The Cursed Queen

by Sarah Fine

  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.

  “Your own widowed andeners will need to choose new mates,” says the dark-haired warrior known as Sten, who is sitting on Nisse’s left. He elbows the warrior on his other side. “Many of them are still young. Not bad to look at, either.”

  Bertel clears his throat and lays his gnarled hands on the table. “This is how you speak of grieving widows?” he mutters.

  Thyra looks out over the tables in the hall. “Are so many of your warriors unpaired?”

  “No,” says Nisse. “They all have mates. But given our predicament, I’m sure you’ll agree that each warrior should have more than one andener capable of breeding.”

  “What?” The word slices from Thyra like a blade, cutting through any pretense at courtesy. “That bond is a sacred one. The andeners are not cattle.”

  Nisse gives her a patient smile. “I never said they were. They are valuable members of our tribe, and they will be provided for so long as they contribute young.”

  Thyra swallows a bite, though it looks like it’s choking her. “And the males?”

  Nisse waves his hand. “They’ll be able to find themselves shelter within the city, as will the older females. But our focus will be on the women of breeding age.”

  I think of the male andeners, some of whom were paired with male warriors, some with female. Those pairings typically don’t produce young, but they often take in orphans or children who were raid prizes. That was what happened to me—Jes was paired with Einar, Lars’s war counselor, and the two men treated me like their own. I grieved Jes’s loss from fever two winters ago, especially because it left Einar grim and gray, but suddenly I’m glad he’s not here to suffer this indignity.

  Thyra shoots to her feet. “This is unacceptable. My tribe is a body, each part as important as the next. Thanks to your son, the widows weren’t even allowed a chance to grieve their lost mates, and now you expect them to choose new ones?”

  Sten jumps to his feet as well. “Show proper respect when you speak to our chieftain,” he shouts, even as Nisse places a hand on his arm. He slowly sinks back down, glowering at Thyra. “Jaspar tolerated this kind of talk on the road, but in the presence of our chieftain, it won’t stand. You’re in Vasterut now.”

  “How well I know that,” says Thyra. Her gaze flicks to Jaspar. “Though I was given to believe we were all free to speak our minds.”

  Jaspar inclines his head. “You had been through a terrible ordeal. Who was I to constrain your words and veiled accusations, however unfounded?”

  “My veiled accusations? How dare—” Thyra begins.

  “Peace,” shouts Nisse, so that all the warriors at the lower tables hear, for all have stopped eating and are staring at Thyra. “We’ll discuss this later, in private. Let’s talk of the things that unite us instead of those that divide us, hmm?”

  He sounds so amused and condescending that Thyra’s cheeks are pink as she lowers herself down. “I propose we talk of Kupari,” he says when she’s back in her seat.

  Jaspar leans forward, and he and Sander share a look. For some reason, it makes me want to drive my dagger right through the back of Sander’s hand. I lean forward between the two of them and glare at him as Thyra says, “If you wish.”

  “The word of Lars’s defeat came to us only hours after it happened, from a merchant we waylaid along the coastal road. We convinced him it would be in his best interest to return to the city and supply us with information about what takes place there.”

  Thyra arches an eyebrow. “You have a spy in Kupari?”

  “He has no trouble getting through the Kupari city gates if he brings wares to sell or trade. And he brought us the most interesting news a few days after the catastrophe. It seems the witch queen did not survive the assault either.”

  I gape at him, as do Sander and Thyra. “But she looked strong,” I say, before I can stop myself. My mouth has gone dry and my heart is pounding.

  If her death didn’t break the curse, what will?

  Nisse’s mouth lifts into a warm smile, making me regret speaking aloud. “Little Ansa. I remember you when you barely rose to my elbow, and now look at you. A warrior.” He glances at Jaspar. “My son has already told me you and young Sander there were in the first wave. You saw the witch yourself, eh?”

  “All three of us did,” I reply. “We were in the lead ship.” The memory of the witch’s face and Lars’s charred corpse makes my insides swirl with ice and fire and hate.

  “Then you can celebrate her downfall. Whatever she brought down on you, it killed her too.”

  I should be happy, but all I feel is defeated. Her death did not free me. I didn’t even know it had happened.

  Thyra blinks. “Are they without a ruler?”

  “Now there’s where it gets interesting,” he says. “We aren’t sure.” He inclines his head toward our Vasterutian servants. “The citizens here know a good deal about Kupari and its special brand of witchcraft. They were full of stories of the queen. They call her the Valtia.”

  “We know this already,” Thyra says.

  “But do you know of the Saadella and the line of inheritance?”

  I bow my head over my food, saliva filling my mouth. I know that word. Saadella. Hulda mentioned it just before I—

  “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 attac
k, 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?

  When I turn back to Thyra, she’s walking away with Preben and Bertel on either side of her. I take a step after her, fear and rage crackling hot under my breastbone, but a hand clamps over my shoulder. I rip myself away and turn to find Sander, his palm outstretched to grab me again. “Don’t do anything foolish, Ansa,” he says, casting a wary glance at Nisse, Jaspar, and Sten.

  My eyes sting as I watch Thyra disappear through a doorway. “After she fought Edvin, she told me she wanted me to be there for her.”

  “She’s allowed to change her mind.”

  “Preben and Bertel don’t know her as well as I do,” I say in a choked whisper.

  Sander presses himself in beside me as the others get up from their chairs to head to the clearing outside this horrid tower, where the fight circle lies. “Did, you mean.” He lets out an exasperated sigh when he sees the look of rage on my face. “Ansa, think. Right now she must focus. Should she really have to worry about you, too?”

  “Worry about me? What—” My eyes narrow as I remember what Jaspar said about Sander’s accusations that I am a witch.

  Sander doesn’t look the slightest bit cowed. “She told me to look out for you this morning, and that’s what I’m doing. And as for what you should be doing? If you truly care for Thyra, stay quiet and let her win this challenge.”

  I swallow the lump that has formed in my throat, but I’m pathetically relieved to know I entered Thyra’s thoughts this morning, and I know Sander’s right about this. I offer a quick, stiff nod, and together we follow the others down the platform, to a larger arched doorway at the front of the cavernous room, and out into the night. The clearing is lit with hundreds of torches, and more are being brought as hundreds of warriors crowd toward the fight circle. Like last time, I use my small size to my advantage, sliding my way between muscular arms and broad shoulders until I am just behind the people at the front, who surround the roped-off circle. There are two empty areas on either side of the raised benches where Nisse, Jaspar, and many of the men and women who sat at his table are now settled.

  Halina, the Vasterutian attendant, is standing by a smaller wooden door set into the base of the tower, and at Nisse’s nod, she opens it. Thyra and her chosen armorers stride out. She’s wearing a long-sleeved tunic that covers her scant kill marks, and a new leather belt. She has a dagger sheathed at each hip. Preben and Bertel hulk at her sides, glaring at Nisse and his entourage. He could stop this farce at any time, but it looks like he’s settling in to watch.

  It suddenly occurs to me he might have wanted this all along.

  “Blood and victory, Chieftain Thyra,” I shout, and my cry is answered by shouts from some of our warriors, who are scattered throughout the crowd. It’s too tight to move, to allow us to gather in this den of rivals and band together, and I wonder if that’s also Nisse’s strategy, to separate and conquer. For all his talk of harmony and unity, is this how he will crush us?

  I frown as Sten enters the clearing. He has chosen a spear for the fight and also has a large knife at his hip. As he is of lower status than Thyra, his weapons are not as fine, but he wears a confident smile as he waves to a large group of Nisse’s warriors, who let out a raucous cheer as he reaches the fight circle. Nisse and Jaspar don’t cheer, but they do offer Sten slight nods as he approaches the raised benches. Sten swings his arms, his muscles flexing as he loosens himself in preparation. He’s only a few years older than Thyra. In his prime. Not like Edvin, who was an experienced warrior but didn’t have the speed he needed to take her down. A flutter of icy unease pulls my hand to my stomach.

  Thyra draws her weapons and rolls her wrists, testing the daggers’ weight and feel. She smiles at something Bertel says, and I cannot help a pang of jealousy. I should be there with her.

  But she doesn’t trust me anymore. She let one little lie erase her memory of years of devotion. I blow out a shaky breath as the truth seeps in. If that was all it took to destroy any feelings she had for me, they can’t ha
ve been strong to begin with.

  Or maybe I’m not the only one who’s been lying.

  That stinging thought doesn’t stop me from wrapping my hands over the rope that fences off the ring. I hold on with pale knuckles as she and Sten step over the barrier and enter the circle. This is it—only one will walk out. And once she has defeated Sten, I hope she and Nisse will deal with each other as equals. Maybe this will truly bury the talk of treachery. Perhaps he only needs to see what she has become in order to understand that he should listen to her and consider her council as he makes his plans. Perhaps, too, she will listen to him, and consider that an invasion of Kupari might be the one thing that could make us whole again. Or . . . me, at least. I cannot help but hope that someone there, perhaps one of the so-called magic wielders in the temple, will know how to lift this curse from me.

  Sander finally reaches my side. “Sten has always been overconfident, and that makes him impulsive,” he says, watching the warrior scuff his boots against the hard-packed earth. “Also, his left side is weak.”

  There he goes again, showing off all he knows. But in this case, I don’t tell him to shut up. It’s actually reassuring. We are all taught to wield with both hands, but not everyone can do it well. Thyra can, though. She is staring at Sten with a predator’s focus, one leg back to allow her to drive forward with force. Like always, her opponent is taller and heavier, but female warriors are so accustomed to that difference that we count on it and know how to turn it to our advantage.

  Nisse stands and raises his arms. “Like all challenges to chieftain leadership, this duel will be to the death.” He looks down at Sten and Thyra. “As long as you both fight with honor, you are assured of your place on the battlefield of heaven. No fear.”

  “No fear,” roars Sten, his dark eyes glittering with the torch flames as he begins to circle Thyra.

  “No fear!” Nisse’s warriors echo, and then the cheering and chants begin, urging the dark-haired warrior on to victory.

  Thyra remains silent. She gives her own warriors nothing to echo, because she has already disappeared into wherever she goes when she fights, a place where she reigns alone. She grips the hilts of her blades as Sten clutches his spear and makes a few feinting jabs, not even flinching as he begins to inch forward. And when he strikes, she easily blocks, using the thick base of her dagger to knock the advancing spearhead off track. Sten draws back and lunges again, and Thyra shoves the shaft to the left. He stumbles and rights himself, but as he does, she moves like lightning and slashes at his exposed right side.