The Cursed Queen by Sarah Fine

Author:Sarah Fine
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Margaret K. McElderry Books

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

All the noise of the warriors falls silent, smothered by the rush of fire and ice in my mind, the swoop of it along my bones, its roar as it invades my very soul. I am barely aware of stepping into the ring, only that suddenly the rope isn’t there anymore. Its ashes flutter in the air around me like moths.

I am the flame. It bursts from my palms as I stalk toward Flemming, who whirls around, perhaps when he feels the heat at his back. “You will not touch her,” I say, and my voice is monstrous, teeth and claws and blades and hate made sound.

Flemming staggers away from Thyra, his arms reeling, his mouth gaping in a silent scream as I come after him, liquid fire in my veins. “Witch!” he screams.

It is the last word he ever utters. I hurl the flames, all my hurt and rage fueling an inferno that devours Flemming instantly. His cry is desperate and shrill and now it’s gone and I don’t care. I won’t stop until he is cinders at my feet. This feels good and right and savage.

I raise my head at the flash and glimmer of a dagger blade, but the mere thought of wind brings forth an icy gale that sends it flying off course, its master thrown back into the churn of warriors with his eyes frozen wide and horrified. I turn in place, glaring fire at the tribe that was so eager to kill my chieftain. “Challenge me,” I say.

Nothing has ever felt this magnificent. I laugh as a few warriors surge to the front and throw their spears. I swing my arms out, and the wind does my bidding once again—the long razor tips of the weapons fly past me on either side and into the crowd behind me. Let them all die. I don’t care that they cry. I don’t care about the terror on their faces. A moment ago they were salivating as they watched Thyra on her knees, a chieftain defeated by scheming. Not with honor. Not in a fair fight. I realize now it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d defeated Flemming—another would have stepped up, and another, and another, until one landed a lucky blow, until Thyra fell from sheer exhaustion. I don’t know what kind of chieftain nurtures a tribe that would do such a thing, but at the thought, I look up at the tiered benches where Nisse was sitting with Jaspar and the rest of his loyal entourage.

But Nisse is gone. So are his favorites. Only Jaspar remains. He stands on his bench, his eyes round. “Did you know?” I shout, violent gusts lifting my red hair, ash and cinder swirling around me. The air is filled with the scent of burning flesh, sweet and bitter.

It’s funny the small things one notices when the world is falling apart. Jaspar’s throat bobs as he swallows, his skin shining with sweat and streaked with grime in the heat and light of my curse-fire.

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