“You have improved, Your Majesty!” he said quickly. “Your passion is undeniable. But I do not know if it will be enough.”
It was true. Despite all the convoluted details of the plan, that was the part that made me the most nervous. But it was also key to the whole thing. I needed to play my part.
When I’d dealt with people before, honesty had made things click. This plan relied on reaching out to others, on making them believe. And I could do that just as easily with truth, with being myself. “I can do it,” I said. “I have to do it.”
My life depended on it.
Holt gave me a long look. Then he nodded. “I’ll make the preparations.”
Sten made camp within sight of the city walls, as Fitzroy had predicted, and sent envoys with his demands for my surrender. And so once it was dark, I set out with my guards around me. I was dressed simply, for a queen, in a pale-blue silk dress and no jewels, save for the tiara brushing my hair back from my face and that star around my neck. Simplicity—another thing I’d learned from Madeleine. I needed to look like my own kind of queen tonight.
“Who goes there?” one of Sten’s guards shouted, as we approached his camp. Mila stepped forward, holding her torch higher. “Representatives of Queen Freya. We wish to speak to Torsten Wolff.”
“He hoped you would be willing to see reason,” the guard said. “Drop any weapons here.”
My guards made a show of placing their swords in a pile, and a couple of Sten’s men stepped forward to check for any concealed blades. They paused when they saw me in the middle of the group, my hair flowing loose around my shoulders.
“Your Majesty,” the guard said. I waited for a mocking remark, something about being desperate enough to travel to speak on my own behalf, but it did not come. Good. They might not believe in me, but these people had some modicum of respect left for the crown. I dwelled on the thought, turning it into a whisper of a smile.
“Sir,” I said, with a respectful tilt of my head. Another of Madeleine’s tricks. “May we proceed? It is a chilly night.”
I was actually quite warm, blanketed by adrenaline, but delicacy was the best excuse. The guard bowed and led the way into the camp, without checking for the dagger I had tied to my calf. I didn’t expect Sten to attack me or my men during a parlay—they had more honor than that, at least—but I wouldn’t trust my life on it.
The camp was a strange jumble of sights and sounds. Men sat by campfires outside hastily erected tents, and there was a sense of adventure in the air. Yet nothing felt consistent. I passed one man fletching arrows, his hands unsteady, next to a collection of bows—longbows, short bows, bows that had been hastily carved and bows that surely could no longer hold a string from age. Swords of all different designs, armor that ranged from steel plate to leather coats—everything had been thrown together, the war camp of a kingdom that had forgotten how to make war.
The guard led us into the center of the camp, and I stood tall as I walked, glad for once of my height. My guards spread out slightly, as they had agreed, to ensure everyone in the camp saw me among them. And see me they did. Whispers followed us as we walked. I forced myself to keep my chin high, to step firmly, to wear the slight smile of confidence. My heart pounded, but I didn’t feel panicked, not this time. The world was sharper, but I could use that to my advantage. I just needed to focus.
Sten stepped out of a large tent as we approached. Good. The more eyes on us, the better.
“Freya,” he said, as we approached. “You’ve come to surrender?”
“Torsten Wolff.” Say the person’s name first, make them feel known. Madeleine had always said it helped people to like you, but perhaps it might be unsettling, too. “I’ve come to negotiate.”
“I don’t negotiate with murderers.”
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not a murderer. And neither, I think, are you. Stop this, Sten, before more people die.”
“If they die, it’ll be because of you.” Sten stepped forward. The light of the campfire flickered on his face, emphasizing the gauntness of his cheekbones. “You are outnumbered. And you still want to fight?”
“I don’t want to fight. You’re the one attacking the city.” The words were rehearsed, uninspired, but that was fine. As long as he acted as we’d predicted, I’d be fine. “Where is my father?”
“Safe. And well. But not here. He’ll be dealt with justly.”
“If you are just, then you will take your men away and surrender now. I have done nothing to hurt you.”
“Nothing? You have torn this kingdom apart. You killed my friends.”
“I didn’t kill anyone.” But Sten’s expression did not change. He was convinced that I was the murderer, that he was doing the right thing. He truly wanted justice for his friend. It would destroy him, I thought, to know his cousin had been the one who poisoned them. For him to be so convinced, and so wrong . . . but I couldn’t change his mind with words now. I had to stick to the part I’d written for myself.
“Aren’t you afraid, Sten?” I stepped closer to him, fear and anticipation thrumming through me. “The Forgotten protected me, put me on the throne. Aren’t you afraid they’ll punish you for trying to fight me?”
Sten stared back at me, nothing but hatred in his eyes. “You were not built for threats, Freya.”
“Yet you claim I’m built for murder.” Don’t flinch, I told myself. Don’t blink, don’t hesitate, don’t react at all. I simply had to wait. “You are a fool, Torsten Wolff.” I let the words hang in the air, fighting the urge to fill the quiet, waiting for my men to take the signal.
Sten’s soldiers gasped. It had begun. I couldn’t let myself turn my head, couldn’t break the image of defiance I was creating, but I was dying to look. I could only picture what was happening around me, the magic of it. The shadowy images moving across the tents, the way they shuddered and scampered and grew. Ghosts, or the angry forms of the Forgotten, flitting around the camp like creatures from their nightmares.
“The Forgotten will not like you attacking their queen, Sten,” I said. The words echoed through the camp.
One of the images danced across the tent behind him, clear in my field of vision, and I fought the urge to grin. It was perfect. So perfect. A few men hidden about the camp, some small magic lanterns, a few words from me on how to make the images seem to grow or move. They were just shapes on card, just pictures, concealed images dancing in the firelight, but by using the tents as lit screens, by making the figures move and loom, I’d created something new. No one seeing them could know they were a trick, not for certain, not in the dark fear of an army camp on the night before battle. It would be enough to put them on edge, and that was all I needed, for now.
“There’s no need for bloodshed,” I said, my voice ringing through the camp. “Anyone who stands down will be welcome in my kingdom. But the Forgotten are here, and they do not have pity for traitors and blasphemers.” I stared straight into Sten’s eyes, my face like steel, and saw a flicker of uncertainty there.
Then the flicker was gone, and he spat at my feet. The whole camp seemed to recoil. “Get out.”
“It’s your choice, Torsten Wolff. I hope you choose well.” I walked away, leaving my guards to follow. Every eye in the camp watched me leave. I did not stop until I was beyond the edge of the camp, until I was past the city walls, up the hill, and into the Fort. It was only when I was in the dungeons that I let out a shaky breath and slumped against a wall, my nerves shuddering through me. My hands, so steady when confronting Sten, would not stop shaking.
It went well, I told myself. It went well. But I kept reliving it in my head, going over every word, trying to recall Sten’s expressions, the gasps from the crowd. Had they believed me? Or had they been mocking me, a whole crowd seeing through my disguise?
It didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter. I had to carry on regardless, to fight the only way I knew.
Naomi and Fitzroy were already in my laboratory, preparing for the second pa
rt of the plan. “Did it work?” Naomi asked, when I walked through the door.
“I don’t know.” I couldn’t think about it anymore. I had to move. I braided my hair as I walked toward my leather gloves. “There’s a lot more to do. Time to get to work.”
THIRTY-TWO
DAWN APPROACHED, AND I WAS READY. MY SPIES HAD harried the camp all night, sending phantoms crawling across tent walls and creating strange, haunting noises, preventing anyone from sleeping.
The Forgotten were not amused.
I worked through the night in the laboratory, too focused to feel even slightly tired. I had too much to prepare, too many theories to test and test again. Now I caught a glimpse of my reflection as I pulled off my leather gloves. I had soot on my nose, and my hair was a tangle of frizz around my face. I should have been afraid, should have been terrified, but all I felt was calm. Calm, and focused. It was finally time to do something, to act, to fight. I stroked Dagny, taking strength from her presence.
“You have to catch sunrise,” Fitzroy said. “It’ll be most dramatic that way.”
“I know,” I said. “Believe me, I know. I just have to get ready.” I glanced down at my ruined dress, and then across at Naomi. She could help me, it was true, but if I wanted to look perfect . . .
I should have locked her up in the dungeon. I should never want to speak to her again. But Madeleine was the best at presentation, and I needed to make a statement.
And then . . . a part of me still cared about her. That part wanted to see her, wanted to work with her, to prove she wasn’t as awful as I now knew she was. As though redemption were possible after mass murder.
So I knocked on Madeleine’s door. Madeleine answered it, as elegant as always. I felt a tug in my stomach at the sight of her, honey-brown hair cascading down her back, eyes bright, standing straight and tall. Her smile was a little smaller than usual, a little sadder, but otherwise Madeleine still looked like Madeleine. Just one glance made me want to pause in the moment, forget what I knew.
“Freya? Are you all right?”
I stepped around her into the room. It smelled of oil paint and turpentine. The stone wall at the far side was covered in color, a manor on a hill, sheep in the fields, a sunset, ocean waves crashing against a cliff. Madeleine must have been painting nonstop since I locked her in here. Her paintbrush flying over her makeshift canvas, the uncertainty of her future making her desperate to create. But she was completely composed now, not a drop of paint on her.
“I need you to help me,” I said. “I need you to make me a queen.”
“You are already a queen.”
I shook my head. “Make me magnificent. Make it so when the sun rises behind me, I look like a goddess. Can you do that?”
Madeleine smiled her slight smile again. “Yes. I can do that.”
Her fingers brushed against me as she pulled a dress over my head, as she placed my hair just so, as she draped the Star of Valanthe around my neck and dabbed powder on my eyelids to capture the light. And I felt so safe, knowing Madeleine would make things right, Madeleine always knew what to do . . . but then Madeleine stepped back, her hands fanning out as if to say, “There”; and I remembered all she had done. All she had put in motion. I stepped away from her, just slightly, and looked at my reflection.
It was perfect. Of course it was perfect. My stomach twisted as I stared at myself, the image of a queen, complete with flowers in my hair and a tiara glinting in the lamplight. Madeleine’s work. Madeleine’s creation. And I hated her, I did, for all the pain she had caused. But I loved her, too. I couldn’t crush that feeling so easily, couldn’t deny how important she’d been to me the past few weeks. How Madeleine had brought me here, and how she would help me to live.
“Thank you,” I said softly. “It’s perfect.” I left the room without another word.
The sky was beginning to lighten, but the sun had yet to appear. Everything around us was still. The people who remained in the capital were hunkering down, hiding in their homes and hoping for the best. There were no soldiers in the streets, no guards. They were all on the walls, ready to begin.
My carriage jolted to a stop in front of the city gates, and I stepped out. I paused in front of the steps onto the walls and took a deep breath. I did not have to speak this time, but I had to look the part. Calm. Confident.
I climbed the stairs, my heels clinking on the stone. Rasmus Holt waited in the guard tower at the top. “Your Majesty,” he said. “Everything is ready.”
“Good.” I glanced over my shoulder at the ever-lightening sky and thanked the city builders of long ago. The main gate, the point where Sten’s men must attack, faced west, meaning any soldiers attacking in the morning must march toward the rising sun. The builders had intended for it to put glare in the soldiers’ eyes. But the sun would serve a different purpose for me now.
“The Forgotten will be with you,” Holt said.
I nodded my thanks and stepped onto the walls, alone. Men were scattered along the ramparts, too few to man it effectively.
Sten’s army approached from the west. A mass of soldiers, some on horseback, some on foot, making a slow advance, as though their mere presence might terrify me into surrender. They were a mess of armor and weapons, old tournament helmets and chain mail and leather boots, a thrown-together army of the kingdom’s past.
I reached the middle of the wall, and I turned to face the fields beyond. Crystals and cut-glass prisms had been arranged around me, hanging from the gate towers on either side.
I could only hope they would work the way I’d imagined.
Sten’s men were approaching, the sun was rising. My own men were gathered in front of the gates, a paltry force, but necessary for the show. Sten did not know about the spies in his ranks, did not know what we’d hidden in the grass in the dark. He didn’t know what I was capable of.
I stepped onto the side of the wall itself, so I towered over the fields, so everyone would look up and see me first. I was exposing myself to arrows, I risked falling, risked death, but I refused to look anything other than fierce and serene as I stared down at the approaching army, and the sun burst over the horizon behind me.
An explosion of orange and red framed my silhouette. The rays of the dawn caught in the crystals and prisms, breaking into more shafts of light, more colors, so it bounced and swelled and glared, forming a living halo around me. It stung my eyes, but I refused to blink. I would not look away. I stared down the approaching army, and the Forgotten lit me up for all to see.
Some of Sten’s men faltered, and I let myself smile. My spies had done their work. They were unsettled, ready to believe.
There was another flash of light. Thunder rumbled overhead. I glanced up, but there were no rainclouds, and no rain fell. As I watched, another sheet of lightning leaped across the sky.
I felt a rush of excitement. Rainless sheet lightning. Possible, of course, but rare. I sent a silent prayer to anyone who might be listening, nature or the Forgotten or the flukes of science, for the intervention in my favor. Some of my enemies might see through the prisms and the framing of the dawn light, but rainless lightning in the sky . . . that was harder to dismiss. Even my stomach leaped as thunder rolled again, thinking that maybe the Forgotten were here after all, maybe they had chosen me.
It was irrational. I knew that. But it seemed so perfect, and it would help my performance to have at least a flicker of belief.
Sten’s army was close now. He was on horseback at the head of the group, looking as determined as ever, while a group of men beside him hauled a fallen tree as a battering ram. But his troops did not seem so passionate now, not when faced with me, surrounded by light, not when rainless lightning continued to flash across the sky.
“Freya!” Sten shouted. “There is still a chance for you to surrender.”
I bit back my response. Silence was best. More intimidating. And if Sten’s men took a few more steps . . .
Warning arrows flew at the walls, b
ut none of them struck their targets. Archery had been nothing more than a sport for too long for the army to aim true. I didn’t flinch. The men continued to march, but they moved slower now, with more caution. Their conviction seemed to waver. My tricks were working.
They moved closer still, and their boots collided with the spots in the long grass where metal and powder had been concealed, pressing them together, triggering a reaction. For a long breath, nothing happened, as the men strode ahead. Maybe my design hadn’t worked, maybe it wouldn’t work . . .
Then the men yelled in shock as purple smoke exploded from the grass.
It had been Naomi’s idea, based on the one failed experiment that had started it all. Aluminum and iodine, combined to create colored smoke that looked like magic. It had taken a little ingenuity to time it right, though. The dew on the grass would act as the water needed in the reaction, but they could not be allowed to mix too early. So my spies had placed fragile, dangerously thin pieces of glass between the aluminum and the iodine. When the soldiers stepped on them, the glass would shatter, the chemicals would mix, and I would get the spectacle I needed.
And if any soldiers stumbled when the glass gave way, well . . . that might help, too.
Some of the horses reared, and the soldiers yelled, too, stopping where they stood. Another moment, and the concoctions burst into flames, sparks flying into the air along with the smoke.
Then the final part of my plan fell into place, and phantoms danced on the smoke clouds again. They were less defined now that sunlight surrounded them, but they haunted the soldiers still, lurching shadows, vengeful gods returned.
My own archers sent a barrage of arrows onto the field. Another sheet of lightning flashed across the sky.
“Surrender!” I yelled. “And the Forgotten will have mercy.”
I couldn’t see if my words had any effect. The soldiers might not even have heard me. The air was too full of smoke and fire now, the sound of soldiers yelling and coughing. Those who attempted to run through the chaos would find their eyes streaming, their chests tightening. They could not charge while they struggled to breathe.
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