Thyra’s hand hovers in the air before she clenches her fist and brings it to her side.
The days pass full of moments like that, her losing a foot of ground for every two she wins, her wooing while the others warily watch for signs of how she will lead. All along the trail, there is constant talk of what awaits us, and the hum of speculation about Kupari and Vasterut and Nisse and being caught within his newly acquired kingdom for the winter. Thyra does not waste a single opportunity to speak to our warriors while Jaspar is laughing and joking with his. She assures them she is with them, that she will not lead us into certain defeat over the water again. She speaks of our responsibility to the widows and orphans, and how we must be creative and determined as we consider our way forward. It all seems to add up to one thing—she is not at all eager to attack Kupari.
I try to understand it. With the exception of me and Sander, none of our warriors saw what happened on the Torden that terrible day. None of them saw the floating bodies of their comrades. None of them watched the seagulls descend to make a meal out of their corpses. None of them tasted the keen tang of despair that came with watching those waves bow over us, that feeling of being so small that there is no escape from the jaws of the beast. They imagine, yes, but they don’t know. They are thirsty now, not just for Kupari wealth, but for Kupari blood.
I wait and hope for Thyra to promise them satisfaction and revenge, but she doesn’t. Instead, she urges caution. She urges patience.
Part of me knows this is wise. But only part of me.
The rest of me longs for the day when I bring vengeance to the witch queen’s door—and possibly win my freedom back. I can feel her curse inside me, carving on my bones, snaking through my veins, twisting along my spine, trying to escape and kill once again. At night it coils inside my mind, with scales like iron filings, scraping away my soft parts with every flex and shift of ice and fire. I hate the way it feels, the way it seems to think it’s entitled to burrow in my body and make itself at home.
I work very hard to stay calm at all times. I won’t allow the curse to control me, to hurt my people, to condemn me, to reveal itself to Thyra and make her doubt me again. But as days pass and we near the marshlands that mark the turn to the southwest—the long miles of trail that will lead us to Vasterut—I have to wonder how much harder my task will become.
The morning we’re to traverse the marshlands, Jaspar’s warriors rouse us when the moon is still in the sky. Thyra pokes at my shoulder, her teeth chattering. “They want to cross while the ice over the marsh is still firm,” she says. “When the sun gets high, the ground goes soft again. We have to get everyone over before that happens.”
“Especially because the rear of the caravan is mostly old ones and andeners with children,” I mutter as I stand up and strap my sheaths to my arms.
Thyra frowns as she tries to light a torch in the fading embers of last night’s fire. When the pitch bursts with flame a moment later, she looks over her shoulder at me. “Was that you?” she whispers.
I flinch. I think it might have been. “No! I told you. Everything is under control.” I look around to make sure no one is listening. “The witch hasn’t beaten me yet.”
“Is it getting any easier?”
The opposite. But I flash a confident smile. “I haven’t heard a single whisper of witchcraft in days. Have you?”
“No, actually.”
“There you have it.”
She ruffles my hair and then laughs as she takes in my appearance, probably because she’s made my fiery hair stand on end. “That’s my Ansa.” She turns away and walks toward Jaspar.
“I am your Ansa,” I whisper, and then I follow, feeling lighter and happier than I have in days.
*
By the time we reach the edge of the marshlands, an expanse of swamp a few hundred yards across that extends at least two miles inland by Jaspar’s report, the eastern horizon is as pink as a newborn. Jaspar summons us all to gather around as those at the rear begin to catch up.
“The ground should be firm enough to cross until the sun is midsky,” he says loudly. “We made it across at this time of day on our way to your camp.”
Thyra puts her hands on her hips. “But that was with forty warriors. We number in the thousands. Perhaps we should go around it.”
Jaspar sighs. “Going around this marsh will add at least a day to our journey, and probably two, and I’ve been told we’re running low on rations.” He gestures at the sky. “And the first snow could come anytime. Seems to me that getting to Vasterut as quickly as possible is best for everyone.”
Thyra glares at him. “Getting there alive is best for everyone. If we must do this, we should all rope up.”
Jaspar and several of his warriors groan. “Crossing like that will take hours longer.”
“And it would ensure that no one is lost to the marsh.”