The Cursed Queen (The Impostor Queen #2)(24)
If I trusted myself, I would touch her face. But I am afraid I would burn her. “I’m sorry for asking this,” I say quietly. “What is your plan?”
I hold my breath as she cups my cheek in her palm. “It’s a worthy question, and you don’t need to be sorry.” She sighs. “My father would never have wanted us to be led by a traitor. But not only that—I don’t trust Nisse to do right by our widows. He put forth some very backward ideas when he was still a member of our tribe, and I don’t want that to infect us now, especially when they are so vulnerable. We have a commitment to honor with our andeners—and to the memory of our fallen brothers and sisters—and I am responsible for seeing it through.”
Now I understand why she was discussing sowing crops in the spring. How else could we keep thousands of bellies full, with so few warriors to journey out to raid and hunt? “I don’t suppose we could send a contingent of warriors while the rest of us remain here.”
She shakes her head. “Jaspar was very clear. Our andeners are valuable, and Nisse requires their presence in Vasterut.”
“Is it possible his intentions are good?”
“I don’t know. I just . . . hope he will be willing to move on from the past.”
She shakes her head, as if she were casting off something heavy, and not for the first time, I wonder what really happened last winter, and why she won’t talk about it. “Go to sleep,” she says, turning her face away. “I mean it.”
I should be guarding her while she rests, but I can’t fight my own exhaustion anymore. Tomorrow, yes. I will search for a way to lift this curse, and the Kupari slave will be the first step. Tomorrow, I’ll rise and fight again.
But for now . . . the ice-fire throb of my red mark subsides to a faint pulse. I fall asleep feeling the sweet slide of Thyra’s palm over my hair, and my dreams are black as the deep waters of the Torden.
*
We rise with the sun, and our fire bursts to life the moment I shiver with the morning chill. Thyra glances with alarm at the pit—there’s no fuel there to burn. With a shudder, I walk away, and I feel the moment the heat fades to nothing, leaving only the stain of humiliation on my cheeks. She’s counting on me to control this, to get rid of it, and to keep it secret in the meantime. It will all fall on her if I am revealed as some sort of witch. I’ll be dead, my brains bashed out and my bones shattered—and she might be next.
For a moment, I think of that kind of death. The most awful thing about it wouldn’t be the pain. It would be the looks on their faces as they hurled their stones. It would be the bite of their hatred, the despair of knowing my tribe was no longer mine.
If I’m honest, I’m not just fighting to keep Thyra safe. I cannot think of a worse agony than that of being abandoned. And with that realization, another memory creeps up like a snake—me clawing at the monster as he carried me to the boat. I stare at the glow at the top of the hill, knowing my parents can’t reach me. That they won’t save me. That I am truly alone.
I stomp at the ground, savagely crushing the past beneath the heel of my boot.
The mood in and around the sprawling camp is hard to read. People load horses and their own backs with all the things they own, all the things we’ve plundered and captured in our raids over the years. Some of the andeners have fled with their families—several shelters are empty, the fires cold. They must have snuck along the shore, avoiding the well-worn paths Jaspar and his warriors were guarding. They were willing to risk the bite of the north to avoid what awaits us in Vasterut, and I have a feeling Jaspar will be furious. Thyra will feel the loss too—those who left might have supported her over Nisse. Though our andeners may not be fighters, all of them have valuable skills—weapon forging and repair, food preparation and storage, breeding and child rearing, weaving and mending, wound stitching and healing. They know what warriors need, and how to keep us battle ready. We protect them and provide for them, and in return they keep us whole.
Now we are shattered. A broken people facing many choices with no good options. Our only chance lies with Thyra.
I thread my way past some of the older warriors who were meant to lead our second wave, those who called Edvin their commander. My stomach drops as I pass Aksel in hushed conversation with Preben, whose long beard is the color of wet iron, and Bertel, whose hair has gone white over the last few years, in contrast with his dark brown skin. Neither of the older men notices me, but Aksel tosses me a look as cold as the Torden in new spring, and I look away. I have no time for conversation or confrontation—once we leave, we’ll be stretched over at least a mile along the perimeter of the lake, hiking leagues to get to the southern shore. I might not have another chance to get the information I want.
When I reach Cyrill’s shelter, I find his andener, Gry, bundling her children into as many layers as they can possibly wear—she means them to carry all their clothing on their backs. Her thin blond hair hangs in a lank braid as she kneels in front of her youngest, a rosy-cheeked boy named Ebbe who Cyrill used to carry around camp on his broad shoulders. She glances over as I lean against the door frame. “No, you can’t have any of Cyrill’s blades,” she says sharply. “Heard you were taking them from the shelters of the dead yesterday.”
“I have all I need.”
“Good. Because we don’t.” Her face crumples and she turns away.