“Did they know the magic came from the copper?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “That was a slow, mysterious process, so gradual that the link was not clear for centuries. Our people were fed by the magic in these lands, growing strong over generations as it seeped into our blood. And then, here and there, it began to manifest. Wielders were born.” He looks over at me. “The first Valtia rose up, so powerful with ice and fire that she was named the queen. She ruled from that fortress on the northwestern shore. It’s in ruins now. The platform in the square is made with some of the original stones. But it was within those walls that the first priests were initiated into her service.”
His thumb toys with the clasp of the box. “Wielders walked free, but many of us were eager to learn and serve the magic—and the queen who seemed to have so much of it. But though any wielder can learn to control and refine the power he has”—Raimo’s pale gaze flicks to Oskar, and he arches his eyebrow—“wielders have only as much magic as they’re born with. Not everyone was satisfied with that, and some went in search of ways to increase the magic inside them.”
“Like shutting themselves inside trunks of solid copper,” I say with a shudder.
Raimo rolls his eyes. “Yes, and other, equally ill-advised methods. Some fasted, some had themselves whipped or put themselves through near hanging or drowning, and some decided to rid themselves of . . .” He clears his throat and makes a snipping motion with his fingers. The men around us quietly cringe, but Raimo cackles. “I always thought it was a stupid practice myself. And none of it worked, except to band together those who’d been through it in a warped kind of brotherhood.” He opens the box. The only thing inside is a torn, creased sheet of parchment. “But some of us turned our eyes to the stars, just as our ancestors had, looking for wisdom, answers, portents of the future. After all, the stars were how we survived the scourge of our enemies and found a refuge where we could live in peace. We created the charts and argued over what they predicted.” He chuckles, a phlegmy, weak sound. “Fun times.”
Oskar sits down next to the fire. He’s looking wan and weary, but still so much better than several minutes ago, when I thought I’d lost him. “Fun times . . . three hundred years ago.” He eyes Raimo like he expects him to sprout wings or horns.
Raimo grunts. “The divine portents told of an object that would magnify the magic, and so we created the cuff of Astia for the Valtia as she grew into old age.”
“She actually lived to be old?” I ask.
“Things were not always as they are now,” Raimo says. “And we had no idea at the time that another would rise as soon as she died. We were all so new to the magic.”
I look down at the parchment in the box. It’s covered in the same runes the cuff of Astia bears across its thick, coppery surface. “But if the priests had found a way to create something that would magnify magic, and they wanted to increase their own power, then why didn’t they make themselves cuffs too? We have more copper in this land than we know what to do with—well, we did, and especially back then—so why didn’t every wielder have one?”
Raimo laughs again, his chest rattling enough to make me wince. “Again, you think the Astia is just an ordinary hunk of metal. No wonder you hold yourself in such low regard.” He waves his hand as heat suffuses my cheeks. “Oh, it’s a good question, Elli. And the answer is standing right in front of you.”
His gaze finds Sig’s. “The cuff of Astia was created using the blood of two Suurin, the only ones to exist before the two of you. They were the start of it all, so devoted to the Valtia that they were willing to die for her.”
Sig grimaces in disgust. “Die for her? To create a piece of glorified jewelry? What a waste.” He glances at Oskar, who’s staring into the small fire at the center of the stone hearth.
Raimo shrugs. “The Suurin knew their fates. They chose to offer their magic to generations instead of forcing it to be bounded by their brief mortal life spans.”
Sig too shifts his gaze to the flames, which flare as if they know their master.
“Their blood is in the red runes,” I say, remembering the crimson shapes that glint on the cuff’s copper surface.
“Blood is powerful,” Raimo says. “Magical blood especially. And that discovery is how everything became so horribly twisted.” He scratches his stringy beard. “One of the elders who created the cuff partook of the blood of the Suurin.”
My stomach turns. “You said you found some of your colleagues to be a bit bloodthirsty. You meant exactly that.”