The Cursed Queen (The Impostor Queen #2)(32)
“Especially because the rear of the caravan is mostly old ones and andeners with children,” I mutter as I stand up and strap my sheaths to my arms.
Thyra frowns as she tries to light a torch in the fading embers of last night’s fire. When the pitch bursts with flame a moment later, she looks over her shoulder at me. “Was that you?” she whispers.
I flinch. I think it might have been. “No! I told you. Everything is under control.” I look around to make sure no one is listening. “The witch hasn’t beaten me yet.”
“Is it getting any easier?”
The opposite. But I flash a confident smile. “I haven’t heard a single whisper of witchcraft in days. Have you?”
“No, actually.”
“There you have it.”
She ruffles my hair and then laughs as she takes in my appearance, probably because she’s made my fiery hair stand on end. “That’s my Ansa.” She turns away and walks toward Jaspar.
“I am your Ansa,” I whisper, and then I follow, feeling lighter and happier than I have in days.
*
By the time we reach the edge of the marshlands, an expanse of swamp a few hundred yards across that extends at least two miles inland by Jaspar’s report, the eastern horizon is as pink as a newborn. Jaspar summons us all to gather around as those at the rear begin to catch up.
“The ground should be firm enough to cross until the sun is midsky,” he says loudly. “We made it across at this time of day on our way to your camp.”
Thyra puts her hands on her hips. “But that was with forty warriors. We number in the thousands. Perhaps we should go around it.”
Jaspar sighs. “Going around this marsh will add at least a day to our journey, and probably two, and I’ve been told we’re running low on rations.” He gestures at the sky. “And the first snow could come anytime. Seems to me that getting to Vasterut as quickly as possible is best for everyone.”
Thyra glares at him. “Getting there alive is best for everyone. If we must do this, we should all rope up.”
Jaspar and several of his warriors groan. “Crossing like that will take hours longer.”
“And it would ensure that no one is lost to the marsh.”
“Ah, Thyra, so careful and calculating, as always.” Jaspar chuckles. “Risk is part of life.”
“But foolishness doesn’t have to be. If your warriors are so greatly affected by the risk of snow and hunger, then perhaps you should take them and ride ahead. I’ll stay and get my people across.”
“Or she’ll turn around and run back to the north,” says a hulking dark-haired warrior next to Jaspar. Several others echo his suspicion.
Thyra draws a dagger. “Say that louder, Sten,” she invites. “Let’s discuss it, by all means.”
The warrior’s lip curls, but he remains silent, and Jaspar claps him on the back. “Nonsense, Sten. Until proven otherwise, I will choose to believe Thyra is as full of honor as she is of caution.”
Thyra’s eyes blaze with sudden hate and, to my surprise, a flicker of fear. “An insult wrapped in a compliment. How uncharacteristically clever of you.”
Jaspar chuckles drily as his hand moves to the hilt of his dagger, and the sight jolts me into action.
“We don’t have time to argue.” I stride over to one of our horses and yank a coil of rope from its back. “Let’s get to work.”
I catch Thyra’s eye as I loop the rope around my waist, and she smiles. The people behind me each use belts or shorter stretches of rope to attach themselves to the longer rope as Jaspar leads his warriors across unroped. The horses’ flanks twitch as they pick their way past clumps of grass and stretches of black ice, as if they sense the danger. I follow, leading a long line of our own warriors over the treacherous ground. I know about marshes—I’ve watched one swallow an ox whole. First it sank to its knees, then to its neck, and then it disappeared all of a sudden, its bellowing cut silent in a fountain of bubbles and froth. There are layers to these places, thick vegetation that grows a few feet below the surface and is firm enough to hold weight—until it doesn’t. If we go through the ice, there’s not much time before the rest gives way.
By the time our first wave is across, the sun sits fat and yellow on the treetops in the east, watching our slow progress. Jaspar and his warriors camp themselves on a hill just beyond the marsh, clearly impatient with how long it takes to secure ropes to each individual crossing the divide. Thyra ignores the eye rolls and muttered comments . . . along with the grumbled complaints that come from a few of our own people. She’s sweating from traveling back and forth across the marsh with our rope and keeps glaring at the rising sun as if she’d like to sink a blade into its cheerful golden face. But the ice holds, making our toil over the rope seem fussy and overcautious.
The crowd on the opposite side grows as the sky brightens, and the trailing caravan shrinks as those at the rear catch up and prepare to cross. I fight my growing anxiety that Thyra’s caution is playing as weakness and fear.
But then Gry and her family emerge from the woods and reach the edge of the marsh, and my heart speeds for an entirely different reason. She’s glaring at me as if I’m a snake and clutching her daughter’s hand hard enough to make the girl wince. I cross the distance between us, hefting the loop of rope around my shoulder with Thyra carrying the rest.