The Girl of Fire and Thorns Complete Collection (115 page)

“They’re looking for a group of four travelers,” Belén says finally.

“Which means someone must stay behind,” I say.

As one, we shift on our stomachs to face Storm. “Yes, yes,” he says wearily. “A party of four, one of whom is an Invierno, would mark you as clearly as your Godstone crown.”

“We’ll find a good rendezvous point for you to wait,” I tell him. “I won’t leave you behind.”

He nods. “I know.”

We belly crawl backward, then skid down the graveled hillside into the narrow arroyo below. As we weave toward our campsite, following the arroyo’s meager trickle of water, I wonder at my lack of uneasiness. I should be terrified at the prospect of walking into an enemy barracks, stealing their horses, and riding away into the night. But I feel nothing except raw determination, with a bit of anger for spice.

It’s possible I’ve been through too much, lost too much. War damages different people in different ways; Hector taught me that. King Alejandro became spineless and incapable. His father before him was rash and unpredictable, if I’m to believe court gossip. Perhaps this is my damage. Maybe I am numb to fear because I am broken.

Our campsite lies in a copse of cottonwoods, elevated just enough to stay dry during a flash flood. We retrieve our packs from where we stashed them behind a deadfall. Mara starts putting ingredients together for a soup while Storm leaves to gather firewood. It will be a while yet before we eat; Mara will let the mix soak but won’t start a fire until the black of night hides our smoke.

I find an open space and begin the slow, dancelike warm-up exercises of my Royal Guard, exactly the way Hector taught me. It’s always difficult at first, because it brings to mind his memory, so vivid and startling that I have to swallow against tears. His callused fingers on my arm, guiding my movement. His breath in my ear as he gives clear, patient instructions. The scents of oiled leather and aloe shaving gel.

But as always, it passes. The movement takes over, the memory fades, my mind clears. When my focus is as sharp as one of Mara’s arrowheads, I review everything I observed: the layout of the village around a central plaza, the surrounding ridges and low brush, the young men at the inn who played at soldiering . . .

“Belén.” A wicked smile stretches my lips.

He pauses from his sharpening, knife and whetstone
hovering in the air. His one good eye narrows. “I know that look,” he says.

“What if we used Storm as a decoy? Convince the village it’s under attack by Inviernos? The inn would empty of soldiers. We could take the horses easily. Then, when word reached the conde that our old enemy is attacking again, he’d have to send troops to protect his border. It would thin his resources even further.”

His face turns thoughtful. Wind whistles through the scrub brush, and he whisks his knife against the whetstone in sharp counterpoint. At last he says, “Storm’s hair. You made him cut it and dye it black. From a distance, they might not recognize him for an Invierno.”

“He’s tall,” I insist. “If he remained cowled and wore his Godstone amulet visibly . . .”

“They’d never believe he was attacking,” Mara says from her place at the still-cold fire pit. “Not if he can’t throw fire from his amulet.”

Mara is right. Storm is not only an enemy defector, he’s a failed sorcerer, one of the few Inviernos born with a Godstone. When he was four years old, it detached from his navel, and he began training to become an animagus. But he was never able to call the
zafira
, the living magic that creeps beneath the crust of the world, never learned to bring its fire. So he was exiled in disgrace to my late husband’s court as an ambassador.

Odd how being named an ambassador is considered his mark of shame, when the position carries such honor in my
own court. There is so much about Invierne and its people that we do not understand.

“I’ll stand with Storm,” Mara says. “Or hide nearby and shoot arrows from the ridge. There are some piñons in the area; if we find resin, I could coat the arrowheads, light them on fire. Smoke and flames cause a lot of confusion—I know it too well.”

Belén gives her an admiring look, and she blushes. He says, “It would be a while before they figured out the fire came from your arrows rather than our fake animagus. Especially if we did it at first light, when the rising sun makes seeing tricky.”

“Mara, that’s brilliant,” I tell her, even as my heart sinks at the thought of setting anything on fire. I hate that I must cut a swath of devastation through my own country in order to save it. Weakly, I ask, “Please promise you’ll do as little damage as possible?”

“Of course,” she says gently.

“So Belén and I will take a room for the night,” I say. “On a prearranged signal—at dawn, so the village can see just enough to identify an Invierno?—Mara and Storm will attack. In the chaos, we’ll sneak into the stable and grab four horses. Then circle around for the two of you.”

Mara digs into her spice satchel and retrieves a leather pouch. She empties some gray-green flakes into her palm and scatters them into her pot. “You should free the remaining horses,” she says without looking up. “Or even kill them. Otherwise, we’ll be pursued.”

I stare at her. Mara is lovely and lithe, soft-spoken and
unassuming. I often forget how capable and ruthless she can be. She lived a lifetime before becoming my lady-in-waiting, and though she doesn’t talk about it much, I know that the scars she bears—the drooping eyelid, the mangled earlobe, the burn mark on her belly—are minor compared to those wounds that no one can see.

“There are so many things that could go wrong with this plan,” Belén says.

I purse my lips, thinking hard. Chief among the possibilities, of course, is me. I haven’t handled horses since I was twelve years old. My sister, Alodia, always excelled at horsemanship, but I avoided the creatures—at first to prevent yet another unflattering comparison between us, and later because they were so large, and it had just been too long, and somehow in avoiding them I had let myself become frightened of them.

But I’m determined to do it now. For Hector. For my kingdom. Surely there’s not much to it? How hard can it be to get on and stay on until we are out of danger?

“I’ll scout around tonight,” Belén says. “Find a good rendezvous point. We need to convince Storm, then figure out a way to minimize his exposure. They’ll start shooting at him as soon as he shows himself.”

Storm chooses this moment to push through a wall of bramble and reenter the camp. His arms are full of twisted deadwood, and smears of sweat mar his perfect face. “Convince me of what?”

I take a deep breath and explain the plan.

Storm drops the firewood near Mara’s pit and sits beside it,
cross-legged. The manacles on his ankles gleam in the failing light of evening.

“In my country,” he says, “it is a great crime to impersonate an animagus. Punishable by death.”

“But will you do it?” I ask gently.

He hesitates the space of a breath before saying, “Of course. I am your loyal subject.”

3

T
HE
inn is a dim, smoky place that reeks of urine, moldy rushes, and week-old stew. Instead of the large sitting cushions and low tables that I’ve become accustomed to in the western holdings, the room contains a haphazard mix of trestle tables, benches, and stools. Almost every spot is occupied by conscripted soldiers, and they look up when Belén and I enter, then stare unabashedly.

I try to appear relaxed and indifferent, telling myself firmly that this village lies along a trade route, and strangers are not that uncommon.

A burly man approaches, wringing a hand towel. A graying beard curls down to his chest, stopping just before it reaches a once-white apron that has been patched in several places. “No vacancy,” he says in a gravelly voice. “But I can serve you up some lamb stew and send you on your way.”

Belén and I exchange an alarmed glance. We should have considered this possibility.

“We’ll sleep anywhere,” I say hastily. “We just need a place
out of the wind and dust for once.”

He rubs his chin, studying us. “Been a lot like you through here lately,” he says. “Fleeing east ahead of the coming war.”

Belén nods. “We have family in the free villages.”

“Head too far east, and you take your chances with Inviernos,” says the bearded man.

“Better them than civil war, when your enemy looks just like your brother,” I say.

He peers at me through the dimness, and I expect him to say something like,
You look familiar
or
You’re too dark skinned to be from around here
. Instead he shrugs and says, “The loft in the stable is unoccupied. The straw is clean. I’ll give it to you for half the price of a regular room.”

“Done,” Belén says. “And our thanks.”

He gestures for us to follow, and we weave through the tables, pass under a wooden stair, and push through a cluttered and busy kitchen. He opens a back door into a small stable that stinks of manure—an improvement on the scent of the common room we just vacated.

The innkeeper indicates a nearby ladder. “Up there,” he says. “Four coppers gets you each a bowl of stew. Six coppers gets you stew with meat. Shall I have Sirta bring some for you?”

“Please,” I say. “With meat.” My expectations for the stew are low, but last time I was in the desert I learned never to turn down a meal.

He leaves, and Belén and I climb into the loft. The ceiling is low and made of dried palm thatch. It’s hot up here—a little too hot—and I already miss our camp that is open to
the breeze and to the stars. But the innkeeper did not lie; the straw is fresh and clean.

“We got lucky,” Belén says. From below comes a soft snort and a hard
thunk
as a horse paws against his stall door.

“Yes, we did.” And I can’t help but wonder: If luck is a finite thing, to be doled out in increments, have we used it up too quickly? From habit, my fingertips find the Godstone at my navel.
Please, God. Let this work
.

Heat washes through my body as the stone pulses a joyous response. I jerk my hand away.

I’ve been praying less lately, even though I feel bereft without prayer. Ever since my encounter with the
zafira
, when the magic of the world touched me directly, the Godstone has been too eager, like a tidal wave inside me yearning to rush free.

By the time the girl, Sirta, comes with the stew, it’s too dark to discern anything about her. How she maneuvers two bowlfuls up the ladder I cannot guess, but we thank her and eat eagerly. The meat is gamey, and the cook used too much salt, but it’s not as bad as I expected.

Normally, I’d use any idle time to practice with my daggers. Belén has taken up where Hector left off, teaching me to defend myself, even to fight a little. But the loft offers little room for exercise, and I don’t want to make noise that would draw attention. So after eating, we settle in to wait impatiently. We’ll make our move at first light.

I don’t realize I’ve dozed until Belén shakes me. “The sky brightens,” he whispers. “Soon, now.”

I stretch and blink myself awake, then shoulder my pack and follow him down the ladder.

The back of the stable is open to the outside so that the building resembles an overgrown potting shed. A guard passes the opening at steady intervals. I’m hoping that when Storm and Mara begin their attack, he’ll run off on foot instead of pursuing the enemy on horseback.

Seven of the eight stalls are occupied by horses. The eighth is stacked high with hay bales. Most of the tack, however, has been wisely stowed elsewhere. Belén and I poke around quietly and come up with only two saddles, one bridle, two soft halters, and a single blanket.

“Mara and I will go bareback,” he whispers. “You can have the horse with a saddle and bridle.” I breathe my thanks.

The clang of cast iron and the stomp of footsteps filter through the door from the kitchen. The inn rises early to prepare breakfast. Not much time until someone comes to tend the horses.

“Can we wedge the door shut?” I ask. “It might win us some time.” Even the minute or two it would take for the soldiers to realize the door was jammed and run around back would help.

Belén’s gaze darts around. “The hay bales! Help me move them.”

I open the stall door and wince at the creaking hinges. The bales are too heavy for me to lift, but I’m able to grab a cross-section of twine and drag them backward into place. Belén, on the other hand, stacks them quickly, two wide, two thick, four high, until we’ve made a solid wall.

“Watch the entrance while I saddle a horse for you,” Belén says. “Listen for Mara’s signal.”

I creep toward the opening, wary of the patrolling guard. The sky is as blue-black as a bruise, and the stars are dimming. As soon as light peeks through the mountain peaks, Mara and Storm will begin their phony assault.

My Godstone cools in my belly, giving me a slight shiver, and I cast my awareness about, alert for danger. If my life were imperiled, the stone would turn to ice, but it is merely chilly. Which means either the danger is distant, or it remains within the realm of possibility. All these nuances now, ever since the
zafira
. It’s like I’m living with a whole new Godstone. Or maybe it’s always been this way, and I’m only now learning how to interpret its signals.