The Girl of Fire and Thorns Complete Collection (126 page)

I’m not satisfied with this explanation. “But why now? If they’ve been angry and bitter for several millennia, what has caused them to act only now?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Did he call you Majesty?” says a voice at my shoulder. “Storm, why did you call her Majesty?”

Storm’s features freeze with dismay.

“It’s fine,” I tell him. “She was bound to figure it out eventually.”

Mula crouches before me and peers into my face, golden eyes narrowed. “Is she a condesa?”

In a resigned voice, Storm says, “You have the privilege of addressing Her Royal Majesty, Queen Lucero-Elisa né Riqueza de Vega.”

Mula’s eyes grow huge. With a loud whoop, she jumps up into the air, pumping her tiny fists. She tears off across the clearing toward our campfire yelling, “Mara! Belén! I am slave to the
queen
!”

I wince. I must soon have a solemn talk with the girl, wherein I introduce the word “discretion.”

14

HECTOR

F
IFTEEN
captors. I work through several scenarios in my head, and always come to the same conclusion: Fifteen is still too many.

Too many for me to fight. Too many for Elisa to fight, for her party is bound to be small. I must get them to expend their energy fighting one another.

My skin is still welted from its last battle with mountain laurel. I grit my teeth as I shove more down my shirt, into my pockets, even down my boots—enough to poison many horses this time. It’s easier to hide my movements now that waist-high ferns bask in the shelter of giant sequoias.

When night comes, I slip the rope and creep over to the picket line. This time I feed the Invierno horses. I contemplate giving Franco’s horse an extra helping but decide against it. It’s not the horse’s fault his rider is a murderer and a spy.

As I’m tying myself back up, snow begins to fall. I still wear only light desert armor; my captors have not bothered to protect me against the cold. A smart strategy. The first fat
flakes melt against my skin, and I shiver.

In the vast silence of snowfall, I suddenly feel very alone. I’m usually adept at shielding my mind against thoughts that could weaken me. But my resolve is failing. I miss my men, with their bawdy jokes and boundless energy. I miss the hot sun and the endless desert horizon. I miss sparring each morning with Prince Rosario.

I miss her.

For the first time, I allow myself to consider that she might not come at all. Ximena would try to prevent her, I’m sure of it. Elisa told Franco she loved me. Was it an act to get me quickly away? I wouldn’t fault her for it. I should reconsider rescuing myself.

But, no. She whispered that she would come, and nothing changes her mind once her course is set. I fall asleep hoping for it, dreading it, telling myself to be ready if the time comes. Imagining a thousand ways it can go wrong.

Sometime during the night I wrap my arms around my shoulders in a desperate bid for warmth. Which is how, in the morning, my captors discover my severed bonds. I wake to the splitting pain of a boot to my ribs. I can only absorb a few kicks before blackness retakes me.

15

W
E
don every single item of clothing we brought with us—extra shirts and tunics, stockings, and underthings. Belén shows us how to stuff our boots with dry grass—a trick he learned while scouting for Queen Cosmé. Even Mula ceases to balk at wearing boots and, instead of scampering ahead down the trail, stays quietly in the saddle, curled up against Mara’s chest for warmth.

The cold is so overwhelming, so everywhere present, that I almost don’t notice when my Godstone turns icy with warning.

“Belén!” I call out.

He halts his mount and twists to face me.

I drop my voice. “My Godstone! It . . . I think someone is on the trail ahead of us.”

My companions know exactly what my stone’s warnings mean. Without being prompted, everyone moves off the trail and into the cover of trees. Belén dismounts, pulling his dagger from its sheath. “Back soon. Stay quiet.” He takes off down the trail at a fast but silent jog.

Mara whispers, “They must be very near for your Godstone to react so, yes?”

“I don’t know! Everything is different since the island.”

We share a long look. It might be Franco. And Hector.

“Is it the bad men?” Mula whispers.

I nod. “If there is fighting, I want you to hide, understand?”

Mula’s eyes are very large.

Mara gives her a squeeze. “If you get scared, just don’t think about it. Close your eyes and think of something that makes you happy until one of us finds you.”

My first lady-in-waiting, Aneaxi, used to tell me something similar. I thought it was ridiculous, even as a child, because by telling my mind not to ponder something, I was certainly pondering it.

“All right,” Mula says, gazing up at her like a trusting lamb. “I will think about my name.”

Then again, maybe Mara knows a lot more about children than I do.

The sun curves high, and the near-frozen moisture on the ground steams into the air. The horses paw at the carpet of pine needles. Mula grows fidgety. Finally Belén returns.

His breath frosts in the air. “It’s Franco.”

Horse dances beneath me, and I realize I’m squeezing her with my knees. “Any sign of Hector?”

“Tied to a tree. Badly beaten.” At the look on my face, he adds, “But clearly alive.”

Determination hardens like a rock in my gut. “How far up the trail? Can we catch them?”

“All of us, traveling in stealth, could be there by the time the sun is at its zenith. They are stalled. Some of their horses have sickened. As I left, Eduardo’s and Franco’s men were starting to argue. I wouldn’t be surprised if a fight breaks out. If it doesn’t, we might be able to provoke something.”

“Maybe Mara can shoot an arrow into their midst?”

Belén shrugs. “I was thinking a throwing knife in Franco’s neck would do the trick.”

“How many men?” Storm asks.

My face warms. It’s the first question I should have asked. I’ve let my concern for Hector override common sense and caution.

“Five Joyans, ten Inviernos. We are vastly outnumbered. But maybe if we take them by surprise—”

“I have a plan,” I say with more confidence than I feel. Are Storm’s and my abilities too new to put to such a dangerous test? At what point does a bold plan become reckless?

“Elisa?” Mara prompts.

“We’ll have to be very quick and very precise, but this is what we’re going to do.”

We wait until dusk. The wind picks up, masking the sounds of our movement as Mara and I sneak down the slope toward Franco’s camp. Mula follows behind at a safe distance, with stern orders to keep out of sight. All our exposed skin—faces, necks, hands—is smeared with mud. Our clothes are turned inside out so the rougher, duller warp shows. I grip a dagger in each hand, and a spare waits in my belt. Mara has
an arrow notched in her bowstring.

Voices drift up to us before we spy them through the trees, blurred and dark in the fading light. Everyone is talking at once, and I can only make out a few words—something about poison and horses and freezing to death in the snow. Their talk becomes louder and more heated as we steal down the hillside. Belén was right—they’re ready to come to blows.

They just need a little nudge.

By waiting until dusk, we’ve made it easier to sneak up to the camp unseen, but we’ve also made it difficult to see. Mara
must
be able to see well enough to distinguish an Invierno from the others.

I mouth “Closer,” and Mara nods.

Slowly we weave toward them, using the massive trunks for cover. I’m so much quieter than I used to be, my steps light, my balance assured. Humberto would be proud.

Mara holds up a fist, and I duck behind a tree as she does the same.

“I say we leave,” comes a man’s low voice. “Now. Take the horses and get away from here. Do you really think the Invierno dogs will take us inside their capital city and then let us live?”

It’s the perimeter guard. They’ve drifted much closer to the camp than they should, no doubt drawn by the arguing. “I don’t feel right leaving the commander with them,” comes another, gruffer voice.

The din of argument turns to shouting.

“We must decide quick!” says the first man. “They’re intent
on their mission. If we move fast, they’ll not take the time to pursue.”

Mara slips from behind her tree, draws her bow, sights.

“And the commander?”

“We slit his throat. Better that than whatever the dogs have planned for him.”

Fear stabs through me, as merciless as a dagger.

The fletching is tight against Mara’s cheek as she holds steady, waiting for Belén’s signal. She won’t shoot the men nearby; instead she will shoot over them, or maybe between them, into the throng below. I peer slowly around my trunk to get the lay of things. The two guards are less than a stone’s throw away, but hardly more than black shapes among the trees. Their backs are to us. Beyond them, several others are silhouetted against a glowing campfire.

Belén’s signal sounds: the caw of a mountain jay, three times in quick succession.

I hold my breath as Mara’s arrow flies. It skims so close to one of the guards that he puts a hand to his ear is if batting away a mosquito.

It impales a tall figure below in the back. He topples face-first into the campfire, scattering embers and sparks. Silently I count.
One
.

“You filthy Joyan animals!” comes Storm’s unmistakably Invierno voice. “I knew you’d betray us!”

I freeze, worried that he has overplayed it, but I needn’t have, because the camp erupts into chaos.

Steel rings on steel. Someone roars an order to form up.
Another body topples into the campfire.
Two
.

The guards launch down the slope toward the fight, but Mara sends arrows flying, two in quick succession. One guard drops to his knees, an arrow sticking out of his neck—
three
—but Mara’s second shot goes too far left and the other man whirls, shield up, and spots her.

He charges. Mara notches another arrow.

My Godstone pulses with energy, and I fill up like a cauldron, ready to boil over with power. My stone
wants
to unleash its fire on the world. And I want to let it.
Not yet, Elisa
. I grip my daggers tighter.

Mara’s shot flies a little wide, scraping his arm. He bellows rage.

He reaches the spot where I crouch hidden. I launch at him, right arm raised high. He whirls, whips ups his shield, and blocks it neatly. My shoulder aches from the impact, but already I’m swiping low with my left hand. The blade lays open his right thigh, and he drops to the ground. Mara sends an arrow into his chest.

Four
. Only eleven to go.

I take the barest moment to catch my breath before whispering, “I’ll find Hector.”

“Be safe.” She notches another arrow and heads down the slope.

I skirt to the left toward the horses. The sounds of fighting fade. They’ve figured out that they’ve been tricked. I just hope they damaged each other sufficiently first. I risk a small prayer.
Please, God, lend strength and speed to my friends
.

A bolt of blue fire sears my vision and smacks a tree near the campfire. Dry pine needles burst bright, then plunge to the ground in a shower of ash and sparks.

If Storm is using his Godstone, it means I’ve little time.

The horses loom before me, huge black shapes in the growing dark. They toss their heads and snort as I weave through them. Everything is so dark now. Black lumps could be bushes or boulders or people. If only I had more light!

I agreed not to use my Godstone unless things became desperate, to save my strength in case someone needed healing, but surely this is desperate enough. I draw on the
zafira
, and my daggers begin to glow. The light catches on something ahead—rope wrapped around a tree trunk, bright against the bark. I snuff the power inside me, and the world goes dark again as I rush forward.

“Hector?” I whisper.