I can’t siphon away this kind of cold. “But my mother . . . the day after my father’s funeral, even though I was barely healed enough to travel, she packed up me and Freya, who was only a few months old at the time, and headed for the outlands.”
“Maarika told me your father was killed in a hunting accident.”
He winces. “And I suppose she was right.”
“Does she know you’re a wielder?”
Oskar slowly drags his finger along the rough surface of my branch. “I suspect she’s always known. But she’s never said a word about it, and I’ve never brought it up.” His finger stops a few inches from my hip. “I think we both hate what I am.”
The savage pain in his voice makes my throat tight. “But denying what you are is hurting you.”
His fingers clutch the branch, and his tension vibrates through my body. “Embracing it would hurt everybody else.”
It won’t hurt me. The words are on the tip of my tongue, fighting to break free. But fear of what that admission could bring holds them back. “Do you ever use it? Don’t you need to?”
It seems like magic bleeds from him, whether he wants it to or not, and my suspicion is confirmed as he nods. “There is one good thing about it,” he says, his voice taking on a playful tone, though I don’t miss the current of sadness on which it floats. He looks out at the rolling dunes. “I’ll show you right now if you want to see.”
I nod eagerly, and he motions for me to stay where I am, then creeps toward the edge of the trees. At the base of a dune perhaps twenty feet from our spot are two white hares, hopping along, looking for a few tender shoots to nibble. Oskar squats next to a wide oak and stares at the two little animals. A sudden wind blows across the fluffy snow toward them.
Their heads jerk up, as if they smell a predator. But instead of scampering away, they both topple sideways into the snow. Oskar stands up and strides out of the trees, scoops up the two creatures, and carries them back to me. They hang stiff in his grasp, their bodies swinging as he holds them up.
“What did you do?” I ask, staring at the obviously dead animals.
Oskar looks down at his kills. “I froze their blood,” he says simply.
I blink slowly, recalling what he said when I asked him if that bear trap had been his. I never use that kind. “Is this how you hunt?”
He shrugs. “It’s quicker than traps. I think it’s fairly painless for the animal.” He lays the two hares on the snow at his feet. “And it allows me to get rid of some of the ice.”
Which must be why he goes out every day, even now that the weather’s turned cold, even though Maarika has more meat than she knows what to do with. “Do the others know?”
He stomps his feet, loosening some of the snow crusted on the toes of his boots. “Probably some of them suspect. But I hunt alone and field dress everything, so no one sees how I kill.”
“Does Raimo know?”
“Yes, because when I was about thirteen and the nightmares were getting really bad, I was stupid enough to go to him and ask him if he could take the magic away. He set my pants on fire that day.”
“What?”
“I withstand heat a lot better than cold,” he says drily. “But I had to go back to my mother and explain my ruined trousers.” He slaps his hand over his thigh. “Raimo wants to train me to control it. He says I’m something called a Suurin. An extreme. He thinks Sig is one too. Sig was only too willing to accept Raimo’s training, and look what he’s become.”
The way Oskar says it, I know he doesn’t think Sig’s become anything good.
“How does Raimo know so much?”
“Maybe because he’s as old as time?” he says lightly. “Honestly, I don’t know. He’s been part of the camp—sort of—since long before we joined, but no one can remember when he showed up. He heals injuries and some illnesses with his magic in return for food and goods. And he’s never around during the winter.” He slides his boot through the snow, wearing a path all the way to the dirt below. “So . . . did he happen to tell you what you are?”