The Cursed Queen (The Impostor Queen #2)(31)
With concern Thyra watches him go, but Preben merely gives him an amused look before returning to his conversation with her. “Will you be able to offer Nisse some information that might speed a victory over Kupari?” he asks. “This might enhance our status within his tribe.”
“I have not yet decided if we will unite our tribe with his. Remember that he’s a traitor who stooped to assassination,” she says in a voice that promises any defiance will be met with iron.
“Still, it’s our best chance of victory,” says Preben.
“And of killing the witch,” I say. My hope that her death will break the curse has been filling my head as I hike, along with the traitorous thought that perhaps uniting with Nisse will give us the strength and strategy we need to defeat the queen.
“I will consult with Nisse,” Thyra says, turning around to glance at me. “I can’t say I’d advise another invasion over the Torden, though. Over land seems wiser, but I don’t know the terrain.” She nods at Jaspar, who is several yards ahead with Sander, swapping raid stories in loud, jovial tones. “And I believe I’ll trust my own eyes over blind promises of easy victory.”
Preben grunts. “Lars would have said the same.”
I’m not sure he’s right. My heart sinks as I think of how blindly confident Lars was of easy victory . . . just before he was struck by lightning. His drive for plunder became insatiable after Nisse took Vasterut. But Preben’s compliment must feel like a win to Thyra, because she presses her advantage. “I think this is a chance to consider all the alternatives before rushing to war. We have so many to provide for—stability and safety is my priority.”
Preben frowns. “That is not something Lars would have said.”
Thyra freezes midstep, but only for a splinter of time. “He had many thoughts about our future that he did not share openly. We’ll never know what he would have said, had he made it through that battle.”
“The only way he would have made it through the battle is in victory. He wouldn’t have had it any other way.”
Thyra looks up at Preben, her chin raised in defiance at the implication—perhaps she should not have returned either. “If it had meant safeguarding the future of the Krigere, you had best believe my father would have done anything, including not carelessly squandering his own life. Think of the mercy he showed Nisse and all the warriors who followed him.”
Preben chews on the inside of his cheek. “I suppose you’re right, Chieftain,” he mutters.
“He would have hated to see us like this,” she says. “But he would have been proud to see warriors like you still loyal to the tribe, not letting greed or fear of enemies and the unknown tear us apart.” She grasps Preben’s arm. “I’m sorry about Edvin. It would not have been my choice to lose such a strong and valuable warrior like that.”
Preben gives her a long look, then bows his head. “I know, Chieftain. You did it because you had to.” He shrugs off her arm and keeps walking.
Thyra’s hand hovers in the air before she clenches her fist and brings it to her side.
The days pass full of moments like that, her losing a foot of ground for every two she wins, her wooing while the others warily watch for signs of how she will lead. All along the trail, there is constant talk of what awaits us, and the hum of speculation about Kupari and Vasterut and Nisse and being caught within his newly acquired kingdom for the winter. Thyra does not waste a single opportunity to speak to our warriors while Jaspar is laughing and joking with his. She assures them she is with them, that she will not lead us into certain defeat over the water again. She speaks of our responsibility to the widows and orphans, and how we must be creative and determined as we consider our way forward. It all seems to add up to one thing—she is not at all eager to attack Kupari.
I try to understand it. With the exception of me and Sander, none of our warriors saw what happened on the Torden that terrible day. None of them saw the floating bodies of their comrades. None of them watched the seagulls descend to make a meal out of their corpses. None of them tasted the keen tang of despair that came with watching those waves bow over us, that feeling of being so small that there is no escape from the jaws of the beast. They imagine, yes, but they don’t know. They are thirsty now, not just for Kupari wealth, but for Kupari blood.
I wait and hope for Thyra to promise them satisfaction and revenge, but she doesn’t. Instead, she urges caution. She urges patience.
Part of me knows this is wise. But only part of me.
The rest of me longs for the day when I bring vengeance to the witch queen’s door—and possibly win my freedom back. I can feel her curse inside me, carving on my bones, snaking through my veins, twisting along my spine, trying to escape and kill once again. At night it coils inside my mind, with scales like iron filings, scraping away my soft parts with every flex and shift of ice and fire. I hate the way it feels, the way it seems to think it’s entitled to burrow in my body and make itself at home.
I work very hard to stay calm at all times. I won’t allow the curse to control me, to hurt my people, to condemn me, to reveal itself to Thyra and make her doubt me again. But as days pass and we near the marshlands that mark the turn to the southwest—the long miles of trail that will lead us to Vasterut—I have to wonder how much harder my task will become.
The morning we’re to traverse the marshlands, Jaspar’s warriors rouse us when the moon is still in the sky. Thyra pokes at my shoulder, her teeth chattering. “They want to cross while the ice over the marsh is still firm,” she says. “When the sun gets high, the ground goes soft again. We have to get everyone over before that happens.”