Veikko shrugs. “They said she’d gone mad with grief and run away. They think she might have escaped into the outlands.”
I think I’m going to vomit all over the stones at my feet. “That’s insane,” I say loudly. “How could she even do that?” I clear my throat to chase away the quaver in my voice. “She’d be recognized immediately.”
Ismael nods. “Maybe. Hard to see how she could hide herself, especially if she wasn’t in her right mind. A bit scary to think about, if you ask me.”
“Exactly,” says Veikko.
Aira rolls her eyes. “You can’t hide that much magic.”
Oskar’s face flashes in my mind. “I agree,” I say quickly. “Especially if she’s unbalanced. It sounds like that constable was playing a trick on his friend.”
Freya laughs. “The stories coming out of that city are crazier every week. Come on, Elli. We need to get going or we won’t be back before dark.”
I can’t get away fast enough. I pull my cloak tight around me as we hike up the trail, as if it could protect me from my own fears. We walk all the way up the steep trail to the marshlands before turning west and journeying to a small copse of trees on a hill that overlooks the Motherlake. The whole time, I’m trying to convince myself that I was right, that the constable was playing a cruel joke. Surely the elders assume I’m dead. Surely they’ve let me go. Surely they’ve realized I’m not the real Valtia? But then I remember what Raimo said: They never figured it out! I swallow back dread as I gather dry twigs.
The sunlight is fading, and the frigid air bites at my cheeks. It might not have snowed yet, but winter has sunk its teeth deep. I’ve never felt cold like I have in the past few weeks. In the temple, it was always pleasantly warm or cool. But now I understand how lucky we all were—my fingers feel so stiff that I’m sure my blood is turning to ice, and the stumps of my pinkie and ring finger tingle sharply and painfully.
“So, what’s your theory?” Freya asks after we pile our baskets full and begin the trek to the caverns.
“My theory?”
“About the old Valtia. Do you think she’s dead?”
The pang of grief knifes through me. “Yes,” I murmur. “I think she’s dead.”
“I’m not sure. If she is, then wouldn’t the new Valtia have shown herself to the people? Do you think she really went mad?”
There’s that urge to vomit again. “Why do people out here care about that so much?” I blurt out. “Is it just the warmth? That’s all the Valtia does for the outlands, right?”
Freya is silent, and when I look over at her, she’s scowling. “We’re Kupari too,” she says, her voice shaking. “Just because we’re out here doesn’t mean we’re not.”
I blanch at having offended her, remembering Sofia’s disagreement with the elders about entering the outlands to be seen by her subjects beyond the city walls. “Of course you’re Kupari! I didn’t mean to suggest—”
“But everyone in the city thinks we’re criminals, right? That’s what the miners called us that day they came to tell us to leave. Thieves. They painted us all with one brush.” Her lips pull tight. “I’m glad Sig set them on fire!”
I stare at her with wide eyes. “And how did Sig set them on fire?”
She bites her lip, then grins with her secret knowledge. “He wields it.”
“There are lots of wielders in the caverns.” I thought I’d met all of them in the past few weeks—and none of them seem that powerful. “Which one is he?”
She shakes her head. “Sig hasn’t been around since the fight with the miners. A bunch of the other wielders were angry after it happened—they thought it would draw the attention of the Valtia and her elders. So Sig and a bunch of his friends who are wielders left the caverns and haven’t been back since. But believe me, no one wields fire like he does. He is made of fire.”
The rumors Mim heard from Irina the scullery maid were right after all. There was a strong fire wielder among the cave dwellers. “If he has such an affinity for fire magic, why is he in the outlands instead of in the temple?”
“Why would he want to be in the temple?”
“To live a life of privilege and serve the Valtia and the Kupari people? Such a strong wielder would surely have been chosen as an apprentice, guaranteed to become a priest one day. Why would he want to live in a cave in the outlands instead?” This is something I’ve been dying to ask for weeks.
Freya’s little face squinches up. “Because he didn’t want to be gelded and shaved, to begin with?”
“G-gelded?” My stomach turns as I remember one of my lessons with Kauko, about how male horses often have this procedure to make them easier to control.