“Oskar, use the fountains. Can you?” Raimo asks.
Oskar, strands of his dark hair skimming along his cheeks, looks toward the two massive fountains in the plaza, each burbling with water year-round because the temple is heated with magic. The twin statues of the Valtia tower above them. “I can try,” he says quietly, tossing me an anxious glance. “My control—”
“I’ll help you,” says Raimo wearily. “You have the power, but I have the technique.”
Oskar nods, but he looks worried, and I can’t blame him—Raimo’s breaths are shallow and unsteady, and he can barely hold his head up. “We can do this, but then you’re staying back,” Oskar says to him. “If you go in there, you’ll die.”
Raimo seems too weak to argue.
“I’ll cap it off,” says Sig, as if he already senses what they’re going to do. “They need to see both ice and fire together.”
“And I’ll look the part,” I mumble.
“Move your hands,” says Oskar, “so they think it’s coming from you.”
“Sig could sense that the magic wasn’t coming from Mim. Will they—”
“We don’t want to give them time to,” says Raimo. “Make this quick.”
Sig gives me a little push, and I step from behind the pillar. The acolytes grit their teeth and the air warps around me. Sig curses, and I walk forward quickly to draw the heat away from him. The acolytes’ eyes go wide as I stride into the white plaza, my arms rising from my sides, my coppery hair flying about my face. The water in the fountains glitters with ice that suddenly spirals into the air. It’s as if the frozen column is drawing the liquid straight up from the Motherlake, growing thicker and whiter as it builds on itself, forming an arch over the marble slabs of this plaza, higher than the towering statues, nearly as high as the dome of the temple. The acolytes around me and the priests and apprentices on the steps stare as the ice shifts and shimmers, creating an intricate lattice over my head.
And then it shatters and melts, raining down—but turning to steam before a drop touches the ground. The acolytes lower their hands and look at me, shock etched on every face.
“I’ve come back to claim my throne,” I say, praying to the stars that only I can hear the unsteadiness of my words. “The elders and priests have lost their way, but I can set things right.”
One of the acolytes steps forward, and the spots on her face stir my memories. “Valtia,” Meri says in a broken voice. “Is it you?”
I smile at her. “It’s me, Meri.” She was a ray of kindness in a storm of cruelty. I hold out my hand to her.
She pushes her black hood back and walks toward me, her face alight with joy. But her smile becomes a scream as her robe bursts into flame. The acolytes around her stagger back as she shrieks in pain, the flames devouring her, smoke billowing into the air. I look across the plaza, toward the steps leading up to the temple, and spot Armo the former apprentice, his face twisted and his hands clawed as he burns Meri down. My eyes narrow as rage pulses through me—she was his friend.
“The girl’s a fraud!” he yells. “She has no magic. Destroy her!”
Oskar shouts my name as the acolytes lunge for me, hot and cold hands tearing at my clothes. No sooner has someone grabbed my hair than all of them are thrown away from me with a fierce gust of icy wind. It thunders through the plaza, knocking everyone but me back. I look over my shoulder to see the wielders, with Oskar and Sig at the front, pour through the gates. Raimo is nowhere in sight, and I can only hope he’s safe.
The magic erupts around me. But none of it touches me. It’s almost as if time has stopped. Sound is muted. Priests and apprentices storm down the vast temple steps and into the plaza, flanking the group of terrified acolytes to take on the rebel wielders. As Oskar runs for me, ice arches from the fountain and crashes down as a wall between us. It melts a moment later, long enough for me to see a flash of Sig’s white-gold hair and pale skin, but then it re-forms as spikes, which fly into the air—and come straight for me.
Knives of ice, wielded by blood-fueled priests. My death looks like glittering diamonds in the sunlight. Oskar and Sig are under siege—they can’t stop it. But right before the frozen blades hit home, they veer off track, flying silent and sharp around me, close enough for me to feel their cool kiss. Acolytes scream as their bodies are stabbed straight through, and they fall, writhing, to the marble slabs.