The Cursed Queen (The Impostor Queen #2)(3)
Winter is coming once again, and Lars has told us we will spend it warm and fat and rich.
“Have you heard the stories of the witch queen of the Kupari?” Thyra asks quietly, moving close and raising goose bumps with the soft puff of her breath in my ear.
I shake off the tingles. “You doubt stories from Vasterut, but you’re willing to believe those wild tales?”
Her tanned cheeks go ruddy. “I didn’t say I believed them.”
“Good.” We’ve all heard stories about the source of the Kupari wealth and supposed strength. Not an arsenal, not an army—a witch. “But if she tries to use her stinking, evil craft on us, she’ll end up with her head on the end of Lars’s spear.”
Thyra gives a curt nod. “She might anyway. The suspicion of witchcraft is enough.”
“That little boat is definitely running,” says Cyrill with a laugh. Standing at the front next to Lars and Einar, he leans on his spear, and its deadly-sharp tip gleams like a beacon. “I think it’s going to be hard for us to sneak in unnoticed.”
He gestures grandly at the warships in formation behind us, and the warriors all around me guffaw. So do I, louder than the rest. My blood sings as I feel their strength, the simple aliveness of us. I am so proud to be among these men and women. I wasn’t born a Krigere, and I have spent the last several years trying to make people forget that. What should matter is my spirit, my willingness to fight. We all bleed red, as Lars always says, and I trust that he means it.
Thyra is smiling, but not laughing like the rest of us. And I can’t help it—I grab her shoulders and shake her a little. “Come on!” I say, still chuckling. “Don’t tell me you’re not lusting to stick your blade into one of their fat merchants. Easiest kill marks you’ll ever earn.”
“Are those the only things that make a warrior?” she says under her breath.
Annoyance spikes through me, and I grab for the hilt of her dagger. Her fingers close over my wrist, hard. “Careful,” she says in a rough voice. “Not here. Not now.” There is something like a plea in her eyes.
It makes me want to push her. I want to replace that plea with fire. Thyra is not an eager fighter like I am, but when she commits, she is a thing of absolute, cutting beauty, and I hunger for the sight. I reach for her weapon with my other hand, and she catches that one too, right as I grasp the hilt. She presses my wrist to her side just as Sander leans over to watch.
“Well, you told Ansa to focus,” he says with a sly glint in his eye. “And her focus is never better than when it’s on you, Thyra.”
With a near-frantic glance at her father, Thyra shoves me away so abruptly that I nearly stumble onto the front row of oars.
My cheeks burning, I right myself. “Say that again and I’ll gut you, Sander.”
He starts to step around Thyra to get to me. “Go ahead and try, you scrawny little—”
“Enough,” roars Lars, turning on us like a bison ready to charge. “Dorte, Keld—take a break. Let these two cubs burn off some of their bloodlust on the oars.”
Einar gives me an exasperated look. “Can you at least try not to kill someone until we make it ashore?” he asks, though he looks like he’s about to laugh.
“I’ll try,” I grumble.
Dorte and Keld, who have been huffing away with their backs to us, lift their oars while the others keep at it. I march over and take Dorte’s oar, even though my break isn’t supposed to be over until the sun sinks to quarter-sky. I don’t want to hit the shore fatigued, but whining about it is unthinkable. Einar would probably throw me overboard himself for the sheer shame of it.
Dorte squeezes my arm with her scarred fingers. “By nightfall you’ll show him what you’ve got,” she says as she looks at Sander out of the corner of her eye.
“Assuming I let him live that long.”
Letting out a harsh laugh that crinkles her weatherworn face, she lifts my elbow, examining the four kill marks. “I hope you’ll give me the honor of making one of the new cuts after you’ve tallied your total.”
“If you let me do the same.”
She winks. “Maybe even two.”
I plop onto the bench and place my callused palms over the skin-warmed wood of the oar. The simple, easy confidence Dorte has in me nearly makes me forget Sander’s insult and Thyra’s shove. Nearly, but not quite. I glance over my shoulder. Thyra’s standing by her father now, her back to me, her posture stiff.
I face the rear again, telling myself not to look at her. Not to care what she thinks, not to worry about her. Frustration fuels each pull of the oar. Beads of sweat prick my forehead and glisten on the fine coppery-gold hairs of my arms. I hear the Kupari favor copper; I wonder what they’ll think of me, the flame-haired warrior who will descend upon them like a starving wolf.
I’m not fooling myself. The sight of me does not inspire fear.
But it should. Anyone who has entered the fight circle with me knows it. Especially Sander, though he’ll never admit it. I glance over to see him glaring at the vast array of ships following ours, the hard muscles of his arms taut. “Keep up, runt,” he barks, reminding me of my task.
My back aches as I push the oar forward to match the pace of the lead oarsman and pull it to my stomach at the same time as everyone else. I treasure the cool breeze off the Torden and concentrate on becoming one with the others, as we all move in time like the flex of a horse’s powerful loins. I’ve never rowed this distance before. Some of the warriors around me have; a few have made the journey at least a dozen times. Each time, they brought back livestock and tools the like we’d never seen. Each time, they gave us stories of a land so rich it practically bleeds copper. A few times, they’ve brought back slaves who wailed about how their witch queen, who they call the Valima or the Voltana or some such ridiculous name, will save them. Avenge them.