The Impostor Queen (18 page)

I
scramble toward Oskar, apologies on the tip of my tongue. But his tight jaw relaxes and his lips twitch as he sees me bustling out of Raimo's cave. When his gaze lingers on my hair, I pull the kerchief a little lower on my forehead. His brow furrows. “Your hand is giving you difficulty?” he asks, his voice a bit unsteady.

I shrug my right shoulder so the sleeve covers my crooked fingers. “Not much.”

He begins to walk. “You'll stay with my family. My mother and my younger sister. I have to go hunting, so they'll look after you.”

“I can help them . . . do whatever needs to be done.” Though truly, I have no idea what would need doing. Does one sweep the floor of a cave? Is there cutlery to polish? “How long have you lived in the caverns?”

“These? Only since the spring.” He arches one dark slash of an eyebrow. “We thieves tend to move around a lot, and there are a lot of old mines and caves on the peninsula.”

“This one hasn't been mined yet,” I say, remembering how desperate the miners supposedly were to gain access—though now I wonder if they were half as desperate as the elders.

“It's one of the few that hasn't been,” Oskar informs me. “Which means it's less prone to cave-ins. Our numbers have grown and safety is important.”

“How many people live here?”

He gives me a sidelong glance and doesn't answer. I bite the inside of my cheek, but I can't stop myself from blundering forward. “Did you live in the city . . . before?”

“Did you?” he asks, acid in his tone.

For the first time in my life, I understand how threatening simple questions can be. It looks like we both fear the slippery slope of revealed secrets. If I don't want to give away any of mine, it looks like I'll have to curb my own curiosity. “I apologize for prying.”

Oskar grunts and steps ahead of me as the tunnel grows narrow. “Watch out for puddles and loose rocks.” Our only light is the torch in his hand, and it strikes me that he didn't have one when he made this journey with me on his back. He stumbled through the suffocating dark with a heavy burden pulling him down, just to get help for me. And now he's probably regretting it.

We make our way slowly. Something tells me Oskar is doing it for my benefit. I watch every step and yet still manage to stumble every few seconds. The tunnel seems to stretch forever, winding upward. My legs ache with fatigue. My breaths come harsh and fast; I'm not accustomed to walking so far, and especially not uphill. The three remaining fingers on my right hand are sensitive to any jarring motion, so I keep them tucked against my belly and use only my left hand to keep my balance.

Oskar looks over his shoulder when I stumble for the thousandth time. “Do you need me to carry you?”

“No,” I snap, then soften my tone. “But if you could tell me how much farther, I'd be grateful.”

His inscrutable gaze lingers on me. “The main cavern is just around that bend.” He points the torch toward a distant crimp in the path. I wait to grimace until his back is turned again.

We eventually reach the turn and are greeted by the flicker of distant campfires. The tunnel widens, with a few openings on either side—smaller caverns where I can hear people talking and water splashing. The front cave comes into view a moment later. It's massive, at least as large as the domed chamber in the Temple on the Rock. Around its edges are . . . well, calling them cottages would be generous. At least forty small shelters line either side of the cavern, low walls of stacked stones from which jut rough frames of wood. Hanging from those are loose fabric, animal pelts, drapes made of dried and woven marsh grass, anything to give the residents a bit of privacy. None of the shelters have roofs, but they don't need them—the cavern provides one, though water drips from its black, spiky ceiling.

In the center of the broad, relatively flat expanse of this cavern is a crudely made hearth, and it's obvious that it's a community oven, as several women surround it, poking at dark-brown loaves of bread with sticks and wooden paddles. Children chase one another around the edge of it, their faces streaked with dirt, the knees of their trousers worn and holey. Men gather close to a large fire nearer to the front of the cavern, playing their games of cards. Some are working near their own shelters, oiling traps and untangling fishing lines. One man nearby is skinning a hare, peeling its fur from its flesh with brutal efficiency. I swallow hard and look away.

“And here's the main cavern,” Oskar says in a low voice, leaning against a rocky ledge and sweeping his arm across the scene. “Otherwise known as the den of thieves. Don't they look vicious?”

Several of the cavern's inhabitants have noticed our entrance. One by one, they stop what they're doing to stare at me. “They don't exactly look friendly,” I mutter, taking a step back.

Oskar's large hand closes over my shoulder. “They know you're under my protection,” he says, waving at a stout, brown-bearded man standing near the big fire. The man raises his hand to acknowledge Oskar, then returns to tossing split logs onto the flames. “Newcomers make them wary. Mind your own business, and—”

“Oskar!” cries a piping voice. A young girl, perhaps ten years of age, comes darting out of a shelter on our left. Two braids of dark hair on either side of her head flap as she runs. “Is this her?” she huffs as she stops in front of us.

“No, this is the other girl I rescued from a bear trap.”

She slaps Oskar's fur-covered arm. “You are so grumpy when the cold comes.” Her green eyes are full of energy as she turns to me. “Why is your dress on backward?” she asks, looking at my awkwardly high neckline.
Raimo strikes again.
“And what's wrong with your hair?”

My left hand rises to my kerchief. “I . . .”

“Her hand is injured, and she hasn't had the benefit of a mirror for several days,” says Oskar, saving me from revealing my ignorance. “Or of female company. That's where you come in.” He gestures at the girl. “This little bandit is Freya.” He reaches out and tugs one of her braids. “My darling sister and a budding master thief.”

“Thief?” The girl scowls. “What in stars are you going on about—”

“Of course you're not a thief,” I say, glaring at her big brother, who merely looks back at me with challenge in his eyes. “It's nice to meet you, Freya. I'm Elli.” I give her a curtsy, as I've seen Mim do so many times.

Freya snorts and imitates me, confirming that I've done something stupid. “All right, Elli, come on. My mother wants to meet you, and Oskar needs to go kill some furry woodland creatures.”

Oskar touches her shoulder. “Freya, if the alarm is sounded—”

She lifts her chin. “I know what to do. I can take care of myself and her, too.”

Oskar grins, his whole face brightening, and he tugs Freya into a quick, fierce hug. She disappears into the folds of his cloak and emerges with her hair mussed and a big smile on her face. “I'll be back in a few hours,” he says.

Freya grabs for my right hand, but Oskar knocks her arm away just in time. “Remember what I told you about her hand!”

“Oh! Right,” Freya says, then grabs my left and begins to pull me toward their shelter. I look over my shoulder for Oskar, but he's already striding toward the exit to the main cavern like he's glad to be rid of my company. I push down a strange twinge of disappointment and follow Freya, flashing a smile at anyone who'll meet my eyes. Most of them offer hard stares in return. I'm relieved when we duck into a shelter, which is sectioned into three small areas separated by walls made of animal fur. There's a wide space at the front containing a small loom, a grinding stone with a pestle lying on top of it, a fire pit, and a large pile of tools, many I don't know the names for. I've never seen such things outside the pages of the books used for my studies, and part of me wants to go over and pick each one up, just to see how they feel in my hands. The rest of me realizes that would only make me look more foolish than I already do.

The front chamber of this shelter is large enough to allow two tall men to lie head to head, and deep enough to allow one tall man—like Oskar—to lie straight. The fur walls, which are made from several different animal pelts stitched together with burlap string, are rich brown, glinting in the light of the small fire in the stone-bounded pit.

A woman about my height, her light-brown hair knotted into a bun on the back of her head, emerges from one of the smaller areas, moving aside a thick, furry pelt that's been nailed to the tall wooden frame. She looks like she's in her midthirties, her forehead creased and weather-worn. Her gray eyes focus in on my clearly ridiculous hair arrangement, and her lips press together. “You must be Elli.”

“I am, and you . . . ?”

“Maarika.” She's much paler than Oskar, who clearly spent the entire summer in the sun, and her appearance is neat, not a hair out of place, the opposite of Oskar's disheveled roughness. But they have one thing in common—they are both very difficult to read.

I curtsy again, because I have no idea what else to do, but Maarika only frowns at me. “Thank you for taking me in,” I say. “I'd like to do anything I can to—”

“Can you grind some corn for me?” she asks. “I'm trying to make Oskar a new tunic to replace the one he shredded last week, and Freya's needed to fetch the water.” She doesn't say it in an unfriendly or harsh way. It seems like she's simply informing me of the reality of their lives. “Well?” she asks when I hesitate. “Can you?”

I blink at her, stiffly moving the fingers of my right hand within the long sleeve of my dress and trying not to wince as the raw flesh rubs against my bandages. “Ah . . . yes. Of course.”

She bobs her head. “Wonderful.” She points to a pile of dried-out corncobs, their husks pulled back, sitting in a basket woven from green twigs. “Corn's there.” She points to a wooden bowl sitting next to the grinding stone. “Put it there when you're done.”

She disappears back into the small, torch-lit chamber at the back of the shelter. I slowly move toward the corncobs, my heart thumping. I've read about this vegetable, how it's planted and harvested, how it's an important crop for our people. But . . . the only time I've actually seen real corn is when it's been served to me on a plate, kernels roasted and plump and sweet. I know it can also be dried and ground into meal—and I also know that the pestle and grinding stone are used for that purpose. I smile. I can do this. It can't be that hard. I kneel, pick up a cob, and place it on the grinding stone. The moment I reach for the pestle, I hear a giggle from behind me.

“Who taught you to do it that way?” Freya kneels by my side. She picks up the cob and strips the kernels off with strong, confident strokes of her thumbs. The tiny golden nuggets fall with little plinks to the grinding stone. When she's finished, she piles kernels into the shallow depression, picks up the broad pestle, and crushes them with quick, decisive twists of her skinny wrist. She offers me the pestle. “Like that.”

I blow out a breath through my pursed lips. “Of course. Like that.” I accept the pestle. It's heavier than it looks, rough against my thin, untested skin.

She tilts her head and gazes up at me. “Your kerchief really looks silly.” Without asking permission, she unknots it, then folds it on a diagonal so it forms a triangle instead of a long rectangle as I had done. I feel like such a fool, but am grateful as she flattens it over my head and ties it at the nape of my neck, beneath my thick locks. Next, she tugs on my sleeve. Seeing what she intends, I pull my arms in, and she turns my dress around so that it's no longer backward.

“Thank you so much,” I whisper.

“I'm sorry about your fingers,” she says, looking down at my bandaged hand as it emerges from the sleeve. “Does it make you very sad?”

I bow my head so she doesn't see the tears starting in my eyes. Missing two fingers feels like a drop in the Motherlake compared to all the other things I've lost. “Not too sad,” I say, trying to weave a bit of cheerfulness into my tone. “I'm glad to be alive.”

“I'm glad you're alive too.” Freya gets up and grabs a large wooden bucket from the corner. “We can always use an extra pair of hands, even if one of them has only three fingers.” She ducks through the curtain of fur.

I stare after her, fighting the crazy urge to laugh and cry at the same time. A fortnight ago, I was the someday queen, and now I'm an eight-fingered girl with a back full of scars, whose only worth is in doing things I have no idea how to do. I used to be loved by an entire people, and now the only person in the entire world who cares about me is Mim, and I've lost her. She might even be punished because of me. At the very least, I've left her worried sick. I rub my hand over my chest, which feels like it's being squeezed in the grip of a giant. What I wouldn't give for her to appear and wrap her arms around me.

I swipe my sleeve over my eyes, and then my body buckles, unable to withstand the weight of my grief for another second. I wrap my arms around myself and lay my forehead on the cold grinding stone. I've lost everything.