The Girl of Fire and Thorns Complete Collection (57 page)

Inexplicably, I am alive. There must be a way to escape, to warn the others, for I have learned much. The animagi can freeze a person’s muscles with a flick of their fingers. They arm themselves with Godstones. They’ve found a way to bring forth fire by “feeding the earth” with blood. My tiny army of children, my Malficio, must know of these things.

So, I curl my knees to my chest, and I think.

I’ll never make it past the perimeter of the camp dressed as I am. I must disguise myself. The bleached-white robes of the animagus beckon to me, and I almost laugh aloud at the idea. I could take his robes. His amulet.

I reach for his head with distaste. His white-yellow hair slithers against my palm as I pull the amulet over his head. When I drop it around my own, the Godstone in my navel jumps with joyous greeting. “Stop that,” I mumble.

Getting him out of his robe is more difficult. In spite of his slenderness, he is very heavy. I roll him back and forth, releasing first one arm, then the other, then push him onto his stomach. Without his robe, he seems fragile, the blue of his veins spidering across the pale flesh of hairless legs. His long braid glitters in the candlelight like liquid gold. In a flash of pique, I grab it and saw it off at the nape.

The smell of incense almost makes me gag as the robe settles across my shoulders. It’s made of hide I’ve never seen before, thick and heavy, but pliant and flowing as fine silk. I tie it closed and pull out the amulet so its dark cage shows against the robe’s whiteness. The cowl fits neatly over my head. I weave the frayed end of his braid into the ties of the robe and let it dangle down my chest. Within the robe, I hold tight to the knife.

I look down at the animagus. So delicate. So beautiful. He will awaken eventually. Maybe I should put the knife into his heart while he sleeps so he does not live to burn again. But the thought of using a knife again repulses me.

I get a better idea.

His bedding lies flush against the side of the tent. I yank at one end, pulling it toward the center. The wool is soft and very dry. I lift a candle from the altar, carefully, so the hot wax does not splash onto my skin. I grab the edge of a sheepskin and hold it to the flame until it catches. As the wool curls and blackens, I avert my head to avoid the acrid smell. It burns slowly. It will be several minutes before flames hit the tent walls. Enough time for me to reach the edge of the camp. I refuse to think about the man lying at my feet.

I’m ready, but I can’t make my feet move toward the tent flap.
Please, God. Let this work
. I must walk with confidence. Gracefully. Head down so no one sees the dark cast of my skin. I inhale deeply and wait for my heart to still. Behind me, the bedding pops; a glowing spark bounces at my feet, then blackens into dust.

I force my mind to stillness.
Do not think, Elisa. Just do
. I part the tent flap and stride into the firelit night. The flap falls shut, disguising the growing conflagration inside. I quick-step forward, placing my legs just so, the way Humberto taught me. It’s the best approximation of grace I’ll ever manage, and I hope it is enough. Inviernos look up at me as I pass, but I ignore them, striding with purpose. I feel their wild eyes on my back. The Godstone goes cold.

“My lord,” someone says in acknowledgment. I give the briefest nod, keeping the cowl tight, and continue on. Surely he will see that I am not slender. Not graceful.

I weave through fire pits, around bedrolls, toward the comforting blackness of the hills, listening for someone to cry out in warning. I am almost there.

Something odd catches my attention, off to my left. Something out of place. I allow the slightest turn of my head. It’s a man. Dressed not in furs, but in the robes of the desert people. His hair is black and unclumped, his skin is dark. He scrapes food from a bowl, and I cannot see his face, but my chest burns with the implication. One of Joya’s own, eating with the enemy. There are no ropes or chains that I can see. No animagus nearby to force him into magical paralysis. One of the others, a pale, muddy-haired Invierno, pats him on the back. He looks up and smiles. My legs turn to water; I gasp out a sob.

It is Belén.

Chapter 22

W
E were not discovered. Belén told them where to find us. The animagus’s words return to me: “The three who escaped . . .” I had worried that someone had been captured or killed.

The hand grasping the knife shivers with rage. If I kill anyone tonight, it should be Belén. Maybe, dressed as I am, I could walk right up to him.

But I reject the idea as soon as it comes. He would recognize me, of course, and I would never escape. The things I have learned must be shared. I do not have the luxury of vengeance.

“My lord?” someone says at my elbow.

I have tarried too long. Maybe they heard my gasp of surprise. Hands still shaking, I move away from the one who spoke, hoping he attributes my action to the arrogance of an animagus.

A few more steps to reach the dark. I will have to feel my way up the cliff, but after climbing down from the cave at spear point, I think I can do it. I must do it. The robe should be discarded. It will be too bright against the cliff face. Maybe I should aim for the cave again. I think longingly of my pack, with its food and water. But the cave is probably under guard now that it’s been discovered, and I have no way of finding it in the dark anyway. I will have to do without.

I step quietly out of the firelight. The cliff face looms before me, gradually inclining at the base, then steepening into darkness. I brush against a juniper branch, feel its whispering needles against my cheek, smell its tangy pine scent. I duck behind it to remove the robe.

Shouting rings through the valley, hurried and fierce. I peer through the branches. In the distance, one of the fires flares brighter, higher than the others. It’s the animagus’s tent. The Inviernos closest to my hiding place scramble to their feet and run toward it.

I must move now.

I drop the robe, but the last thing I want to do is leave a marker of my escape route. Even if I climb the cliff unnoticed, it won’t take long for them to figure out what happened and give chase. I pause long enough to yank the white braid free of the robe and shove it into my waistband. Then I cover the robe as best I can with dirt and pine needles.

While the enemy scrambles to put out the fire, I sprint for the cliff. Climbing is easy at first, and I only use my hands occasionally, but the incline steepens, and soon I’m on all fours, my fingers sliding around, searching the dark for handholds. A root here, a ledge there. The skin of my legs burns from chafing against urine-soaked pants. My fingernails fill with dirt, my shoulders burn, the fleshy areas beneath my thumbs harden with cramping until I can hardly grip. Something scuttles across my hand. I wrench it back. Breath-stealing pain shoots up my finger; warm liquid oozes over the webbing of my fingers, across my palm. I’ve ripped off a fingernail.

I try to ignore the pain, to keep climbing. It’s too dark to see how far I’ve left to go, and I dare not take time to gauge my progress. My grip is slippery with blood now, the muscles in my forearms spasm. Reaching above my head, I feel the cliff face curve back on itself into an overhang, and my heart pounds in dismay. Climbing over it is impossible. My muscles already threaten to betray me. I scrape to the side, looking for another way up.

The overhang stretches a long way. Spiderwebs stick against my face as I scoot along, but I resist the urge to bat at them. I pray as I travel, desperate for the Godstone’s warmth to breathe life into my stiffening limbs.

At last I feel a break in the overhang. I clamber upward eagerly, expecting to be spotted any moment. My right forearm hooks around a large ledge. No, it’s the top of the cliff. I’m almost sobbing in relief as I yank my body over the top. Unable to trust my shaky legs, I roll away from the edge.

I shouldn’t rest. I should launch to my feet and run west, my back to the glow of Invierne’s massive army. But my limbs won’t move. I lie on my back, catching my breath, staring at the star-pricked sky. Away from the campfires, the stars are brilliant. White sparkles in a quilt of black.

The beauty of the night sky offers strange comfort. It is unchanging. Immune to the wars of this world. Something to count on. I scramble to my feet and run.

I should have thought to steal some food. Or water, at least. I stumble along as dawn breaks against my back, finally understanding how precarious my situation is. I’m too exhausted to outrun pursuers. I’m thirsty. And I have no idea where I’m going.

The fear in my head beckons me to continue, no matter what. But another voice—one that has become familiar in these last months—reasons that I will soon be useless without water and rest. I need to drink, to sleep. Otherwise, I’m likely to stumble from sheer exhaustion. And in this harsh land of jagged rocks and steep ravines, a stumble could lead to death, as it did for Damián the shepherd.

I decide to travel until I find a stream; then I will look for a place to hide and sleep. But how to find water? I close my eyes, thinking of Humberto, wishing he were here to guide me. I think of the kiss we shared, imagine his lips against mine. The possibility of never seeing him again makes my chest hurt.

Then my eyes snap open, and I force myself to remember our journeys together. What would Humberto do? I scan the horizon, looking for ravines coupled with vegetation that is thicker, greener, than the rest. An area ahead and slightly south looks promising. I step forward with renewed energy.

It’s a dry wash, worn smooth from spring flash flooding, cracked from the heat. But rich vegetation lines the edge, and I know I’m on the right track. I hike up a gravelly rise to survey the land, and try again.

I see a depression rimmed in thick piñon. Its southward direction dismays me, but I must have water. My ankles shake as I trudge toward it; my tongue is thick with dryness. When I reach the edge, the trees are too thick to see, but I hear a gurgling sound. Or maybe that’s just wind in the branches. I grab at trunks, at outcroppings, as I slither haphazardly down the scree, into the dusty hollow. The branches break wide. A tiny brook snakes along the bottom, no wider than my leg, but clear as crystal. Gasping, I fall to my stomach and lap at the water. I drink until my stomach can hold no more.

I want nothing more than to sleep. But I force myself to remove my boots and pants and soak the dried urine from them in the stream. With the edge of my desert robe, I wipe down my legs. They are red and bumpy, and the water stings even as it cools my skin. I hang my pants to dry on a branch, giving a quick glance to my surroundings to make sure they’ll not be easily spotted from above. I crawl beneath the shady boughs of a sprawling piñon pine. I curl my bare legs under my robe and rest my head on a bed of pine needles. Sleep comes easy.

The sun is low when I wake. Though my back and arms ache from climbing, I rise immediately to take advantage of the remaining light. I have nothing for carrying water, but I must keep moving, as far away from Invierne’s army as I am able, so I dare not travel along the southward-running brook. I drink as much as I can, which makes the hunger fade a bit. Wincing, I peel the bloody strip from my forearm, wash it as best I can, and rewrap it tightly. The welts sting, and I know I must find a village before infection sets in. I study my finger carefully. Only half of my nail ripped off, and the tender part has scabbed nicely. I tear another strip from my robe and bandage my finger. Remembering our desert journey from Brisadulce, I soak my clothes through before setting off, to protect my body from the heat.

Lizards scatter from my path as I walk; a squealing turkey vulture circles wide to the north, against a backdrop of roiling clouds. I step along with renewed energy. The cuts in my forearm sting, and my finger throbs, but I can’t help smiling as I travel. I escaped the army of Invierne. I faced capture, sorcery, even the beginnings of torture, yet I escaped. It is in no small part due to my Godstone. I should have been paralyzed by the animagus’s sorcery, burned by the amulet I now wear around my own neck. But his magic didn’t affect me, and I can only suppose my Godstone protected me. Homer’s
Afflatus
says that the purpose of the bearer is to fight sorcery with sorcery. Maybe this strange immunity to magic is what he referred to.

I wish I could discuss it with Humberto. Or Father Alentín. With a pang, I realize I want more than anything to talk it over with Ximena. I’m desperate to see her again, to feel her strong arms holding me tight. I hope she does not receive my message that I am well, only to learn later that I died here in the scrub desert.

I crest a rocky bluff and gaze across the cracked wilderness. Razorback ridges snake eastward, separated by deep canyons, dotted with mesquite and juniper trees that are starving and broken like crippled old men. I’m so small standing here, the land before me so vast and stark. My aloneness hits me like a kick in the gut. My smile fades, and I shiver with cold. From habit, I pray to warm myself. But the cold isn’t coming from the Godstone anymore. A bright flash to the north catches my eye. Blue-black clouds plunge toward me, heralded by a frigid wind.

I curse myself for a fool for soaking my clothing before setting off. Cosmé or Humberto would have known better. The wind strengthens; wet robes slap, stinging, against my skin. I hope it rains. The water might wash away my trail, and the wet clothes wouldn’t matter so much. But thinking of the trail I’ve left brings another uncomfortable realization: I’m standing high on a ridge in full view of potential pursuers.

My skidding descent sends me into a dry wash. But dry for how long? I remember Humberto’s warning about flash floods and jog along the wash, scanning the sides for a place to shelter. The sun has set and colors have muted to gray before I find a large boulder with a slight overhang, nestled beneath a spreading juniper. I climb up, shivering with cold, and huddle against the smooth stone. I wish I had my tinderbox with flint and cutting steel. Or even Cosmé’s jerboa soup. As the first fat drops plop against the ground at my knees, I begin to wonder if, in spite of my unlikely escape, I’m destined to die out here after all.