The Girl of Fire and Thorns Complete Collection (92 page)

I think of Hector, wishing he were here. And then I’m glad he isn’t, for I have much to think about before I see him next.

We round a bend and enter the monastery, a place that never quite sleeps. Scattered petitioners kneel on prayer benches, and an acolyte in a gray robe quietly tends the candles on the altar. I breathe in the perfume of sacrament roses as comfort. Surely I am safe here, in this place of worship.

I open the door to the archive and find Ximena, Alentín, and Nicandro sitting on stools at the scribing table, bent over a piece of vellum so old that its edges are curled and black.

I thank the guards and ask them to watch the entrance, then I close the door behind me.

They look up, startled, and Ximena’s face freezes with shock. “Elisa? Is that
blood
all over you?”

I had forgotten. “Yes. Hector’s. We were attacked in the hallway outside my office. Hired mercenaries. Tristán came to our aid. But everyone is fine now.” I came to tell her all about it, about healing him, but suddenly I don’t want to. I need to think about something else for a bit, before I think on that.

“And the mercenaries?” she demands. “Do you know who hired them? Were they captured or killed? There may be more—”

I hold up a hand. “Later. Please distract me with moldy vellum and impenetrable wisdom.
Please
.”

The three of them exchange a glance, then Nicandro says, “I’ll show you what we’ve found.” He pats the stool next to him, then moves an oil lamp to the side to make a space for me at the table.

I hop up onto the stool, uneasy with the memory pricking at my thoughts. The last time I sat here late into the night with Father Nicandro, he revealed that I had been kept in ignorance of bearer lore, that a prophecy destined me to encounter the gate of my enemy.

And I thought I
had
encountered it, when I was captured by Inviernos and nearly tortured by an animagus. But maybe not. Maybe the worst is yet to come.

“This here,” he says, pounding the vellum with a forefinger, “is the
Blasphemy of Lucero
.”

I gasp. “Lucero is my name.”

He nods. “This document was presented for canonization as official scripture almost a century ago, but it was rejected by a council of priests.”

“Not just rejected,” Father Alentín cuts in. “It was
banned
.”

“Wait. A century? That means . . .”

“He was your predecessor,” Alentín confirms.

Lucero. The bearer before me. Though he lived a hundred years ago, I suddenly feel closer to him than anyone. My voice is shaky as I ask, “So why was this document banned?”

Ximena says, “The structure is atrocious, for one. It was penned by an uneducated hand; the original is rife with spelling and grammar errors. The council believed God would never allow his holy words to be anything less than pristine.”

I stare down at the vellum. The script is faded with age, but the lines are even and precise, perfectly scribed. “So this is a copy.”

Nicandro nods, “Of a copy of a copy, no doubt. The original is lost to us forever. No one felt it important to preserve it.”

“And now you think the priests were wrong? Maybe it isn’t blasphemy, but actual scripture?”

“No,” Ximena says, even as Alentín says, “Definitely.”

They exchange a friendly glare. Then Ximena sighs and says, “Adding to the cannon is no light matter. It could alter centuries of traditions. Of beliefs. I would have to be absolutely certain before I accepted it as God’s own words.”

Alentín says, “But you concede the possibility. We have compelling evidence.”

“I concede the possibility.”

“Aha!” he says, as if he’s won a great victory, and then I’m shocked when Ximena rolls her eyes at him. I’ve never seen her resort to such impropriety.

“Tell me, then,” I say. “Why you think it ought to be considered scripture? What does it say?”

Nicandro clears his throat. “Master Lucero was a poor village boy. He could neither read nor write. According to the introduction, he dictated his vision to a friend, who scribed it hastily on a sheep’s hide. The friend, as it turned out, was also not very good at reading and writing. The manuscript, if you can call it that, was delivered to the nearest monastery, but the story was never verified. The boy disappeared. The monastery searched for him for years, to no avail.”

“So the priests declared it blasphemy.” I can see why. They would think it odd that God would speak through someone so poor and backward as to be totally illiterate. But I warm to the idea. It’s nice to consider that God may not count imperfection as an obstacle to working out his will in the world.

“Seems a little convenient that he would disappear,” Ximena grumbles. “Not available to answer questions or have his Godstone verified by the monastery.”

Alentín leans forward, eyes bright. “But it’s not unusual for a bearer to disappear. Three hundred years ago, for example. Another boy evaporated right out of the Monastery-at-Altapalma, his service undone. No one knows what happened.”

I imagine that they fled—from expectations, from terror, from the constant barrage of others deciding the best way to accomplish God’s will. Or maybe they died young, suddenly and unexpectedly, as most bearers seem to do. It’s something I came to terms with when I lived in the desert—that I would likely die young in service to God.

I say, “Why do
you
think we should take the boy’s message seriously?”

“Lucero knew things,” Nicandro says. “Things an illiterate boy from a remote village could never know. I won’t go into detail, but it was enough to give me pause. Enough to keep me reading eagerly. And then I reached this right here.” He scrolls down with his finger until he finds the pertinent passage. “Go ahead, Your Majesty. Read it.”

I lean forward, tingling with anticipation, with the possibility of discovery. “‘The gate that leads to life is narrow and small so that few find it.’” I look up, puzzled. “Nothing new here. It says the same in the
Scriptura Sancta
.”

“Keep reading,” Ximena says.

“‘The champion alone shall traverse it and find the
zafira,
for this wellspring of his power shall beckon him. And all the power of this world shall come into him and he shall have life eternal in accordance with God’s will. None shall stand against him, and his enemies shall crumble, verily a thousand shall fall before his might.’”

All the power of this world.
My Godstone thrums in recognition, sending shivers of warmth up my spine.

“The
zafira,
” Ximena says.

“Just like the Invierno said,” Alentín points out.

“How would an uneducated village boy know that word?” Nicandro asks, his voice soft with awe. “It hasn’t been in use since the first families came to this world. It’s older even than the Lengua Classica.”

Darkness edges my vision, whether from dread or excitement or residual exhaustion from healing Hector I can’t tell. I ask, “What, exactly, is the
zafira
?”

Alentín says, “The
Afflatus
says that magic crawls beneath the skin of this world and that once in every four generations, God raises up a champion to bear his mark and fight magic with magic.” I love the way his voice falls into rhythm whenever he quotes scripture. It takes me right back to our desert cavern and our lessons together while sitting on gritty shale and drawing letters in the dust.

After a pause, he adds, “Scripture supports the Invierno’s claim that the
zafira
is the magic of the world.”

I narrow my eyes, thinking hard. “The animagi can call the magic to them from anywhere. All they have to do is feed the earth a bit of blood. But Storm made the
zafira
sound like a specific place.”

He nods. “Storm also made it sound as though calling this magic takes no small effort. But Lucero’s
Blasphemy
describes a crack in the world, where the wellspring of power bubbles to the surface. I think it refers to a place where the world’s magic is more accessible, or maybe more concentrated.”

They all regard me with expectation as I mull their words.

I say, “The champion alone shall find the
zafira . . .
” And as soon as the words leave my mouth, I know I want to. More than anything.

But how would I manage such a thing? A queen does not have the luxury of leaving everything behind in pursuit of a nebulous quest.

“You
are
the champion,” Nicandro says. “It goes on to say that your determination will be tested. That you must prove your worth. But it also says that he who bears God’s own stone shall pass through the gate.” He shrugs, sighing. “Frankly, I think it sounds dangerous.”

Prophecy is a tricky thing, I have learned, full of edges and secret meanings and mischief. Prophecy can feel like the betrayal of a dear friend, the disappointment of a lifetime, the hope of a nation.

“This could be it, Elisa,” Ximena says, and her black eyes spark with something fierce. “What you need to rule. To finally grasp the destiny I know God has prepared for you.”

I’m not sure why, but her words make me uncomfortable—even though she’s a little bit right. With that kind of power, I would be able to discourage the machinations of the Quorum. Keep my enemies at bay. Make my kingdom whole again.

“And Elisa . . .” Nicandro’s voice is dark with gravity. “It’s best that you tell no one about the
Blasphemy
. It’s a forbidden text, after all.”

“And yet you had a copy lying around in the monastery.”

He shifts on his stool. “Er . . . no. Father Alentín did.”

A laugh bubbles in my throat, and Alentín flashes me a mischievous grin. This is the man who stole the oldest known copy of Homer’s
Afflatus
when he fled the Monastery-at-Basajuan.
Of course
he has a copy of the forbidden
Blasphemy
.

“We should begin making arrangements, my sky,” Ximena says. “We could leave—”

I hold up a hand to cut her off. It’s crusted with Hector’s dried blood. I say, “I’ll think about it.”

Chapter 15

BUT
I don’t have time to think about it, for the day of the Deliverance Gala dawns hot and bright and busy. Everyone hurries through preparations sheened with a layer of sweat. I spend the morning approving last-minute changes to the menu and guest lists and practicing the blessing I will recite at the ball. That afternoon, I tell Mara and Ximena about healing Hector, though I leave out the most pertinent detail. Ximena is beside herself with excitement that I have found a way to tap into the Godstone’s power.

“God has a great destiny for you, my sky,” she says, her eyes shining.

If she realizes I’m keeping something to myself, she does not press. Still, I’m relieved when it’s finally time to dress for the gala, for it means I’ll have something to do besides avoid her zealous gaze.

I can’t stop thinking about Hector. I can’t wait to see him again, for Doctor Enzo has declared him well enough to escort me tonight.

Because of the attempts on my life, my own personal guard will be on my arm, soldiers will be stationed at every entrance and crossbowmen in the high cupolas overlooking the audience hall, and every guest will be thoroughly searched for weapons.Still Ximena insists on one further precaution.

She holds up a corset of leather nearly as stiff as rawhide. “I had it specially made,” she says with a pleased look. She knocks it with a fist, and I wince at the hollow sound. “It should repulse a dagger, or at least minimize damage. And it’s fitted, just flexible enough to wear under a gown.”

I gaze at it in despair, already feeling suffocated. “All right,” I say, resigned. When she fits it around me and begins to lace it, I try to convince myself it’s not much worse than my regular corset with its thick stays.

Mara looks on with amused interest. “It looks like Hector’s informal armor,” she says. “Except with space for breasts.”

“Funny,” I say with a glare. But my glare dies when I see my reflection. I hardly recognize the girl looking back at me. She seems so strong in her corset armor. I throw my shoulders back and hold my head high.

My gown—made of aquamarine satin—slides over it with surprising ease. It’s a bolder color than I usually prefer, but I like the way my skin glows next to it, the contrast of my dark skin and black hair. The gown is sleeveless but has two impossibly long chiffon ties that form a halter behind my neck and float down my back, all the way to the floor.

Ximena sweeps my hair up, leaving a few curls to trail down my neck. Mara lines my eyes with kohl and adds a little sweep at the corners, which enhances their cat shape and makes them look huge. She steps back, grinning smugly, and says, “I’ve been practicing on the laundress.”

Tears fill Ximena’s eyes. “You look like a queen, my sky.”

Mara says, “You look like the most eligible marriage prospect in the country.”

The face staring back is strange. More chiseled, less pudgy than it used to be. And the eyes—so dark and dramatic and large! They are the eyes of someone who has seen and lost much.

Softly I say, “I look like a widow.”

They shift a bit closer, as if forming a protective hedge, and Mara settles an arm across my shoulder. I’m grateful for their sympathy, their understanding.

Mara squeezes my shoulder. “You’ll find love again,” she says.

I catch my breath.
But I already have. And I don’t know that it matters.
Carefully I say, “Love is not for me. I’ll marry for the good of my kingdom.” But my words seem too hard and sharp. “Probably a northern lord,” I continue, forcing nonchalance into my voice. “Approved by the Quorum.”

Ximena regards me thoughtfully—she knows me too well. But she doesn’t press the matter, just arranges the ties of my dress to drape more fluidly and says, “You’re ready to go as soon as Hector gets here.”

My heart does a little flip at the sound of his name, but I ignore it, saying, “First I have something for you.” I gesture for them to follow me into my bedchamber. I reach into my nightstand to retrieve the gifts I’ve hidden there and hand each of them a packet wrapped in supple leather.