The Girl of Fire and Thorns Complete Collection (74 page)

But as we approach the massive amphitheater with its stone columns, I sense a subtle shift, a dampening of spirits—as if everyone has become distracted. The guards scan the crowd with suspicion.

“Something isn’t right,” Ximena whispers.

I glance at her with alarm. From long habit, my fingertips find the Godstone, seeking a clue; it heats up around friends and becomes ice when my life is in peril. Do I imagine that it is cooler than usual?

The theater is shaped like a giant horseshoe, its massive ends running perpendicular to the avenida. As we near it, movement draws my gaze upward. High above the crowd stands a man in a white wind-whipped robe.

My Godstone freezes—unhelpfully—and ice shoots through my limbs as I note his hair: lightest yellow, almost white, streaming to his waist. Sunlight catches on something embedded in the top of his wooden staff.
Oh, God.

I’m too shocked to cry out, and by the time Hector notices the white figure, it’s too late: My carriage is within range. The crowd is eerily silent, as if all the air has gotten sucked away, for everyone has heard descriptions of the animagi, Invierne’s sorcerers.

The top of the animagus’ staff begins to glow Godstone blue.

My terror is like the thick muck of a dream as I struggle to find my voice. “Fernando!” I yell. “Shoot him! Shoot to kill!”

An arrow whizzes toward the animagus in blurred relief against the crystal sky.

The animagus whips his staff toward it. A stream of blue-hot fire erupts from the tip, collides with the arrow, explodes it into a shower of splinters and sparks.

People scream. Hector gestures at the guards, barking orders. Half tighten formation around me; the rest sprint away to flank the sorcerer. But the crowd is panicked and thrashing, and my guards are trapped in a mill of bodies.

“Archers!” Hector yells. “Fire!”

Hundreds of arrows let fly in a giant
whoosh
.

The animagus spins in a circle, staff outstretched. The air around him bends to his will, and I catch the barest glimpse of a barrier forming—like glass, like a wavering desert mirage—before Ximena leaps across the bench and covers me with her own body.

“To the queen!” comes Hector’s voice. “We must retreat!” But the carriage doesn’t budge, for the milling crowd has hemmed us in.

“Queen Lucero-Elisa,” comes a sibilant voice, magnified by the peculiar nature of the amphitheater. “Bearer of the only living Godstone, you belong to us, to us, to us.”

He’s coming down the stairway. I know he is. He’s coming for
me
. He’ll blaze a path through my people and—

“You think you’ve beaten us back, but we are as numerous as the desert sands. Next time we’ll come at you like ghosts in a dream. And you will know the gate of your enemy!”

In the corner of my eye I catch the gleam of Hector’s sword as he raises it high, and my stomach thuds with the realization that he’ll cut through our own people if that’s what it takes to whisk me away.

“Ximena!” I gasp. “Get off. Hector . . . he’ll do anything. We can’t let him—”

She understands instantly. “Stay down,” she orders as she launches against the door and tumbles into the street.

Heart pounding, I peek over the edge of the carriage. The animagus stares at me hungrily as he descends the great stair, like I am a juicy mouse caught in his trap. My Godstone’s icy warning is relentless.

He could have killed me by now if he wanted to; we’ve no way to stop his fire. So why doesn’t he? Eyeing him carefully, I stand up in the carriage.

“Elisa, no!” cries Hector. Ximena has trapped his sword arm, but he flings her off and rushes toward me. He jerks to a stop midstride, and his face puckers with strain: The animagus has frozen him with magic.

But Hector is the strongest man I know.
Fight it, Hector.

Shivering with bone-deep cold, I force myself to step from the carriage.
I
am what the sorcerer wants, so maybe I can distract him, buy enough time for my guards to flank him, give Hector a chance to break free.

Sun glints off a bit of armor creeping up on the animagus from above, so I keep my gaze steady, and my voice is steel when I say, “I burned your brothers to dust. I will do the same to you.” The lie weighs heavy on my tongue. I’ve harnessed the power of my stone only once, and I’m not sure how.

The animagus’ answering grin is feral and slick. “Surrender yourself. If you do, we will spare your people.”

A guard is within range now. The animagus has not noticed him. The solider quietly feeds an arrow into his bow, aims.

Look strong, Elisa. Do not flinch. Hold his gaze.

The arrow zings through the air. The sorcerer whirls at the sound, but it is too late; the arrowhead buries itself in his ribs.

The animagus wobbles. He turns back to me, eyes flared with pain or zeal, one shoulder hanging lower than the other. Crimson spreads like spilled ink across his robe. “Watch closely, my queen,” he says, and his voice is liquid with drowning. “This is what will happen to everyone in Joya d’Arena if you do not present yourself as a
willing sacrifice
.”

Hector reaches me at last, grabs my shoulders, and starts to pull me away, even as the guards rush the animagus. But his Godstone already glows like a tiny sun; they will not capture him in time. I expect fire to shoot toward us, to turn my people into craters of melt and char, and suddenly I’m grappling for purchase at the joints of Hector’s armor, at his sword belt, pushing him along, for I can’t bear to see another friend burn.

But the animagus turns the fire on himself.

He screams, “It is God’s will!” He raises his arms to the sky, and his lips move as if in prayer while the conflagration melts his skin, blackens his hair, turns him into a living torch for the whole city to see.

The scent of burning flesh fills the air as the remaining crowd scatters. The horses rear and plunge away, trampling everyone in their path, the carriage rattling behind.

“To the queen!” Hector yells above my head.

A wind gusts through the amphitheater, extinguishing the biggest flames and flinging bits of hair and robe into the sky. The animagus’ charred body topples off the stair and plunges to the ground, trailing smoke and sparks.

I turn to rest my forehead against Hector’s breastplate and close my eyes as the chaos around us gradually dissipates. The chill of my Godstone fades, and I breathe deep of warm desert air and of relief.

Hector says, “We must get you back to the palace.”

“Yes, of course,” I say, pulling away from him and standing tall. “Let’s go.” Maybe if I pretend hard enough, I will feel strong in truth.

My guards form a wedge of clanking armor and drawn swords. As we begin the long, steep trek home, a bit of white robe, edged with glowing cinders, flutters to the ground at my feet.

Chapter 2

I
pray during the walk back, thanking God for my life and the lives of my guards, asking him to keep us safe just a little while longer. But as we approach the palace, Hector holds up a fist to halt our procession.

The portcullis is dropped and barred. Hundreds gather outside. Some yell and stomp, rattling the iron bars. Others stand quietly, carrying blankets, packs, small children. Their number swells as others trickle in from the adjoining streets and alleys.

“They think we’re being attacked,” I say, my voice catching. “They want protection within the palace walls.”

“Maybe we are,” Ximena says quietly. “Maybe it’s war all over again.”

“Back away quickly,” Hector says. “But no sudden moves.” I hear what he’s not saying—if the desperate throng discovers me, I could be mobbed.

We crowd into a narrow alley between two townhomes. Hector whips off the bright red cloak marking him as a Royal Guard and turns it inside out so the softer, paler side shows. “Put this on. That gown is much too noticeable.”

The cloak smells of Hector—oiled steel and worn leather and spiced wine. After I fasten the claps at my neck, I gesture to the others. “All of you. Turn your cloaks inside out. Ximena, can you hide my crown?” I lift it from my head, and she untangles my hair from the various pins keeping it in place.

She holds it out for a moment, considering. She slips behind me, out of sight of the guards, and when she reveals herself again, the front of her skirt is lumpy and distended. “At least it doesn’t look like a crown,” she says with an apologetic shrug.

“Now what?” I say. “If the portcullis is barred, the stables are surely closed off as well.”

“The kitchens?” a guard suggests.

“Or the receiving hall,” says another.

Hector shakes his head. “The garrison is trained to lock down all entrances during drills.”

Any member of the Royal Guard would be allowed admittance without question. There is a reason he’s not sending someone to the palace to fetch a larger escort and a windowless carriage. “You think it’s no accident,” I say, “that someone ordered the palace locked down before I was safely inside. You think the crowd may not be the greater danger.”

His gaze on me is solemn. “I’ll take no chances with you.”

“The escape tunnel!” I say. “Leading from the king’s suite to the merchants’ alley. Alejandro said only a few know of it.” I swallow against the memory of long days spent in my husband’s suite as he lay dying. I paid close attention to his every word, storing them up in my heart so I could someday pass them along to his son, Rosario.

Hector rubs at his jaw. “It’s in disrepair. I haven’t been inside since Alejandro and I were boys.”

It will have to do. “Let’s go,” I order.

We leave the shadow of the brick alley and step into sunshine. From habit, the guards fall into perfect formation.

“No, no.” I motion vaguely. “Relax. Don’t look so . . . guardlike.”

They drop formation at once, glancing at one another shamefaced. Hector drapes an arm around my shoulder as if we are out for a companionable stroll. He leans down and says, “So. Horrible heat we’ve had lately.”

I can’t help grinning, even as I note the tenseness of his shoulders, the way his eyes roam the street and his free hand wraps around the hilt of his sword. I say, “I’d prefer to discuss the latest fashion craze of jeweled stoles.”

He laughs. “No, you wouldn’t.”

We reach the merchants’ alley without incident. It’s eerily silent, the booths vacant, the cobblestone street empty of rumbling carts. It’s a national holiday. This place should be filled with shoppers, acrobats, and beggars, with coconut scones and sticky date pops and meat pies.

The news must have whipped through the city with the destructive force of a sandstorm.
The Inviernos are back! And they threatened the queen!

All this emptiness makes us nothing if not noticeable. My neck prickles as I glance at the surrounding buildings, expecting furtive heads to appear in windowsills. But I see no one.

Quietly I say, “Alejandro said the entrance was through a blacksmith’s home.”

“Yes. Just around the corner . . . there.” He indicates a large awning outside a two-story adobe building. The bellows beneath it is cold, and the traces dangle empty chains.

Hector’s hand on my shoulder tightens as he peers under the awning. “Ho, blacksmith!” he calls.

The door creaks open. A bald man with a sooty leather apron and forearms like corded tree trunks steps over the threshold. His eyes widen.

“Goodman Rialto!” the blacksmith exclaims, and his cheer is a little too forced. “Your cauldron is ready. A beauty, I must say. Had some extra bronze sheeting lying around, which will reduce your total cost. Please come in!”

I look up at Hector for confirmation, and he nods, almost imperceptibly. We follow the blacksmith inside.

Every space of wall is used to display his work—swords, grates, animal traps, spoons, candlesticks, gauntlets. The scent of the place is biting, like copper gone sour. A low cooking fire crackles in a clay hearth. Only a blacksmith could stand to have a fire going on a day as hot as this. After we filter in, he closes the door behind us and drops the latch.

“This way, Your Majesty,” he says, all trace of brightness evaporated. “Quickly.” He pulls up the corner of a thick rug and reveals a trapdoor. With a grunt, he heaves on the brass ring. The trapdoor swings open to show rickety wooden stairs descending into darkness.

“We’ll need light,” I say.

He grabs a candle and a brass holder from a nearby table, reaches toward the hearth to light the wick, and hands it to me. “Be wary,” he says. “The tunnel is reinforced with wooden beams. They’re very old and very dry.”

“I’ll go first,” Hector says, and the stair creaks under his weight.

I start to follow but hesitate. “Ximena, take the rest of the guards and return to the palace through the main entrance. They’ll let you in. People should be seen leaving here, just in case they saw us coming.”

She frowns. “My place is by your side.”

“I’m safe with Hector.” Before she can protest, I turn and address the blacksmith. “Your name, sir?”

“Mandrano,” he says proudly. “Formerly of His Majesty King Nicolao’s Royal Guard, now retired.”

I clasp his shoulder; it’s as hard and round as a boulder. “Thank you, Mandrano. You have done your queen a great service today.”

He bows low. I don’t wait for him to rise, and I don’t bother to see that Ximena and the guards have followed my orders. I step down quickly after Hector, holding my candle low to light my way.

His fingers reach out of the gloom, offering support, and I grab them. Just as my feet reach dry earth, the trapdoor bangs closed, making the darkness complete but for our puddle of candlelight.

I move close enough for the candle to illuminate us both. The flame casts strange shadows on his skin—blurring the scar on his cheek, softening his eyes, and rounding his features—and I am reminded how very young he is.

“Hector, who besides you and me has the authority to lock down—”

“Conde Eduardo, General Luz-Manuel, and the mayordomo.” He rattles off the list so quickly that I realize he’s been rehearsing it in his mind.