The Impostor Queen (32 page)

Either way, my journey ends where it began.

I take Sig's arm. “When do we leave?”

B
y the time Sig and I return to the camp, several more wielders have arrived on stolen horses. A tall, gaunt boy named Mikko, who has a beak of a nose and a long, dark plait down his back, has brought hunting gear and garb. He holds up a game bag and a bear trap, much like the one that took my fingers. “You said you needed another disguise,” he says to Sig as I shudder.

And so we set forth, hunters returning to the city from a long day in the woods. Sig makes me ride with him, and I wrap my arms around his lean waist as he spurs his horse onward. He's wearing his cloak again, sparing me the uncomfortable intimacy of being pressed to his bare, scarred back.

We follow a trail through the skeletal woods. There's no snow on the ground; it all melted off this morning as the priests came through, and so it's easy to believe spring is here, even though it's not due to arrive for weeks. I watch the ground for the little pool that marks the spot where Oskar found me, where he made the decision to save me. This close to Sig, it's hard not to wish for the cool blessing of Oskar's skin, the solid, reassuring feel of his body. For a moment this morning, I had that, and then I tossed it away.

Because I wanted his heart.

The forest floor becomes a brown blur as I will away my tears. I shouldn't mourn what I never had, and I must turn my thoughts to what lies ahead.

“When we get to the city, you'll keep your hood low,” Sig says as we exit the woods and enter the marshlands that lead to the northern road. “If you call attention to yourself, I'll—”

“If I call attention to myself, the priests will take me into the catacombs and kill me. The threats aren't necessary.”

“Sorry. Habit.”

“Sig, I feel sorry for you.”

“I bet you'll feel differently when I'm looking out over the Motherlake from the Valtia's balcony.”

“What of the Kupari people? Do you think of them when you dream of destroying the order of things?”

His stomach muscles tighten. “I think of how many have been enslaved because of that order,” he says in a sharp voice. “And I think of how the rest have exchanged freedom for comfort, how they delight in their year-round warmth and don't think of what it costs. So yes, I suppose I do.”

The rage inside him heats his skin. It doesn't burn me, but his cloak is damp against my chest as our horse trots down the muddy road. The white winter sun is slowly descending in the west, but Sig is still squinting in its light. “You must hate the summer.”

“You have no idea,” he says quietly. “I can barely stand to be outside in the summer months. Did Oskar tell you how we're alike?” He reaches back and pats the lump in the pocket of my dress, the small, carved treasure in my pocket. “You must mean a lot to him if he gave you that. How much did he tell you about what he is?”

I put my hand over Sig's and move it off my thigh. “You already know he told me that he's a Suurin. Oskar isn't sure what it means, though.”

“Because he doesn't
want
to know. When I realized Raimo understood, I made the old man teach me everything.”

“Like what? Oskar doesn't believe his magic can be controlled.”

Sig groans. “Because he spends all his time trying to cram it down instead of learning to use it! A wielder can't be truly good unless he has both power
and
control, and Oskar has one but not the other. He thinks he's a danger—and he's right.”

“And you're not?”

“Of course I am—because I choose to be. There are so many ways to wield, but most wielders can only do a little dull, diffuse magic. Like heating or cooling the air or water. If they practice, they can learn to focus that into blade magic—like channeling all the fire or ice you have into a smaller area.”

Like when Sig melted a tiny patch of sand to glass. “You can actually wield ice or fire like a blade?”

Sig laughs. “If you work at it. But if you've only got a little magic, it's like fighting with a toothpick.” He looks over his shoulder at me and winks. “I've got a broadsword at
my
disposal.”

I look away. “How nice for you.” We're moving slowly up the northern road toward the city. Only a few miles to go.

“Better than being unable to protect myself,” Sig says, his voice hard.

“I think Oskar is perfectly capable of protecting himself.”

“Oskar has never faced a skilled wielder.”

Until this morning, when he faced seven of them. But I'm still wondering how much I had to do with that, so I don't remind Sig of it. “He doesn't want to hurt anyone,” I murmur.

“Then he should learn how to control it! He probably doesn't even know the difference between manifesting and wielding. Only those with a lot of magic can manifest. None of the cave dwellers could do it—except for me and Raimo.” Sig sticks out his palm, and the fire bursts forth, swirling orange and bright without fuel of any kind. Jouni, riding next to us, stares at it, then clenches his jaw and spurs his horse ahead of us. Sig chuckles. “Jouni can only wield—he needs an existing flame if he wants to throw actual fire. I think it makes him feel like less of a man.”

Jouni looks back at the two of us, his face red. The temperature rises, and Sig blows out a shaky breath. “Sorry, Jouni. No offense,” calls Sig, sweat dripping down the back of his neck. I could siphon that heat if he allowed it, but I know he never would. Jouni faces forward again and the heat lifts.

“You think Oskar can manifest ice? I've never seen him do that.” I've only seen him freeze things. And when we killed the priests, he pulled the ice and snow and water from everywhere around us and used it to crush them.

Sig snorts. “Have you ever seen him when he's asleep? He manifests without even
trying
.”

“You're right.” I remember all the nights I've watched the ice forming from nothing, creeping along his skin and enclosing him. “I didn't know that's what was happening.”

“Oskar and I are blessed and cursed. Each of us bears half the magic of the Valtia. We can do so much—but without any of the other element, we can't do some things other powerful wielders can do. We can't move objects easily, because you need both hot and cold magic for that.” His muscles tense. “And we don't have the power to heal. If the Valtia is balance, we're the opposite.”

“How does that much unbalanced magic not destroy you?” I ask. And then I think of Oskar, ice coating his skin, turning his lips gray. It
was
destroying him.

Sig is quiet for a few moments before saying, “Neither of us will live to be old men. Raimo told me that a long time ago, when I went to him for help. He said the Suurin are weapons. He trained me, and I've made the most of what I've learned. He said war is coming, and that's why we exist.”

He told me a war was coming too. “Did you ask him how he knows?”

“When I did, he waved a torn parchment in front of my face and cackled about how everything was coming together. I think it was some kind of prophecy.”

Realization jolts through me. “A prophecy . . . Raimo's had it this whole time.” And he told me he'd been waiting. “Did he tell you more about what it predicted?”

Sig's fingers twine in the reins. “He didn't have to. I've always known who my enemy was. And if I'm a weapon, I'm also the wielder. No one else will ever control me.”

He spurs the horse forward, and we pass Jouni, Usko, and Tuuli, each with hoods low and knives at their belts. Five others ride behind them, refugees who escaped the temple or the city so many years ago, all willing to follow Sig wherever he goes. The Kupari city lies up ahead. I can now see the high wooden arch of the eastern gate. Inside, our fate awaits us.

When we get to the gate, the same black-toothed, black-haired constable is on duty. There's a fear in his eyes that wasn't there the last time I saw him. I don't breathe until his gaze slides over me with only the barest interest. I wonder if I look different after weeks of winter cave dwelling.

Sig tells him we're hunters bearing gifts for the new Valtia, eager to celebrate her coronation. As proof, Usko and Tuuli ride up, their horses laden with pelts. I try not to think of who they must have stolen from. Those hunters are probably lying burned or frozen deep in the north woods. It makes bile rise in my throat.

It's shockingly easy to gain entry to the city. The constable accepts a bribe—a glossy rabbit pelt—and waves us forward without questioning us. The muddy streets are teeming with people heading for the square. They huddle in cloaks and long coats, their boots sloshing through soft divots of earth, hoods and hats crammed over ears. Hands are red and chapped, unaccustomed to the brutal winter—this is the first time they've experienced the full weight of it. When they look up as we pass, I see a strange array of emotions—wariness and hunger, hope and fear. So different from before Sofia died, when their eyes held pride and confidence.

I see other signs of the hardship they've experienced since I was banished. Windows used to be open, but now all are shuttered or boarded up. The only exceptions are a few shops—but that's because they've been looted. Their doors hang open, gaping mouths leading to empty shells. People are turning on one another. Scared of one another. My heart aches for them. This is what happens when there is no Valtia. With everything inside me, I pray she's there now.

Sig, Usko, Tuuli, and the others tether their horses a few blocks from the square, and Sig takes my wrist, his fingers firm over my sleeve. Ever since I told him that I siphon magic with a touch, he's avoided prolonged contact with my bare skin. I don't think he has anything to fear, sadly. After what happened with Oskar in our final moments together, I believe Sig would have to be willing to give his magic up for me to be able to take it. But I'm not going to tell him that.

His dark eyes find mine. “Ready, Elli? Can I trust you?”

“I just want to see her,” I say. I truly can't say what will happen when I do.

He nods with a slow, playful curl of his lips. “So do I.” He leads me into the crowd, weaving between carts and clumps of onlookers. I'm struck by how different they look from that last harvest day, how cowed and pinched.

When we enter the square, I peer at the platform, the place where I presided over so many harvest ceremonies with my Valtia. The steps that lead up to the grand platform are crowded with men, and they hold everyone's attention. Elder Aleksi is a few steps below the top, his thin lips arranged in a deep frown that creases his otherwise smooth face. He's holding a wool cushion, upon which rests the crown of the Valtia, its agate glinting with amethyst and carnelian perfection. The elder is utterly still, as if he's been frozen in place, but his eyes slide over the crowd in a way that makes me crave a hiding place. All the priests are clustered below him, their eyes downturned, their hands tucked into the folds of their robes. I count feverishly and realize they've already replaced the six Oskar and I killed this morning with apprentices. Armo is among them, looking wan and nervous. Sig goes still when he sees his former friend, his gaze calculating, but my attention is already on the eight people assembled on the steps below the priesthood.

They aren't temple dwellers.

They aren't even Kupari.

Five are men, three are women, and all of them look like warriors. Their cloaks are black and pinned at the shoulder, leaving their right hands free to reach for the iron broadswords fixed to their thick leather belts. Tucked beneath their muscular arms are metal helmets. A young woman and an older man stand one step above the others. Her light-brown hair is cut short and her body is lean and angular, but her eyes are wide-set and blue, her cheekbones high, her chin narrow, giving her a delicate sort of ferocity. The man next to her, with a grayish-blond beard and massive shoulders, might be her father—the set of their mouths is similar—but while the girl looks wary, he looks amused. Superior. Arrogant. I am drawn to her—and repelled by him.

And beyond any of that, I am horrified. Hissing whispers wind like snakes among us.
Soturi.
Here, in the city. They've sent a delegation, perhaps from Vasterut, and for some reason these raiders are being allowed to witness one of our most sacred, crucial ceremonies—the crowning of our new queen. Our city councilmen stand awkwardly behind them, casting nervous glances at the would-be invaders.

“The air reeks of desperation,” Sig whispers in my ear. “Can't you smell it?”

I smell his sweat-and-iron scent, but little else. It doesn't speak to me of desperation, though. It's the scent of war. “What do you think they're doing here?” I incline my head toward the Soturi, some of whom are glaring at the people in the square, their palms lingering over the hilts of their swords.