The Girl of Fire and Thorns Complete Collection (88 page)

She regards me with endless calm.

“I don’t regret anything,” I tell her.

“I know.”

“But I won’t run away again.”

She crosses her arms and leans against the bedpost, which creaks in response. “Would you consider running
to
something?”

“What do you mean?”

She glances around at the room. Besides Mara and Hector, three guards stand watch, and as usual, their faces betray nothing of the conversation they are overhearing. They are so still and silent as to be nearly—but not quite—invisible. Ximena says, “There is something to the, er, line of research I’m engaged in that might require a long outing.” She forces cheer to her face. “Maybe we can incorporate it into that tour of the country the Quorum would like you to go on.”

She’s talking about the gate. The one that “leads to life.” And she doesn’t want to discuss details in front of the guards.

Hector says, “I thought the conde’s conversation grew particularly interesting tonight at dinner, before his man took ill.”

“Indeed,” Ximena agrees.

In the silence that ensues, I know we are thinking the same thing. The words used by the conde to describe his legend were uncannily similar to the verse carved into the rock beneath my city.
The gate that leads to life is narrow and small so that few find it.

I say, “Our friend in the Wallows might know something.”

Ximena nods. “He also might have insight into this latest attack.”

The thought of seeing Storm again gives me a shudder. I imagine his too-perfect face with such clarity, dread the arrogance in his sibilant voice. But I need to take him up on his offer for information as soon as possible.

With no small amount of reluctance, I say, “I’ll pay him a visit tomorrow morning.”

Hector looses an exasperated breath. “Please don’t. I don’t know the territory. I wouldn’t know how to place the guards. And the way that cavern echoes . . . there’s no way you could have a private conversation.”

I open my mouth to protest, to remind him that I refuse to be governed by fear, but I pause. Ignoring his advice has gotten me nearly killed.

“You’re about to insist, aren’t you?” he says, looking pained.

“No. I was thinking I ought to let you do your job for a change.”

He gapes at me for a split second before recovering his usual poise. “In that case, I’ll send my men to fetch him tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you. And if he doesn’t come willingly and immediately, arrest him and bring him anyway.”

He smiles. “With pleasure.”

Mara steps toward me, and her face is bright and fierce. “I didn’t understand any of that, and I don’t care.” She brandishes my brush at me. “All I know is that I am going to make breakfast for you tomorrow, and you will eat every bite.”

The next morning, after eating Mara’s goat-cheese omelet with diced scallions and red peppers, I must face the punishment I ordered. It’s a small consolation that with everyone on the green, Hector may be able to slip the Invierno into the tower unnoticed.

With my entourage of guards and ladies, I parade through the inner courtyard to the beat of a slow marching drum. A huge crowd has assembled, and they part to make way for me. I wear a gown with wine-red brocade and gold embroidery, and I regret the choice as sweat pools under my arms and between my breasts. I hold my head high, in spite of the weight of my crown.

It’s the same place where Martín was killed, the same dais, the same large crowd. But this time, I am a willing participant.

The kitchen staff are already in place. They face inward in a circle, their hands tied above their heads to a thick pillory made from the massive trunk of a banyan tree. All twelve fit around it easily. They are naked from the waist up, even the maids.

I clench my jaw to keep it from trembling as I mount the dais and sit in its makeshift wooden throne. Ximena and Mara stand at either shoulder. From here, I have a perfect view of the accused and the sea of spectators beyond. Some jostle for a better look. A young boy sits on his father’s shoulders. Everyone is wide-eyed with fear, or maybe excitement.

A man approaches, carrying a long red cushion, and kneels at my feet. Is he the same man who beheaded Martín?

Like the prisoners, he’s naked from the waist up. A black shawl covers his head and sweeps around to shield his mouth and nose. Ridged white scars slash across his tautly muscled torso and shoulders. He holds out the cushion. On it are various flogging instruments: a rod, a willow switch, a cat-o’-nine-tails, and a leather whip coiled like a snake except for the jagged bit of steel tied to the end.

Tears prick at the back of my throat.

The executioner whispers, in a voice as scarred and used-up as his skin, “Your Majesty, you must choose the instrument of punishment.”

It takes a moment for his words to sink in, and when they do, despair settles over me like a hot heavy blanket. Of course I must.

They are arranged in order of potential damage. I don’t want these people harmed. But I also cannot choose the mildest punishment.

I say, in my best queen voice, “Use the switch.”

The scarred man faces the audience and lifts the switch high; it bends slightly under its own weight. The crowd roars approval.

And then I force myself to watch unflinchingly as, slowly and methodically, he flogs my kitchen staff. The switch slaps wetly against bare skin, sending tears stinging to my eyes. Welts rise up on their backs, and they arch away from the blows, but the pillory leaves them nowhere to go. The scarred man is very thorough, his aim precise. He varies the switch’s landing so that every part of their flesh suffers its brutality.

A few refuse to cry out, but not most, and their raw, anguished voices arrow straight into my heart. One boy, the youngest by far, weeps openly, his cheek pressed against the pillory.

I am a stone. I am ice. I feel nothing.

Only the kitchen master remains standing after the tenth lash. The others sag on their feet, held in place by the manacles at their wrists.

The scarred man returns to me and bows. The switch in his huge hand drips blood. “It is done, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you,” I choke out.

“Do you wish to address the people?” he asks.

No, of course not. I can’t wait to get away, to toss off my crown and bury my head in my pillows.

But then the small boy at the edge of the crowd, the one on his father’s shoulders, spits on the maid who prepared the scones with Felipe. A viscous wad slips down her sweaty cheek and plops onto her bared breast.

I launch to my feet and stride to the edge of the dais. The crowd hushes.

“We consider their crime of negligence to be paid in full,” I call out. “There will be no more recriminations. Anyone who seeks to do them physical harm, or harass them, or even”—I look pointedly at the little boy—“spit on them, will be dealt with severely.”

I whirl away from the crowd and move toward Ximena, whispering, “I am shaking quite a lot and could use your arm to aid my dramatic exit.” I suddenly wish Hector were here. I always feel so much safer, stronger, when he is at my side.

But she offers it at once, and together we float down the dais in what I dare hope is a show of regal righteousness. We depart the green far more quickly than we came, which is good now that I’m tasting a more acrid version of Mara’s omelet in the back of my throat.

Chapter 12

H
ector returns to my suite with the unsurprising news that the Invierno was reluctant to answer my summons and had to be arrested. I take just enough time to lose my crown and change into a simpler gown before rushing out again. I’m glad for the haste—it gives me little opportunity to dwell on the flogging.

I’ve never been inside the prison tower. It’s the highest point of the palace, and I expect that from its topmost chamber, I could see everything from the great sand desert and the walls of Brisadulce, across the merchant’s circle and the Wallows, to the docks and the blue horizon beyond.

The tower is made of gray limestone, a dull and dirty contrast to the coral sandstone of its shorter brothers. It rises like a blight on the sky, and I see how impossible it would be to escape such a place. There is only one way up or down, and that is the stairway inside its walls.

It’s an odd group that accompanies me to interrogate our prisoner: a one-armed priest, an aging nurse, a Quorum lord, and, unexpectedly, a seven-year-old prince. Hector had to cancel their daily swordsmanship lesson, and little Rosario was determined to come from the moment he learned the reason.

Our group is nothing if not memorable, and I curse myself for thoughtlessness. The news that someone of vast import is being kept here will be palacewide by evening.

Before we step through the arched entryway, I bend down and grasp Rosario’s shoulder. “You’re sure you want to come, Highness? There’s an Invierno up there. He looks a lot like . . .”
Like the animagi who killed your papa.
“Er, like those other Inviernos we saw.”

He puts his hand to the wooden practice sword at his belt. He glares at me, saying, “I’m not afraid.”

I know better than to smile. “Well,
I
am. Just a little.”

“I’ll protect you. Like Hector does.”

The boy has always idolized my guard, but even more so since his father’s death. “That does make me feel better. Thank you.”

As I straighten, Hector catches my eye and shrugs. I nod in response. If Rosario thinks he is ready to face an Invierno again, it would feel cruel to forbid it.

The moment we leave the sunny courtyard for the shade of the tower, I am hit full in the face by the scents of sweat and urine and moldy straw. The tower guards lurch up from a rough table strewn with playing cards and snap to attention. They are Luz-Manuel’s soldiers, not Royal Guard, and they eye us warily as we pass. I hope they will do as ordered and keep quiet about their latest prisoner.

Hector leads us to the creaking stair that zigzags up one side of the stone wall. The inner structure consists of a series of wooden platforms, with huge beams and smaller wooden trusses to hold each platform in place. The stairway opens up to the platforms at regular intervals, and in the dim light provided by long slits in the wall, I see people, ten or so to a platform. They are barely clothed, scrawny, filthy, hairy. I can’t begin to guess their ages. Each is manacled to the wall, out of reach of the stairway.

One, a woman with wild hair, strains against her bonds and spits at me. The glob lands on the planking near my feet. Ximena moves toward her, but I put a hand to her forearm.

“She suffers enough,” I say.

Another prisoner, a man with a gray beard that swallows his face, gives the spitting woman a swift kick to the ankle. “Some of us remember,” he says to me, and his voice has the harsh accent of the dockworkers. “We remember what you did for us, Your Majesty.”

As Hector hustles me away, I wish I’d had the presence of mind to thank the man, to let him know how much his words of support mean to me.

I can’t help but wonder what they all did to wind up in this awful place. Surely something terrible. By the time we reach the top, I am breathless, nauseated, and wracked by uncertainty. Maybe I shouldn’t have had the Invierno brought here. All he did was refuse a royal summons.

The final, highest platform is the least squalid, with several extra slits for light and air, a small cot, and a slop bucket instead of rushes. But Storm obviously does not appreciate the distinction. He paces back and forth like a restless cat, all lithe grace and hunting fury. Ankle manacles are hidden by his long black cloak, but they rattle with every step.

When he sees us, he growls deep inside his chest, which sends shivers across the back of my shoulders. It’s not a sound I’ve heard a human make before.

A tiny hand slips into mine, and I glance down to make sure Rosario is all right. But the hand gripping mine is the only indication Rosario is frightened. He leans forward, eyes narrowed, glaring at his enemy. I give him a light squeeze.

“Hello, Storm,” I say in an even voice.

He whirls, and his moss-green eyes snap to mine. “You rank cow,” he spits, and Hector’s sword whisks from its scabbard. “We had a bargain.”

Without breaking the Invierno’s gaze, I put my free hand to Hector’s chest to forestall anything hasty. “And you broke it. You refused audience.”

“I would have gladly accepted audience in my village.”

I laugh, genuinely amused at his audacity. “Surely you realize my predicament? There have been two attempts on my life. One not far from the underground village you call home. Of course I couldn’t risk it.”

“And yet you would risk my life by bringing me here. I’ll be dead within two days. You have surely killed me.”

I decide to give him the honesty he claims his people value so much. “Given a choice between my life and yours, I will choose mine. Every time. Without hesitation.”

Some of the fight fades from his eyes. “I would do the same,” he concedes.

“I plan either to let you go or move you to a different location. I haven’t decided yet.”

With a lift of his sharp chin, he indicates my companions. “Who are these people? The cripple and the old woman? I recognize only the commander and the prince.”

“The ‘cripple’ is my friend Alentín; the ‘old woman’ is my friend Ximena.”

“They must be important for you to bring them.” When he realizes I’m not going to tell him, he shrugs and says, “What must I do to be let go?”

“Tell us about the gate that leads to life.”

His eyes widen. He uses hooked forefingers to tuck his honey-gold hair behind his ears, and the motion startles me for its normalcy, its humanity. He turns his back to us. I wish I could see his face.

Still facing the wall, he says, “Take me with you.”

“What? Take you where?”

“South. When you go in search of it.”

“Of what? We haven’t decided to go any—”

He whirls, and his green eyes spark. “You’ll go. Make no mistake. It is the will of God.”

It’s utterly infuriating, the number of people I’ve encountered in my life who claimed to be the authority on God’s will.