The Cursed Queen (The Impostor Queen #2)(49)
“I can see that you don’t,” Nisse continues. “She is, essentially, the princess of Kupari. She inherits the Valtia’s magic after she perishes. She lives in their temple—the fortress of the Kupari at the tip of the peninsula—and is raised by their priests, all of whom are also magic wielders. This is what they call their witches.”
“The queen is not the only Kupari with witchcr—magic?” Preben asks. His iron-gray beard is trailing in his goblet of wine, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “How many of them have magic? Are they all witches?”
“No, no, my friend. Only a few, and they all reside in their temple, protecting the Valtia and her heir. We’ll have to find a way to crush them if we mean to take the kingdom. If we train and prepare, we could even make a run at them before winter closes in!”
At this, all his warriors raise their daggers. “Blood and victory!”
Thyra waits until they return to their food before speaking again. “You have barely a thousand warriors and are already occupying one kingdom, the citizens of whom have not yet been brought into the tribe. Wouldn’t attacking another, especially so soon, stretch you rather thin? Not to mention that these magic wielders have powers we don’t understand.” For the first time, she looks at me, brows drawn together, and I know she is thinking of my curse. “Why should we rush to attack, if our next defeat could wipe us out completely? Why not focus on solidifying the tribe and looking after their health and well-being?”
Nisse’s eyes flash with a cold kind of irritation, but it’s Sten who leaps to his feet again. “Enough! You’ve come to our table with nothing, Chieftain. You’re a beggar in our land. You bring hungry warriors, a herd of widowed andeners, a history of treachery, and a heaping pile of cowardice!”
There is a grumble of agreement. Thyra rises slowly this time, all intention, even as my own heart pounds with dread. “Did you just call me a coward?” she asks, her voice low and deadly.
Such an insult cannot be ignored.
“And a stinking schemer,” snaps Sten, his black hair wild about his unshaven face. “I’ve had a chance to observe your hesitation and weakness on our journey here, along with your sneaky attempts to win allies. That is not the way of a warrior.” He spits at his feet.
“This is an outr—” Bertel begins, but Thyra clamps her hand onto his shoulder and his mouth snaps shut.
“You tolerate this kind of insolence, Uncle?” she asks. “What is your reply to Sten’s accusation of treachery and cowardice?” There is something blazing in her eyes that tells me this is between her and Nisse, that it is an invitation to an entirely different conversation. Every warrior at the table is completely still as we wait, the tension wrapping fingers white-knuckle-tight over hilts.
Except for Nisse. He strokes his beard and gazes up at Sten. “I offer my warriors the freedom to make their own decisions. I’m sure, as a chieftain yourself, you understand.”
My chest is full of ice as Sten smiles, sizing up Thyra like prey. “I challenge you,” he says in a low voice. “We need a united tribe, and you’re a sickness that has to be cut out.”
Every pair of eyes is on Thyra, no doubt waiting for her to respond with outrage or protest. Instead she stares at her uncle for a long, cold moment, and then spreads her arms and gives her challenger a mocking bow. “Then you are welcome to try, Sten.” Her lips curve into an exquisite, lethal smile. “And I’ll take good care of your widow when you fail.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Nisse wears a puzzling expression as he rises from his chair—the corner of his mouth is quirked up and his eyes are wide. I don’t know how to read it, so I glance at Jaspar, who has gotten up too. He gives me a steady, confident look and goes to stand next to his father, who says something quietly in his ear. Jaspar is stone-faced as he nods in response.
“Given the gravity of this challenge, I think it best we adjourn to the fight circle immediately,” Nisse shouts over the low, nervous rumble that has filled the hall. A few of our warriors have jumped from their benches and are standing in the aisles between the long tables, while others remain seated with Nisse’s warriors, watching those of us on the platform nervously. The Vasterutian attendants are frozen where they were when the challenge was issued, but Nisse waves over the woman I noticed earlier, the one with the round cheeks and dark, springy hair. “Halina, escort Chieftain Thyra and her chosen armorers to the fight chamber to allow her to prepare.”
The woman bobs her head and beckons to Thyra before striding toward a door at the back of the room. I stand up, preparing to follow Thyra. She is wearing a confident smirk, and it looks so wrong on her face. Like a mask she has donned to hide what lies underneath. And I wish I knew what that was.
Sten is selecting his own armorers, two senior warriors who wear marks down their right arms and partway down their left. I remember them from tournaments before Nisse was banished—Elo and Flemming, who surely would have been part of Lars’s first wave if they hadn’t chosen a traitor for a chieftain. Now they stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the dark-haired warrior who wants to take Thyra’s life. I wonder if they believe the vague accusations of treachery that have been spreading like poison of late. What exactly has Nisse been telling everyone? He acted as if he was glad to see Thyra just a few hours ago—and now he’s allowing her to face a challenge from his own warrior?