The Cursed Queen (The Impostor Queen #2)(94)
Kauko slowly swallows a full mouthful of blood. “Every Valtia,” he says.
“Every Valtia,” Sig echoes, his fiery gaze on Kauko again.
“You were supposed to protect her,” I say, my voice breaking. I don’t even know where this anger is coming from, but it’s welling up from the same spot inside me where I felt the witch queen reach and touch that day on the Torden—my heart. She wouldn’t let her priests hurt me that day. She was protecting me.
From people like Kauko.
“You were her enemy,” I say. “Is all of this your plan to snatch power for yourself?”
Kauko’s thick, bloodstained lips curve upward. “Krigere will help me.”
I would bet every drop of blood in my body that he has the same strategy Nisse does—use your allies to get what you want, and then dispose of them when you want to sit on the throne alone. Nisse and Kauko use people like weapons, like tools. They don’t care about tribe or family or loyalty. They only care about themselves.
“I’m going to kill you,” I murmur.
Kauko chuckles as he upends the bowl and lets the last thick drops fall fat and crimson on his tongue. “No,” he says. “You are going to feed me.”
I struggle against my chains as his plan wraps around my throat, choking off any intelligible words, clouding my thoughts. The air in the room snaps with bitter cold, but Kauko dismisses the ice with a flick of his wrist. “Today the traitors die,” he says. “And then we march.” He grins like a drunk, revealing blood-tinged teeth and a slightly unfocused gaze. “To kill the impostor and take back my temple. I will . . . rule the . . . Kupari.”
As the manacles cut into my wrists, Kauko blinks a few times, like he’s trying to clear his head. He leans on the stones as he bends to set the bowl on the ground. He walks his hands up the wall to bring himself upright again, and he has the strangest look on his face as he turns to Sig. “You . . .” he says weakly.
Sig smiles, his eyes glowing now, pure sunlight. “Me.”
Without another word, Kauko sinks to the ground and slumps forward, his eyes falling shut and his limbs going slack.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
As soon as Kauko’s head thunks to the floor, Sig is on his knees and digging through the pockets of the elder’s robe. He comes up holding a little copper key, which he uses to unlock my manacles.
“You poisoned the cup,” I say, staring down at the now-snoring old man.
Sig pulls a small cloth sack from his breeches and waggles it at me. I catch a whiff of something that smells like a strange combination of death and springtime. “From Halina,” he says.
I press the cloth to the wound in the crook of my elbow, and Sig reaches over and ties it tight for me. As I roll my sleeve down my arm, I nudge Kauko with my toe. “Are you going to kill him?”
Sig stares down at the man, and now I can see the utter loathing he’s been concealing for so many days. “Yes,” he hisses. “But not today.”
“Why?”
He steps back from Kauko, his entire body trembling. “I want him to . . .” He mutters something in Kupari, then uses two fingers to point at his fiery eyes.
“You want him to look you in the eye,” I guess. “You won’t kill him when he’s asleep because you want him to know what’s happening.” He wants him conscious, so he will feel every second of pain and know Sig is the source. The heat of his hatred fills the whole room and makes both of us sweat.
A slow, malevolent smile decorates the ruins of Sig’s once-handsome face. He wrenches Kauko’s limp body up to sitting and chains the elder’s chubby wrists, leaving him slouched against the wall, his arms in the air, spread as if in celebration or pleading.
“Now we go,” Sig says as he admires his handiwork.
“I have to get to the parapet,” I tell him. “That’s where Nisse is keeping Thyra and Halina.”
I’m going to save them, or die trying. For both their sakes, but also for Preben, Bertel, all the warriors who set their faith in Thyra, and for that little boy who should not be torn from his mother. And not just for them—for Nisse’s tribe, who have been steered in this deadly direction by a man who sees people as resources to be used up for his benefit, who sees andeners as nothing more than wombs with legs, who sees Kupari as yet another land to ruin while their people simmer with hate that will kill us all. Just like the hatred of the Vasterutians has festered, driving Halina and her friends to lethal lengths in their silent war to regain their freedom.
Thyra was right, I realize. She was right all along. And my need to be a warrior, my need to belong, my need for her to belong, blinded me.
Sig leads me into the corridor, but he turns before we reach the steps that lead up to the parapet. “Stop,” I whisper, tugging at his wrist, which he yanks out of my grasp like it pains him. I pull my hand back, but point toward the stairs. “We have to go up.”
Sig shakes his head. “Astia,” he says. “You need it.”
“What’s an Astia?”
He curves his fingers around one of his forearms. “Astia. For balance.” He turns and jogs down the passage without bothering to check if I’m following. I do, telling myself that if this takes too long, I’ll just peel off and find a weapon. I’m running out of time—once the signal is given and the warriors emerge from their barricaded stronghold, stunned and disarmed, Nisse is going to kill Thyra and Halina to break the spirits of their supporters and force everyone’s allegiance. But Sig’s promise of balance is too tempting—would this Astia thing allow me to do magic without hurting myself?