The Girl of Fire and Thorns Complete Collection (127 page)

A gasp. Then . . . “Elisa?”

I drop to my knees and attack the rope with my dagger. The sounds of battle are growing furious. “Are you injured? Can you fight?”

“Am I hallucinating?” Oh, his voice. So achingly familiar—deep and slow and precise. But he’s talking from someplace far away.

I smack his shoulder. “I need you in the present moment, Hector. Can you walk, at least?”

He laughs, though it ends in a cough. “Yes, I can walk. I have a broken rib, two broken fingers on my right hand, and a concussion. My shield arm is fine. If you have a spare
shield, or even a dagger or short sword—”

“I brought an extra dagger for you. God, this rope! I can’t saw—”

“An Invierno, coming this way. A giant with a very long sword. Please tell me you have a bow?”

I leap to my feet and place myself between Hector and the approaching enemy. He rushes at me, and I plant my legs and center myself the way Storm taught me, drawing strength from the earth, becoming one with it.

The
zafira
fills me up. I focus it all on the daggers in my hands. They begin to glow, revealing the desperate face of my attacker and the long line of steel in his right hand.

I swing my right dagger around my head and slingshot a firebolt toward him. He dodges left, and it grazes his shoulder. But he keeps coming.

I sling a smaller dart from my weaker left. It hits him square in the belly, and he bends over, his tunic blackening. Still, he stumbles forward.

The power is draining from me. I don’t have time to gather more.

“Watch the sword arm!” Hector yells.

The Invierno raises his blade. Time slows. I know exactly what to do.

I block with my left dagger—just like Belén taught me—while thrusting with my right. I take him deep in the belly as the impact shivers down my forearm and pounds my shoulder socket. I jerk upward with my dagger until the blade lodges in the bone of his sternum. His sword clatters to the ground.

I try to yank my dagger out, but it’s stuck. He topples, his hot blood pouring over my hand. I put the flat of my foot against his ruined belly and shove him off. My dagger jerks free, and I stumble backward.
Five
.

The earth sways. I spent too much magic too quickly. Or maybe I’m trembling because I just flayed open a man’s belly. I stagger toward Hector and fall to my knees beside him, gasping. “These ropes. Too tough. I can burn them, but need a moment to . . .” My voice trails away as finally, finally, I look at him.

His gaunt face is covered in a curling beard, his left eye is swollen shut, his lips are cracked and peeling. But he stares at me with the same intensity as always, and it feels like coming home. I reach up with a forefinger and gently trace his eyebrow.

“Elisa,” he whispers. “I need you in the present moment.”

I snap into focus. In the distance, Belén yells something, and Mara shouts in answer. They are still alive. It spurs me to action.

I squeeze Hector’s shoulder. “I’m clumsy at this, so when I start burning, do not move.”

After he nods, I hurry behind the tree, running my hand along the rope until I feel the frayed spot where I had been sawing. I take a steadying breath, then reach deep into the earth for the
zafira
. It comes more slowly this time, but it comes.

Be controlled, Elisa. Be precise
. I let just enough power leak out to dance a tiny flame at the tip of the dagger and no more. The still-damp blood on my blade sizzles, and I swallow against gagging. The
zafira
throbs inside me, begging to burst free,
but I hold it tight. My forehead drips sweat. The rope begins to blacken and curl.

“Footsteps,” Hector says. “Behind us.”

The final coil of rope splits, and Hector launches forward, even as I whirl to see what approaches.

Too late. A sword descends. I roll left, and the sword lands on the end of my braid. He pulls back to stab, and I kick hard, catching his kneecap. He falls on top of me, and before I can squirm free he pins my legs with his knees, grabs my hair, and yanks my head back to expose my throat. I thrust with my daggers, but they glance off his armor.

Hector roars, flying through the dark at my attacker. Together, they crash to the ground, and Hector pounds him with fists, over and over again.

I scramble toward them on all fours. Hector’s broken fingers, his broken ribs . . . he can’t last long.

My daggers begin to glow again, and I shiver with power. I will send every last drop of it at my enemy. I will burn him to ash.

But I can’t get a clear angle. They grapple, rolling in the dirt. The attacker grabs Hector’s broken fingers and tugs them backward. Hector yells, but he does not give quarter, jabbing relentlessly with fist and elbows and knees.

They roll again. Hector is pinned. I see an opening and dart forward, swiping the attacker’s hamstring. He screams while his skin sizzles. I stumble back, choking on the smell of burning flesh, while Hector throws him off.

Hector springs to his feet. “Knife!” he yells, reaching a hand
toward me but never taking his gaze off his enemy, who is bent over, gasping, in the dirt.

My hot daggers would melt his hands. I clamp one between my teeth and fumble my spare knife from its sheath. The injured man struggles to his feet in spite of his useless leg. His wound does not bleed; my blade cauterized it.

“Here!” I toss the knife, and Hector snatches it from the air, flips it around for a better grip, then throws it.

The blade zings through the air so fast that I hardly register it until our attacker topples back, the hilt protruding from his throat. He lies there wide-eyed, twitching and choking on his own blood.

My heart still kicks in my chest; my breath comes fast. He is small. Dark, like me. A Joyan traitor.

I look up to find Hector staring at me. He is bent over slightly, clutching his injured side. The sound of battle is fading around us. “Belén!” I call.

“Here!”

“Mara!”

“Here!”

“Storm!”

No answer.

Hector needs no prompting. He strides over to the fallen Joyan and, wincing, bends over and yanks the dagger from his throat. He wipes it on the Joyan’s shirt. “Let’s find him,” he says.

We weave through the nervous horses toward the campfire. Figures manifest—Mara, without a single arrow left in
her quiver; Belén, whose eye patch has come askew. They’re both breathing hard. Bodies litter the ground. Mara’s bow is drawn with her last arrow as she surveys the bodies around her, watching for movement.

“They’re dead, Mara,” Belén says. “We got them all.”

Their gazes lock. Mara lets her bow drop into the dirt, and they start toward each other as if an invisible force draws them together.

Hector clears his throat.

They whirl on us, startled. Mara’s gaze drops to the ground, and she finds it necessary to pick something off the sleeve of her shirt.

“Lord-Commander,” Belén says as we approach.

Hector reaches out with his left hand, and Belén clasps it. “Belén. Lady Mara. Thank you for coming.”

“Where is Storm?” I demand.

“He ran off after Franco,” Mara says. She points southward, where the forest growth is thick and dark. “That way.”

“Why?” I murmur, though as soon as the word leaves my lips, I know exactly why. He is done being frightened of that man. But Franco is a trained assassin, and I fear that Storm, heady with new power, has underestimated him.

“Did anyone else get away?”

“No,” says Belén. “A few were killed fighting each other, just as we hoped. We got everyone else. But I should have kept better track of Franco. I should have targeted him first.”

I wave off his apology. “We accomplished our goal. I just wish Storm hadn’t run off.”

“Do we pursue?” Hector asks.

I pace in front of the campfire. Glowing embers left over from Storm’s magic are scattered throughout the clearing, bathing us all in eerie warmth. How long will they glow?

“We must retrieve Mula before going anywhere,” Mara says. “She’s still hiding in the trees.”

I nod, hating the thought of risking the little girl more than we already have. I turn to Belén. “Can we track them in the dark?”

“Yes, but it will be slow going.”

“Hector, can you travel? Or should I heal you first?”

He shakes his head. “You always pass out after a healing. We can’t afford the delay. I can ride, but I think”—he holds up his hand to display unnaturally crooked fingers—“I ought to set and splint these first.”

I turn my back on my companions and stare into the trees. They seem as dark and impenetrable as night itself. “All right then. We find Mula, set Hector’s fingers, and—”

A shape flies out of the dark, barrels into me, taking me to the ground. Agony shoots through my skull as red blotches my vision. Blood fills my mouth. I turn to spit, to breath, but hands wrap around my neck, crushing the life from me.

My mouth opens and closes, as if the motion can suck air into my dying lungs. Blackness narrows my vision to a single point of focus; my attacker’s delicate face and chin, his wild, not-quite-Joyan eyes. Franco.

Something knocks him to the side. Air rushes into my lungs so fast I almost choke on it. I clamber to my feet,
swaying, my stomach heaving. I fumble for my daggers.

“Mula!” Mara screams.

Franco is pounding brutally at something beneath him. A tiny something.

The
zafira
rushes into me, filling me like rage. I raise my daggers, but Hector gets there first. One hand on the back of Franco’s head, one on his chin, and
snap
! Franco topples over.

Mula lies on the ground, unmoving. I rush over to her, drop to my knees. The daggers thunk into the dirt beside me.

“Mula,” I whisper.

“Bad . . . man,” she manages. Something gurgles in her unnaturally concave chest.

No. No no no no no
.

Rosario said something similar once. And thinking a little of Mula, but mostly of the precious little boy I’m helpless to save right now, I place my hands on Mula’s crushed chest. “For my love is like perfume poured out,” I say, and I send all the power of the earth into her.

Her tiny body arches beneath my palms, and she screams and screams. Am I pouring too much into her? But I can’t seem to stop.

When I’m as dry as deep desert, I collapse on top of her.

16

I
wake to the warmth of sunshine and the scent of rabbit stew. I’m wrapped in my bedroll, facing a cheery fire. Mara’s iron cook pot steams beside it.

“Elisa?” Hector’s worried voice.

I sit up, rubbing my eyes. “Where’s Mula? Is she . . . ?”

He sits on a log beside me, polishing his new dagger. His broken fingers are splinted and wrapped in linen strips. “She’ll be fine. Franco kicked her ribs in. But you’d never know.” His voice holds a touch of wonder.

“And Storm?”

“He appeared soon after Franco. I think he’s upset with me for killing him.”

I slowly get to my feet. My muscles burn, and my neck throbs with the phantom memory of Franco’s bruising fingers. I stretch my arms to the sky, trying to loosen everything up, surprised and grateful to have come through a hard fight with no lasting injury.

Hector jumps to his feet when I do, from habit, I suppose,
for it is rude to remain sitting when one’s queen stands, but I hate that there is any formality between us. I reach out to take his hand, but he flinches away, and I drop my arm. Hurt wells up in my chest.

I look around the campsite, trying to appear nonchalant. It’s a small glen, hugged up against a granite outcropping. Was it Hector who carried me here when I was unconscious?

“Where is everyone?”

His gaze has not left my face. “Belén is hunting. Mara found a stand of blackberries; Mula is with her. Storm left, saying only that he’d be back. Everyone deals with the aftermath of battle in their own way.”

Hector’s left eye is purple and still nearly swollen shut. His hair is wild and matted, his clothing torn, his nails cracked and crusted with black dirt. I ache to wrap my arms around him.

“How do you feel?” I ask, for lack of anything better to say.

“I’ll be fine in a day or two.” Then he adds, “Thank you for coming for me.”

His words are kind, but his tone is bland and his expression rigid. He is near enough that I could reach out and grab his shoulders, but I have no idea how to close the vast distance between us.

He was angry with me when we parted, and rightly so. I deceived and dishonored him. Never again.
Honesty in all things
.

“We’re betrothed,” I blurt, at the same moment he says, “There is another bearer.”

“What?” we both say.

He runs a hand over his matted beard. Strange how his
cuticles, the shapes of his fingers, the curve of his thumb, are so familiar and dear, even beneath the grime.

“I would never hold you to it,” I say in a rush. “It would build up support in the south. I’m hoping the announcement has stalled Eduardo’s efforts. But I won’t make you. You don’t have to . . . marry me.”

The log he was sitting on is a giant fallen tree trunk that stretches across the edge of the clearing, half buried in sod and wind trash. One end is jagged and black from lightning. Hector plunks back down onto it and slumps, as if the weight of his shoulders can no longer be borne.