The Impostor Queen (17 page)

Grumbling, Oskar thumps out of the cavern, and Raimo's gnarled fingers close over my shoulder. “Necessary lies,” he says, but I'm already drifting again, and if more words fall from his lips, I don't hear them.

Raimo is an excellent medicine man, even deprived of magic. Over the next several days, he comes to know my body as well as I do, perhaps better, and though it's awkward and embarrassing to allow him to attend to my every need, I have no choice. Besides, I'm accustomed to having people take care of me. It's just that they've always been women. I have no energy to waste on modesty or protest, though, and I doubt Raimo would do anything but cackle at me if I did.

Within the cave, I have no sense of day or night, only sleeping and waking. Raimo feeds me stew and constantly presses a cup to my lips, urging me to drink some concoction that coats my tongue and makes me gag. He is the most persistent and attentive of physicians, caring for every wound, applying new poultices every few hours. My right hand throbs and aches as if my fingers were still attached and badly mangled. The sensation invades my dreams, where I relive the trap slamming shut over and over again. But when I wake up whimpering, Raimo is always at my side. He never offers words of comfort, but his touch is gentle as he sponges my sweating brow with a warm cloth.

A few times, in the hopeful moments before I remember where I am, I mistake him for Mim, and I strain to move closer, to catch her scent.
You're a jewel,
she whispers, her bright smile making my stomach swoop. I long to twist my finger into the curls at the nape of her neck. I am desperate to hear her say my name. But when I reach with my good hand, when my fingertips brush over skin, it is dry and veiny instead of soft and warm, and I jerk back with the wrongness of it.

Please be safe, Mim. And please don't forget me.

That is my prayer to the stars, mouthed over and over in the darkness.

I shed more tears during these days than I have in the first sixteen years of my life. I mourn what I thought I was. I worry about what I really am. I drift in and out of restless sleep, my dreams full of blood and ice and fire. I surface again, full of questions that Raimo assures me we'll discuss when I am lucid enough to remember his answers.

“Oskar is coming for you today,” he tells me after one such waking. “Remember what I told you about guarding your secret. We can't afford for word of your true nature to spread.”

“But I still don't understand my true nature!” And I'm horrified to discover I've run out of time to learn from him. I push myself into a sitting position with my left hand, keeping my right folded against my chest. “If you're sending me away today, I think you'd better tell me.”

Raimo's eyes narrow. “You must have seen the adornment the Valtia wears around her forearm, yes?”

Only every time I saw her. “The cuff of Astia.”

He nods. “And you know what it does?”

I bite back impatience. I may not know much about magic, but I'm not an idiot. “It helps her amplify and project her power. She told me she didn't need it most of the time. Only when she performed large-scale magic, like creating the dome of warmth in the winter months.”
And when she created the storm that killed her.

“Exactly. It is a tool. Like the copper lightning rods that jut from the roofs of every house in the city. It conducts and magnifies that power, but also absorbs it, helping the wielder maintain balance. By itself, it's merely a hunk of metal, albeit a very special one.” The corner of his mouth twists as he looks at me. “It's pretty, but not that useful. Like you at the moment.”

His words sting, but objecting would only draw his mockery. I've heard how he talks to Oskar.

“But when wielded by a person who possesses fire or ice or both at once,” Raimo continues, “the cuff of Astia becomes the key to victory.”

“So I'm a tool,” I say in a dead voice. “Or maybe a weapon.”

“That's the least interesting way to think about it,” he replies. “It would be smarter to ponder this: you are a living, breathing,
thinking
Astia.”

“Raimo!” a deep voice barks, causing me to jerk with surprise.

“Remember,” Raimo whispers. “Tell no one. Gather your strength. If I'm right, a war is coming, but with true winter descending and no Valtia to push it back, you may have some time. Stay close to Oskar, who avoids trouble like it's his life's calling. Stay alive, please. Focus on healing.” He snorts. “And on learning how to be useful. No one here has time to wait on you.”

I curse myself for not demanding he answer my questions before now, even though I was too weak to protest. “Who are you, really? Why are you no longer a priest?” I lean forward and try to catch his sleeve, but he skitters out of my reach. “How is it that you know what I am when the elders didn't?” My left fist clenches when I hear Oskar's footsteps coming nearer. “Raimo, can't I stay here with you?”

He shivers, moving closer to the fire. “I've let you stay too long already, girl.”

“Can't we meet again? There's so much I don't know!”

Raimo rubs his hand over his mostly bald head, looking regretful instead of mocking for once. “When the thaw comes.”

“But—”

Oskar strides into the cavern. In one hand is a torch, and in the other he clutches a bundle of rags. His hair is pulled back from his face, but he looks more like a bear than ever, fur and all.

Raimo eyes the thick garment Oskar has wrapped over his shoulders and torso. “The weather must have taken a turn,” he comments.

Oskar looks down at himself. “There was a frost last night.” He moves closer to the fire and sees me lying on the other side of it. His gaze slides from my head to my feet, and his brows rise. For the first time since we met, I'm sitting up by myself.

I'm also wearing nothing but a blanket. His eyes meet mine. “You look better.”

I clutch the thick woolen fabric a little higher on my chest. “Thank you. I feel better.”

He holds up the bundle of rags. “I brought you some clothes. I think they'll fit.” He looks away. “I'll be waiting outside.”

He shoves the clothes into Raimo's arms and stalks out of the cavern. I watch him go with guilt sitting heavy in my gut. I remember how reluctant he was to take responsibility for me, how pained he sounded when Raimo demanded it. Raimo looks like he's trying not to laugh as he walks over and hands me the clothing. “Oskar is unwaveringly honorable. Usually it's irritating, but today we should count ourselves lucky.”

“He doesn't want to take care of me.”

Raimo shakes his head. “Not right now, no.” He nudges the ball of garments in my lap with the toe of his grimy boot. “Get up and get dressed, girl. Your lazy days of convalescence are over.”

He walks over to a flat rock near the fire, where he draws a deck of cards from beneath a stone ledge. As I clumsily unfold the clothes, struggling to manage with my still tightly bandaged right hand, he begins to deal out a game of solitaire.

I hold up the garments. Oskar has brought me a pair of thick, warm stockings, serviceable leather slippers, a shapeless gown made out of the same brown wool as his own tunic, and a kerchief for my hair. The clothing of a peasant. A sharp prickle of anxiety and shame makes me shiver.

It's not that I think I'm too good for these things. I'm grateful to have them. But I have barely the faintest idea of how to put them on. I've never actually dressed myself, and now I have only one good hand to help me accomplish the task. Yes, I have three fingers left on my right hand, but I can barely touch the pad of my thumb to my forefinger because they're so stiff and sensitive. My middle finger juts out, useless and crooked.

“The more you move and stretch them, the easier it will be,” Raimo says quietly. “You'll probably never regain full use of them, but that's no excuse not to try.”

I stare at Raimo's back. He has a card in his hand, but he's not playing. He's waiting, I realize, probably for me to ask for help or whine about my need for a maidservant. And right now, I want Mim more than ever, for so many reasons. But if I say that to Raimo, he'll only mock me. I press my lips together.
Pretty, but not that useful. Like you right now.
The words burn as I digest the undeniable truth of them, especially when I think of Oskar waiting outside, loathing the idea of taking me under his protection.

I'm not a jewel. Not a treasure. Not a wonder or a living miracle.

I'm a burden.

Determination forms like a fist behind my breast.

I will
not
be a burden.

With clenched teeth, I find the top of one of the stockings and shove my foot into it. It gets caught in the narrow tube of fabric. I let out a frustrated little grunt as I wrestle with it. Sweat beads across my brow. Pain gnaws at my right hand, chomping its way up my arm. But I don't give up.

I refuse to let a stocking defeat me.

“Is she ready yet?” Oskar calls from outside the cavern.

“Not quite,” calls Raimo, who sounds like it's taking all his will to keep from cackling.

I redouble my efforts, squirming and twisting and groaning when my knee bashes into my cauterized knuckles. I'm nearly limp with exhaustion by the time I get the obnoxious garment pulled up to my thigh.

“Try pointing your toes and sliding them in rather than trying to jam your entire foot straight down into it,” Raimo suggests, his voice trembling with mirth.

My nostrils flare. “It would have been easy enough for you to mention that several minutes ago.”

“True.” He resumes playing cards.

The second stocking goes on much more smoothly, thanks to his sage advice. And the dress is simple enough—I pull it over my head and thrust my left arm through a sleeve.

Raimo gives me a sidelong glance. “If I told you it was backward, would that upset you?”

“Not at all,” I snarl. I yank my arm from the sleeve and turn the dress around. It's an odd style, with a high neck and a low back, but I won't complain—I'm lucky the thing doesn't have buttons, because then I'd be lost. It takes a minute or two to get my right arm through the sleeve because of the bandage on my hand and the odd, stiff position of my exposed fingers, and I sigh with relief when the dress unfurls and falls to my ankles. I slide my feet into the slippers and pick up the kerchief.

“Is she ready now?” calls Oskar, not bothering to conceal his irritation. “I have things to do today.”

“Patience, patience,” Raimo replies. “Greatness takes time.”

My cheeks are burning as I stare at the kerchief. I have no idea how to put this thing on, but my hair is loose and tangled, so I need to do something. I fold the kerchief in half and plaster it over my head, then awkwardly tie the corners beneath my chin.

I step around the fire, to where Raimo is shuffling his cards, which are faded and worn—and completely blank. “Thank you for what you've done.”

“I will find you in the spring,” he says, not bothering to look up as he begins to deal them. “I wish it could be sooner, but I won't be available before then.”

“Why?”

His eyes glint as he raises his head. “I hibernate. Keeps me young.” He grins, showing me his yellowed teeth, his long, stringy beard bobbing beneath his chin. “I'll emerge when the ground thaws, and we'll have plenty to talk about. Until then, gather your strength, and for stars' sake, keep silent. If one person in these caverns knows your secrets, they all will.”

I gape at him, but before I can ask if he's serious about hibernating—because it's impossible to tell with this mischievous old man—Oskar's voice echoes into the rocky chamber. “What in the stars above is taking so long?” he roars.

Raimo's bony shoulders shake as he starts to laugh, and I scoot out of his presence, rushing headlong into my new life—as an outlaw in the thieves' caverns.