors. “Greetings, Cousin Thyra,” he calls.
“It’s Chieftain Thyra,” I yell.
Jaspar’s eyes flash as his gaze shifts to me. The corner of his mouth curls, and my cheeks burn with memories. “Ah. So Lars’s daughter has claimed the chair.” He inclines his head, a gesture of respect that somehow seems to drip with defiance. “Like she always wanted, and like we always knew she would.”
Thyra’s gripping her dagger so tightly that her hand is shaking. “Why are you here?”
“We heard of your misfortune at the hands of the witch queen of the Kupari.”
“And did you come to finish the job?”
“Quite the contrary. I’ve come under orders from my father. We will escort you and your tribe to Vasterut immediately, Chieftain Thyra.” He looks out over our force, a few hundred lesser warriors and the three of us who survived the storm, and then glances behind him as at least forty mounted warriors crowd in formation at his back. All of them have thick broadswords belted to their waists and shields strapped to their backs, and I recognize many as strong fighters, young and thick with muscle. Though we outnumber them five to one, if it came to a battle against those mounted warriors, we would be slaughtered, and the thousands of andeners and children we protect would be at their mercy.
“Vasterut is not an option,” Thyra shouts. “We have just lost four thousand warriors, and we are in final preparation to bid their souls farewell. But not only that—we are settled along this shore all the way up to Ulvi Point, if you recall, and with this many widows and orphans, the priority is to—”
“Chieftain Nisse is prepared to provide for all of you in Vasterut.” Jaspar’s smile is warm, but there’s no mistaking the danger. “He is eager to see our tribes united once more.” He leans forward, his gaze hard on Thyra. “And he will be particularly delighted to welcome you within his walls.”
CHAPTER SIX
There will be no ceremony of farewell. Jaspar insists we leave at new daylight, taking no chance that the snow will catch us out on our journey. We have no choice but to obey, and Thyra realizes it quickly as she sizes up the force Jaspar has brought. None of us argue, because most of us realize the same thing, and the others wanted this outcome from the moment our shattered hull washed ashore.
Thyra looks pale and troubled, but she keeps her chin up as she orders the warriors to ready their own households for the journey, and then to assist the widowed andeners in their preparations. It’s an unbelievable amount of work, but Jaspar orders his warriors to help.
One look into Thyra’s eyes tells me she’s caught in another storm, the kind that’s tearing her apart inside. “What can I do?” I ask.
“Find out their true intentions,” she murmurs as her gaze follows Jaspar, who is already speaking with Preben and Bertel, who have not yet had the opportunity to wash Edvin’s blood from their hands. His smile flashes as he shows them his sword, a gorgeous blade that is probably of Vasterutian make, with a set of long blood grooves down its center.
“Why me? Wouldn’t Sander be a better choice?” He’s already headed over to admire the weapon, and Jaspar’s clapping him on the back. I remember the first time they faced each other in the fight circle, two lanky eleven-year-olds determined to prove themselves. An hour later they staggered out, bloodied best friends.
“Sander would probably have gone with Nisse’s rebels if he hadn’t already paired with my sister, and if she hadn’t been with child.” Hilma died from the fever only a month later, and I can tell Thyra wonders if he regrets his decision to stay.
She touches my arm. “But I know I can trust you.” Her blue gaze loses its warmth. “And you hold charms for Jaspar that Sander does not.”
My mouth goes dry as Jaspar glances toward us and looks away just as quickly, as if he was checking to see if we’d been watching. “Please, Thyra. Let me stay with you.”
“Nonsense.” She gives me a humorless smile. “It will be just like old times.”
Humiliation freezes my tongue to the roof of my mouth.
Thyra’s fingers squeeze my upper arm. “Draw Jaspar away now. I must have a chance to speak to Preben and Bertel before he wins them over. Their support will be important as we begin this journey. If they are with me, the others will feel more confident.”
I hear the pleading in Thyra’s voice, the note of desperation beneath the authoritative steadiness she’s trying to project. If we do not make this journey united, by the time we arrive in Vasterut, Nisse will be the chieftain of us all. A traitor and would-be assassin will be our new master. Honor will not protect us, nor will rules. And Thyra, as the chieftain of the defeated tribe, will be in the most danger. It’s so clear to me that the only reason she’s agreeing to this journey is to save our lives.
I throw back my shoulders, even as misgiving burns inside me. “As you wish.”
“Make him remember.” She leans close. “Because I will never forget.”
How foolish I was to believe that when Jaspar fled on the heels of his father and the other traitor warriors, he would take our past with him. “As you wish,” I whisper again.