The Impostor Queen (29 page)

I sit up, clutching his burned cloak over my chest and curling my legs against my body. I want to touch him so badly that my fingers ache. But Jouni is still standing over us, his gaze on me. “Harri mentioned that the priests were offering a reward for anyone who helped find her. And then he brought them
here
.”

“I'm not the Valtia,” I say quietly. Oskar gives me a sharp, searching look. “I'm
not
.”

Jouni stares at me for a moment longer before scratching a spot on his stubbly cheek and turning to the ice tomb in front of us. “Right.” He walks toward the cavern entrance, his shoulders tense.

My hands are on Oskar's neck in the next moment, because I can't hold back anymore. He sighs and leans into my touch, but then abruptly wrenches himself away, ending up on his hands and knees. “I don't need your help,” he growls, getting up clumsily, his muscular arms swinging at his sides.

“Oskar.” His name is a plea on my lips. Does he blame me for this?

He stops with his back to me. “Now that he's gone, tell me the truth.”

“I'm not the Valtia. I swear.” I rise, pulling his cloak around my naked body. The rocks dig into the soles of my feet.

“I can't believe I've been so blind. Explain your eyes. Your hair. Your mark. Your ability to withstand magic. And then explain that.” He points to the ice tomb.

“You did that,” I murmur.

Oskar looks over his shoulder at me. “I might have ice magic inside me. A lot of it. I might even be a Suurin.” His jaw clenches as he jabs his finger at the ice. “But I have never done
anything
like that.”

“You know I don't have magic.” But now I'm remembering what Raimo said, about how I could not only mute and absorb magic—I could also magnify and project it, as the Valtia does when she wears the cuff of Astia. I blink at the frozen dead men within the ice, and the weight of their vacant stares nearly bows my back. Oskar didn't do this—not alone, at least. He worked the magic, but maybe I was the weapon, projecting it, turning it into a devastating force that destroyed anything in its way. If it's true, then together we've just killed twenty men. My stomach turns. This is exactly the reason Oskar didn't want the magic inside him. He never wanted to take another life.

Oskar's granite gaze is crushing me. “I only know what you've told me, Elli, and you've told me very little.”

“Raimo told me not to,” I say, my throat getting tight. “He said my life depended on it.”

Oskar closes the distance between us and takes me by the shoulders. “You bear all the marks of the Valtia,” he whispers. “And she has magic so balanced that it wouldn't be that difficult to hide it, not if she wanted to. She might even look immune to it, as you do, because she could counteract even the strongest magic with her own.”

“Maybe, but Raimo still would have been able to heal me if I were the Valtia. Do you truly think I wouldn't have accepted that gift if I could have?”

“If you were desperate enough to hide, perhaps.”

I nearly kick him in my frustration. “Explain how I siphon your power, then! Not even the Valtia can do that!”

“Then tell me what you are!”

I flinch as his grip tightens, knowing I can't escape this truth anymore. “Raimo said I was the Astia.”

His eyes narrow. “What? Like the cuff of—”

“Yes. It's why I can absorb your magic without being hurt by it—and why, together, we can . . .” My eyes stray to the ice tomb.

Oskar's looking at it too. “Did you know that would happen?”

“I had no idea. Oskar, please believe me,” I squeak. “I was the Saadella, but when the Valtia died, the magic didn't come.” I briefly tell him of my escape, and the whole time he watches me, dumbstruck.

“Why were they trying to kill you? Wait—are
they
the ones who whipped you?” Before I can stop him, he lifts his cloak from my shoulder and peers at my bare back, then curses. “Why?” he asks, that one word infused with cold rage.

“I let them whip me when I thought it would draw out the magic. And they thought that by killing me, they could awaken the magic in a new Valtia. They most likely still think that.”

“Do they know you're this . . . Astia person?”

Who isn't even supposed to exist.
I shake my head. “But Raimo did. I think he must have been a priest at some point. He told me I could do these things the night you brought me to him, but he never said how. Siphoning your magic—it just happens. And I don't know how I helped you project your magic just now, only that we were touching when it happened. But I do know that Raimo warned me to keep it secret. He said any magic wielder would see me as an enemy—or a weapon, something to use to enhance their power.”

Oskar's gaze drops to where his fingers are curled around my bare arms, which are tingling with the aftershocks of his magic, and he quickly lets me go. Maarika comes sprinting out of the cavern before either of us have a chance to speak again, her usually neat brown hair flying around her face. “Oskar!” she shrieks.

He whirls around to catch her in his arms, but staggers back as she collides with him. “You're hurt,” she cries, clutching at his singed, holey tunic. “Oh, stars.” Her voice is thick with tears.

“I'll be all right,” he says softly.

Freya is standing several feet away, staring at the ice. “Oskar . . . ?”

Oskar pries his mother's hands from his arms. “I did it. Elli saw the whole thing.” He turns back to look at me, his face smooth and expressionless. “Come into the cavern. We need to get you some clothes before you catch a chill.”

Maarika looks me over, her brows rising. “What happened to her dress and boots?”

Oskar inclines his head toward the frozen priests. “They were burned off as the priests attacked. I used my magic to do what I could to protect her.”

Maarika looks at me, and then up at her son. “Then I'm glad you froze them,” she says, her jaw set. “They deserved that and more.”

She holds her arm out, and my eyes sting as I step forward and it settles around my shoulders, pulling me close. Her other arm is around Oskar's waist. Then Freya appears on my other side, her skinny fingers burrowing into the holes in the cloak. I don't feel worthy of this, but there's no way I'll refuse it. Maarika was right—they are my family now, mine to love and protect. Their acceptance warms my body in a way fire magic never could.

We limp into the cavern, where we are confronted by heartbreak. Ruuben is holding one of the burned bodies in his arms, and I don't need to see it to know it must be Senja. He bends over her, his body convulsing with sobs, while Aira tries to comfort Kukka, who is screaming for her mother.

“Senja and Josefina tried to protect us,” Maarika says, brusquely wiping tears from her cheeks. “Those priests showed no mercy.”

Icy waves of air roll off Oskar as we walk by the scene. I suspect Harri's death is one that Oskar doesn't regret, and I feel the same. The pickpocket brought this fight to our threshold.

But so did I.

It hits me like a bolt of lightning, and unlike magic, I can't absorb it easily. Instead it sears itself along my bones, leaving nothing but scorched earth behind. If I had listened to the rumors, if I had paid attention instead of letting myself fall into this fantasy—of family, of belonging and normalcy, of Oskar, his needs, his body and his mouth, carved doves and warm gloves and granite eyes that always leave me guessing—I would have left days ago. Because I didn't, two women are dead, and those who love them grieve. A little girl has lost her mother. And Oskar . . . he has killed against his will, been drawn into a fight he didn't want, and now he's walking through the dim, chilly cavern, his back covered in blisters from both the heat and the cold.

As families are reunited, children clinging to their fathers' knees, women hugging their men, everyone cutting glances toward the ice tomb that blocks most of the cave entrance, Oskar, Freya, Maarika, and I make for our shelter. Jouni gives me a curious sidelong glance as he walks out of the cavern. Ismael and a few other fire wielders are already out there, palms out, their heat eating away at the frozen catastrophe so the bodies can be disposed of.

Perhaps we're all thinking the same thing: This is only the beginning. More will come. More weapons, more magic, more rage. There will be no winter respite now.

And it's my fault.

When we duck into the shelter, Freya immediately goes into her mother's room and comes out with Maarika's old boots—the ones that I used to wear before I had my own—some stockings, and a worn gown, plain and brown with holes at the elbows. While Maarika begins to cut off Oskar's tunic, parts of which are clinging to his damaged skin, I slip into one of the back chambers to change. With a lump in my throat, I slide the delicate carved dove from under my pillow and put it in my pocket.

By the time I emerge, Maarika has her boots on, and Freya is packing pelts into a sturdy basket for her to take. “There's a farmstead only a quarter mile south of here,” Maarika says. “I can trade for the herbs I need to treat his burns.”

“Is there no way to find Raimo?” I ask. “These wounds were caused by magic, and it seems like magic would be the best medicine. Doesn't anyone know where he's gone?”

Oskar is lying on his stomach on a bearskin pallet next to the fire. “We w-won't see him until the s-spring thaw.” And that's two months away, at least.

Freya grimaces as she hears his shivery stammering. “I'll go get more fuel for the fire,” she says, grabbing another basket and stomping out of the shelter.

Maarika's eyes meet mine. “Take care of him.”

I don't look away. “You know I will.”

She gives me a quick nod and leaves. I wait for Oskar to acknowledge me, but he doesn't. As my thoughts duel, I hike down to the stream to fetch a pail of water and carry it slowly back to the shelter, my fingers aching. I slip back inside to find my ice wielder where I left him, blistered and shivering. I set the pail next to the fire to warm the water inside, then sink to my knees next to Oskar. His forehead is pressed to the backs of his hands, the muscles of his back flexing as he tries to cope with the pain. “What would feel better, cold or hot?” I ask him, dunking a scrap of wool in the cool water.

“I don't know,” he whispers. “Both. Neither.” The tight, pained sound of his voice makes me ache.

“And this?” I lay my palm against an undamaged stretch of skin on his shoulder, and he tenses, perhaps feeling the ice magic leaving him.

“S-stop it,” he says, his teeth chattering.

“You need it.” And I need it just as badly.

His body shudders, sending vibrations up my arm. Suddenly the cold flowing into me recedes like a tide, and the chill returns to his skin, leaving me feeling hollow. The room spins, and I wobble unsteadily. “What are you doing?” I whisper.

“Get your hands off me.”

I obey him, and as soon as my hands fall away, so does the dizziness. “What would you have me do, Oskar?”

He lets out a choked, humorless laugh. “Again, I don't know.” He turns his head, and I lie on my side so we're face-to-face, like we've lain every night for the last two weeks. “But I understand now,” he says quietly. “I didn't, this morning on the rocks.”

Strands of his dark hair slide across his face, and I'm dying to smooth them back. “Why won't you let me touch you?”

“
Because
I understand.” His eyes close, and mine burn. He leans his forehead against the back of his hands again, hiding his face. “Get s-some rest. You must be aching.”

My fists clench. “You can't expect me to sit here and watch you hurting.”

“You don't have to take c-care of me. You've done enough of that.”

Pressing my lips together to keep from screaming, I look up at the ceiling of the cave, stretching its rocky claws down toward us, hiding so many secrets in its dark shadows. I can't find a path back to the way we were a few days ago, before I woke up in his arms. My doubt about how he felt about me made me push him far away, and now he seems determined to stay there.

I stare at his long, shivering, sweating body. I've siphoned off so much cold in recent weeks, but the magic just grows to fill the space. My touch offers temporary relief, but not the permanent solution that Oskar craved. And now he's denying himself even that, out of . . . I have no idea. Honor. Pride. Sheer stubbornness.

Or maybe he does blame me. And maybe he should.

“When the priests and constables don't return to the city tonight,” I tell him, “the others will know something has gone wrong.”

Oskar doesn't speak, but his shoulders and arms look like chiseled granite.

“What will you do when the rest of them come here? Because believe me—their magic is powerful. I know you care about every person in these caves.” I saw the look on his face as he stood between them and the priests.

“We'll leave,” he says wearily. “Tomorrow morning. There's an abandoned mine about two miles to the northeast.”

But the priests will chase. And they'll find. And they'll kill. The certainty swells inside me. “Then you'd better let me do what I can to help you rest and heal. You'll need your strength if you're going to protect them.”

“If you think I'm going to let you touch me after everything that's happened—”

Maarika's footsteps scrape across the loose stones outside the shelter, and I scoot away from Oskar with ice encasing my heart. Part of me wants to force him to look at me, and part of me is glad that I can't see his eyes. It makes what I must do that much easier.

“How is he?” Maarika asks, setting her basket of herbs down. She's panting and windblown—something tells me she ran the whole way.