The Girl of Fire and Thorns

Chapter 26

WE can only hope most inhabitants managed to flee, for we find no other survivors and only a few blackened bodies. I crouch a safe distance away on a barren rise, hugging knees to chest. My companions poke through the smoldering ruins to salvage what they can. I should be helping them, but my stomach churns, tears pour down my cheeks, and I am so, so tired.

These last weeks, I have presumed to feel useful. I have treasured the success of the Malficio in my heart, taken pride in the way my tiny group of rebels looks to me for guidance and inspiration. I have allowed myself to feel so accomplished, so grown up. But I have been a fool.

Jacián will tell me that all wars have casualties. Humberto will assure me that none of this is my fault. They will both be right. But in this moment, I close my eyes and feel the weight of death on my shoulders.

“Elisa!”

My eyes snap open. Humberto is hurrying toward me.

“Are you breathing easier now?” he asks, eyes round.

I nod. “The family?”

He plunks down beside me. “They have cousins nearby. Cosmé offered to let them accompany us to Basajuan, but they’d rather stay in the area and look for survivors. We gave them food and water.”

I say nothing. He puts a gentle arm across my shoulders and pulls me against him. “It’s not your fault,” he murmurs into my hair.

“I know.” But new tears spring, stinging, to my eyes.

“What worries me is how far west we are. I didn’t expect Invierne to have a presence this near the desert. Not yet anyway.”

“Perhaps they will march on Alejandro even sooner than we expected.” I rub my nose against the fabric of his robe, giving a flitting thought to the inappropriateness of our actions. I should distance myself from Humberto. I should prepare myself to be the wife of a king.

“That’s what Jacián said. We can’t linger. We must leave for Basajuan immediately.”

“If they are willing to burn a village because of one of our silly raids, what will they do when we poison their food?”

I feel his chest rise and fall with a sigh. “That’s why we’re doing this, Elisa,” he says gently. “Remember? We want Invierne to retaliate against the conde.”

“We’re going to get people killed.”

“Yes.”

There’s something about his honest regard of the situation that clears my head. He has accepted our choice. Believes in it. But he cannot mask the sorrow in his voice.

I stand and stretch, putting distance between us. “Let’s go, then,” I say.

The lighthearted banter that characterized the first leg of our journey has been replaced by brooding silence. I don’t feel like talking either. Instead, I use the time to experiment with my Godstones.

My own has never seemed magical. Alive, certainly. A conduit for communication, perhaps—a link between me and God. Yet the animagi use Godstones that no longer pulse in their bearers’ bodies to call up the magic that slithers beneath the earth. I remember the way the animagus clutched his amulet to freeze us in place, how it glowed fiery blue with his intent to burn me.

Thinking of the Scriptura Sancta’s many warnings against sorcery, I reach beneath the collar of my robe and clasp the amulet’s cage. God, please keep me safe, I pray. My own stone flares its response.

Gripping the caged stone, I think hard about the magic beneath the surface of the world. I reach down with my mind, plunging my thoughts into the dry earth. I imagine the stone warming in my hand; I imagine fire bursting forth to burn the crooked juniper on my left. I imagine so hard that I trip on a jutting stone and tumble to my knees.

“Elisa!” Humberto yanks me upward and steadies me. “Are you hurt?”

His grip on my armpit is too tight, but I don’t care. I lean into him. “Thank you,” I whisper against his ear. But I see his reaction to my nearness—eyes closed, breath inhaled—and my whole body responds with aching warmth. I want to wrap my arms around his neck, tangle my fingers in his soft hair.

But I can’t keep letting myself think such things. “I’m fine,” I mumble, wiping grit from the front of my robe to give my hands something safe to do. My heart twists at the hurt on his face, but I resume our journey resolutely.

It takes two days to reach Basajuan, two days of failing to elicit any kind of response in the strange Godstone.

Conde Treviño’s city nestles snug in the crook of two meeting mountain ranges, the Sierra Sangre to the east and the jungle-tangled Hinders to the north. It’s cooler here, the air moist enough to feel like a blanket against my skin. Humberto laughs when I tell him so and assures me my own country’s air would feel much the same now that I am accustomed to the deep desert.

We wander among quaint two-storied buildings with generous windows and flowering ledges. I’m charmed by the bright-washed walls of color; corals and yellows dominate, with splashes of soft blue and lavender. Iron scrollwork curls around windows and doorways, bright tiles—the same odd yellow-and-blue flower design from my atrium in Alejandro’s palace—line archways and stair steps. It’s a cozy, bright place, and my chest twinges as I realize it reminds me of my home in Amalur.

Jacián rents stable berths for the horses, then leads us to a wide three-story building fronted by a breezy café. Long tables spread beneath a red-tiled overhang, and a counter in the back is painted with colorful promises of crepe-wrapped meat and savory stew. Behind it, cooks scurry to fill orders. Our group takes two of the tables while Jacián orders food at the counter.

If asked, we will claim to be refugees from Cerrolindo, come to trade our remaining belongings for coin and then flee this place before the war begins. It was Mara’s idea, and we all agreed. Such a story is not only plausible, it speaks powerfully of the conde’s inability—or maybe unwillingness—to protect his people.

Jacián returns and settles beside us to wait. “They board guests upstairs,” he says. “I reserved two rooms.” He lowers his voice. “We’ll stay here until we find the information we need. It’s far enough from the conde’s palace to attract little attention.”

He turns to me. “Elisa, I inquired at the pigeon post for you. No response from your nurse yet.”

“Oh.” There has hardly been enough time, I tell myself. At least by now she knows I’m safe. “Thank you.”

Distant monastery bells ring their midday triplets as a small, barefoot boy brings two platters of spiced, shredded beef and accompanying flatbread. We stare at Jacián in surprise.

He grins, and I’m equally shocked at the merriment in his usually dark eyes. “I splurged,” he confesses. “I know we’ve little coin between us, but we’ve been out in the desert so long. It’s probably been a year or more since I’ve had beef.”

We need no prodding to help ourselves. We eat noisily and greedily, smiling around full mouths, giggling at the mess we make trying to scoop the dripping meat onto our flatbread. But Cosmé’s and Humberto’s eyes are clouded, and I wonder if they’ve had the same sobering thought I have about the real reason Jacián has chosen to treat us to a final, glorious meal.

Our rooms are spare but clean, and the owner of the boardinghouse helps us drag several sleeping pallets from storage to supplement the meager cots. Cosmé, Mara, and I are the only girls in our group of ten, so Jacián and Humberto share our room. I’ve slept beside Humberto countless nights, even had him bodily guard the threshold of my hut back in Alentín’s village. Somehow, though, this enclosed space feels more intimate, and I’m acutely aware of him as we unload our packs and stretch out our pallets.

Once we are settled, Cosmé and Jacián leave to wander through the city in search of old acquaintances. I offer to accompany them, but Cosmé just smiles. “You would slow me down,” she says. “I’m trained to gather information. Rest here; I’ll be back soon enough.”

As they close the door behind them, I say to no one in particular, “How can one so young know so many things?”

“What do you mean?” asks Mara.

“Cosmé was my maid, briefly, in Brisadulce. Then I learned she is a traveling escort. And a healer. And of course, a spy.” I whirl on Humberto. “Is everyone this side of the desert so multifaceted?”

He chuckles. “Just inconvenient daughters of wayward condes.”

My eyes widen. So that’s it. The missing link between Cosmé and Treviño. “But I thought Cosmé was your sister?”

“She is. Same mother, different father.”

Mara takes a step back. “I’m not sure I should hear—”

“Cosmé wouldn’t mind your knowing,” he assures her. “Not now. But it’s not something we talk about often. My papá became a true father to her, and she feels it would dishonor him to be blatant about her relationship with the conde.”

“Cosmé told me Inviernos killed her parents,” I remember aloud.

He nods. “About five years ago. It was a bad time for us.” He settles onto a cot and runs a hand across the soft stubble on his chin. “Cosmé went to the conde for help. She wanted vengeance, but—”

“Treviño never had any intention of fighting Invierne.”

“Not since the armies started amassing, no. My sister was very insistent. The conde did nothing, of course, but he decided to keep her in his household. At first he just wanted her closely watched. But he grew fond of her. Too fond of her. It made her very uncomfortable.

“He had her trained in all sorts of skills and gave her a position as lady-in-waiting to her older half-sister, Ariña. The two girls got on well enough, I suppose. They even struck a deal. Ariña promised Cosmé that if King Alejandro married her, she’d let Cosmé inherit the conde’s holdings.”

I gape at him. “She could have stayed in Brisadulce. She could have helped Ariña become queen and then become a condesa herself.”

Humberto nods. “She could have. But she came to believe her father and sister would sell their souls to Invierne to accomplish their ends. Maybe they did.” His eyes glaze over and his brow hardens. “We watched the faces of Mamá and Papá melt away in the fire of an animagus. She never forgot that. So when Uncle Alentín fled the monastery and started his little rebellion, we supported him in secret and vowed to seek out the bearer.”

I plunk down beside Humberto to absorb what he said. “If this works, Humberto, if I can keep my promise and free this land from Joya, then Cosmé can be a condesa after all. Maybe even a queen.”

He nudges my shoulder with his and grins. “That’s why I told you.”

Mara is a statue of discomfort near the far wall, eyes wide like an animal caught in a trap. “I’m going to find some water,” she says. “I need to wash my hair.”

After she flees, Humberto and I regard each other awkwardly.

“You’ve been avoiding me the last two days,” he says in a careful, even tone.

I look down at my hands. “Yes.”

He leans forward, elbows to knees. “It’s all right. I understand.”

Our thighs are very close. Were one of us to shift slightly, we would accidentally touch. “I’m so sorry, Humberto. But I have to be married to Alejandro for this to work.”

“You never shared a bed with him.” A statement rather than a question.

I swallow, unsure about discussing such things with him. “I did not.”

He turns on me, eyes narrowed. “Elisa, if there were a way, any way, for you to escape marriage with the king, would you do it?”

“Any way?”

“Nothing you’d be ashamed of, I mean.”

I try to imagine my husband’s face. I used to picture him with such clarity. But time and distance haze my memory.

I look up at Humberto, at high cheekbones that testify to his desert heritage, the determined jaw, lips always on the verge of a smile. And I realize that my memory of Alejandro is not hazed by time and distance, but by this other, better, dearer face that now fills my thoughts.

Humberto’s eyes shine with desperate hope, and I ache to run my fingers through his rioting hair and tell him that things could work out between us. I offer him what I can. “If there were a way, then yes, I’d choose to be free of Alejandro.”

He smiles. “I’m glad to know it.”

We sit side by side in companionable silence, both of us careful not to touch. I look down at my skirt to avoid his gaze and note how my thighs spread wide across the firm cot. My skin mocks this new slenderness, lying flaccidly in wait for the bulk to return. I steal a glance at Humberto, marveling at the sure knowledge that he would still care for me—even if I started eating pastries again every day.

“What are you smiling at?” he demands.

I’m saved having to respond when Mara returns with news that she has traded a sheepskin for soap and hot water service.

Mara is braiding my damp hair when Cosmé and Jacián return. I know something is wrong by the sharp planes of Cosmé’s face, the shadow in Jacián’s dark eyes.

“What is it? Would no one speak to you?” I ask.

“We found what we needed to know,” Cosmé spits. She begins pacing.

I look at Humberto in alarm. He just shrugs as if to say, Give her a moment.

Cosmé purses her lips, then blurts, “The supply carriages leave first thing tomorrow morning. We must act tonight.”

Tonight! I was hoping to adjust to the idea, maybe spend some time in prayer, gather a store of courage.

“The tribute is collected by the priests,” she continues. “And held in trust at the monastery.”

My stomach falls away at her words. That priests would sanction such an act is unfathomable. No wonder Cosmé and Jacián are so darkly livid.

“Can we figure out a way inside?” I ask.

Jacián nods. “They are conducting the sacrament of pain tonight. All ten of us will go, then slip toward the kitchens after the ceremony while the crowd is leaving. We will all carry the duerma poison. Hopefully, at least two or three of us will be able to find the stash.”

“And if we are captured?” Mara asks in a small voice.

“If anyone is captured, it will be up to Elisa to set us free,” Cosmé says pointedly.

“Me?”

“That’s when you reveal that you are the leader of the Malficio. You agree to discussions only if your people are freed.”

I narrow my eyes. “That could just as easily get you killed,” I say. “We can’t be sure what the conde intends.”

Cosmé raises her chin in challenge. “No one said our undertaking would be without risk.”

I sigh, hating this moment. “In other words, we have no real plan for escape.”

It is Mara who quietly whispers, “If we can force the conde to defend himself, it will be worth it. His resources are so much greater than that of our tiny Malficio.”

“It could be the advantage your husband needs to win this war,” Humberto adds.

I wince. “Cosmé, could you use your connection with the conde to get us out of trouble?”

The young woman frowns.

“I told her everything,” Humberto says apologetically.

“I would try,” she says in a stiff voice. “Though it feels wrong to use my relationship with him for anything. Very wrong. Asking favors of him is . . . unpleasant. There is always a price.”

I study her thoughtfully. “Then we’ll try to avoid that. Let’s inform our companions of the plan and be on our way.”

The monastery is a smaller version of the one presided over by Father Nicandro at Brisadulce. The same adobe walls, the same prayer candles and long wooden benches. And just like Brisadulce, the number of worshippers is thin indeed, the benches far from full. I had hoped for a large crowd to get lost in.

Our desert robes are nondescript, appropriate for penitents seeking a boon through the sacrament of pain. Cosmé and Humberto pull up their cowls to avoid recognition as we file in with pious decorum. We spread out to avoid suspicion, and the low murmuring of prayer begins to fill the room, rising and falling in soft cadence. My Godstone buzzes with warmth.

Near the waiting altar, a priest’s bowed head snaps up. He scans the growing crowd.

I lower my head and huddle behind Cosmé as she works her way forward, cursing myself for forgetting something so important. Hiding at her back is a futile gesture, for she is dainty and I am not, but the priest continues his scan, unable to pinpoint my location. With as understated a motion as possible, I grab her elbow and force her into the nearest bench row. We sit down as one, our thighs brushing.

She whispers, head lowered, “We were supposed to separate and—”

“The priest can sense my Godstone. Just like Alentín and Nicandro. I dare not get any closer.”

A slight intake of breath. Then: “You should go. Leave as soon as people rise to accept the invitation.”

I start to nod, but I then I get a better idea. “We could use my Godstone as a distraction.”

“You think you can do that?” she mutters.

“I can. At the end of the ceremony, you and the others will head toward the kitchens. I’ll go out the rear door toward the dormitory and pray to draw their attention.”

Her cowled head leans closer and her forehead brushes mine when she whispers, “You’re sure you want to do this?”

“I do. I’ll meet you back at the boardinghouse.” I’m almost sure I can find my way alone.

“They’ll know the bearer is here.”

“It’s already too late to hide the fact from them.”

A sobering thought, and we wait in nervous silence through the preservice rituals. The priest leads us in the “Glorifica,” and it takes all my willpower to not raise my soul in worship at the lyrical beauty of it. Any thought of worship or prayer will cause the stone inside me to flare in joyous response, so I concentrate instead on coconut scones with cream filling, trying to remember the exact taste and texture on my tongue.

I thrum my fingers against the bench as the priest raises a sacred rose, with its enormous thorns, above his head and launches into a hymn of deliverance. At last he invites all who wish to partake in the sacrament of pain to step forward. Mara rises from her spot a few benches ahead. I recognize several others from our group. Cosmé and Humberto remain seated, for fear of recognition. In this prayerless moment, I feel bereft and darkly wrong.

Finally the ceremony concludes. The remaining petitioners have their bleeding fingers tended to while the head priest—still scanning the crowd in obvious agitation—offers extra prayer and counseling to the needy. Some of our group move forward to corner the priest with bogus appeals, while others inch toward the side door leading to the kitchen and stables.

I stand, my mind firmly on pastries, and edge toward the dormitories. From the corner of my eye, I see Mara’s tall form shrouding the nearest priest with clever solicitude. I can’t help but grin as I duck into a cool, dark archway.

But my grin disappears when I see a branching corridor. Two directions to choose from, both gloomy. Heart pounding, I decide on the one that doubles back toward the entrance. Though I said nothing of it to Cosmé, getting caught here could mean my life. Father Alentín told me the priests of this monastery are supporters of the Godstone rather than of the bearer, and it’s possible they would rip the stone from my navel given the chance.

I hurry down the corridor, straining to see through the murkiness. Footsteps patter in the distance; I hope they are nothing more than petitioners exiting the receiving room, but it’s impossible to know. At last I reach a wood beam door with iron hinges and an arched apex. The handle is cold in my palm as I begin to pray.

God, please help me distract the priests.

The Godstone leaps in greeting, shooting sparks of warmth. I pull the door open.

Please keep my friends safe. Let them be successful.

A rush of fresh, warm air bathes my face. I step outside onto a brick street. Torches pour bronzed light onto the walkway at regular intervals. Ahead is a cluster of robed petitioners, laughing together with that familiar sound of release that so often follows the sacrament of pain. I’m even nearer the original entrance than I thought.

Thank you, God, for this lovely city. If it be your will, please spare it from destruction.

“I feel it again!” A male voice, distant but urgent. “This way!”

I squat down behind a low bush lining the wall—blooming hibiscus, my nose tells me—and try to think of scones again. But the Godstone persists as if I am still praying.

I think about the animagus, his white blond hair and blue eyes, the way he slithered, catlike, around his candle- smothered altar.

The Godstone freezes.

Hinges squeal as the door I just exited flies open. Feet patter by, at least two pairs, though I do not dare raise my head to look.

“I felt it,” one says. “I swear it.”

Eyes like ice, the amulet in his long, lovely hand glowing with wicked fire . . .

“I believe you. I felt it too.” More footsteps. “Nothing now, though.”

“Maybe we went the wrong direction?”

White-quartz robes, face smoother than a child’s . . .

“Maybe.” But doubt fills the voice. “Let’s try the dormitory.”

They patter away, the door closes, and still I remain hunched behind the hibiscus bush, my nose tickled by what I hope is not a spiderweb. I very nearly pray with relief.

I squat until the arches of my feet are numb and my neck aches. Then I rise, slowly and carefully, and walk down the street with forced carelessness, toward the boardinghouse. It’s the longest walk of my life.

I’m the first to arrive. I spend the next hour luxuriating in fervent prayer for the safety of my companions. Gradually they trickle in—Mara first, then our two young bowmen. Jacián arrives, harried but gleeful. Carlo, the trapper, and his little brother, Benito, follow. We wait long, tense moments before Bertín’s smiling face fills the doorway. And finally, just when we are beginning to lose hope, Cosmé and Humberto stumble in, exhausted but grinning.

All ten of us, returned safely. And successful, judging from the looks of triumph. It is so much more than I had hoped for. We collapse together in a muddle of laughter and tears, overwhelmed with relief.

It is far from over. The supply train must reach Invierne successfully. It must poison enough of their warriors that they connect their illness to the conde’s tribute and enact retribution. We must parlay with Treviño.

And the priests of Basajuan have felt the presence of the bearer.

But tonight, we glory in our little success.