Page 29 of Blood Beneath the Snow

But if I can take the throne,I mused,then perhaps our salvation lies in my hands instead.

I would have to compete in the Bloodshed Trials.

It would be nearly impossible. A death sentence. But wasn’t walking into this marriage the same thing? The only difference was whether my soul would wither away slowly or my throat would be slashed open by my brother, ending my life in an instant.

I knew which I preferred.

Seized with a sudden rush of confidence, I looked at Volkan. My heart pounded against my rib cage, measuring the seconds as they vanished into silence. Could I do it? Could I destroy the fragile strings keeping me tied to my father, my brothers?

You would make a great queen.

Volkan had been watching, waiting for something in my expression to change. I knew he’d seen it when he stepped closer to me, determined. “If they don’t have food, morale on the front lines will decline. The king will lose the favor of the citizens, the soldiers. He will be utterly desperate—and it will make him sloppy. Without the alliance, Bhorglid is nothing. And the alliance depends onus. If we refuse to go through with the marriage, then we hold the upper hand.”

I hesitated. “What about the people here? Won’t they starve before the soldiers?”

“No,” Halvar reassured me. “Food stores are low, but we have enough to last us through the Trials. Win the throne, pull the soldiers back home; if we’re not sending everything to the front lines, we’ll have plenty.”

I bit my lip, still not reassured. “So we do what? Tell them we won’t get married unless I’m allowed to compete?”

“Yes.” Volkan was growing excited again. “You tell your father you won’t marry me unless you get a chance, just like your brothers. If you lose or forfeit, then they can send you home with me. Otherwise, you won’t do it.”

I chewed my lip. “It might work. But we need input from some other parties first.”

The early glaze of snowon the roads was disturbed only by my footprints. Was it possible to both relish in my triumph and languish at the idea of my impending death? Because unless one of the gods themselves dropped from the sky, I was as good as dead.

Halvar, Volkan, and I had decided to meet up the following morning to discuss more details of our plan. It had potential; even I could admit that. But I didn’t want to commit unless we had Frode fully on board. Especially with how difficult his godtouch could make combat. If he was unwilling, then I wouldn’t move forward.

Besides, it was one thing to say I’d make a good queen; it was an entirely different beast to put your words into action.

As I took a less conspicuous route to the Sharpened Axe, I considered the thoughts that plagued me the night before. Thoughts of my own likely imminent death.

Forcing my father to let me compete would be difficult, but Volkan’s reasoning made sense. Even if I managed it, though, I would still have to stay alive in the arena. And I had the suspicion that if my other brothers discovered Frode and I had teamed up, they wouldn’t hesitate to do the same.

When Björn’s feet touched the sand of the arena, I had no doubt he would send his fire straight for me.

As the huge, expensively made homes of the godtouched slowly gave way to the ramshackle houses the godforsaken occupied, I wondered whether I would see the Hellbringer again today.Something in my stomach swooped dangerously at the thought of drawing my weapon to face off against him, the fierce hand of the Kryllian Queen. Despite all the stories about him, curiosity overwhelmed me at the thought of his godtouch.

Better a swift death at his hand than a long, drawn-out one at Björn’s.

I shook the thought from my head and pretended I wasn’t disappointed the streets were emptier than ever as I slipped through the back door to the Sharpened Axe, grabbing a lantern from its post as I lifted the hatch leading belowground. Descending the ladder was second nature, and I was in the secret training room within seconds.

The flickering light illuminated the space, and an unexpected wave of sorrow rushed through me.

Arne and Freja should be here. We should be celebrating whoever’s birthday had passed most recently with drinks and a knife-throwing contest Freja would undoubtedly win. Making jokes about the priests and planning how to disrupt the next ritual.

Instead, I stood alone, shadows my only companions.

I forced myself to move, to set up one of the straw targets for throwing knives or a bow and arrow while I waited for the rest of the party to arrive. Instead of losing myself in the what-ifs, I worked at honing my skills. Something about practicing until sweat soaked my clothes kept me pieced together. Kept me from slamming my fist into walls or breaking glass decorations at the castle.

It could have been minutes or hours when I heard another person descending the ladder behind me. I’d given up on lobbing knives at the target. Despite my strength, they missed the bull’s-eye too many times to ease my frustration. Instead, I’d taken to punching a bag filled with straw.

I whirled on my intruder, unsheathing the sword at my waist and pointing it at them as I stepped swiftly forward.

Halvar stood there, dark circles beneath his eyes, his handsraised in surrender. I lowered and sheathed my weapon, nodding at him.

“The others should be here soon,” he said, taking a seat on one of the benches. “So long as they’re punctual.”

I sat down across from him, waiting for my heartbeat to return to normal. “You think he’ll show up?”

---