The Cursed Queen (The Impostor Queen #2)(95)
We reach a chamber, this one also windowless, but sumptuously furnished with a soft bed topped with thick pillows and blankets, a table upon which sits a pitcher of wine and a copper goblet, and a half-unfurled scroll revealing a partial map of Kupari. An open trunk sits next to the table, revealing a few black robes like the one Kauko wears every day.
“Is this Kauko’s chamber?”
Sig nods and grabs the mattress, yanking up the top and hurling it over the end of the bed frame. A small cloth pouch lies in a carved out hollow in the wood, and Sig scoops it up. He turns to me and pulls out a copper cuff covered in some kind of runic writing, which glints red in the torchlight.
My breath whooshes out of me. I remember. “The Valtia was wearing that when she called down the storm.” It glinted red and copper in her patch of sunlight, shining as she pointed her finger at the sky.
Sig flicks a clasp and the cuff falls open. He holds it out to me. “For balance.”
“That’s what Kauko said about bleeding me.”
Sig’s nostrils flare. “Astia is for balance,” he says, his voice hard. He takes a quick step forward, and before I can protest, he tugs my sleeve up and fastens the thing to my wrist.
A warm tingle flows through my body, and I look up to see Sig watching me with a satisfied look on his face. The cuff is cool and comforting against my scarred flesh, but the sensation is one of unsteadiness, more power than I can control. “Balance will keep the magic from hurting me,” I say. “But will it help me control it?”
“Don’t control magic,” he says, frustrated with me yet again.
“Be?” I guess.
He winks. “Be.”
From somewhere above our heads, a single note is blown on a horn. The faint noise hits me like a bolt of lightning. “That must be the signal,” I yelp, lunging for the door. This time I’m in the lead, and I’m honestly not sure Sig is following. I have to get to the parapet before our rebel tribe is brought to the courtyard.
I hit the stairs and begin to sprint, my breath rushing alternately hot and cold. The cuff at my wrist is soothing and centering, not a distraction so much as a reassurance—as are Sig’s footsteps behind me. I’m not sure what I did to deserve this strange, scarred boy’s allegiance—I have to wonder what he wants from me—but right now it runs warm through my veins.
Normally, these stairs are crowded with the warriors who reside here in the castle or who have been chosen to work within the walls. But today, Carina has gathered them all and taken them to the eastern part of the city, to lie in wait for Thyra’s rebels, to overwhelm them and end the uprising before it begins. It will save their lives but crush their spirits, and Thyra’s execution for treachery will make all that struggle meaningless.
I look up the broad spiral of sunlit steps, knowing the parapet is located three levels above the ground. Just as it is occurring to me that I should develop a strategy—I am one small warrior who will be facing Nisse, Jaspar, and their personal guard, which apparently includes Sander now—Sig yanks me to a stop. “Shhh.”
Just around the curve of the steps, I hear the buzz of voices. We won’t be able to pass unnoticed. But then Sig presses something soft into my hands.
It’s a pillow. And a robe. “Be Kauko,” he says as I realize he’s thrown another robe around his own body. Without so much as a question, he pulls at the rope that holds my breeches up, and as I grab for them, he stuffs the pillow under my tunic, reties the rope, and pulls the robe over the whole thing, tugging the hood up over my head.
I glance down at my puffed out belly. “You certainly are a clever madman.”
He pulls his hood over his own head. “Go now.”
I start up the steps, and as we turn the curve I see that the way is blocked—dozens of Vasterutians are coming down from the upper levels and being herded onto the main level by a few helmed and armored warriors who crowd them toward the exit to the courtyard. If we try to barrel past them, the alarm will be sounded and Nisse will know I’m coming for him.
He could kill Thyra in a heartbeat. One slice is all it takes. I know exactly how easy it is.
I glance behind me, at Sig, and put my head down as I trudge out of the staircase, following the Vasterutians. I stroke my paunch. One of the warriors says, “We thought you were downstairs with the witch.”
Sig bursts into a trilling cascade of Kupari, chuckling as he mimes chaining someone to the wall. I glance at the tree-trunk legs of our warriors, firmly planted but not in a wide fight stance, and silently pray that I look like an old, fat priest.
The warrior guard laughs. “Can’t understand a single stupid word you’re saying,” he says to Sig. “Go on, then. You must have her secure if you’re up here to watch the show.”
He shields me from sight a moment later and stays close as we walk with the Vasterutians toward the courtyard. Even through the thick robes, I feel the heat he gives off. By his own admission, he has no ice to balance it with. It simply flows from him like a current on the lake, constant and powerful. I wonder how strong he really is, if he has this much fire after being bled for so long. Either his magic is a very deep well or his spirit is unbreakable.
Then I consider the look in his eye as he promised Kauko’s death. Unbreakable, maybe, but definitely cracked.
We flow with the crowd of Vasterutians—there must be at least a hundred of them, all young and strong, all muttering among themselves in low, tense tones. These are the ones who will be taken as hostages to Kupari, to ensure that Vasterut remains under Krigere control.