The Girl of Fire and Thorns Complete Collection (119 page)

“Of course.”

“So once we are into the mountains, away from the villages and priests who might sense my Godstone, I’d like to try a few things. I can already heal with it, and when I was connected directly to the
zafira
, I was able to create a protective barrier to fend off the gatekeeper.”

“You made things grow too,” he adds. A muscle in his jaw twitches, like he’s barely keeping his excitement in check. Maybe this is a conversation he has been anticipating. “And you freed me by breaking my chains. Nothing has been able to break them since.”

“And I couldn’t break them now, without direct access to the
zafira
. But there are some things I could always do just by reaching through the skin of the earth. Something happened to me in that cavern, Storm. And though it’s nothing like the feeling I got when the power was swirling all around me, I suspect . . . I hope . . . that I can do more than I used to.”

His fingers are fisted in his tunic now. He knows what I’m going to say next.

“So, I’d like to try summoning fire, like your animagi do. And . . . I’d like you to try it too.”

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at me.

I press on. “I suspect the
zafira
changed you too. You
could sense it as we approached, remember? And it touched you, claimed you for its gatekeeper before I stole you away. So maybe it has awakened your stone a little. Maybe you can do things with it now that you couldn’t before.”

His hand goes to his chest, where he clutches the amulet that hangs hidden beneath his tunic. I’ve seen it only once before—a tiny iron cage, black with age, that houses a blue jewel just like the one that lives in my navel.

Except his is powerless. Dead.

“We could train together, you and I.” Gently I add, “No one need know about it, save our companions.”

He is silent for a long time. One of the horses snorts and tosses her mane. Something rustles in the tumbleweed beside us.

“I will try it,” he says at last. “Once we are in the mountains. Near the divide, beyond the free villages, is a weeklong stretch of travel where we will not encounter even a trading post. That will be a good time.”

“Yes,” I agree, relieved to have convinced him so easily. “A very good time.”

6

HECTOR

I
F
Elisa were here, she could pray warmth into her body with the power of her Godstone. It gives me comfort. She’ll never be so cold as I am now.

Wind whistles down the mountain slopes, penetrating even my leather armor, flinging needles of icy rain. The Inviernos greet the cooling weather with laughter and smiles of relief, but we Joyans hunch over our horses for warmth, letting our mounts guide us rather than raising our faces to the wet cold.

In spite of the clove hitch, I stretch my fingers open, then tighten them into fists. Open, close—over and over again, to force warmth and movement. The effort grinds the ties into my wrists, but I keep at it. The air has gotten so cold that icy numbness is a greater danger than injury.

But by the time Franco calls a halt, I know I’ve miscalculated. I’ve lost the battle and my palms have cramped, my fingers curled into useless claws. Which means I must now deal with both numbness
and
injury.

One of the Joyans, a stocky man with a chipped front tooth,
comes to help me from the saddle. I know him vaguely. A soldier from the city watch, one of General Luz-Manuel’s men. Yet more evidence that our highest-ranking military official has been plotting treason with the conde.

If I don’t dismount quickly, I’ll be yanked off. My left leg is steady in its stirrup as I swing my right leg over and slide to the ground. I can do it without grabbing the pommel now, though I always pretend to. With a little more practice, I’ll turn the dismount into a hard kick to someone’s face.

The Joyan with the chipped tooth drags me toward a pine tree, forces me to sit, and ties me up, wrapping my waist three times. He ends with a hasty triple-looped rolling hitch—a knot that is unique to Puerto Verde. Sunny Puerto Verde. I’m not the only one who is a very long way from home.

I say, “It’s wrong that the Inviernos drag us into their icy winter without outfitting us properly. It’s like they
want
us to suffer.”

“Shut up,” he says.

He yanks on the rope, testing it. Satisfied, he stands and gazes toward the warm, bright campfire. It’s surrounded by laughing Inviernos. He rubs at the thin linen covering his arms.

I have made him notice. That’s all I need to do.

Later, Franco himself brings soup in a bowl. It’s gamey and thick with pine-bark pulp. I peer over the rim while I slurp it down. I’ve gotten better at doing everything with my useless hands. When I get back to Brisadulce, I may institute this as a training exercise; all my men should learn how to eat, ride, and
use the latrine with their hands tied. “Where are you taking me?” I ask Franco, not expecting a response.

The Invierno smiles, slick and cruel. I’d love to obliterate that smile with my fist, but I tamp the image down. I won’t let Franco get under my skin.

“To our capital, to face the Deciregi,” he says. “We’ll hold you there until your queen comes for you.”

The Deciregi. I repeat the word silently so it will stick in my memory. “Then you’ll let me go?”

“Don’t be an idiot. Once we have your queen, you’ll never rest until you get her back. We’ll have to kill you.”

“But you said—”

“Did we?”

I narrow my eyes.
Come with no thought to returning
, Franco said to Elisa,
for this is pleasing to God. You may bring a small escort, but no soldiers. Otherwise, he dies
.

Only now do I hear what was unspoken.
When you come, he still dies
.

“You are liars,” I say. “All of you. You don’t lie with words, but your intent is ever to deceive.”

Franco grabs the empty bowl from my hands. “It’s the highest art form, deceiving without lying. A word is the only thing in the world made more powerful by absence than existence.”

The Invierno straightens and peers down a delicate nose, as if sizing me up. When he was a spy in Conde Eduardo’s entourage, he shuffled and carried himself with a slight hunch. Now that there is no longer need for pretense, I see how very tall he is—taller even than Storm.

“What do you want?” I ask wearily. “Tending to the prisoner is surely beneath you.”

“Your queen. When I allowed her to say good-bye to you, she whispered something. What was it?”

“I
’
ll come for you. Stay alive for me, Hector. And be ready
.”

“She said to escape if I could, because she can’t risk a whole kingdom to rescue one man, not even a Quorum lord.”

“You lie.”

“With words or without?”

Franco frowns. “I saw the way she looked at you. You are life and breath to her.”

He’s wrong about that. Elisa loves fiercely, it’s true. But she loves with her heart
and
mind. If she comes for me, it will be part of a larger plan to rescue all of Joya.

I don’t realize I’m smiling until Franco says, “See? Just thinking about her makes you shine with her fire. Bearers are like that, you know. God always chooses the ones who inspire great loyalty.”

I hate that he presumes anything about her. “How would you know? There is only one, and you know nothing of her.”

“There are two.”

“What?”

Franco gives me that edged grin, then turns his back and ambles toward the campfire.

Two bearers
.

I stare after him, shivering in the dark. Maybe I should ask for a blanket, but I don’t want to appear weak. Or maybe appearing weak is the better strategy.

I’m about to call out when something jabs the back of my knee. I shift, and the jabbing disappears. Shift again, and it returns, sharper than before.

It feels like an arrowhead. Or a discarded spear point. All I know for sure is that it might be a way free.

My heartbeat deepens, smooth and slow, as if I’m preparing for battle. I glance around to make sure no one is looking. Then quietly, carefully, I reach down with my tied hands and slide my fingers under my leg. I strain so hard that the ropes around my body cut off my breath, but I’m almost there. I snag a sharp edge with the tip of my left middle finger, slide it from under my leg through the dirt, lift it in my cupped hands to the moonlight.

It’s a flake of stone, as hard as flint. No, more like glass, shimmering and black. Obsidian. With an edge sharp enough to cut rope.

I wedge it between my thumb and forefinger, and I begin to saw at my bonds.

It’s slow going, and the movement cinches the rope, making me breathless with pain. It will take many nights’ work. I’ll have to hide the stone during the day and hope they don’t search me.

When my hands cramp, when blood drips into my palm, when I’m shivering so badly from the cold that the pain is a dull ache, I maneuver the rock into the pocket of my pants.

I lean my head back against the tree trunk and close my eyes to review my conversation with Franco. The Deciregi, he said.
Two
bearers.

Which would be wiser? Escape as soon as possible so Elisa doesn’t have to pursue too far into the mountains? Or wait and learn more?

I flex my hands, trying to force warmth into them. But they are cramped from sawing and dangerously numb. If it gets any colder, frostbite will render me useless to her, no matter what. I’m running out of time.

7

O
NCE
again we are too near the trail for a fire. But we are surrounded by plenty; Belén scrapes the spines from the fleshly leaf of a prickly pear cactus while I dig through piñon pinecones. We dine on fresh greens and nuts, and there are enough nuts left over that I put a handful in Mara’s spice satchel, thinking they’ll make a nice addition to a soup or stew.

Mara vomits up her dinner.

But her dizziness passes soon after, and finally Belén lets her sleep. I insist he sleep too, as Storm and I take watch.

The sun dips below the horizon. I work through Hector’s training exercises. Some of the poses require so much balance and focus that I forget how frustrated I am at being delayed here while he drifts farther away from me.

I’m sheened with sweat by the time I finish, and breathing hard. But I can’t sit still. Storm watches, bemused, as I pace our campsite. Maybe I’ll pace all night, or practice with my daggers. Belén and Mara could certainly use the sleep.

Clouds pass over the moon. The temperature drops suddenly, and I shiver. My cloak is folded up on my bedroll, but I can hardly see where to go. I step in its general direction, tripping over detritus as I go.

“Storm?” I whisper.

“Yes. A big one,” he whispers back.

Lightning cracks the sky to the east, leaving a flash memory to guide me. The toe of my boots finds the bedroll, and I bend over, feeling around for my cloak. There! I swing it around my shoulders and tie it at the neck.

I try to remember: Did we camp in a dry wash? Would a flash flood drown us all? Which direction was the trail, exactly, and could I find it in the utter dark if I needed to?

With Mara injured, and with the temperature dropping so quickly, maybe it’s worth the risk to have a fire.

I feel around for my pack, reach inside for the tinderbox. I’m searching for a branch or a dry cone, something to give me a little bit of light so I can find decent firewood, when the first fat drops splat on my cheeks.

Lightning spears the sky again, followed by a crack of thunder. The horses snort and shuffle their hooves.

“We need to find shelter,” Storm says. “Immediately.”

“A little rain won’t hurt us,” I say.

“Have you ever seen hail? Sometimes in these mountains, the chunks of ice falling from the sky are as big as my fist.”

I gasp. No, never have I seen such a thing. “Belén!” I yell. “Mara! Wake up.”

I hear scrambling, a muffled grunt, and a curse.

“Is someone coming?” Belén says. “You shouldn’t yell so l—”