The Girl of Fire and Thorns Complete Collection (139 page)

I melt against him. His mouth crashes down on mine, and he kisses me desperately, furiously. I respond by pouring out weeks of frustration and worry into our embrace, running my hands up his arms, over his shoulders. My fingers tangle in his hair as I assure myself that he’s here, that he’s mine.

His hand slips under my shirt, splays against the skin of my back. I break off our kiss to trail my lips along his jaw toward his ear, where I whisper, “I’m still taking the lady’s shroud.”

His breath hitches, and he buries his face in my neck and rests there a moment. His heartbeat is as ragged as my own.

Finally he says, “Are you
sure
, Elisa?”

It’s baffling and amazing to me how, after everything, he can remain the least bit uncertain of my feelings. “It’s one of the few things I’m sure of.”

He lifts his head and considers me thoughtfully. Then he tips up my chin with his thumb and kisses me again—a sweeter, gentler kiss that feels like sun breaking through the clouds.

The pit of my stomach buzzes as I press my forehead into his chest, saying, “I
told
you that you would kiss me again.”

He laughs. “It’s the ‘and more’ part I remember most vividly.” He gently pushes me away, putting a safe cushion of distance between us. He grabs my hands and lifts them to his lips. “When we reach Basajuan, maybe I can get you to myself for a while.”

The earth tilts a little.

“In the meantime,” he adds, “I really should teach you how to care for tack. I find myself in need of a distraction.”

I grin. “Good idea.”

The storm rages all night and into the morning. After a breakfast of bean mash and hard biscuits dipped in tea, we gather at the fire to take stock of our situation.

“How much food do we have left?” Hector asks as he polishes one of his daggers. It seems he is always doing something toward the upkeep of his weapons. Maybe I should learn from his example.

“One bag of dried corn, two of grain—we should save that for the horses,” says Mara. “Some dates. A round of cheese. Dried meat for one day. I can stretch the meat farther with a stew. I’m out of flour for thickening.”

“You can use pine bark pulp instead of flour,” Hector says.

“We could eat one of the horses,” Belén points out.

My stomach turns at the thought, but I say, “We’re nearly out of grain and can’t feed them anyway.”

“Anything we slaughter will keep for days in this temperature,” Mara says.

“I’ve eaten horse before,” Mula says. “Tastes like dog.”

“Maybe there’s some grass or underbrush buried in the snow outside,” Hector says. “But no one ventures farther than that until it clears. And if you do go out, you must be tied to a rope. No exceptions.”

We all nod agreement.

“Elisa?” Storm says. “What
if
the weather clears? What then?”

His sister is nodding as he speaks. “The pass is snowed in by now,” she adds. “There is no way through.”

I turn on her. “Then we’ll blow our way through,” I snap. “Storm and I. With our Godstones.”

She opens her mouth to say something but changes her mind.

“I’m not sure that will work,” Hector says.

“Why not?”

“Anything you melt will just refreeze in this temperature. Not even our mountain horses can handle an ice trail. Especially not at an incline.”

The walls close in around me, and darkness boils in my center. I can’t give up. I refuse to believe that after everything I’ve gone through, everything I’ve put my friends through, I’ll be foiled by mere weather. Or maybe not “mere weather.” The rare cold, the poor visibility, the thunder snow, it’s all thanks to Lucero and his volcanoes. “There has to be a way. There
has
to.”

“The Deciregi might be stuck too,” Belén says. “Or better yet, maybe they’re dead.”

Storm stares at him. “Do you really mean that? Or are you speaking falsehood to comfort Elisa? I can never tell.” To me he says, “The Deciregi were at least a day ahead of us. The storm came at us from behind, so I’m sure they crossed into Joya d’Arena before the heavy snow hit. They’re probably headed north toward Basajuan even now.”

Everyone ponders for a moment. One of the horses snorts, and the fire pops, sending an ember flitting to the ground near the toe of my boot, where it flares and dies.

“Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Mara says. “Maybe the storm will blow itself out soon and the weather will break warm.”

“Maybe,” Belén says, but his voice is tinged with doubt.

I pull my knees to my chest and rest my forehead on them. I mutter, “If the Deciregi reach Basajuan before we do, they’ll raze it to the ground and use the area to mount another offensive, even more massive than the first, against Orovalle and Joya d’Arena. We will lose everything.” And every
one
.

“We may have to look to our own survival,” Hector says. I usually love this about him, that he can be practical and frank in the most dire circumstance. But right now I can’t help my twinge of annoyance.

“I want ideas, Hector. Solutions.”

“Your safety is my highest priority,” he says, just as sternly. “And I won’t let you starve in this cave or freeze to death on the trail. If the mountains remain impassable, we must consider retreating back to Umbra de Deus as soon as the weather clears.”

I lift my head to glare at him. “What good does it do to protect a queen if there is nothing to be queen of?”

Firelight shadows the planes of his face and gives a shimmer of red to his black hair, making him look fiercer than ever. Softly, he says, “Do you really think I obsess over your safety just because you are my queen? Surely you know better by now.”

Vaguely, I’m aware of everyone else shifting uncomfortably, of the storm sending a gust of wind inside that makes our fire dance crazily. But I can’t tear my gaze from his face. I know what he’s thinking. I could give it all up. I could wait out the winter and then retire to a hidden location, somewhere remote, and live out my days. All I have to do to survive is remove myself from danger. And Hector would be with me.

I’ve been prepared to give my life for my land and people. But only if it accomplishes something. I’ve never believed in senseless death. At what point does our situation become so perilous and impossible that continuing the fight is senseless?

God, what should I do?

“I have an idea,” Waterfall says.

As one, we turn to stare at her.

“The mines,” she says.

Storm frowns at his sister. “Are your orders to get us all killed? Even if it means sacrificing yourself?”

“No! Of course not. I don’t deny that the mines are deadly. But they’d offer protection from weather and cold. We could travel halfway to Basajuan through the tunnels. The storm will have cleared by the time we come out.”

“Storm,” Hector says in a voice more like a growl. “Tell us about these mines. Tell us everything you know. Do not leave out a single detail.”

Storm looks to me, and I raise an eyebrow at him. He’s going to have to get used to taking orders from Hector.

He sighs. “You may have noticed,” he says, “that places of power tend to be underground—or at least near a conduit to
the inner earth, like the volcanoes. It’s a long-held belief among Inviernos that the deeper one goes into the earth, the closer one gets to the
zafira
.”

I nod. “Go on.”

“Thousands of years ago, when your people fell from the sky and began remaking this world with their machine magic, my ancestors fled here, to the mountains. But we were cut off from our places of power. After a few generations, we were weakening. Dying out. One of our great leaders, Ugly Twisted Brambles Shelter Bountiful Springs, convinced the nation to dig. As far and deep as we could. He believed—we all did—that if we dug deep enough, we could reach the
zafira
. Create our own place of power.”

“So you tunneled into the mountains,” Hector says.

“Yes. For generations. It was a national obsession. We used natural caverns as starting places and dug and dug. Inevitably, tunnels collapsed. Many flooded. Some hit bedrock. When that happened, we simply branched out and tried somewhere else.

“But too many people died, some in the collapses, some by breathing poison gas, getting lost, falling to their deaths. Others were caught in the fire of animagi as they brought their Godstones to bear. The project lost support. It was too costly, too deadly. When we discovered that once every hundred years a Joyan was born who never shed his Godstone, who could be used as a conduit to the
zafira
, it ceased entirely.

“The tunnels remained open for another century; they became ordinary mines for a while. We found gold, silver, gemstones. But the mountains were showing signs of being mined
out when strange rumors began. Miners entered and were never heard from again. There were reports of odd noises, strange lights. And when a massive cave-in killed forty miners, the tunnels were closed for good.”

The wind stills. The fire leaps high, its flames suddenly straight and strong. The shadows on the wall waver less because gusts no longer push through the entrance. I raise my head, thinking maybe the storm has stopped, but no. The snow has blocked us in.

Belén springs to his feet, grabs his pole, and pokes it through the top. Snow pours in on top of him, but he keeps working until wind whips over our heads again and the flames jerk and twist.

I turn back to Storm. “But the tunnels are still accessible?” I say. “We could travel through them?”

“No,” he says, even as Waterfall says, “Yes.”

They glare at each other.

“It’s not safe,” Storm says. “They are too old. Any wooden supports are rotted by now. Many of the tunnels are flooded. And there’s something down there. One of the ancient creatures, if I were to guess, from before your people came to this world.”

Waterfall is shaking her head. “I’ve been inside,” she insists.

“When?” he says.

“While you were being tutored and pampered, the other Crooked Sequoia children were left to ourselves. We took turns daring one another to go inside. I was the boldest of all of us. I explored for hours. Once I spent a whole day wandering
the mines. It’s dangerous, yes. But the only things down there are animals. I’ve seen bats. A few rodents. Even signs of bear.”

“Do you know the way?” I ask. “Can you get us to Basajuan?”

“I think so. Once I started going regularly, I learned everything I could about them. I found maps in the Crooked Sequoia archive.”

Storm is regarding her thoughtfully. “I would have gone with you,” he says softly. “I would have skipped my lessons to explore the mines with you.”

A hint of a smile graces her face. “I’m sure you believe that,” she says.

My heart twists a little with recognition. Waterfall is like me, the younger sister who yearned for the approval of her older sibling and never got it.

“Do you have these maps memorized?” I ask.

“Almost. The tunnels themselves are named and marked. Many of those markings remain. Some indicate distance and direction. Between the markings and my memory of the maps, I think I can get us through.”

“How long will it take us?” Hector asks.

“Several days.”

Hector turns to me. “We don’t have enough food. No way to feed the horses.”

I glance toward the back of the cave, where our mounts take advantage of the rest and warmth, blissfully dozing on their feet. “Then we start slaughtering them for food.” My voice is as firm as my resolve.

“How far to the nearest entrance?” Belén asks.

“Half a day’s journey. More in deep snow.”

Everyone looks to me for a decision.

“What do you think, Storm?” I say. “Can your sister get us through?”

He shrugs. “My sister is a scout of some renown, and deservedly so. If she says she can do it, she can.”

Waterfall blinks rapidly at the compliment, and a flush of pink colors her perfect skin.

I say, “Then we go as soon as the weather clears. In the meantime, we’ll make our food stretch as far as possible. Hunting and foraging will be everyone’s responsibility as we travel.”

Everyone nods, but Mara frowns darkly beside me. I remember the night she accompanied us into the catacombs beneath my city. Her eyes were as large as dinner plates while we explored, and when she was given leave to go, she fled, practically sprinting back up the stairs. I reach out and squeeze her hand. She squeezes back.

“Anything I’m not considering?” I ask. “Anyone else have anything to say?”

Silence. Then, tentatively, Mula says, “I do.”

We watch as she stands and approaches the fire. She clasps her hands behind her back, shifts from one foot to the other.

“What is it, Skinny Girl?” Belén asks.

She gives him a shy smile. “I have decided on a name.”

I sit forward. “Oh?”

“My name,” she says with a lift of her chin, “is Red Sparkle Stone.”

No one makes a sound. There is only the popping of the fire, the rush of wind, the pawing of a horse.

Finally I manage, “Well. That is indeed a strong and . . . unique name.”

Mula’s—no, Red Sparkle Stone’s—face lights up. “I knew you’d like it! Red is my favorite color. And sparkle stones are strong. The strongest thing there is. I was thinking you should call me Red, the same way Storm’s whole name is too important to say all the time.”

Oh, thank God
. “Red it is, then,” I say, and I look around at our companions, daring contradiction. Mara looks stunned. Storm and Waterfall are wholly indifferent. Hector and Belén are trying very hard not to laugh.

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