By the time Sig and I return to the camp, several more wielders have arrived on stolen horses. A tall, gaunt boy named Mikko, who has a beak of a nose and a long, dark plait down his back, has brought hunting gear and garb. He holds up a game bag and a bear trap, much like the one that took my fingers. “You said you needed another disguise,” he says to Sig as I shudder.
And so we set forth, hunters returning to the city from a long day in the woods. Sig makes me ride with him, and I wrap my arms around his lean waist as he spurs his horse onward. He’s wearing his cloak again, sparing me the uncomfortable intimacy of being pressed to his bare, scarred back.
We follow a trail through the skeletal woods. There’s no snow on the ground; it all melted off this morning as the priests came through, and so it’s easy to believe spring is here, even though it’s not due to arrive for weeks. I watch the ground for the little pool that marks the spot where Oskar found me, where he made the decision to save me. This close to Sig, it’s hard not to wish for the cool blessing of Oskar’s skin, the solid, reassuring feel of his body. For a moment this morning, I had that, and then I tossed it away.
Because I wanted his heart.
The forest floor becomes a brown blur as I will away my tears. I shouldn’t mourn what I never had, and I must turn my thoughts to what lies ahead.
“When we get to the city, you’ll keep your hood low,” Sig says as we exit the woods and enter the marshlands that lead to the northern road. “If you call attention to yourself, I’ll—”
“If I call attention to myself, the priests will take me into the catacombs and kill me. The threats aren’t necessary.”
“Sorry. Habit.”
“Sig, I feel sorry for you.”
“I bet you’ll feel differently when I’m looking out over the Motherlake from the Valtia’s balcony.”
“What of the Kupari people? Do you think of them when you dream of destroying the order of things?”
His stomach muscles tighten. “I think of how many have been enslaved because of that order,” he says in a sharp voice. “And I think of how the rest have exchanged freedom for comfort, how they delight in their year-round warmth and don’t think of what it costs. So yes, I suppose I do.”
The rage inside him heats his skin. It doesn’t burn me, but his cloak is damp against my chest as our horse trots down the muddy road. The white winter sun is slowly descending in the west, but Sig is still squinting in its light. “You must hate the summer.”
“You have no idea,” he says quietly. “I can barely stand to be outside in the summer months. Did Oskar tell you how we’re alike?” He reaches back and pats the lump in the pocket of my dress, the small, carved treasure in my pocket. “You must mean a lot to him if he gave you that. How much did he tell you about what he is?”
I put my hand over Sig’s and move it off my thigh. “You already know he told me that he’s a Suurin. Oskar isn’t sure what it means, though.”
“Because he doesn’t want to know. When I realized Raimo understood, I made the old man teach me everything.”
“Like what? Oskar doesn’t believe his magic can be controlled.”
Sig groans. “Because he spends all his time trying to cram it down instead of learning to use it! A wielder can’t be truly good unless he has both power and control, and Oskar has one but not the other. He thinks he’s a danger—and he’s right.”
“And you’re not?”
“Of course I am—because I choose to be. There are so many ways to wield, but most wielders can only do a little dull, diffuse magic. Like heating or cooling the air or water. If they practice, they can learn to focus that into blade magic—like channeling all the fire or ice you have into a smaller area.”
Like when Sig melted a tiny patch of sand to glass. “You can actually wield ice or fire like a blade?”
Sig laughs. “If you work at it. But if you’ve only got a little magic, it’s like fighting with a toothpick.” He looks over his shoulder at me and winks. “I’ve got a broadsword at my disposal.”
I look away. “How nice for you.” We’re moving slowly up the northern road toward the city. Only a few miles to go.
“Better than being unable to protect myself,” Sig says, his voice hard.
“I think Oskar is perfectly capable of protecting himself.”
“Oskar has never faced a skilled wielder.”
Until this morning, when he faced seven of them. But I’m still wondering how much I had to do with that, so I don’t remind Sig of it. “He doesn’t want to hurt anyone,” I murmur.