The Cursed Queen CHAPTER ONE As the spray from the Torden kisses my face, I trace my fingertip along the four notched scars that decorate my upper arm, and then along the space below them, where soon there will be more. By the time the sun rises tomorrow, I plan to bleed all the way down to my elbow at least, and hopefully my wrist, though that might be too ambitious. I glance at Sander, to my left, dark hair, dark eyes, dark heart. He already bears kill marks down to his forearm, one at the bottom still new and scabbed over, earned from a reckless lone attack on wandering travelers a week ago. He smirks when he sees me looking. "Down to my knuckle by morn," he says. "Catch up if you can." I scowl at him, widening my stance to keep my footing as the longship rolls into a trough.
The black sails are full, lightening the load on the oarsmen and pulling us along at a ferocious speed. The collision of bow and wave jars my bones, but the last thing I want is to fall on my face in front of Chieftain Lars, who is squinting into the distance as if he can already see the Kupari peninsula. Both his arms carry over fifty parallel silver notches, from shoulders to the tip of his middle fingers. He has five on each cheek, too, beneath his eyes and above the edge of his beard. The marks of a true warrior. Someday, I think. With those marks, no one would dare question whether I belong. But today I will settle for holding my own.
"If you can manage that many kills today without getting killed yourself, Sander, I''ll be happy to cut you." Sander leans down as if he wants to emphasize the difference in our heights, to remind me of the relative smallness of my body. My heart quickens, not with fear, but with triumph. He, like so many other men, doesn''t realize how dangerous it is to give up the advantage of reach, to put himself within my strike range. It would be so easy to pull the knife from the sheath on my forearm and jam it into his exposed throat. He of all people should know better. Instead, he merely looks amused. "I''ll do the same for you, Ansa, unless you''re afraid I''ll slice too deep.
Your skin seems rather thin." I laugh. "And yours is as succulent as lamb, if I recall correctly." Quick as a darting fish, I reach up and flick the base of his ear, where the smooth, soft drop of his lobe once hung. Until I bit it off. He grimaces, and his fingers close over the handle of the ax at his side. Thyra steps between us and elbows him. "What did you think you were going to get in return for goading her? Isn''t the result always the same?" He rolls his eyes.
Thyra stands up straighter. "Either focus on what''s coming or take another turn at the oars." She cuts her gaze to me as a gust off the lake blows her short light brown hair away from her forehead. "You too. Maybe take a breath before attacking." Her lips twitch. "For once." I force the corners of mine downward, though all I want to do is smile when she looks at me.
"Oh, I''m focused--on getting as many kill marks as I can." "Is that really all you think about?" "No, of course not. I think about the copper and silver I''ll plunder too." I think about having so much that I will never want again. "Those people have no idea what''s coming for them," she mutters. "But there are rumors of a--" I hold up my hand. "No matter what''s waiting for us, I''m ready." "Let''s hope so.
" "You doubt me?" My gaze drops to the lean curve of her upper arm, where she bears three marks, one of which is rightfully mine. A forbidden gift to protect her; a secret that binds us. She shifts so I can''t see the marks on her skin, but her blue eyes are warm as she says, "I never doubt you, Ansa. Only fate and all mortal-made plans." So like her. "Don''t let him hear you say that," I murmur, nodding at Chieftain Lars''s back. Thyra glances up at her father. Our chieftain is now in low conversation with Einar and Cyrill, his war counselors.
Their cloaked shoulders are so broad that they block my view of the carved wolf head that juts from the prow of this mighty vessel. Ours is the lead, but the others, nearly one hundred fifty in all, sprawl behind us on either side like a massive flock of lethal birds. With a crew and a half on each, enough for all of us to have a break from the oars for part of the journey, we are a force of more than four thousand, tribes gathered from all parts of the north and united under Lars. Nowhere in this world is there a more dominant or deadly army, and we will cut through any Kupari resistance like wolves in a fat herd of sheep. Not for the first time, I am confused as to why Thyra does not take more pride in all of this. She will be chieftain one day. The only other rightful claimant to the chair--Lars''s brother Nisse--was banished in shame this past winter. Thyra is our future.
She sees my frustration, I think. Something defiant and bold flares behind her eyes. "I wish us nothing but blood and victory," she says, her voice taking on a commanding edge that I envy and crave at the same time. "Blood and victory," I repeat. "They call us Soturi, I hear," she says. "Cyrill told me it means ''warrior'' in their language." I suppose Cyrill would know. He has a Kupari slave in his household.
"That''s nice. I''m happy to hear it doesn''t mean ''dung eaters.''" She gives me a half smile, and I stare at her face. She''s a few inches taller than me, but on my tiptoes I can match our heights and bring us close. After she pushed me away the one time I tried, though, I won''t do it again. I so want to do it again. "Skiff ahead!" shouts our lookout, his voice nearly lost in the wind as he calls down from his perch high on the mast. "Probably a fishing vessel," calls Einar, the braids of his beard swinging as he turns to Lars.
"It could warn them we''re coming." He glances over and winks at me, and I grin--he''s been like a father to me, and he''s the only one I will claim. My real father was not strong enough to protect me, and on bad nights my dreams are haunted by his vacant eyes and bleeding body. He is always deaf to my screams. "Do we know the size of their militia?" Cyrill asks, pulling me from unwelcome memory. "None of our raiders have encountered them." "Whatever they have, they can''t match us. A warning won''t matter," Lars rumbles.
Thyra frowns, and I bump her with my shoulder. "It won''t," I say. "Think of the stories from Vasterut." She rolls her eyes. "And I''m sure tales of Nisse''s easy conquest were not exaggerated in any way." I bite my lip. Nisse now occupies the throne of Vasterut after his takeover of the southern city-state just before the spring. Though I meant only to offer confidence, mentioning him was probably a mistake.
There are rumors he was plotting to assassinate Lars, since he could never best him in the fight circle. Thyra knows more, but she refuses to talk to me about it. One morning we simply woke up to find that Nisse had fled in the night, banished from the tribe. Lars allowed him to leave with those loyal to him, perhaps because he couldn''t bring himself to slaughter his younger brother, perhaps to prevent us all from killing each other. With so many tribal groups gathered and sides to take, it would have been costly. Nearly one in five left with Nisse, including his only son, Jaspar. There''s a pit in my stomach every time I think of him, though I haven''t uttered his name in months. We all assumed he and all the rest of them were walking to their deaths in the dead of winter, so when news of Nisse''s easily won victory and riches reached us, it was as good as a challenge for Lars.
Winter is coming once again, and Lars has told us we will spend it warm and fat and rich. "Have you heard the stories of the witch queen of the Kupari?" Thyra asks quietly, moving close and raising goose bumps with the soft puff of her breath in my ear. I shake off the tingles. "You doubt stories from Vasterut, but you''re willing to believe those wild tales?" Her tanned cheeks go ruddy. "I didn''t say I believed them." "Good." We''ve all heard stories about the source of the Kupari wealth and supposed strength. Not an arsenal, not an army--a witch.
"But if she tries to use her stinking, evil craft on us, she''ll end up with her head on the end of Lars''s spear." Thyra gives a curt nod. "She might anyway. The suspicion of witchcraft is enough." "That little boat is definitely running," says Cyrill with a laugh. Standing at the front next to Lars and Einar, he leans on his spear, and its deadly-sharp tip gleams like a beacon. "I think it''s going to be hard for us to sneak in unnoticed." He gestures grandly at the warships in formation behind us, and the warriors all around me guffaw.
So do I, louder than the rest. My blood sings as I feel their strength, the simple aliveness of us. I am so proud to be among these men and women. I wasn''t born a Krigere, and I have spent the last several years trying to make people forget that. What should matter is my spirit, my willingness to fight. We all bleed red, as Lars always says, and I trust that he means it. Thyra is smiling, but not laughing like the rest of us. And I can''t help.