The Cursed Queen (The Impostor Queen #2)(20)

“Don’t make it too easy. He’ll sense it if you aren’t yourself.”

I’m not myself, though. I’ve been cursed by a witch. I glance down at my hands, which are stiff with cold. My veins run blue beneath my pale skin.

“Have you lost something, Ansa?”

The sound of Jaspar’s good-natured voice brings my head up. Don’t make it too easy. I scowl. “Nothing that can’t be taken back with blood.”

His laugh echoes through camp. “You haven’t changed.”

“You know nothing.” I give Thyra one last look and then walk past Jaspar and the others, heading for the shelter where I’ve been sitting awake at night while others sleep. The crunch of his footsteps on the trail behind me brings me both triumph and dread.

“I know your temper is sweet as ever,” he says as he falls into step with me.

“Am I supposed to greet you with open arms?”

“That might have been nice.”

I give him a sidelong glance. “Why are you following me? I thought you were busy showing your big blade to the other boys.”

That laugh. I close my eyes and push memories away as he says, “I’d show it to you, too, if I didn’t believe you’d strip it from me and chop my head off.”

I enter the shelter and glance around, realizing I don’t have any great reason for being here. After a few faltering steps, I head for my little pile of scavenged belongings in the far corner, intending to pack them for the journey. “How long is the march to Vasterut?”

“Only four long days of hard riding, but on foot, with the andeners and children in tow, it will take at least two weeks. With luck, we could make it before the snow closes in.”

“Nisse moved quickly then, to send you here.”

“Chieftain Nisse, Ansa,” he says quietly. “He is ruler of Vasterut now and deserves respect. And as his heir, so do I.”

I turn to him, wishing I was taller so I could look him in the eye. “At whose expense?”

“Thyra will be treated according to her status. I promise. Is that what you’re worried about?” He reaches to brush my hair from my forehead, but I step backward out of his reach. His hand falls to his side, and he sighs. “I suppose we’re not allies anymore. But I want us to be. And I only want what’s best for the Krigere. Our warriors are too precious to abandon to the winter.”

“We’d be fine here.”

“I’ve been in this camp less than a quarter-day, and the stink of despair is everywhere. Don’t tell me you’re fine—and don’t pretend a pathetic little ceremony will do anything but ease the guilt of your chieftain.”

I stare out the doorway of the shelter, at the bustle of camp, all moving in the same direction once more, just as we were on the morning of our great invasion. “So the solution is to march to Vasterut and bow to a—” I clamp my lips shut over the word traitor.

“Ansa, Vasterut is only a four-day quick-march from Kupari. Two days riding. Five hours on the oars, up from the south.”

The awful-beautiful face of the witch queen rises in my memory. When Jaspar sees the look on my face, he nods, his jaw hard. “Think of the possibilities.”

“Tell me,” I say in a low voice.

He waggles his eyebrows and takes a few steps back. “In good time. But I think perhaps this is conversation best reserved for our chieftains, eh?” He gives me a mischievous grin. “As I recall, Thyra doesn’t like to be surprised.”

The fire at the center of the shelter flares so high that it frames Jaspar with light. He turns when he feels the heat at his back and puts a bit of distance between himself and the reaching flames.

It gives me a moment to think cold thoughts. “Then go talk to her,” I say.

His look of surprise relaxes into a familiar, teasing smile. “When she’s ready. I should go pay my respects to your surviving senior warriors.” His fingers close over the hilt of his sword. “I hope we’ll have more time to talk as we travel.”

Thyra’s plea to discern his true purpose is still in my head. “We might.”

“We will.” He looks me over, his eyes as bold as stroking fingers. “I missed you, Ansa. More than I expected to.”

He turns and walks away, leaving me with a memory—a fall afternoon, my blood singing with victory after my first raid kill. The curve of Jaspar’s mouth as he asked if he could make the cut, my very first. The slice of pain, the red trickle of warmth down my bare arm, the way his fingers closed over my elbow. And then we were kissing and I barely knew how it had happened, only that it was. That’s all it was too. I had just wanted that moment, high from the fight and needing something vital to match the battle-lust still beating at my temples. Jaspar tasted of sweat and heat as he pushed me against that tree, as his knife fell to the ground with my blood still on the blade.

It was a moment. Nothing more than that. But when I heard the crunch of boots on fallen leaves, I shoved Jaspar away from me and saw Thyra standing, frozen, on the other side of the clearing.

I will never forget the look on her face. Her blank expression, her big, solemn blue eyes . . . the sinking feeling in my stomach, the pit that lasted for days.

But she pretended like it didn’t matter. Like she didn’t care. Like it never happened, even.