Raimo nods. “As soon as he tasted it, he must have felt the power.” He gives us a pained smile. “It took me a long time to figure out what he was doing, but by that time, he’d brought so many over to his way of thinking. Not everyone could have a cuff of Astia, but all could partake of blood, if they were willing—and if they had a source.”
A tremor goes through Sig, and he takes a few steps back as if he’s been shoved by some terrible realization.
“Then the old Valtia died and a new one rose up,” Raimo continues. “That’s when we understood that her magic was special. Like the magic of the Suurin, it was so vast that it outlived its vessel. The new Valtia had the same features as our dead queen, the hair, the eyes, the mark. She’d been a normal girl until the Valtia died, and then the magic roared inside of her.” Raimo’s dirty fingernails scrape at the carved runes on the box. “She was powerful. But she was just a girl. No match for a conniving old wielder who was willing to cut off his own balls and drink blood just for a chance to have more power. His was the insistent voice in her ear, guiding her every step of the way. She had to isolate herself from family and friends. She had to keep her body pure and untouched, for use as a magical vessel.” Raimo’s voice drips with contempt. “And then this blood-drinking elder and those aligned with him convinced her to change the laws. All magic wielders were to be brought to the temple. Like the Valtia, they were meant to serve the Kupari people. It was an easy enough thing for the citizens to believe. After all, suspicion and envy had begun to sprout up between those who could wield and those who couldn’t. And the priests piled bronze coins into the hands of any parent who delivered a magical child to the steps of the new, grand Temple on the Rock, easing the path to oppression with promises of a life of discipline and service.”
Sig sounds as unsteady as he looks when he asks, “But that’s not what those children got, was it?”
“Oh, they did, in a manner of speaking,” Raimo replies. His blue eyes flicker with rage. “The boys were gelded and the girls were shaved, to steal their identities and control them. They were all trained to trust in the elders. And they were all desperate for favor, because the priests picked their favorites to become apprentices. But the others, the ones whose magic was unbalanced, or who asked too many questions, or who seemed likely to challenge the elders’ authority, or who had the great misfortune to be female in a temple filled with scared and selfish old men . . . They were broken. And their blood is what keeps the priests and elders powerful and young. Look at the elders, and then look at me. Who’s prettier?” He gives us his hideous grin. “I found a way to prolong my life, but it has its price. Five months of every year, to be precise.”
The ground beneath me spins, and I sit down heavily. “The priests drink the blood of the acolytes. The supposedly cloistered acolytes.” I press my hands to my eyes, thinking of that lovely acolyte with the wide face, how she was going to be cloistered within days, how she’s probably dead now.
Sig starts to pace, his fingers straying to his back, rubbing at the scars. His face is contorted with disgust. “I wasn’t imagining it,” he mutters, his voice tight, almost like he’s about to cry. “It really happened.” He grimaces and scrapes at his shoulder blades. The air gets hotter, and Maarika grabs Freya by the shoulders and leads her away. Aira and Ismael sink to the floor, wilting in the heat.
“Sig,” Raimo says. “Calm yourself.”
“He drank my blood!” Sig roars, his eyes orange with rage. “When I was chained and bleeding from the lash, that elder licked it straight from my skin!”
Oskar curses quietly. Waves of cold roll from him, counteracting the heat that’s making sweat slide in shining drops down Sig’s body.
“Now you understand the evil,” Raimo says, staring at Oskar. “You see why you have to fight. Thousands of acolytes have been slaughtered, just to keep a few old men alive and in power long past their time.”
“But what about you?” I ask. “If you knew this was happening, why didn’t you try to stop it?”
The old man sags, his shoulders hunching. “With every drop of blood, they got stronger. The more powerful the wielder, the more powerful the blood, so no one was safe. The priests began to turn on one another. It was impossible to tell who was an ally and who wanted to drink your blood with his dinner.” Raimo cackles again, but it’s pure bitterness. “And a few rose above the rest. They couldn’t be stopped—because they were willing to do what no one else was.” His eyes snap to mine. “Why do you think the Valtias rarely live past three decades, when the first Valtia ruled for nearly a century?”
The memory of Sofia’s bandaged arms looms in my mind. “The elders drink from her.” I want to scream with rage.