The Cursed Queen

by Sarah Fine

  He curves his fingers around one of his forearms. “Astia. For balance.” He turns and jogs down the passage without bothering to check if I’m following. I do, telling myself that if this takes too long, I’ll just peel off and find a weapon. I’m running out of time—once the signal is given and the warriors emerge from their barricaded stronghold, stunned and disarmed, Nisse is going to kill Thyra and Halina to break the spirits of their supporters and force everyone’s allegiance. But Sig’s promise of balance is too tempting—would this Astia thing allow me to do magic without hurting myself?

  We reach a chamber, this one also windowless, but sumptuously furnished with a soft bed topped with thick pillows and blankets, a table upon which sits a pitcher of wine and a copper goblet, and a half-unfurled scroll revealing a partial map of Kupari. An open trunk sits next to the table, revealing a few black robes like the one Kauko wears every day.

  “Is this Kauko’s chamber?”

  Sig nods and grabs the mattress, yanking up the top and hurling it over the end of the bed frame. A small cloth pouch lies in a carved out hollow in the wood, and Sig scoops it up. He turns to me and pulls out a copper cuff covered in some kind of runic writing, which glints red in the torchlight.

  My breath whooshes out of me. I remember. “The Valtia was wearing that when she called down the storm.” It glinted red and copper in her patch of sunlight, shining as she pointed her finger at the sky.

  Sig flicks a clasp and the cuff falls open. He holds it out to me. “For balance.”

  “That’s what Kauko said about bleeding me.”

  Sig’s nostrils flare. “Astia is for balance,” he says, his voice hard. He takes a quick step forward, and before I can protest, he tugs my sleeve up and fastens the thing to my wrist.

  A warm tingle flows through my body, and I look up to see Sig watching me with a satisfied look on his face. The cuff is cool and comforting against my scarred flesh, but the sensation is one of unsteadiness, more power than I can control. “Balance will keep the magic from hurting me,” I say. “But will it help me control it?”

  “Don’t control magic,” he says, frustrated with me yet again.

  “Be?” I guess.

  He winks. “Be.”

  From somewhere above our heads, a single note is blown on a horn. The faint noise hits me like a bolt of lightning. “That must be the signal,” I yelp, lunging for the door. This time I’m in the lead, and I’m honestly not sure Sig is following. I have to get to the parapet before our rebel tribe is brought to the courtyard.

  I hit the stairs and begin to sprint, my breath rushing alternately hot and cold. The cuff at my wrist is soothing and centering, not a distraction so much as a reassurance—as are Sig’s footsteps behind me. I’m not sure what I did to deserve this strange, scarred boy’s allegiance—I have to wonder what he wants from me—but right now it runs warm through my veins.

  Normally, these stairs are crowded with the warriors who reside here in the castle or who have been chosen to work within the walls. But today, Carina has gathered them all and taken them to the eastern part of the city, to lie in wait for Thyra’s rebels, to overwhelm them and end the uprising before it begins. It will save their lives but crush their spirits, and Thyra’s execution for treachery will make all that struggle meaningless.

  I look up the broad spiral of sunlit steps, knowing the parapet is located three levels above the ground. Just as it is occurring to me that I should develop a strategy—I am one small warrior who will be facing Nisse, Jaspar, and their personal guard, which apparently includes Sander now—Sig yanks me to a stop. “Shhh.”

  Just around the curve of the steps, I hear the buzz of voices. We won’t be able to pass unnoticed. But then Sig presses something soft into my hands.

  It’s a pillow. And a robe. “Be Kauko,” he says as I realize he’s thrown another robe around his own body. Without so much as a question, he pulls at the rope that holds my breeches up, and as I grab for them, he stuffs the pillow under my tunic, reties the rope, and pulls the robe over the whole thing, tugging the hood up over my head.

  I glance down at my puffed out belly. “You certainly are a clever madman.”

  He pulls his hood over his own head. “Go now.”

  I start up the steps, and as we turn the curve I see that the way is blocked—dozens of Vasterutians are coming down from the upper levels and being herded onto the main level by a few helmed and armored warriors who crowd them toward the exit to the courtyard. If we try to barrel past them, the alarm will be sounded and Nisse will know I’m coming for him.

  He could kill Thyra in a heartbeat. One slice is all it takes. I know exactly how easy it is.

  I glance behind me, at Sig, and put my head down as I trudge out of the staircase, following the Vasterutians. I stroke my paunch. One of the warriors says, “We thought you were downstairs with the witch.”

  Sig bursts into a trilling cascade of Kupari, chuckling as he mimes chaining someone to the wall. I glance at the tree-trunk legs of our warriors, firmly planted but not in a wide fight stance, and silently pray that I look like an old, fat priest.

  The warrior guard laughs. “Can’t understand a single stupid word you’re saying,” he says to Sig. “Go on, then. You must have her secure if you’re up here to watch the show.”

  He shields me from sight a moment later and stays close as we walk with the Vasterutians toward the courtyard. Even through the thick robes, I feel the heat he gives off. By his own admission, he has no ice to balance it with. It simply flows from him like a current on the lake, constant and powerful. I wonder how strong he really is, if he has this much fire after being bled for so long. Either his magic is a very deep well or his spirit is unbreakable.

  Then I consider the look in his eye as he promised Kauko’s death. Unbreakable, maybe, but definitely cracked.

  We flow with the crowd of Vasterutians—there must be at least a hundred of them, all young and strong, all muttering among themselves in low, tense tones. These are the ones who will be taken as hostages to Kupari, to ensure that Vasterut remains under Krigere control.

  When the sunlight reaches me, warming the black fabric of my robe, I chance a look around. Sig looms dark and hooded to my left, and we stand out among the Vasterutians, many of whom are wearing grayish-brown tunics and breeches, their feet covered in cloth boots that barely keep out the cold and damp. None of them are armed, but their dark eyes carry that sharp, wary look I have grown so familiar with. Do they know what Halina and Efren have done? I don’t see the black-bearded Vasterutian here, and I wonder if Nisse has already caught him, if he is somewhere in the bowels of the tower, chained and bleeding.

  High above us is the parapet, and I hold the hood over most of my face as I look up. Sander and Halina stand on one side of the wooden-fenced walkway that surrounds that level of the tower, and Jaspar and Thyra stand on the other. Nisse stands in the center, wearing his broadsword and helmet, his graying blond hair loose over his shoulders. He looks dominant and deadly, and I know that is his intention. He raises his arms and smiles as a loud, eerie horn sounds off somewhere out in the city. The noise is repeated by a warrior just inside the courtyard, who blows a curved horn of a mountain sheep. Nisse grins. “My friends,” he shouts. “Do you know that sound? It’s our arriving allies, the priests of Kupari.” He leans forward and gestures at Halina to translate.

  He’s about to execute her, and he’s demanding that she translate his words for her captive people. It only drives my understanding of him deeper into my darkening heart.

  Sander pushes Halina forward, and she grips the railing of the parapet and gives him a resentful glare before turning back to the crowd. She shouts her words in Vasterutian, and they no longer sound round and honeyed—now they ring with a ferocity that makes me wince.

  “I have to stop this,” I whisper to Sig. “I can’t stand here and watch him kill them.”

  Sig’s fingers clamp over my shoulder. “Not close enough,” he whispers back
. “Wait.”

  Nisse raises his arms. “Open the city gates,” he roars.

  Halina wears a strange, grim smile as she shouts her words in Vasterutian. As the warrior blows his horn three times to signal Nisse’s command to the few guards stationed near the gate, a strange ripple of energy seems to run through the crowd.

  The horn out in the city blows a single, high-pitched note that cuts off suddenly.

  Nisse’s victorious smile fades as he peers down the long, wide road that leads straight downhill from the tower to the city gate. We all turn to see what he’s looking at; nearly a mile up the muddy road, a long procession of black-robed riders emerges over a rise. They ride with their heads low to their mounts, galloping at full clip, not the way I would expect soft priests to approach. I squint as the noonday sun glints off metal, a shimmer that’s nearly blinding within the black horde.

  All of the riders are heavily armed.

  “Oh, heaven,” I whisper as the truth crashes down. “Those aren’t priests.” And I don’t know who they are, but I’m guessing I am staring at an advancing force of Korkeans and Ylpesians.

  Halina said they were allies. She told me the Vasterutians hadn’t been able to get riders out of the city since they’d sent a plea for aid to Kupari. She’s the one who volunteered Vasterutian scouts to go fetch the refugee priests, right when Nisse was most thirsty for magical allies.

  She wasn’t betraying me—she was betraying him.

  Something tells me those scouts rode without stopping to the other southern city-states. And then Halina spread the story that the rebel warriors were planning to escape, ensuring that nearly all of Nisse’s force was occupied with the rebels—and very few of them remain here at the tower to guard Nisse. She made sure I “overheard” the story; it only bolstered the knowledge Nisse already had.

  “We have to get to Thyra,” I cry, pushing back my hood to get a clear view of the parapet.

  It’s already in chaos. As I lunge forward, trying frantically to push through the churning, shouting mob of Vasterutians, some of whom have already charged the few warriors in the courtyard, Sander shoves Halina toward a window farther along the parapet and whirls around with his dagger in his hand.

  Nisse sees Sander’s attack just in time and gets his dagger up to block the strike. I stare, wide-eyed. Sander did jump, then. Just not in the direction I believed. Love for him beats in my breast as I watch him take on the older warrior, fighting with a strength and frenzy that I know well.

  A cry of pain draws my eyes to the right. Thyra has taken advantage of the moment. She has one of Jaspar’s daggers in her hand. Jaspar draws one from his boot, a wooden smile on his face.

  “Close the gates,” Nisse howls as the Vasterutians around us let out a fierce, ragged war cry. He kicks Sander in the stomach and backs up a few steps. “Close the gates!”

  But instead of three quick notes, the horn sounds off in one long, eerie tone, cutting over the noise of the riot in the yard. I glance over to see the warrior who previously had the horn lying on the ground, clutching his head while a stout Vasterutian woman fills her cheeks and blows the horn yet again.

  There is utter mayhem all around me. The southern warriors will be here in minutes. Sander, Nisse, Jaspar, and Thyra are still grappling on the parapet. One Vasterutian tackles Sig, who crashes into me but then whirls around with balls of fire bursting from his palms. This ignites a very different type of chaos, with Vasterutians scrambling to get away from us. It draws the attention of the fighters in the parapet. Thyra’s blue gaze meets mine. Ansa, she mouths. Her smile is exquisite relief.

  But the distraction costs her dearly. Jaspar backhands her, so hard that her head hits the stone wall of the tower. At the same time, Sander slices Nisse across the arm, sending the older warrior staggering back. He falls, and Sander descends on him, raw determination shining on his face.

  He chose Thyra. My fellow raid prize chose mercy and loyalty and faith. He chose to break from our brutal past and trust in a fragile future. I suppose whatever strong thing you choose should depend on how you define strength, he said to me. And now I know what his answer was.

  His blade shines as he brings it down.

  His force and momentum are so powerful that he has no chance to reverse course.

  Sander’s eyes go wide as Jaspar’s dagger pierces his gut. Jaspar’s face is monstrous and animal as he twists the blade, then wraps his arm around Sander’s torso and jerks him forward, sending him tumbling over the edge of the parapet.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Sander falls as if held up by a cloud, slow and agonizing. I see every second, and I know the screaming I hear is my own. I shove and push, calling to the wind to bear him up, and a gale swirls around us, battering the crowd. His body slows in its plunge from on high, but not enough. He hits the ground at the base of the tower, and I finally break free to reach him. I skid to my knees and wrap my arms around him. “Ansa?” he says weakly, blood flowing unchecked from his mouth, his eyes black and unfocused.

  “I have you,” I say, glancing up at Sig, who has his back to me, fire still sitting on his palms—he’s making sure the mob doesn’t attack us in their frenzy. He looks over his shoulder, and I can tell by his expression that he has no hope for Sander. It squeezes in my chest, only confirming what I already knew.

  “I failed,” Sander says, his voice as broken as his body. Unbelievably, his fingers are still wrapped firmly around the hilt of his dagger, as if not all of him has admitted defeat.

  “You didn’t fail. You fought until the very end.” I press my lips to his bloody forehead. “And Hilma will welcome you when you get to heaven.”

  He closes his eyes, and a tear slides down his cheek, the only one I’ve ever seen him shed. But when he speaks, it isn’t of his lost mate. “Get Thyra,” he says in a halting voice. “The foreign fighters . . . won’t attack us if she’s chieftain. That was the bargain . . . we made with the Vasterutians.”

  I don’t want to leave him. These are the final minutes of his life, and I don’t want him to be alone. But . . . I close my hand over his—the one that holds the dagger. “Give this to me now. I will carry on your fight,” I say, my voice cracking beneath my grief. “My victory will be yours.”

  He smiles. “I would choose no other warrior for the task. Blood and victory, sister.”

  “Blood and victory, brother. I will return your weapon when the battle is over,” I murmur, gently laying his broken body down. His great shuddering sigh is his last breath. When I rise from the ground, the cuff around my wrist makes my whole arm tingle, power craving a target. But if I were to unleash my grief-driven magic now, it would destroy every soul in this courtyard. I look down at Sander’s weapon and pray it is enough. “We have to get to Thyra,” I say to Sig, and he nods and begins to walk forward, his hands outstretched, the deadly fire dancing at his command.

  There’s a thunderous noise down the hill—the foreign fighters approaching our undefended tower, and possibly the entire able-bodied population of Vasterut hard on their heels. Empowered by new allies, I have a feeling they’ll attack us with hammers and scythes, whatever they can wield. This is a people ignited after a year of being held down. If they are not willing to honor the deal they apparently made—to spare our tribe if Thyra is made chieftain— then we will all be slaughtered. No matter that our warriors will kill hundreds before they go down. With no leader and the city engulfed in confusion, chaos will reign.

  “Hurry,” I say, pushing Sig’s sweaty back. I don’t know if Nisse understands what’s at stake—the lives of his warriors may hinge on whether he keeps Thyra alive. The entrance to the castle is blocked by Vasterutians, pushing to get back inside. At first I think they’re trying to find shelter and protection from the oncoming horde of foreign fighters, but then I hear Nisse’s name, shouted over and over. They are calling for his blood.

  “Can you clear that entrance?” I ask Sig. I don’t trust myself—there must be fifty Vasterutians b
etween us and the arched doorway, and half of them are beating one of our warriors to death. Their fists are clenched, their eyes wide. They will not be denied their vengeance—or their freedom. “Try to do it without killing anyone. It would only enflame them.”

  Sig chuckles, a shaky, unstable mirth. “Enflame?” He wiggles his fingers, and the tiny infernos in his palms grow tendrils, spiraling up like vines made only of sunlight.

  I touch his back. “No killing.” Part of me can’t believe I’m saying that—two months ago I dreamed of kill marks every night. But now that wish seems petty in the face of all that is at stake—and the possibility that I could preserve life.

  Sig nods as his fire grows, moving almost playfully as it slithers over the heads of the Vasterutians. His control is terrifying to me, but so is the extremity of his power—his body is drenched in sweat. It flows down his neck and soaks his robe. His skin is pink from the heat. My ice magic seems to protect me from it, but he has none of that. I close my eyes and think of a cool breeze, then lean forward and blow a frosty breath against his back and neck. He shudders and looks over his shoulder, a tiny smile playing on his silver-scarred face.

  Then he turns around and pushes the fire forward. It arcs over the crowd and doubles back, sliding down the wall of the tower. The people at the front scream as the flames creep down the walls over the archway. For all the world it looks like the tower is on fire. They throw themselves back from it, and when the ones behind them catch a glimpse, the entire writhing mass of them switches directions, fleeing through the courtyard. I don’t know if they’re heading back out into the city or merely seeking another entrance, but we don’t have time to find out. As soon as a path opens up, Sig and I are running for it, stopping only to drag an unconscious Krigere warrior to the safety of a little alcove near the steps that lead up to the castle entrance. With any luck, invading foreign warriors will think him dead and pass him over. “I’ll be back for you,” I whisper as I rise from his side and leap back onto the steps.