The Impostor Queen

by Sarah Fine

  I gather my cloak around me as I enter the square, wishing for invisibility. When the elders realize I’m missing, what will they do? Sound the alarm? Reward the first citizen who turns me over to them? I hunch my shoulders and quicken my steps. The blacksmith’s forge is a three-sided building with a metal roof and stone walls. The front is fenced and gated. The blacksmith is already at work, his hairy, muscular arms flexing as he shovels charcoal into his forge. He doesn’t notice me hovering beyond his fence, a gray-cloaked ghost alone in the square.

  I pad to a spot against the stone wall of his shop, right at the front. As he lights the fire, I feel the heat radiating outward. This is where Mim wanted me to wait. I peer at the eastern sky, which is slowly transforming from black to purple. It’s so strange to be standing here, huddled in plain clothes, my tender soles aching from the journey I’ve made. The pain in my feet draws me to the ground, where I lower one of my stockings and peel back my slipper to see a line of blisters below my bony ankle. Have I ever had a blister before? Not in my memory. I don’t know how to care for it—but Mim will. She’s the only thing that makes any of this bearable.

  My fingers trail up under my dress to brush my blood-flame mark. It pulses a numb greeting, sending a buzzing sensation up my leg. Why do I have this mark, if I’m not the Valtia? What else could I possibly be if not the true queen? I grip my leg and look back toward the temple.

  I won’t give myself up. I’ll find a way to wield the magic inside me, and then I’ll return to the temple victorious. Kauko said I would be the most powerful Valtia who ever lived. He said I was the one.

  “Never doubt,” I murmur.

  Stars, who am I kidding? I am made of doubt right now.

  I lean against the rough stone wall and have to bite back an agonized cry as my flayed back touches the unforgiving surface. Mim did a good job with my bandages, and she must have smeared a numbing cream on them, because the pain has been manageable. But she’ll need to dress them again tonight. I’m not sure I want to know what my skin looks like. It used to be smooth, and now . . . now it is probably forever scarred. Perhaps when I find my magic, I’ll be able to heal myself. It’s a comforting thought.

  The sky gets lighter, and my stomach burbles, first happily, and then hungrily. That bread and cheese was the only thing I’d eaten since before the ruined harvest ceremony. I pray for the sun to rise a little faster, because it will signal Mim’s arrival with breakfast. She never fails me. I bet she’ll bring something special, just to make me feel better.

  Finally, the sun tears itself loose from the horizon and begins its arcing ascent. Orange and pink fingers of light stretch across the sky, and the city wakes. The plodding of horses’ hooves and shouts of peddlers hawking their wares begin to fill the air, first only a few, and then dozens. Bells clang as the fishermen enter the harbor. The blacksmith’s strikes on his forge are shrill stabs of sound. The breeze brings me the scent of meat pies and baking bread and garlicky, spicy sausages. I think I could eat one as big as my own arm.

  I watch the space between two stout buildings at the northern end of the square, the road leading north to the gates of the temple grounds. The sun has risen above the city council’s meeting hall now, and my heart beats faster. She said she’d be with me before I started to miss her, so she needs to come soon.

  And then there she is. Her hooded figure strides down the road, a covered basket in her hands. I push myself to my feet but remain against the wall. I don’t want to be seen. Mim emerges from between the two buildings, and I stare greedily at her basket, wondering what she’s packed. I also wonder what her family will think of me when we arrive. Will they understand what’s happening and sympathize? Surely she wouldn’t take me to them if she thought they’d alert the elders.

  Instead of coming toward me, Mim turns left and walks across the square. She must not have seen me—even though I’m waiting right where she told me to. Pulling my hood low to make sure it covers my face, I step onto the road and cross the square, weaving my way around peddlers’ carts and maids and houseboys out to make morning purchases for their households. Mim disappears into the bakery, and I chuckle. If there was nothing special in the temple kitchens, then she’s probably getting something for me there. I’m almost skipping as I near the bakery. The scent of lard and yeast is making me dizzy.

  She comes out of the bakery, her basket now laden with buns, her hood thrown back.

  Which is when I realize: she’s not Mim. That’s Irina, one of the scullery maids who mops the corridors and minds the fireplaces. I turn away quickly as she strides down the main road to the east, probably going home to her family for a few days off.

  My hand covers my stomach as that hollow feeling inside me grows. It’s midmorning now. She said she’d come for me at sunrise. Where is she?

  I return to my little spot next to the blacksmith’s shop. To keep myself from squinting endlessly down the road to the temple, I watch the people in the square. They’re wearing their light fall cloaks, which is the heaviest garb they ever have to don within the city walls, because the Valtia keeps us warm even in the depths of winter. Their cheeks are full and their limbs are strong, because the Valtia ensures the gardens and farmland are protected from too much heat in the summer. They wear adornments, bangles and tunics of all colors, because the Kupari are wealthy and can trade our bountiful food for goods from the southern city-states of Korkea, Ylpeys, and, until a few months ago, Vasterut. All these people going about their lives, trusting that the Valtia and her magic wielders within the Temple on the Rock are protecting them. It is an intimate and precious trust, as some of the citizens have brothers and nieces and sons and cousins who were discovered to be wielders as children and welcomed within the temple’s white walls. It is a great honor for any family to have produced a magical child.

  What will happen to these well-dressed, straight-backed citizens if they don’t have a Valtia to keep them warm and protect them from raiders and bandits? Do they know the girl who failed them is in their midst? Some of them look my way, and each time, I tense up, expecting their eyes to widen with recognition.

  But their gazes slide away. I don’t hold their attention. They don’t know me, not without my bloodred gown and my makeup—the white face, the crimson lips, the copper swirls.

  As the sun reaches its peak, sweat slides in drops down the back of my dress, stinging my wounds like a hundred angry hornets. But if I pull my hood away and reveal my hair, will the people know me then?

  Again, no. When I really pay attention, I realize that one in every five or so has hair that glints with reddish gold, that shines beneath the sun. Many of our citizens also have pale-blue eyes.

  I’m not such a rarity after all.

  I ponder that as I wait. As I wait and wait and wait. Finally, I’m drenched from the combined heat of the forge and the sun and my frustration, and I move across the square to sit closer to the northern road.

  I’m still there as the fishing boats return in the afternoon, as the sky clouds over and the day turns gray.

  And as the twilight comes, chasing away the heat of the surprisingly warm autumn afternoon, I am still there. Hollow with hunger and shock and worry. Mim hasn’t come.

  “—already searched the Lantinen,” comes an unmistakable, reedy voice—it’s Leevi. “So we’ll search along Etela Road next. I sent my apprentice ahead to give them notice.”

  My whole body jolts. As a distant rumble of thunder rolls across the Motherlake, I yank my hood up and scramble away from the northern road, ending up by the bakery again, just in time to watch Elder Aleksi and Elder Leevi stride into the square. People back away from them as they pass, bowing with reverence when they notice the elders’ belts, shot through with the copper that marks their status. A few women coming out of the bakery whisper to one another, and I hear the one word that tells me exactly what Leevi and Aleksi are doing.

  Saadella.

  They’re searching for the little girl with the copper hair, t
he ice-blue eyes, and the blood-flame mark. My replacement. The one who would be Valtia, if only I were dead. Or, at least, that’s what they think. I cross the square to walk slowly behind the two elders. I want to know if they’re looking for me, too. As we leave the square and start down Etela Road, which leads directly south until it meets the timber wall that rings the city, people gather in the street even though it’s starting to rain. Mothers and fathers wipe drops from their faces and push their daughters to the center of the road. All the girls have copper hair. Pale-blue eyes.

  There must be at least ten of them on this street alone.

  I step into an alley between a cooperage and a brewery as Aleksi and Leevi reach the first girl. She’s perhaps three or four, and her damp red hair falls in tangled waves to her shoulders. Her mother grasps her by the rib cage and lifts her into the air. “She’s got an eerie, calm temperament, Elders. She has since she was a babe. Wise beyond her years. I’ve always wondered.”

  My breath comes faster. Was that what it was like when I was found?

  Aleksi leans forward and sniffs at the girl’s curls. “What is the true color of her hair?” When the woman’s eyes go wide, he grins. “I know the smell of henna, my dear woman.” He swipes his hand along the girl’s wet hair and then waves it in front of her mother, his palm stained orange-red. “Better go inside and wash it out before it stains all your linens.”

  Leevi scowls. “And before we call for your banishment for attempting to deceive an elder.”

  Aleksi and Leevi move on, and the now ashen-faced woman drags her little girl back into their shabby cottage. I am frozen where I am as the rain begins to fall in earnest, watching from the alley as the elders discard one girl because her mark is brown, not red, and another because her blood-flame mark turns out to be rose-madder paint. Every little girl is a pretender, every parent a desperately hopeful fraud. Leevi comments that perhaps they should stop offering such a rich bounty for the Saadella, since it inspires so much trickery among the Kupari people. Aleksi says they’ve been way too lenient over the years and wonders aloud if they should call the constables to immediately banish the would-be deceivers to the outlands. A few other parents who had been waiting their turn hustle their daughters back inside when they hear the threat.

  The doubt squirms inside me. Is that all I was, a source of wealth for my parents? Did they take the bounty and flee the peninsula to start a new life someplace far away, where no one would know they’d fooled the entire Kupari people? Have I been an impostor from the start? I touch the hair beneath my hood. I blink my eyes. Could there have been another, one just like me, who was never found?

  If there were anything in my stomach, I’d be retching it onto the mud at my feet. Did my parents find a way to fool the priests? Or was it an innocent mistake? My head aches with horror and exhaustion. My ears throb dully. My back is a hard shell of agony. When I blunder out of the alley, Leevi and Aleksi have moved on, thank the stars. I stumble down the street, rain drenching my cloak, mud pulling at my heels. I have no idea where I’m going. I wish Mim had told me where her parents live—I’m willing to go there right now and beg them to take me in.

  I need to find a place to bed for the night. In the morning I’ll wait for Mim again. I want to be right there when she comes, so we don’t miss each other. She must have thought it wasn’t safe to leave just yet. Maybe someone else discovered I was missing, and she had to pretend she was shocked. Maybe she’s having to help look for me. But it’s only a matter of time until she slips away. I keep saying that to myself, even as my worry for her grows like a vine, strangling my hope.

  The people on the streets cast long shadows in the firelight shining from cottages along the lane. I stagger along, barely avoiding the clomping horses and rattling carts that go by, their drivers slumped and hooded against the downpour. Then the loveliest scent reaches me, powerful and gut-clenching. Just ahead, there’s a market, the attendants pulling in their goods for the night. Beneath the overhang, at a table in the corner, is a wooden plate that hasn’t been cleared yet, and on it is a small stack of meat pies.

  My body scrambles forward before I can form a thought. My hands reach out, shaking with need. In half a moment I’m stuffing a pie into my mouth. As the salty, earthy taste explodes on my tongue, I close my eyes and sink weakly onto one of the chairs next to the table.

  “Here, what’re you doing?” says a coarse, rasping voice.

  I shoot to my feet as a stout woman in an apron marches out from the storeroom. I step back, my gaze darting between her—mouth squinched over missing teeth, brown-gray hair hanging in sweaty tendrils from her cap—and the plate, on which there are still two uneaten pies. Probably a day old, probably headed for the refuse pile.

  I lunge for the table, grab the pies, and run.

  “Thief!” screeches the woman. “Thief!”

  My breath saws from my throat as I sprint along the road, my feet splashing through deep puddles, each stride sending a bolt of pain up my legs.

  “Stop, thief!” roars a male voice. Heavy footsteps stomp behind me. Getting closer. But ahead is an alley. If I can get there, if I can lose them in the darkness—

  He hits my back like a millstone, and I scream as we fall to the ground. The meat pies fly from my grip and land in a puddle at the edge of the road. Agony blasts along my spine as the man crushes the breath from my chest. “Got her!” he shouts as boots and slippered feet gather around me. One of them kicks muddy water onto my face.

  The man gets off my back and grabs a handful of my hair. He yanks me to my feet. Someone holds a lantern in front of my face. “You know we don’t tolerate thieves, girl. Where’s your family? Do you have a husband?”

  I am a jumble of terror. If they figure out who I am, I’ll be taken back to the temple to have my throat cut. But if I’m not myself, who am I?

  “They’re—I don’t—don’t know,” I cry as the man shakes me, making me whimper with pain.

  He wrenches my head back. He has a thick blond beard and a scar across the bridge of his nose. His cap marks him as a miner—his hands are hard as granite. His dark-blue eyes roam my face, and I can’t breathe for the fear. Will he recognize me? Will he hand me over to the elders?

  He glowers at me. “You stole from decent, hardworking people.” He looks at the market woman. “Probably a runaway, living on the streets.”

  The market woman spits at my feet and wipes her gummy mouth. “Call the constable.”

  The bearded miner grunts. “No need.” He drags me down the road, and when I peer through the pelting rain, I see lights up ahead, hanging from the archway of our city gate.

  I had no idea I had walked so close to the edge of the city. Panic strikes like lightning, and I twist in the man’s grasp. He clamps a hard hand over my flayed shoulder, and I shriek with the pain. Fighting and clawing helplessly, I’m hauled through the mud with a small crowd following me, shouting insults. When we reach the gates, I’m held up before a man with black hair and black eyes and black teeth. He’s wearing a scarlet tunic and a brown cap. There’s a club hooked to his belt.

  “Thief, Constable.”

  The black-toothed constable looks at me with puzzlement. “Here now, you look familiar.”

  The only sound that comes from me is a ragged squeak. His brows draw together. “Where have I seen you before, girl? Speak up, now. I could help you.”

  My mouth opens and closes, but I have no words.

  “Obviously has something to hide,” says the market woman. “Nasty little thief. I’m sure she’s done it a hundred times. That’s probably why you recognize her—she’s escaped your clutches before!”

  Several people laugh, and the constable’s mouth crimps with the insult. He stares at my face for a moment longer, then turns his attention to the crowd around me. “You were witnesses to her crime?”

  They all begin talking at once, how they saw my brazen theft, how I have no family, how I’m a boil on the arse of society, a lamprey that sucks
away their hard-earned wealth. I’m hurting too much to defend myself—and what would I say? The truth, even if they believed me, would only result in certain death. But when the miner’s knuckles press between my shoulder blades, I arch back, made of agony, and wonder if death wouldn’t be easier.

  The constable finally holds his hands up. “I’ve heard enough. She’s banished.”

  “Banished?” I shriek, but before I can say anything else, the constable calls for the gates to open, and I’m shoved and chased through them. When I fall on my face and inhale a mouthful of mud, the bearded miner grabs the back of my cloak and dress. His iron fingers scour along my back. He tosses me forward as I cough and gag.

  I land on the grass at the side of the road. Behind me, the heavy wooden gates slam shut.

  My breath shudders from me as I stare at the city I love, the city I was supposed to rule. Dim lights wink within. Warmth pours from it. And now it’s lost to me.

  Mim is lost to me too. What will she think, when she emerges from the temple and I’m not there? How can I let her know I’m here, that I need her?

  And what if she needs you? If the priests realized she helped me escape, would they whip her? No. She’s too clever to be caught. Even now, she’s probably leading anyone looking for me down the wrong path, buying time. Even she would never think I’d be where I am, though. I can hardly believe it myself as I clumsily rise from the grass. Shock buzzes inside my head, making it difficult to hear my own thoughts. But I know I need help. Perhaps one of the farmers will have mercy on me. Perhaps someone will have mercy.

  I limp down the sodden road, the long, thick grass of the marshes lit by occasional, distant flickers of lightning. The rain is tapering off, and the clouds are slowly clearing, revealing the moon and stars, needle pricks of light that once foretold the birth of the most powerful Valtia the world had ever known. I can’t fathom how I ever believed I could be her.