The Impostor Queen (The Impostor Queen, #1)(96)
And then it shatters and melts, raining down—but turning to steam before a drop touches the ground. The acolytes lower their hands and look at me, shock etched on every face.
“I’ve come back to claim my throne,” I say, praying to the stars that only I can hear the unsteadiness of my words. “The elders and priests have lost their way, but I can set things right.”
One of the acolytes steps forward, and the spots on her face stir my memories. “Valtia,” Meri says in a broken voice. “Is it you?”
I smile at her. “It’s me, Meri.” She was a ray of kindness in a storm of cruelty. I hold out my hand to her.
She pushes her black hood back and walks toward me, her face alight with joy. But her smile becomes a scream as her robe bursts into flame. The acolytes around her stagger back as she shrieks in pain, the flames devouring her, smoke billowing into the air. I look across the plaza, toward the steps leading up to the temple, and spot Armo the former apprentice, his face twisted and his hands clawed as he burns Meri down. My eyes narrow as rage pulses through me—she was his friend.
“The girl’s a fraud!” he yells. “She has no magic. Destroy her!”
Oskar shouts my name as the acolytes lunge for me, hot and cold hands tearing at my clothes. No sooner has someone grabbed my hair than all of them are thrown away from me with a fierce gust of icy wind. It thunders through the plaza, knocking everyone but me back. I look over my shoulder to see the wielders, with Oskar and Sig at the front, pour through the gates. Raimo is nowhere in sight, and I can only hope he’s safe.
The magic erupts around me. But none of it touches me. It’s almost as if time has stopped. Sound is muted. Priests and apprentices storm down the vast temple steps and into the plaza, flanking the group of terrified acolytes to take on the rebel wielders. As Oskar runs for me, ice arches from the fountain and crashes down as a wall between us. It melts a moment later, long enough for me to see a flash of Sig’s white-gold hair and pale skin, but then it re-forms as spikes, which fly into the air—and come straight for me.
Knives of ice, wielded by blood-fueled priests. My death looks like glittering diamonds in the sunlight. Oskar and Sig are under siege—they can’t stop it. But right before the frozen blades hit home, they veer off track, flying silent and sharp around me, close enough for me to feel their cool kiss. Acolytes scream as their bodies are stabbed straight through, and they fall, writhing, to the marble slabs.
Nothing magical can harm me. I look behind me, and there’s a crowd of black robes between me and my Suurin, who are fighting for their lives against a horde of priests and apprentices. If they can’t reach me, I can’t magnify their power. But even without me, the small group of rebels is holding their own, pushing the enemy back. Oskar and Sig are shoulder to shoulder now, protecting each other and wielding as one force, though the fire strikes with precision and the ice is wielded like a blunt instrument.
And I’m standing in the middle of the plaza. Forgotten. Unchallenged. I look up the long flight of steps leading to the domed chamber. Inside is the child Saadella—and the elders. The fury twists inside me. I walk forward, only dimly aware of the Valtia statues in the fountains cracking, of marble exploding outward as blasts of fire and ice tear them apart. The shards pock the marble slabs at my feet, but not a single bit strikes me. But when a wall of flame crackles and blasts against my back, the ashy cinders of my burning dress fill the air. With a pang of sorrow, I know my carved dove is aflame, but I let the fiery garment fall from my shoulders. My boots become charcoal as the marble at my feet becomes hot as a roasting pan.
Naked, barefoot, I move forward. The instinct is so deep. Suddenly I understand why Sofia was so kind, so loving to me. I may not have inherited the magic, but I inherited this. With every shred of my being, I love that little Saadella, as much as I love myself. I don’t know her name, but I don’t need to. She’s my sister, my daughter, my heart. I will never allow the elders to harm her or have her.
There is blood all around, suffering all around, death all around. I can’t look. I don’t want to know who we’ve lost. My eyes burn as I think how all of it could have been prevented. I mount the steps, leaving gray footprints on the pristine white marble and gleaming copper inlay. My hair is ruffled by wind that others will feel as a gale. None of it can slow me down. I hear my name and look behind me. Oskar and the others are advancing—they’ve reached the destroyed fountains now. My dark-haired Ice Suurin looks strong and fearless as he and Sig coordinate their movements, manipulating the temperature to lift a hunk of marble statue in the air. The giant slab of stone falters, and Sig yells at Oskar to focus the cold above the rock and keep it there. Together, they clumsily hurl it at the priests, who barely deflect it.
The elders inside must be aware of what’s happening, but they haven’t come out. They’re depending on their acolytes and priests to die for them, while they hide in the temple with the Saadella.
What if they’re hurting her?
What if they’re escaping?
I stride quickly up the steps until I reach the semicircular plateau of stone that marks the entrance to the temple. Pillars of marble rise mighty and strong every twenty feet or so, holding up the massive copper dome above us. The battle has progressed to the base of the steps, and when I glance beyond them, I see people flooding into the plaza. Nonmagical people, wielding their scythes and spades. Sig and Oskar are surrounded by black-robed wielders, deflecting spikes of ice and magically hurled chunks of broken marble. A small crowd of acolytes have their hands up in surrender, but bodies of wielders litter the wide expanse, crushed and stabbed, burned and frozen. Magic can kill in so many different ways. The elders must know all of them.