The Girl of Fire and Thorns Complete Collection (98 page)

“What is it? Do you know this man?”

“I have to get away,” he says. “At the soonest opportunity. Leave me at the next trading post. No, leave me when we get to a large port. I’ll need a place big enough to disappear in. I can make my way back—”

“Storm! Do you know this man?”

He inhales deeply, and the mask of calm settles over his uncanny features once again. “I do know him. Franco, right? That’s not his real name. His real name, in God’s language, is Listen to the Falling Water, for Her Secrets Carve Canyons into Hearts of Stone.”

I gasp. “An Invierno!”

“A spy,” Hector says.

Storm says, “If Franco learns I am here, he will kill me.”

“Conde Eduardo has an Invierne spy working for him,” I say, as though sending the words aloud into the world will help me believe them. “Does the conde know that Franco is an Invierno?”

Storm shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Why didn’t you tell me there was an Invierne spy in the employ of one of my own Quorum lords?”

“You didn’t ask. Also, I’ve been underground for more than a year. I didn’t know he had worked his way into the conde’s inner circle.”

“Have any others infiltrated my court?”

“Not that I know of. Your Majesty, you
must
let me go at the nearest port.”

The carriage lurches again, and I grab Hector’s knee instinctively. Storm’s gaze drops to my hand, and he allows himself a secret smile. I draw my hand back, curl it into a fist in my lap.

“If I let you go,” I tell him, “you would miss your chance to accompany us to the
zafira
. You won’t get another. Only someone who bears a living Godstone can navigate there, remember?”

He runs a hand through his golden hair, considering. Now that I’ve become a bit used to the odd color, I find it more beautiful than alarming. “You make a good point,” he admits.

“We could leave Storm behind,” Hector suggests, and his gaze on our companion is unwavering. “It might distract Franco, give us a chance to put some distance between us.”

That will never happen. I don’t care to show my hand to Eduardo or the Invierne spy by revealing that I’m harboring the former ambassador. But the alarm on the Invierno’s face is so satisfying that I pretend to consider it.

“If we left you behind, do you think you could get away?”

“No! Not if Franco sees me and recognizes me. He would stop at nothing to have me killed.”

“So it
would
be sufficient distraction. They would abandon us for a while to chase after you.”

He opens his mouth, closes it. I see the exact instant he recognizes that I’ve trapped him on purpose.

“This Franco. He must be very capable for you to be so frightened of him.”

Fury rolls off him in waves. He says, “Your Majesty, he is a trained assassin.”

I gasp. An Invierne assassin in my own palace all this time. In the employ of a Quorum lord. I never even suspected. What if he’s the one responsible for the attempts on my life? If so, he will surely try again.

I say to Storm, “I suppose you ought to stay hidden in the carriage. Like a frightened rabbit.”

He scowls.

“Don’t worry,” I add. “I’m sure I can find someone to keep you company.”

“I’d rather be alone.”

I turn my lips into what I hope is a decent approximation of his own smug grin. “I know.”

“You would do well to hide, too,” he says. “Franco is cunning and skilled. He is to murder what an animagus is to magic.”

“Oh.” I let my face fall into my hands, not caring that Storm will see and be amused. “Hector, we have to tell everyone about this.”

He reaches over and gives my knee a squeeze. “Yes,” he murmurs, and I close my eyes to savor the sensation.

When we break for the noon meal, I tell everyone else what I learned from Storm. No one is more surprised and terrified than decoy Elisa, who clings to Ximena’s arm with a white-knuckled grip. Her veil blurs her eyes and nose, and I’m relieved that I can’t see the fear sparking there, even more relieved that we cannot make eye contact. Because I’m terrified for her, too.

“I can take care of him,” Belén says. “Tonight. I’ll slip into his camp and put a dagger to his throat.”

“Storm said Franco is specially trained,” I remind him. “He might be your match.”

“I can take care of him,” Belén repeats.

I know what Belén can do. Cosmé once told me the story of how she watched from a ridge as he snuck into an Invierno scout camp, slit the throats of three of their warriors, and disappeared like fog. Should I send an assassin to kill an assassin? I know so little about Invierne. Is this Franco an anomaly of their world? Or does he come from a long tradition of elite selection and training, like my own Royal Guard? I must ask Storm about it before deciding.

Tristán says, “I’d like to change my vote.”

“Vote? What do you mean?” I ask.

“I think our company should split up,” he says. “At the next port, you and a few others should go off in search of the
zafira
without the rest of us. We’ll try to draw the assassin away. It’s an opportunity you shouldn’t pass up. They’ll eventually figure out what happened, but you could buy yourself days, even weeks, of safety.”

I nod, considering.

Ximena says, “I agree. It was one thing to be followed by the servants of a pouting Quorum lord. An assassin is another thing entirely.” She looks down pityingly at the creature clinging to her.

“Hector, when is the soonest we could split off?” I ask.

“If we can make Puerto Verde, a few days south of here, I might be able to commission a ship. I know a captain who’s scheduled to be in port soon with a batch of early-harvest wine.”

Probably wine from his home in Ventierra. “Someone you trust, then?” I ask.

He nods. “With my life and honor.”

“Then we continue on to Puerto Verde and split off there. We’ll keep a close eye on Franco and his group until then and adapt as necessary.” I look around at everyone. “Unless I hear convincing counsel otherwise?”

No one has anything to add.

“Then let’s get moving.”

As Hector and I climb back into the carriage, I glance northward, along the shimmering highway. It’s strangely devoid of travelers, except for the small group following us. They are barely more than motes on the horizon. So there is no reason, I tell myself, no reason at all, to feel as if the assassin’s gaze is boring holes into my back.

Chapter 19

AFTER
an evening meal of dried tilapia and dates, I sit cross-legged just inside the threshold of my tent while Ximena unpins my hair to let it down into a more comfortable sleeping braid. While she works, Hector comes over and flips out his bedroll in front of my door. He sets his pack beside it, shoving it down into the sand so that it doesn’t tip over. I watch him carefully, fascinated by the way he moves. Every motion is so strong and sure.

When he pulls off his overshirt, my heart speeds up. His bare shoulders flex as he reaches beneath one arm to unlace his breastplate, and I swallow hard against the sudden moisture in my mouth as he lifts his breastplate over his head and sets it on top of his pack. His back is broad and taut with muscle, his waist trim. His sun-darkened skin shimmers faintly, and even though our camp is dimly lit, I see his scars, several of them. Most are tiny white lines, but one is larger and jagged, running diagonally across his lower back. I have an overwhelming urge to trace its length.

Instead I place my fingertips to my own mark, just left of the Godstone. Both of us, scarred. I wonder how he got his? I want to know about it more than anything. I want him to share that part of himself with me. I want—

Ximena’s fingers grip my chin. She forces my gaze to hers and regards me sternly for a long moment. “It is a hard thing to be queen, my sky,” she says.

I blink up at her. She’s warning me. She wants him for Alodia, after all. And she’s right. It would be a smart match.

But the very thought hollows out my chest, leaving me empty and aching.

Not trusting my voice, I just nod. She kisses my forehead, then goes off to attend her fake queen.

Ignoring Hector, I crawl into my tent and lie down on my bedroll with my head at the door. I lie there a long time, listening to him breathe.

Minutes later, or maybe an hour, I raise my head and whisper, “Hector?”

“Yes?” he whispers back.

His face is so near. Just the space of a breath away. I swallow hard. “My sister. Alodia. She has . . .” Oh, God, it’s so hard to say, but I can’t bear to pretend away such a huge thing. I inhale through my nose and try again. “My sister has made inquiries about you. In regards to a potential marriage agreement.”

A long pause. Then, “Well, that would explain why she opened correspondence with me.”

“Oh!” Pain, sharp and hard, squeezes my chest. Alodia already made her move then, before writing to me.

“She’s like you, you know,” he says. “Intelligent. Beautiful. But . . .”

“And will you . . . that is, are you considering . . .” I can’t finish. I’m not sure I want to know.

He looses a shuddering breath. Then he says, “I will do whatever my queen commands.”

Of course he will.

Something overtakes me, desperation maybe, and before I know it I’m slipping my hand past the tent flap. My fingers find his wrist. It shifts, and suddenly my hand is wrapped in one of Hector’s much larger ones. Something about his gentle strength brings tears to my eyes.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him I love him. Instead I say, waveringly, “I told Alodia that you are the best man I know.”

He gives my hand a squeeze. “Thank you,” he whispers.

I fall asleep like that, my fingers woven with Hector’s. Belén does not visit me. Or if he does, he chooses not to intrude.

Two days later, the desert cedes to rolling coastal hills. The sand still stretches east as far as the eye can see, but the hills along the coast mark the beginning of the southern holdings, the most temperate part of my kingdom. As we climb, the land beside the road turns from sand to hard dirt that is dotted with dry grass and the occasional scrub tree.

A day after that, we reach Puerto Verde. We crest a hill and there it is, laid out before us, a deep crescent bay the color of turquoise, carved into cliffs that protect the port from heavy surf. Cargo ships dot the water; I stop counting at twenty. There are even more small boats; dinghies and fishing vessels predominate, with a handful of flat pleasure barges.

A medium-size city hugs the cliffs, spills into the water on stilted buildings and docks. It seems that docks are everywhere, sending crooked fingers well into the bay. It’s such a boisterous place, and from this distance, it takes a few moments for me to make sense of the bustle. Traders haggle and yell. Sailors load and unload ships. Clerks catalog piles of items. Everyone is busy, fast moving, loud. It’s so different from the easy rhythm of Brisadulce.

My people,
I think. I rule this city as surely as any other, and yet this will be my first time setting foot in it.

The road zags down the cliffs, and we hug the walls tight as we travel. I’ve never been afraid of heights, but I still can’t bring myself to peer out the carriage window and over the edge to the bay far below. I gaze out the opposite window instead, and I catch glimpses of wooden platforms jutting out over our heads, of elaborate pulleys and winches used to haul cargo up the cliff face.

By the time we reach the bottom, word has gone out that the queen’s carriage approaches, and the city goes still with reverent silence. We made no secret of our journey. Wasn’t that the whole point of this excursion? To be openly courted by Conde Tristán? To explore a remote part of my kingdom in search of the
zafira
without raising unwanted questions? But my teeth clench and my neck and shoulders ache with strain. Everyone stares as we pass.

We reach an inn called the Sailor’s Knot. A small crowd gathers on the porch to greet us—the inn staff, no doubt. I see smiles and nervous shifting and a few flags hastily embroidered with my royal crest. Our official itinerary declares a two-day recess here.

But our official itinerary, like my decoy queen, is meant to throw off potential ambushes. I’m glad. The place looks creaky, with a porch made of poorly joined driftwood and sandstone walls that drip random stains. As we pass by, though, I twinge with self-reproach, for the faces in the crowd deflate, then gaze after us with confusion and disappointment.

A block farther, we turn a corner and arrive at our actual destination, the King’s Inn. Conde Tristán chose it specifically because its high third-story provides a good view of the surrounding buildings, and because its location one block from the main street makes the entrances less visible.

Our caravan noses into an alley that leads to a wide, dark stable. Hector and I jump from the carriage—Storm will stay inside until nightfall—and my guard moves quickly to establish a perimeter at our rear while Tristán’s men unhitch the horses and begin unloading. When decoy Elisa steps from the queen’s carriage, a cry of greeting goes up, from the few stubborn souls have followed us here. “Queen Elisa!” a voice calls. “Your Majesty!” yells another. Someone jostles my guard for a better view, but my men hold firm.

Decoy Elisa doesn’t react, except to clutch her veil close to her throat. Led by Belén and Alentín, my ladies hustle her through the stables and into the back entrance of the inn.

I sling my pack over my shoulder, then grab a trunk from the queen’s carriage, just like a real maid. I follow my decoy into the inn, feeling darkly wrong about leaving my people outside, ignored and unacknowledged. “I’ll make it up to you,” I whisper. Someday, I’ll come back when I can be
me
.

The innkeeper, a gnarled man with a bald patch and a nervous smile, falls all over himself to accommodate us, arranging for hot baths and meals in our rooms. Decoy Elisa smiles vaguely at him and manages a few thank yous. When he finally leaves, she lies down for a nap, and I have my first bath in days.

“I do love baths,” I say with a luxuriant sigh.