The Cursed Queen (The Impostor Queen #2)(21)
Until today.
*
I sit only a few feet from where Thyra lies, watching the flickering embers of flame chase shadows along her brow. She deserves this rest. Needs it. And I will guard her so she knows she’s safe.
I’m her wolf.
I need sleep too. I’m woozy and addled after so many nights of startling awake for fear of sinking too deep. Sleep is dangerous right now, for so many reasons.
I spent the rest of the day helping the andeners in the shelters near mine ready themselves for the journey, bundling supplies into blankets, sneaking a few abandoned blades into my boots and arm sheaths. I always feel better when I’m armed. I watched Thyra during supper, when we took down the rope around the fight circle and gathered as a tribe, as she positioned herself right over the bloodied dirt that marked the place where Edvin fell, as if to remind the other warriors she had earned her status. She spoke to Jaspar and a few of the others with a smooth, assured voice. But when she retired to the shelter, I saw the wariness in her gaze. The weariness, too.
She feels hunted. When I told her that Jaspar had vowed she would be treated according to her status, she scoffed. “That’s a deliberately vague thing to say, if you think about it.”
“You are his fallen brother’s daughter,” I said. “Surely that means something.”
Her laugh was dry as summer sand. “Oh, it most certainly does.” Then she scrubbed her hands over her face. “I am only worth reckoning with if I have my warriors behind me,” she said. “This journey will determine whether I arrive in Vasterut a master or a slave.”
I scoot a few inches closer to her. We’re in the council shelter—the chieftain’s carved chair sits on the other side of the space. There are guards at the perimeters, and Jaspar and his warriors have set their camps at the hunting trails leading north and west, claiming to offer protection. I think they are trying to make sure we do not escape.
It’s begun already. That’s what Thyra said to me, just before she fell asleep. And now she breathes slow and even, and I hope that means she’s shed the barbed pain of defeat, that her dreams are full of victory. An ache spreads through my chest as I think of how beautiful she was today, the lithe spread of her arms, the elegant strike of her blade, the way she made it look like a dance. I suspect I look like an animal when I fight, all bared teeth and frenzied motion, but not Thyra. She is long and lean and made of lethal grace. And now she is being forced to lead us into the unknown, because there is no other choice.
I reach out and take her limp hand. “I’m with you,” I whisper. “I’ve always been with you.”
If she’d ever asked me about Jaspar, I would have explained. But she never acted like she wanted or needed that, and so I would have felt foolish saying it aloud. She is so guarded, even with me, no matter how I crash against her walls. Until the witch queen plunged us into a new upside-down world, Thyra created no space for these sentiments, and so all of them remained stuffed inside me, hot as burning pitch. If it had been you, I wouldn’t have let go. I have wanted to tell her this for so long. If you had made the cut, I would have been on my knees. I would have pulled you down with me. I would have bruised you by holding too tight.
Thyra winces and swipes her hand across her brow, which is drenched with sweat. I yank my hand from hers as heat warps the air between us. My breath bursts from my throat as I realize I’m doing it again. Fire kisses my fingertips as I rise to my feet, my eyes stinging, horror crushing me like a storm wave.
Why do I think I can protect her? She’s facing the fight of her life. She needs all her wits—the survival of our tribe depends on it. What she does not need: the taint of witchcraft to make people doubt and question.
And I’m about to burn her alive with a witch’s curse.
Pulling my cloak around me, I jog for the doorway, desperate for the open air.
A hand closes over my shoulder, and I whirl around, the fear like ice in my veins. Thyra yelps and stumbles back as our fire gutters out with a frigid blast of wind, then flares to life again when my gaze flicks toward the pit. When light fills the shelter once more, the flames are reflected in Thyra’s round eyes.
“The fire,” she says, her voice breaking.
It’s massive, licking the thatch, and I give it a pleading look. The flames shrink like I’ve just reprimanded them, and Thyra gasps. Her fingers are clawed in her cloak. “Ansa. Did you do that?” Her voice trembles. “The two shelters that burned . . .”
My back hits the door frame of the shelter. “I’m sorry.”
“But this is like—” She shudders as the air becomes so cold that it makes my bones ache. “Are you doing this on purpose?”
“The witch queen cursed me.” I clench my fists because I can feel the ice and fire trying to seep through my skin. It’s taken me over. Tears overflow and streak down my face. “Thyra, I’m sorry.”
And then I run, my feet pounding the dirt, my heart a gash in my chest.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I sprint for the water, unsheathing a blade as I flee, the cursed red mark on my leg pulsing with icy fire. Each step reminds me what the witch has done, how she has taken the one thing I’ve always fought for—my family, my tribe. As I run, the fiery memory rises as if the witch herself summoned it—my mother’s outstretched hand, the monsters all around her, their blades glinting in the flames. I am helpless as I watch her die.