The Cursed Queen (The Impostor Queen #2)(60)

Nisse grimaces. “It was agony deciding what to do. I knew of my brother’s heart for his daughter. I love her too! But her treachery . . .” He shakes his head. “She is more skilled at it than I could ever have imagined. Knowing that would have killed Lars even if the poison hadn’t—we all knew of his contempt for politics and scheming, and his own precious daughter had embraced it.”

“But the poison—and Lars’s celebration goblet—were found in your shelter.”

Nisse nods. “And there is only one way they could have gotten there. Thyra must have realized we knew of her scheming—and she decided to frame me.”

“Who do you think sent that slave to find the damning evidence?” Jaspar asks, his tone bitter. “It was well hidden—we had no idea it was there! But that slave somehow accidentally stumbled upon it while fetching a forgotten cloak?” He scoffs. “She laid her trap well.”

Nisse runs his hands over his face. “My own hesitation did me in. Perhaps I should have taken my information straight to Lars, but the consequences . . .”

“This is a lie.” I fold my ruined arms over my stomach.

“If I had poisoned my brother, succession still would have passed to Thyra.” Nisse’s voice has hardened like the ground in winter. There is no give there now, no softness. “With most of the warriors supporting her as his daughter. It would have been foolishness for me to try to assassinate him, even if I had wanted to. And think what you will of me—but I’m not addled.”

“If all you say is true, why didn’t you tell Lars everything when the poison was found in your tent?”

“She ran to him,” he says, clenching his teeth. “She took the slave, and the evidence, and she wove a web around him so tight that he couldn’t see any other possibilities. He ate the lies from her palm.”

“If the truth is so important to you, I would have thought you’d share it.”

“I wanted to,” says Jaspar, casting a frustrated look at his father. “I begged you to.”

“And there you reveal your youth, which protects you from all the worries an old man must carry,” Nisse says, suddenly weary. He trudges over to the table and settles his large body upon one of the benches. His palm strokes over the blue, flaking paint of the lake across the tabletop. “Lars’s heart could not have allowed him to believe that Thyra craved his death. If I had made a counter-accusation, he would have been forced to choose between us, and it would have ignited a war. I had enough warriors behind me to put up a fight, and fight they would have. To the death. My own niece had made me look like a cowardly schemer, and I faced a terrible choice. What was I to do? Let my warriors die for me just to defend my honor? Let them kill hundreds of Lars’s warriors in the process? That would have been a tragedy. Lars saw it as well. It’s why he didn’t have me executed, and why he let them leave with me.”

Jaspar leans forward, the frustration still sparking in his gaze. “I wanted to tell you, Ansa. I hated leaving without you knowing the truth. But you’re so loyal—and you honored Lars as your chieftain. I didn’t want to make things difficult for you.” He bites the inside of his cheek and turns away. “And I knew Thyra had her claws sunk deep in your heart. You wouldn’t have believed me.”

“And that was the way of it, with so many good warriors,” Nisse says. “Because she reached him first, and because her lies tasted sweet as truth, Lars believed I had tried to kill him. He wanted to save lives. So he demanded that all of us who knew the truth conceal it and never speak it aloud, to avoid bloodshed—and to stifle more scheming. So given the choice between war and secrecy, we left in the night, the truth smothered beneath a veil of silence.” He grunts. “Of course, the real story finds a way of pushing to the surface.” He eyes me with a curious look. “Much like magic does.”

A shiver passes through me at the word. “Your warriors call me a witch.”

Nisse scratches at his beard. “They’re afraid of you. As they should be.”

“Your guards swept you away to safety. Afraid I would kill you.” And I would have, if I’m honest.

“As chieftain, I had to allow them to protect me.”

I look at Jaspar, who did stay. “They look at me as if I am a monster.”

“It was monstrous,” Jaspar murmurs. “But it was also transcendent.”

“He’s right, Ansa,” Nisse says. “Such power. And a warrior must respect power wherever he finds it, in whatever form.”

“I didn’t want this.” I rub my hands along my arms and wince as they pass over the scars. A wave of heat crashes over me, and it feels like my spine is melting, pulling me to the ground. I sway, and Jaspar rushes to my side, guiding me to the bench while barely touching me. “I never asked to be cursed,” I say as I sink onto it. “I would do anything to rid myself of it.” Although now I am afraid it is too late. I let it become part of me.

“Well . . . perhaps we can find a way.” Nisse sweeps his arm over the painted map. “Here is where it originated, after all.”

Now I see—this is the Kupari peninsula. At its northern tip lies the city-state, and temple is scratched into a spot near the northeastern shore, black pigment rubbed into the letters. “Now that the snow has come, do you still plan to invade?”