The Frost Queen's Blade (The Iceblood Duet, #1)

by Meg Smitherman

What most historians routinely fail to understand or, for that matter, convey, is that Queen Elma I of Rothen was neither hero, nor traitor, nor figure of legend. She was simply a woman.

They were in the Frost arena, presiding over the Death Games.

“They are bed slaves,”

“From Slödava?”

“They’re beautiful, are they not? Pure white hair and made for pleasure. We only feed them once a day; they’re far too weak to fight. The princess would be utterly safe.” Slödava. Elma had seen the elusive northern men before, captured spies and assassins from that remote enemy enclave. Slödava was a city-state swathed in shadow and ice, a place that Elma might not have believed existed at all were it not for the prisoners she’d seen.

King Rafe frowned but said nothing. Perhaps, Elma thought, he was recalling the time he had forced a fiancé upon her, only for the man to be poisoned in his sleep within a fortnight.

As surely as the winter storms, her reign would come.

Slödava had something that Rothen wanted — Rime Ice.

The magic-imbued weapons were supposedly forged directly from the ice of a glacier in the far north, which only the people of Slödava could access. They were indestructible weapons of legend. It was said that the damage these weapons inflicted was far beyond any a mortal blade could cause, their wielders granted unnatural strength and speed.

“Those Slödavan bed slaves. My birthday gift. Did they…?” Godwin’s expression did not change when he said, “They were executed.” Elma swallowed, her throat constricting. “I see.”

“You’re good at this.”

“Most of the time,” said the voice, “people make a break for it. Foolish. Or they try to fight me, even more foolish. I can’t guess what you’ll do, which is exciting for me.”

“I hear you thinking over there,” said the stranger, a grin behind his words. “What do you suppose you’ll do? What schemes are unfolding in your head? I hate to do it, I really do, Your Majesty, but… I haven’t a choice in the matter.” “Who sent you?” Elma said, now certain that this man was an assassin, and loquacious to a fault. With luck, he might talk. “That’s a boring one,” said the stranger, shifting again in the darkness. She caught a glint of moonlight on steel and knew he’d shifted that way on purpose. “Who do you think sent me, Queen of Frost?”

It was his hair — bone white and starkly pale in contrast with his tanned skin. “You’re Slödavan,” Elma breathed. He flipped his knife into the air and caught it. Tilted his head. “None other. And now, Queen of Frost, I’ll give you a choice. How would you like to die?”

“Fuck you,” she said, knowing that insults were the true mark of impotence. Of giving up. “Fuck me?” He made a low sound in his throat, leaned in slowly, and licked her neck. His tongue was wet and hot, and Elma closed her eyes in disgust. “Not now, you sick thing,” he said, pulling back, his eyes darkening. “Don’t you have a preference? There are so many ways I could kill you. Each one, unique and lovely. And no matter what death you pick, don’t worry. I’ll enjoy it.”

“You think you can outmaneuver me?” “I don’t need to,” said Elma. “You’re already stumbling. Getting weaker. If you’d wanted to overpower me, you should have done it while you were straddled across my lap. You’re bleeding too much and too fast now.” “Yes,” he said, pressing his palm to the gushing wound, his cockiness undercut with desperation, “but you don’t know who I am.” “Who are you?” He bared his teeth in a cocky grin. “The man who killed the Queen of Rothen.”

Keep him alive so that she could bring him back to the citadel. Keep him alive so she could question him. Keep him alive so that she, with her own bare hands, could kill him the way he’d so gleefully tried to kill her.

“Who sent you to kill me? And why?” He rolled his head back, sighing as he did. “Is that all you’ve got in your repertoire? Who sent you and why? My delightful queen, you make me wish you were immortal so I could kill you twice. A thousand times. I’m already bored of you.”

You know, when I found out you were his only heir, that I had to kill you instead…” Rune studied her face. “I was terribly upset.” “Why?” Elma asked when he didn’t elaborate. Her throat tightened. “Look at you,” he breathed. “It’s like you’re carved from ice, frigid and perfect. There are so many things I’d rather do to that body than carve it up, but… you being who you are…” a predatory gleam lit his eyes.

The Volta line had always been known, even celebrated, for one thing: a thirst for blood.

“Don’t be silly,” said Rune, rising from his chair, “you adore my japes. One day you’ll outright laugh at something I say and hate yourself for it.” His eyes shone. “I can’t wait.”

She wanted to close her eyes and lick the thick red from his skin, taste the metallic salt of it. She imagined him fighting back, drawing a steel edge delicately across her own bare flesh. She wondered if it might feel like the caress of a lover. Hatred, helplessness, and an insidious lust warred for dominance in her chest. And somewhere in the recesses of her mind, Elma felt vividly alive.

“The offer stands,” he said, keeping up with her easily, their gaits evenly matched. “I’m not above fucking my enemies. And you could use a distraction.”

Because she yearned to kill this man, but with every passing day, he embedded deeper within her like a thorn. She could not extract him.

“It’s been dyed, the color bleached out. And don’t worry, I took the liberty of checking the hair between his legs before I turned his body over to your men. It didn’t match.” “You mean you have white—” Elma said, then bit her tongue. “Yes,” Rune said impatiently. “I’ll show you later, you depraved thing. But first, care to shed any light on these events? Any idea why a man might be traipsing through your citadel disguised as a Slödavan? I can think of at least one reason.”

“Would you… spar with me?” The assassin blinked, his eyebrows slightly raised. “As in…” “Spar with me,” Elma repeated. “Nothing lewd. Swords. Sparring.” A slow grin spread across his face, fingers flexing on the pommel of his sword. “Your Majesty, I thought you’d never ask.”

But I urge you to remember, Queen of Rothen, that you are alive only because I allow it.”

“One day, you’ll let me in on those twisted thoughts of yours.”

Very well, then. If the heavens would not show her a sign, or illuminate the path to tread, then she would find it herself.

They stared at one another, breathless, both pale with fear. Elma could not bring herself to look away. Rune, the man who should have killed her. The man she had thought betrayed her. Instead, Rune’s own countryman lay dead, his blood spreading across the floor.

For a moment they were frozen in time, gazing at one another in mirrored wonder, as if discovering each other at long last. And then they collided.

Kissing him was like the first mild breeze after a long winter. It was a dam breaking, a glacial river pouring forth over her landscape. With teeth and tongues, hands grasping desperately, her body on fire, she yielded gladly to him.

Twisting her fingers in her assassin’s hair, Elma held him firmly at the nape, her lips brushing his as she spoke. “I need you to make me come.” Rune’s gaze caught hers, and the hazy lust she saw there almost brought her to the brink. “Now,” she said, her skin on fire, her thighs tightening with an unspent ache.

“Is it blood that makes you want me?”

“Or is it the danger that you like?” he asked, nuzzling the inside of her thigh. “The brush with death that makes you wet?”

“God, you’re soaking,” he murmured, dragging his teeth along her thigh where he’d kissed her. “Sweet, depraved creature. I’ve never met anyone with such bloodlust.”

“The danger and the blood, then,”

“Stop talking,” she said, “and do something useful with that tongue.” It was all the encouragement he needed. He seemed to collect himself, and a smile curled his eager lips. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Fuck,” she bit out, slamming her palm against the wall behind her to brace herself. “That’s the idea,” Rune chuckled before circling her clit with his tongue and sucking hard.

“Good god,” Elma breathed, moving to the door. “Nothing happened. If you say anything…” she swallowed dryly. He cocked an eyebrow. “Say anything about what? How good you taste? The sound you make when you come? How much I want to kill whoever’s outside your door and lay you out on the bed just so I can hear that sound again?” He smiled serenely. “I won’t say a word.”

“I meant what I said. I don’t like the idea of you leaving me so soon, not yet. And I suppose, if you must die, I’d prefer to be the one to kill you.” “How poetic,” Elma said.

“Not to mention,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling. “I revile the idea of that sweet, wet pussy going forever unplowed.” “For god’s sake,” Elma spat, scrambling to her feet in annoyance. “I hate you.” “As you should.” Rune moved toward her, and the air between them seemed to electrify. “But strangely, I don’t hate you. Isn’t that interesting?” “You…” Elma said, her mouth dry. “You don’t?” He was so close she could feel his heat. His chest rose and fell in the cold, steam forming at his lips. “I wish I hated you,” he said softly. “It would be easier. But… you’re not like your father. You’ve made that painfully clear. And even if you were, I…” he paused, shaking his head. Then he reached out and took her chin in his fingers, delicately, as if he were about to kiss her. “You don’t take your impending rule lightly. I see it in you. Only a dedicated woman would go and lie in the snow like this.”

“Your father was an effective king. His people feared him, and he defended his walls mercilessly. Rothen stands on the foundations that your father and his ancestors created, blood-soaked as they are. But you…” Rune looked at Elma as if she were the only thing that existed in that moment. “You could be loved, Elma Volta. You could grow a garden.”

“An execution,” Elma said, staring into the flames. “If that’s what my bloodthirsty queen so desires.” She glanced at Rune sidelong. “I am anything but yours.” He grinned, but something tugged on the corners of it, weighing it down. “If it makes you feel any better, Majesty, I am nothing if not yours.”

“I know what it’s like,” he said, running one hand down the soft, furred edge of the coronation robe. He was half-turned away from her, his face obscured behind a fall of white hair. “To be overwhelmed by one’s duty. To wish for something different.”

You’ll miss him like a vital organ. And there’s nothing you can do about it.

“Rune…” she spoke his name softly, that single syllable laden heavy with a question. “Come here,” he growled and pulled her into him.

His mouth alone nearly undid her. It was so easy to give in to Rune. He knew how to nip her lips, when to lower his mouth to her jaw, to scrape his teeth along her flesh. When to kiss her neck, softly sucking. He knew exactly how to make her moan. Everything he did was planned, immaculate. As if in the throes of pleasure, just like in taking a life, one need only apply the right pressure to the right plane of skin. To elicit the right response. To cause Elma’s breath to catch in her throat, her hips to roll against his.

“I want you to lose yourself in me,” she breathed.

“I already have,” he said.