Winterglass by Benjanun Sriduangkaew

Author:Benjanun Sriduangkaew [Sriduangkaew, Benjanun]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: revenge, Epic Fantasy, colonialism, snow queen, ice queen, scifantasy
Publisher: Apex Book Company
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

Nuawa emerges from her third—and last—oneiric match. Her muscles feel heavy, sore, as though she’d exerted herself physically. She blinks up at the gray ceiling and draws in a sip of the murky, cloying air. She tries to remember the fight and discovers that she has only the faintest recollection. All around her, the other duelists sleep on; one or two have slid down to the floor, splayed and slack as any corpse, breathing shallowly. Her head aches, the tang of drug in her mouth like copper and unripe fruit. The site of injection in her arm has swelled, bruising darkly.

She pushes herself to her feet and staggers. Her knees are as weak as the rest of her. The dose was much stronger than usual, double or triple the strength. She presses the heel of her palm to her brow, finds it damp with sweat. Several attempts later and she is upright, laboring step by step toward the door. Tezem’s personnel are there to greet and congratulate her; she stares at them a moment before waving them off. Everything around her is either moving too fast or too slow. Her blood beats hot and thunderous behind her breastbone.

Outside by the Marrow’s back exit, a carriage from the palace is waiting for her, and within it, the general. Almost without her volition, she climbs in. The upholstery rasps against her skin like sandpaper. Perspiration pools at the base of her throat, behind her knees.

“Congratulations.” Lussadh holds out a golden brooch. When Nuawa simply looks at it, unresponsive, the general frowns and reaches over to pin it under her collar. Hyacinth and snowflakes, as before. The queen’s favorite flower, perhaps.

“To absolute winter, and to your grace,” Nuawa says, mindlessly. Her mind is at once far away and inextricable from her skin. The sensation of being six. The carriage thrums as it sets into motion. She squeezes her eyes shut, forces herself to open them again. The rolling of wheels on road vibrates through her joints.

“Are you quite all right?”

She gazes at Lussadh’s hand on her arm, a hot weight. “I will manage, General.”

Lussadh doesn’t seem persuaded, but she lets go. “I am glad that you made it. I don’t like to bet on the wrong horse, so to speak.”

“And if I make it through to the end, will I not be accused of doing so under the aegis of your favor rather than on my own strength?” Unwise to say, she realizes as she speaks, but her reason is lagging far behind her mouth.

“Not that I could have affected the results at this stage. But even if every step of the tournament had been broadcast in public, and the least citizens allowed to gawk in person, they would nevertheless say that of any winner. If you become my officer, you’ll have to get used to being the subject of wild hearsay and speculation.” Lussadh’s eyes seem unusually huge in the sculpted frame of her face, jade-dark and lustrous. “How was it? I’ve never taken hallucinogens, certainly not ones which work like that.

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