The Girl of Fire and Thorns Complete Collection (37 page)

An ice pick. I’ve never seen ice or snow, though I’ve read about them. But why would Invierne ally with the Perditos? A thought occurs to me. “The highway is the only land route between Joya and Orovalle,” I muse aloud.

He nods slowly, watching me with such interest that I feel I’m being tested. I realize we haven’t met any other travelers on the road. During hurricane season, the highway should be overrun with merchants.

“It was a risky decision. To travel through the Hinders.” I’m careful to keep my tone even, free of reproach.

“Yes, it was risky. But we kept our journey a secret. I don’t know how they knew.”

“Maybe the attack was random?”

He shrugs.

But my mind is stumbling over his words.
A secret
. “What do you mean? A secret?”

“The good people of Brisadulce don’t expect their king to return for another month or so.”

Their king. A secret
.

And their queen? Something about my gaze sobers him.

I take a deep breath. “They don’t expect me at all, do they?”

He shakes his head. “No. They don’t know I’m bringing a wife home with me.”

The road flattens, and our journey grows more comfortable. The air is hotter, but easier on the skin with its steady, quiet breeze. Blurry, brownish blots mar the horizon. Sandstorms, Lord Hector tells me when he catches me gazing at them. During hurricane season, the wind thrusts into the mainland from the ocean, and the resulting sandstorms can flay a man’s skin from his bones. I’m glad we travel west toward the sea, keeping the dunes at a steady distance.

I miss Ximena. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked about the man she killed. Now I feel this thing between us, huge and impenetrable and unspoken. She’s as efficient as ever, helping me dress each morning, plaiting my hair, fluffing out my ruffled skirt each night. But her touch is brusque, her eyes distant and sad. Or maybe I imagine it.

Aneaxi grows weaker. Lord Hector thinks she’s caught some kind of jungle fever, though no one else has fallen ill. Her skin, normally dark like mine, pales to ash gray. When she dozes, her dreams are fevered and strange. Something frightens her. She calls my name often, panicked, and I have to grip her sticky hand and whisper in her ear before she’ll settle. When she wakes, she insists she holds no memory of her dreams, but I’m not sure I believe her.

Two days away from Brisadulce, our carriage begins to smell of rotting meat. I am no physician, and in spite of my royal education, I’m the least studied in the healing arts. Still, I know of no fever that would cause such stench.

I pull Ximena aside when we stop for a quick meal of nuts and dried mango strips.

“This isn’t a jungle fever, Ximena. Or a broken leg. Why does she—”

Ximena looks down at my hand. I realize I’m gripping her arm too tightly, my fingertips deep in her flesh.

I pull my hand away, chagrined, but then I notice the tears pooling in Ximena’s eyes.

“What is it, Ximena? There’s something you haven’t told me.”

My nurse nods and swallows. “Aneaxi was injured more than we thought. She said nothing about it. Nothing at all.” Her voice is a wavery whisper, and fear lodges like a heavy stone in my chest. I’ve never seen Ximena cry.

“More than just a broken leg, you mean.”

“It’s her other leg. There’s a gash. Above her ankle. When we dragged her . . .”

A gash. Just a gash. That can’t be too serious, can it?

Ximena continues to speak, but I hardly hear her for the blood rushing past my ears. Something about an infection, about it being too late to amputate her leg.

I rush back to the carriage. Aneaxi lies sprawled across the bench. She moans with fever, even in her sleep. I reach for her leg, the unbroken one. Hidden beneath her skirt, the linens swaddling her calf are soaked and brownish as if tea stained. As I unwind them, the smell becomes unbearable. Like fish left too long in the sun, but sweeter, like rotting fruit. Aneaxi thrashes as I expose the wound to open air.

I recoil, hand over mouth. Purple and green streak pasty skin. Something black and viscous oozes from the gash; the skin at the edges peels back into a terrible sneer.

We did this, Ximena and I, when we dragged her from the carriage.

There is only one thing I know to do. I plunk onto the bench opposite my lady-in-waiting. The Godstone pulses warm beneath my fingertips as I close my eyes.

I am God’s chosen. Surely he will hear my prayers.

The next morning, Aneaxi awakens from her fever. My heart pounds with hope. Throughout the night, the stone in my navel radiated such comfort that I know God heard me. I’m sure Aneaxi will be healed.

It takes her a moment to focus. She smiles when she realizes I’m beside her.

“Elisa,” she whispers. Her brown eyes hold such serenity.

I stroke her forehead. “You should have told us, Aneaxi. You should have—”

“Listen to me.”

My hand freezes midstroke.

“Elisa, you have a great destiny.” Though soft, her voice rings with something fierce. The carriage rattles, my toes tingle.

She grabs my hand and squeezes. “You must not lose faith, child. No matter what. Do not doubt God or his choosing of you. He knows infinitely more than we can imagine.”

I shake my head. This is not right. She’s never spoken to me this way before. I open my mouth to tell her that she’s going to be all right, that I’ve prayed—

“He loves you so much. As do I. Promise me you’ll trust him.”

I should promise. Anything to put her at ease. But I can’t find the words.

She sighs, and her eyes grow distant. Her voice is so weak when she says, “You’re the light of my life, Elisa. My special . . .” Her grip on my hand releases.

“Aneaxi?”

But she doesn’t respond. She looks like a doll, her eyes glassy within a sculpture of frozen contentment, lips slightly parted. Gently, I reach forward and close her eyes with my fingertips, hoping it will make her seem merely asleep. But the stillness of sleep is nothing at all like the stillness of death.

Chapter 5

I
can’t seem to clear my mind of haze, though I know Lord Hector is being gentle. I can tell by the way his voice deepens, the way the syllables come soft and slow. It’s very kind of him.

“We’ll take her with us into the city,” Ximena says through tears. “She deserves a proper burial.”

Lord Hector inclines his head. “Then I’ll prepare her bod—the lady for travel.”

I glance between them, realizing she responded to him because I could not.

“No.” The word surprises me, but as it lingers in my mouth I understand how right the decision is. They wait for me to explain while I gaze across the desert expanse. It shimmers red-orange in the rising sun. Weeks ago, Aneaxi told me she’d always wanted to see the desert. She said she couldn’t imagine land that rolled like waves, that stretched as far as the sea. “We’ll bury her there. In the sand.”

The guard’s leathers creak as he bows acknowledgment. I lean against Ximena as she strokes my braid.

On the evening of the second day after God ignored my prayers, we reach Brisadulce. I don’t notice the city as we approach, so seamlessly do the sandstone walls embrace the yellow desert floor. We pass through a line of coconut palms and suddenly it’s there, rising three times the height of a man. Lord Hector rides beside my carriage as I crane my neck. He chuckles and tells me the walls were built to keep out sandstorms.

Brisadulce is nothing like the cities of Orovalle. I notice the stench first, like a privy that’s run out of mulch. The streets are crooked and narrow. Merchants’ shops and apartments tumble one upon another, like haphazard piles of children’s blocks. I eye them with distrust. Everything is high and close and dim, and I don’t know how people can live in such a place knowing that boundless sky and open desert lie steps away.

We receive indifferent glances as we pass—a woman beating a rough-woven blanket, two dirty-kneed boys who scamper into an adjoining alley, a tall bearded man selling coconuts—but we are travel worn, our carriages scarred by the battle with the Perditos. Nothing royal or noteworthy. I’m glad because I don’t feel ready to be seen.

The ground slopes upward as we twist deeper into the city. Here the buildings stretch higher with cleaner lines, brighter curtains. Occasionally, twilight flashes against real glass panes. With the change in architecture, I expect my new home to be rich and spectacular.

It’s not. Rising from a hill in the center of the city, Alejandro’s monstrous palace is the ugliest structure I’ve seen. The history of Joya d’Arena shows in its patchwork of sandstone and river rock, of plaster and wood; the collective effort of a millennium of overzealous builders. The earth surrounding the walls is barren and gray, nearly indistinguishable from the stone in the fading light. The place desperately needs brightening. Maybe Alejandro will let me plant bougainvillea.

Torch lamps light our path as we steer around the palace toward the stables. We stop at guard intervals, and I hear voices ahead, though I can’t make out the words. Perhaps Alejandro has identified himself. I imagine how he tells them about me.
I’ve brought the most wonderful, beautiful woman home with me for my bride!
Then servants scurry away to prepare feasts and flowers and singing for our arrival. I laugh aloud. I’ve had such ridiculous thoughts since my wedding.

I jump when Ximena’s fingers squeeze my knee. It had grown dark enough for me to forget she rides just across from me. But I’m saved having to explain my laughter when Alejandro’s head appears in the carriage window, backlit by torches.

“Elisa!” He grins like a little boy about to show off his favorite toy. “We’re home.”

Home.
I manage a shaky smile in return.

“I told my seneschal we are weary from our journey and will do no receiving tonight. Also”—his smile turns apologetic—“I said you are a very special guest who should be given every courtesy. So let me know if anything is not to your liking.”

A special guest. Is that all?

But he grasps my hand as I descend from the carriage. When I look up to thank him, he doesn’t let go, just clasps it tighter and says, “I’ll show you to your suite.”

I nod, swallowing. Ximena steps down behind me.

We’re in a sandy carriage yard, the stables to our left. The darkness blurs details, but I hear nickering horses and smell manure tinged with the sharpness of fresh-cut hay. To our right, the monolith of the palace is heavy in the sky above me. My companions scurry about, unloading carriages and packhorses. I don’t see anyone unfamiliar, which seems odd. Whenever Papá and Alodia return from a journey, the whole staff turns out in greeting.

Nighttime, no servants, a side entrance, a special guest.

For whatever reason, Alejandro has decided to keep me a secret.

It’s hard to keep my hand in Alejandro’s, because I’m not sure he cares. My pulse thumps in my throat, from exertion and maybe disgrace, as we enter the palace and maneuver through corridors and up a flight of stairs. Ximena follows behind. I’ve read the
Belleza Guerra
innumerable times, so I know I should concentrate on the route, get to know my surroundings. But I can’t think past the humiliation that burns my face.

We stop at a mahogany door carved with vines and flowers. Alejandro opens it, and we step into a breezy chamber lit by beeswax candles. I don’t have time to take in all the details because Alejandro pulls me toward him and takes my other hand.

“I’m going to ask you to keep a secret for me,” he says as Ximena brushes past into the room. He looks the same as he did on our wedding night, his eyes cinnamon brown in the candlelight. “I’m not ready to reveal that I’ve married. It’s something I must save for the proper time.”

He is so intent on me as he pleads for understanding. Still, I say nothing.

“And I think it would be best,” he continues, “if you didn’t tell anyone about the Godstone just yet.”

I suck my cheeks in and take a deep breath, refusing to cry in front of him.

“Elisa?”

As much as I want to help him, to win him over, I’m suddenly desperate to feel like I still belong to myself. So I fix him with my best approximation of Alodia’s glare, the one she uses on lazy cooks and little sisters. “I will trust you, Alejandro. For now. Because my sister told me I should. But that is the
only
reason. I very much hope you will give me another.”

I am shocked into silence when he wraps his arms around me and pulls me close. “Thank you,” he says into my hair. Then he releases me, grabs my hand, and brings it gently to his lips.

I tremble at the warmth of his kiss, but when he bids me good-night, I am unable to return his smile with one of my own.

He closes the door behind him on the way out. I turn toward the bed, a high, thick thing with diaphanous curtains and a three-tiered stepstool. Ximena has already turned down the covers. She gazes at me with understanding, having missed nothing of my exchange with Alejandro. I can’t help myself anymore. Sobs quake through my chest, my nose runs, and I just want to go to sleep and never wake up.

The Godstone is an icy fist in my stomach, twisting and grinding against my spine. I can’t breath; my lungs are frozen in shock. Alejandro looms above me. He reaches for the stone. “Give it to me!” he shrieks. I scurry backward on the bed like a bug, curl against the headboard. Alejandro advances. He has the eyes of a hunter, sparking red and catlike. The way he moves, the way he smells—there’s an animal inside him, squirming just under his skin. I don’t remember grabbing the dagger, but it’s cold and hard in my hand. I stab and stab at Alejandro until blood streams over my forearm and my palm aches from impact.

I blink. Lady Aneaxi smiles. “Trust,” she says, reaching for the Godstone. Her nails prod the skin of my abdomen; they scrape around the stone. Fiery pain darts through my pelvis, down my legs. She digs deeper and pulls. It feels like my spine is coming out through my navel. The pain is too much to bear. I manage a breath. Quick and shallow, but it’s enough that I can scream. Aneaxi draws back, startled. Her fingertips, swollen and black with infection, drip crimson. She grins. “You must wake up, my Elisa.”