The Impostor Queen (The Impostor Queen, #1)(87)

Oskar sits down next to the fire. He’s looking wan and weary, but still so much better than several minutes ago, when I thought I’d lost him. “Fun times . . . three hundred years ago.” He eyes Raimo like he expects him to sprout wings or horns.

Raimo grunts. “The divine portents told of an object that would magnify the magic, and so we created the cuff of Astia for the Valtia as she grew into old age.”

“She actually lived to be old?” I ask.

“Things were not always as they are now,” Raimo says. “And we had no idea at the time that another would rise as soon as she died. We were all so new to the magic.”

I look down at the parchment in the box. It’s covered in the same runes the cuff of Astia bears across its thick, coppery surface. “But if the priests had found a way to create something that would magnify magic, and they wanted to increase their own power, then why didn’t they make themselves cuffs too? We have more copper in this land than we know what to do with—well, we did, and especially back then—so why didn’t every wielder have one?”

Raimo laughs again, his chest rattling enough to make me wince. “Again, you think the Astia is just an ordinary hunk of metal. No wonder you hold yourself in such low regard.” He waves his hand as heat suffuses my cheeks. “Oh, it’s a good question, Elli. And the answer is standing right in front of you.”

His gaze finds Sig’s. “The cuff of Astia was created using the blood of two Suurin, the only ones to exist before the two of you. They were the start of it all, so devoted to the Valtia that they were willing to die for her.”

Sig grimaces in disgust. “Die for her? To create a piece of glorified jewelry? What a waste.” He glances at Oskar, who’s staring into the small fire at the center of the stone hearth.

Raimo shrugs. “The Suurin knew their fates. They chose to offer their magic to generations instead of forcing it to be bounded by their brief mortal life spans.”

Sig too shifts his gaze to the flames, which flare as if they know their master.

“Their blood is in the red runes,” I say, remembering the crimson shapes that glint on the cuff’s copper surface.

“Blood is powerful,” Raimo says. “Magical blood especially. And that discovery is how everything became so horribly twisted.” He scratches his stringy beard. “One of the elders who created the cuff partook of the blood of the Suurin.”

My stomach turns. “You said you found some of your colleagues to be a bit bloodthirsty. You meant exactly that.”

Raimo nods. “As soon as he tasted it, he must have felt the power.” He gives us a pained smile. “It took me a long time to figure out what he was doing, but by that time, he’d brought so many over to his way of thinking. Not everyone could have a cuff of Astia, but all could partake of blood, if they were willing—and if they had a source.”

A tremor goes through Sig, and he takes a few steps back as if he’s been shoved by some terrible realization.

“Then the old Valtia died and a new one rose up,” Raimo continues. “That’s when we understood that her magic was special. Like the magic of the Suurin, it was so vast that it outlived its vessel. The new Valtia had the same features as our dead queen, the hair, the eyes, the mark. She’d been a normal girl until the Valtia died, and then the magic roared inside of her.” Raimo’s dirty fingernails scrape at the carved runes on the box. “She was powerful. But she was just a girl. No match for a conniving old wielder who was willing to cut off his own balls and drink blood just for a chance to have more power. His was the insistent voice in her ear, guiding her every step of the way. She had to isolate herself from family and friends. She had to keep her body pure and untouched, for use as a magical vessel.” Raimo’s voice drips with contempt. “And then this blood-drinking elder and those aligned with him convinced her to change the laws. All magic wielders were to be brought to the temple. Like the Valtia, they were meant to serve the Kupari people. It was an easy enough thing for the citizens to believe. After all, suspicion and envy had begun to sprout up between those who could wield and those who couldn’t. And the priests piled bronze coins into the hands of any parent who delivered a magical child to the steps of the new, grand Temple on the Rock, easing the path to oppression with promises of a life of discipline and service.”

Sig sounds as unsteady as he looks when he asks, “But that’s not what those children got, was it?”

“Oh, they did, in a manner of speaking,” Raimo replies. His blue eyes flicker with rage. “The boys were gelded and the girls were shaved, to steal their identities and control them. They were all trained to trust in the elders. And they were all desperate for favor, because the priests picked their favorites to become apprentices. But the others, the ones whose magic was unbalanced, or who asked too many questions, or who seemed likely to challenge the elders’ authority, or who had the great misfortune to be female in a temple filled with scared and selfish old men . . . They were broken. And their blood is what keeps the priests and elders powerful and young. Look at the elders, and then look at me. Who’s prettier?” He gives us his hideous grin. “I found a way to prolong my life, but it has its price. Five months of every year, to be precise.”

The ground beneath me spins, and I sit down heavily. “The priests drink the blood of the acolytes. The supposedly cloistered acolytes.” I press my hands to my eyes, thinking of that lovely acolyte with the wide face, how she was going to be cloistered within days, how she’s probably dead now.