The Cursed Queen (The Impostor Queen #2)(47)
Thyra whirls around, and Jaspar smiles at her. “Ansa and I were only just renewing our friendship on the road,” he says. “I assume you don’t mind if we continue to do so over our meal?”
I can see the conflict in Thyra’s eyes. She doesn’t trust me. She doesn’t want me near. Perhaps she’s afraid I’ll accidentally set fire to someone’s hair or freeze the wine. Perhaps she’s afraid of me. But if she refuses Jaspar, it is not only rude to him as the host—it’s an open rejection of me, which makes her look weak and petty at a time she needs to be strong, with a united tribe. Everyone is watching us, including Nisse and his most senior warriors, who used to be high-ranking warriors in her dead father’s tribe.
I believe that she regrets allowing me inside the castle, and another pang of resentment turns my stomach sour.
“By all means,” Thyra says in a light voice. “I was about to call her name.”
Liar, I want to scream. But Jaspar only grins. “Of course you were.”
I force my shoulders back as I join the group headed for the table on the platform, and the maelstrom of emotion, ice, and fire inside me is temporarily quelled by the most amazing scent. In the center of the table is a whole hog, beautifully roasted and lying on a thick bed of greens, with a rosy apple in its gaping mouth. Surrounding it are wooden bowls piled with steaming carrots, sweet potatoes, and many other things I can’t identify but that smell like I imagine heaven must. Fat skins of wine, piles of crisped turkey legs and brown loaves, so much of it that I can barely see the surface of the table. Around the table are a few Vasterutian attendants, who remain hunched against the wall watching Nisse with rapt attention, responding to the slightest wave of his hand. All except for one—a woman with cheeks round as plums and a wild spray of black hair who is eyeing all of us newcomers with a curious, bold stare.
I edge in next to Jaspar as we surround the table. Nisse is at one end and Thyra is at the other. Jaspar has guided us to the middle, right next to Sander, which is good because as angry as I am at Thyra, I cannot openly abandon her now by sitting on Nisse’s side.
Nisse sweeps his arm over the feast, and then looks out over the assembled warriors with a rapturous smile on his craggy, blond-bearded face. “Blood and victory!”
“Blood and victory,” we all echo, loud and sharp as we’ve done since childhood.
Nisse takes his dagger from his waist and plunges it into the pig in front of him. “Eat your fill, warriors!”
With a shout of appreciation, we dig our own daggers into the food, spearing loaves and chunks of meat before plopping them down in front of us. I could be mistaken, but the Vasterutians look vaguely disgusted, though I don’t know why. We’re sitting at a table, aren’t we? I’ve never eaten at a table, but I’ve seen them in other camps and I know the council used to sit at one. I decide the Vasterutians are ignorant, and lucky to still be alive if they commonly look at Krigere warriors that way. But it becomes easy to ignore them after my first bite of hot food. I moan as the crust of the bread gives way under my teeth and fills my mouth with its nutty, chewy sweetness.
“I sent a hundred attendants to provide your other warriors and andeners with a similar feast outside the walls,” Nisse says loudly, though there is no need, as none of us are talking. We’re all too busy stuffing our faces.
Thyra looks up from her food. “They’ll need better shelter as the frost descends. In the north they had roofs over their heads.”
“And they will have the same here. Tomorrow they can take their pick of the shelters in the city. The ones already taken by my own warriors and their families are marked with blood on the wooden posts outside each, but you may have any of the others.”
Thyra frowns and glances at the Vasterutian attendants. The round-cheeked one stares steadily back. “Aren’t their shelters already occupied?”
Nisse nods as he sinks his teeth into a chunk of hog loin. “By Vasterutians, though. Merely tell them to leave and they will.”
“And go where?”
He shrugs. “They find shelter elsewhere within the city. It’s not your concern.”
Thyra stares down at the small pile of bread and meat and vegetables in front of her, and Nisse laughs. “Oh, come, Niece. You’ve always had a softer heart than the rest of us, but I of all people know you have a spine of iron when necessary. You won’t put the comfort of the conquered over your own andeners’.”
Thyra is still except for her eyes, which rise to glare at her uncle with open disdain. “Haven’t you taken the conquered as your own? Are they not tribe?”
The only people who remain slaves are those who refuse to join our tribe, or at least, that is how it goes when we raid. Our warriors look at Nisse with the question in their eyes. How does it work when you squat on the conquered lands?
Nisse does not seem troubled by the question. “I’m still considering the wisdom of accepting responsibility for them.”
The round-cheeked attendant’s eyes flare, but when she sees me watching her, she quickly bows her head.
Thyra brings a sweet potato to her lips. “They were worthy of cooking your food, apparently. Or was this prepared by your andeners?”
Nisse’s smile becomes tight. “Our andeners are focused on the young ones, as they should be.”
I sit back at this pronouncement. The andeners do many things, including making weapons and armor. Raising young ones is only a piece of how they care for us. I want to say this, but I don’t have status at this table, and I’m afraid of drawing more disdain from Thyra.