“A few of the priests and apprentices are still fighting,” Sig says as he pulls me past Aleksi’s burned body, his palm sweaty in mine. “A whole group of them escaped into the town as well, more interested in fleeing than fighting. Seeing them run sapped the will of many of the remaining fighters. And the townspeople are on our side. It’s a mess, but we’re winning.”
“Is it still winning, with so many wielders dead?” I whisper.
Sig clenches his jaw and keeps moving.
I dig in my heels as copper glints from Aleksi’s ruined form. “Wait.” I squat by the elder’s corpse and pull the cuff from his red-and-black wrist, wrinkling my nose at the smell of roasted flesh. The cuff of Astia glints as I cradle it in my hands. The magic bleeds from it, dripping from my fingers in invisible drops. “I think we’re going to need this.”
I clamp the cuff over Sig’s pale, lean forearm. His eyes flash with flames. “Oh,” he breathes, his chest heaving, his fingers flexing. The wave of heat rolls from him, warping the air. He looks down at our joined hands, and then at the cuff. “I feel like I can do anything.”
“You can’t, though.” Oskar walks unsteadily toward us, his left arm folded against his chest, his teeth chattering. “If that elder sends fire at you, Elli won’t be able to keep all of it off you. He’s too powerful.”
“But you’re hurt,” I say.
“Just my arm. I think it’s broken.”
“Are you strong enough?”
“I can keep the heat off Sig.” His eyes meet Sig’s. “You’ll have to do the rest.”
Including protecting Oskar from cold and ice. Sig gives him a curt nod. Together, we reach the stone steps that lead into darkness. Sig creates a ball of fire to float above our heads and light our path. He goes first, then me, then Oskar, whose steps are not nearly as steady as I want them to be. “Oskar—”
“I’m fine,” he whispers. “Stop worrying.”
Raimo’s words slide through my head. You’ll regret this love. I grasp the edges of my borrowed cloak and stare at Sig’s back.
Sig tenses as we reach the base of the steps, his head swiveling back and forth as the maze stretches before us. His ball of fire disappears, plunging us into darkness. And then he takes my hand. “To the left,” he murmurs—at the same time Oskar says the same thing.
They feel the magic. Which means Kauko will feel us coming. Sig’s palm is hot on mine as he pulls me forward, but I stretch my deformed right hand back, my fingertips skimming the fur of Oskar’s cloak.
His cool hand gently closes over mine. I tense, expecting the icy flow of his magic inside me, but nothing comes. He’s holding it back, keeping it for when he needs it. But the feel of his palm against mine is a tiny island of safety. I close my eyes as goose bumps ride along my skin.
When I open them, I realize we’re not in total darkness. There’s a guttering light at the end of this long, dripping tunnel. And I know exactly where it leads.
“He might be luring us,” warns Oskar.
“Or trying to escape,” I say. “This is the path that leads to the temple dock. There’s a boat.”
“He has no idea how powerful we are.” Sig’s grip on my hand is so tight that it hurts.
A tiny, high-pitched sob echoes down the tunnel, followed by a metallic clatter. “Lahja,” I whisper, as if she could hear my voice, as if I could reach her. “We have to get her out safe.”
“We will,” murmurs Oskar, squeezing my fingers.
Sig tugs us down the tunnel, his hatred throwing off heat so extreme that the air is filling with vapor. “Elder,” he calls out in a jittery, excited voice. “We’d like a word.”
He tows me around the corner, then pulls up short, cursing. The chamber is lit with several torches. Elder Eljas lies on the table that occupies one side of the chamber, his flat-nosed face turned toward us. It’s blistered and blackened from the fire yesterday. His wrists are red and swollen and crusted from his efforts to free himself from the shackles that hold him prisoner. His eyes harbor his silent scream, but already they’re going dim. His body is trembling and pale, and it’s clear he doesn’t have enough strength to free himself with magic. One of his sleeves is pushed up to his shoulder. Blood flows steadily from several deep gashes along the inside of his forearm, which is positioned over a hole cut in the table’s surface. The thick splatter of droplets echoes as it collects in a copper pitcher sitting beneath the hole.