The True Queen (Volume 3) (The Impostor Queen, Band 3) - Hardcover

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Sarah Fine is the author of Of Metal and Wishes, Of Dreams and Rust, The Impostor Queen, The Cursed Queen, The True Queen, and The Guards of the Shadowlands series. She was born on the West Coast, raised in the Midwest, and is now firmly entrenched on the East Coast. When she’s not writing, she’s working as a child psychologist. Visit her at SarahFineBooks.com.

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The True Queen

CHAPTER ONE

Ansa

On the first day of new spring, we march out through the gate of Vasterut and turn to the west, toward Kupari. My new wool cloak hangs in thick folds down to my calves, and I have a shining set of daggers strapped to my forearms and sheathed at my side. I think that I look fearsome and sure, the type of person who can sit on a throne without inspiring laughter.

Then I think the same thought again, because I didn’t quite believe myself the first time, and when that doesn’t carry me all the way, I remind myself that I have time to practice being queenly before we get there.

With that in mind, I keep my head high as I wave to the Vasterutians who have come out to cheer our departure. They seem elated, and why wouldn’t they be? We were the barbarian invaders, the fearsome marauders, and now we leave their city as a tribe without a homeland. Through their patient scheming and alliances with the Korkeans and Ylpesians, they brought us low, but together we defeated the evil of Nisse and drove his son and heir, Jaspar, away—along with hundreds of rogue warriors. The Vasterutians treated Thyra and those of us who were loyal to her with respect after that, but it was always clear what they really wanted.

Our absence.

Thyra catches my eye and gives me a wry smile as the Vasterutians’ shouts of joy rise to the heavens. “It’s clear they are missing us already.”

The humor in her voice, the morning sunbeams glinting gold in her hair, the easy affection on her face—all of it melts my tension. “Yes, I expect they’ll enter a period of mourning now.”

I look over my shoulder, up the hill to the walled tower fortress where I spent the last several months. Halina might be watching us from one of those windows. Like all the rest of her people, she is relieved and triumphant to see the Krigere finally clear out of her city, but I like to think she will also miss me and Thyra, just a little. She certainly enjoyed laughing at me, both before and after she knew I was a destined queen.

Behind me and Thyra, our warriors stride forward, their steps certain and strong. Thanks to our hosts, who in their eagerness to be rid of us were generous with the food and supplies we would need for our journey, Preben and Bertel and all those who traveled with us from the north have lost the hollowness in their cheeks. As we prepared for this march, they trained and rested in equal measure to regain their vigor.

Just outside the wall, our andeners have camped. The nights remain cold but the days are warmer now, and we agreed to move them out of Vasterutian homes so that the rightful owners could return, in exchange for help building this temporary city outside the city. Now there are tents sprawled across the grassy hills and spreading all the way to the dunes by the shore of the Torden. Our andeners have many skills and know how to fend for themselves as long as they are not being raided or attacked, and for now, we must leave them behind. It is safer this way.

Their cheers are of a different tone and tenor than those of the Vasterutians. In their shouts, I hear desperate pleas, searing hope, and delicate but growing faith. Not in me—in Thyra. She’s their chieftain. I’m just her war counselor. We haven’t explained the other things I am just yet—only our small band of senior warriors knows that—for fear it would be more confusing than reassuring. But as I pass close to Gry, Cyrill’s widow, whose belly is swollen with the baby of one of Jaspar’s traitorous warriors, her hands go white-knuckled over her children’s upper arms, and she yanks them back. Thyra gives her a sharp look, but the widow’s chin rises in defiance. A few others withdraw from the side of the road to avoid me, too, including Aksel’s mother—and she stares hard at me and spits on the grass at her feet as our procession reaches her.

Something tells me she has long since realized that I am the one who killed her son. If I thought it would help, I would explain that he tried to kill me first in a warped effort to avenge his father, who died after challenging Thyra’s chieftainship, but I already know it won’t change a thing. To her I am a monster. An enemy.

I don’t call Thyra’s attention to Aksel’s mother because I don’t want to raise the memory for her. My murder of Aksel nearly tore us apart, and I will do anything to keep us from being separated again. When I glance at her, though, it is clear that Aksel’s death is not on her mind. She’s looking toward the boundaries of the camp and biting her lip. “Did you go over the plan to guard the camp with the watch group?” she calls over her shoulder.

“Twice, Chieftain,” Bertel replies, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looks toward his own andener, a stout woman with skin as pale as his is dark. He jokes that together they are time itself, night and day made one. I believe that is his way of saying he loves her, and I can see it in his face when he catches sight of her. “Alfrida told me to assure you they have a plan. If there is a raid, the Vasterutians will offer them safe haven.”

“Good,” Thyra says. “And the signal?”

“Lantern flashes by night, red flags by day. The Vasterutian sentries will watch over both the camp and the road that leads to the forest.”

Thyra’s smile returns, but this time it’s grim. “And they’ll protect our families, because if they don’t, they know we’ll exact a price in blood.”

Bertel tears his gaze from his mate and nods at Thyra. “For that we’re thankful, Chieftain. It makes it possible to leave them.”

“We’ll send for them as soon as we can,” I say, wishing my heart weren’t skipping at the thought of what we’ll have to do to ensure that future. “You’ll be reunited before you know it.”

“When that happens, a group of us would like to ride as escort and guard,” Preben says, clapping a scarred and calloused hand over Bertel’s thickly muscled shoulder. “We don’t want the andeners and children to travel without protection.”

“I will grant that request,” Thyra replies, her eyes on the horizon now, where the distant black line of the Loputon stretches from the lakeshore as far south as can be seen.

Somewhere in that forest, our enemies hide. Jaspar and his seven hundred warriors, well-armed with stolen weapons and well-nourished from months of thieving food from the mouths of the Vasterutians. He has Elder Kauko at his side or in his possession, and the old man is full of magic and cunning. He also has over a hundred horses and a few hundred andeners who, with the right materials, can forge weapons, craft armor, and heal wounds. With so many people and animals, one would think that it is impossible to be secretive about one’s whereabouts, but Kauko’s magic made it possible. Vasterutian scouts lost the trail at the edge of the Loputon, when they encountered a blizzard so massive that it nearly took their lives.

Sig told me it was a sign that Kauko has only grown in power, most likely the effect of drinking a bowlful of my blood. The scarred fire wielder lurks on my other side, wearing a light cloak with the hood...