The Girl of Fire and Thorns Complete Collection (96 page)

He is quiet for such a long time that I think he must be sleeping, but then he whispers, so softly that I have to strain to hear, “I don’t want to be king.”

It’s like a dagger in my chest, because if feels like failure. Of course he doesn’t. Of course he’s terrified. I know how hard it is to be frightened for so long.
I’m so sorry, Rosario
.

After a moment spent collecting myself, I say, “I think that if you decide you want to be king, you will be the greatest king in the history of Joya d’Arena. But I won’t make you. You don’t have to.” My court would have collective apoplexy if they heard me say this, but I could never force the boy.

He sniffs. “Promise.”

“I promise. But you have to promise me something too.”

“What?”

“Promise me you won’t discuss this with anyone until I get back.” The last thing I need is for the country to start rumbling about an abdication. “Not a word. Also, if anything goes wrong, or if anything scares you while I’m gone, I want you to find Captain Lucio, Hector’s second-in-command, and do exactly what he says. He will help you. If you can’t find Lucio, go to Matteo. He’s with Queen Cosmé’s delegation in the dignitaries’ suite.”

His wide eyes gleam in the dark. “I promise.”

I don’t want to frighten him, but this is important. So I ask, “Who did I just say to find if something goes wrong?”

“Captain Lucio or Matteo.”

“That’s my boy.” I pull the quilt up over his small shoulders. “How about you sleep here tonight?”

“Oh, all right,” he says, as if it wasn’t his grand plan all along.

The entire palace sees us off—servants, resident nobles, the city garrison. Conde Tristán’s carriage leads the procession, followed by several guards on horseback, another carriage for my servants and supplies, and finally the queen’s carriage, larger and more elaborate than the others, surrounded by even more guards on foot. The royal crest streams behind on pennants, and almost-sheer curtains hang in the gilt-framed windows.

But I am not in the queen’s carriage.

I walk just behind it, surrounded by the conde’s servants. I wear a rough cotton skirt and a shapeless blouse, a maid’s cap pulled low on my brow. My skin is powdered to appear lighter, and my hair—my most distinctive trait—is plaited tight against my head and hidden under my cap.

General Luz-Manuel and Conde Eduardo stand on a balcony overlooking the main gate. The general is as cold and unreadable as always, but the conde seethes blackly. His eyes are narrowed, his jaw taut, his arms crossed. It’s obvious that my last-minute excursion to Selvarica is not part of his plan, whatever it is. As we pass beneath him, under the palace portcullis, I force myself to look straight ahead lest I catch his eye.

Hector walks nearby, and from the crowd’s perspective, I hope it appears as though he guards the queen’s carriage. Through the almost-sheer curtains is the shape of a young woman sitting inside, a large crown on her head—my ruby crown, not my new one. The one made of shattered Godstones rides comfortably in my pack beneath the carriage bench.

Hector hired her. I don’t know who she is or where he found her. And I don’t want to know. She waves enthusiastically at the crowd, and I’m terrified for her, this decoy Elisa. I scan the onlookers for danger, thinking of all the ways to kill a person. It would be so easy.

Just like the day of my ill-fated birthday parade, we make our way down the Colonnade toward the city gate. To my left, a townhome towers above us, its high windows sparkling in the sunshine. An archer could hide up there, send an arrow spearing into the carriage, and then slip away in the chaos. And though the crowd is not as thick as it was for my birthday parade, enough strangers press close that I find myself flinching away. Any one of them could be carrying a dagger.

This is what it’s like to be Hector and Ximena, I realize. Always terrified for someone else, always distrusting, imagining weapons and foul intentions where there are none. Is that why Hector is so stoic and hard? Why Ximena keeps so many thoughts to herself? Because it’s the only way to deal with existing forever on the cusp of disaster?

My guard and my guardian.

Hector said that damage is the price of royalty, but maybe my price is so high that others will be forced to pay it. Maybe he and Ximena are the damaged ones. And Mara. And Rosario, who is afraid to be king.

It’s a very long walk.

But when the gate and the desert beyond come into view, my heart starts to pound, not with terror but with excitement, maybe even happiness. I’m desperate to get beyond these walls, into open air and sunshine. I can’t wait to feel the crush of sand beneath my boots, for the dry air to whip my hair against my cheeks. I hope we trade our horses for camels somewhere along the way. I miss their soft, long-lashed gazes and their resolute plodding. I even miss the scent of camel-dung campfires.

At last we pass through the shadow of the great wall and into the light. Our road leads south along the coastline, but to our left stretches my desert, vast and golden and shimmering with heat. Looking at it, my heart is so full I can hardly stand it. I feel freer, lighter, with each step we take away from the city. I want to skip or run or reach my arms wide to the openness of the sky and breathe it all in. I settle for kicking at bits of sand and gravel on the highway.

Hector sidles over and peers down, an odd look on his face. “I’ve never seen you smile like that before,” he says.

I hadn’t realized I was smiling. “Just glad to be outside, I guess. And look at that desert! Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Yes,” he says softly. “Beautiful.”

“Did you know that some nights, if you time it just right, you can glimpse the Sierra Sangre at sunset? As the sun dips below the ocean, the eastern horizon flashes red, bright as blood. It’s amazing.”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“You should look for it tonight. And in the afternoon, when it’s the hottest, all the colors of the world coalesce where the sand edges up against the sky. Like a ripple of light.”

“You don’t say.”

I look up at him sharply, wary of the amusement in his voice. Is he mocking me? “Surely there’s a place you love too? Somewhere you’re always happy to go back to? Where you feel more yourself than anywhere else?”

As Hector considers, our procession shifts to the right to allow the steady stream of oncoming traffic—a few dusty riders, both on camelback and horseback, one small merchant caravan. They view the queen’s carriage with wide eyes and keep their distance. Up ahead, Mara swings out of the servants’ carriage to walk beside it. I don’t blame her; I wouldn’t want to be ensconced with Storm for any length of time either.

“Yes, there is such a place,” Hector says at last.

“As your queen, I command you to tell me about it.” I want to whip off my maid’s cap, to expose my head to the sun and sky, but I don’t dare. Everyone in our group knows who I am—their participation in the plan is crucial— but the highway is too busy this close to the city.

“Well, since you command it,” Hector says wryly, “I’ll tell you about Ventierra, my father’s countship.”

For some reason, I’m feeling the need to tease. “Oh? Surely that tiny patch of dirt is nothing compared to this.” I gesture toward the dunes.

He takes it in stride. “‘That tiny patch of dirt’ is made up of rolling hills, bright green during the rainy season, golden when dry. The grass is like an ocean, so long that it ripples on a windy day. From a distance, it shimmers like velvet.” His eyes grow distant as he speaks, and the planes of his face soften. “Waves crash against the coastal cliffs, spewing geysers of white water into the air. Near the mouth of the river are tide pools—I spent hours and hours playing there as a boy. But nothing is more beautiful than a vineyard ready for harvest. Rows and rows of grapevines, dripping with frosty purple . . .”

“Ah,” I say. “That painting in your quarters.”

“Yes. I used to steal grapes off the vine when my father wasn’t looking. I felt sorry for them, getting beaten and pressed, rotting into something that smelled bad. It seemed to me that grapes would rather be grapes than wine.”

I laugh.

“What did I say?”

“Nothing. It’s just that I’ve never seen
you
smile like that before.”

Our gazes lock. The rest of the world drops away, and all I can think is,
God, I love his smile
. It melts the last few years off of his face, and I see the boy underneath, the one who scampered among tide pools and rescued helpless grapes. What happened to that boy? Alejandro, I suppose. And war. And me.

I say, “I’d like to see Ventierra someday.”

His smile fades. “I would too.”

“You miss it, then?”

He just shrugs.

I stare at his profile, which has gone flinty. It’s his way, when he’s trying not to feel too much.

“I didn’t realize you were so homesick.”

He whips his head around. “I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t have to.”

He shrugs sheepishly. “I like my home in Brisadulce too.”

“I’m glad.”

Up ahead, the curtains of the queen’s carriage part, and Ximena peeks out. I smile and wink. She starts to smile back, but then she sees Hector beside me and her smile fades. The curtain swishes back into place. I frown at the spot her head just vacated, wondering what she is thinking.

As evening burnishes the sand to copper, we bypass a busy way station of scattered adobe huts and palm-roofed stables in favor of making camp alone, well off the road and in the sand.

I peer into the queen’s carriage for my pack and tent. Ximena sits beside decoy Elisa, looking stiff and out of sorts. The girl herself has wilted beneath her veil and crown, and pools of sweat collect under her arms. I wince in sympathy. “I don’t think the crown is still necessary,” I tell her. “Or the veil. This far from the road, why don’t you open the curtains and cool off?” She and Ximena will sleep in the carriage, presenting a tempting target for any would-be assassin.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she says in a shy voice. I haven’t bothered to learn her name. I don’t want her to become too real to me.

I spot my pack and tent beneath the bench and grab them. I call out to Hector, “Where do you want me to set up?”

He gestures toward a flat spot, saying, “We’ll make a perimeter around you.”

I flip open the tent roll, pull out the poles, and get to work. My fingers fly with motion memory, and I revel in the feel of it, the crunch of sand as I bear down with my poles, the sound of fabric flapping in the wind. I leave the entrance open, tied up at the side with loops for that purpose. I rummage through my pack for flint and steel, then toss the rest of the pack inside my tent. Time to get a cook fire started, if Mara hasn’t already.

A shape looms before me, and I nearly drop my flint and steel.

Conde Tristán is staring at me, his eyes wide. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone set up a tent so fast. I didn’t know you could do that.” Other tents are going up around mine, including a larger one to be shared by Belén and Alentín.

My grin is smug. “Did you think I spent my days as leader of the Malficio embroidering? Composing odes to the desert sunset, maybe?”

He runs his hand through his hair. “No. I guess I just imagined more . . . administrative tasks.”

“I can also start a fire, skin a rabbit, forage for edible plants, tend minor wounds.” It feels good to brag shamelessly. “Oh, and I can definitely scare something off by flinging a rock in its general direction with a sling.”

Several paces away, Hector has removed the saddle from an antsy bay gelding and is toweling him down. He looks up from his work and catches my eye, a smug look on his face. Hector, at least, is unsurprised to find me so capable. He might even be a bit proud. It makes me feel warm all over.

Later as we sit around the campfire sipping Mara’s soup—not jerboa, but a light broth made with lentils and dried vegetables—the sun dips into the distant sea. I’m not paying attention to see if the sky flashes red on the opposite horizon because I’m staring north instead. Though we are too far from Brisadulce to see its walls, a soft sphere of radiance against the black sky marks the spot. I think of the thousands of lanterns and candles now brightening my capital city. And I think, with a twist of despair, how I feel so much happier, safer,
abler
away from it.

But we haven’t gone far the next day when Hector mutters, “I think we’re being followed.”

I snap my head up to look at him, then force myself to stare straight ahead. If indeed we are being followed, then it wouldn’t do for the queen’s Guard to be seen talking to a maid who looks uncannily like the queen.

I say, “Are you sure? This road is highly traveled.”

“No. Just something to watch for now. But a group of riders has kept a steady distance behind us since we set off. They don’t have carriages, and no one is on foot. So they should be traveling much faster than we are.”

“Everyone knows I journey south. Maybe someone is curious. In fact we may attract quite a caravan along the way.”

“Maybe.” But his tone is unconvinced.

“Would it help for me to walk in front of the queen’s carriage instead of behind it?” I say hopefully. I’m choking on dust, and I’ve had to tie my shawl across my nose on several occasions.

“It might,” he says. “Though I hate to give up the advantage of having you covered in filth. No one would recognize you like that.”

I can’t help turning to glare at him. His lips twitch, but the amusement fades quickly. “We’ll keep an eye on them,” he says.

“No.” I’m in the desert now. I know exactly what to do. “We’ll do better than that.”

“Oh?”

“If they’re still behind us when we camp tonight, I’ll send Belén to scout them.”

“You’ve decided to trust him, then?”

“I trust his ability to scout.” I think back to the day of Iladro’s poisoning. It felt so natural to call on Belén for help. The moment required it, and we slipped back into our old roles as if nothing had happened. “And I dare hope the other kind of trust will come in time.”

When we make camp, the riding party Hector spotted is still there, tiny black figures near the horizon. Other travelers come and go, but these riders stop when we do, make camp when we do. Their campfire glows as dusk fades to night.