The Girl of Fire and Thorns

Chapter 21

I’M stunned, truly frozen, though not by the animagus’s sorcery. Can this be the amulet spoken of? The one that leaves rippling burn scars on the bodies of my people? If so, how could God allow something so sacred to be used in such a way?

It cannot be the animagus’s own Godstone, unless he ripped it from his own belly. More likely he found it some other way. Father Nicandro gave me only three, but nearly twenty centuries have passed since God brought us to this world. Nearly twenty bearers. And then comes the most dreadful thought of all: Is it possible, then, that God would choose bearers among the enemy?

He studies me as these thoughts race through my mind. I hope my face hasn’t given away too much.

He smiles. His teeth are yellow and sickly, at odds with the perfect planes of his face. “You’ve made me late for dinner,” he croons. “But don’t worry. I’m a reasonable man.” He cocks his head to one side, then rotates it to the other, and I feel like a small rodent facing down a mountain lion. “You don’t understand the holy language, do you? Don’t worry, don’t worry. When I return, the earth shall have a bit of your blood, and then we shall see.” He caresses my cheek, and I barely suppress a shudder at his touch, cool and dry like snakeskin. “I’ll bring you something to eat. Be a good girl and don’t move while I’m gone.” He chortles at the joke.

And he leaves me alone in the tent.

I look around frantically, wondering how much time I’ll have. This could be my only chance to escape, but I must think quickly. I consider running, but there are too many Inviernos between me and the hills. It would be best to wait for the animagus to return. To kill him. Maybe I could take his Godstone and hold it before me like a weapon as I flee the tent. I don’t know how to use it, of course, but maybe it would buy me time. Maybe not. At least I would die knowing I’d rid the world of one of Invierne’s sorcerers. Hitzedar the bowman killed one. And Humberto’s grandfather, Damián. Now, it’s my turn.

I feel ridiculous reaching for the knife at my boot, even more so when I feel the urine that sogs my pants beneath my robe. I decide to not think about it.

I don’t know if I can make myself stab someone again. Killing with a knife is so personal, an intimacy I never thought to endure. Besides, as my captors so aptly pointed out, I am no warrior.

So, to be successful, I must catch him by surprise. I hide the knife in my sash so that the handle pokes my back. I’m just as likely to stab myself with a sudden twist of my torso, for nothing stands between the blade and my skin but a worn robe. But I don’t know where else to hide it that is within easy reach.

I glance around the tent, looking for anything else that might aid me. A sleeping roll lies against one wall, thick with yellowing wool. The ground is worn down and smooth, empty but for the stone altar shimmering with candles, the wooden stand with a wineskin, and a few gray-brown plants stunted from lack of sun. I peer at the plants. There’s something familiar about their velvety texture, about the withered, brownish berries. I move closer to where they wilt at the base of the altar, realizing the thing was built around a natural boulder. And the plants are indeed familiar. The color is all wrong, from being deprived of sun and fresh air, but they are certainly duerma plants.

There cannot be much time left. I flick several berries into my palm, dismayed at how dry they are, how easily they separate from their stems. I wince when the wineskin’s stopper comes unplugged with a slight pop. I drop a berry inside, then hesitate, thinking. The rest, I separate with my fingernail to expose the insides before letting them tumble inside.

I hear footsteps, and I take a moment, stupidly, to glance toward the tent flap. He must find me in the exact position he left me. Where was I standing? Were my arms at my sides or slightly forward? I rush back to the spot I was in and turn to face the altar. No, not quite right; the candles were hotter against my skin. The tent flap opens as I shift slightly to my left. The hidden knife blade pokes at my back as cooler air flushes my face and flutters the candles like an invisible, sweeping hand.

The animagus enters, chuckling. “Ah, you are such an obedient thing. You did not move at all. Not even to wet yourself again.” He carries two wooden bowls, and in spite of my predicament, my mouth waters at the rich smell of venison with basil and garlic. “You will find that I am a kind man. See? I have brought you something wonderful to eat.” He sets a bowl on the ground before me, and sits cross-legged. “Sit.”

I stare at him.

“Sit, sit, sit,” he says, flicking at the air, then patting the ground in front of him.

I comply, slowly, watching him for a sudden movement.

He scoops a chunk of meat toward his mouth. His teeth clamp down on it so that bits of grizzle and stringy flesh dangle from his thick lips. He shakes his head around, flinging meat across his cheek, before jutting out his chin and gulping it down. He didn’t bother to chew.

I look down at my own bowl, devoid of appetite.

“Eat!” he orders, indicating the bowl.

I hesitate. What if he poisons me?

“Eat, eat, eat!”

I dip a finger into the sauce and lift it to my lips. After a tentative taste, I suck it off eagerly.

“Now, as we dine . . .” He lobs another chunk into his mouth and swallows it whole. “You will tell me about your companions, the ones who fled the cave before we found you.”

I just gape at him, trying to look like an imbecile.

“I shall rephrase.” And he says, in the Lengua Plebeya, “Tell me about your companions.”

I gasp.

He smiles. “It is distasteful for me to speak your language. It is like dirt in my mouth. Therefore, you will tell me what I want to know. Quickly, so I do not have to sully myself with too many barbarian words.”

My heart pounds. It would have been so much easier to pretend ignorance. Now, I must choose my words with exceeding care.

“What are you going to do to me?” I ask, not bothering to disguise the tremor in my voice. I need to stall him long enough that he takes a solid draft of wine. Or gets close enough that I can stab him after all.

“I’m going to dine with you while you tell me about your companions. If you do not tell me, I will feed the earth a bit of your blood and use magic to open your mouth. Then you will decide.”

“Me?” I whisper. “I will decide?”

“Whether you live or die.”

There will be a cost, a choice. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t care. If I can kill him, it won’t matter.

“I want to live,” I say, pretending to be more afraid than I am. Suddenly, I realize I’m no longer cold. No longer in a state of perpetual prayer to keep my limbs from freezing. Maybe because whatever happens next will be my act of service? Or maybe it’s the presence of the foreign Godstone.

Ah, the Godstone. This could be my only chance to understand.

“That . . . thing around your neck,” I say, pointing. “My people fear it greatly.”

“Eat, eat!”

I stick a finger in the bowl again while he settles back, the beautiful blue of his eyes flashing in arrogance. “It is something to be feared. This, and the stones of my brothers, will deliver your land into our hands. It is God’s will.”

I almost stab him right then. What would this man know of God’s will? He is insane, hardly human with his wild eyes and predatory hunger. My hands shake with rage, though I’m not sure whom it’s directed at. The Vía-Reformas kept me in ignorance according to the will of God. Father Nicandro told me about my heritage for the same reason. Cosmé and Humberto kidnapped me to bring about his will. Now, even my enemy presumes to know the mind of God.

Alentín assured me that everyone has doubts. But it seems as though I am the only one without a single idea about what God wants from me. I am his bearer, and I understand nothing.

“Why?” I whisper. “Why are you doing this?”

“I think a little wine with dinner would be perfect, don’t you?” He shoots me a feral grin, then rises to his feet. I can hardly breathe for watching him approach the stand with its wineskin.

God, please let him drink.

He glides across the ground with leonine grace, and it’s as if something else squirms beneath his taut skin. A creature within a creature. Alodia would seem oafish next to him.

He fills two mugs.

I don’t know enough about duerma leaf. I don’t know how long it takes for the poison to kill someone, or whether or not raw berries will even do the trick. I lean back as he approaches, seeking comfort in the feel of the knife point pricking my rear.

He settles back down. “Tell me about your companions,” he says, “and I will give you some wine.”

As if wine were such a treasure. There is something simple and ingenuous about him. Or maybe it’s insanity. I pretend to consider.

“What do you want to know?” I ask. My breath catches in my throat as he sips.

“Why did you come?”

The Belleza Guerra says the best deceptions are born of truth. “We wanted to see your army,” I tell him.

“I don’t believe you are that stupid.” He takes another sip.

I gaze at the other mug, as if longing for it. “We were sent,” I say.

His eyes widen. “By whom?”

“I cannot tell you.”

He leans forward, close enough for me to see his black irises. They are oblong, like a cat’s. “You will tell me, or you will bleed.”

I make a careful study of the food in my bowl, pretending to deliberate. “It was the conde,” I say at last. “Conde Treviño.” The man who supplies our enemy with food. The traitor. “There are many in the conde’s court who do not believe your army to be so large. He needed confirmation and sent us to find out.”

He sits back, considering, and brings the mug to his lips again. “I don’t believe you.”

God, please let the poison work. “Why not?” I try to look confused.

“Because you are no warrior. The conde is a great fool, but he would not send a child who wets herself to spy on an army.”

He is right, of course, and my heart pounds out the truth. I bear the Godstone! It screams. But I know, as sure as I’ve known anything, that this animagus must never know about it.

“I’m not sure why he sent me,” I say, my head bowed in mock shame. Keep him talking, I tell myself.

“You are a very poor liar.”

He moves so fast, I hardly see. I only notice the pain, bright and bursting along my forearm. I look down at the blood welling there in two parallel streaks.

He flicks two fingertips at me, and I see the sharp objects embedded there, sticking from beneath his fingernails, dripping with my blood.

My pulse hammers in my arm, crimson streams over the edge, drips onto the ground. The hazy air wavers before me and I feel myself swaying.

He sips again. “Now, once the earth has tasted your blood, maybe we will know the truth of this.”

Bright drops fall onto the hard-packed ground. They spread on impact, flattening, blurring into the ground, browning. The Godstone turns to fire, and I nearly choke as the burn gushes up my spine.

“The earth loves your blood,” he sings. “Oh, yes, yours in particular, it loves, loves, loves. My stone warms already.” He lifts the mug to smiling lips.

The amulet swaying against his chest begins to glow, white-blue like predawn stars. He is going to burn me. He will force the truth from me by sizzling my skin one wet bit at a time. I am not a strong person. I know I will say anything to make the pain stop.

He is much quicker than I am, so I know I must do this exactly right. While my left forearm continues to feed the earth my life’s blood, I reach with my right, slowly, to the knife that bruises my back. I hold it there in hesitation. This could be the moment I die. He could slice me with those manufactured claws and rip out my throat if he chose.

“I don’t want to die,” I tell him, truthfully.

He smiles like a father fawning over his favorite daughter, the way my father used to look with such fond tolerance at my sister. “All you have to do is tell me . . .”

He doesn’t finish. He looks at me strangely, squinting his unlikely eyes. “You can’t disappear on me, girl,” he says, slipping back into the Lengua Classica. “It is too late. The earth has already tasted you.”

My gaze does not move from his too-lovely face, but I pull the knife from my sash.

“I’m so tired. So tired, tired, tired.” He looks around the tent, unable to focus. Then his eyes widen with understanding. “What have you done to me?”

I want to tell him he is a fool. I want to show him my own Godstone, alive and real. I say nothing.

He grasps for his caged Godstone and thrusts it toward me, but the glow already fades. “Why does it not burn you?” he demands, his voice garbled. “Why?”

I respond in the Lengua Classica. “Because it is not the will of God.”

His blue eyes widen. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He topples backward and lies there, his head at the base of the altar, his ear brushing the leaves of the dying duerma plant.

“Thank you, God,” I breathe aloud. “Thank you.”

I put a hand to his chest. A pulse flutters beneath his ribs, faint but true. Not dead. Maybe the duerma berries lose potency when dried. But if my own experience with duerma leaf is any indication, he will sleep a long time.

With the knife, I cut a strip from the hem of my robe and use it to bind my bleeding forearm.

Inexplicably, I am alive. There must be a way to escape, to warn the others, for I have learned much. The animagi can freeze a person’s muscles with a flick of their fingers. They arm themselves with Godstones. They’ve found a way to bring forth fire by “feeding the earth” with blood. My tiny army of children, my Malficio, must know of these things.

So, I curl my knees to my chest, and I think.

I’ll never make it past the perimeter of the camp dressed as I am. I must disguise myself. The bleached-white robes of the animagus beckon to me, and I almost laugh aloud at the idea. I could take his robes. His amulet.

I reach for his head with distaste. His white-yellow hair slithers against my palm as I pull the amulet over his head. When I drop it around my own, the Godstone in my navel jumps with joyous greeting. “Stop that,” I mumble.

Getting him out of his robe is more difficult. In spite of his slenderness, he is very heavy. I roll him back and forth, releasing first one arm, then the other, then push him onto his stomach. Without his robe, he seems fragile, the blue of his veins spidering across the pale flesh of hairless legs. His long braid glitters in the candlelight like liquid gold. In a flash of pique, I grab it and saw it off at the nape.

The smell of incense almost makes me gag as the robe settles across my shoulders. It’s made of hide I’ve never seen before, thick and heavy, but pliant and flowing as fine silk. I tie it closed and pull out the amulet so its dark cage shows against the robe’s whiteness. The cowl fits neatly over my head. I weave the frayed end of his braid into the ties of the robe and let it dangle down my chest. Within the robe, I hold tight to the knife.

I look down at the animagus. So delicate. So beautiful. He will awaken eventually. Maybe I should put the knife into his heart while he sleeps so he does not live to burn again. But the thought of using a knife again repulses me.

I get a better idea.

His bedding lies flush against the side of the tent. I yank at one end, pulling it toward the center. The wool is soft and very dry. I lift a candle from the altar, carefully, so the hot wax does not splash onto my skin. I grab the edge of a sheepskin and hold it to the flame until it catches. As the wool curls and blackens, I avert my head to avoid the acrid smell. It burns slowly. It will be several minutes before flames hit the tent walls. Enough time for me to reach the edge of the camp. I refuse to think about the man lying at my feet.

I’m ready, but I can’t make my feet move toward the tent flap. Please, God. Let this work. I must walk with confidence. Gracefully. Head down so no one sees the dark cast of my skin. I inhale deeply and wait for my heart to still. Behind me, the bedding pops; a glowing spark bounces at my feet, then blackens into dust.

I force my mind to stillness. Do not think, Elisa. Just do. I part the tent flap and stride into the firelit night. The flap falls shut, disguising the growing conflagration inside. I quick-step forward, placing my legs just so, the way Humberto taught me. It’s the best approximation of grace I’ll ever manage, and I hope it is enough. Inviernos look up at me as I pass, but I ignore them, striding with purpose. I feel their wild eyes on my back. The Godstone goes cold.

“My lord,” someone says in acknowledgment. I give the briefest nod, keeping the cowl tight, and continue on. Surely he will see that I am not slender. Not graceful.

I weave through fire pits, around bedrolls, toward the comforting blackness of the hills, listening for someone to cry out in warning. I am almost there.

Something odd catches my attention, off to my left. Something out of place. I allow the slightest turn of my head. It’s a man. Dressed not in furs, but in the robes of the desert people. His hair is black and unclumped, his skin is dark. He scrapes food from a bowl, and I cannot see his face, but my chest burns with the implication. One of Joya’s own, eating with the enemy. There are no ropes or chains that I can see. No animagus nearby to force him into magical paralysis. One of the others, a pale, muddy-haired Invierno, pats him on the back. He looks up and smiles. My legs turn to water; I gasp out a sob.

It is Belén.