The Girl of Fire and Thorns Complete Collection (124 page)

The ropes don’t allow much range of motion, and when I bend my elbows, I can barely reach the knot. It’s awkward work, and I’m not sure how I’ll tie myself back up later. But I am committed to my course.

I shake the ropes loose and step out of them. I pause, breath held, listening for movement.

Tree frogs chirrup nearby, and a slight breeze rustles the pine boughs. The air is crisp and dry, with a citrusy tang. It will snow tonight. I smile into the dark, for I am developing my nose for snow.

But it means I must enact my plan before it falls, lest my footprints betray me in the morning. I creep toward the horses, reaching beneath my shirt for the mountain laurel. It has been chafing my skin all day, leaving tiny, itching welts.

The horses nicker a soft greeting, and I crouch low, for someone is surely on watch nearby. I’m counting on the horses’ swishing tails and the way they huddle together for warmth to disguise my movements.

I know exactly which mount goes with which rider. I weave among them until I find the little chestnut with white fetlocks ridden by the brawler who guards me during the day. I offer her a handful of mountain laurel, palm flat to avoid nips. She lips it up eagerly.

I
’
m sorry
.
So very sorry. You
’
re a good horse, and you deserve better
. I hope it will be just enough to make her sick and no more. But I’m not sure.

I don’t have enough to poison all the horses, so I make my selections carefully. Only Joyan horses, and I choose mountain ponies over large war chargers, hoping their smaller bodies will be more susceptible.

I am heartsick as I creep back toward my tree.
“Treat your mounts as brothers-in-arms
,” I always tell my men.
“They are soldiers to your cause and your closest companions
.”

The Joyan traitor still sleeps, chin to chest, his left hand twitching in the dirt. I could kill him right now, if I chose. My fingertips itch with the need to wrap around his throat.

Keeping a wary eye on him, I step back into the circle of rope, sit against the tree trunk, and work the rope up around my chest and arms. I yank it as tight as I can, which isn’t very tight at all. The triple hitch knot takes me four tries, and I position it too far forward, but I manage it.

I’ve done the best I can. I press my wrists together, but they’ve been unbound for days now, and it’s only a matter of time before a closer inspection reveals my deception. I close my eyes to await the snow.

11

S
TORM
leads us now as we leave the timberline far behind. For a few days, our path winds through grassy meadows filled with wildflowers, crystal brooks, and herds of tiny deer that lift their long necks to regard us as we pass, flicking ears and tails but otherwise paying us no mind.

The meadows thin, and on Storm’s recommendation we dismount and pull grass, stuffing as much as we can into our packs because, as he explains, it might be days before we cross the watershed and find good grazing for the horses again. And sure enough, soon we’ve ascended so high that nothing grows, save for random patches of lichen and a few stubborn stalks of yellow paintbrush.

The air is too thin, the light too bright and close, and we shiver in the shadows only to sweat in the sunshine. The peaks jut around us, sometimes graveled, sometimes jagged, sheltering year-old snow on their leeward sides. Tiny short-tailed mice scuttle from our path, and raptors circle through the peaks. The world is an immense garden of gray and white, and
I marvel at how like a desert it is, with its varied hues of color and teeming life—but only if you pay attention.

Though we bought Mula a pair of sturdy boots in the last village, they always end up tied over the pommel of Mara’s horse. Mula runs back and forth down the path before us, plucking paintbrush blooms, chasing darting mice, collecting oddly shaped rocks, until exhaustion suddenly takes her and she climbs up into Mara’s saddle and falls dead asleep to Jasmine’s rocking gait, her tiny, blue-tattooed feet swinging miles above the stirrups.

We interviewed a few families in the free villages, hoping to find someone to care for the girl while we traveled to Invierne. But they always eyed our packs greedily, and they sized up Mula like she was a juicy rabbit. One afternoon, after I watched a group of Joyan children spitting on a mixed-blood boy and poking him with sticks, I decided that Mula would stay with us. I expect I’ll begin regretting the decision any moment.

Between jagged peaks, we catch glimpses of storm clouds that are blue near to black and crackling with lightning. Storm explains that the Sierra Sangre is a cloud trap, and the other side of the continent is wet and cool. He warns that these peaks will be impassable soon, maybe within weeks, that the snow will be so deep that travelers would drown in it. So we travel fast, starting with the rising sun and falling onto our bedrolls exhausted with the day’s last stubborn light.

Now that we are away from the free villages, and near enough to winter that no one but the most desperate and foolhardy walk this trail, I begin to pray again. And when I do,
the
zafira
is like a tidal wave rushing through me, filling me to overflowing with heat and power. I am certain the
zafira
changed my Godstone somehow. Or maybe it changed me.

So, one afternoon, we encounter a small valley that is sheltered enough by the surrounding peaks to harbor a bit of soil and some dry, stubborn grass. We pause to let the horses graze their fill—and to allow Storm and me to practice with our Godstones.

While Belén and Mara stretch out in the grass to rest and Mula explores the valley, Storm and I stand across from each other in awkward silence. The longing in Storm’s face is hard to look at, so I focus on the fact that the bright mountain sun has reddened his cheeks and caused the skin on his nose to flake away.

“So . . . er . . . maybe we should have blood?” I say at last. “Whenever I watched an animagus do . . .” I make a vague gesture with my hand. “There was always blood.”

Storm rubs his chin, considering. “But you have never needed blood. You healed Hector, moved the Aracely through a hurricane, broke my chains, and never once used it.”

I nod. “I tried it a few times, with Father Nicandro in Brisadulce. We used to experiment with my Godstone. But nothing ever . . . No, wait! When we were on the island, I accidentally pricked my finger on the thorn of a sacrament rose. It felt like the whole world shook. I saw lines of power for a moment, coming from all directions toward a central point. So maybe I should try it with blood too.”

“Blood?” says a voice at my elbow. “Do you want some?”

Mula thrusts out a scrawny, sun-darkened arm. For the first time, I notice the tiny white scars along her forearm.

Bile rises in my throat. “You’ve been bled before?” I ask in a faltering voice.

She straightens and says proudly, “I’m a good bleeder. Orlín sold my blood to the animagi all the time. It makes me tired, but it’s not so bad.” She shrugs. “Better than scrubbing the common-room floor.”

I turn to ask Storm if bleeding innocent children is a common practice in Invierne, but he seems just as appalled as I am. “We won’t be needing your blood, girl,” he says gruffly. “Go play.”

She peers up at him. “But you
are
an animagus, aren’t you? Even though you said you’re nobody.”

He avoids her gaze. “I’m not a sorcerer.”

“For true?”

“I always speak for true.”

“Storm always speaks what he
thinks
is true,” I interject. “Now go play, Mula. And thank you for your generous offer, but Storm is right—we will not need your blood.”

She starts to meander off, but then she whips around and says, “But you have a sparkle stone, don’t you? You both do. I can tell.”

“Go play!” we both say at once, and she darts away.

Storm and I face each other again. “Exasperating child,” he grumbles.

“Tell me about your training, Storm,” I order. “I want to know everything you learned until you gave up.”

Storm considers. In the distance, I hear Mula say, “Mara, how come you have that scar on your eye?”

“The trick,” Storm says, “is to become one with the world around you.” He shrugs sheepishly. “Though, to be honest, I’m not sure what that means. But my tutor had me do this.” He pulls his Godstone amulet from beneath his tunic and takes it off; the chain is just large enough to fit around his head. He stands tall, his feet shoulder-width apart. His amulet swings from one hand as he reaches it to the sky.

“My tutor said it’s important to ground yourself to the earth,” he explains. “Otherwise the power rushing through you can throw you off balance. And you must always aim your amulet or staff away from your body, for when the
zafira
courses through it, it will be too hot to touch.”

“I don’t have a staff or amulet,” I point out. “Just me.”

“Indeed, I am very interested in seeing what happens with you. Archivists at the Morning Temple—that’s where the training of novices takes place—speculate that someone with a living Godstone would be immune to its more dangerous properties.”

I nod, remembering how the animagus who held me captive used magic to freeze everyone around him. But it didn’t work on me.

“You think I’m even immune to a Godstone’s fire?”

“I doubt it. It becomes a natural thing after it leaves the stone itself, burning and spreading just like any other fire. But you might be immune to your own.”

So I follow Storm’s example and set my feet shoulder-width
apart. I imagine that my legs are rooted to the earth, conduits for the magic creeping beneath the earth’s skin.

“Now what?” I ask.

“This is the part I never mastered,” he says with a grimace. “But my tutor said that if I closed my eyes and blocked out everything around me, I should feel a connection to the magic of the earth. Almost like the tug of a string.” He lowers his amulet and shrugs. “But I never felt anything. I failed—”

“Try it. I’ll try it if you do.”

He opens his mouth, closes it. Stares at the amulet dangling from his hand.

“It’s just you and me,” I add softly. “No one need ever know what transpires here today.”

He reaches with a forefinger to hook his hair behind his ears—a nervous, useless gesture, for it is still too short. “All right,” he says. “We’ll try it without blood first. Ready?”

I close my eyes. I concentrate on the feel of the earth beneath my feet. I imagine a string connecting me to the
zafira
.

Power rushes into me like a flood. My Godstone flashes hotter than desert sunshine, and my limbs tingle with an overwhelming desire to spring into action.

I crack open one eye and peek at Storm. He is panting, his face is flushed, and tiny beads of sweat collect on his upper lip.

“Anything?” I ask.

He opens his eyes, and a huge smile spreads across his face. “Oh, yes,” he breathes. “It’s like a thread of power connects me to the world.” He stares wide-eyed at his caged amulet. A tiny
spark pulses at its center. “What about you? Do you feel the thread?”

“It’s more like a rushing river. A really
warm
river. I could probably heal someone right now. I’m not sure how to call fire, though.” As I relax my focus, though, the power drains out of me as if I’m a sieve.

“You’re supposed to direct the line of power through your Godstone somehow. And apparently it helps to think angry, destructive thoughts.”

“How pleasant.”

He nods. “If by ‘pleasant,’ you mean the exact opposite of that. Here, I’ll try it.” He closes his eyes, breathes deeply, holds his amulet out toward the granite outcropping. “Just reach down,” he murmurs, “find the thread, direct it toward the stone.” His brow furrows, and his breathing quickens. “Then think about something that makes you angry—”

A stream of red-orange fire erupts from his stone and pounds against the cliff, trailing sparks to the ground.

The fire fades quickly, and I stare at the circle of char left behind, mouth agape. “You did it! Storm, you . . .”

I turn to find him knocked to the ground. His long limbs are sprawled at awkward angles, and his amulet smolders beside him in a carpet of dead pine needles. But his smile is huge, and his green eyes blaze with triumph. “With practice,” he says, “the fire will get so hot it will turn blue. Then white. A white fire is powered wholly by the
zafira
, and will continue to burn even when it’s out of fuel. For years, sometimes.”

I think of the charred ring of destruction around my capital
city and its unquenchable embers. “It was a white fire that struck Alejandro. And Mara. Mara’s burn resisted healing until I healed her myself.” I reach my hand down. We grasp forearms, and I help him to his feet.

In his other hand, he dangles his now brightly glowing amulet at a safe distance. “With practice I’ll be able to aim better,” he says. “Ground myself so I don’t fall down.”

My lips twitch. “I just hope you don’t set the mountainside on fire while you figure it out. And maybe you shouldn’t try for a white fire just yet. Not until you have some control.”