by Sarah Fine
We limp into the cavern, where we are confronted by heartbreak. Ruuben is holding one of the burned bodies in his arms, and I don’t need to see it to know it must be Senja. He bends over her, his body convulsing with sobs, while Aira tries to comfort Kukka, who is screaming for her mother.
“Senja and Josefina tried to protect us,” Maarika says, brusquely wiping tears from her cheeks. “Those priests showed no mercy.”
Icy waves of air roll off Oskar as we walk by the scene. I suspect Harri’s death is one that Oskar doesn’t regret, and I feel the same. The pickpocket brought this fight to our threshold.
But so did I.
It hits me like a bolt of lightning, and unlike magic, I can’t absorb it easily. Instead it sears itself along my bones, leaving nothing but scorched earth behind. If I had listened to the rumors, if I had paid attention instead of letting myself fall into this fantasy—of family, of belonging and normalcy, of Oskar, his needs, his body and his mouth, carved doves and warm gloves and granite eyes that always leave me guessing—I would have left days ago. Because I didn’t, two women are dead, and those who love them grieve. A little girl has lost her mother. And Oskar . . . he has killed against his will, been drawn into a fight he didn’t want, and now he’s walking through the dim, chilly cavern, his back covered in blisters from both the heat and the cold.
As families are reunited, children clinging to their fathers’ knees, women hugging their men, everyone cutting glances toward the ice tomb that blocks most of the cave entrance, Oskar, Freya, Maarika, and I make for our shelter. Jouni gives me a curious sidelong glance as he walks out of the cavern. Ismael and a few other fire wielders are already out there, palms out, their heat eating away at the frozen catastrophe so the bodies can be disposed of.
Perhaps we’re all thinking the same thing: This is only the beginning. More will come. More weapons, more magic, more rage. There will be no winter respite now.
And it’s my fault.
When we duck into the shelter, Freya immediately goes into her mother’s room and comes out with Maarika’s old boots—the ones that I used to wear before I had my own—some stockings, and a worn gown, plain and brown with holes at the elbows. While Maarika begins to cut off Oskar’s tunic, parts of which are clinging to his damaged skin, I slip into one of the back chambers to change. With a lump in my throat, I slide the delicate carved dove from under my pillow and put it in my pocket.
By the time I emerge, Maarika has her boots on, and Freya is packing pelts into a sturdy basket for her to take. “There’s a farmstead only a quarter mile south of here,” Maarika says. “I can trade for the herbs I need to treat his burns.”
“Is there no way to find Raimo?” I ask. “These wounds were caused by magic, and it seems like magic would be the best medicine. Doesn’t anyone know where he’s gone?”
Oskar is lying on his stomach on a bearskin pallet next to the fire. “We w-won’t see him until the s-spring thaw.” And that’s two months away, at least.
Freya grimaces as she hears his shivery stammering. “I’ll go get more fuel for the fire,” she says, grabbing another basket and stomping out of the shelter.
Maarika’s eyes meet mine. “Take care of him.”
I don’t look away. “You know I will.”
She gives me a quick nod and leaves. I wait for Oskar to acknowledge me, but he doesn’t. As my thoughts duel, I hike down to the stream to fetch a pail of water and carry it slowly back to the shelter, my fingers aching. I slip back inside to find my ice wielder where I left him, blistered and shivering. I set the pail next to the fire to warm the water inside, then sink to my knees next to Oskar. His forehead is pressed to the backs of his hands, the muscles of his back flexing as he tries to cope with the pain. “What would feel better, cold or hot?” I ask him, dunking a scrap of wool in the cool water.
“I don’t know,” he whispers. “Both. Neither.” The tight, pained sound of his voice makes me ache.
“And this?” I lay my palm against an undamaged stretch of skin on his shoulder, and he tenses, perhaps feeling the ice magic leaving him.
“S-stop it,” he says, his teeth chattering.
“You need it.” And I need it just as badly.
His body shudders, sending vibrations up my arm. Suddenly the cold flowing into me recedes like a tide, and the chill returns to his skin, leaving me feeling hollow. The room spins, and I wobble unsteadily. “What are you doing?” I whisper.
“Get your hands off me.”
I obey him, and as soon as my hands fall away, so does the dizziness. “What would you have me do, Oskar?”
He lets out a choked, humorless laugh. “Again, I don’t know.” He turns his head, and I lie on my side so we’re face-to-face, like we’ve lain every night for the last two weeks. “But I understand now,” he says quietly. “I didn’t, this morning on the rocks.”
Strands of his dark hair slide across his face, and I’m dying to smooth them back. “Why won’t you let me touch you?”
“Because I understand.” His eyes close, and mine burn. He leans his forehead against the back of his hands again, hiding his face. “Get s-some rest. You must be aching.”
My fists clench. “You can’t expect me to sit here and watch you hurting.”
“You don’t have to take c-care of me. You’ve done enough of that.”
Pressing my lips together to keep from screaming, I look up at the ceiling of the cave, stretching its rocky claws down toward us, hiding so many secrets in its dark shadows. I can’t find a path back to the way we were a few days ago, before I woke up in his arms. My doubt about how he felt about me made me push him far away, and now he seems determined to stay there.
I stare at his long, shivering, sweating body. I’ve siphoned off so much cold in recent weeks, but the magic just grows to fill the space. My touch offers temporary relief, but not the permanent solution that Oskar craved. And now he’s denying himself even that, out of . . . I have no idea. Honor. Pride. Sheer stubbornness.
Or maybe he does blame me. And maybe he should.
“When the priests and constables don’t return to the city tonight,” I tell him, “the others will know something has gone wrong.”
Oskar doesn’t speak, but his shoulders and arms look like chiseled granite.
“What will you do when the rest of them come here? Because believe me—their magic is powerful. I know you care about every person in these caves.” I saw the look on his face as he stood between them and the priests.
“We’ll leave,” he says wearily. “Tomorrow morning. There’s an abandoned mine about two miles to the northeast.”
But the priests will chase. And they’ll find. And they’ll kill. The certainty swells inside me. “Then you’d better let me do what I can to help you rest and heal. You’ll need your strength if you’re going to protect them.”
“If you think I’m going to let you touch me after everything that’s happened—”
Maarika’s footsteps scrape across the loose stones outside the shelter, and I scoot away from Oskar with ice encasing my heart. Part of me wants to force him to look at me, and part of me is glad that I can’t see his eyes. It makes what I must do that much easier.
“How is he?” Maarika asks, setting her basket of herbs down. She’s panting and windblown—something tells me she ran the whole way.
“Stubborn,” I say, and she laughs. I smooth my palms against my cheeks as I rise to my feet. It’s not easy, letting go, but the alternative would be much worse. “Did you get what you needed for his back?”
Maarika nods. “Now we just need Freya to show up with our kindling.”
And that’s my chance. “I can go find her.”
“If you wish. She’s probably picked up more than she can carry.”
She takes off her cloak and offers it to me, but I push it away. “It’s all right. I won’t be gone long.” I step back, my heart hammering. I want to thank her for her quiet kindness and patience. I want to beg Oskar to
forgive me for bringing death and killing into his life again, but it’s too late for all that. I allow myself one more look at him, remembering how only yesterday I was tucked against his body, happier than I’ve ever been. “Good-bye,” I whisper.
My face crumples as I turn away and stride toward the entrance to the cavern. Every step is an act of will. I ignore the fearful whispers as I walk by the row of shelters. None of that matters now, because this isn’t my home anymore. These people will be safer because I’m not here.
I wrap my arms around myself and walk into the open air. My boots slosh in the water melted from the enormous block of ice. The fire wielders are still working on it, and they haven’t yet freed a single body. Harri’s foot is sticking out of the top, though, and one of the constables’ hands is poking from the side, gray and still. The wielders give me uneasy looks as I shuffle past. Clearly everyone has heard, but they all look too scared to ask me—am I the mad Valtia?
They have no reason to fear me; they’ll never see me again. I hike the narrow trail that winds upward toward the marshlands. Several cave dwellers pass me, leading saddled horses—the constables and priests must have left behind nearly two dozen well-fed mounts. I cross my arms over my chest and keep my eyes downcast, praying that Freya hasn’t chosen these minutes to return. I don’t think I could hide the pain of another good-bye. As I emerge from the cavern trail, a frigid wind tears the kerchief from my coppery locks, which twist in the gusts. I shiver—the winter is descending once more, and I have miles to go before I reach the city. But after weeks of getting accustomed to this kind of walking, I think I can probably reach the gates by nightfall.
Perhaps a quarter mile ahead of me is the long strip of woods where Oskar found me, though the actual spot must be miles to the north. I smile as I think of the first time I saw him, how scared I was of this bearlike boy, how quickly that fear turned to admiration and then slowly to affection. The wind gusts again, pushing me forward, and I turn away from the woods to take the path that connects to the road leading to the city. Freed from the snow by this morning’s unnatural thaw, the dry marsh grass rustles and hisses. The tree branches of the forest scrape together. It almost sounds like they’re screaming.
It almost sounds like they’re screaming my name.
Behind me, there’s a rumble of thunder. Another blast of breeze, but this one is warm. And the trees are still screaming through the roar of the wind. I look to my left and catch a flash of movement amid the tree trunks.
The thunder becomes the clomp-clomp of hooves. I gasp and whirl around. Two men on horseback are racing toward me. I stumble back as one of them raises a club—the kind carried by the constables. I turn to run, but my head explodes with agony and I fall. My vision blurs as I open my eyes to a cloaked figure striding toward me. He tosses his hood back to reveal white-blond hair and dark-brown eyes.
“Is this her, Jouni?” Sig asks, leaning over me. I try to scoot away from him, but my head throbs and it’s all I can do not to retch. Something sticky and warm drips into my ear.
“That’s her,” Jouni says in his deep, buzzing voice.
Sig grins, and his eyes flicker with the flames of war. “Excellent.”
CHAPTER 18
I slap at Sig’s face as he reaches for me, but Jouni dismounts his horse and coils a thick hemp rope around my body, pinning my arms to my sides. Sig swings himself into the saddle, and Jouni bundles me up to join him. I kick and claw, but I’m so dizzy that I can barely hold my head up.
“I’m sorry I had to hit you,” Sig says, his breath hot against my ear as he anchors his arm around my waist. “I needed to catch you by surprise, seeing as I’m not eager to have my skin burned off.” I feel a poke at my side and catch the flash of a blade in the sunlight. “But if I feel you trying, I’ll be ready.”
With that, he spurs the horse into motion, and it’s all I can do not to vomit. My brain rattles in my skull and my stomach roils. Hooves pound the trail below me. Sig’s arm is a bronze bar against my middle, and his chest is like a furnace against my back. Wind smacks at my face and tangles my hair. I don’t know which direction they’re taking me or how long we’ve been riding or what time it is, but I wish I could close my eyes and make it all stop.
Finally, I’m jerked from my stupor as Sig reins in his horse. Blinking in the midday sun, I catch glimpses of sandy dunes and blue sky as he pulls me from the saddle. My head lolls on his shoulder. He carries me along a short path between two dunes, to an open patch of sand. There’s no snow here, and I wonder if the thaw caused that, or if Sig himself melted it all away. A large fire pit occupies the center of the space, and it’s surrounded by sleeping pallets and cooking implements. A young woman, her long, brown hair knotted at the back of her head, is roasting what looks like a hare on a spit. She stares as Sig plops me down on a pallet. I turn my face to the wool blanket, fighting the nausea that bubbles inside me.
“Where are the others?” Jouni asks.
“I sent them into the city last night to fetch some supplies and information,” says Sig, squatting next to me. “Yesterday morning I got word that the priests opened up the temple, and I wanted to know what was happening.” He pats my shoulder. “But maybe now we know. It didn’t even occur to me when I saw you the first time. Elli, wasn’t it?”
“I’m not the Valtia,” I say with a moan.
“I told you she’d say that,” says Jouni. “But I saw the mark myself. Take a look if you doubt me.”
Sig chuckles. “I doubt everyone.” His hand slides down my hip but pauses over my pocket, and his fingers dip inside. He comes up holding my carved wooden dove. His gaze traces its wings as my fingers flex with want—it’s all I have left of Oskar. “Oh, my,” he says in a low voice. “I haven’t seen one of these in a long time.”
His eyes meet mine, full of speculation and a darkness that I don’t know how to translate. The bird looks so fragile, held between his pale fingers. I drink in the sight of it, expecting him to snap its wings off and toss it into the fire. Then, slowly, he slips it back into my pocket. I have no time to feel relief, though, because he pulls up the bottom of my gown. “Which leg?”
“Don’t touch me,” I whisper.
“Left,” Jouni says.
Sig’s warm fingers are on my thigh, and I clench my fists, wishing I could stop him as he slides my stocking down, past my knee, along my calf, and reveals the blood-flame mark. He whistles and pulls my skirt over my legs again. “How did you manage to hide yourself for so long?”
“Because I’m not the Valtia. I know I have all the marks, but I swear I’m not her.”
Sig purses his lips. “Then how did you manage to encase so many men, a fair number of them magic wielders, in a giant block of ice?”
Jouni laughs. “And then she got Oskar of all people to take the blame.”
Sig’s head jerks up. “What?”
Jouni’s smile evaporates. “Oskar. He was with her. Bragged that he—”
“Oskar would never brag, especially about something like that,” Sig snaps. “You didn’t mention he was there.”
Jouni slides his cap off his disheveled reddish-blond hair. “I didn’t think it was important. You told me he had ice magic, but I’ve never seen him do anything with it.”
“That’s not because he can’t.” Sig plops down in the sand next to my pallet, frowning. “He was protecting her, Jouni, either because of who she is—or who she’s not. I need to know which it is, though.” His eyes flare with light, and he shoves off the ground. His arms hanging loose at his sides, he takes a few steps back and throws off his cloak. Beneath it, he wears no tunic, only trousers and boots. He spreads his fingers, and twin spheres of flame burst from nothing and hover a few inches from his palms.
I wrench myself up to sitting, squeezing my eyes shut against the pain. My arms are still bound at my sides. “Just let me go,” I plead.
“Free yourself, Valtia,” he says. Then he hurls one of the spheres at me. It hits me in the ches
t, setting the hemp ropes aflame. They fall away from me as he hurls the second ball of fire right at my face. I feel the kiss of its warmth on my cheeks, a polite greeting, before the fire disappears. Sig’s brow furrows and light flickers in his dark pupils.
Jouni curses and steps back, just like Freya did when Sig heated the air in the cavern. Sig himself is sweating now, cooking in the fire of his own making. A shining drop slides down his chiseled face as he watches me sitting before him, feeling nothing at all.
“Tuuli,” he finally barks.
The brown-haired woman lays her spitted hare on a stack of flat stones. “You want ice?” When he nods, she grins. “As you wish.”
She comes closer, regarding me with her dark-gray eyes. I smile wearily at her. I’m so tired of people shooting their ice and fire at me, and it’s not like I can pretend anymore—it’s impossible to fake serious burns and ugly frostbite, and I’m in too much real pain to put on an act. Tuuli’s hands rise from her sides, her fingers shiny with grease. Her lips are pressed together and her arms shake with the force of her efforts to wield the magic inside her.
Perhaps she’s trying to freeze my blood. The air around me cools, but I cannot help the thought—she is nothing compared to Oskar. Of course, the faintest reminder of him makes my throat tight. Will he be relieved when he discovers I’m gone?
Tuuli’s chin trembles, and she shivers within the frost of her magic. Even Sig has goose bumps on his pale chest now. But me? The only thing that’s left me cold is knowing that Oskar might be glad to be rid of me.
“You look chilled,” I say to the magic wielders in front of me.
Tuuli lets out a frustrated breath, and her arms drop to her sides. She gives Sig a nervous look. “I—I could try to—”