“And a stinking schemer,” snaps Sten, his black hair wild about his unshaven face. “I’ve had a chance to observe your hesitation and weakness on our journey here, along with your sneaky attempts to win allies. That is not the way of a warrior.” He spits at his feet.
“This is an outr—” Bertel begins, but Thyra clamps her hand onto his shoulder and his mouth snaps shut.
“You tolerate this kind of insolence, Uncle?” she asks. “What is your reply to Sten’s accusation of treachery and cowardice?” There is something blazing in her eyes that tells me this is between her and Nisse, that it is an invitation to an entirely different conversation. Every warrior at the table is completely still as we wait, the tension wrapping fingers white-knuckle-tight over hilts.
Except for Nisse. He strokes his beard and gazes up at Sten. “I offer my warriors the freedom to make their own decisions. I’m sure, as a chieftain yourself, you understand.”
My chest is full of ice as Sten smiles, sizing up Thyra like prey. “I challenge you,” he says in a low voice. “We need a united tribe, and you’re a sickness that has to be cut out.”
Every pair of eyes is on Thyra, no doubt waiting for her to respond with outrage or protest. Instead she stares at her uncle for a long, cold moment, and then spreads her arms and gives her challenger a mocking bow. “Then you are welcome to try, Sten.” Her lips curve into an exquisite, lethal smile. “And I’ll take good care of your widow when you fail.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Nisse wears a puzzling expression as he rises from his chair—the corner of his mouth is quirked up and his eyes are wide. I don’t know how to read it, so I glance at Jaspar, who has gotten up too. He gives me a steady, confident look and goes to stand next to his father, who says something quietly in his ear. Jaspar is stone-faced as he nods in response.
“Given the gravity of this challenge, I think it best we adjourn to the fight circle immediately,” Nisse shouts over the low, nervous rumble that has filled the hall. A few of our warriors have jumped from their benches and are standing in the aisles between the long tables, while others remain seated with Nisse’s warriors, watching those of us on the platform nervously. The Vasterutian attendants are frozen where they were when the challenge was issued, but Nisse waves over the woman I noticed earlier, the one with the round cheeks and dark, springy hair. “Halina, escort Chieftain Thyra and her chosen armorers to the fight chamber to allow her to prepare.”
The woman bobs her head and beckons to Thyra before striding toward a door at the back of the room. I stand up, preparing to follow Thyra. She is wearing a confident smirk, and it looks so wrong on her face. Like a mask she has donned to hide what lies underneath. And I wish I knew what that was.
Sten is selecting his own armorers, two senior warriors who wear marks down their right arms and partway down their left. I remember them from tournaments before Nisse was banished—Elo and Flemming, who surely would have been part of Lars’s first wave if they hadn’t chosen a traitor for a chieftain. Now they stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the dark-haired warrior who wants to take Thyra’s life. I wonder if they believe the vague accusations of treachery that have been spreading like poison of late. What exactly has Nisse been telling everyone? He acted as if he was glad to see Thyra just a few hours ago—and now he’s allowing her to face a challenge from his own warrior?
When I turn back to Thyra, she’s walking away with Preben and Bertel on either side of her. I take a step after her, fear and rage crackling hot under my breastbone, but a hand clamps over my shoulder. I rip myself away and turn to find Sander, his palm outstretched to grab me again. “Don’t do anything foolish, Ansa,” he says, casting a wary glance at Nisse, Jaspar, and Sten.
My eyes sting as I watch Thyra disappear through a doorway. “After she fought Edvin, she told me she wanted me to be there for her.”
“She’s allowed to change her mind.”
“Preben and Bertel don’t know her as well as I do,” I say in a choked whisper.
Sander presses himself in beside me as the others get up from their chairs to head to the clearing outside this horrid tower, where the fight circle lies. “Did, you mean.” He lets out an exasperated sigh when he sees the look of rage on my face. “Ansa, think. Right now she must focus. Should she really have to worry about you, too?”
“Worry about me? What—” My eyes narrow as I remember what Jaspar said about Sander’s accusations that I am a witch.