The Girl of Fire and Thorns Complete Collection (123 page)

We collect our horses from the ostler and lead them to the
village outskirts. It’s dark and cool, the stars so bright that the sky seems like a tapestry woven of night bloomers. This high in the mountains, the trees are sparse and stunted, but we find a group of pines thriving in the shade of a granite cliff and make camp among them. I eye the cliff gratefully as we flip out our bedrolls. It’s one less approach to guard.

Belén tends to the horses, and Storm settles down to pray. No one speaks. Mara’s features are set stubbornly, as if she expects a scolding. She deserves one, and I have to give it to her. My stomach roils with the sudden understanding that I cannot be both queen and friend to her in this moment.

“Mara,” I say.

She is shifting through her pack for something, and she looks up at me, her eyes narrowed.

“I understand why you intervened on Mula’s behalf,” I tell her. “But—”

“No,” she whispers. “You really don’t.”

I have scars too
, I want to say.
And some are even carved into my flesh
. But I hesitate. Because if Mara told me she knew exactly how I felt, I wouldn’t believe her either.

“Fine. I don’t understand. But if you endanger our purpose again by being rash and ridiculous, you will walk home to Brisadulce alone.”

“He was going to kill her!”

“I doubt it. She’s valuable property to him. Even so, it was a bad decision. She is not worth your life to me. Or Belén’s or Storm’s. She’s not worth my whole kingdom.” I cringe inwardly at my callousness, but it’s not the first time I’ve had
to weigh lives against each other, and it won’t be the last.

Mara stretches out on her bedroll. She puts her hands behind her head and gazes up at the night sky. I wait a moment, thinking that she will surely apologize. Or at least thank me for buying the girl. But she says nothing.

Sighing, I sit down on my own bedroll and unlace my boots.

The morning dawns bright, clear, and cold. I spend a few moments breathing, watching with wonder as the air leaves my body and turns to fog.

Storm sniffs, and his face darkens.

“Storm?”

“Winter comes early,” he says, staring off in the direction of the white-capped peaks. “Even if we’re successful in retrieving the commander, we risk getting trapped in these mountains.”

We rush to pack up, and return to the inn to find Mula waiting at the door. When she sees us, her face breaks into a smile, displaying two huge, slightly crooked front teeth.

She is as naked as the day she was born but doesn’t bother to cover herself. Her bruised body seems made up entirely of knees and elbows. A welt juts out of her forehead like newly risen dough. Bright purple stretches down from it and hugs her right eye.

“Where are your clothes?” I demand.

Her smile falters. “You didn’t buy my clothes,” she says. “Just me.”

I take a deep, calming breath. I grab the reins to Belén’s horse and say to him, “Please go settle our account with Orlín.” If I walk in there myself, I’m liable to let Mara gut him after all.

As Belén enters the inn, Mara hands Jasmine’s reins to Storm and says, “I’ll fetch our laundry. Mula can wear my extra blouse for now.”

I nod, and she hurries off. Mula and Storm stare at each other in a mutual sizing-up that for some reason amuses me.

“Are you an animagus?” she says. “You look like an animagus. But your hair is ugly.”

His green eyes flare wide. “I am a pri—”

“Storm!”

His mouth slams closed. Then: “I am nobody,” he says instead, his eyes downcast. “Nobody important.”

I study him thoughtfully. “Storm is my very good friend,” I say. “And you must mind him while you are with us.”

“Oh, yes,” she says. “I will mind perfectly. You are going to be so glad you bought me.”

Not likely. I don’t dare take her to Invierne with us. I can’t be slowed down, and I can’t worry about yet another life. Maybe someone in the next village will agree to care for her in exchange for being well paid. I sigh loudly. It will mean flashing coin and drawing attention yet again.

Mula stares as if reading my thoughts. “I can cook,” she says. “And clean. I can keep your clothes washed. You don’t have to go to a laundress ever again.”

“How old are you?” At first glance, I thought her no more
than eight years old. But something about the way she talks, and her piercing golden gaze, makes me wonder if she might be older.

She just shrugs.

“How long were you with Orlín?”

“Four years.”

“And before that?”

She gestures toward the merchant booth full of sparkling glass. The Invierno woman’s back is to us as she arranges baubles on a table. “I was with
her
for two years. But she had a bad season and had to sell me.”

I glare at the Invierno. “And before that?”

“I don’t remember. I was too little.”

If the girl has six years of memory, she is probably nine or ten.

“Do you have a name besides Mula?”

“Sometimes Orlín calls me Rat,” she says. “He used to catch me nibbling on . . .” Her mouth freezes open. “But I don’t do that anymore! I swear it!”

“A little girl deserves a proper name,” I say.

“Like what?”

I think for a moment, but nothing comes to mind. “How about you name yourself?” I say.

She stares at me agape. “For true?”

“For true.”

“Anything?”

“Anything you want.”

She looks down at the ground and kicks a clump of grass
with dirty toes. I resist the urge to pull my bedroll from my pack and wrap it around her naked body.

“A name is a grave matter,” Storm says.

She looks back and forth between us, her tiny features screwed into a mask of utter seriousness. “I will think hard about this,” she says.

“Let me know when you’ve decided.” I suppose Mula will do for now.

Belén barrels out of the inn and high-steps down the stairs, swinging his pack over his shoulder. “Where’s Mara?” he asks. “We should leave at once.”

“What happened?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe nothing. But Orlín hardly looked at me as our money changed hands. Everything was too quiet. I have a bad feeling.”

I trust Belén’s instincts more than just about anyone’s. I hand him his reins. “Mara is fetching our laundry. Then we’ll ride hard until we’re well away.” Most of the merchants have finished setting up their booths now, and the courtyard fills with people. They eye us warily as they go about their business.

Belén stares down at Mula, frowning. “And the girl?”

“We’ll figure something out.”

“What happened to your eye?” Mula asks, pointing at his patch.

He is saved having to respond as Mara hurries up, her arms full of neatly folded linens. “She tried to charge me double,” she says. “Word is out that we have coin.”

Quickly we divvy up the linens and shove them inside our
packs. Mara shakes out her blouse and hands it to Mula. “Put this on.”

Mula does, and the hem nearly reaches her knees. The neckline threatens to hang off one shoulder, but the girl doesn’t seem to care. She strokes the linen lovingly. Then she lifts the hem to her cheek and caresses her face with it, revealing all the parts we just took such pains to cover.

“Mara, you’re in charge of the girl. She’ll ride with you.”

“Of course.”

Horse lips my braid as I move around her to mount. “Stop that,” I mutter, but I pause to give her muzzle a quick scratch.

Mara scoots back in her new saddle to make room. Storm lifts Mula as if she is no heavier than a fallen leaf, and Mara wraps a steadying arm around the girl’s waist. Mula clutches the pommel like her life depends on it. “I’ve never been on a horse before,” she breathes.

“They’re not so bad,” I say, giving Horse a kick. We ride out of the village at a leisurely walk, not wanting to attract attention, but the horses sense our nervousness and step high, flicking their tails. The moment we’re out of sight, we break into a hard gallop.

10

HECTOR

T
HE
snow fascinates me.

Though its cold leaches into my bones, I can’t help lifting my bound hands to catch the falling flakes. They land, sparkling and light as butterfly wings, only to melt against my skin into something so commonplace as water.

It’s a reminder that transformations happen in a second. That my status as a prisoner is a fleeting, ephemeral state, needing only the right circumstance to dissolve it.

We have descended to where trees grow again. It’s colder on this side of the mountain, cloudier, stormier. Every time the snow begins to fall, the Inviernos mutter to one another in hushed tones. Franco glowers incessantly. He cuts our rest stops short and orders us into a gallop whenever we reach a flat stretch of trail.

They read something worrisome in the weather, the same way I can sniff the ocean air, gauge the color of the sky, and feel in my marrow that a hurricane is coming. I listen hard to their conversation for clues, pay attention to the chilling breeze on
my face, note the way the horses paw through the light layer of snow on the ground to get to the grass underneath. Because whatever it is they are sensing, I want to sense it too.

Anything that worries my captors presents an opportunity for me.

When we stop briefly to graze the horses in a small alpine meadow, I already have my ear turned toward Franco when he says to his men, “Keep to the center of the meadow. Don’t let the horses stray toward the mountain laurel.”

The Joyan who always rides sentry beside me helps me dismount. His knuckles are huge and his fingers are crooked; he’s a brawler who has used his fists too often. “I need to relieve myself,” I say.

A few weeks ago, this exact request was met with a shrug and a “Soil yourself for all I care.” But I’ve given him no trouble. They’ve purposely kept me weak from hunger, and I’ve made sure they see how my hands have stiffened into useless claws. He grabs me by the collar and pushes me toward the edge of the meadow without a word of protest.

But I have full use of my hands now. My bonds remain stuck to my skin, crusted on by blood and sweat. But if I were to separate my wrists, anyone could see the unraveling mess of hemp created by night upon night of sawing with a now-dull rock.

We near the stunted trees, and my captor gives me a shove. I allow myself to stumble. I hope I’m not overdoing it. But a quick glance over my shoulder assures me the Joyan sentry has already lost interest. He gazes back toward the center of
the meadow, where the horses cluster together, chomping on frozen grass.

I won’t have much time. I scan the foliage around me, mentally sorting it, eliminating the familiar. Not lupine, not ferns, not paintbrush . . . there! A shrub with long, waxy leaves and dried flowers that might have been pink or red during high summer.

I glance back again. The Joyan is not watching.

I snap off a sprig of mountain laurel, shove it down my shirt. The Joyan still does not look my way, so I grab a huge handful. I pat it down beneath my shirt to even out the lumps.

“What’s taking so long?”

I nearly jump. “Almost done,” I answer in a bored voice, pretending to tie up my pants. I turn around and say, “Thank you.” The laurel scratches the skin of my abdomen. I resist the urge to look down and check for telltale bulges.

He grunts and leads me back toward the horses. I’m not sure what I’ll do with the mountain laurel. I just know that a plant worth avoiding is a plant worth having. Elisa taught me that.

I’ve memorized the rolling hitch knot used to tie me to a tree each night. It’s a variation on a knot my brother Felix taught me, easy to tie and untie if one’s hands are free. Usually, the traitor Joyan who ties it puts the knot off to the side, just out of my reach. But Franco has been pushing so hard, everyone is exhausted, and I am a model prisoner.

Inevitably, tonight, the Joyan gets careless. The knot isn’t
quite so tight. Not quite so far off to the side.

My limbs tingle with before-battle anticipation. As everyone stretches out on their bedrolls and the evening fire burns low, I think I might come out of my own skin with readiness.

I consider escaping but reject the notion immediately. Though I’m not as handicapped as I’ve led my captors to believe, I’m weak from hunger and stiff from lack of exercise. I would need to steal one of the horses to get fast and far, but I could never sneak past the perimeter watch on a horse.

And I keep hearing intriguing bits of conversation. Something about a gate, another
sendara
that leads to a place of power.

So instead of escaping, I’ll do what I can to slow us down and give Elisa a chance to catch up. In the meantime, I’ll learn all that I can.

Tonight, the chip-toothed Joyan sits cross-legged on the ground before me—a little farther away than usual. I close my eyes, letting my head drop to the left, and feign sleep.

Eventually the breathing of my guard becomes deep and nasal. I open my eyes. The Joyan is definitely asleep.

I survey the camp, seeking movement. Everyone slumbers, though I know the perimeter watch patrols just out of sight. A cloud covers the moon, shrouding everything in darkness. Good. It will be easier to sneak around.