The Cursed Queen (The Impostor Queen #2)(99)
Jaspar’s eyes go wide as he sees the flame dripping from my blade, and then he laughs. “Careful, Ansa. Wouldn’t want you to burn yourself again.”
Me neither. Though the cuff of Astia is warm and comforting and heavy on my arm, I don’t know how to use it—no one ever taught me. And the fear of all the times I’ve lost control still looms. Even as Sig’s exasperated command to be echoes in my head, I push down the magic as best I can. I know how dangerous it is, and I haven’t had time to practice.
Jaspar charges me again, not intimidated in the slightest—he’s seen the magic turn on me over and over. We collide, and this is no friendly tussle—his jaw is hard and his blows are merciless, and soon I’m fighting just to soften his strikes and keep them from my most vulnerable spots. The fire and ice crackles in my chest, as if offering to take over, and my breath gushes icy from my mouth when he lands a solid hit to my side.
I dive for the ground and roll, desperate to catch my breath, and then I hear Sander’s voice in my head, almost as if he’s next to me. The way he always used to analyze an opponent’s strengths and weaknesses, because he knew I never bothered to notice—I just fought with instinct. I always thought he was showing off, but now I realize . . . he was trying to help. He was being my true brother. My true friend. Jaspar is weaker in the forearms and wrists, he whispers. Stretch him out so he can’t use his chest and upper arms to power in those blows and strikes.
I jump to my feet and backtrack just as Jaspar comes forward again, and as he pursues me, I dance just out of his reach, dodging and slashing at his hands, his fingers. His mocking smile becomes a grimace of frustration. “You’re running out of time,” he says between heavy breaths. “Those riders are going to charge in here at any minute and kill us both. That was probably Thyra’s plan all along.” He spits on the floor.
“You, of all people, accuse her of being conniving?”
“Isn’t she? You claim I used you—but you don’t think she’s done the same thing?”
Somewhere in the near distance, a horn sounds off. The distant rumble of horse hooves reaches us, vibrating through the stones beneath our feet. “Maybe she has,” I admit. “She is a chieftain, and that’s her prerogative. But I think she just wanted me to be my best self.” Now I see her for what she is—human, striving, aspiring, reaching past power to cling to the light, and hoping others will do the same.
“So I guess that leaves it up to me to choose.” I feint, and he lunges forward to block it. Leaping to the side, I slice downward, opening a gash in his sword arm. He cries out and hits the ground, and I jump away as he grabs for my legs.
I back up—the stairs are now just behind me. “You were right. I choose her,” I say. “I’m nobody’s dog. But I guess I’ll always be her wolf.”
I have another choice now, as Jaspar gasps and cradles his arm to his chest. I could continue this fight until I finish him. Or I can go after Thyra. And it’s not just her I’m trying to save. I glance over at Sig, who is stirring against the wall just inside the tower entrance. If anyone comes barreling in, he’ll be safe from being trampled. I look out into the daylight of the courtyard, where a din of war cries battles with the thunder of horses for supremacy. And then my eyes meet Jaspar’s, and they shine green and pleading.
But I feel nothing for him. No love. No regret. No rage. “We are not tribe,” I say. “And if I ever see you again, you will not survive it.”
I leave the would-be prince of Vasterut to face the oncoming horde and sprint up the steps.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I barrel upward with Sander’s dagger clenched tightly at my side. Every single breath hurts. I wince and wrap my arm around my ribs, and my hand comes away slick with blood. Vaguely, I realize Jaspar must have sliced me, and perhaps I am just propelled by magic and will. If so, I’ll collapse when I’m done. But not until then. I am strong enough for this.
My love for Thyra and my faith in her vision beats relentlessly inside me, as strong as any fire or ice. I don’t know exactly what she wants for our tribe, but I know what she believes in. I know she loves her warriors. And I know she loves me, enough to let me figure out my path.
I am nearly to the level that holds Nisse’s chamber when a pair of hands shoots out from the floor below and yanks me off the stairs. I stagger and start to bring my dagger up, but wide brown eyes and a wild spray of black hair stops me cold. “You’re alive,” I say stupidly.
“Thanks to Sander,” Halina says sadly. Then her brows draw together. “You’re bleeding bad, little red.” She comes forward, pulling her apron up to press it to my side.
I gasp at the pressure and agony of it. “Where’s Thyra?”
“Old Nisse has her up at the very top,” she says. “Don’t know what he’s going to do.”
“Is she hurt?” I saw her go down, hard.
“Don’t really know,” she says. “After Sander shoved me inside, I hid behind a tapestry until Nisse and the guard were gone. But they’re waiting at the top of the stairs. You can’t go that way.”
“I have to try. Sander told me the foreign fighters and the resistance will spare the warriors if Thyra is established as chieftain.”
She gives a quick, curt nod. “Efren was waiting for the riders on the other side of the stake-wall. He escaped through a tunnel as Nisse’s guard tried to arrest him. But our people can’t be easily appeased, little red. So many hungry for blood.”