The Impostor Queen (The Impostor Queen, #1)(68)
Maarika looks me over, her brows rising. “What happened to her dress and boots?”
Oskar inclines his head toward the frozen priests. “They were burned off as the priests attacked. I used my magic to do what I could to protect her.”
Maarika looks at me, and then up at her son. “Then I’m glad you froze them,” she says, her jaw set. “They deserved that and more.”
She holds her arm out, and my eyes sting as I step forward and it settles around my shoulders, pulling me close. Her other arm is around Oskar’s waist. Then Freya appears on my other side, her skinny fingers burrowing into the holes in the cloak. I don’t feel worthy of this, but there’s no way I’ll refuse it. Maarika was right—they are my family now, mine to love and protect. Their acceptance warms my body in a way fire magic never could.
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.”