The Cursed Queen

by Sarah Fine

  I don’t spend more time thinking about it. As the roof begins to rain chunks of burning thatch and splinters of wood, I leap through the wall of fire. Sander grabs my shoulders and tosses me through the doorway of the shelter. I hit the mud and roll.

  The night is lit with the orange flames shooting from the top of the shelter. Andeners are running and shouting all around me, evacuating their own shelters for fear the blaze will spread. Some of them are tossing pails of water onto the fire, and the weather is helping—the rain intensifies, drenching all of us. I slide my hand over my short hair and sit up.

  Sander squats by my side, the strangest look on his face. It’s not fear, exactly, but it looks like a near cousin. “Why are you staring at me like that?” I ask impatiently, as he helps me to my feet.

  “You were completely enclosed by that fire,” he says as I wrench myself away from him.

  “So?”

  He gestures at my tunic and breeches, at my cloak that hangs muddy and wet from my shoulders. “You’re not even singed.”

  I stumble backward as the air suddenly becomes too thick to breathe. “I don’t even know what happened.”

  “You were thrashing in your sleep, and then your blanket was on fire.” He takes a step away from me as the wind blows thick smoke between us. “You are the luckiest Krigere in the world, escaping death so many times in the space of a day.”

  Suddenly, I need to get away from his prying eyes. Every glance feels like an accusation, and I’m going to kill him if he looks at me one more time. I whirl around and march toward the shore, needing fresh air and silence. As I walk, the rain thins to a mist. Andeners run past me every few seconds, carrying full pails up from the lake. On the other side of the docks lies a quiet hollow, and I make for it, desperate to outrun the shouts of fright echoing behind me. The scent of burning wood is sharp and rich, and like Sander’s stare, it feels like a finger pointed straight at my chest. Reeling with rising panic and confusion, I reach the edge of the rocks and slide down the pebbled trail toward the hidden cove. Halfway down, I lose my footing and collide with someone climbing up the path. I end up on my back, staring up into Thyra’s face, which is lit by the faint glow of the inferno in the settlement.

  “What are you doing here? Is there trouble?” she asks, her voice high with alarm. “I heard screaming.”

  “My shelter caught fire,” I reply. “It’s good to see you, by the way. How are you?” I sound much calmer than I feel.

  “You don’t want to know.” She lets out a strangled laugh. “I came down here to think.” She grasps my shoulders and pulls me to my feet. “Are you all right?” Her gaze travels down my body. “You aren’t burned?”

  I shake my head, fighting the urge to press myself against her, to wrap my arms around her waist and cling. “I’m fine. And the rain is helping.” As if it hears me, the drops grow colder, making my breath fog.

  “I should go help,” she says wearily.

  My hands grasp her elbows, fingers digging into the lean muscles of her arms. “Don’t go.”

  “Why not?”

  “I—” My mouth hangs half open, words shriveling. “Sander and a few others came into the shelter a little while ago. . . .”

  The edge of her jaw could cut flesh. “They want to go running to Nisse. And they accuse me of being a coward.”

  “Did they actually say that to you?” And why didn’t you cut their hearts out?

  She gives me a look that says she hears my unspoken thought. “No one’s saying anything out loud.” She lets go of me and runs both hands through her wet hair. “I wouldn’t have spoken as I did, especially so soon, but the suggestion that we take a knee before my uncle, after what he tried to do . . .”

  “I know.” I swallow hard. “I’m with you. Whatever you want to do.”

  Her hands fall to her sides. “You might not say that if you knew what I’ve done—”

  “Sander told me what you proposed.”

  “Oh . . . yes.” She closes her eyes. “Ansa, I don’t know if I can do this.”

  “Of course you can. You are Lars’s daughter, and you were born to be a great warrior!”

  “Sometimes I feel like it’s just a skin I wear.”

  I squint at her. “How can you say that? It’s in your blood and bones. All you have to do is embrace it.”

  She gives me an uneasy look. “And what, exactly, is in my blood and bones? War? Killing?”

  I hate the distaste with which she says those words. “The thrill of conquest. Territory and triumph. Blood and victory.” I laugh, but it carries an edge of frustration.

  “How can that be enough for you, Ansa? It certainly isn’t enough for me.”

  “Tribe, then,” I shout. “You were born to lead this tribe. Born to keep us strong. And if you don’t—” I clamp my lips shut and turn away. “Give us our pride back. Build us up. Remind us who we are. Plan our revenge on Kupari. But don’t let us become prey.” Please. I wrap my arms around myself as the memory of blood and fire and my parents’ empty eyes makes me feel so small, so small, like anything could snatch me up and take me away from everything I love.

  “Ansa.” Thyra touches my arm. “Ansa.”

  “Do whatever you have to do,” I say in a choked voice.

  “I always have.” Her blue eyes are wide and unfocused as she stares at the lake. “But . . .” She blinks and tosses me a quick, sad smile. “Never mind.”

  “You will triumph. I know it,” I whisper, reaching up to touch her hollow cheek. Perhaps, if she feels my faith in her, she’ll find the strength she needs to fight, to keep us whole.

  A tired smile pulls at her lips. “Your hands are so warm. As if you brought the fire with you.”

  That’s what you do to me, I want to say. But I don’t want her to push me away. “If I did, I’m glad. At least I can say I did something for you tonight.”

  She bows her head, but presses her palm over my hand, holding it to her cheek. “In the last day I have watched nearly everyone I love die,” she says quietly. “And I suspected that what I had to say tonight might make the rest walk away from me, yet it was a risk I had to take. But I couldn’t bear . . .” She looks at me through eyelashes sparkling with mist and firelight. “If you looked at me with disappointment, if you walked away . . .” Her voice is so soft that I have to move close to capture her words, my gaze focused on her mouth.

  I’m your wolf. Your fire. Your knife, your blanket. If only you ask. “All I see when I look at you is my chieftain.”

  “Is that really all you see?”

  “You want all my honesty?”

  “Yes,” she murmurs, and then slowly, so slowly, she turns her head and kisses my palm. A tiny but potent pang of ecstasy streaks along my arm and straight to the center of me like a ray of sunlight focused through a crystal drop of dew—one that awakens a wildfire inside.

  My heart pounds, sending heat pulsing along my limbs. Caught in a storm of hope and searing need, I rise onto my tiptoes.

  Thyra gasps and steps away from me, her hand clamped over her cheek, leaving mine suspended between us, reaching. She lets out a surprised laugh. “Are you feverish?”

  I tuck my hand into the folds of my cloak. “What? No. Why would you think that?”

  “I think you burned me.” She pokes at her cheek, wearing a bemused smile. There’s a reddish outline on that side of her face, her pale skin blotchy with heat. I blink at it, telling myself it’s just a shadow as she begins to walk up the narrow path to the settlement. “I’m going to help get things calmed down. You coming?”

  I nod, but as she turns her back, I stare down at my hand. At my fingers.

  And at the tendrils of flame swirling merrily in the center of my palm.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Now I understand why the witch let me live. It is the only thing that makes sense. And as the truth sinks in, it drives my hate for her deep into my bones.

  She cursed me. Instead of giving me an honorable death, she filled me w
ith her poison and sent me back to our people. She killed all our warriors, but it wasn’t enough for her. I had thought the warm wind, which rose from nowhere to blow our scrap of hull back to our home shore, was a gift from heaven.

  It was just a part of her plan to kill us all. She means to use me as a sword against my own, but I won’t let her.

  I crouch against the dune and stare across the water. The knife slips in my sweaty palm. My head is buzzing with lack of sleep—I haven’t allowed myself to do more than doze since the second fire.

  One burned shelter is an accident. But two makes people wonder. A third will make them sure. Witchcraft, they will whisper. Witch, they will think when they look at me. In the five days since we were crushed, superstition has sprouted like mushrooms from the soil of an empty burial ground—haunted by warriors who will never be properly laid to rest. Thyra has been working with the widows of our most senior warriors to plan a ceremony of farewell to soothe our uneasiness and grief. We will not get to share our blood with our lost brothers and sisters one last time, nor can we arm them for eternal battle, but Thyra says our spirits and memories will be the wind that carries them to their final victory.

  She cannot silence the whispers, though, nor can she quell the fear. The wolves of heaven no longer guard us. We are prey now. We have been cursed.

  And we are all looking for a place to lay blame.

  A low sob bursts from my mouth. I could not bear it if they knew that I am the cursed one, but I am; I know it. Fire drips from my fingers if I do not focus on suppressing it. Just as bad, frost creeps along my arms and bitter cold whirls around me at the worst moments. So far, they all draw their cloaks around their shoulders and blame it on the coming winter, but soon they’ll realize it comes from me. I feel the ice inside. It’s a blade on a stone, growing sharper by the day, destroying me.

  I pull the collar of my tunic wide and hold the knife angled downward, the point touching the soft skin at the base of my throat. One solid thrust, and it will pierce my heart. I know how hard to push. I’ve felt flesh give way, the strike vibrating through a hilt to my palm, up my arm. I’ve felt the shield of bone, the resistance of gristle, the slide of viscera. I know to twist, to leave nothing untouched in my wake, to shred and tear and leave no possibility of recovery. I’m going to earn one more kill mark today, though I won’t be alive to ask for it.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and turn my face to the heavens. Why me? There were thousands of warriors on the Torden that day. Why was I the one she sent to hurt my people? Did she know how hard I’d fought to be one of them? Did she know my tribe means more to me than anything else?

  I wrap my other hand around the one clutching the hilt. It will be over soon.

  “I thought I saw you sneaking away.”

  I pivot on the balls of my feet, whipping the knife behind me. “I didn’t sneak,” I say breathlessly as Sander steps into view.

  His brow furrows as he examines my face. “Are you crying?”

  I grimace and swipe my hand across my cheeks. “Are you addled?”

  “We were scheduled to take watch this afternoon, but—”

  But I had planned to be dead by then. “Yes, this afternoon. So leave me alone.”

  “What are you hiding from? Why weren’t you at noonmeal?”

  I stand up, annoyance blazing through me. But fear is hard on its heels as I feel the heat sprout from my fingertips. I clench my fists, and sweat beads across my forehead as I wrestle the curse back. “Just because I wanted to get away from the gloom of camp, I’m hiding?”

  He rubs his palm over the back of his head. “You haven’t been the same since we returned.”

  “I can’t imagine why. I only watched everything I love burn and splinter, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.” My lip curls. “I think the better question is why you’re suddenly the perfect warrior, Sander. Did you realize Hilma would have thought you a coward, for the way you acted on the Torden?”

  With a strangled growl, he lunges at me. I sidestep, but he catches a handful of my tunic and sends me stumbling over his legs, into the sand. I roll away as he tries to dive on top of me, then land a kick to the side of his head as he comes for me again. He grunts and rises to a crouch, ready to pounce. But as he does, I hurl a handful of sand into his face.

  “You conniving little runt!”

  “Maybe I haven’t changed as much as you thought.”

  Sander chuckles as he blinks sand from his eyes. “Oh, you have. Setting fire to your own blanket two nights in a row, and somehow you’re untouched by the flames? Slinking around for the last few days with a cloud of bitter cold around you? Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

  This time I’m the one who attacks, out of pure terror at his words. I plow into him, wrapping my fingers around his throat for an instant before he yowls with pain and grabs my wrists. I slam my forehead into his face. Cursing, he wrenches my hands behind my back, barely avoiding my snapping teeth. “Cut it out, Ansa!”

  “Why should I?” I’m still struggling, trying to get my legs beneath me so I can thrust my knee into his crotch. “Are you reliving our last turn in the fight circle? This time I could bring you death if you like. Fight hard enough and Hilma might even welcome you to heaven.”

  He shoves me away, and I land on my back in the sand, knowing I’ve poked an unhealed wound but too shattered to care. I need him to come at me, to give me a reason. I’m hoping he’s remembering that bright spring day, when he thought I was easy game, when he beat me until I could barely stand . . . when he turned his back on me and gave me the moment I needed. As I scramble to my feet, blood drips from his upper lip while he gingerly prods several red streaks along his throat. I glance down at my hands and ball them in my tunic. Did I just burn him?

  “Your fingers . . . ,” he says slowly as his hands fall to his sides.

  My heart thumps in time with my panicked thoughts. “I’ve had a fever lately.”

  He squints at me. “They were so cold that I thought my blood would turn to ice.”

  Saliva fills my mouth and I nearly retch. “I had just washed them in the lake.”

  “Liar,” he says quietly, then puts his hands up as I start forward again. His steps are quick, like he’s nervous. And he should be. If he accuses me of witchcraft, I’m going to kill him.

  “Ansa, I didn’t come here to fight you,” he shouts as I start forward.

  “Now who’s a liar?”

  “It’s Thyra! I was coming to tell you—just listen!” He has his hands out in front of him as I move closer, alarm ringing like a bell in my ears. “She told me to come find you. She was challenged.”

  “What? By who?”

  He glances over his shoulder, toward the camp. “Edvin laid his claim to the chieftain’s chair at noonmeal.”

  “The second-wave commander thinks he can do better than she can?”

  “He said he wouldn’t let Thyra turn us into land drudges. They were going straight to the circle. And I knew that you—”

  I’m running now, my only thought of getting to Thyra. Sander catches up with me as I hit the trail. My mind is a whirl of questions, but I’m too panicked to ask him. My feet pound the rocky path as I sprint into camp. I can already hear the shouts coming from the big open area in front of the council shelter—where the fight circle lies.

  I should have been at her side. She said she needed me! Instead, I crept away like a coward, too focused on my own problems to watch her back. When I reach the crowd, I use my small size to my advantage, weaving between hips and shoulders and legs to get to the edge of the circle. Sander gets shut out behind me. I hear him grunting as he tries to get through. But I don’t stop to wait. I can’t bear the thought of Thyra facing this alone.

  But she already is. When I get to the roped off circle, she’s standing in the center, in her boots and breeches, wearing only her chest wrap and undershirt. Her kill marks are silver pink on her tanned skin, and the lean muscles of her arms are tense as she fa
ces off against Edvin, a barrel-chested old warrior with arms the size of young oaks. He holds his battle ax and paces in a slow circle around her. He’s easily twice her weight, but she’s nearly as tall as he is. Her chest rises and falls slowly as she waits for him to attack, and she holds a dagger in her right hand, her grip light.

  All around us, warriors and andeners shout and cheer. Some for Thyra, some for Edvin, most for the sheer normalcy and reassurance of blood, I suspect. Edvin’s andener stands proud near the entrance to the circle, looking sure of her mate’s victory. Aksel stands next to his mother, his brown eyes fierce with pride as he stares at his father. There is no one there for Thyra—her parents are dead. She has no brothers, no sisters. Not anymore. The open space in that place of prestige is gaping. Our chieftain is all alone. I am desperate to make my way over there, but I don’t want to distract her now that the challenge has begun.

  Most fights in this circle are for sport. Or to gain status. This is where I faced off with Sander the day I became a warrior, the moment I spit a part of his ear in the dirt and smiled at him with bloody teeth while Lars roared with laughter.

  Warriors usually clasp arms at the end. We all bleed red.

  But in a challenge fight for the chieftain’s chair, only one will leave the ring. It’s a fight to the death.

  “I’ll make it quick, Thyra,” Edvin says in his scratchy sand and lakewater voice. “I respected your father.”

  Thyra’s eyes flicker with pain. “You should have had faith in me, Edvin. You haven’t even given me a season to prove myself.”

  “Too much at stake for that.” He whirls his ax, and the blade catches the sunlight.

  Cold emanates from the ball of ice inside me, wrenching a shiver up my back. A frigid gust of wind blows over us, making the people around me draw their shoulders up and wrap their arms around themselves. I glance over to see Sander giving me a queer look as he tugs his collar over the red, blistery streaks I left on his throat. I swallow hard and focus on the fight circle again.