The Girl of Fire and Thorns Complete Collection (55 page)

Though Humberto continues to hesitate, Cosmé yanks me forward. “There is a place at the end of the other corridor,” she says as I hurry after her. “A wedge of sorts. It will be uncomfortable, but you will be out of sight.”

We’re there too soon. I wish the cavern was larger, easier to get lost in. Cosmé shows me a crevice. It inclines upward in a series of scallops and drips, a waterfall of sparkling limestone.

“Climb up,” Cosmé orders. “Once in the shadows, you’ll see an impression on your left. Crawl inside as far as you can fit.”

I comply quickly, using all fours to scramble up stone that is too smooth for purchase. I feel her hands on my rear, shoving me forward. The impression is dark on my left; I cannot tell how deeply it penetrates. I twist awkwardly and scoot inside, scraping my knees. It’s a cavern within a cavern, with a depressed area guarded by a lip of stone. I scoot as far back as I can, well into darkness.

“That will have to do,” Cosmé says. “Hold tight. I’ll bring food and water.”

It’s cooler here, almost chilly. Or maybe that’s the Godstone.
Please keep me safe, somehow
, I mouth. The floor is sandy and comfortable, but I have to hunch my head and shoulders and fold my legs tight to keep them in shadow.

Humberto’s head peeks into the opening. He tosses my pack inside, to land next to me in the sand. “I put all our food and water inside. Also, your ink. I suggest smearing your face and all the light parts of your clothing with it. If there is a flash flood, the water will come through this chamber. Let it sweep you back into the cavern. The water will stay shallow there.”

Flash flood?

“Humberto!” It’s Cosmé’s voice, distant now. “I hear them!”

His eyes are huge and sad. Apologetic.

“Go, Humberto,” I say softly. “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“I’ll come back for you. No matter what.”

“I know.”

He reaches inside, squeezes my ankle. And then he’s gone, leaving me alone in the tight, chilly dark. A moment later, I hear shouting. They’ve been spotted leaving the cavern, and pursuit begins. I’m torn between hoping my enemy chases after my companions and wanting them to come after me instead, giving Humberto and Cosmé a chance to escape.

I listen closely, holding my body tight in painful stillness. The shouting fades. Perhaps they move away from me. I can’t decide whether or not to feel relieved.

Then I hear soft, sliding footsteps in the sand.

My heartbeat thunders in my ears. I’m afraid to breathe. Surely they will see this crevice. They will peer up its length and glare into my obvious hiding place. I think of the ink in my pack, wishing I’d had time to smear my face and clothes with its concealing black. But then maybe the smell would have given me away.

The smell . . . the cavern still reeks of sizzling rabbit meat. My eyes tear up. Humberto and Cosmé and I should be sharing a meal together right now. And then I think:
What a strange thought to have when capture or even death looms so near.

The footsteps draw closer. Hushed male voices speak a language I don’t understand.

But suddenly I do understand. It’s similar to the Lengua Classica, though the syllables are more clipped and guttural than I’m used to. I’m so stunned that for a brief instant, I forget to be afraid. The people of Invierne speak the Lengua Classica?

“Né hay ninguno iqui,” someone says. There is no one here.

“Lo Chato né sería feliz si alquino nos escapría.” The Cat will be displeased if someone eludes us.

The guttural voices seem louder, nearer. Before me, an arm’s length away, a hand settles on the limestone waterfall, lit by sun streaming through fissures in the earth above. A thick, pale hand. Crisscrossed with scars the puckering white of bread dough.

Please, God. Make him go away.

I wait for an arm to follow. Maybe a pale face. I close my eyes, refusing to look. Finally I hear, “Né vieo nado.” I see nothing. The sound of slithering footsteps fades. I sense my aloneness, and it is an empty, sorrowful thing.

I refuse to move, afraid it’s a trick, afraid they stand guard at the entrance, waiting for me to reveal myself. I wish I had duerma leaf with me, so I could sleep through this nightmare. Then, days from now, I would wake, either captured or free. Or I would be dead and I wouldn’t wake at all. Either way, I would escape this terror of not knowing what would befall me, not knowing if my enemy lurked just around the corner.

My stomach aches with emptiness. I need to relieve myself. But I refuse to twitch a finger, even to breathe too deeply. My lower back aches with the need for release and from holding my legs so tight against my torso. Still, I manage to doze off, infused with the warmth of my life’s most earnest prayers.
Please watch over Humberto and Cosmé and Jacián and Belén. Let them escape. Let them live.

When I wake, my back is rigid as stone and my stomach is a hole in my gut, throbbing with hunger. It’s impenetrably dark, so I know I’ve slept at least until late afternoon, maybe longer. I reach, quietly, for my pack and manipulate the ties, surprised at how naturally my fingers decipher the knots, and reach inside for my packet of jerky. The meat—dried strips of mutton cured in salt and then sweetened with honey—is comforting, though it sticks in my teeth as I tear it apart. Afterward, I sip from the water skin, wondering if I should conserve, wondering how long I’ll be stuck in this hole. I feel around in my pack to see what Humberto left me. Another packet of food, a second water skin, a candle, a knife, a tinderbox. I’ve never lit a fire myself, though I’ve watched the others do it. It can’t be that difficult.

I sheath the knife against the hide of my boots, shoving it under the camel-hair wrapping. Before I do anything else, I must relieve myself. I consider digging a hole right here in my tiny cavern, but then I’d be forced to sit atop my own waste. Better to sneak down the incline now and crawl back up before morning.

Gradually, silently, I force my leg over the stone lip, then grasp it with my hands as the other leg follows. I slide down the incline on my belly and let go at the last instant, breathing a too-loud sigh of relief when my boots contact the sand floor. I straighten and listen a moment. Nothing. I take a few experimental steps forward. Still no sound.

I don’t dare go too far, for I’ve no assurance I’ll find my way back in the dark. Sitting on my heels relieves the pressure in my abdomen a bit. I scoop sand away, stopping at intervals to listen. Then I pat at the ground, feeling for the depression, and mark the deepest spot with a toe while I lift my robes and fiddle with the drawstring of my pants. The urge to go is overwhelming, and I barely settle into a squat in time.

I hear voices, then sliding footsteps.

I don’t have time to finish. I yank up my pants and scramble toward the incline while warm urine pours down my leg. The limestone is too slick, too soft. I climb partway up, clawing at the stone, ignoring the burning rawness of my fingertips, but my legs tangle in pants that were left loose and untied. The voices approach. My scrambling becomes frantic, but each time my fingers find purchase, my foot slips. Tears of panic run down my face. Then the Godstone turns to ice, and I gasp in shock. My fingertips freeze. I lose my grip and slide down. My rear slams into the cavern floor; the breath in my lungs flees in a single, violent gale.

Torchlight burns my eyes. Rough hands seize my shoulder. They yank me to my feet, spin me around. I see pale faces, matted clumps of hair, angry eyes.

One turns away in disgust, wrinkling his nose. I smell my own urine then, robustly sharp. For a brief moment, the humiliation overpowers my fear. Until one of them says, in the Lengua Classica, “Take her to the Cat.”

A shorter, powerful man holds a dagger to my throat as they shove me forward. I think of my own knife, stashed against my boot, even as I shuffle ahead surrounded by Inviernos. For the first time, I let myself remember the Perdito I killed, the way the knife rebounded against bone, how it slid between his ribs the way a needle slides into thick tapestry. The blood soaking my skirt cooled so quickly. Could I kill again?

“This girl is no warrior,” one says. He is right, of course. When I killed the Perdito, it was mostly by accident.

“Where are your companions?” another demands.

I open my mouth to say,
What companions?
But then I remember that most of the hill folk do not speak the Lengua Classica. So instead, I say in the Plebeya, “I don’t under- stand you.”

The blow is so sudden, I don’t even have time to be afraid. My lip splits wide and throbs with pain as he leans closer, his eyes fiery orange in the torchlight. “You barbarians are all filthy,” he spits. “Urinating on yourselves. Speaking such a filthy language.” He turns to the others. My eyes have adjusted now, and I see five of them, all men dressed in undyed leather with fur trim. “Take her down the cliff,” he orders. “If she can’t keep up, throw her over the side.”

They rush me through the cavern to the entrance and force my legs to dangle over the edge. It’s too dark to see where to place my feet and hands, but a spear in my face inspires me. I slither along, feeling for brush or niches. It’s not as difficult as it seemed during the day. With my body pressed against the ground, I realize it’s not perfectly vertical. I consider sliding down and out of reach of my captors. I’d risk a broken leg, or worse, but it would be unexpected. A quick glance downward changes my mind. The campfires of Invierne’s army stretch forever. Once on the ground, there will be no escape. So I take my time—as much time as the spear pointed at my eyes allows—and I climb down with careful precision.

My arms burn by the time we reach the valley floor, but I am oddly energized. I consider dashing away, but I’m not quick enough or strong enough to evade my captors. I imagine what it would feel like to have that spear crush its way into my back. Right now, for whatever reason, I am alive. As they lead me toward a large, bleached-white tent, the only outward sign of resistance I dare is a head held high.

Others look up from their fire pits as we pass, eyes wide with curiosity. One hunches over a skewered rabbit, and her posture pushes the outline of breasts against a fur-trimmed leather vest. I stare right back at her as my captors prod me forward. I realize I cannot distinguish the men from the women from a distance. They all wear the same clothes, have the same clumpy hair, the same pale skin.

A small brass bell dangles from the tent wall. One of the Inviernos gives it a shake.

“Enter,” someone calls, and ice clutches at my abdomen once again. I pray for warmth and safety as one of my captors sweeps aside the tent flap and thrusts me inside.

Spicy incense curls around my head, beckoning me toward a stone altar covered in candles, all in varying stages of melting. I blink to clear my eyes of smoke and light.

“You’ve brought me another barbarian,” the same voice sneers. It is deep and as cold as the ice in my stomach. “Why didn’t you just kill her?”

The squat man to my right bows. “Forgive me, my lord. I thought it strange that someone who is clearly not a warrior would be hiding in the cave above our camp. But if you’d like me to take her away and bother you no more—”

“Not a warrior, eh?” A figure steps closer. He is of medium height, my height, and thin as the trunk of a coconut palm, blinding in robes as white as quartz. His face is pale and slick, as if a sculptor carved it with an artist’s attention to beauty. A long braid of white hair curls across his shoulder like a snake. No, it’s lightest yellow, like the innermost edge of the sunrise. Most disconcerting of all are his eyes. Never have I seen such eyes, for they are blue, as blue as my Godstone. How can he see?

He leans forward until his bloated lips are a handsbreadth from my brow. “You are a soft little thing, aren’t you. Are you a warrior?”

Is this the Cat? An animagus, perhaps? Is this one of those responsible for burning the flesh of my people? For sending both my father’s and husband’s countries to war? Staring into his unnatural eyes, something sparks in my gut. Something altogether different from the stone there. My body begins to pulse with it; my cheeks feel hot. I realize it’s rage.

I narrow my eyes and say, loud and clear in the Lengua Plebeya, “I’m sorry. I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”

He studies my face a moment; then his eyes flash, wild and dangerous, and he turns his back and glides away. The way he moves makes my skin crawl. He’s as graceful as the smoke curling around us, smooth and effortless.

From a wooden stand next to the bright altar, he grabs a wineskin and pours a shimmering dark red liquid—wine, I hope—into a ceramic mug. As he sips, he regards us thoughtfully from over his shoulder. “You never found the three that escaped?” he asks.

“No, my lord,” says the short man.

He sips again. With his free hand, he reaches forward and flicks his fingers with irritated nonchalance. My companions freeze. I stare at them, at eyes wide with terror, as they choke and wheeze, unable to move. This is sorcery, I realize, and my Godstone flares in response.

The blue-eyed man glares at me. “You still move!” he says. He flicks his fingers again. I’m not supposed to be able to move. I’m supposed to be paralyzed like the others. So I go very, very still, even though the rage still thrums through my skin. I hear Alodia’s voice in my head.
Sometimes it’s best,
she used to say smugly,
to let your opponent think he has control
.

“If they are not found tomorrow, they will have passed from our reach,” he says.

My mind trips on his earlier words.
The three that escaped . . .
But I have four companions. Maybe one is also prisoner in this camp. Or dead. It’s hard to maintain my false stillness while thinking of Humberto. I imagine him facedown on the rocks, a spear protruding from his back, or maybe an arrow. My cheek twitches.

“Find the others,” the blue-eyed man says, his voice quiet now, conversational. He flicks his fingers again, and the others flee. He advances on me.

I’m still terrified, but it’s a thinking kind of fear, and different possibilities tumble through my head in fierce competition.