The Girl of Fire and Thorns

Chapter 14

THAT night, Humberto shows me how to erect my tent. The poles aren’t heavy, but managing their awkwardness requires strength and balance. He assures me I’ll get the trick of it, but I don’t see how.

After the tents are pitched and the camels tended to, Cosmé builds a fire and makes a batch of jerboa soup. I walk away from the hot flames to watch the sun set across the desert. It’s a beautiful place, vast and shimmering, red as blood in the fading light. The dunes fascinate me. Though rippled on the windward side, leeward they are smooth as cream and dishonestly soft, like a favorite rug. It’s an astonishing place, and terrifyingly powerful, and I find I’m resting my fingertips against the Godstone in wonder.

“Does it talk to you?” Humberto stands beside me. I didn’t notice his approach. He shifts on his feet; his brown eyes are black in the twilight, like his sister’s.

“Why? What do you think the Godstone can do for you?”

He looks down, his face grave. “It can save us.”

My mouth opens to protest, but I stop myself just in time. My survival may depend on their belief that I can actually do what they hope.

His next words come in a singsong chant, “‘And God raised up for Himself a champion. Yea, once in every four generations He raised him up to bear His mark.’”

“That’s Homer’s Afflatus!” I grasp his upper arm. “You know of it!”

His face is puzzled. “Of course.”

Cosmé calls us to dinner at that inopportune moment.

“More soup!” Humberto says, then rushes away. I plod after him, preparing myself to appear confident, like one who can save others.

I settle across the fire from Cosmé, amazed at the sudden drop in temperature and grateful for the flames. There are five of us, including myself. The divine number of perfection. From my studies with Master Geraldo, I know the desert nomads always travel in multiples of five, for luck and blessing.

Cosmé passes a bowl to each of us. After watching the others, I understand not to expect a utensil, to tip the rim to my lips and scrape at the shreds of meat with my dusty fingers. I scour every drop from my bowl, and my stomach gurgles in response. The soup has chased away my hunger, but I am far from full. I set down my bowl, disappointed. Cosmé stares at me from across the fire ring. The sun has long since disappeared, and the wavering flames make ghastly shadows of her face.

“Highness,” she says, soft and low. “You get the same ration as everyone else.”

I meet her gaze steadily. “I did not ask for more.”

She stands and brushes sand from her legs, then kicks a bucketful into the fire to smother it. Our camp is now lit by only two small torches and the faintest smear of stars. The desert feels huge, surrounding us with deepest black.

We head off to our tents. I wrap myself tightly against the cold, already deriving comfort from the biting musk of my blankets. My last thoughts are of Homer’s Afflatus and the gates of the enemy.

Early the next morning, after a too-small breakfast of jerky and dried dates, I pack my tent by myself. It takes me longer than everyone else, and my arms shake from the effort, but I do it. Then I discover that I’m expected to walk again. My legs ache so badly, especially above my ankles, that tears prick at my eyes when we set out. Humberto’s thick form wavers far ahead. He guides us on this hot journey, so there will be no chance to discuss Homer’s prophecy or ask more questions until we rest.

I push through the sand with agonizing slowness, and before long, my captors are dark motes on the yellow-orange horizon. I should wonder if they’ve given up on me and left me to the desert’s cruelty. I should worry about dying here, about my body becoming a dried husk. My stomach is a gaping hole beneath my rib cage, burning with hunger. Worse, my head pulses behind my eyes and I feel nauseatingly dizzy. I need to eat something sweet to make the headache go away, but I know I’ll get nothing of the sort.

The wind picks up, flinging sand into my face. Without stopping, I pull the shawl across my nose and fasten it, the way Humberto showed me. I press on.

I don’t know how much time passes, but all at once I feel an urgent grip on my arm. I look up, blinking through my headache, into Humberto’s face.

The Godstone sends ice up my spine and into my chest.

“You must hurry,” he says into the wind. “Sandstorm.”

Oh, God.

“The others are erecting the tents ahead. Can you run?”

I nod, though I don’t know how my legs will manage it.

He wraps my arm around his shoulder for support, and together we hurry through the sand. Humberto is very strong, lugging me along at a pace much faster than I could have managed on my own and yanking me back up each time I trip over my feet. Swirls of sand gust against our legs. Humberto’s panic is unmistakable. He pulls relentlessly, calling, “Faster, Princess. We must move faster!” So I churn my legs as fast as I am able, sucking air through my shawl, my heartbeat a drum in my throat.

At last we crest a rise. Just ahead, the camels are lying side by side, huge lumps in the sand. Cosmé hurries to erect a tent of sorts around them while they grunt and toss their heads.

Another tent squats next to them. The crooked-nosed man beckons us frantically from the opening.

But my legs plant in the sand, hard and stiff as stone pillars, for in the distance, a wall of darkness races our way. It rages black along the ground, tossing sand high enough to cast the entire sky in shades of brown.

“Princess!” Humberto yanks me forward, but my legs remain frozen, and he mostly drags me toward the tent. The storm’s whoosh is deafening. I don’t know how we can survive such a thing. Our tents look so inconsequential, so fragile, and I know I will die here, my flesh ripped from my bones, the Godstone buried in a mountain of sand.

We plunge inside the tent. Cosmé tumbles in after us. She pulls the flap closed and ties it down. As I catch my breath, I stare at my four captors, dismayed by the wideness of their eyes. Camels moan in the distance.

“The camels?” I gasp. They are strange creatures, but less frightening than horses, with their long soft lashes and perpetual smiles. I can’t bear the thought of the sandstorm shredding their hides. “Will they—”

“They’re better suited to the desert than we are,” Cosmé says. “They know to lie down during the storm. They’ll be fine.” She shrugs. “Unless they’re buried for too long.”

Buried? Humberto is tying a rope around my waist. “Buried?” I whisper.

Humberto leans close. “Princess, if the tent falls apart, find a piece of it to wrap yourself in.” He ties a section of rope around his own waist, then tosses it to Cosmé to do the same. “Make a space for air, like this.” He demonstrates with a blanket, wrapping it halfway around his head and forearm.

He doesn’t see my nod of understanding, for the space inside our tent is suddenly blacker than night as the sandstorm’s roar overtakes us. I no longer hear the camels, or the flapping of the outside tent layer, or even the breathing of my companions. Were it not for the rope connecting me to the others, I could imagine myself completely alone. The tumultuous snarl of sand is so huge and steady, so pure, that it is almost like quiet. I sit for a long time, feeling my heartbeat slow and my breathing steady.

Silence crashes around us. True silence, as if the world has died.

“Is it over?” I ask, jumping at the sound of my own strange voice.

“Hush.” It’s Cosmé. “Do not waste air with your prattle.”

Waste air? Understanding dawns: The sand has buried us.

A moment later, the thrashing storm of sound resumes, followed by another unsettling hush. The terrifying afternoon stretches on in darkness while we are buried and unburied several times. Even more terrifying is the sure knowledge that the storm will erase all trace of our passing, that Alejandro will never find me now.

At long last, the silence remains. From the center of the darkness, Cosmé says, “Try it now, Belén.”

I hear rustling, the rub of fabric; then sand and light pour in from a hole near the top. I blink at the crooked-nosed man as he thrusts a long pole upward. Through it, I see blue, beautiful sky. I put my fingertips to the Godstone and send a prayer of thanks.

Cosmé and Belén dig us out of our tent. The outside layer is ripped in places, but Humberto says it will hold with a good mending. The camels were only half buried. All five of us get down on our knees and scoop sand away until we can lift the heavy material from them. Grunting and moaning, they sway to their feet and shake their heads around. The largest, a brown-near-to-black creature, chews his cud, while the tawny one paws at the sand. Such common behavior for camels, already familiar to me, and I marvel at their smiling acceptance of the day.

The sun is low in the sky, smearing copper across newly formed dunes by the time we dig the tents out and pitch them properly.

We let the fire burn longer tonight, thanks to a fresh supply of camel dung. Over another measly repast of jerboa soup, I ask, “Are sandstorms always like that?”

Humberto’s mouth is full, so it is Belén who answers me. “We get one or two bad ones like that each year,” he says. “Usually they’re mild and quick.”

I slurp my soup, savoring it, dreading the moment when my bowl is empty. The eyes of my companions fix on me, taking my measure. One pair—Cosmé’s—finds me wanting, the contemptuous curl of her lips apparent in the firelight. Ah, but the others. Their eyes hold questions, perhaps even reluctant respect. Even the quiet boy studies me carefully. I know what Alodia would do.

I say, “You all knew exactly what to do. To survive.”

Humberto shrugs. “We’re traveling escorts. It’s our job.”

Cosmé is a maid, not a traveling escort, but now is not the time to bicker the point. I nod to myself, as if deep in thought. “The desert produces strong people.” I hope my words don’t come across as fawning.

But Belén lifts his chin with pride. “We’ve survived worse than sandstorms.”

“I don’t doubt it.” I scrape the rest of my soup from the bowl, then lick my fingers. As I set down my bowl, I say, “But something else is coming. Or has already come. Something you’re not sure you can survive.”

None of them meet my gaze. Cosmé crosses her legs and studies her knuckles.

I dare to ask, “What is it? Why haul a fat, useless girl across the desert? Why am I so important that you would send Humberto back for me in the face of a deadly sandstorm?”

“We didn’t send Humberto back for you,” Cosmé snaps. “We sent him back for the Godstone.”

Of course. “Why not just pry it from my navel, then?” I know it’s a mistake as soon as the words leave my mouth.

Cosmé’s grin is predatory. “I’m still considering it.”

“Cosmé!” It’s the first time I’ve heard the quiet boy speak. “We can’t risk it yet. The prophecy is not clear. We can kill her later if she proves ineffective.”

Humberto’s eyes narrow, and he glares at the boy. “No one will kill her, Jacián. Not ever.”

Jacián just shrugs, then settles back into silence.

That night, Humberto creeps into my tent and quietly settles his bedroll beside mine. I’m relieved to see him, for I know why he’s here. He’s afraid of what the others might do.

The days are interminable and hot, but I use the time to think. I resolve to appear cooperative and unthreatening, for my survival depends on remaining with my captors for now, on giving them no reason to kill me.

We leave the dunes for a low plateau. The sand no longer sucks away my every step, so I keep pace with only a bit of struggle. Humberto leads us, never hesitating to choose our direction, though I don’t know how he manages this. Our water runs low and our rations are restricted. My skin longs for the cool water of my bathing pool. No, that’s wrong. The water in my pool was always warm. But I imagine it cool, as vividly as I imagine Ximena’s strong fingers kneading my shoulders.

My lips crack and sting. The camels’ arching humps shrivel, then list to one side. Humberto assures me this is to be expected, that they’ll recover with water and grazing, but I can’t help feeling sorry for them. After a while, though, my mind holds nothing but maddening thoughts of water.

After days of traveling across the plateau, Humberto guides us into a deep gully. The camels snort and groan, kicking their knees up and rolling their heads as we pass between cavernous cliff walls. We turn a corner, and the gully opens into an oasis of clumped palms and yellow-feathered acacia trees, of green grass and a pond of sparkling blue water. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

We all rush forward, five humans and two camels, until we are hip deep in water. “Don’t drink too much right away!” Humberto hollers. “It will make you sick.” I take a couple of large gulps, then sink down until the water covers my head, reveling in the coolness, the wetness. When I surface, the others are splashing one another, cackling like children. Humberto thrusts a tiny wave my way with his huge hand, and without thinking, I join their game, laughing and splashing. I pretend that I’ve known them all forever. That I am safe.

Much later, our outer layers of clothing swing from the branches of a large acacia that overhangs the tiny lake. Our tents are pitched, the camels calmly grazing on wheatlike grass that waves on the opposite bank. I sit with my bare legs dangling in the water, admiring the new calluses on my feet. I’m strangely proud of them.

Humberto drops beside me and spreads his head shawl between us. Inside is a large handful of fresh dates, gathered from a nearby clump of squat palms. I squeal in delight and pop one into my mouth. It’s sweeter than honey, sweeter than a street vendor’s coconut pie. Or maybe it just seems that way after a steady diet of jerky and jerboa soup. I spit out the pit and grab another. “Thank you so much!” I say with my mouth full.

He studies me while I chew, and it’s a look of curiosity, maybe respect. I don’t feel disconcerted as I did under Alejandro’s demanding gaze.

We camp there for two wondrous days before setting off, rested and water-plump and cool. Walking is less difficult now, though by no means easy, and over the next several days, I’m able to talk with the others as we travel. Jacián remains taciturn, but Humberto and Belén are happy to regale me with stories of foolish travelers and camel races. I learn that each of my companions has crossed the desert several times, even though they are young to be so well traveled. Jacián is the oldest at nineteen, and Humberto the youngest at sixteen, like me.

Even Cosmé joins our conversation at times, though she is guarded. There are so many things I want to know, about the Godstone, about the prophecy she spoke of, about her service to Condesa Ariña. But I dare not ask. Her desire to rip the stone from my belly is never far from my thoughts, so I’m careful to keep our discourse light and unprovoking.

Because of the way the afternoon sun blazes at my back, I know we travel east, toward the outer holdings and the amassing army of Inviernos. But the fastest way to silence the group is to ask about our destination. On my third attempt, Humberto finally says, “It’s a secret place, Princess, and you’ll not learn more than that.”

We leave the plateau and enter a rocky desert of squat bushes and occasional cactuses. The camels graze as they walk, chewing on dry grass and rigid thorns with equal enthusiasm. I’m delighted to hear the cry of vultures. And everywhere are unblinking lizards, too brave or lazy to scatter from our path until the last instant.

Our incline steepens; the way grows jagged with deep fissures and buttes that spring from the earth to dizzying heights. I could wander the maze of this desert for a lifetime and never find my way home. My only hope is that our secret destination will provide some means of getting a message to my husband.

At long last, after nearly a month of hot travel, we skirt a monolithic butte layered in smears of orange and yellow. On the leeward side, a village cozies up to the mountain in a series of giant stair steps, near invisible with its matching orange-hued brick. People scurry about and wave like mad when they spot us.

My heart pounds and my throat tightens. Not long now until they realize they were wrong to take me, that I cannot help them at all.

Cosmé rushes forward to greet an older man coming toward us. He wears the same generous desert robes as my companions, so it’s a moment before I notice that one sleeve lies flat against the side, empty. Other villagers come into view. They are ragged. Wounded. Several faces bear burn scars, rippling like the windy side of a sand dune. Others, like the man clinging to Cosmé, are missing limbs. One young boy, not much older than Rosario, wears a wad of wool shoved into his eye socket, tied down with a strip of dirty fabric.

Most of them are children.

I remember back, a lifetime ago, to the meeting of the Quorum of Five. We’d just received a dispatch from Conde Treviño that requested aid but assured us there had been no casualties yet. Perhaps news travels slowly.

“Oh, Humberto,” I whisper, frantic. “We didn’t know—I didn’t know—that the war had started already.” I place my fingertips to my Godstone and send a quick prayer for warm comfort.

Humberto reaches down and gently lifts my chin with his forefinger. The hopelessness in his eyes frightens me. “Princess. The war with Invierne never ended.”