The Girl of Fire and Thorns Complete Collection (145 page)

Which means they might be on the opposite side of the city by now. This is our chance to get inside unseen. “Basajuan’s wall is not defensively optimal,” I observe. “It’s
low, with just a few watchtowers around the outskirts.”

“We should prepare to be stopped and questioned, though,” he says. “Especially with an Invierno traveling with us.”

I glance back at Storm. I grew accustomed to having him travel openly, for he caused little notice in the free villages. But once we crossed the divide, his passing was greeted with suspicious stares. So he flipped up his cowl and now he rides hunched over, trying to look inconspicuous. I’m suddenly grateful for the chill in the air. It gives him an excuse to wear that cloak.

But if we’re stopped at a guard tower, he is sure to be recognized as our ancient enemy.

I call up ahead. “Belén.”

He and Mara ride side by side. At my voice, they rein in their mounts and twist in the saddle.

When I catch up, I ask, “Do you know a way into the city from scouting for Cosmé?”

He grins. “Definitely.”

“Please tell me it doesn’t involve a cave or a sewer,” Mara says.

“No,” he says, and she breathes relief. “If we play it right, we can walk right through the front door of Cosmé’s palace.”

“That would be ideal,” I say.

“Several of your rebel Malficios joined Cosmé’s guard after you left,” Belén says. “I’ll ride ahead—a lone rider can get through this crowd a lot easier than all of us traveling together—and scout the towers, find someone who will recognize you on sight. Then we’ll send for Captain Jacián.”

Jacián! He helped steal me away from King Alejandro, then
stayed by my side as I led the rebel Malficio. Another dear friend I have not seen in too long. I almost send up a prayer of gratitude, but I stop myself. The Deciregi are near and likely to sense whenever my Godstone is active.

“Do it,” I say. “And quickly.”

Belén spurs his horse on. We snack on late-harvest apples as we wait for him. Beyond the smoke and charred remains of the countryside, the city of Basajuan is beautiful, with rolling adobe buildings painted in bright pastels. It’s a lot like my home in Brisadulce, but its nestled location in the crook of two meeting mountain ranges makes it a little cooler, a little wetter, and the result is lush and colorful by comparison.

Hector has checked and rechecked his weapons. Now he fiddles with the saddlebag, taking items out, putting them back in again.

“You’re as bad at waiting as I am,” I observe.

He freezes in the midst of inspecting a water skin. “You’re right,” he says. “I’m accomplishing nothing. I don’t know how
you
manage it, though. Waiting on a horse. Unable to pace and bite your thumbnail.”

I shoot him a mock glare, but he doesn’t notice because his face has turned distant and grave. “This situation has the potential to go very badly.”

“Yes.”

“Not just for us,” he explains. “For the world. The Deciregi could not have known it when they planned their conquest of this city, but you, Crown Princess Alodia, and Queen Cosmé are going to be in the same place at the same
time. They could eliminate you all in one stroke.”

I sigh, pulling back on my horse to make way for a woman and three barefoot children who are walking along the side of the road to avoid manure. “When I requested this meeting, it didn’t occur to me that I was creating a dangerous situation.” It was a rushed and painful moment. Franco had stolen Hector away, and I had just learned that Conde Eduardo was engineering a civil war. “But maybe it provides us with an opportunity too.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“Maybe your sister ignored your summons,” he says. “Her Highness has a reputation for following no one’s counsel but her own. It might be a good thing if . . .” Something in my face makes him pause. “What is it?”

I open my mouth, close it, not sure what to say.
It
is the thing I’ve been forcing myself not to think about.
It
is the fact that I dread seeing Alodia again.

“Elisa?”

“I’m nervous!” I blurt. “I know it’s stupid. The world is burning down around us. I have to defeat the most powerful sorcerers in the world, only to dash back home and stop a civil war. Why do I even care about
her
? Why is it so important?” I avoid his gaze, embarrassed. “Hector, I’m afraid you’re marrying an idiot.”

He chuckles, and I snap my head up to glare at him, only to find his face full of empathy.

“I’m sure it did not escape your notice while we were aboard
Felix’s ship,” he says, “but I admire my older brother greatly.” He leans forward, crossing his arms over the pommel of his horse, and peers at me with a self-deprecating grin. “I followed him around like a puppy until Alejandro brought me into his service. A disapproving word from Felix can still cut me to the quick—but don’t you dare tell him I said so.”

I gaze off toward the city, as the rightness of his words stick in my gut. I do want Alodia’s approval. Hers and Papá’s. And I’m disgusted with myself for wanting it. It still bothers me that they married me to a stranger and shipped me off. That they purposely kept me ignorant of essential knowledge pertaining to my Godstone. And when I finally became a queen in my own right, they didn’t even bother to attend my coronation.

“Alodia always wanted me to be better,” I say softly. “Different. And I spent most of my childhood actively not meeting her expectations.”

“I was there during the marriage negotiations between your father and Alejandro. Trust me, she cares for you very much.”

I’m not sure what to say to that.

“Alodia assured us you were destined for great things,” he adds. “She even quoted the prophecy, ‘And God raised up for himself a champion . . .’ Why are you shaking your head?”

“I don’t think I’ve fulfilled that prophecy. Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

He’s about to say something else, but Belén returns, weaving through traffic toward us. “Jacián himself is at the southeast tower,” he says breathlessly.

“What did they say? Have the animagi started attacking the city yet? Is my sister here?”

Belén is shaking his head. “I’m a traitor here, remember? That’s why Cosmé washed her hands of me and sent me to you. They would kill me on sight. We must take
you
before them.”

He can’t mask the pain in his voice. How hard must it be for him to return here? To see old friends and family, even an old lover, knowing they despise him for living when he should have died a traitor’s death?

Mara’s face is stony. She sits stiff and tall on her gray gelding, as if prepared for battle. I expect she won’t relax until Belén and Cosmé meet again and she can gauge for herself how things are between them.

“Let’s go.” And we ride forward, faces set with determination, all of us for different reasons.

The guard tower would hardly be called a tower by Brisadulce’s standards. It’s only three floors high, with a small eagle’s nest at its apex, where a crossbowman stands at the ready. We dismount from our horses and hand the reins to Mara. The rest of us stride right through the door and into a busy armory.

More than a dozen soldiers sit sharpening blades, mending tack, polishing armor. They launch to their feet and surround us with swords in the space of a breath.

We put up our weaponless hands to show we mean no harm. “I require audience with Captain Jacián,” I say. “I am Queen Elisa of Joya d’Arena.”

They stare in astonishment, weapons half lowered. A few drop to their knees and bow their heads. But one points to Storm and says, “An Invierno!”

“My royal ambassador,” I say loud and clear. “And under my protection.”

“Is Jacián here?” Belén calls out.

“Fetch the captain,” someone calls out, even as whispers of “traitor” and “spy” echo around us. The weight of daggers in my belt begins to feel conspicuous. How fast could I draw them?

An explosion booms, too close, and all the weapons rattle in their racks. The guards shift uneasily, torn between keeping an eye on us and rushing to their stations.

“Trebuchet,” Hector says. “I recognize the recoil. One of the guard towers nearby took a shot at the Deciregi.”

“They’re closing in,” I say.

The guards part to make way for someone, and suddenly he’s here. Jacián. Sharp featured and dark, with a deep glower that I once found menacing. He elbows his men out of the way and barrels toward me.

“Elisa.” He wraps me in a great hug, then he pushes me back to get a better look. “When word reached me that Eduardo is amassing an army in Brisadulce, I worried he had gotten to you.”

“It’s good to see you, Jacián.”

He steps back, collects himself. His eyes darken when he sees Belén, but he lifts his chin in greeting. My heart hurts for them. They used to be best friends.

He hollers instructions at his men, then gestures us forward. “Cosmé is eager to see you.”

Jacián escorts us from the guard tower. We collect our horses and quickly follow him through the crooked streets of Basajuan.

This is the second time I’ve come to this place to stop the Inviernos, and the palace is just as I remember it—small but fine, made of limestone in pastel hues. Tiles trim the windows, painted with the blue four-petaled flower design that gave me the key to unlocking the Godstone’s power the very first time I used it.

As we ride under the portcullis, I crane my neck looking to see which banners fly, hoping—possibly dreading—to see the sunburst crest of my native country. And there it is snapping proudly in the breeze, displayed just a little lower than Cosmé’s recently adopted crest of a hawk in flight.

Jacián takes us through a barracks of tiny rooms all lined up in a row, through the guards’ dining hall, and into the palace. We move fast, almost at a jog, around two corners, up a half flight of stairs.

And suddenly we’re there. The door to the audience hall.

32

T
HE
last time I was here, I was placed under house arrest, and the first boy I ever loved was brutally murdered.

A herald stands at the closed door. He starts to inquire how to announce us, but Jacián pushes past him and flings the doors open himself.

Inside is chaos. Pages sprint in and out of the side entrances, no doubt carrying messages to and from the guard towers. Cosmé’s personal guards line the walls. A large handful of people—soldiers, attendants, a few nobles—argue loudly over a table strewn with parchment.

I sort through the crowd looking for someone I know, my heart pattering with both anticipation and dread. I find Cosmé first, and when our eyes meet, she elbows people out of the way and dashes toward me, her short curls bouncing wildly.

When at arm’s length, she pulls up short. Her mouth works to say something, but nothing comes out. Finally she whispers, “Elisa . . . I’m under attack.”

It’s the closest she’ll ever get to telling me she’s terrified. “It looks bad out there,” I say gently.

She nods, swallowing hard. “It’s so different from . . . from . . .”

“Leading a desert rebellion?”

She raises an eyebrow at me, and just like that, the old Cosmé is back. “We’ve been through worse, right?”

“Sure we have.”

“Liar.” She grabs my hands and squeezes. Then she looks me up and down, frowning. “You’re disgusting.”

“I dressed to commemorate the time you dragged me through the desert.”

She snorts, then quickly surveys my companions. Her eyes flicker when she sees Belén, but she says, “Reunions and introductions later. Right now we . . .” Her gaze catches on Storm. She strides over and sticks her nose in his face. “You, I would kill on sight if you weren’t in the company of—”

“Queen Cosmé!” I say quickly. “Allow me to introduce He Who Wafts Gently with the Wind Becomes as Mighty as the Thunderstorm. You may call him Ambassador Storm, or Lo Chato. He is a friend and ally, and under my protection.”

In a cold voice, she says, “Very well. You are most welcome here, Ambassador Storm.” Then she yanks me toward the table. “We have work to do. And there’s someone here who wants to see you.”

I beckon for my companions to follow, wanting to sense their presence nearby, and I allow myself to be led toward the table. The people surrounding it part to make way.

Alodia stands as tall and stiff as a flagpole, her hands clasped before her. She is as beautiful as always, with golden skin that nearly shimmers and lush black hair pulled back into a loose knot that brings out the perfect lines of cheek and jaw. My sister has always been a study in contrasts, with petite, feminine features that bely her strength of carriage. No one looking at her would think her frail.

She seems older—so much older than the mere year and a half we’ve been apart should warrant. Her eyes are weary, her lips pressed firm, and she is as cold and unreadable to me as always. A statue of frozen, impenetrable perfection. My hearts sinks. My sister and I might be strangers to each other forever.

But suddenly, I don’t care about any of that. My legs run toward her of their own accord, and my arms stretch wide, because no matter what, I am
so glad
to see her. I barely register the moisture brimming in her eyes before our arms are wrapped around each other. She clings fiercely, and I breathe in her familiar jasmine perfume as she whispers into my hair, “Elisa. My sister.”