The Bitter Kingdom

19

THE tunnel is so small that we go single file. Mula walks upright; the rest of us duck to avoid the low ceiling. Only the seneschal carries a torch, and once the tapestry swings back into place, I can’t see where I’m placing my feet. It’s the perfect place for an ambush, and we all step quietly, ears pricked.

Since coming to the city of Umbra de Deus, my Godstone has been riotous with activity—cool one moment, hot as a fire the next. All the things my stone responds to are gathered in once place—close friends, enemies, other Godstones. The Deciregi aside, who knows how many animagi inhabit this place, each with a stone of his own? So I have been ignoring it, knowing there is no way to parse its message, to determine which proximate thing it responds to at any given moment.

But as we proceed down the tight, dark corridor, everything changes. The flashes of hot and cold are replaced by a soothing vibration, an almost melodic sensation that, if it were a sound, might be a song. It fills my limbs with buzzing, joyous warmth, as if I’m about to greet the sunrise. “Storm?” I say.

“I feel it too,” he says, but there is no surprise in his voice.

The torch ahead winks and flashes with the seneschal’s steps. The light snags on a gouge in the wall, a curving darkness set off by lighter gray.

“Stop!” I say, and everyone halts. I brush past Mula and put a finger to the gouges. Not gouges—scripted letters. I’ve seen them before.

The gate that leads to life is narrow and small so that few find it.

“Just like in the tunnel beneath . . . leading to the zafira,” Storm says.

“Yes.” What he didn’t say, what he didn’t want the seneschal to hear, is that these same words are also carved into a tunnel beneath the catacombs of my own capital city.

“I’m beginning to wonder if they mark a place of importance,” he says. “Maybe a place of power.”

“It’s worth investigating,” Hector says casually. “When we have the time for such curiosities.”

When we get back home, he means. Assuming there’s a home to go back to.

“His High Honor the Deciregus is waiting,” the seneschal says in a biting tone, and he proceeds down the tunnel without bothering to see that we follow.

The ground slopes upward, so gradually that I don’t realize it until my breath comes harder and the muscles in my legs warm. The hum of my Godstone grows stronger. And even though I have not called it, the zafira slithers from the earth into my limbs, filling me with power. Our path brightens.

The seneschal pushes something aside, and cooler air hits my face. We exit the tunnel into a colossal stone chamber shaped like a perfect half moon. The curved wall stretches the height of several men, and is covered floor to ceiling with lines of black runes in a language I’ve never seen before. Large tapestries are arrayed at regular intervals, though they seem tiny against the massive wall. I presume that each one hides a tunnel leading to one of the ruling houses. Ten tunnels means ten approaches. We could be surrounded in the time it takes to blink.

Opposite our tunnel, the flat part of this huge half moon, is a wall of stained glass panes set in iron cross work like a portcullis. Each pane is a different color, with shades of blue and green dominating. Wavering torches, set in sconces around the wall, give depth and shine so that the glass seems molten.

Wind whistles against cracks in a few of the glass tiles, and beneath that, barely within my range of hearing, is the sound of rushing water. Or maybe it’s just my Godstone, humming so violently now that surely everyone else must sense it too.

Before us stand two Inviernos in white robes. One is Storm’s father, Pine. The other is a woman with straight crystal-white hair that reaches her knees. Her pale, perfect skin is stretched too tight over tiny features. I could not say how old she is, and I can’t begin to read her oily black eyes, but her carriage speaks of veteran poise.

“Your Majesty,” Storm’s father says. “I present Her Eminence The Low Earth Is Friend to Even the Soaring Hawk. She is the Deciregus of Tinkling Fountain House.”

She inclines her head. “Your Majesty,” she says, drawing out the address so that it sounds like a hiss.

“Your High Eminence. I am pleased to meet you.” And I am. I’ve never seen a female animagus before. But she stares at me with such haughty disdain—eyes narrowed, chin high—and I know there is no possibility of kinship between us.

“Tell us of the zafira,” she commands.

“My agreement was with the Deciregus of Crooked Sequoia House,” I say. “You, I neither know nor trust.”

Her eyebrows raise, and I barely hold my smile in check. I could never get away with being so impolitic in Joya d’Arena, but lofty contempt seems to be the right tack in Invierne.

Storm steps forward. “We count Tinkling Fountain House among our greatest allies,” he says to me. “Like my father, they believe the war between us has gone on too long and at too great a cost. The Low Earth . . . Hawk will be eager to come to an agreement.”

“Tell us the location of the zafira, and then you will have your answers,” Hawk says.

Not a chance. “I want my answers first.”

Hawk exchanges a look with Storm’s father. Then she says, “We believe you should go first, as a demonstration of the righteous honesty that is in accordance with God’s will.”

That is exactly the wrong thing to say to me. I practically spit the words. “Do not dare tell me about God’s will. I have the conduit of his power living inside my body, and even I do not presume to know God’s will. As far as going first . . .” I look around at my companions: a former enemy who risks his status and reputation for my cause, a slave girl who defended me with her own life, and the man who has promised to give up everything for me.

I speak softly but clearly, and my voice echoes through the vast chamber. “We have come a very long way at tremendous cost to be here. I believe that counts as going first.”

Storm’s father regards me steadily, but his unnatural black eyes make it impossible to read his expression. He leans over and whispers something to Hawk, and she nods in response. He straightens and says, “Very well. This way.”

He gestures us all toward the glass wall. Hector’s hand goes to his scabbard, and I check my belt for my daggers.

As we approach, a section of the wall begins to appear a little different from the rest. Were I to look askance, it would seem exactly the same—a patchwork of colorful leaded glass. But straight on, up close, the colors are muted, and the glass ripples like a desert mirage.

“Is that it?” I ask no one in particular. “Is that the gate?”

“Indeed,” Storm’s father says. “Only those who command the magic of the world can sense the Wall of Morning, much less pass through it. It’s the final test required for an initiate to become an animagus.”

I step a little closer. “So I just walk through?”

“If you can,” Hawk says, and I am absolutely certain she is smirking. “Beyond it are the answers you seek.”

“Your Majesty,” Hector says. “As your attendant, I would be remiss if I did not observe that this appears to be a trap.”

He’s right. Something surely waits for me beyond the wall of glass. I know it the way I know the sun rises in the east.

“May I take an attendant with me? Or must I pass through alone?”

“You may try,” Pine says with a shrug.

I step closer to get a better look.

“Elisa, stop!”

I whirl to face Storm.

His eyes are huge, and his breath comes too fast. “The initiates, the ones in my class. Half of them never returned.” He eyes his father, then lowers his head in shame. His betrayal of his family is complete.

Pine growls low in his throat, and he strides toward his son, metal-clawed hand raised as if to strike his face.

“No!” I cry, reaching for the zafira. I surround Storm with a shimmering miasma of power. Pine’s claws collide with the barrier, showering blue sparks, and his hand recoils wildly. He stumbles back, clutching his wrist.

“You’re not supposed to be able to do that,” he hisses. “You’re supposed to be untrained.”

I give him an edged smile. It was an accident, mostly. I haven’t been able to create a barrier since I was on the island, in direct contact with the zafira. But what I say is, “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

He straightens, tucks his hair behind one ear with the metal claw of his forefinger, and regards me steadily as if nothing has happened. “In that case, show us you are capable of passing through the gate.”

“You agreed to go first,” Hector says.

“Very well.” And he turns and walks straight into the shimmering wall that is not a wall. It parts like water and swallows him whole.

“My turn,” Hawk says with a coy smile, and she follows Pine through the gate.

I stare at the exact spot where they disappeared. Except for a slight shimmer and blurring of color, it seems solid.

“What are you going to do?” Hector asks. “I fear an ambush awaits you on the other side.” His voice echoes in the vast chamber, and it should make me feel like we’re alone, that our hosts have deserted us. But my neck prickles.

Storm adds, “And there is the small matter of whether or not that gate will kill us, your recent demonstration notwithstanding.”

Mula says nothing, but she hitches closer to Storm and grabs a fistful of his cloak.

“Their power source is on the other side. I can feel it,” I murmur. How else could I create that barrier so easily? Why else would my Godstone persist in this manic humming? It’s the very thing I’ve been looking for. So close at hand.

I approach the wall as close as I dare. My nose almost touches it. Then I shift to the side until the shimmer fades and the colors brighten. I reach up and rest my forefinger against a vivid blue pane. It’s cool to the touch. Ordinary. Laughter bubbles in my throat, and I cover my mouth to control it.

“Elisa?” Hector says.

“Get back, all of you. Against the wall. No, better yet, get into the tunnel behind the tapestry.”

Hector’s eyes dance in the torchlight. “I don’t believe our hosts will be pleased with this turn of events.”

I grin. “Indeed, they will not.”

Once everyone is safely behind the tapestry, I back as far away from the glass as I can—until my rear hits the stone wall. It’s a pity, really. The wall is so ancient and beautiful. Probably a national treasure. I pull a dagger from my belt.

The zafira rushes into me the moment I call it. I hold it inside myself for a bit, savoring this feeling of vitality, of power. After too long a pause, I allow some of it to trickle into my dagger.

The blade is a part of me, an extension of my hand, as I point it toward the wall. Control, Elisa. Use just enough.

I release the zafira, and a bolt of blue fire streaks toward the wall. The glass shatters, and a sudden wind blows my hair back. Broken panes crash to the ground, followed by a wash of tiny shards that float glitteringly like falling snow.

My companions peek from behind the tapestry and gradually creep out. Hector’s gaze roves my body, searching for injury, as Mula and Storm survey the destruction.

Glass covers the floor. Beyond the shattered wall is a huge stone balcony, open to the night sky. Pine and Hawk stare at me, mouths agape. A shining stream of blood, black in the meager light, pours from a cut on Hawk’s cheek.

Behind the Inviernos is a massive stone slab—no, an altar—shadowed against the night sky and the glowing mountains beyond. The sound of rushing is too loud now, a cacophony of wind and water and something else, something just beneath my range of hearing. The zafira, maybe. The air is crisp with predawn chill, and I wrap my arms around myself, against whatever comes next.

Pine shakes with rage, and his metal-clad fingers twitch as licks of blue flame dance between them. He is barely holding the zafira in check. “Do you realize what you’ve done?” he says.

“I believe I just succeeded in using magic to pass your gate,” I say. “Doesn’t that make me an animagus?”

He continues to gape as Hawk absently wipes at her cheek with the sleeve of her cloak, smearing blood. Hector shifts beside me, and I hear the light whisk of drawn daggers.

Pine breathes deep through his nose. The fire licking his metal fingers winks out. “Very well, then,” he says. “Come and find the answers you seek.” He whirls and steps toward the black altar.

“Too easy,” Hector mutters.

“Storm?” I whisper. “Anything you haven’t told me? Any idea what your father is planning?”

“I know nothing,” he says in an equally low voice. His hand comes up to clutch the amulet beneath his robe. “But we should be wary.”

“If you betray us,” Hector says, “I’ll kill you.”

Storm bristles. “I was Her Majesty’s loyal subject even before she saved my life.”

“I’m glad to have you both with me right now,” I say firmly. “Mula, do you want to go back inside the tunnel and wait there?”

Her eyes are huge. “No,” she whispers.

I realize I’m delaying. “All right then.”

Hector takes the lead, and glass crunches beneath our feet as we cross the threshold of the ruined wall and move toward the balcony. Hawk and Pine step aside to give a clear path to the altar. Harsh wind hits my face as the altar comes into focus.

Pine does something with his Godstone amulet, and torches spring to life one by one until the altar is ringed in fire. The torch flames illuminate smooth, round river stones, bulging in places, leveled by wind and ice and time in others. The top is perfectly flat and little more than shoulder high. I stand on my tiptoes to peer at it.

Something is up there, something that moves. I step closer.

It’s a living thing, a hairless creature with skin as weathered as deer jerky. It lies on its back, its flaccid, jellylike limbs manacled to the rock. When it turns its head to regard me with despairing brown eyes, with human eyes, my breath catches in a sob.

“You have come to take my place?” it says in a painful rasp.

“What?” I peer closer. He lies spread-eagle across the altar. His fingers are bloodless, meaty stumps—as if they’ve been chewed. Lumpy skin swells over the wrist manacles. I follow the line of thin, slack limbs to a shapeless body fully bared to the elements. A bright blue Godstone winks from a naked belly.

I gasp. This creature is one of many bearers throughout history who was never identified—or who simply disappeared mysteriously.

“Behold,” Pine intones. “Our living sacrifice.”

Red spots dance in my vision, and I’m so angry I can hardly breathe. “This is what you plan for me? This, this . . .” Tears spring to my eyes. “This is barbaric.”

“Indeed,” Pine agrees. “It’s our greatest shame that we are often forced to contend with an unwilling sacrifice. But it is no more barbaric that what your people did to ours. They were afraid of us, of our power. You made us less than we were, with your otherworldly machines.”

I’m not sure what compels me, but I reach out toward the creature on the altar and gently brush his cheek with my forefinger. His skin feels like leather. He gazes at me with such hope from browless, lashless eyes.

I whirl to face Pine. “Why?” I demand. “Why torture him this way?”

Pine’s face remains implacable. “They made us human.” He spits out the word like it’s a sour piece of fruit. “Too much humanity in our blood made it impossible to bear our Godstones beyond childhood. They started to die in our bodies. After a few generations, only a handful remained who were even born with them.”

Pine looks across the balcony, toward the glowing mountains. “But even that wasn’t enough to calm their fear,” he continues. “They forced us to flee from our source of life and power. The hidden zafira was once ours; surely you know that? But away from it, we began to sicken and die. We had to do something just to survive.”

He turns to regard me, his gaze fierce. I suddenly feel like a tiny jerboa facing down a hungry jaguar. “We discovered early on that we could draw power through a living Godstone. It’s not the same as being near a zafira wellspring, but it is enough to keep us from dying out. We used our own children for this at first—the little ones who had the misfortune to be born with a stone. It was a dark time in our history. But then we discovered that your people had not only changed us—they had changed themselves as well. They mingled the blood of our two people, you see, so they could survive better on this world. Some of them, a very few, were born with Godstones.”

“Once every hundred years,” I whisper.

He nods. “And those Godstones didn’t fall out. How could such a thing be? That our enemy could bear the stones that we could not?” He shakes his head. “So we captured a bearer, a girl like you. The zafira sustains our living sacrifices. We don’t feed them or take care of them in any way. They exist perpetually at the point of death. And it’s important that they do. Otherwise they could resist and refuse us their power.”

“But this one is truly dying,” Storm says.

“Yes. Eventually death takes them all. Some scholars posit that they pray themselves dead. This one”—Pine’s voice is thick with contempt—“only lasted a century.”

A century. I know who this creature is. The bearer before me.

“Lucero,” I whisper.

He smiles, an ancient, toothless smile, and says, “You know my name.”

I’m shaking so hard, and I can’t stop. This is what they want for me. A century or more of lying on hard granite, exposed to sun and ice, my fingers eaten by vultures.

Hector’s hand is on his scabbard, and his gaze darts around, sizing up the area. Our eyes meet. I know what he’s thinking. But surely now that I have promised to tell the Deciregi of the zafira, their plan for me has changed?

“What about a ‘willing sacrifice’?” Hector asks after too long a moment. “Franco said it would be better if Her Majesty came willingly. What does that mean?” He edges toward me. His question is merely a stall for time; he wants to get me away from this place, and fast.

“Exactly twice in our history we’ve had a bearer come willingly,” Pine says. “A willing bearer is permitted free reign of the city. He is waited on as if he were the High Deciregus, his every need attended to. In return, he agrees to willingly let us siphon the world’s power through his stone. Both times we had willing bearers, Invierne experienced a golden age. We bore more children, we lived longer. Apparently the zafira is richer and more accessible if the bearer does not resist.”

I stare at the lump of flesh on the altar before me. Lucero was a poor village boy. Illiterate. Surely the prospect of being treated like a king would have made him a willing participant. Why did he resist?

Hector says, “What aren’t you telling us? If being a willing sacrifice is a position of such honor and luxury, surely you would have convinced more than two.”

Pine hesitates. He exchanges another glance with Hawk, who nods. Finally he says, “Having power forcefully pulled through a living stone is somewhat . . . uncomfortable, as I understand. But yes, a willing sacrifice enjoys many benefits to compensate.”

The Deciregus is too glib. Never have I met an Invierno so willing to part with information. Even Storm, my ally and friend, causes me no end of frustration with his reticence.

Storm must sense something amiss as well, for he says, “We’ll no longer need a sacrifice if we have direct access to the zafira.”

No one responds. Wind whistles across the balcony. Beyond the altar, the silhouettes of the mountains are edged with morning light. One of the volcanoes spews a bit of lava. From this distance, it looks like fiery pudding, the way it sticks together midair and plops onto the side of the mountain.

“Please,” comes a whispered voice.

I turn toward the creature on the altar, forcing myself not to flinch at the sight.

“Kill me,” he says.

I step closer. His eyes swim with longing. With pain.

“I came to destroy their power source,” I admit, softly enough that only he can hear. “But I didn’t know it would be a person. Maybe I could take you away from here. I could heal you—”

“No,” he says, sharply enough that it startles me. “Everyone is dead. Gavín, Jedro, Melita . . . All gone. My life, my friends. I lived for the blink of an eye. But I’ve been dying for a very long time.”

I’m surprised by his clarity of thought. His sanity. I don’t know that I would fare so well.

I lean toward his ear and whisper, “If you want me to kill you, I will. But I’m not sure it’s necessary. I’m bargaining for peace. Invierne will never need a living sacrifice again.”

Lucero blinks at me with lashless lids, as if trying to focus. Is he blind? He says, “I think that is not a good place for you to stand.”

“What?”

The earth drops out from under my feet. My stomach leaps into my throat as I freefall into darkness.

“Elisa!” Hector yells.

I crash onto hard ground. My right leg snaps, a rib, a collarbone, as I crumple like weak kindling. Pain explodes everywhere, and I open my mouth to scream, but I can only convulse.

My lungs are empty of air. Blood fills my mouth. It will choke me if I don’t swallow or spit, but I can’t. Something closes in around me, something so much darker than the mere absence of light.