The Impostor Queen (The Impostor Queen, #1)(28)

“Never doubt,” I murmur.

Stars, who am I kidding? I am made of doubt right now.

I lean against the rough stone wall and have to bite back an agonized cry as my flayed back touches the unforgiving surface. Mim did a good job with my bandages, and she must have smeared a numbing cream on them, because the pain has been manageable. But she’ll need to dress them again tonight. I’m not sure I want to know what my skin looks like. It used to be smooth, and now . . . now it is probably forever scarred. Perhaps when I find my magic, I’ll be able to heal myself. It’s a comforting thought.

The sky gets lighter, and my stomach burbles, first happily, and then hungrily. That bread and cheese was the only thing I’d eaten since before the ruined harvest ceremony. I pray for the sun to rise a little faster, because it will signal Mim’s arrival with breakfast. She never fails me. I bet she’ll bring something special, just to make me feel better.

Finally, the sun tears itself loose from the horizon and begins its arcing ascent. Orange and pink fingers of light stretch across the sky, and the city wakes. The plodding of horses’ hooves and shouts of peddlers hawking their wares begin to fill the air, first only a few, and then dozens. Bells clang as the fishermen enter the harbor. The blacksmith’s strikes on his forge are shrill stabs of sound. The breeze brings me the scent of meat pies and baking bread and garlicky, spicy sausages. I think I could eat one as big as my own arm.

I watch the space between two stout buildings at the northern end of the square, the road leading north to the gates of the temple grounds. The sun has risen above the city council’s meeting hall now, and my heart beats faster. She said she’d be with me before I started to miss her, so she needs to come soon.

And then there she is. Her hooded figure strides down the road, a covered basket in her hands. I push myself to my feet but remain against the wall. I don’t want to be seen. Mim emerges from between the two buildings, and I stare greedily at her basket, wondering what she’s packed. I also wonder what her family will think of me when we arrive. Will they understand what’s happening and sympathize? Surely she wouldn’t take me to them if she thought they’d alert the elders.

Instead of coming toward me, Mim turns left and walks across the square. She must not have seen me—even though I’m waiting right where she told me to. Pulling my hood low to make sure it covers my face, I step onto the road and cross the square, weaving my way around peddlers’ carts and maids and houseboys out to make morning purchases for their households. Mim disappears into the bakery, and I chuckle. If there was nothing special in the temple kitchens, then she’s probably getting something for me there. I’m almost skipping as I near the bakery. The scent of lard and yeast is making me dizzy.

She comes out of the bakery, her basket now laden with buns, her hood thrown back.

Which is when I realize: she’s not Mim. That’s Irina, one of the scullery maids who mops the corridors and minds the fireplaces. I turn away quickly as she strides down the main road to the east, probably going home to her family for a few days off.

My hand covers my stomach as that hollow feeling inside me grows. It’s midmorning now. She said she’d come for me at sunrise. Where is she?

I return to my little spot next to the blacksmith’s shop. To keep myself from squinting endlessly down the road to the temple, I watch the people in the square. They’re wearing their light fall cloaks, which is the heaviest garb they ever have to don within the city walls, because the Valtia keeps us warm even in the depths of winter. Their cheeks are full and their limbs are strong, because the Valtia ensures the gardens and farmland are protected from too much heat in the summer. They wear adornments, bangles and tunics of all colors, because the Kupari are wealthy and can trade our bountiful food for goods from the southern city-states of Korkea, Ylpeys, and, until a few months ago, Vasterut. All these people going about their lives, trusting that the Valtia and her magic wielders within the Temple on the Rock are protecting them. It is an intimate and precious trust, as some of the citizens have brothers and nieces and sons and cousins who were discovered to be wielders as children and welcomed within the temple’s white walls. It is a great honor for any family to have produced a magical child.

What will happen to these well-dressed, straight-backed citizens if they don’t have a Valtia to keep them warm and protect them from raiders and bandits? Do they know the girl who failed them is in their midst? Some of them look my way, and each time, I tense up, expecting their eyes to widen with recognition.

But their gazes slide away. I don’t hold their attention. They don’t know me, not without my bloodred gown and my makeup—the white face, the crimson lips, the copper swirls.

As the sun reaches its peak, sweat slides in drops down the back of my dress, stinging my wounds like a hundred angry hornets. But if I pull my hood away and reveal my hair, will the people know me then?

Again, no. When I really pay attention, I realize that one in every five or so has hair that glints with reddish gold, that shines beneath the sun. Many of our citizens also have pale-blue eyes.

I’m not such a rarity after all.

I ponder that as I wait. As I wait and wait and wait. Finally, I’m drenched from the combined heat of the forge and the sun and my frustration, and I move across the square to sit closer to the northern road.

I’m still there as the fishing boats return in the afternoon, as the sky clouds over and the day turns gray.