The Bitter Kingdom

6

HECTOR

IF Elisa were here, she could pray warmth into her body with the power of her Godstone. It gives me comfort. She’ll never be so cold as I am now.

Wind whistles down the mountain slopes, penetrating even my leather armor, flinging needles of icy rain. The Inviernos greet the cooling weather with laughter and smiles of relief, but we Joyans hunch over our horses for warmth, letting our mounts guide us rather than raising our faces to the wet cold.

In spite of the clove hitch, I stretch my fingers open, then tighten them into fists. Open, close—over and over again, to force warmth and movement. The effort grinds the ties into my wrists, but I keep at it. The air has gotten so cold that icy numbness is a greater danger than injury.

But by the time Franco calls a halt, I know I’ve miscalculated. I’ve lost the battle and my palms have cramped, my fingers curled into useless claws. Which means I must now deal with both numbness and injury.

One of the Joyans, a stocky man with a chipped front tooth, comes to help me from the saddle. I know him vaguely. A soldier from the city watch, one of General Luz-Manuel’s men. Yet more evidence that our highest-ranking military official has been plotting treason with the conde.

If I don’t dismount quickly, I’ll be yanked off. My left leg is steady in its stirrup as I swing my right leg over and slide to the ground. I can do it without grabbing the pommel now, though I always pretend to. With a little more practice, I’ll turn the dismount into a hard kick to someone’s face.

The Joyan with the chipped tooth drags me toward a pine tree, forces me to sit, and ties me up, wrapping my waist three times. He ends with a hasty triple-looped rolling hitch—a knot that is unique to Puerto Verde. Sunny Puerto Verde. I’m not the only one who is a very long way from home.

I say, “It’s wrong that the Inviernos drag us into their icy winter without outfitting us properly. It’s like they want us to suffer.”

“Shut up,” he says.

He yanks on the rope, testing it. Satisfied, he stands and gazes toward the warm, bright campfire. It’s surrounded by laughing Inviernos. He rubs at the thin linen covering his arms.

I have made him notice. That’s all I need to do.

Later, Franco himself brings soup in a bowl. It’s gamey and thick with pine-bark pulp. I peer over the rim while I slurp it down. I’ve gotten better at doing everything with my useless hands. When I get back to Brisadulce, I may institute this as a training exercise; all my men should learn how to eat, ride, and use the latrine with their hands tied. “Where are you taking me?” I ask Franco, not expecting a response.

The Invierno smiles, slick and cruel. I’d love to obliterate that smile with my fist, but I tamp the image down. I won’t let Franco get under my skin.

“To our capital, to face the Deciregi,” he says. “We’ll hold you there until your queen comes for you.”

The Deciregi. I repeat the word silently so it will stick in my memory. “Then you’ll let me go?”

“Don’t be an idiot. Once we have your queen, you’ll never rest until you get her back. We’ll have to kill you.”

“But you said—”

“Did we?”

I narrow my eyes. Come with no thought to returning, Franco said to Elisa, for this is pleasing to God. You may bring a small escort, but no soldiers. Otherwise, he dies.

Only now do I hear what was unspoken. When you come, he still dies.

“You are liars,” I say. “All of you. You don’t lie with words, but your intent is ever to deceive.”

Franco grabs the empty bowl from my hands. “It’s the highest art form, deceiving without lying. A word is the only thing in the world made more powerful by absence than existence.”

The Invierno straightens and peers down a delicate nose, as if sizing me up. When he was a spy in Conde Eduardo’s entourage, he shuffled and carried himself with a slight hunch. Now that there is no longer need for pretense, I see how very tall he is—taller even than Storm.

“What do you want?” I ask wearily. “Tending to the prisoner is surely beneath you.”

“Your queen. When I allowed her to say good-bye to you, she whispered something. What was it?”

“I’ll come for you. Stay alive for me, Hector. And be ready.”

“She said to escape if I could, because she can’t risk a whole kingdom to rescue one man, not even a Quorum lord.”

“You lie.”

“With words or without?”

Franco frowns. “I saw the way she looked at you. You are life and breath to her.”

He’s wrong about that. Elisa loves fiercely, it’s true. But she loves with her heart and mind. If she comes for me, it will be part of a larger plan to rescue all of Joya.

I don’t realize I’m smiling until Franco says, “See? Just thinking about her makes you shine with her fire. Bearers are like that, you know. God always chooses the ones who inspire great loyalty.”

I hate that he presumes anything about her. “How would you know? There is only one, and you know nothing of her.”

“There are two.”

“What?”

Franco gives me that edged grin, then turns his back and ambles toward the campfire.

Two bearers.

I stare after him, shivering in the dark. Maybe I should ask for a blanket, but I don’t want to appear weak. Or maybe appearing weak is the better strategy.

I’m about to call out when something jabs the back of my knee. I shift, and the jabbing disappears. Shift again, and it returns, sharper than before.

It feels like an arrowhead. Or a discarded spear point. All I know for sure is that it might be a way free.

My heartbeat deepens, smooth and slow, as if I’m preparing for battle. I glance around to make sure no one is looking. Then quietly, carefully, I reach down with my tied hands and slide my fingers under my leg. I strain so hard that the ropes around my body cut off my breath, but I’m almost there. I snag a sharp edge with the tip of my left middle finger, slide it from under my leg through the dirt, lift it in my cupped hands to the moonlight.

It’s a flake of stone, as hard as flint. No, more like glass, shimmering and black. Obsidian. With an edge sharp enough to cut rope.

I wedge it between my thumb and forefinger, and I begin to saw at my bonds.

It’s slow going, and the movement cinches the rope, making me breathless with pain. It will take many nights’ work. I’ll have to hide the stone during the day and hope they don’t search me.

When my hands cramp, when blood drips into my palm, when I’m shivering so badly from the cold that the pain is a dull ache, I maneuver the rock into the pocket of my pants.

I lean my head back against the tree trunk and close my eyes to review my conversation with Franco. The Deciregi, he said. Two bearers.

Which would be wiser? Escape as soon as possible so Elisa doesn’t have to pursue too far into the mountains? Or wait and learn more?

I flex my hands, trying to force warmth into them. But they are cramped from sawing and dangerously numb. If it gets any colder, frostbite will render me useless to her, no matter what. I’m running out of time.