The Impostor Queen (25 page)

I raise my eyebrows.

He stands up straight again. “You really believe I'd do that?”

My heart has slowed a bit, but the aftershocks of fear vibrate along my limbs. “Like you said, Oskar. I don't know you. You spoke more to me when you thought I was dying.”

A strand of his dark hair has worked its way loose from the tie, and he sweeps it back from his face. “I spoke more before Raimo told me you hated magic, a lie he obviously concocted to hide the fact that there's something very strange about you.”

I cross my arms over my middle and stare at his boots. His gloved finger nudges my chin up.

“When I was young, we lived in the city,” he says, pulling his hood over his head and starting to walk again. “My father was a hunter.”

I trip over my own feet and stumble as I start to follow. Oskar catches a handful of my cloak and pulls me upright. “Are you all right?”

“I'm just recovering from the shock. You actually told me something about yourself.”

He rolls his eyes and hikes down a hill. “I didn't want to be a hunter. I wanted to stay inside all day, right in front of the fire, and carve little animals out of wood.” He chuckles. “The cottage was full of them.”

The sun is hovering above the trees to the east, making the rolling hills around us sparkle. It's a fluffy, dry snow, so I'm able to keep up with Oskar's long strides as he heads west, toward the dunes that mark the edge of the Motherlake. I don't dare fall behind, because I'm clinging to every word he says.

“My father was a hard man. And he thought that I was soft. From the time I could walk, he took me with him in summer and fall, hiking these outlands in search of game, wolves and bears and beavers, pelts we could barter and meat that would keep us alive. When I was eight, he decided I would go with him every day, no matter the weather.” Oskar pauses and turns his face to the east, closing his eyes as the sun offers a bit of warmth. “I hate the cold. I've always hated the cold.”

“I don't understand.” I look at the tiny smile on his face as the sunlight caresses his brow. “You're an ice wielder, aren't you?”

“You already know I am.”

“How can the cold bother you, then? Why aren't you, I don't know, impervious to it?”

He looks pensive for a moment. “Do you know anything about the Valtia?”

I let out a dry croak of laughter. “A little.” But I've learned more about magic in the last month than I did in twelve years in the temple.

Oskar nods. “So you know that she wields both ice and fire in perfect balance.”

“Right.” My voice sounds as hollow as I feel.

“And that she possesses extreme amounts of both.” He beckons to me and begins to hike again. “But you also know by now that many people possess this kind of magic, just not as much, and not as balanced. They can't do anything like she does.”

“Nothing like she does,” I whisper, huddling within my cloak as we reach a copse of trees to the south of the rolling white dunes.

“Some people have a bit of ice, like Veikko and Senja and little Kukka, and others a touch of fire, like Aira and Ismael, and like Jouni, too. Most wielders tend toward one more than the other, but nearly everyone has some amount of both elements,” Oskar continues. “Except for a few of us. We have only the tiniest spark of one element, and so much of the other that it nearly kills us.” He guides me to a gnarled tree and sweeps his arm across a branch that's jutting out at the level of his hip. Then, without asking permission of any kind, he grasps my waist and lifts me onto the branch. I'm shocked by the feel of his hands on me, but he pulls away quickly. “You'll be more comfortable there, with your feet out of the snow.”

“Thanks,” I say, a bit breathlessly, surprised at how badly I wish he would touch me again. “So . . . you were telling me you have only ice magic.”

“It feels like it's trying to tear me apart sometimes.” He rubs his chest, and I have a flashing memory of ice blades jutting from Sofia's body, killing her from the inside out. “But worse than that, I have so little fire inside that I can't stay warm. And that's why I hate the cold.”

I think of Sig, shirtless as he stalked out of the cavern and into the chilly air. “Sig is the opposite of you, isn't he?”

Oskar grimaces. “I suppose you could say that.”

“Why does he seem to hate you so much?”

He bows his head. “We used to be friends. He joined the camp about five years ago. He was alone, and my family took him in. He'd had a terrible time of it, but he healed up quickly. Raimo helped. It was good to have Sig around. We balance each other out.” He curls his gloved fingers into fists. “But each time we were chased or burned out of our camps by the miners or the constables or the farmers, Sig grew angrier. He wanted to use his magic to fight back, despite the risk of revealing ourselves. And it wasn't hard for him to bring some of the others around to his way of thinking.”

“But not you.”

His eyes meet mine. “I don't want to fight. I only want to live.”

“Don't you have to fight for some things?” I think back to that moment in the bronze cage, when I fought with everything inside me, just for the chance to take another breath.

Oskar takes a step away from me. “When I fight, people die.” His eyes aren't inscrutable now. They're brimming with pain. I reach for his hand, but it disappears beneath his cloak and he closes his eyes. “There are bears in the forest. Grizzlies with heads the size of cauldrons. One pelt can buy enough food to feed a family for two months.” His voice is flat as he spins out these words, like he's plodding through deep, deep snow. “My father was determined to find one. He set out traps, much the same as the one that took your fingers off. And one summer day, I went with him to check them. When we heard the snap of it, we ran. I was thinking I had so much energy, that I could run like this forever. I ran so fast that I passed my father, so fast that I didn't hear his shouts until it was too late.”

He stares down at the snow. “The trap had snared a cub. It was squalling and screaming. I remember seeing its blood speckling the pine needles. It's the last thing I saw before the mother bear attacked.” He pulls his cloak back and lifts his tunic for a moment, revealing the three slashing marks across his ribs, wide and pink. “My father hit her before she could kill me.”

He raises his head. “That was the first time my magic came out. It was like”—he lets out a long breath—“an avalanche. And when it stopped, everything around me was quiet.” Like his voice right now. “The bear was frozen solid. But so was my father.”

Oh, stars. I hear Elder Kauko's voice in my head, telling me how the magic protects the wielder in a dangerous or stressful situation:
It usually bursts forth with such strength . . .
I imagine a dark-haired, granite-eyed little boy, staggering back in the wake of his own icy power. “What did you do?”

He holds up his hands. “I tried to wake him up. I wanted to drag him away—he was still in the bear's embrace. But when I yanked on his arm, it”—his face crumples—“shattered,” he whispers.

I cover my mouth.
Everything fell apart, and I can't put it back together,
I'd said.
I know what that's like,
he'd replied. I grimace as I hold back tears.

“I ran for the town. I was bleeding so badly that I almost didn't make it. By the time the constables reached the scene, everything had melted. The cub, the bear, and my father were all lying limp on the ground. The constables couldn't figure out what had happened, and I lied. I was so scared.” He shivers, and I push back the urge to hop off my branch and go to him. I can't siphon away this kind of cold. “But my mother . . . the day after my father's funeral, even though I was barely healed enough to travel, she packed up me and Freya, who was only a few months old at the time, and headed for the outlands.”

“Maarika told me your father was killed in a hunting accident.”

He winces. “And I suppose she was right.”

“Does she know you're a wielder?”

Oskar slowly drags his finger along the rough surface of my branch. “I suspect she's always known. But she's never said a word about it, and I've never brought it up.” His finger stops a few inches from my hip. “I think we both hate what I am.”

The savage pain in his voice makes my throat tight. “But denying what you are is hurting you.”

His fingers clutch the branch, and his tension vibrates through my body. “Embracing it would hurt everybody else.”

It won't hurt me.
The words are on the tip of my tongue, fighting to break free. But fear of what that admission could bring holds them back. “Do you ever use it? Don't you need to?”

It seems like magic bleeds from him, whether he wants it to or not, and my suspicion is confirmed as he nods. “There is one good thing about it,” he says, his voice taking on a playful tone, though I don't miss the current of sadness on which it floats. He looks out at the rolling dunes. “I'll show you right now if you want to see.”

I nod eagerly, and he motions for me to stay where I am, then creeps toward the edge of the trees. At the base of a dune perhaps twenty feet from our spot are two white hares, hopping along, looking for a few tender shoots to nibble. Oskar squats next to a wide oak and stares at the two little animals. A sudden wind blows across the fluffy snow toward them.

Their heads jerk up, as if they smell a predator. But instead of scampering away, they both topple sideways into the snow. Oskar stands up and strides out of the trees, scoops up the two creatures, and carries them back to me. They hang stiff in his grasp, their bodies swinging as he holds them up.

“What did you do?” I ask, staring at the obviously dead animals.

Oskar looks down at his kills. “I froze their blood,” he says simply.

I blink slowly, recalling what he said when I asked him if that bear trap had been his.
I never use that kind.
“Is
this
how you hunt?”

He shrugs. “It's quicker than traps. I think it's fairly painless for the animal.” He lays the two hares on the snow at his feet. “And it allows me to get rid of some of the ice.”

Which must be why he goes out every day, even now that the weather's turned cold, even though Maarika has more meat than she knows what to do with. “Do the others know?”

He stomps his feet, loosening some of the snow crusted on the toes of his boots. “Probably some of them suspect. But I hunt alone and field dress everything, so no one sees how I kill.”

“Does Raimo know?”

“Yes, because when I was about thirteen and the nightmares were getting really bad, I was stupid enough to go to him and ask him if he could take the magic away. He set my pants on fire that day.”

“What?”

“I withstand heat a lot better than cold,” he says drily. “But I had to go back to my mother and explain my ruined trousers.” He slaps his hand over his thigh. “Raimo wants to train me to control it. He says I'm something called a Suurin. An extreme. He thinks Sig is one too. Sig was only too willing to accept Raimo's training, and look what he's become.”

The way Oskar says it, I know he doesn't think Sig's become anything good.

“How does Raimo know so much?”

“Maybe because he's as old as time?” he says lightly. “Honestly, I don't know. He's been part of the camp—sort of—since long before we joined, but no one can remember when he showed up. He heals injuries and some illnesses with his magic in return for food and goods. And he's never around during the winter.” He slides his boot through the snow, wearing a path all the way to the dirt below. “So . . . did he happen to tell you what
you
are?”

I shake my head quickly, not able to meet his eyes. “He just said I'm completely empty of ice and fire, and therefore immune to the magic that comes from it. I'm a fluke.” I'm guessing Oskar's been telling me all these things about himself in the hope that I'll do the same, but I
can't
. “Did he tell you what being a Suurin actually means?”

The corner of his mouth twitches as I abruptly swing the conversation back to him. “He wouldn't—unless I let him teach me.”

That must be what Raimo was demanding in exchange for healing me. “Why won't you let him?”

“He'd make me use the magic, and I do that as rarely as I can. To hunt, yes, because I need it to feed my family. But if I go to Raimo . . .”

It would require him to embrace the deadly gift that killed his father. “What if he could teach you to control it?” And didn't Raimo say they couldn't wait much longer? What will happen to Oskar if he won't accept what he is?

“My magic can't be controlled, Elli. Trust me, I've tried. I'm not like other wielders.” His tone reflects all his weary efforts. “I just want it to go away.” He chews on his lip for a moment and then slowly lifts his gaze to mine. “And after what happened this morning, I was wondering if you could help me with that.”