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?
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.