The Cursed Queen (The Impostor Queen #2)(35)
She hasn’t kissed me again. We haven’t had a moment. But she sits closer to me at meals, and lies near at night. Every time her skin touches mine, I shiver and tell myself to focus. I am working to get over my terror at nearly burning her so that I can earn the pleasure of touching her again. It is impossible not to resent the curse for stealing that joy from me.
Her shoulder nudges mine as she turns to slap Bertel on the back. “We have each other, brother, and we’ll face our future together. United.”
Jaspar’s green eyes meet mine over the fire, and then he looks at Thyra. His handsome face twists into a grimace as he wings a pebble into the fire, throwing up sparks. I wonder if he senses something has changed between us. He hasn’t approached me in days.
“I still want you to be his friend,” Thyra says. “He knows more than he’s sharing. I need to know Nisse’s intentions.”
“How do you know he hasn’t shared everything with Sander? Our earless brother is standing right next to the new prince of Vasterut.” He’s speaking to Jaspar in low tones while he casts suspicious glances my way, no less. On Sander’s other side, Aksel isn’t bothering to glance. He’s glaring at me and Thyra with his jaw set as he waits for his share of hard biscuit and dried meat. We’re down to our last rations, and tomorrow we’ll be hungry until we reach our destination.
“I’ve never been to a city,” I say to Thyra. “Have you?”
She shakes her head. “Father said they were like camps, but that the buildings are set on stone blocks, and sometimes they are tall.”
“How tall?”
“As the trees in the forest.”
My eyes go wide. “How is that possible?”
“We always used wood to build boats, to explore. Other tribes use wood to root themselves in one place.”
“Which is exactly what we would do if you’d had your way, right?” Aksel says to her as he plops down on my left.
Her smile disappears. “Can you truly not tell the difference between a plan to provide for a populace and the complete abandonment of who we are as a people?”
He gives her a quizzical look. “I suppose not. You were going to strap us to plows like oxen.”
“How else did you propose we eat, after nineteen out of twenty of our hunters and raiders were killed?” Thyra leans around me to look Aksel in the eye. “Be at peace with it, Aksel. Your father challenged me. If he had trusted in my leadership, he would still be at your side.”
Aksel grimaces and shoots to his feet, so violently that he stumbles. “Someone had to do it,” he mutters.
“What?” I snap.
He takes a few unsteady steps back from the fire. He’s drawn most of the eyes around the fire, and he looks into each as he raises a waterskin in Jaspar’s direction. “I am grateful to be in this company,” he says in a loud voice. “Grateful to be entering the embrace of a true leader.” His red-rimmed eyes are shining with grief and he looks unhinged. “As a Krigere I want to hold my head high and my sword higher!”
It’s the kind of statement that would usually draw shouts of agreement, so it’s a testament to how much work Thyra’s done on this journey that he’s greeted only with strained grumbles of appreciation over the sentiment, if not the insult to Thyra’s leadership.
I slowly curl my fingers around the hilt of my dagger as Aksel draws his and thrusts it at the sky. “Does no one hear me?” he roars, a tear slipping down his cheek, shining on his almost-faded black eye.
“I hear you,” Thyra says.
I jerk my head around to look at her. She’s risen and is facing him. Her face is smooth, not red-cheeked and petulant with offense. “You grieve,” she says. “And I grant you one final night to howl and rage.” She slides a blade from the hilt strapped to her rope belt, and I feel the tension around the fire heighten just like the flames, which respond to my own rising emotions.
Thyra steps around me, putting herself within striking distance of Aksel and showing she is not intimidated by his wild-eyed posturing. “But make no mistake, Aksel. If you cannot put this aside by the time we reach the walls of Vasterut, if you cannot show me the respect I am owed as your chieftain, I will leave you drowning in your own blood at the gates.” She drops one leg back and spreads her arms just slightly, the graceful arc that indicates she’s ready to fight, ready to strike. “Or I could do it now, if it will relieve your pain.”
Aksel’s face is crimson, though whether it’s from humiliation or the roaring flames, I know not. His muscles are knotted, and his hair is a tangled mess around his grimy face. His knuckles are white as he grips his dagger, and his hand is shaking.
I take in the expressions of the warriors around the fire, and I know they see what I do—if Aksel strikes at Thyra, she will destroy him. Yes, he is taller, with better reach, though not by much. He outweighs her by at least a stone. But he has always been a step slower than most of us, and no one is faster than Thyra is—or better able to read her opponent’s moves before he makes them.
“Put it down, lad,” Bertel says, his deep voice obliterating the taut silence. “It’s the last thing we need tonight. Let our chieftain eat her biscuit in peace.”
Aksel looks over at Jaspar and Sander, who are standing still as boulders on the other side of the fire. Sten, the dark-haired warrior who criticized Thyra’s decision about the ropes, looks like he agrees with Aksel, but Jaspar shakes his head and lets out a weary chuckle. “I don’t know about you, Aksel, but I’m disinclined to fight on an empty stomach. Use that waterskin to wash this down.” He tosses his own biscuit over the fire, and it hits Aksel in the chest.