The Impostor Queen (37 page)

Raimo gives us all an amused look. “True. And so am I.”

W
e settle ourselves around the old man, hungry for answers, stunned by the understanding that he's older than the temple itself. But somehow I can't bring myself to doubt it, and I can tell by looking at the others that they don't either. It makes a strange kind of sense.

Raimo's fingers slide over the carvings on the surface of the box. “Contrary to what many like to believe, the Kupari are not native to these lands. Our ancestors had only arrived here a few hundred years before I was born, fleeing the murderous warrior tribes of the far north.”

Veikko's eyes go wide. “The Soturi?”

Raimo nods. “I suspect they are the very same, though they have only recently crossed the Motherlake in any number. Our ancestors made the great journey guided by the stars, believing they were safe on this peninsula surrounded by the vast waters. And so they were, for a long time. They discovered the copper that runs through the veins of this land, and here they settled.”

“Did they know the magic came from the copper?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “That was a slow, mysterious process, so gradual that the link was not clear for centuries. Our people were fed by the magic in these lands, growing strong over generations as it seeped into our blood. And then, here and there, it began to manifest. Wielders were born.” He looks over at me. “The first Valtia rose up, so powerful with ice and fire that she was named the queen. She ruled from that fortress on the northwestern shore. It's in ruins now. The platform in the square is made with some of the original stones. But it was within those walls that the first priests were initiated into her service.”

His thumb toys with the clasp of the box. “Wielders walked free, but many of us were eager to learn and serve the magic—and the queen who seemed to have so much of it. But though any wielder can learn to control and refine the power he has”—Raimo's pale gaze flicks to Oskar, and he arches his eyebrow—“wielders have only as much magic as they're born with. Not everyone was satisfied with that, and some went in search of ways to increase the magic inside them.”

“Like shutting themselves inside trunks of solid copper,” I say with a shudder.

Raimo rolls his eyes. “Yes, and other, equally ill-advised methods. Some fasted, some had themselves whipped or put themselves through near hanging or drowning, and some decided to rid themselves of . . .” He clears his throat and makes a snipping motion with his fingers. The men around us quietly cringe, but Raimo cackles. “I always thought it was a stupid practice myself. And none of it worked, except to band together those who'd been through it in a warped kind of brotherhood.” He opens the box. The only thing inside is a torn, creased sheet of parchment. “But some of us turned our eyes to the stars, just as our ancestors had, looking for wisdom, answers, portents of the future. After all, the stars were how we survived the scourge of our enemies and found a refuge where we could live in peace. We created the charts and argued over what they predicted.” He chuckles, a phlegmy, weak sound. “Fun times.”

Oskar sits down next to the fire. He's looking wan and weary, but still so much better than several minutes ago, when I thought I'd lost him. “Fun times . . . three hundred years ago.” He eyes Raimo like he expects him to sprout wings or horns.

Raimo grunts. “The divine portents told of an object that would magnify the magic, and so we created the cuff of Astia for the Valtia as she grew into old age.”

“She actually lived to be old?” I ask.

“Things were not always as they are now,” Raimo says. “And we had no idea at the time that another would rise as soon as she died. We were all so new to the magic.”

I look down at the parchment in the box. It's covered in the same runes the cuff of Astia bears across its thick, coppery surface. “But if the priests had found a way to create something that would magnify magic, and they wanted to increase their own power, then why didn't they make themselves cuffs too? We have more copper in this land than we know what to do with—well, we did, and especially back then—so why didn't every wielder have one?”

Raimo laughs again, his chest rattling enough to make me wince. “Again, you think the Astia is just an ordinary hunk of metal. No wonder you hold yourself in such low regard.” He waves his hand as heat suffuses my cheeks. “Oh, it's a good question, Elli. And the answer is standing right in front of you.”

His gaze finds Sig's. “The cuff of Astia was created using the blood of two Suurin, the only ones to exist before the two of you. They were the start of it all, so devoted to the Valtia that they were willing to die for her.”

Sig grimaces in disgust. “
Die
for her? To create a piece of glorified jewelry? What a waste.” He glances at Oskar, who's staring into the small fire at the center of the stone hearth.

Raimo shrugs. “The Suurin knew their fates. They chose to offer their magic to generations instead of forcing it to be bounded by their
brief
mortal life spans.”

Sig too shifts his gaze to the flames, which flare as if they know their master.

“Their blood is in the red runes,” I say, remembering the crimson shapes that glint on the cuff's copper surface.

“Blood is powerful,” Raimo says. “Magical blood especially. And that discovery is how everything became so horribly twisted.” He scratches his stringy beard. “One of the elders who created the cuff partook of the blood of the Suurin.”

My stomach turns. “You said you found some of your colleagues to be a bit bloodthirsty. You meant exactly that.”

Raimo nods. “As soon as he tasted it, he must have felt the power.” He gives us a pained smile. “It took me a long time to figure out what he was doing, but by that time, he'd brought so many over to his way of thinking. Not everyone could have a cuff of Astia, but all could partake of blood, if they were willing—and if they had a source.”

A tremor goes through Sig, and he takes a few steps back as if he's been shoved by some terrible realization.

“Then the old Valtia died and a new one rose up,” Raimo continues. “That's when we understood that her magic was special. Like the magic of the Suurin, it was so vast that it outlived its vessel. The new Valtia had the same features as our dead queen, the hair, the eyes, the mark. She'd been a normal girl until the Valtia died, and then the magic roared inside of her.” Raimo's dirty fingernails scrape at the carved runes on the box. “She was powerful. But she was just a girl. No match for a conniving old wielder who was willing to cut off his own balls and drink blood just for a chance to have more power. His was the insistent voice in her ear, guiding her every step of the way. She had to isolate herself from family and friends. She had to keep her body pure and untouched, for use as a magical vessel.” Raimo's voice drips with contempt. “And then this blood-drinking elder and those aligned with him convinced her to change the laws. All magic wielders were to be brought to the temple. Like the Valtia, they were meant to serve the Kupari people. It was an easy enough thing for the citizens to believe. After all, suspicion and envy had begun to sprout up between those who could wield and those who couldn't. And the priests piled bronze coins into the hands of any parent who delivered a magical child to the steps of the new, grand Temple on the Rock, easing the path to oppression with promises of a life of discipline and service.”

Sig sounds as unsteady as he looks when he asks, “But that's not what those children got, was it?”

“Oh, they did, in a manner of speaking,” Raimo replies. His blue eyes flicker with rage. “The boys were gelded and the girls were shaved, to steal their identities and control them. They were all trained to trust in the elders. And they were all desperate for favor, because the priests picked their favorites to become apprentices. But the others, the ones whose magic was unbalanced, or who asked too many questions, or who seemed likely to challenge the elders' authority, or who had the great misfortune to be female in a temple filled with scared and selfish old men . . . They were broken. And their blood is what keeps the priests and elders powerful and young. Look at the elders, and then look at me. Who's prettier?” He gives us his hideous grin. “I found a way to prolong my life, but it has its price. Five months of every year, to be precise.”

The ground beneath me spins, and I sit down heavily. “The priests drink the blood of the acolytes. The supposedly cloistered acolytes.” I press my hands to my eyes, thinking of that lovely acolyte with the wide face, how she was going to be cloistered within days, how she's probably dead now.

Sig starts to pace, his fingers straying to his back, rubbing at the scars. His face is contorted with disgust. “I wasn't imagining it,” he mutters, his voice tight, almost like he's about to cry. “It really happened.” He grimaces and scrapes at his shoulder blades. The air gets hotter, and Maarika grabs Freya by the shoulders and leads her away. Aira and Ismael sink to the floor, wilting in the heat.

“Sig,” Raimo says. “Calm yourself.”

“He drank my blood!” Sig roars, his eyes orange with rage. “When I was chained and bleeding from the lash, that elder licked it straight from my skin!”

Oskar curses quietly. Waves of cold roll from him, counteracting the heat that's making sweat slide in shining drops down Sig's body.

“Now you understand the evil,” Raimo says, staring at Oskar. “You see why you have to fight. Thousands of acolytes have been slaughtered, just to keep a few old men alive and in power long past their time.”

“But what about you?” I ask. “If you knew this was happening, why didn't you try to stop it?”

The old man sags, his shoulders hunching. “With every drop of blood, they got stronger. The more powerful the wielder, the more powerful the blood, so no one was safe. The priests began to turn on one another. It was impossible to tell who was an ally and who wanted to drink your blood with his dinner.” Raimo cackles again, but it's pure bitterness. “And a few rose above the rest. They couldn't be stopped—because they were willing to do what no one else was.” His eyes snap to mine. “Why do you think the Valtias rarely live past three decades, when the first Valtia ruled for nearly a century?”

The memory of Sofia's bandaged arms looms in my mind. “The elders drink from her.” I want to scream with rage.

“Not constantly, but even a little of her blood is enough to give them the advantage. You see how they control things,” Raimo says. “How they control
her
. How, as she comes into her own, as she starts to question what she's been taught, as she realizes she has it within her to be a true ruler, maybe to change things for the better, they weaken her enough to take her down.”

I lower my hands to my sides, fighting the urge to sob.
Sofia.
She was meant to live a long, glorious life. All the Valtias were. “Why didn't you tell anyone?”

Raimo's bushy white eyebrows rise. “What makes you think I didn't? I tried to stir the few priests who had not corrupted themselves. I tried to build a coalition that could challenge the elders. But one by one, my allies were converted or killed. And the elders bribed the city council and the citizens until they were so soft and full and happy that they had no reason to question what was happening in the temple. I even went to the Valtia herself.” He rubs at his nose. “She listened. She was horrified. I thought she would help me.” He raises his head. “But then she sickened and died within the week, and the new Valtia trusted in the elders completely.”

“You could have fought them,” barks Sig. “You could have tried.”

“Do you have any idea how strong they are?” Raimo scoffs. “It wasn't my power that had kept me alive to that point. I had to rely on my wits. So instead of committing noble, idiotic suicide by challenging them, I stole the knowledge they needed to take control forever, and I tucked it—and myself—away until the cosmos sent me the allies who could help me save Kupari.” He lifts the parchment from the box. “After all, it was my fault this knowledge existed, seeing as I'm the one who made the prophecy in the first place.”

“What did it say, exactly?” Oskar asks.

Raimo smiles, his entire face crinkling. “Ah, this is the interesting part. It depends on how you interpret it.” He runs his narrow fingertips over the runes on the parchment. “The Kupari used to read the stars. We used to believe.
They
used to guide us—not the elders, and not a naive belief that the Valtia was in charge. Our faith in the stars is in our very language—what do you pray to? What do you say when you're surprised or frustrated? But which of you knows the first thing about them?”

Ismael combs his fingers through his beard. “My grandfather told me a few stories. About the celestial bear that moves the sun through the sky. About a great pack of wolves, commanded by the queen of the night and the king of the stars, that comes from on high to protect us from our enemies.”