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.

Without her father, Elma was about to be the highest power in Rothen. She would be their mother, their war chief, their protector, their judge, and their jury. In her hands, she held a power unwanted, writhing in its eagerness to undo her. She had never wanted to be queen.

The room went quiet. It was the first time she had spoken in hours, and she was convinced some of the men gathered had forgotten she was still there. She couldn’t blame them — she had never found the need for her voice before, had never found it important to disagree or to weigh in. What need did a prisoner have of an opinion when her chains might never break?

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.

“I believe a queen should be loved by her subjects. That she ought to protect them as if they were her own children.” Godwin frowned. “Why?”

“Isn’t that what it means to be a monarch? That we’re selected, ordained perhaps by the gods, to feed and house and protect a kingdom full of people? Otherwise, what are we but despots, power-hungry inbreds with coffers of gold?”

“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.”

A sigh came from the shadows. “Your maid is perfectly safe. I can’t say the same for some of your guards, but they did attack me first. If they’d only let me get to you unhindered, they’d all be alive right now. Their faults, really.” He paused. “Are you going to cry now?”

“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.”

“You’re stalling for something,” Elma said. “What?” There was a slight pause in the silence, as if she’d hit a nerve. She sat up, shifted, and immediately, the stranger moved to mirror her. “Now, now,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Don’t go and try to flee on me, snow rabbit. I’ll catch you in a second and rip out your throat with my teeth.”

He grinned wolfishly, gesturing at himself with a leather-gloved hand. “Take it in, Your Majesty.” And she did. He was not, as she had initially feared, a snow demon. Nothing but a man sat across from her, so relaxed in his bearing that he could have been on a holiday jaunt instead of a killing mission. He was dressed head to toe in black leather, with a fur-lined cape affixed to his shoulders. Long fingers emerged from leather half-gloves, twirling a wicked blade as if it were a child's toy.

He was handsome, beautiful even, despite the shadows under his eyes and a broad scar that ran from just above his right eyebrow down to his cheek. His grin was as wicked as his blade, and probably just as deadly. But these weren’t the details that caught Elma’s eye, made her heart sink, and made the blood drain from her face.

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 F...

In the face of death, alone and helpless, there were no kings or queens. Only people, fragile bones and pumping hearts, blood beneath paper-thin skin.

“I want you inside me when you do it. I’ve always wondered what it would feel like, to die at the height of pleasure.”

Elma slammed her mouth shut, glaring, trying to regain her composure. This man had too much of an effect on her. He made her angry, set her off balance.

Rune snorted. “I’d prefer the torture devices, but it’s your interrogation.”

“What could Slödava possibly want with Rothen?” Rune said when he finally finished laughing. “My prince has no interest in your decrepit throne. I came to kill your father, Elma. I came for King Rafe’s head, not yours. But you were all that was left, so… I had to settle for the next best thing.”

He blinked. “Your birthday? Isn’t that poetic? Now I wish I had poisoned your father. But he died of his own accord, I’m sorry to say. 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.

A strange fire ignited in Elma’s chest, at the beautiful, efficient slaughter. The way Rune’s body moved; it was… unreal. He wasn’t strikingly tall, nor was he heavily muscled like most of the arena’s successful warriors. But he was fit, athletic, and flowed like water. What else could such a body accomplish if given the right opportunity?

even if she were,” said Ferdinand, his voice more difficult to hear — he must be facing away from the door. “She’ll never call for war. She deflects. Delays. If I’m to be frank, it’s a great pity the assassin botched the job.”

“I have a proposition for you.” Rune’s eyes brightened with interest. “I’m a bit worse for wear, but if Her Majesty doesn’t mind a lackluster lay…” “Don’t make me change my mind,” Elma snapped in disgust. “I can put you back in the arena right now.”

“You want me to be… your bodyguard.” Rune licked cracked lips and frowned. “Why?” Elma had no choice — he wouldn’t believe that she was genuine unless she showed him her hand. “I know my advisors hired you to kill me.

If my advisors hired you, and I believe that they did, you should know it’s because they want a war with Slödava.” “And you don’t?” “I don’t.” Elma knelt then, her knees on the bloodstained stone so she could look him in the eye. “I am the only one in the court of Frost who doesn’t thirst for war. I want the people of Rothen to be well-fed and to live their lives as they see fit. That’s all.”

His head was held high, despite his leash in Luca’s hand. He wore the black leather he had worn in the arena, though it had been cleaned and mended, and a tunic of the Volta colors, red and black, clung to his chest. A sword belt hung from his waist. He looks good in my colors. Elma couldn’t help the thought that flitted through her mind, then tamped it down with impatience.

He tilted his head, never removing his icy gaze from hers. And even though he was no longer in her personal space, he seemed still to envelop her, to wash over her like a snowstorm. “Answer my question.” She glowered. “You are.” Rune smiled. “Very good. Then you won’t mind if I make the call, going forward, on whether or not an event is worthy of particular concern. Understood?”

“Are you listening, my dear?” Lady Devereaux insisted, laying a gnarled hand on Elma’s arm. “It’s unseemly.” The moment Elma’s cousin reached out to touch her, Rune was there at her side. With the practiced grace of a dancer, he bowed, lifted Lady Devereaux’s hand from Elma’s arm, set it on the table, and said, “Don’t touch her.”

A breath later and he was back in the shadows. Lady Devereaux’s eyes threatened to pop out of her head. “He dared lay hands on me,” she croaked, her voice cutting through the general din of conversation. “I want him whipped! I want him—”

“Please, Your Grace,” Godwin cut in from Elma’s left, his tone calm but forceful. “The northerner is overly cautious but means nothing by it.” “Am I not to touch my own kin?” Lady Devereaux dem...

“I believe you’re aware that assassins generally work for payment. I saw this one in the arena and was taken by his technique. And because I value things that kill with great efficiency, I wanted him for my own.” She smiled coldly. “So that if anyone asked me such pointless questions as yours, they might be easily dealt with.”

“I will personally see to it that you’re silenced.” Rune stepped forward into the light and leaned arrogantly over her chair, practically draping himself across it, smiling viciously. “She means I’ll cut out your tongue.”

“To the Queen of Rothen!” As one, the rest of the guests raised their glasses. “To the Queen!” “May she rot,” Rune murmured, his breath hot in her ear, before drifting back into shadow.

“One more joke,” said Elma, “and I’ll have an addendum put in your contract: no sarcastic remarks on pain of death.” “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.”

Elma wondered if he felt pain the same way she did, whether his breaths were harsh and fast because of the pain or something else entirely. Rune smiled, slow like honey. “Are you having fun, Your Majesty?” he purred. “I wonder how many other women at court grow excited at the sight of blood. Your pulse is thrumming like a snow rabbit’s. You’re hungry.”

The mutual hatred became almost like a game. Elma would toss out an insult, and Rune would return it in kind, with a twist of his own. They might sidestep one another, avoiding the barb. But with each passing day, the game became more engaging, and Elma found herself enjoying it in some distant, perverse way.

“A queen doesn’t suggest, she orders,” Rune said, coming up beside her. “You balance on a knife’s edge. With those clumsy long limbs, you’re bound to fall.” She turned to glance at him sidelong. “Do you stay up late at night practicing these jabs?” He laughed, a short quick exhalation through the nose. “If that’s the sort of thing you imagine I do alone in my rooms, then you don’t know me at all.”

“That’s not what we agreed. But if you play nice, I might let you sample my wares before I go.” Elma almost turned away, but the assassin’s gaze caught at her like an irresistible web. “Your wares,” she scoffed, glancing over her shoulder to ensure her guards weren’t within earshot, that the corridor was empty. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His grin turned to a lecherous smirk. “Oh, I think you know. The conclusion to our prelude in the courtyard, Majesty. Don’t pretend you haven’t thought about it. Using me, playing out your sadistic fantasies.” Embarrassed heat fluttered in Elma’s chest, coloring her cheeks. “I don’t have fantasies.” “Your body’s response to me tells a different story. I wouldn’t mind it, you know.”

“There’s something deeply wrong with you,” she said, turning to go. “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.”

with each shaking breath Elma took, she proved herself a traitor — to her kingdom, her father, the crown, and most of all, herself. 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.

“What’s wrong with you?” Rune asked, riding up beside her. “You look ill.” But she ignored him, an ache rising in her chest. Why was this child so eager to see her? What did Elma know of the world, of sadness and pain? I am nothing to her. I’m a symbol. I will sit on the throne of her kingdom as it rots below me.

Rune followed without a word, Luca not far behind him, Elma’s shadows.

Elma realized then that the city seemed to have gone quiet. The parade stood unmoving, waiting for her to rejoin its ranks. Luca and Rune stood just behind her, tension radiating from them — they were ready to strike at anyone, even, presumably, children. There was no music, and even the crowd along the street was silent, watching this exchange with something like frightened awe. King Rafe had never done this, Elma realized with a sudden certainty. He had never spoken to his subjects, let alone stopped a parade to do so.

“What’s your name?” she said. “Winifred,” said the girl, her excited smile returning. “You can call me Winny, though.” “Winny,” said Elma, and it was shockingly easy to return the girl’s smile. She returned the pennant to the girl’s eager hands. “Thank you for your confidence in me. I will do my utmost to live up to it.”

“You think I’m an idealistic fool,” Elma said, not waiting for her bodyguard to speak. “I don’t know what I think,” said Rune. “But if you pull something like that again, Luca might burst into flames.” “I can hear you,” Luca said.

“That we are all bloodthirsty in Rothen.” Elma crossed her arms. “But I’m finding that my father was wrong about many things.” “Interesting,” said Rune. She frowned. “What is?” The assassin’s mouth quirked. “You.” “Right,”

“Your Majesty,” Rune murmured in her ear, “please stop struggling. You’re safe. But I need you to stay here, with me, until I understand exactly what happened.”

“Perhaps you could start a collection of mercenaries,” said Lady Devereaux, apparently having collected herself enough to make jabs. “Be quiet, cousin,” Elma said, vibrating with pent-up emotion, “or I’ll sic him on you.” Rune caught her eye, and she thought she saw a predatory glint there. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I am a shield, not your attack dog.”

“You are what I say you are. And right now, I need you to find the person who did this and bring me their head.”