by Sarah Fine
Oh, excellent.
The blond woman, Kaisa, offers me a wineskin, and I take several generous swigs. I’ve never been wounded in battle, but I’ve seen other warriors return with gashes that had to be stitched and arrows that had to be removed from rumps and other meaty parts. Usually nonfatal injuries if one can close them and apply medicinal herbs quickly enough. And in every case, the warriors drank heartily before this part. I take another swig for good measure.
Raimo grins. And then he grasps my shoulder, plunges the pliers into my wound, and yanks the arrowhead from my shoulder with a wrenching twist.
That is the last thing I’m aware of for a while, but I awaken soaked to the bone and dripping. The blond woman is standing behind Raimo, looking frightened and holding a bucket. She babbles to the old man, who waves her away while he cackles. I glare at him, but he doesn’t seem intimidated. Either he’s addled or I shouldn’t underestimate him, or both.
I miss Elli. I am not sure why, so I decide it’s because she could understand what I was saying. “Now what,” I snap at the old man as he hobbles forward.
He waves those knobby fingers at my shoulder. I think he’s going to heal me now. I stare at my wound as he holds out his palms. At first it just feels like a tickle, but then there’s a deep throb that I feel in the bone. It goes on and on, pulsing with my heartbeat, and with every one of those beats my skin loses its redness and the wound knits itself back together. Raimo’s eyes are half closed as he wields this magic, but I can tell by the tension in his body that he’s completely alert. Finally, he lowers his hands and gives the scar, all that remains of the injury, a poke.
He cackles again and then jabs his finger at me.
“I have no idea what you’re trying to tell me.”
He grabs my wrists and holds my palms down, then waves them over my legs. Maybe he’s trying to tell me that I can learn to heal too, just like Elli said. I laugh. “No balance, no healing,” I tell him.
He tilts his head. “No,” he says in Krigere.
“Right,” I say.
“No,” he says.
“Ugh.” I rise from my chair and sway for a moment as the wine sloshes about inside me. “Now I want to see that priest.” I draw the knife at my belt.
Raimo eyes it and then nods. He shuffles out of the tent and down an alleyway. I follow him through a debris-strewn passage to some stables, realizing he must have understood at least some of what I said. Inside the first stall is the priest, shackled to the back. He looks soft and terrified, maybe because Veikko and Aira stand just outside the door, looking ready to attack with magic or shovels, whichever is necessary.
I like these two. I give them a grim smile and they look startled but nod in return. Veikko swings the door of the stable stall open for me and Raimo. When the priest sees me, he lets out a little squeal, like a startled pig. “You understand some Krigere, I think,” I say to him. “Speak it to me, and I won’t cut you.” I twirl the knife on my fingers. “Yet.”
“Please,” he screeches. “I was forced to help.” His accent is worse than Kauko’s.
“What is your name?”
He tries to smile, but his mouth is wide and his lips are trembling. “Patu,” he says, flecks of spittle glistening on his chin. “Please don’t hurt.”
“You helped Jaspar kidnap the queen of this city.”
His brow furrows. “Not queen. Impostor.”
“If she is an impostor, why did Jaspar and your master think she was worth kidnapping?”
He squints at me like he’s trying to translate my words in his head. Standing next to me, Raimo wears the same expression.
Finally, Patu shakes his head and gives me an apologetic smile. “I don’t understand.”
I step forward and jab him in the arm with the knife, burying it in his soft flesh. He screams and jerks, and I come away with his blood on my hands. Raimo looks a little shocked but says nothing while the priest yowls.
When his cries subside, I do it again, this time to his other arm.
I stand back. “I am Krigere, Patu. I am not Kupari, not right now. Krigere do not show mercy. Do you understand?”
“Please,” he cries. “I don’t know.”
I stab him again, this time in the thigh. “Stop lying.” Then I point to Raimo. “This wielder can heal. Did you know that? So I’ll tell you what. I’m going to cut you open and let you bleed for a while, and then I’m going to have him heal you. Then we’re going to do that again. And again. Until you tell me why they took her—and where they are.”
Raimo frowns, as if he actually understands what I’m saying. Or maybe it’s the obvious—my bloody knife. But I’m too angry and gone to care about any of that now. Kauko will not take anyone else from me.
When I step toward the priest again, he leaps to the side, trying to stay out of my reach. “I tell you,” he shrieks.
I move back again. On the other side of the door, Veikko and Aira watch, looking nauseated but stalwart. I give Patu a gesture of invitation, swirling the blade of my knife.
“The Krigere chieftain and Elder Kauko want ensure no resistance when we take city.”
I laugh. “What resistance?”
He blinks at me. “The impostor has loyalty of people.”
I chew on my bottom lip. I think she might have mine as well. “And?”
“If she tells people to accept new master, they will listen.”
“She will no,” says Raimo.
I stare at him.
He grins, showing off crooked yellow teeth. “I quick learn,” he says. His accent is better than all the others’, even if his words aren’t. “Elli . . . loyal.”
I believe him. “What will they do to her?”
The priest bows his head. I poke him with the tip of the knife, and he jerks. Raimo speaks to him in Kupari, sounding fatherly. I scowl at him, but he doesn’t seem sorry. “I say Kauko bad,” he says.
“Putting it mildly,” I mutter.
Patu looks back and forth between the two of us and then starts to babble to Raimo. He casts darting glances at me, Veikko, and Aira as he does. Raimo speaks to him firmly, all while looking troubled. Then he gestures at Patu to tell me something.
And, oh, Patu does.
“I am not supposed to tell you,” he says, but nods as I hold up my knife once more. “Kauko will kill Elli. At dawn.”
I stalk out of the stable, rage stoking the fire inside me, my fingers flexing over a knife that’s way too small to inflict the damage I crave. It was so incredibly tempting to kill that priest, to watch his eyes go blank and then carve a kill mark on my arm. It would have been the first kill in ages that I would have claimed. Instead, I told him I’d be back to kill him later, because he deserves to feel like Elli might feel right now. He deserves that terror.
And now I have to find a way to go get her and Lahja back from a dozen magic priests and a thousand Krigere, without freezing myself solid or turning myself to ash. I have infinite magic, they say, but I can’t use it when I need it! The frustration takes over for a moment, and I look up at the sky and shout my fury at the heavens.
When I level my gaze again, I am looking into the eyes of a very startled man. He is holding a pitchfork in one hand and has a shovel strapped to his back, and behind him are several more men, all broad in the shoulder and thick through the body. I drop into my fighting stance, but the man starts to babble and shake his head.
“Livius,” Raimo says, appearing at my shoulder. Livius begins to babble to him, all while I’m standing here, wondering what in heaven is happening.
Raimo puts his hand on my shoulder but lets go when I flinch away. “They want help.”
“I can’t help them. I’m going to get Elli and Lahja.”
“No.” He points at the group of men, who are all crowded into this narrow alley. “They help.”
I look at him and then at Livius, who puffs out his chest and waves the pitchfork. “They wouldn’t last more than a few seconds against even our weakes
t warrior,” I say.
“Elli is they queen,” he says, his brows drawn together. He looks conflicted. “We go with you.”
Veikko and Aira come jogging out of the stable and say something to Raimo. He gives me a small smile. “Them also.” Aira barks out something else and runs by, edging past Livius and his gang of would-be warriors. “She get wielders.”
“I can’t be responsible for these people,” I say. “I need to focus on getting Elli back.”
Raimo’s watery eyes glint in the torchlight. “Elli knows how”—he pulls his hands toward his body—“help.”
She knows how to accept help. Isn’t that nice. “You’re all going to die. I might even be the one who kills you, seeing as I can’t even control my own magic!”
Raimo’s lips curls. “Not about you,” he says, jabbing his finger at Livius and the others. “About them.”
I sigh. “If they want to take the risk, fine. But remind them that it’s their choice.”
Raimo cackles and shakes his head. “With no Elli, no Kupari. With no Elli”—he pokes me in my newly healed shoulder—“no Valtia.” He waves his hand around him. “No city. No nothing.” His eyes narrow. “Not about you.”
He motions for me to head down the alley. I obey, and the men part to allow me through. When I emerge into the square, they follow, and so do others who have gathered around. Not a huge number, possibly fifty. Most carrying tools—hammers, scythes, a long wooden cylinder for flattening dough, of all things. A few have swords that look shiny and untested, and some have bows that they carry awkwardly. It will probably take them at least a minute to nock a single arrow.
I don’t know what Raimo has told them, but they all seem to be looking to me for orders or something. Even though none of them can understand anything I say. One of them, a black-bearded man, comes forward and holds out a short sword to me, hilt first.
I accept it, and look out across the square, taking in their frightened eyes and set jaws.
They’re terrified but still willing to go after their queen.
My eyes sting. This is what warriors are made of in their core. We have fear, but we layer other things on top of it. Ferocity. Loyalty. Blood and victory. I was taught that by Einar and Jes, my Krigere fathers. I saw Thyra do it again and again. And perhaps, if I can remind her tribe of this, even now that she’s gone, they will help me fulfill her vision.
I will probably die today, and so will they. So will these people. This will not be a walk to victory, though I will try with everything inside me to turn the tide in my direction. But perhaps I can salvage something else from it, something that will allow me to find Thyra on the eternal battlefield and see her arms open and waiting.
Maybe I can save her people—and mine.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Elli
Lahja nods off in the crook of my arm, and for a long time, I sit and stare at the fire. I would do anything for this little girl. I don’t know if it’s instinct or ancient bond or simple, unquestionable love. And I don’t think it matters. If I must die for her, I will. Ansa would too. I know this with the same certainty that translates the strange language of my own heart.
But I would prefer it’s just me. Ansa is the true queen, and I am tired. If I know Lahja is safe, I can go.
Kauko understands the bond between Valtia and Saadella well, and he intends to use it against all of us. He’ll use Ansa’s magic and my power to chase the Krigere from our land. My first thought was that would be a good thing. But I must wonder—if they were sent away, would we lose our Valtia, too? She is not fully ours, not at all. She never will be. She loves her tribe, as she calls them, and I can read her loyalty to Thyra in the fierce flash of her blue eyes. If I were to help Kauko, it would destroy any hope of harnessing the magic Ansa was chosen to carry—and my people need it to rebuild the city.
It means I must trust her, but it is not easy. If the Krigere stay, will they treat us as conquered, or can we live in peace? Our city is home to over ten thousand, meaning we outnumber the barbarians, but we aren’t fighters like they are. Can we work together as one people? We don’t even speak the same language! I squeeze my eyes shut, overwhelmed as I consider all the misunderstandings and problems that would come to us if we had to welcome these people into our land, even the outlands.
I don’t have a choice, though. If Kauko were to kill Ansa and use her magic to chase away the Krigere, he would control Lahja as well. The Valtia would go back to being a puppet. The people would go back to being sheep. And the wielders would go back to being hunted and used. All to serve one greedy man who has kept himself alive by draining life from others.
I glance toward the canopy beneath which Kauko sleeps, guarded by his priests, who cling to him because they have never known any other true power. I remember how I believed in the elders once, how I danced right up to the edge of my own execution because of that trust.
Then, I would have died for nothing. Or at best for the wrong reasons. Now is different.
Two priests guard me tonight. They sit on the other side of the fire, trying not to nod off. Yves is older, a priest who wields both fire and ice. Now that he hasn’t shaved in weeks, his hair and beard are revealed to be white as frost. Fair-haired, with golden eyelashes, Osten was an apprentice before the battle at the temple, but I suppose he and Noam have been promoted, seeing as they’re two of only a dozen surviving traitors.
The Krigere are mostly sleeping now, leaving the priests to guard me. I am hardly threatening. At least, not in any way they can understand. The two who were watching me earlier are lying next to a banked fire perhaps twenty feet away. Close enough for their snores to be heard over the whisper of the Motherlake and the hiss and pop of the dying flames. Jaspar disappeared into the darkness at least an hour ago. No one else seems to heed my presence at all.
Perhaps I have a chance, but only if I can get away from Osten and Yves—with Lahja. She’s the key to all of this, because as long as they have her, they have the path to victory. I have to try. I am not helpless. I have abilities these priests don’t truly understand. And after what I experienced with Oskar and Sig in the white plaza, I have reason to suspect my power is growing.
I was still inches away from them, but I was able to grab their magic all the same. Was that just their willingness to offer it, or was that something I could do to any wielder, if I were strong enough? I turn my palm to the sky, the back of the hand resting on my knee, my fingers stretching toward Osten, who is less experienced than Yves. He’s ten feet away, his head bowed beneath his hood. Staring at his chest, I focus on the fire magic inside him.
I don’t feel anything.
I grit my teeth and try again. Raimo told me—I’m an Astia with a will, and surely that is worth something. I’m not a hunk of metal, meant to conduct, amplify, absorb. . . . I’m a living, breathing force, and right now, I need the magic that lies in the wielder across from me.
My fingertips tingle with heat as the flames between us grow and dance, giving off thick smoke that billows gray into the night sky. I frown. Was that Osten’s magic or the wind?
The fire subsides, and my fingertips are still tingling, hard, hot prickles that ride along my skin. There is magic here—this is not my imagination. But I don’t know if I can actually pull it from him. I try, gathering those tingling prickles close, concentrating on drawing them along my fingers, onto my palm, up my arm. A gasp escapes me as I feel it, thin and faint, like a silken thread, stretching slowly to obey me.
Until it snaps. I flinch—and so does Osten. He sits up with a jerk, rubbing at his chest and wincing. I avert my eyes as he raises his head. My heart is hammering and I’m fighting a smile. Even though we’re several feet away from each other, I did something to him. Then my hope sinks. . . . I did something to him, but something isn’t enough, and I have no time to figure it all out. I miss Raimo more than I ever thought I would.
I rub Lahja’s arm, needing to wake her. When dawn breaks, darkness will no longer be o
ur ally, and I so badly need one now. As the little girl stirs, I murmur to her, letting her know she’s with me. She whimpers. “I had a bad dream.”
I kiss her forehead. “I’m sorry. I wish I could tuck you into your soft bed in the temple.” I bend low and murmur in her ear. “We have to try to get away, Lahja.”
She stiffens, and then she nods. I hold her head to my chest for a long moment before standing up. “Osten,” I say. “Lahja and I must relieve ourselves.”
Osten, still awake after his magic snapped back on him, looks over at Yves as if he wishes the older man could tell him what to do. But Yves has his head back and his mouth open, and his snores are deep and slow.
I shift my weight and frown. “Can we go, please?”
In the light of the fire, Osten’s cheeks are pink as roses. “I have to take you.”
I arch an eyebrow. “If you must.”
Rubbing his face, Osten hefts himself up to his feet and stretches. As his hands flop back to his sides, he looks around, then grabs a thick stick the length of his own arm. He dips the blackened end of it into our fire and draws it out when the flames take hold.
I tug on Lahja’s hand and tread a path between two dunes while Osten walks along behind us. He looks irritable and tired, but not nervous. This is very good.
“Surely we’re far enough from camp to protect your modesty,” he says peevishly when I march past another dune. The camp is well out of sight and even the fires are concealed. In darkness, the shore is a wonderful place to hide, because the only way to be seen is by boats on the Motherlake.
I come to a halt with Lahja pressed to my side. “How far must we go to protect our modesty from you?”
He rolls his eyes. “I have no interest in looking at your bodies.”
“Wouldn’t a person who was interested say the same?”
He cringes and I almost laugh, but I don’t want to goad him. So I stand here, staring, looking righteous and suspicious.
Lahja’s little hand slips into mine while she glares at him. “I don’t want you to look at my bum!”