The image rises like a water spout—Thyra lying, bleeding, in the snow as warriors beat her near to death. “I don’t know, Sander,” I whisper. “Take me back to my chamber, please?”
He’s frowning as he guides me back, clasping my elbow gently. “I understand. Believe me, I do. But the messenger will return from Kupari any day now. That’s when Nisse will make his decision whether or not to invade.” When we reach the half-open door of the chamber, he glances inside at Halina. “And at that point, we’re out of time. We’re both going to have to decide which way to jump.” He looks down at my feet. “But until then, if you value your life and that of this Vasterutian here, I advise you to clean the mud off your boots.”
He strides away as my blood runs icy with fear.
*
The summons comes two days later, two days spent with Halina’s silence and wary watchfulness. I ask her for news—of Thyra, of what’s happening in the city, of how our warriors are faring—but she offers me nothing. She comes back from hours gone, her skin clammy and her hair frazzled, and I know she’s been questioned by Nisse or his warriors, but even then she keeps silent. But she changes my bandages, so gentle that it barely hurts. She patiently walks me up and down the hall to help me regain my strength—Sander, who has apparently decided not to tell anyone about the telltale mud on my boots, got permission from Nisse for such things, as long as a warrior guards the stairs. I suppose they don’t yet know about the hidden doorway that leads out of the tower, and I don’t mention it.
If I even hint that Halina has helped smuggle Thyra out of the tower, or that she is stirring some sort of resistance, she will be executed, made an example.
I should. I know I should. But every time I consider it, I think about the little boy and the baby, their round cheeks and big eyes, their faith that their family can keep them safe. I cannot bear to shatter that faith, to fill their world with more grief and blood. And Halina . . . she looks nothing like the mother who haunts my dreams, the red-haired woman on fire, her blood staining the dirt, who reaches for me with only love in her eyes . . . and yet, sometimes my Vasterutian attendant takes her place, and I see devotion that carries a person past fear of pain and darkness and monsters that come up from the water to take your entire world away. . . .
I wonder what carries a person past the fear that she is a monster. That she delighted in the violence. The magic did not make me this way. I embraced it ages ago.
I embraced it because I could not bear to be the prey, and my only choice was to become a predator.
I cannot force these thoughts away—they’re too powerful. I used to take such pride in killing. I dreamed of kill marks to my fingertips. And now . . . I have shed so much blood that it warrants marks down to my forearm, and I don’t want a single one of them. Hulda, Aksel, Flemming, all the others I destroyed . . . Another drop spilled and I might drown in it.
I may not have a choice, though. Now I will have to jump. Because Nisse has summoned me, and it can only mean one thing—word has come from Kupari. Halina helps me with my boots and clothes. Her hands shake as she fastens the ties. I reach down and touch her fingers. “I won’t betray you.”
She looks up at me, brown eyes wide. “Will you help us?”
I straighten. “I didn’t say that.”
“Same as betraying, then,” she mutters.
“Not by half,” I snap. “You should be grateful.”
“I should be grateful for your silence, when it allows the injustice to continue?” She curtsies. “Thank you for not trying to stop my people being turned out of their homes and left to starve in the cold. Thank you for doing nothing while the best food and fuel is given to the invaders, while the people who built this city grow skinny and weak and despairing. Thank you for being part of the monster that crushes us. You think because you don’t wield the knife, you have no part in the slaughter?”
“You are bold. Too bold.”
“Oh, forgive, little red. I should be quiet and sweet all the time, then? Would that make it easier for you?” She throws up her hands. “I’ve tried that. You value bravery, but only in the Krigere, I suppose. And you despise meekness, but you demand it of me if it makes you more comfortable!”
My heart thumps hard with confusion and frustration. “But I’m not telling Nisse of whatever you’re doing. I won’t cause your death.”
“If Nisse decides to invade, who do you think will carry your supplies and make your fires? Who will he drag into the winter cold to keep his warriors fed and watered?”