The Cursed Queen (The Impostor Queen #2)(59)

“So you got what you wanted,” I say. “You’ve united the tribe at her expense.”

Nisse’s brow furrows. “You think this is what I wanted? Nine of my best, destroyed before my eyes, and two others slaughtered by my niece in the moments before. Several others injured. Burns. Frostbite that’s taken fingers and toes and noses. And the survivors . . . ah. They crave vengeance as payment for their pain and grief. They want to stone the culprit in the fight circle—but they would be happy to stone the reason, too. And Thyra, my niece, my blood, is the reason.”

Bile rises in my throat. “This isn’t her fault. And I didn’t mean to hurt so many. I’ve been cursed—”

“We know,” Jaspar says, leaning back against a heavy wooden council table. The top has been painted with a map, a peninsula jutting into blue water. “I knew you were lying that day in the woods. But I had no idea you were that out of control.” He gives me a rueful smile. “Even by your usual standards.”

My cheeks blaze.

“The whole thing was unfortunate,” says Nisse. “I confess that I should have reined in my warriors. But their mistrust of Thyra had been brewing for seasons, Ansa. You must understand that.”

I glare at Jaspar. “I understand that both of you have a story to tell, and that the mistrust grew from seeds that you planted.”

“Wrong.” Nisse moves closer to me, looming, but not within strike range. It is almost as if he knows how near he can be without putting himself in danger. “You’ve been deceived, Ansa. All of Lars’s warriors were shackled by these lies.”

“Have you brought me here to tease me, or to tell me your truth?” I should not be so bold with this traitor, this false chieftain, especially since he is in control. But there is an earnest tension in his face that makes me believe he cares what I think.

“I will tell you the truth,” Nisse says. “But you must understand that the reason it was hidden was the lives it saved.”

I cast Jaspar a questioning look. “My father is being honest,” he tells me. “The truth might have sparked a war.”

“At the very least, it would have destroyed my brother,” says Nisse, staring mournfully through the window to the white sky above. “And that is the one thing I could never do.”

Confusion presses close around me, raising goose bumps. “But you’re telling me now? I’m just a warrior.”

Nisse pulls his gaze from the window. “Let’s drop that pretense, shall we?”

I bow my head. “A warrior is all I ever wanted to be,” I say in a choked voice.

“I remember,” he says quietly. “I remember the day you were brought to me and Lars because you had bitten an andener and scratched her little boy. You could have been killed for that offense, but it was so clear you were meant to be Krigere. And instead of executing you, we made you tribe. We gave you to Einar and Jes, of all people. There was no better place for a warrior child.”

“So why—”

“Because you are more, Ansa,” he says, his fingers spreading, powerful and vibrating with energy. “You are more. And that is why I’m going to tell you what really happened.”

I raise my head and meet his eyes. They are green like his son’s, a primal, deep color. “I’m listening.”

“I never would have hurt my brother,” he says simply. “I would have served him unto death. And at his death, his daughter would have become chieftain, and I would have served her, too.”

Jaspar folds his arms over his chest, but remains silent.

“But there was a problem,” Nisse continues. “Many of the warriors could sense that Thyra was not with us. She would argue with attack plans. She would question every decision her father made. And over time, it made the others question her.” He sighs. “Some of them began to whisper, wondering if perhaps I should be made chieftain when Lars passed into eternity.”

“Lars told us Thyra would make a strong chieftain,” I say. “He believed in her.”

Nisse gives me a sad smile. “He loved his daughter. She was his only offspring to live past childhood and to become a warrior. He adored Hilma, of course, but he saw glimmers of himself in Thyra, and he worked so hard to fan those sparks into a full flame. And it nearly killed him. Because he had created something else, without even knowing it.”

“What?”

“Maybe it was because she did not want to invade Kupari—Lars was making those plans even before I was banished! Or maybe it was that she was impatient to lead. Or maybe, just maybe, she was born with the spirit of a snake instead of that of a warrior. Perhaps she simply could not help herself.”

Something unsteady has awakened in my chest. “Are you saying . . . Thyra was somehow involved in the assassination plot?”

“She was going to poison her father, Ansa. She wanted him dead before the support around me could spread beyond the inner circle. She wanted him dead before he could change his mind about the succession.”

I shake my head. “Thyra would never scheme her way to power like a coward. That’s not what happened.”

“I was returning from hunting when I observed Thyra gathering the poison berries and leaves in the glen to the west of camp. You will recall Hilma was skilled in the art of crafting brews and poultices, and I knew she’d taught her sister a thing or two. Those berries—they have only one purpose,” Jaspar says. “But I tried to tell myself otherwise.” He frowns. “But then word came that very evening that Lars’s celebration goblet was missing. I realized Thyra was planning to do something terrible, and I brought those fears to my father immediately.”