The Impostor Queen (24 page)

“But Sig's heat didn't even affect you,” says Freya, sounding awed. “I thought I was going to faint.”

My heart races. I make a mental note to at least pretend to be affected by things like that in the future. Doing otherwise is going to lead to questions I shouldn't answer. “Oh, I suppose I'm just a summer girl,” I say as we dip our buckets in the stream. “I don't mind the heat.”

“That's like Oskar, though,” says Freya. “He wishes it was summer all the time.”

And he so obviously hates the winter—but I'm almost certain he's full of ice magic. That seems like such a contradiction, and it's yet another thing the priests never explained. I can't believe how many things I never thought to ask, how ignorant I truly was. Just as I'm about to ask Freya for the answers I want, though, a few others come in to fill their buckets, so I put the questions aside for later and we tromp back to the shelter. My hand is throbbing, the stumps of my missing fingers feel as if they're being stabbed by a hundred needles at once, and my muscles ache from a day of hard work. Like always, though, this kind of pain makes me smile. I've been in these caves for over a month now, and I haven't been useless. I've learned a lot.

When it comes to understanding what it means to be a “living, breathing,
thinking
Astia,” though, I'm no closer than I was when I arrived. Those are all questions it seems much too dangerous to ask. All I know is that I can stand in the presence of a powerful fire-wielder and not break a sweat.

Maarika has prepared a dinner of cornbread and dried venison, and we eat in silence. Oskar looks grim and tired as he chews his food, and when he's finished, he disappears like he does every night to play cards with the men around the big campfire. He's still out there when Freya and I go to bed.

But as always, I'm awakened by the sound of his nightmares. I creep to the boundary between my chamber and his, and I watch him, locked in a desperate battle with the ice that seems determined to claim him. It spreads up his neck. It slithers into his hair. Tonight it makes his long body curl into a ball, like he's trying to hold on to any warmth he can find. His broad shoulders tremble. During the day he looks so fierce, so unaffected and unafraid, but when he turns his face toward me, I see the agony and fear etched within the strong line of his jaw and the wide sweep of his brow.

He lets out a choked, vulnerable moan, and that is beyond what I can stand.

I crawl toward him, my heart aching in the hollow casket of my chest. This feeling has been growing inside me every night as I've watched him suffer. Oskar could have left me in the woods to die. No one would have known that he'd passed me by, and no one would have blamed him. I was a nameless, discarded, injured girl. But he saved me. He did it for no reason except that I needed help. Not out of guilt, not because he liked me, not because I had something he wanted, not because I was special or magical.

He did it because he's good, and he values life. And every day that I've known him, he's taken care of me for the same reason. I'm desperate to give him something in return.

I stretch out my palm, and I lay it on Oskar's frozen cheek.

My mind explodes with visions of jagged ice, sharp enough to tear me apart.

T
his is no flurry of flakes but a raging blizzard. Avalanches rolling with killing speed into the rocky basin of my skull. Icicles sharp as knives, slicing and carving. I yank my hand away, breathing hard. I've seen the frozen Motherlake, the frost that coats the marsh grass, rivulets of ice along the cave walls. But never have I experienced anything like the frigid horror of the last few seconds.

Oskar's not shivering anymore. His long, dark lashes shadow the hollow above his cheekbones. His mouth is surprisingly soft when he's at rest, and I have the insane urge to skim my fingertip over the little bow on his upper lip. He exhales, and it's not foggy and frozen.

What just happened?

I lay my hand on his cheek again. The onslaught is less jarring this time, but it's still powerful. And it's definitely coming from him. Are these his dreams? They're made of the rub and tear of ice on ice, thick slabs of it colliding and shearing off, shattering into countless deadly shards. They're blinding white and glittering and so cold it burns. But as I sit there, my palm to his skin, the brutal edge begins to dull. The hard ice pellets turn to heavy, wet snow. The ice sinks into the earth.

Because of
me
, I realize. I stare at the place where my skin touches Oskar's. And then I close my eyes as the icy magic crosses the barrier between us and fills my hollow chest.

Raimo compared me to the copper lightning rods that adorn most of the buildings in the city of Kupari. He said I could amplify magic, though I have no idea how I could do that, and he also said I could absorb it. That must be what I'm doing now. I smile as Oskar's cheek turns from frigid to cool under my touch.

He jerks away from me, and my eyes fly open. His are alight with fury as he scoots backward, pulling his cloak around him. “What in stars are you doing?” he whispers.

I look down at my palm, which is damp with the ice that melted off his skin. “I was . . .”

He rubs his hand over his face and pulls his fingers through his dark hair, which falls loose to his shoulders. “How long have you been there?”

I completely lost track of time while I was touching him. “Only a few minutes? Oskar—”

He pulls his knees to his chest, like he needs to put a wall between us. “Did you see . . .” He clenches his teeth. “Why did you come out here? Can't you respect a man's privacy?”

“I wanted to help,” I say, edging a little closer.

His brows lower. “I don't need any help.”

“It looked painful.”

He grips the fabric over his shins and looks away. I can tell he's thinking about the ice, how it waits for him to slip into dreaming so it can carve the meat from his bones. But then his eyes narrow as his gaze abruptly returns to me. “Did you just do something to me?”

“Why, was something different?”

“Why are you answering my question with a question?”

Because I have been holding them in for so long. Too long.
I wipe my palm on the sleeve of my gown. “I merely touched you. I wasn't trying to hurt you.”

He glares at me. “It might have hurt
you
.”

If Raimo is right, it can't. But Raimo also told me to tell no one. “I didn't realize touching your face could harm me.” I try to sound teasing, but my voice is too unsteady for that.

He grabs a tie from his satchel and pulls his hair back. “What possessed you to touch me at all?”

“I saw what was happening to you, and I wanted to make it better.”

The corner of Oskar's mouth twitches, and he gives me a bemused look.

It makes me bold. “It's getting worse, isn't it? I can tell.”

The look becomes a scowl. “It's none of your business.”

“Tell me what you are.”

He groans. “I'm nothing,” he says, rising from the ground and holding his hands over the fire.

I get up too. “I don't have contempt for magic, Oskar. I might be nonmagical, but I don't have any prejudice against magic wielders. Surely you've seen that by now.”

“I need to hit the trail. The snow will make it slow going, and I want to be back before the sun sets.” He tries to step around me, but I don't get out of the way.

“None of the other wielders are suffering like you.”

His mouth draws tight. “I'm not suffering.”

“I would never hurt you, Oskar.”

“I don't know you. And you don't know me.”

“Why are you trying to hide what you are?” I blurt out.

His gray eyes turn hard. “Why are you so nosy?”

“Why are you so scared?”

“Why are you being such a pain in my arse?” he snaps.

As I gape at him, he lets out a harsh chuckle, takes me by the arms, and starts to move me aside. But anger flashes in my chest. I have no right to his secrets, but I'm driven by the memory of his agonized expression, of the ice freezing his skin, of how terrifying his dreams truly are. And if I'm right about what just happened, then I can help him. I grab at his hand, clamped around my upper arm. My fingernails dig in as I try to get free.

His skin flashes cold, and then his eyes fly wide. “No,” he whispers, grabbing my sleeve and pulling my hand from his. “I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to do that. . . .” He flips my palm over.

He slides his finger over my skin, then gives me a searching look.

“What's wrong?” I ask.

“Tell me why Raimo didn't heal you with magic.” His voice is low as he moves even closer, towering over me.

“I asked him not to—”

“You're lying.” He grabs my left wrist and tugs my palm toward him, then touches the center with his fingertip. I understand that it's cold like I understand that grass is green, but I don't
feel
it. What I do feel: the danger. I rip my hand from his grasp and stagger back.

He tilts his head, staring at the spot he touched. I squinch up my face and rub at my palm. “Ow,” I whimper.

“I didn't affect you at all,” he says, reaching for my hand again.

I cradle it to my breast and retreat until my legs hit the stone wall that surrounds the shelter. “Of course you did.” I moan, wishing I was a little better at pretending. “I—”

I stare at his broad chest as he gently takes my left hand in his considerably larger one and turns my palm upward again. The only things that mar my skin are my hard-earned calluses. The center of my palm is soft and smooth and warm as he traces it with a cool finger. “Tell me what
you
are,” he whispers.

“Nothing.” Tears sting my eyes.
You could be their most powerful asset—or their worst enemy,
Raimo whispers in my thoughts. Why did I risk revealing myself? So stupid. I clench my fist, as if hiding it will make him forget. “Oskar, I'm sorry for touching you, sorry for asking questions, sorry for everything, but I can't—”

He holds up his hands. “Stop.” My mouth snaps shut. He smiles at my obedience. “Wait here.”

He disappears into Maarika's little chamber, and I hear him murmuring to her. My heart seizes with fear—is he telling her there's something odd about me? Is he—

He emerges from her chamber with a pair of knee-high leather boots and a thick leather cloak lined with fur. “Get these on.” He tosses a pair of leather gloves at me. “These, too.”

Stars, he's going to turn me out in the snow. “I'm sorry,” I say in a choked voice. “Please don't do this.”

“Put them on, Elli.” He sits down next to his own boots and jams his feet into them. “Move it,” he says when I'm still standing there a few seconds later. “I wasn't kidding when I said I needed to get going.”

I might be immune to ice magic, but dread is turning my insides cold. With shaking hands, I pull on the boots and clumsily lace them. I don the cloak and pull it around me. I slide on the gloves, which are also fur-lined. Once Oskar has completed his own preparations, I follow him as he strides through the front cavern, where it's still dark. Not many people are awake at this hour, though I see the glow of a few small fires in some of the shelters, and I hear the trill of little Kukka's laughter as Senja shushes her. My feet already feel like blocks of ice, even before we emerge from the cave and are greeted by a thick blanket of snow. “You were right,” I mumble.

“I'm always right about snow,” he says, and then tromps up the trail.

I work to keep up, grateful that he gave me these boots, because they keep the snow from soaking my woolen stockings. We hike along the narrow path that leads up to the marshlands. Where is he taking me? “Oskar, please. I'll work harder.”

“Is that even possible?” He gives me an amused sidelong glance. “I've rarely seen anyone work harder than you do.”

“I'll keep at it,” I tell him. “If you let me stay, I'll—”

He stops walking. “Why wouldn't I let you stay?”

“Where are we going, then?”

“Hopefully to find a few snow hares. The tracks will be easy to see today.”

My brow furrows. “Why are you bringing me with you?”

His gaze slides to my right hand, two fingers of my borrowed glove hanging loose. “Because if I'm going to do this, I don't want anyone else hearing or seeing anything.”

I stare up at him with wide eyes. “I'd never tell anyone about you,” I squeak.

Oskar begins to laugh, a beautiful, deep,
alive
sound I haven't heard for weeks. The knives at his belt clink together as he doubles over and puts his hands on his thighs.

“Your face,” he says, his eyes tearing up. “I swear, you'd think I'd threatened to kill . . . you . . .” He stops laughing. “Wait. Is that what you think?”