The Girl of Fire and Thorns

Chapter 8

THE Scriptura Sancta says that all men are equal in the sight of God, and once every week servants sit shoulder to shoulder with merchants and nobles. The first time Ximena and I attended weekly services at the Monastery-at-Brisadulce, we sat on our rough bench surrounded by the merest handful of strangers. Each week the crowd grew, and today, every seat on every bench is taken, and the air is hot with bodies.

I suspect I am the cause of their renewed devotion. Everyone wishes a glimpse of this reclusive princess of puzzling status, this large, foreign-clad girl who frequents the sacred library and prays with such piety. I’m glad for the throng. So many people will make it easier to slip my note to Father Nicandro, right under Ximena’s guardian gaze.

I bow my head as the priests, led by Father Nicandro, guide us through the “Glorifica.” Translated into the Lengua Plebeya, it lacks the lyrical beauty of the original language. Still, the words burn my heart with their richness, and the Godstone responds to our chanting with joyous warmth.

My soul glorifies God; let it rejoice in my Savior

For he has been mindful of his humble servant

Blessed am I among generations

For he lifted me from the dying world

Yea, with his righteous right hand he lifted me

He has redeemed his people, given them new life abundant

My soul glorifies God; let it rejoice in my Savior.

The altar blazes with a spread of prayer candles. Behind it, Father Nicandro lifts a single rose toward the ceiling. It’s the holy variety—I can see the thorns even at this distance—chosen and consecrated because of its bloodred sheen and sharp spikes. He intones about this perfect symbol of the beauty and pain of faith, and we echo our response.

After a hymn of deliverance, Father Nicandro asks those who wish to be blessed to make their way forward with quiet decorum. It was for this reason I chose a seat on the edge of the bench. The ruffles of my skirt trail into the aisle, and I tug them closer to clear the way.

A scattered handful of people rise and begin edging center and front, toward the altar. My head is bowed, but my eyes are open, and I sense someone approach from behind in the aisle. My timing must be perfect. A quick glance over my shoulder reveals a tall, middle-aged woman in a gray maid’s frock. I wait until she is nearly to the edge of my bench.

I launch to my feet and step out in front of her. I hear a gasp as her knees impact, just slightly, the backs of my thighs. I turn my head and smile apologetically; her return grin is shy but genuine.

Ximena rises to follow, but it is too late. At least one person will stand between us, and my nurse will not be able to see what transpires as I ask my blessing.

One by one, each petitioner whispers to Father Nicandro. He prays, then pricks a fingertip with a rose’s thorn. Together, they hold the bleeding finger above the altar until the stone receives a single drop of sacrifice. Father Nicandro makes the cupping sign of the righteous right hand beneath the supplicant’s chin, then passes him or her off to another priest, who awaits with a cleansing cloth and water with witch hazel.

When the young boy in line before me begins whispering to the priest, I reach, so slowly, beneath the waistband of my skirt for the message I prepared. The success of my plan depends on the priest, on his willingness to receive my message during a holy sacrament, on his ability to seem unfazed.

Perhaps I’ve made a mistake. Father Nicandro will be angry with me. What if he interrupts the ceremony? What if Ximena sees? His life could be forfeit after all.

I change my mind. My hand reaches for my waistband again, to shove the message away, but I am not quick enough. The boy has stepped aside to cleanse his finger and Father Nicandro’s gaze has lowered, briefly, to the tiny roll of parchment pinched between my thumb and forefinger.

I step forward to take the boy’s place, holding the roll tight against my breast. Father Nicandro’s left hand cups the back of my neck and pulls my head downward until we are forehead to forehead.

“Your Highness,” he whispers. “What do you seek from God today?” With his other hand, the one that holds the rose, he reaches out and grasps the parchment between his middle and index fingers. With one quick, smooth motion, my message disappears into his voluminous sleeve, as if he is well practiced at intrigue.

He waits calmly for my answer. I give him the truth. “Wisdom,” I whisper back. “I need so much more than I have.”

I sense approval in his voice when he intones the blessing. The prick is fast and deep; I suspect the priest is nonplussed after all, for it is deeper than usual. It throbs as we hold it over the altar, the ensuing drop welling fat. It sizzles and browns when it lands on the hot stone. A smaller drop follows immediately.

Nicandro jerks my hand away and gives me an apologetic smile. I smile back, happy to leave this place with nothing worse than a too-deep thorn prick.

I retreat to the corner to have my finger bathed and bandaged, and the tall maid takes my place. My heart pounds with what I’ve just done. I pray Ximena did not see our exchange, and that Father Nicandro reads the note soon. Meet me tonight, it says. At the first morning hour, next to the ancient texts.

After services, I plead exhaustion and take a nap. I will need the extra sleep to stay quietly awake well after Ximena retires to her room. Like me, she reads from the Scriptura Sancta every night, and it could be hours before she blows out her candles to sleep.

I’m awakened from my nap by a knock at the door. Ximena sets down her sewing—she has been constructing looser- fitting skirts and blouses for me from the material at hand—and moves to the door.

She opens it a crack, but the male voice on the other side is muffled. “She’s resting,” Ximena says.

“Who is it?” I whisper from the bed.

“One moment,” she says to the visitor, then turns to me. “It’s General Luz-Manuel. Again.”

I mouth the words, “I can’t turn him away twice.” I’m glad Cosmé has the day off and won’t be here to spy on me as I receive the general. I tumble from my bed as Ximena tosses me a dressing robe. I whisk it around my shoulders and tie it at my neck.

Ximena rolls her eyes conspiratorially, then opens the door. “Please come in, General.”

He rushes in, as if afraid I’ll change my mind. He’s thin and stooped, balding at the top, and he wears the same sculpted mustache as Lord Hector and the rest of the Royal Guard.

Thinking of Lord Hector makes me smile. I’ll be glad to see him again, one of the few who have been truly kind to me since I came here.

“Highness.” He bows low.

“General Luz-Manuel. I apologize for not being more prepared for visitors.”

He waves off my apology. “Do you often feel poorly, Highness?” His eyes are so full with concern.

“I’m always tired after services,” I respond evenly. “Don’t you find the sacrament of pain emotionally exhausting?”

He just shrugs. “The reason I came . . .” He looks down at the floor. “I’ve been elected to invite you, er, officially, to the next Quorum meeting.”

Joya d’Arena’s Quorum of Five. Alejandro’s council, consisting of top-ranking nobles and officers. I must be cautious here, lest they use me to maneuver during his absence.

“Naturally, I’d be happy to attend. I’m not sure what I could offer, though.”

He clears his throat. Perhaps he resents his task as errand boy, or disagrees with the Quorum’s decision to include a child in their meeting. “We are beginning preparations for the war with Invierne.” Like my sister’s letter, he treats war as a foregone conclusion. “We’d like our next discussion to include representation from Orovalle.”

It makes sense. If the people of Joya don’t know about my marriage to Alejandro, then they probably don’t know my father has already committed troops. But this is exactly the kind of thing Alejandro told me to expect, so I know I must play along.

“When is the next meeting?”

“One week from yesterday, directly following the noon meal.”

I give him my most confident smile. “I’ll be there.”

After he leaves, Ximena looks up from her sewing. It always amazes me how invisible she is to visitors. They are foolish to ignore my nurse, for she misses nothing.

“Be careful with the Five, my sky. By reputation, they are clever enough to give even Juana-Alodia a turn.”

I glare at her. Even she measures me against my sister. “I can handle them,” I snap.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t. Just be careful. Be smarter than Alodia.”

I look down at my coverlet, feeling guilty for doubting her. “I’ll try.”

Ximena stays up late to finish my skirt. I read from the Scriptura Sancta, but even my favorite passages are lifeless on the page. I keep glancing at my nurse. Irritation wars with affection as I watch her bow over the fabric long into the night, wrestling with buttons and ruffled silk. She works so hard on my behalf, and tonight, I betray her.

At long last, she gathers the fabric together and stands, yawning. “I’m so sorry, my sky, but I can hardly see the stitches anymore. I’ll have to finish tomorrow.”

I fix her face in my mind, the round cheeks, the worry lines at her temples. I wish I’d had more time with Aneaxi, wish I’d known to memorize her features. Already her laughing eyes blur and I can’t remember if she stood eye level with me or a little taller. “Thank you, Ximena. The skirt is lovely.”

She lumbers over to my bed and bends down to kiss my forehead. “Sleep well, my Elisa.”

Thankfully, the glow seeping through the atrium from her bedroom flickers out almost immediately, and I’m left wide-eyed in the cool dark.

I wait.

My eyes grow heavy, but nervousness keeps me awake. I dare not light a candle to read. After a while, I rise from the bed to pace silently on slippered feet.

The sound of monastery bells, distant but pure, drifts through my open balcony and strikes midnight. Still I wait, listening at the atrium’s edge for movement from Ximena’s room. Finally I wrap myself in a long robe and creep out the door.

The hallways are silent and glowing. Sparse torches make odd light patterns against sparkling sandstone, and I almost laugh, for Alejandro’s monstrous palace is nearly beautiful at night. I’m terrified that I’ll be seen. The shape of my body is nothing if not recognizable, and even a fleeting glance would give me away.

I chide myself for cowardice. I’ve as much right to walk the halls late at night as anyone else. A clever excuse would not be so hard to come by. Still, my thighs burn from stepping with quiet precision, and when I finally reach the wooden monastery doors, my jaw aches from clenching my teeth.

I hurry inside and tiptoe to the library to await Father Nicandro. Just enough moonlight filters in through the long windows for me to find my way into the archive where the oldest documents are stored. I settle on a scribing stool.

I don’t wait long. A pool of candlelight announces his presence. I look up, startled, marveling at his stealth.

“Your Highness,” he whispers. “You used our most sacred ceremony to summon me here. I trust you had good reason?”

My shoulders slump. “I’m sorry, Father. I thought it best, but . . .” I shrug, unable to look him in the face.

He settles next to me, placing the candleholder on the table between us. In its flickering light, I see ancient scrolls on shelves, piles of parchment ready for copying, wooden cupboards that house the oldest, most light-sensitive documents, and I realize I’ve forced him to bend yet another tenet of his occupation. “I’m so sorry.” I gesture lamely at the candle. “I wasn’t thinking. I know candles don’t belong in scribing rooms.” Sunlight only was the rule back home, for it became too easy to knock over a lamp or candle after hours of scribing. My neck is hot with embarrassment.

“Elisa. What is it? Why this secret meeting?”

I look up, and his eyes are so full of compassion that I blurt, “I need help. I need to know about the Godstone.”

A grin splits his face. “I suspected as much. I will help in any way I can.”

My relief is so great, it’s hard to keep my lower lip from quivering. “Really?” It’s overwhelming, this feeling that someone will help me.

“Really. Had you been born here, in Brisadulce, it would have been my task to instruct you in all things pertaining to the Godstone. So we shall discuss it thoroughly while keeping an eye on this candle.” His tone is one of gentle teasing. “Now tell me, what do you know of it?” In the candlelight, his eyes are more piercing than ever, his nose beakish. I warm to his zeal, so like my old tutor’s.

I take a deep breath. “I know all the passages in the Scriptura Sancta relating to the Godstone and the bearer by heart. So I know God chooses one child each century for an act of service.” I realize my fingers have traveled to the stone in my navel from habit. “I know God stuck this thing in me during my naming ceremony. I can feel it living there, pulsing like a second heartbeat. It responds to things sometimes, things I don’t always understand. Mostly, it responds to my prayers.”

He nods along with me. “And the Godstone’s history? What do you know?”

“Besides myself, only one bearer has been chosen from Orovalle. That was four centuries ago, soon after our valley was colonized. All the others have been from Joya.”

“Do you know anything about the nature of this service?”

I shrug. “Just that it’s something big and wonderful and . . .” I’m gesturing with my hands, trying to explain a concept that feels so huge, but remains vague in my mind. “I guess I don’t know much about it at all. I grew up hearing about my destiny. People seem to think I’m going to be some kind of . . . hero.” I feel the blush creeping into my cheeks. It’s ludicrous, and I peer through the dimness, expecting to find those sharp eyes mocking me.

But it’s too dark to tell. “And the first bearer from Orovalle. Do you know what act of service he performed?”

“Of course. Hitzedar the bowman. My father is named for him. During my country’s first skirmish with Invierne, he killed thirty-four men, including the animagus leading the attack. He was . . .” I look down at my hands. “He was sixteen years old.”

He is silent for a moment, thoughtful. “Have you read Homer’s Afflatus?”

My blank look is answer enough.

Father Nicandro sighs deeply. “It is as I feared.”

“Feared? What did you fear? What is Homer’s Afflatus?”

“Homer was the first bearer. Tradition places him among the first generation born to the new world.”

I’ve never heard of Homer. How could I have been kept ignorant of something so important as the first bearer? “And this . . . Afflatus?” The Godstone warms to the word.

“It was his act of service. The spirit of God possessed him and he wrote the Afflatus, a collection of prophecies. About the Godstone, among other things.”

My hands are ice cold, my breathing tight and hard. The Godstone aches with such pulsing warmth that nausea coils just underneath. “Prophecies,” I whisper. “A sacred text. I never knew. I never . . .” I rise from the stool. “The people of Orovalle. They don’t know about this.” I pace toward the shelves and back.

“Your Highness—”

“They should know. Do you have it here? I can have Ximena scribe a copy for the Monastery-at-Amalur. Master Geraldo would love to see—”

“Elisa!”

I look up, startled by the edge in his voice.

“Your Highness,” he says, gently now. “They already know.”

It takes a moment for his words to sink in. When they do, pain like fire blossoms in my chest. “Who, exactly, already knows?” I think I know the answer, but I need him to say it.

“Everyone.” His lips press into a thin line before he says, “I’m sorry, Highness. Everyone knows but you.”