The Bitter Kingdom

13

I can’t tell the exact moment we cross the watershed, but one day our path slopes downward more than not, the clouds thicken, the icy mix of rain and snow becomes relentless.

Storm and I practice with our Godstones each night. We create makeshift targets by scratching them into the cliff face, but hitting them feels like trying to thread needles with boulders. We are clumsy, haphazard, imprecise. Our sessions make me glad for the lifeless rocks and constant drizzle. Were we surrounded by forest, we’d likely set it on fire.

Precision seems beyond my reach, until the evening I stumble upon the trick of using my dagger for a focus. By holding something in my hand and pushing my power through the object, I’m able to both direct and stem the tide so that I don’t exhaust myself with a single blast. Oddly, my dagger remains unscathed—just like my clothing. I am so giddy with triumph that I hardly sleep all night.

Late the next morning, just as we’ve descended below the timberline, the breeze brings a strange scent, something both rotten and sugary—like rancid meat.

Ahead, Belén holds up a fist to halt our procession, and we rein in our mounts. He waves with three fingers—the signal for silence—and slides from his horse. He creeps forward and melts into the trees.

Horse whinnies, and I pat her neck to calm her. Mula twists in the saddle to face Mara and loudly whispers, “What’s the matter?” Mara shushes her.

Belén returns a moment later, his face grave. “Bodies ahead,” he says. “Four men and four horses.”

“Invierno or Joyan?” I ask.

“Hard to tell—they’ve been dead more than a day. But Joyan, I think. Their throats were slit, execution style. No sign of struggle. It happened very fast.”

My face drains of warmth as I flash back to the Battle of Brisadulce, when animagi slit the throats of their own people to soak the earth with blood and work their fire magic. “And . . . was there . . . did any of them . . .”

Belén’s face softens. “Hector was not among them.”

I loose a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

“Who’s Hector?” Mula asks.

Storm says, “It’s rare for Joyans to cross the divide. Rarer still to do it this late in the year. If they aren’t Conde Eduardo’s men assigned to escort the commander, I can’t imagine who they are.”

My heart kicks in my chest. So close. We could intercept them within days. Maybe sooner.

I’m not sure what will happen then. Could we infiltrate their camp and sneak Hector away? What if we are forced to engage in a full-out battle? Though I’m handier with a weapon than I used to be, thanks to Belén’s training, I’ve little close-fighting experience. Maybe we can take them unaware. Maybe . . .

My breath catches. My Godstone. I could kill with it now. If I wanted to.

The mounts prance nervously and show the whites of their eyes as we near the place where Belén found the bodies. We see a horse first, a dun-coated creature lying across the path, its belly hugely swollen, flies circling its wide-open eye. We step carefully around it as the others come into view: three more horses off to the side, their bodies flat on the ground save for their necks, which stretch upward, hung from their halters. They died while hitched to a tree.

I don’t see any human bodies. Belén must have pulled them out of sight, and I make a mental note to thank him later.

Someone whimpers, and at first I think it’s Mara, until I hear her say, “Just don’t look, Mula. We’ll be past them soon enough.”

We travel as fast and as far as we dare, and it is nearly dark before we begin looking for a campsite. I light a fire with my Godstone, hoping it’s the last time we’ll have a fire for a while. With luck, by this time tomorrow we’ll be too near our quarry to risk it.

Which means that Storm and I ought to practice tonight. It might be our last opportunity. Or are we too near the Inviernos? Would they sense our magic?

Mula unloads everyone’s packs and flips out bedrolls, though no one tasked her with this. Then she scurries around collecting firewood. While Mara fries up some corn cakes, Mula sits cross-legged near the fire, back straight, and closes her eyes.

“Are you a follower of God’s path?” I ask.

She opens one eye and snorts. “God hates me,” she says.

I gape at her.

“I never pray anymore,” she adds. “I was just thinking.”

I swallow my surprise enough to ask, “About what?”

“My name,” she says. “You all are fine lords and ladies. And warriors. Your slave needs a good name. A strong name.”

Belén looks up from oiling Mara’s bow. “What about Little Squirt?” he says. “Or Skinny Girl?”

“Belén!” Mara snaps.

But Mula is grinning. “It’s better than Old One-Eye,” she says.

“Knob Knees,” he says.

“Beak Nose,” she throws back.

“Blue Feet!”

“Messy Hair!”

“Those are all terrible names,” Storm says, looking perplexed.

Mula stares at him a moment, and then bursts out laughing. Her laugher is high and crisp and utterly unself-conscious, and soon enough we’re all laughing with her. Even Storm cracks an uncertain smile.

After we eat, Storm tells me that only an animagus or a priest could sense us at this distance, and it’s probably safe to practice. So we send fire bolts against a rocky mountainside, leaving scorch marks and blackened moss. Storm’s control is improving too, his bolts becoming smaller but more powerful and better aimed. My fear that we’ll set the forest around us on fire is greatly reduced.

It’s a relief to the let the fire flow out of me, as if my mostly prayerless journey has kept it too long dammed. I’m dancing a tiny candle flame on the tip of my dagger when I say, “We improve at an alarming rate, Storm. Every day, the zafira is easier to call.”

He nods. “We will continue to grow stronger as we approach the capital. All the animagi are at their most powerful there.”

“Oh? Is it a place of power? Like the island?”

The glowing embers from our last assault on the mountainside give a sharp cast to his nose and cheeks. He radiates dangerously as he says, “There is a source. Not the zafira, but . . . a lesser something. I would have learned about it had I completed my training.”

I plunk down on the ground and cross my legs, snuffing the flame with a thought. I study the blade; it radiates heat but is otherwise unscathed. “Then why do they need the zafira?” I muse. “Why did they send an army after it if they already have a source of power?”

“When your ancestors came to this world,” he says, “you forced us to give up our land and retreat across the divide. You changed us with magic from another world. Made us more like you. It was thousands of years ago, but no one has forgotten. The Inviernos are a bitter people, Majesty. They will stop at nothing to reclaim what they believe to be theirs.”

I’m not satisfied with this explanation. “But why now? If they’ve been angry and bitter for several millennia, what has caused them to act only now?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Did he call you Majesty?” says a voice at my shoulder. “Storm, why did you call her Majesty?”

Storm’s features freeze with dismay.

“It’s fine,” I tell him. “She was bound to figure it out eventually.”

Mula crouches before me and peers into my face, golden eyes narrowed. “Is she a condesa?”

In a resigned voice, Storm says, “You have the privilege of addressing Her Royal Majesty, Queen Lucero-Elisa né Riqueza de Vega.”

Mula’s eyes grow huge. With a loud whoop, she jumps up into the air, pumping her tiny fists. She tears off across the clearing toward our campfire yelling, “Mara! Belén! I am slave to the queen!”

I wince. I must soon have a solemn talk with the girl, wherein I introduce the word “discretion.”