The Girl of Fire and Thorns Complete Collection (29 page)

“You were supposed to become queen,” Solvaño says. Spittle edges his mouth now as he steps forward, seemingly unaware of Isadora’s dagger. “How you failed so utterly, I’ll never—”

“He picked her because of you! He couldn’t bear the idea of you as a father-in-law.” The hand holding the dagger wavers, then drops to her side. “I couldn’t blame him, even when he broke my heart.”

His grin is smug. “You’re a whore
and
a liar. And now no one will want you. I’ve made sure of that.”

A cry of anguish bubbles up from somewhere deep inside her as she raises the knife and plunges it into her father’s belly.

“Isadora!” Oh, God, what has she done?

She yanks out the knife. Blood bubbles up from the wound as she raises it again, but I grab her elbow. “Let’s go, my lady. Before the alarm goes up.”

She drops the dagger. It clatters to the stone floor, and droplets of blood sprinkle around it.

Solvaño makes a gurgling noise as he raises his head. He’s trying to say something. His face shows no surprise, no fear of dying. There is only hate.

“How could he,” Isadora whispers. “His own daughter.”

“He was a monster,” I agree, staring at the body twitching on the floor.

“I guess I’ve had my revenge,” she whispers, but she doesn’t sound convinced.

“Yes. Now let’s go. No, wait.”

I crouch beside Solvaño’s body, thinking. Then I grab the dagger, and bile rises in my throat as I place the tip against the still-seeping wound and send the dagger home.

“What—what are you doing?” Isadora says.

I wrap Solvaño’s right hand around the knife grip, then with a grunt and heave, I roll him over onto his stomach. “I’m trying to make it look like an accident,” I explain. I stand and look down at my handiwork, feeling sick. “The king’s advisers can manufacture whatever story they want of this, but it will help if your father’s people find the body this way.”

Isadora laughs again, her laugh dissolving into tears. She stumbles as another spasm takes her, and I rush to her side. We are both sticky with blood as I prop her up to pant through the contraction. I breathe along with her, trying to still my own heart. I’m in deep waters, way over my head. I have no idea what to do next, except to keep moving, so that’s what we do—out the front door, through the gardens and the rusty gate, and down the road toward the docks.

We have just reached the closed-up market stalls when Isadora’s knees buckle. “This is it,” she gasps between breaths. “I can’t go on.”

I panic, turning in a circle, but I don’t even know what I’m looking for. Why did I send Miria away for help?

Isadora grips my hand, her tiny fingers squeezing so hard, I think she will break my bones. They are slick with her father’s blood. “Just get me to someplace where I can lie down,” she gasps again.

I use the handle of my dagger to break the latch on one of the stall doors, and I help her inside.

The ground is hard-packed, with pebbles here and there. At least it’s out of the wind and ocean spray. I pull the queen’s quilt from my pack. I fold it in half once, then spread it out and support Isadora as she lowers herself gingerly on top of it.

Her labored breaths suck at the linen wrapping her face. “Here, let me help you,” I say, reaching for her face.

But she screams at me. “No!”

The contractions are coming fast and hard now, and I have no idea what to tell her, but she seems to know what to do, so I sit and hold her hand and say over and over that things will be all right.

She continues to have trouble breathing through the cloth. Finally, she yells, “Don’t look at me, do
not
look at me,” and she pulls it away from her face.

Of course, I look, but I don’t believe what I see.

Her nose has been sliced off her face, leaving two gaping nostril holes, like those of a skull. Her cheeks have been slashed with a knife and are covered with red, raw scars, where they are still healing.

Solvaño intended to make a monster of Isadora, and maybe, in inciting her killing rage, he did.

I’ve never wanted to murder anyone. Most men go through their whole lives without having to kill, and there is no glamor in it for me. But in this moment, if Lord Solvaño were here, I would kill him all over again.

Isadora is trapped between sobbing and pushing. The baby is eager to be born.

“It is going to be all right,” I tell her. “Everything is going to be all right.”

“Stop lying to me!” she screams.

So I sit and hold her hand and wipe the sweat from her forehead and from her still-healing scars, and I tell her about her cousin the queen, who made this quilt that she’s lying on, and how the commander of the Guard called me a princess for having it. I try to project calm, although I feel anything but calm.

“Oh, God, here it comes,” she cries.

“What do I do?”

“Get it out of me!”

I freeze. I’ve never . . . We need another woman here. Maybe I should go find someone. . . .

“GET IT OUT.”

I’m trembling as I lift the cloak and reveal her naked body. “Oh, God.” She is like a two-headed monster, with that wet, grayish-blue head poking out from between her legs. I reach for it with shaking hands, then cradle it in my palm and help support it as she pushes again. The whole thing slips out in a wave of blood-tinged wetness.

I’ve never seen anything born before, not even a colt or a kitten. Just this squirming boy, his mouth open in a silent scream. He hardly looks like a person, all pale and glinting wet in our meager light. I lift him up, offer him to her, but she shakes her head.

“No, I don’t want it, it’s not mine, I don’t.” She is limp on her back now, spent, her gaze shifted away.

“What should I do?” I say. Just then, the baby shudders, and a great wail fills the empty market stall.

“Leave it to die.”

“No!” I say. “What do I do with the cord?” Determination settles into my core, giving me strength and new energy. If his mother doesn’t want him, that leaves me with only one course.

Because I know whose child this is. And Alejandro will want his son. I must deliver this royal bastard to his father. It’s the right thing to do.

“Still have your knife?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Then tie a knot and cut the cord above the knot.”

“You’ll have to hold him while I do it,” I say.

She looks angry, but she holds out her arms, and I hand her the child. The cord is warm and slick in my fingers and slips when I try to cut it, but I soon have the job done.

“Can you wipe him off?” she says. He is rooting around, trying to get his face at her breasts.

“Of course,” I say. I half cut, half rip two strips from the quilt where it is still mostly clean. We use one piece to wipe him off and the other to wrap him up. By the time that’s done, the baby is feeding, and Isadora is crying, tears running down the furrows between the scars on her cheek.

“You were marvelous,” I tell her, and I mean it. “Getting out of the tower, delivering the baby.” Killing her father.

She shakes her head.

“I didn’t know what to do,” I press. “Not when we ran into your father, not when the baby was coming, but you made the right decisions every step of the way. You’re a warrior.”

She continues to shake her head. “What does it matter? I’ve nowhere to go.”

“Yes, you do.” I know exactly where to take her.

13

M
Y brother’s ship, the
Aracely
—named after his wife—is the most beautiful ship in Joya d’Arena. It’s a tiny
caravela
with three masts and a small crew, but a deep hold for cargo. Its lovely lines are trimmed in mahogany, which the crew keeps burnished through tide and storm. The doors and rail are painted the deep red of sacrament roses.

Though it is still deepest night, the crewman on watch recognizes me when I come aboard. He raises an eyebrow at the sight of a woman and baby, but says nothing. I help Isadora to the captain’s quarters and beat on the door.

Felix yanks it open. He is shirtless, wild hair awry, but instantly alert. “Hector? What are you doing here?”

At that moment the baby cries, and Aracely appears at his shoulder.

Relief floods me. “We need help,” I say.

Lantern light glints against glass beads in Felix’s beard as he starts to speak, but Aracely shoves him out of the cabin. “Get out,” she says to her husband. “Get us something to eat and drink but knock before you enter. And you,” she says to Isadora and me, “inside now.”

She pulls us through the door and closes it behind us. Sumptuous rugs cover the wooden plank floors. A desk sits in one corner, bolted down, and a large bed is built into the other. It is unmade, and the silk coverlet hangs over the edge and drags on the floor. Lanterns hang from the ceiling. They sway with the ship’s gentle rocking, and shadows leap along the wood panel walls.

Aracely is a tall, large-boned woman with a strong chin and rich brown eyes like the mahogany of the ship that is named for her. She dwarfs Isadora as she leads her to the bed and helps her lie back. My sister-in-law is impervious to blood and stink as she pulls up the fine silk coverlet and tucks it around Isadora’s shoulders. “What’s your name, dear?”

“Isadora.”

“That baby’s less than an hour old, or I’ve never midwifed a child.” She pulls down the swaddling with a forefinger to get a better look at him. “Some women can be up and walking right after, but you were already in bad shape, yes? Has the afterbirth passed?”

“Yes,” Isadora says, somewhat stunned.

“Well, that’s one thing done right,” she says, and gives me a withering glance.

“I—”

“Hector de Ventierra.” She’s working up to a full sail of anger, which is not something I want aimed at my horizon. “You foolish, stupid boy, what in seven hells have you done to this poor—”

She stops because she has unwrapped Isadora’s face. The girl’s tears have dried up. Maybe she doesn’t have any more, but she stares back at Aracely, one woman to another, with nothing to hide.

“Who did this?” Aracely says. Her voice is soft, but it snaps like a sail catching the wind, and I realize that I have never seen her so angry.

“My father,” Isadora says.

“Lord Solvaño de Flurendi,” I add. “Keeper of the Fortress of Wind and portmaster of Puerto Verde.”

“I know who he is,” Aracely says.

“He is on his way to the seven hells himself,” I say. “I expect the cry to go up any moment.”

Isadora turns her face away, guilty tears pooling in her eyes. For some reason, I’m a little relieved to see them.

Aracely swears in a language I don’t understand, and then she goes to the door and yanks it open. Felix stands there with a tray of bread and cheeses and a jug of wine.

Aracely takes them from his hands and says, “We’re leaving port at once. Cast off and get us out to sea, quietly as you can.”

“Our cargo is only half sold, so . . .” He pauses, eyes narrowed, then says, “Setting sail for where, my dear?”

“Brisadulce,” I answer.

He nods but stares at me hard. “We’re going to have a talk, you and I.”

“Not until I’m done with him,” Aracely says, and she kicks the door shut and latches it. She turns back to me. “So, this is not your child, after all.”

I hope she doesn’t notice my rising blush. “No.”

She looks at both of us. “Can you say whose it is?”

“No,” I say, before Isadora can answer.

Aracely looks at both of us, at the baby, and then back to my clothes, which are soaked in blood.

The ship rocks as it pushes away from the dock. I’m thrown off balance and stumble, but Aracely shifts her weight and keeps her feet. Outside, oars dip and splash as the pilot boat tows us toward the harbor mouth.

“Do you have a plan?” she asks.

“Yes, I’m going to take both of them to King Alejandro.”

“No!” Isadora says, her voice panicked. “I can’t return to court, not like this. I have no desire to see . . . him.”

I open my mouth to argue, but Aracely says, “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, and if this one, or anyone else, tries to make you, they’ll have to go through me first.”

Isadora grabs Aracely’s hand. “You mean that?”

“I surely do. You’ll have to do something. But it won’t be what any man decides.” She glances at me. “Not even if he is well-meaning.”

I don’t know if Aracely is referring to me or Alejandro—for she has surely guessed whose child this is—but it doesn’t matter because I’m so relieved to let her take charge.

“But what can I do?” Isadora asks.

“Are you educated? Can you read and write and do figures? Are you willing to learn?”

“Yes. . . .”

“Then you have a thousand options. In the temperate mountains around Basajuan, you could farm a small plot of land and grow grapes or dates for winemaking. You could run a tavern in the free villages east of the desert. In the southern isles beyond Selvarica, women keep their faces covered all the time. You could set up as a merchant there and manage trade for us and for other ships.”

“That—” Isadora says.

“Shh, you don’t have to decide now.”