The Girl of Fire and Thorns Complete Collection (42 page)

“Service.”

He nods. “Yes, service. So they left, and several years later, when the next bearer was chosen in Orovalle, they took it as God’s mark of approval.”

“What does this have to do with Homer’s
Afflatus
?”

“Patience. I take it the royal family remains staunchly Vía-Reforma?”

“Of course.” It has always been a source of pride that my ancestors were not afraid to seek truth.

“As with all good movements, it started well. The need to return to the path of God was real. But it grew. It gained such momentum, and it became . . . something else.”

Though I’m angry at my sister, at Master Geraldo, especially at Ximena, for keeping things from me, I’m not sure I’m ready to hear my faith has been misplaced. “Explain.” The warning in my voice is unmistakable.

“They studied. Oh, they studied. It became about pride—they understood the sacred texts better than anyone, and they knew it. A cultural obsession formed, based on this investigation of scripture. They found truths that were . . . hidden from lesser eyes.”

I am quick to defend. “That is perfectly reasonable. It’s much easier to understand the
Scriptura Sancta
or the
Common Man’s Guide to Service
with intense study. As the
Sancta
says, “‘Much study leads to much understanding.’”

“True,” he agrees with an indulgent smile. “But it also says, ‘The mind of God is a mystery and none can understand it.’ You see, they went too far. They shunned the obvious, natural reading of the text for the hidden, unnatural one. Their precious truth was eclipsed by snobbery and elitism.”

“I need an example.”

He rises from the table and disappears into the gloom of bookshelves. I hear him rifling through scrolls, mumbling to himself, then footsteps as he returns. A smell precedes him, the musty, animal-skin scent of deep secrets.

“This,” he announces, spreading a scroll across the table, “is Homer’s
Afflatus
.” The edges try to curl back into their scroll form; Nicandro uses his forearm to hold them down. With his free hand, he points to a passage in the middle. “Here. Read this.”

The candlelight is too dim, the script eddies and churns across soft vellum, and I am so weary. I rub my eyes and lean closer.

And God raised up for himself a champion. Yea, once in every four generations He raised him up to bear His mark.

(The champion must not fear.)

But the world did not know him and his worth was hidden away; like the desert oasis of Barea it was concealed. Many sought the champion; from evil intent they sought him.

(The champion must not waver.)

He could not know what awaited at the gates of the enemy, and he was led, like a pig to the slaughter, into the realm of sorcery. But the righteous right hand of God is mighty.

(His mercy extends to His people.)

I sit back and consider. The passage rings true in my heart; the Godstone vibrates softly in response. But there is newness here too, and I let it seep into my mind a moment. The realm of sorcery. The gates of the enemy.

“Why did my Vía-Reforma family hide this from me?”

Father Nicandro leans forward and smiles. Like all good teachers, he loves the moment of revelation, when the light of knowledge passes to his pupil. “It’s all about this word right here.” He points to the passage that reads,
He could not know what awaited at the gates of the enemy . . .
“‘Could.’ One tiny word. The natural reading of the text indicates that the champion is ignorant, for whatever reason, of the danger that awaits him.”

I nod. That is exactly how I interpreted it.

“But!” He waggles a finger at me. “There is another passage. ‘He who serves must not lose purity of intent.’”

I’m familiar with those words. They’re from the
Common Man’s Guide to Service
. A favorite quote of Ximena’s.

“Two different meanings,” he continues. “‘Could not’ and ‘must not.’ In the original language, however, it’s the same word: ‘Né puder.’ Our forefathers, for whatever reason, translated them differently. The Vía-Reformas believe the first instance is in error. Where it says ‘He could not know what awaited,’ it should read, ‘He
must
not know what awaited.’”

“So they believe it means that the bearer should not be told about the danger. It became a mandate rather than an observation.”

“Precisely.”

“So I have been kept in ignorance.”

“Yes.”

“Because of one word.”

He shrugs. “There are other similar passages they use to bolster their claim, but this is the main one.”

“The other bearers, the ones from Joya. Were they kept ignorant?”

“No. Just you and Hitzedar the bowman.”

I put my face in my hands, trying to understand it all. Father Nicandro hasn’t answered all my questions, but I’m too tired to remember them right now. I worry what Ximena will do when she finds out I know about Homer’s
Afflatus
. Maybe it would be best not to tell her. And what if the Vía-Reformas are correct? What if I’m not supposed to know any of this?

“Father.” I despise the quaver in my voice, but I’m helpless to stop it. “What awaits me at the gates of the enemy?”

“My dear girl, that I cannot tell you. No one knows. We only know that great danger awaits the bearer.”

“But I will win through in the end, right? I mean, it says, ‘The righteous right hand of God is mighty.’”

“Again, I don’t know. I don’t wish to alarm you, but I’m more concerned with what it doesn’t say. It doesn’t say the champion prevails.” He reaches across the table and flips the scroll over. “Look at this.”

It’s a list of names with corresponding dates. One name every hundred years, with a few astonishing gaps in between. Toward the bottom, I see my own name.
Lucero-Elisa de Riqueza
. It’s been newly added, for the ink is darker and the letters do not bleed into the page. I stare at them in wonder. Homer leads the list. Hitzedar the bowman is only a few slots above me.

The bearers before me. Real names, real people.

“There are gaps.” I give Nicandro a questioning look.

“Yes. Our record is incomplete. Either we’ve lost the history, or some of the bearers were never recognized.”

A startling thought. “How can that be?”

He shrugs. “Maybe they lived far from a monastery, raised in superstition, ignorant of their destiny. Maybe they died—or were killed—before they could complete their service. Who really knows?”

“So it is possible.” My greatest fear realized. Destiny is too fluid a thing to ensure with a mere stone. “It’s possible to die before completing the service.”

“Oh, yes. Of these names”—he waves an arm above the list—“fewer than half performed recognizable acts of service. And most of them died young. And brutally. Like Hitzeder the bowman, who died with an arrow in his heart.”

Not very good odds.

A sharp ache is forming behind my eyes, the ache of worry and unshed tears. I pinch the bridge of my nose and say, “Why are you telling me this? My nurse . . . she is, that is—”

“She’s your guardian. The lady Ximena would give her life for you.”

“She’s my
nurse
.” She’s more than that, of course, but I’m tired and surly.

“A guardian is selected by the nearest monastery to watch over the bearer. In Orovalle, I’m sure her job included seeing to your ignorance on certain prophetic matters. Actually—” He looks away, into the dark. “I’d prefer she not know about this conversation. As head priest of the Monastery-at-Brisadulce, it’s my duty to instruct you, to prepare you in any way I can. But a Vía-Reforma would see things very differently.”

She’s done more than watch over me. “She killed a man once. Because he learned I bear the stone.” I watch him closely for a response, but his sharp face is stolid. “With a hairpin,” I add, and am satisfied with a telltale twitch.

“Lady Ximena is a formidable woman.” His voice holds both respect and fear.

It was very kind of him to meet me at this horrid hour and instruct me at risk to himself. I reach forward and take his hand. “My nurse will not know of this meeting.”

He squeezes back, needing assurance as much as giving it. In spite of the night’s revelations, I am filled with the warmth of knowing I have a friend.

“God always chooses well, my child. I will help you any way I can.”

I take a deep breath to still the fear that vibrates in my chest. “If he chooses so well, why have so many bearers failed? Why does he sometimes ignore my prayers?”

“I don’t know, Elisa. There are many things about the Godstone and its bearers that we do not understand. But God knows. He knows more than we can imagine.”

Aneaxi’s words, before God let her die. Though I have enough control to keep from rolling my eyes at him, I can’t force the proper platitudes to my lips. Would he still believe me a worthy bearer if he knew of the doubts always sneaking into my thoughts?

The stool creaks as I rise. “Thank you, Father. I have more questions, but I’m tired, and I . . . well, I need to think about all this for a bit.”

He stands and grabs my upper arm. “I have something for you, before you go.”

As he disappears again into the dark, I stretch and yawn. I hope it’s a copy of Homer’s
Afflatus
. I’d dearly love to study it myself. Ximena could not know I possessed it, of course, and different hiding places compete in my mind for viability while I wait.

He’s gone a long time. I hear ruffled parchment, the click of a key and lock, a grating sound. When he reenters our meager pool of candlelight, he holds a fist-size leather pouch with long drawstrings that dangle between his fingers.

Not the
Afflatus
. I try not to seem disappointed. “What is it?”

He upends the pouch. Three small, sparkling items clatter onto the table. I lean closer. They are faceted jewels the size of my thumbnail, mostly dull in the dark but with hints of fire where the candlelight catches them just right. Deep blue. Familiar. I pick one up; it’s cold and hard in my palm.

“Godstones,” Father Nicandro says.

I catch my breath. It’s so different outside of the body, heavy and lifeless.

“This monastery had the privilege of overseeing three bearers. When they died, their Godstones detached. That one”—he points to one on the table—“is twelve hundred years old.”

It’s a strange feeling to hold my history in my hand. And as the stone in my navel pulses a warm greeting in contrast to the cold thing in my palm, I realize it’s my future too. My death.

I drop it next to the others and wipe my hand on my robe.

Nicandro gathers them into the leather pouch and pulls the drawstrings tight. “No one but a bearer can harness the power of a Godstone. I don’t know if any power remains in the old ones, but you might find them useful.” He hands it over with a shrug.

I’m not ready to take it from him just yet. “And if I die? Before doing some kind of service?”

“Then I’ll take them back. Along with your own stone.”

It’s his candor that convinces me to grab the little bag. He has frightened me with his forthrightness, but it makes me feel as though I can trust him. I shove it in the pocket of my dressing robe.

“Anything else I can do for you tonight, Highness?”

My stomach growls just then, and I flinch, embarrassed.

He chuckles. “We priests keep odd hours, and our kitchen is never closed.”

So it is laden with two pomegranate scones—one in my pocket, one in hand—that I creep back to my suite. I’m buzzing with new knowledge as I walk the quiet, torchlit corridors, nibbling on a scone: Homer’s
Afflatus
, the failed bearers before me, the guardian in the guise of a nurse.

The gates of the enemy.

I went to the priest seeking an advantage, something that would help me play the game of power here in Joya d’Arena and make me significant to Alejandro. Instead, my path is more shadowy than ever.

Like a pig to the slaughter
.

Now, it would be enough simply to survive.

I round the corner that leads to my suite and stop short, just quick enough to keep crumbs from getting on the rough cotton robe that looms before me.

“Elisa!” Ximena wraps me in an embrace, and I mash crumbs all over her robe anyway. She grabs my shoulders and thrusts me backward. “Where were you?” Her voice is harsh with anger and fear.

I hold up the half-eaten scone. “I was hungry.”

“Oh, Elisa. My sky. I woke up and thought I’d try and finish your skirt and I went to the atrium to get everything and I couldn’t hear you breathing and . . .” She takes a ragged breath. “You should have awakened me. I’d have gone with you.”

My guardian.

I know that watching over me is her duty, that her passion is fueled by centuries of a religious fervor I’m only beginning to understand. But the way her eyes caress my face and the way her hands rub up and down my arms with desperate relief are testament to something deeper.

My nurse.

“I’m sorry.” I reach into my pocket for the second scone, and my fingertips brush the leather pouch. It feels so huge and bulky there, and I worry that Ximena will see its shape through the fabric. “I . . . um . . . brought you a scone.”

She takes it from me, a soft smile curving thin lips. “Thank you.” She turns and links a companionable arm in mine to escort me back.

Ximena is tall and sturdy and strong. As we walk together, arm in arm, I lean my head against her shoulder, taking comfort in her solid familiarity.

Later that night, when I am certain Ximena again sleeps, I creep out to the balcony and bury my dead Godstones at the root of my potted palm tree.

Chapter 10

D
AYS later, Ximena and I are in the kitchens—avoiding the dining hall yet again—lunching on soft venison with piquant currant sauce. The kitchen master is more ragged than usual, hardly acknowledging me in his rush to get a huge batch of pollo pibil just right. I chew contentedly and watch him spice the chicken breast with garlic and cumin, then drizzle it with soured orange juice and wrap it in packets of banana leaves.