The Girl of Fire and Thorns Complete Collection (134 page)

“Skinny Girl,” I say, using Belén’s name for her. I can’t bring myself to call her a mule.

When she looks up at me, panic flits across her odd features
as quickly and naturally as if from long habit, but she channels it into a glare. “What?”

“It’s a good idea.”

She looks down at her lamp. Back up at me. Straightens. “I’m going to try it.”

“We should break the window first,” I say. “Give the smoke a place to go.”

Mara and Belén exchange a glance. They’ve been sitting side by side on the cot, their shoulders brushing, but they separate to look around for something to throw.

“Maybe I could shoot through it?” Mara says.

Belén reaches for her bow, propped up against the wall, and hands it to her.

Mara draws an arrow from her quiver and taps it against her cheek as she sizes up the window. She draws, holds, releases.

The arrow zings through the air, cracks against the window, glances off, and whirls end over end to the ground.

Mara frowns. “Bad angle,” she mutters. “I need a more direct hit.”

I step forward. “Can you shoot from my shoulders?”

She brightens. “That might work! You’d have to stand firm to give me an accurate shot.”

She climbs from the cot onto my shoulders. The heel of her boot digs into the crook of my neck, and I sway beneath her weight. I plant my feet, one leg in front of the other, to find a new center of balance. Belén hands the bow and an arrow up to Mara.

Her weight shifts as she notches the bow and draws. I’m as
still as a statue lest I throw off her aim. The bow twangs; the window explodes. Shards of glass fall like water and crash onto the floor.

Belén steadies Mara as she climbs down from my shoulders.

Mula holds the oil lamp aloft, a question in her eyes.

“Try it,” I say.

She pulls the still-burning wick from the clay base, then upends the contents onto the thick wooden door. Sassafras scent fills the room as slick oil drips down the wood grain. The drips never reach the floor; the thirsty wood soaks it up.

Mula steps back as far as her reach will allow. Turning her face away, she touches the burning wick to the oil slick on the door.

I hold my breath.

Nothing happens, and I reach for another lamp sitting in a nearby alcove—maybe we need more oil. But all of a sudden it does catch, in a great
whoosh
of air and heat.

Mula jumps up into the air. “Did you
see
that?” she asks, grinning wildly.

The flames licking at the door are near invisible, as wavering and insubstantial as a desert mirage, save for the occasional flame tip of orange or blue. The heat singes my face. I order everyone against the far wall. We raise our cloaks to cover our noses, and together we watch the door burn.

The fire weakens and dies.

It leaves a shiny black crater, but it’s shallow and small. I glance around the room, refusing to give up. Three oil lamps left. In my barracks, anyone caught with four oil lamps in a
single room would have served double watches for excess and recklessness. Now I’d give my best sword for ten more.

Mula grabs the nearest and repeats the process of removing the wick, pouring out the contents, and lighting it.

Again, we step back to watch, growing chilly now that the window is open to the winter air. Again, the fire dies.

Mula’s shoulders slump.

I finally realize what’s taking so long. “We need to scrape off the char,” I say.

“Aaah,” says Mara. “Because the fire has nowhere to go.”

I nod. “We need to reveal fresh wood. Quietly.”

Belén steps forward, knife in hand. The blackened area is huge, and it shimmers like cold embers. He scrapes at it with the blade; huge chunks of black fall away, accompanied by finer ash that chokes the air.

“Quieter!” Mara whispers.

“I’m trying!” he answers. But he pauses every few scrapes to listen for footsteps.

When he has revealed a section of gray-brown wood, Mula steps forward and pours more oil into the crater. It’s concave enough that she has to fling it forward to coat the wood.

This time when she lights it, the room flashes as bright as day and the door burns just a little longer before fading.

“Should we test it?” comes Belén’s voice.

But I’m already there, my short sword drawn. I put the tip of the blade to the deepest part of the crater.

“Careful!” Mara says. “It might be hot.”

Mindful of her warning, I press the blade into the wood. Nothing happens.

I switch my grip, and using the cross guard for leverage, I lean my weight into it and push with all my might. I worry about the blade snapping, but all of a sudden something gives, the blade bursts through, my footing slips, and my shoulder slams into the door.

“Quiet!” everyone whispers at once.

I listen for footsteps, a cry of alarm. But there is nothing.

Warm air and weak torchlight sneak in through the hole we created. We need to widen it. I bend closer.

The torchlight reveals another crack. If I can pry it . . .

“I need my gloves,” I mutter, and a moment later they are in my hand. “Thank you, Mula,” I say, slipping them on. I pry at the crack with my sword until it’s wide enough for my hand. Then I slip my fingers through, grip as best I can, and yank. When that doesn’t work, I try pushing, then twisting side to side until something budges. Moments later, I triumphantly hold up a piece of shattered, blackened wood, as sharp as a spear at both ends.

I wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my gloved hand and reach in for another try. “It would be faster,” I grumble, “if we could just pound it.”

“Also noisier,” Mara points out.

I pry out another chunk. The wood is old and dry, and the charred area widens with relative ease, but not enough for me to reach around and lift the latch.

Belén says, “It might be wide enough for a skinny girl.”

“
I
’
m
skinny!” says Mula. I step aside, and she pokes her head through the hole to size up the corridor. Then squeezes an arm through, a leg, and disappears.

I wince at the echoing scrape of the latch being lifted, but then the door swings open and Mula stands there, backlit by torchlight.

I charge outside, glance up and down the corridor, then beckon Mara and Belén to follow. Odd that no one guards our door. They must be very confident that we could never escape the city.

“Anyone remember which way we came?” Mara says.

“This way,” I say, and I hurry them north, toward the tunnel that will take us to the Temple of Morning.

We move quietly, but not quietly enough. I’m not outfitted for stealth, and the joints of my leather armor creak with each step. I should remove it. As we creep along the corridor, I peer into crevices, behind statues, hoping for a place to stash it where it won’t be noticed.

Something tickles at my consciousness, and I hold up a fist to halt everyone. Did I just hear footsteps? If so, they were faint. Slippers instead of boots. Maybe the swish of a cloak.

It sounds again—soft footfalls that barely echo.

“Back!” I whisper. “The other way. Quickly!”

We scurry back in the direction we came. Mula breaks into a panicked sprint, and I almost holler at her to stop, that running blindly down the corridor is a very bad idea, but yelling would be even worse. She disappears around the corner.

More footsteps—boots this time. They step in time, like my
own men on watch. This corridor is guarded after all.

An exclamation of surprise. Mula has collided with someone.

“What are you doing here, slave girl?” comes a male voice. “This area is off limits.”

“I . . . I got lost.”

The voices are coming closer. We’re trapped. Mara swings her bow from her shoulder as Belén grabs a dagger.

Four Inviernos with soldiers’ braids and rawhide armor appear around the corner. They keep formation even as they back Mula toward us. I whisk my sword from its scabbard as the soldiers’ eyes go wide.

“Joyans!” one shouts. As one, they draw their weapons.

“Run, fight, or surrender?” Belén asks under his breath. “Your call.”

If we surrender, we might not get to Elisa in time. If we run, we’ll probably have to fight anyway. And if we fight, we’re likely to sustain injury. Maybe even a loss. Probably that loss would be Mula.

My hand tightens around my sword grip. “We fight.”

Tears fill Mara’s eyes, even as she nods once, sharply.

The soldiers advance. One raises his sword toward Mula’s cowering form.

“I’ll take it from here,” says someone behind us. Without turning, I know it’s Storm, his voice as full of arrogant condescension as always.

I grit my teeth. I don’t care which enemy I kill, so long as I get to Elisa. But maybe the Invierno turncoat will buy us some time.

“Your Honor, these are Joyans,” says one of the soldiers.

“Yes. Which is why my father will be most eager to handle them himself.”

“But they could be—”

Something washes the corridor in soft blue light and makes the soldier’s eyes fly wide with terror.

“You will release these prisoners into my custody,” Storm says in a soft but lethal voice. “You will not speak of them to anyone, not even your commander, until His Eminence the Deciregus has examined them himself. You will return to your rounds as if nothing has happened.”

“Yes, Your Honor,” they mutter, bowing and backing away. Mula runs to Mara’s side and clutches at her sleeve.

After the soldiers disappear around the corner, Storm says, “Elisa is this way. Quickly; we don’t have much time. She has been trying to escape. I can sense it. And if I can sense it, the others can too. We need rope. There should be some in—”

“Wait.” I whirl and clamp the Invierno’s thin shoulder. My thumb digs in below his collarbone, hard enough to cause pain, but Storm is as impassive as ever. “You said your first loyalty is to Crooked Sequoia House,” I say. “I heard you. Are you leading us into another trap?”

The Godstone swinging from his amulet still glows from whatever magic he used to intimidate the soldiers, but Storm makes no effort to call on it. Neither does he try to break away from my grip. Instead his lips turn up into a sad, slanted smile, and he says, “I lied.”

We stare at him.

“You always speak for true,” Mula whispers. “Always.”

“Not this time.”

I’m about to protest, but Storm cuts me off.

“Lord-Commander, I won’t pretend to love her the way you do. But I do owe her my life and my honor. I am Joyan now. And we are, all of us, filthy liars.”

“Well, if he wasn’t lying then,” Mara says, “he’s lying now. Which means he’s telling the truth. So let’s go!”

I’m not sure that makes sense, but I release my grip and order, “Take us to her.”

Storm heads down the corridor at a fast jog. It’s a relief to run freely, knowing Storm can talk or intimidate our way out of any encounters.

We’re coming, Elisa
.

21

M
Y
consciousness explodes into a world of pain.

I’m dying. I know it with certainty. Blood pours from my mouth, and I choke, then cough, which sends more knifelike pain into my side. My rib has punctured a lung. I will drown in my own blood.

I lie on my back in total darkness. My right leg is cricked beneath me in a way it shouldn’t be. My left shoulder sits oddly, and I make a tiny attempt to move it, but fire shoots up my neck and into my spine.

I take a deep breath to calm myself, bringing another fit of choking. Tears leak from my eyes. I don’t have much time.

My skull seems intact, and I cling to the thought. If I have my mind, I have everything I need. And just maybe, I can heal myself.

Doctor Enzo thinks I’ve healed myself instinctively, though more slowly than I’ve healed others. But I’m not sure what to do. I can’t heal my leg in its current position. I would just have to rebreak it later.

Maybe healing is like all the other powers drawn from the
zafira
. Maybe it can be focused. Deliberate.

I’ll start with my rib, since that is what’s killing me. If it works, I’ll probably pass out again. And once I wake up, I’ll have to straighten my leg and shoulder before healing them. It will be awful. Maybe the most awful thing I’ve ever done.

Coughs spasm through my chest, and I turn my head to the side to let more blood pour out.

Don
’
t think, Elisa. Just do
.

I close my eyes and open myself to the
zafira
. It rushes in like a flood, filling me with warmth and light. I imagine that I sense Lucero holding the floodgates wide for me. I imagine his toothless smile, his voice whispering “I will help.”

How close to death must I be, to hallucinate so?

I think hard about my broken rib. I make the pain in my side my whole existence, embracing it, understanding it. I imagine the bone moving back into place, the tissue inside knitting together.

But it’s too much—too much effort, too much sensation. The world spins, and unconsciousness creeps up—too soon.

Let go and let me
.