Chapter 11 #2
She sounded sincere, concerned even as she glided closer to the edge. It probably wouldn’t appease Fodur, but he’d have no choice but to accept her apology.
Or ignore it altogether, ignore her, which amounted to the same thing. “Nikanor Tristansson, step forward.”
Kyrja followed from three steps behind as he obeyed.
She expected a trudge, the slowest obedience possible, but Nik surprised her.
He closed the distance in moments, passing through the line of Blessed without seeming to see them.
Even leaned toward the edge, as if the heat rising were a balmy breeze instead of a murderous waft.
Fodur’s face cleared again. “You have been banished to Helviti’s mouth. The flame will be your judge. The lava your executor. Will you walk freely forward?”
Kyrja slid to Perla’s side in the line of Blessed, so she had at least a partial view of Nik’s face.
He smiled. Not a smirk, not a sneer. An actual, genuine smile that made her stomach go tight in a way it never had before. Made her want to reach out, even now, and take his hand in hers again. See if the tingle would come when her blood wasn’t touching his.
She squeezed her eyes shut against the pull—it wasn’t real, it must some sort of chemistry from the mixing of their blood, that was all—forcing herself to stay where she was. Forced all the what-ifs from her mind and remembered what he taught her.
Giver, protect him.
Simple words, but calm settled over her heart, cooling the flames of fear.
Nik raised his hand to his mouth, kissed his fingers, then touched them to his forehead. His heart. His left shoulder. His right. Then, even as Fodur opened his mouth to say something more, he ran toward the rocky outcropping and leapt straight into the volcano’s mouth.
A scream battled for a place in her throat, but Kyrja swallowed it down. She couldn’t, however, convince her feet to remain still. She, too, shoved past her father, moving toward the cliff’s edge.
May the flame be your judge.
Wind came from behind her, cool and cleansing, pushing away the wall of heat as Kyrja halted a foot away from the edge. She didn’t know how solid it was, how stable, and she had no desire to tumble into the lake of molten rock below.
It glowed hotter than mere fire, though tongues of flame shot upward from the boiling surface. So bright she had to shield her eyes, avert her face for a moment’s respite before she could look again.
He was surely gone already. Burned up before he even hit the pool of lava—or if not, the moment he did. She didn’t even know what she was looking for.
Salvation. Perla’s word breezed through her mind. But how would even fire magic save someone from this?
How did the mer withstand the depths of the sea? How did water magic keep the currents at bay? How did sky magic hold a wingless human in flight?
There—directly below, more or less, just a bit out from the concave wall, a dark smudge. The waves of heat distorted her vision too much for her to make out, at first, what it was, but another gust of Perla’s wind helped it to resolve.
Nik. It was Nik! Standing on the surface of the lava, a crackling crust of black beneath his feet. As she watched, he took a few steps to her right, his eyes on something beneath her that she couldn’t see.
The lava your executor.
Kyrja sucked in a scalding breath and spun around. “He lives.”
The High Council had all been moving toward her father, but at that they stopped, each familiar face turning toward her, disbelief underscoring their usual passive expressions.
Fodur had his back to her. Apparently his only surviving child rushing toward a volcano’s edge wasn’t enough to alarm him. But now he turned, eyes reflecting the glow of the lava. “You are surely mistaken.”
“That seems to be your favorite refrain.” Perla sauntered forward, peered over the edge. “Your daughter is correct. I see the accused walking amidst the fire, unsinged.”
“Not. Possible.” Father strode forward too, took one look, and spun to glower at Kyrja and Perla. “Which of you did it? Which of you circumvented my law?”
Kyrja lifted her chin. “What circumvention? The only command you gave, Fodur, was for Nikanor Tristansson to be delivered to Helviti’s mouth.
You said the flames would be his judge. The lava his executor.
” She pointed to the boil. “The flames have judged. The lava has chosen. They have refused to carry out your will. They have judged him innocent.”
“They have judged him guilty! You do not know what you do, Valkyrja! Instead of a quick death, you have condemned that man to eternal torment. You have made of him a daemon.”
All the words she’d read in the last month swirled, coalesced.
“It is the Heir’s sworn responsibility and duty not only to state and verify the accusations and ruling of the king and Two Councils, but to verify when the sentence has been carried out and determine any follow-up that is required.
” She took a step toward her father, moved her gaze over the Blessed ranged around him, defiance on each of their faces.
They were about to learn what defiance really was. “I verify the sentence was carried out. Completed. The word of the king fulfilled and the law upheld. The accused has survived his sentence, which lands him under my jurisdiction. And I declare his punishment over and his debt to society paid.”
“Stupid child.” Fodur swept a hand up, gathered water into a sphere three times the size of his head, and froze it. “You have gone too far this time. Council, I move to strike the Heir from her position by Rite of Challenge.”
“So stricken,” Stellan was quick to proclaim.
Kyrja planted her feet shoulder width apart. “You mean ‘so moved.’ I need to lose the Challenge before I can be stricken—and if I win, it is you who will stand deposed, Fodur. Count your costs before you do this.”
She could feel the water all through this mountain—the springs that fed the baths that had soothed Mamma when nothing else could, the mineral-rich streams that fed the public fountains, the steam rising ever upward through this cone that opened to the skies above.
The frozen orb in her father’s hand. “You will be no great loss, Valkyrja. You were always such a disappointment.”
Ulna stepped forward, the light in her eyes looking suspiciously like glee.
“The rules of a Challenge to a royal of Fjordlandi state that the winner gains the crown, and the loser forfeits his or her own position and is stripped of all title, lands, and authority. Death is mercy—life is punishment.”
“And they say the first Sea King was a barbarian.” Perla walked toward the cliffside…
and then off it. Into the air, which held her as steadily as the ground had done.
She strode—flew?—several yards into the space above the lava and then turned with a smile.
“You might need the room. Hey, Nik? Hang tight a minute. Kyrja just needs to do a bit of reorganizing up here, and then you can climb back up.”
Kyrja didn’t know if Nik could hear anything over the sound of boiling rock, but then, the words hadn’t really been for him, she knew.
Reorganizing indeed. Nerves tingled, buzzed, danced as she locked eyes with Ulna, Stellan, and each of the others in turn. She could feel them reaching for the water too, feel her father letting them slip into his control. Reinforce him.
Frost and snow. She wouldn’t just be fighting him—she’d be fighting all of them. “If any of you interfere, it amounts to a separate Challenge, and it is your seat and title on the line.”
“For that matter,” Perla called, “I’m happy to play referee. If anyone makes a move without this official Challenge, consider yourself banished from the game.”
A tug, foreign yet unmistakable, and the underground streams all churned. Out of the Council’s hands. Into Perla’s.
Ulna’s magic tugged. Pulled. Lost. She stepped forward. “I Challenge the princess.”
“I Challenge the princess.” Stellan.
“I Challenge the princess.” Lars.
The other nine followed, one by one, and true to her word, Perla released the streams to them when they did.
It should have made fear overtake Kyrja. Should have made her tremble. Should have made her clutch at Einar’s instruction. Focus. Will. Act. Should have made her back down and be content that Nik had survived the lava, to insist he would be fine, to decide she didn’t need to risk her own life.
But the water in the air called to her, small and separate and fragmented, like the crystals she used in her “pretty and useless” art.
Invisible when alone. Beautiful when together.
The water in the streams, in the springs, was content enough to be held in the nets of magic the others had cast over them, like Einar had always taught her to do.
But that wasn’t her way. She called instead to the smallest particles, and they slipped right through, coming to her instead.
One more breath, and then her father sent the globe of ice hurtling toward her head. His Council summoned what water they could, brought it bursting from vents and slithering toward her like a snake, freezing and melting and freezing again.
Time slowed, giving her ample time to study each stream, each snowball, each icicle coming at her like an arrow.
It wasn’t like Einar’s lessons on the arena floor—pointless, stupid, with nothing at stake beyond impressing a man who would never want her, never approve of her, never trust her. It was something so much more basic.
So much more complicated. It wasn’t her brother’s magic against hers. It wasn’t the Council’s power bearing down.
It was the Giver’s gift, which he gave according to the rules he’d designed, whether the recipient would use it well or not. Choice, always left to his creation.
But his promise never faltered. He didn’t recall it just because they betrayed his purpose, treated each other so poorly. He still gave. He still provided the reconciliation. He still waited for them to hold out their hands, open their hearts, and ask him to fill their empty places.
She held out her hands, as she’d done in the Grand Kyrka a month ago. Opened her heart to the giver of the Song that still sang in her veins. And sent skyward the admission she’d fought so hard against when Einar pushed her on and on, only for her to fail.
I cannot. Alone, I cannot. But I am not alone. You are here. Use me how you will. Make me an instrument in your hand.
Fodur’s frozen globe reached her, and she smiled a hello at each drop of water inside of it and bade it find a better purpose.
It burst into snow that danced upward, out of the volcano’s cone.
The icicles hung motionless, the frozen ropes of water halted and dripped, the snowballs puffed into confetti.
They reached for more, but this time she said no. Showed the water how to evade their nets of magic, watched the shock on the Council’s faces as they came up empty. Watched fury compound on Fodur’s as the streams ignored him.
Were this just an exercise on an arena floor, she would have left it at that.
But the weight of the Challenge wouldn’t allow it.
She couldn’t just not lose. She had to win, or it was all for nothing.
Nik would remain in the volcano. The oppression would continue.
Justice would never be found in Fjordlandi.
Her people deserved better. Her people deserved peace, security, equality, freedom.
So she asked the ice to help her, the snow to join the dance, the underground streams to carry them to something better.
Thirteen people were soon encased in ice, only their faces free. She’d left enough space for them to breathe, of course, but not to move otherwise.
Their magic ranted. Tugged. Tunneled. Slashed.
Einar had always found a way through her defenses—but that had been when she tried to maintain the forms as he’d taught her. Bold movements, big heaves.
He’d been right though, all along. She’d mastered the details long ago—and the details could serve her well, when she needed them.
It didn’t matter what swipes they made with their magic.
It made no more difference than a hand waving through a windstorm.
Fingers passed straight through the wind, and the magical equivalents passed straight through the water now.
Behind her, Perla clapped and whistled. “Good show!”
If only that’s all it had been. Kyrja searched the shadows until she spotted Henrik, still holding his crystal recorder but with his mouth hanging open and eyes wide with shock.
“Let the record reflect the results of the thirteen Challenges, scribe. Isidor has forfeited his crown and each of the twelve High Council members their seats and titles.”
Shouting sounded, a cacophony that nearly overpowered the Song. She raised the ice on the twelve to immobilize their mouths.
Her father’s lips she left free. Though she regretted it when he cried, “Guards!”
Blizzards, she hadn’t considered the Vektors.
They were such a constant presence she’d scarcely noticed them when she’d charged into the Council chamber, though of course they’d been stationed everywhere and had followed them here, at least a dozen of them—thirteen, more likely.
One for each of the members, plus her father.
They must have been but steps away, in the shadows, because a second of shuffling and a line of them appeared.
The familiar uniforms of white and silver, the spears that were largely ornamental but still capable of delivering deathblows or jabs.
The faces as stern and emotionless as Fodur’s had always been.
“Seize this imposter.” Her father didn’t sound so emotionless now. He was all anger, all indignation, all rage.
His chief guard stepped forward, met her gaze. Viggo, the same one who had been outside Fodur’s each day when she gave her report. Given his salute that day she’d refused to hand over the Ice Prison, he could probably be trusted. But the others?
He tapped the end of his spear to the ground, held it aloft. “Hail, Queen Valkyrja.”
A dozen more taps, a dozen shifting spears. “Hail, Queen Valkyrja!”
Her breath eased out. There would undoubtedly be more fights to come. But not today.