The Impostor Queen (The Impostor Queen, #1)(84)

Before I can reach her, Oskar falls, his cloak billowing smoke, his arm outstretched, his fingers spread wide only inches from the flames. His eyes are filled with desperation and fear. I expect the ice and cold to flow from him, but instead, the fire peels itself off Maarika’s burning skirt and jumps onto his palm. His fist closes around it, and he hurls it toward the magic wielders. Their eyes go round as it roars toward them, growing larger the farther it travels. Usko tackles Sig to move him out of the way while the others dive to the ground. It hits the steep rock wall of the drop-off and explodes into nothing.

Maarika falls backward and Aira catches her, patting frantically at her blackened gown. Her legs are pink with heat, but she’s not burned. My heart thrumming, I turn back to the wielders. They’re still on the ground. And their eyes are on Oskar, shock on their faces.

He’s facedown. A choked sound comes from me as I sink down beside him. “Oskar. Oskar.” His skin is frigid. I try to draw the cold away, but it’s like a solid block of ice beneath my palm. I can’t siphon it off.

“He threw the fire,” Sig says quietly, staring at Oskar’s body.

“Because he didn’t want to hurt Maarika,” snarls Veikko, blade-sharp icicles growing along the rock wall beside him, manifesting his rage. If Oskar had used his ice, he could have frozen his own mother solid. Just like he did to his father.

“But I thought Oskar couldn’t wield fire,” I say in a ragged voice, trying to turn him over. Veikko rushes over to help, and we roll Oskar onto his back. He’s stiff and cold and oh stars no . . .

“He can’t wield fire,” a creaky voice calls out. Raimo hobbles out of the back of the cavern, his white hair tufty around his head, a walking stick clutched in his knobby hand, a wooden box tucked under his scrawny arm. “And that’s why he’s dying.”

Ismael, who’s bent over Maarika and his daughter, so close that his bushy black beard is snagging on Aira’s dark hair, straightens up. “Raimo,” he says, surprised. “It’s still winter.”

Raimo jabs his walking stick at Sig. “Someone woke me up with a thaw.”

“That wasn’t me,” Sig mumbles.

“It was priests and constables here to get her,” says Aira, pointing at me.

Raimo’s pale eyes meet mine. “Elli, what have you been up to?”

“Oskar needs help.” Those are the only words that will come. My hand is on Oskar’s cheek, but nothing’s happening. I’m having trouble breathing as I stare at his unmoving chest.

Raimo’s gaze flicks to Oskar, but then he turns to Sig. “Are you finished wreaking havoc?”

Sig gets to his feet and lifts his chin defiantly. “I came to get Elli. I’m going to the temple and taking her with me. There is no Valtia, and the city is in chaos. Our time is now. We’re going to—”

“I’m not going anywhere, you arse!” I shout, my voice cracking. “You—you—” If I had magic, I would freeze Sig solid and then shatter him.

Raimo’s hand closes over my wrist. “We are going to the temple,” he says quietly. “You must. But first we’re going to give our Ice Suurin back his spark, before his heart stops forever.”

“His spark?”

He gives me an impatient look. “Oskar can’t control fire. He was never meant to wield it, but he was powerful enough and desperate enough to call to it all the same. When he threw it, though, he sent his only spark of fire magic along with it.”

I close my eyes, seeing that ball of fire grow as it raged toward the wielders, so big that all they could do was dodge. “And now he’s freezing inside.”

“Succinctly put.” Raimo beckons to Veikko, Ismael, and some of the other men who are lingering nearby. “Carry him inside and lay him by the fire.”

Five of them gather around Oskar’s body. His head hangs as they lift him from the ground and lug him to the large fire in the center of the main cavern. Raimo points at the wielders who came with Sig. “You lot can stay outside. Come in and I’ll destroy you.” He mutters something like “obnoxious little scamps” under his breath, then points a shaking finger at Sig. “And you come with me. You owe Maarika an apology and Oskar his life.”

Sig stays where he is. The temperature drops suddenly, and he shivers. Raimo stares at the fire wielder as cold bleeds from the old man’s scrawny frame. “You can’t do this without your fellow Suurin,” he says in a low voice. “I told you that.”

“Oskar’s made it clear he has no interest in being my ally.”

“That doesn’t change a thing.”

Sig blinks at him. And then he obeys Raimo, trailing us as we rush to Oskar’s side. He’s been laid on a bundle of furs. Veikko is piling flat stones nearby, and Aira and Ismael are heating them with their fire magic. Maarika is sitting by her son, arranging the hot stones around his shoulders, the only protection she can offer. Her hair hangs in sweaty tendrils around her face, half her dress is burned away, and her skin is streaked with ash, but she seems aware of nothing around her—except for Oskar, her hope, her life.

Freya is crouched by his head, stroking her brother’s long, dark hair away from his face. Her green eyes narrow when she sees Sig. “I thought you cared about us,” she hisses.