The Impostor Queen

by Sarah Fine

  “Thanks,” I say, a bit breathlessly, surprised at how badly I wish he would touch me again. “So . . . you were telling me you have only ice magic.”

  “It feels like it’s trying to tear me apart sometimes.” He rubs his chest, and I have a flashing memory of ice blades jutting from Sofia’s body, killing her from the inside out. “But worse than that, I have so little fire inside that I can’t stay warm. And that’s why I hate the cold.”

  I think of Sig, shirtless as he stalked out of the cavern and into the chilly air. “Sig is the opposite of you, isn’t he?”

  Oskar grimaces. “I suppose you could say that.”

  “Why does he seem to hate you so much?”

  He bows his head. “We used to be friends. He joined the camp about five years ago. He was alone, and my family took him in. He’d had a terrible time of it, but he healed up quickly. Raimo helped. It was good to have Sig around. We balance each other out.” He curls his gloved fingers into fists. “But each time we were chased or burned out of our camps by the miners or the constables or the farmers, Sig grew angrier. He wanted to use his magic to fight back, despite the risk of revealing ourselves. And it wasn’t hard for him to bring some of the others around to his way of thinking.”

  “But not you.”

  His eyes meet mine. “I don’t want to fight. I only want to live.”

  “Don’t you have to fight for some things?” I think back to that moment in the bronze cage, when I fought with everything inside me, just for the chance to take another breath.

  Oskar takes a step away from me. “When I fight, people die.” His eyes aren’t inscrutable now. They’re brimming with pain. I reach for his hand, but it disappears beneath his cloak and he closes his eyes. “There are bears in the forest. Grizzlies with heads the size of cauldrons. One pelt can buy enough food to feed a family for two months.” His voice is flat as he spins out these words, like he’s plodding through deep, deep snow. “My father was determined to find one. He set out traps, much the same as the one that took your fingers off. And one summer day, I went with him to check them. When we heard the snap of it, we ran. I was thinking I had so much energy, that I could run like this forever. I ran so fast that I passed my father, so fast that I didn’t hear his shouts until it was too late.”

  He stares down at the snow. “The trap had snared a cub. It was squalling and screaming. I remember seeing its blood speckling the pine needles. It’s the last thing I saw before the mother bear attacked.” He pulls his cloak back and lifts his tunic for a moment, revealing the three slashing marks across his ribs, wide and pink. “My father hit her before she could kill me.”

  He raises his head. “That was the first time my magic came out. It was like”—he lets out a long breath—“an avalanche. And when it stopped, everything around me was quiet.” Like his voice right now. “The bear was frozen solid. But so was my father.”

  Oh, stars. I hear Elder Kauko’s voice in my head, telling me how the magic protects the wielder in a dangerous or stressful situation: It usually bursts forth with such strength . . . I imagine a dark-haired, granite-eyed little boy, staggering back in the wake of his own icy power. “What did you do?”

  He holds up his hands. “I tried to wake him up. I wanted to drag him away—he was still in the bear’s embrace. But when I yanked on his arm, it”—his face crumples—“shattered,” he whispers.

  I cover my mouth. Everything fell apart, and I can’t put it back together, I’d said. I know what that’s like, he’d replied. I grimace as I hold back tears.

  “I ran for the town. I was bleeding so badly that I almost didn’t make it. By the time the constables reached the scene, everything had melted. The cub, the bear, and my father were all lying limp on the ground. The constables couldn’t figure out what had happened, and I lied. I was so scared.” He shivers, and I push back the urge to hop off my branch and go to him. I can’t siphon away this kind of cold. “But my mother . . . the day after my father’s funeral, even though I was barely healed enough to travel, she packed up me and Freya, who was only a few months old at the time, and headed for the outlands.”

  “Maarika told me your father was killed in a hunting accident.”

  He winces. “And I suppose she was right.”

  “Does she know you’re a wielder?”

  Oskar slowly drags his finger along the rough surface of my branch. “I suspect she’s always known. But she’s never said a word about it, and I’ve never brought it up.” His finger stops a few inches from my hip. “I think we both hate what I am.”

  The savage pain in his voice makes my throat tight. “But denying what you are is hurting you.”

  His fingers clutch the branch, and his tension vibrates through my body. “Embracing it would hurt everybody else.”

  It won’t hurt me. The words are on the tip of my tongue, fighting to break free. But fear of what that admission could bring holds them back. “Do you ever use it? Don’t you need to?”

  It seems like magic bleeds from him, whether he wants it to or not, and my suspicion is confirmed as he nods. “There is one good thing about it,” he says, his voice taking on a playful tone, though I don’t miss the current of sadness on which it floats. He looks out at the rolling dunes. “I’ll show you right now if you want to see.”

  I nod eagerly, and he motions for me to stay where I am, then creeps toward the edge of the trees. At the base of a dune perhaps twenty feet from our spot are two white hares, hopping along, looking for a few tender shoots to nibble. Oskar squats next to a wide oak and stares at the two little animals. A sudden wind blows across the fluffy snow toward them.

  Their heads jerk up, as if they smell a predator. But instead of scampering away, they both topple sideways into the snow. Oskar stands up and strides out of the trees, scoops up the two creatures, and carries them back to me. They hang stiff in his grasp, their bodies swinging as he holds them up.

  “What did you do?” I ask, staring at the obviously dead animals.

  Oskar looks down at his kills. “I froze their blood,” he says simply.

  I blink slowly, recalling what he said when I asked him if that bear trap had been his. I never use that kind. “Is this how you hunt?”

  He shrugs. “It’s quicker than traps. I think it’s fairly painless for the animal.” He lays the two hares on the snow at his feet. “And it allows me to get rid of some of the ice.”

  Which must be why he goes out every day, even now that the weather’s turned cold, even though Maarika has more meat than she knows what to do with. “Do the others know?”

  He stomps his feet, loosening some of the snow crusted on the toes of his boots. “Probably some of them suspect. But I hunt alone and field dress everything, so no one sees how I kill.”

  “Does Raimo know?”

  “Yes, because when I was about thirteen and the nightmares were getting really bad, I was stupid enough to go to him and ask him if he could take the magic away. He set my pants on fire that day.”

  “What?”

  “I withstand heat a lot better than cold,” he says drily. “But I had to go back to my mother and explain my ruined trousers.” He slaps his hand over his thigh. “Raimo wants to train me to control it. He says I’m something called a Suurin. An extreme. He thinks Sig is one too. Sig was only too willing to accept Raimo’s training, and look what he’s become.”

  The way Oskar says it, I know he doesn’t think Sig’s become anything good.

  “How does Raimo know so much?”

  “Maybe because he’s as old as time?” he says lightly. “Honestly, I don’t know. He’s been part of the camp—sort of—since long before we joined, but no one can remember when he showed up. He heals injuries and some illnesses with his magic in return for food and goods. And he’s never around during the winter.” He slides his boot through the snow, wearing a path all the way to the dirt below. “So . . . did he happen to tell you what you are?”

  I shake my head quickly, not able
to meet his eyes. “He just said I’m completely empty of ice and fire, and therefore immune to the magic that comes from it. I’m a fluke.” I’m guessing Oskar’s been telling me all these things about himself in the hope that I’ll do the same, but I can’t. “Did he tell you what being a Suurin actually means?”

  The corner of his mouth twitches as I abruptly swing the conversation back to him. “He wouldn’t—unless I let him teach me.”

  That must be what Raimo was demanding in exchange for healing me. “Why won’t you let him?”

  “He’d make me use the magic, and I do that as rarely as I can. To hunt, yes, because I need it to feed my family. But if I go to Raimo . . .”

  It would require him to embrace the deadly gift that killed his father. “What if he could teach you to control it?” And didn’t Raimo say they couldn’t wait much longer? What will happen to Oskar if he won’t accept what he is?

  “My magic can’t be controlled, Elli. Trust me, I’ve tried. I’m not like other wielders.” His tone reflects all his weary efforts. “I just want it to go away.” He chews on his lip for a moment and then slowly lifts his gaze to mine. “And after what happened this morning, I was wondering if you could help me with that.”

  CHAPTER 15

  Though I’ve told Oskar virtually nothing about myself even after he laid himself bare, he asks me only one question. It’s a simple request, and so hopeful that I can’t tell him no, even though it makes me ache.

  That night, after we stay out most of the day and he takes down eight hares with his ice magic, we return to the caverns. Oskar refuses to let me help skin them—he insists I stay by the fire and keep my hands, especially my right, warm. I would rather be useful, but I’m also relieved. My hand hasn’t hurt this much since I was first injured, and I feel sick with the pain and my efforts to hide it. It’s apparent that Oskar can see it, though, and Maarika as well. She brews me a tea that tastes strongly of tree bark, and I drink it with gratitude and try not to grimace.

  Oskar gives me a veiled look as I disappear with Freya into our little bedchamber. She chatters at me for several minutes about how Harri was asking after me this afternoon, how she thinks he wants to “entangle” with me. I listen with half an ear, distracted by what I’m about to do. The moment Freya’s voice trails off and her breathing evens out, I sit up and peer through the gap between the fur and the frame from which it’s hanging. Oskar’s waiting for me. My heart is beating so fast. I’ve spent a significant part of every night watching him out there, but as I crawl forward to join him, I know—this is different.

  I’m not sure if I want it or not. I do want to touch him. I’ve wanted to touch him for a while now, and not only because I want to help him. As confusing as it is, when I think of putting my hands on him—and the few times he’s touched me—my stomach drops in the same way it always did when I thought of those things with Mim. They are nothing alike—Mim was softness and comfort where Oskar is gruff and hard. And even now, after all these days and weeks, thinking of her still stirs that warmth and worry and want inside of me. But when I look at Oskar, I cannot deny the flutter, the silent longing inside. At the same time, I don’t want to accidentally drain away all his magic, even though that’s exactly what he’s hoping will happen. I’m scared about what it would do to him.

  Oskar has placed his own pallet right next to the fire, and he’s laid out a second on his other side and put an extra fur blanket atop it. He swallows hard when I come through the curtain, looking more uncertain than I’d expected, given his delight when I agreed to do this. “Are you . . . ,” he begins, then clears his throat. “Is this all right? Do you have enough room?”

  My pallet is a good three feet away from his. “My arm’s not that long.”

  His cheeks, the tan fading into winter pallor, take on a pink flush. “Oh. How do you think we should . . .” He gestures from my body to his.

  I shouldn’t be doing this. If Raimo knew, he’d be furious. But as I look at Oskar, inching my pallet a little closer—but not too close—to his, I can’t refuse him. If this gives him any relief at all, I’m willing to try. If it seems to have any negative effect on him, though, I’m pulling away.

  “I think we’ll have to figure it out together,” I say quietly.

  I sink onto my pallet, the soft fur tickling the palm of my mangled hand. The pain from earlier in the evening has subsided now, but I still curl it against my chest to protect it. Oskar wraps his cloak around himself. We lie on our sides, facing each other.

  The corner of his mouth quirks up. “I happened to overhear what Freya was saying to you about Harri. . . .”

  My cheeks must be flaming. “I want absolutely nothing to do with him.”

  Oskar’s quiet for a moment, just staring at me. “Good,” he finally says, then reaches down and pulls the fur blanket up to my shoulders. “I’m grateful that you’re willing to do this,” he murmurs.

  “No promises.”

  “Understood.”

  Tentatively, he slides his hand toward me, palm up, calloused and strong. It comes to a stop between us. Waiting. Once I do this, there’s no hiding, no going back, no pretending there’s not something odd about me. I look from Oskar’s hand to his face. He’s watching me, a frown tugging at his lips. His fingers curl like a snail pulling into its shell. “You don’t have to, Elli. If you say no, it won’t change anything at all. You’ll still have a home here, for as long as you need it.”

  His hushed words fill the hollow space inside. My eyes sting with tears as I silently lay my palm over his.

  It’s the quietest of things, the most fragile of moments. I feel the coolness of his skin, but also the texture of it, hard and soft, rough and smooth, as his long fingers wrap over mine. As soon as our gazes meet, the cold magic swirls along my palm, around my wrist, winding its way up my arm until it trickles into my chest, glittering and frigid. Oskar’s lips part. He looks stunned and stuck, like it feels too good to speak. The rush of magic intensifies, pouring into me so quickly that I swear I feel the tiny, cold kisses of snowflakes on my face.

  “Oh,” he whispers, his eyes fluttering shut. “Thank you.”

  I watch his face relaxing into the smallest of smiles as he falls into a peaceful sleep. He breathes evenly, a smooth rhythm from his powerful body, a much-needed truce after so much war inside him. My mind flickers with ice floes on the Motherlake, with icicles forming along branches and rocks, with snowflakes tumbling playfully through the air. The sight of his relief makes a tear slip from my eye, and I bow my head and kiss his knuckles, held tight in my grasp. I give in to it without guilt or shame. His skin tastes faintly of salt, maybe from my tears.

  “Good night, Oskar.” I close my eyes and welcome his frigid dreams into my hollow darkness.

  Over the next fortnight, we develop a new routine. Every night, Oskar waits, and every night, I go to him. I siphon his icy dreams, and inside me they thaw. It doesn’t hurt. The ice can’t claim me. It can’t even make me shiver.

  But Oskar can, though I don’t think he realizes it. Now that he sleeps easy, he rises early, refreshed and warm. He always tests his magic on the pail of water near the fire—after a night touching me, it’s all he can do to make the surface freeze. And instead of being horrified that I’ve drained the powerful ice magic away, he’s delighted. He brews me tea, as if he’s worried his dreams will give me a chill. He never asks how I do it, or why I have this power. He always asks if perhaps I’m too tired, if I’d like to sleep with Freya in the other chamber. He seems embarrassed. I don’t think he understands that it feels just as good to me. I had been scared I would hurt him somehow, but every day he looks better.

  Maybe I’m keeping him safe from his nightmares and giving him rest, but he’s giving me something too, more than the new pair of gloves that magically appeared beneath my cloak one afternoon, the one for the right hand crafted with only three fingers and extra padding over the knuckles where the ring finger and pinkie would have been. More even than
the delicate carving of a dove that I found under my pillow the evening after that, its wooden wings spread in flight, the flex of its body ecstatic and free.

  I’m not sure how to pin this feeling down. It’s as elusive as the numbness that swirls inside my body. Every day, as the hours creep past, I find myself getting jittery, waiting for the sight of Oskar’s tall figure striding into the cavern. And when he does, I can’t stop the smile from spreading across my face—especially because his eyes search for me, and when they find me, he smiles right back. That in and of itself is magical and ignites a spark of pride inside me.

  I gave Oskar back his smile.

  One day, as I’m hanging our laundry up to dry by the fire, he emerges from the back cavern, clean-shaven. Some of the young men, including Harri, his curly hair damp from the stream, are joking with him. “Tell me, Oskar, was it difficult to kill the ferocious little beast that had made its home on your ugly face?”

  Oskar runs his palm along his smooth cheek. Harri couldn’t be more wrong—Oskar is far from ugly. He looks a few years younger without that beard, but his jawline is straight and strong. He laughs. “It was a close call,” he says, then draws his hunting knife and waves it in the air. “But it was him or me.” He looks over and sees me watching him, and I bite my lip and duck into the shelter again.

  Even though we’re locked in the hard grip of winter, even though it’s so cold in the caverns that my bones ache endlessly, I’ve never been happier. Oskar had hoped I could take away his magic for good, but I’m ashamed to admit that I’m glad it grows inside him during the day and leaves him shivering on his pallet at night, waiting for my touch. That moment I slide my hand into his is the absolute best second of every day.

  Each morning I wake a little closer to Oskar’s side, until one morning, I wake up in his arms. I don’t remember it happening, but my head is on his shoulder, and my forehead is pressed to the cool skin of his throat. Strands of my copper hair are sticking to his dark stubble. His fingers are woven into my thick locks. He’s breathing deeply, still sleeping, sweet and quiet. But my heart is racing. Tentatively I slide my arm over his chest, feeling the contours of him, memorizing the feel of it. This is what it’s like to be in the arms of a lover, my mind whispers.