The Girl of Fire and Thorns

Chapter 3

ALEJANDRO seems content to bear my company in silence. I fold my hands into my lap to keep them still and pretend to be indifferent while the carriage rattles away from my home. I imagine all the ways to start a conversation. Alodia always comments about shipyard construction, or the price of wool, but such topics would feel odd in my mouth. I should ask him about our marriage, and why my sister demands such caution, but I find it less frightening just to be silent.

The carriage lurches to a stop. The door swings open. Sunlight pours in around the enormous silhouette of a bodyguard, and I raise my forearm against the glare. Confused, I turn to my husband.

“It’s all right, Elisa,” he says. “The guard will show you to your carriage.”

My carriage? I try to puzzle this through. “My . . .”

“It would be foolish for my wife and me to travel in the same carriage.”

My face tingles at his words—“my wife”—even as I parse his meaning. I’ve read of such things. In times of war, important figureheads must never consolidate targets. I nod and take the guard’s hand. A rough hand, strong and unkind.

“I’ll check in on you when we stop to eat,” my husband says.

We step down and away from the carriage, the unkind guard and I, and he leads me toward the back of our dusty procession. Plumeria trees, heavy with white blossoms, border the road, and I can no longer see the palace. My mind whirls with analysis, as if I were in Master Geraldo’s study again, engrossed in the Belleza Guerra.

Never consolidate targets.

I freeze and look up at the guard. His face is youthful and handsome, in spite of its hard lines and sculpted mustache. Irritation flickers in dark eyes, but he composes himself quickly. “My lady, we must get you to your carriage.” His voice is rough and strained, as if speech comes rarely.

Do not be afraid to be queen, Alodia had said. “You will address me as Your Highness.” My voice is steady and confident, like my sister’s. I feel ridiculous. “After the coronation, you will address me as Your Majesty.”

He raises one brow. “Of course, Your Highness. Forgive me.” But his look is skeptical, mocking.

“What is your name?”

“Lord Hector, of His Majesty’s personal guard.”

“I’m glad to meet you.” I flash a courteous smile, the way Alodia would. “Lord Hector, what are we in danger from?”

My face warms and my heart drums in my chest. At any moment, he’ll recognize this bluff of insane confidence.

But his brow softens, and he nods. “It is not my place to give details, Highness. But I will mention your question to His Majesty.”

I can’t bring myself to prod further. He ushers me toward the back, where my ladies have already opened their carriage door. It’s covered in dust from being at the rear, but their arms are outstretched, waiting to help me step up.

They want to know why I do not travel with my husband. Awkwardness is common at first, they assure me. Don’t worry. You’ll adjust to each other soon enough. I grit my teeth, frustrated with their blind assurances but grateful for them just the same. I look down, unable to explain.

The carriage pitches as we set off again. It’s hotter inside, and my skin becomes sticky. Were I athletic like Alodia, I’d get out and walk. I wonder if this is why my husband does not care to travel with me. Perhaps there is no danger at all.

I am married to a stranger, and no one has bothered to tell me why, other than to make vague references to a treaty. Surely the fact that I bear the Godstone has something to do with it. But since no one is forthcoming, I will have to find out for myself.

As Ximena wipes my damp forehead with her linen skirt, as Aneaxi pours me some cool wine from a traveling skin, I pray silently, asking God to make me a little stronger, a little braver.

Our route lies through the jungle of the Hinders, the mountains dividing our two countries. True to his word, the king checks on me regularly. At meal stops, he asks detailed questions about my comfort. Are your cushions thick enough? Would you prefer your carriage to take a turn at the head of the procession? Is the wine to your liking? He is sweetly attentive, always taking my hand and looking me in the eye, like he truly cares.

In response to the question I asked Lord Hector, my husband tells me the jungle is a dangerous place, crawling with the descendants of convicts who were tossed into the wild a century ago when Joya’s prisons overflowed. But we cannot risk a sea voyage this near to the hurricane season.

Master Geraldo spoke of these Perditos, the lost ones of the jungle. My teacher said they stayed far away from the highway, so I’m not sure I believe Alejandro.

Sometimes our path is steep enough that my back rests comfortably against the boards of the carriage wall and I am able to doze in spite of the constant lurching. But after a while, desert cactuses and royal palms give way to golden rain trees, dripping yellow teardrops. The seed pods clunk onto the carriage roof at irregular intervals, making it impossible to nap. At night, I sleep fitfully in a large tent with my ladies.

The jungle rages with noise. Screaming birds, chittering spider monkeys, and buzzing insects all battle for attention. The wind cannot penetrate the foliage to cool us as we travel, but we hear it, whooshing through the canopy above. It is, truly, the most deafening place I’ve ever been.

On the morning of day four, the jungle goes silent. It happens so suddenly, so profoundly, that I peer around the curtain, expecting to find that God has whisked us to another time and place. But the silk-cotton trees still loom above me, their dark buttresses impenetrable in the filtered light. The same palm fronds twist desperately around them, seeking sunlight.

Two carriages ahead, Lord Hector drops from the roof to the ground, sword in hand.

Our procession has been large and clamorous with its carriage wheels, snorting horses, and clanking armor. Yet the jungle never saw fit to honor us with silent fear. Beside me, Lady Aneaxi mutters in prayer.

Then, far away at first, a drumbeat resounds. I can’t pinpoint its direction, but the echoing thrum makes a cavern of my chest. It thunders again, closer.

The carriage jerks to a stop.

No.

Alejandro’s guard has acted on instinct. They sensed danger and stopped the procession to establish a perimeter defense. The foliage hugs our path; were I to reach from the carriage window, my fingertips could flutter the drooping palm leaves. An unseen enemy could spear me just as easily.

Ahead is a slight clearing in the jungle where the trees retreat from the road.

“Lord Hector!” I call, heart pounding. He glances at me; his chest rises with a long, controlling breath. But I know I’m right in this. The Belleza Guerra devotes whole passages to sizing up an enemy’s approach. “Make for the clearing ahead. We must be able to see them coming!”

He nods and shouts an order as another drumbeat thrums beneath my breastbone. The horses huff and prance in response, but they pull us forward, toward the clearing.

“Aneaxi. Ximena. We must get down, away from the windows.” The carriage wobbles as they comply. We are an awkward threesome, barely able to squeeze into the floor space between benches.

“His Majesty’s guard is the finest in the world,” Aneaxi insists breathily. “We are in little danger.” But her hand bruises mine with its grip.

With my free hand, I trace the line of the trapdoor until I can finger the latch. The thought of leaving the carriage frightens me, and I envision the three of us smacking the ground. I hope Aneaxi is right, that there is little danger.

The drums beat faster now, louder. My shoulder crashes into a bench as the carriage heaves. I don’t dare lift myself to peer out the window, but I hope we’ve reached the clearing. I hear running footsteps and Lord Hector’s muffled orders, then the metal-scraping-metal sound of drawn steel.

Something thunks against the carriage. And again. Soon it’s like a rain of stones cracking against wooden walls. I hear a thud against the wall near my head. The shining black point of an arrowhead pokes through, a mere handsbreadth from my nose. My skin burns. The air is too hot, too stifling to breathe. The Godstone in my navel flashes ice cold, and I gasp, astonished. It has never gone cold before.

The paneling beneath my palms feels sun warmed. Too warm. The acrid scent of burning wood tingles in my nose as the Godstone continues to throb its icy warning.

Aneaxi whimpers, “Fire!” as our carriage fills with smoky haze and the shouting outside becomes frenzied.

“The princess!” someone yells. “To the princess!” But the voice is far off.

I search across the paneling for the latch to the trapdoor again. It opens downward, and we tumble through into the cooler, cleaner air beneath the carriage. I land on something that cracks beneath my weight. Aneaxi screams.

I don’t have time to worry about how badly I’ve hurt her. The horses catch the scent of smoke and dance in their harnesses. We could be pinned beneath the wheels at any moment. I yearn for a knife to cut the horses free, to feel some kind of power in my hand. The carriage lurches forward. Behind me and to my left, I see Aneaxi’s leg, cricked unnaturally, lying in the path of the wheel.

I feel sick. “Aneaxi, you must pull your leg in.”

“I can’t!” she sobs.

I hook her armpit and pull. Ximena does the same on the other side, but Aneaxi is large and I have never been strong. A horse rears. The carriage jerks. Panicked, Ximena and I wrench Aneaxi toward us, but we are at such an awkward angle, pressed against the ground, and oh, it is not enough.

Steel rings, and the carriage shudders. Someone has sliced through the harnesses, and tears of relief prick my eyes.

I’m not sure what to do next. The carriage provides cover, but it burns. Even now, smoke licks the floor above, curling around the panels like white snakes. Feet patter by at eye level. Our enemies are barefooted demons, nearly naked and painted in black-and-white swirls. Anklets of tiny bones clatter as one darts in and out of the jungle. Lunge, sidestep, disappear; then another takes his place. Their attack has no pattern. It is random, constant, indefensible.

A few paces away from our burning carriage gapes the opening of an enormous buttress, a cavern formed by the roots of a silk-cotton tree. I could reach it quickly, and Ximena, but I worry for Aneaxi and her broken leg.

I flip over to face my ladies. “We must get away before the carriage collapses.”

They nod; Aneaxi’s round cheeks are smeared with dirt made muddy by tears. My heart swells for a moment, for I’m not willing to lose either of them.

“Ximena and I will go first,” I say to Aneaxi. “Then we will pull you out by the arms.” I hope that by standing, we’ll have the leverage to do what could not be done beneath the carriage. “Aneaxi, you must not scream, no matter how much it hurts.”

She takes a few ragged breaths. Then she rips a strip of fabric from the hem of her traveling gown. My chest burns with pride when she wads it up and shoves it in her mouth. I’m ready, her eyes tell me.

Still we wait. The fighting is too close. From where we lie, we see pairings of naked, painted calves with boots and stiff hide. A man tumbles to the ground before me, and I scramble backward. His eyes are open and blinding white against the black paint of his face. His hair is as long as mine but twisted into thick clumps. He lies unmoving. Gingerly, heart pounding, I pry a stone knife from his still-warm hand and stuff it into my bodice.

At last I see a break in the fighting, and I gesture frantically to Ximena. We scramble from beneath the carriage on all fours. My foot tangles in my slip as I rise, but I rip right through it. Once clear, we turn and grasp Aneaxi’s arms. She groans around the wad in her mouth as we pull. Her eyes clench tight; her face is bright red. Then she goes limp as unconsciousness takes her. As we pull her toward the dark cavity of the buttress, I expect to see an arrow impale her chest at any moment. Sweat slides down my back and across my stomach. Beside me, Ximena’s gray bun has come loose and her hair swings below her shoulders. Little by little, we reach the line of the jungle. The ground slopes downward as we step beneath the roots. It’s cooler here, and comfortingly dark. There is just enough room for the three of us in the little cavern. I catch my breath, holding tight to Aneaxi’s shoulders, so relieved to have made it this far.

I have a better view of the battle now. My husband’s guard seems to have found its footing against these strange savages. They fight back to back against the random attacks, shield arms at ready for incoming arrows. Bodies from both sides litter the ground, and my stomach roils at the scent of burning flesh. Our carriage is an inferno. Next to me, Ximena flinches when the flaming structure collapses to the ground, sending sparks in all directions. A few moments more, and we would have burned.

Beyond the ruined carriage, two savages have trapped one of our own against a tree. I cannot see his face, but his body is frozen in panic.

One of the savages leaps forward with a shriek, plunges a stone knife toward the man’s chest. He lurches away just in time, and the knife jams into his forearm instead.

He fights weakly then, with left-handed strokes. When he hesitates yet again, I know he cannot last. The painted bodies sense the kill. They begin an odd movement, like a dance. Squat, pivot, creep. They are like jungle cats, all wild grace and hunting fury. Then I catch a glimpse of the doomed man’s face.

Alejandro.

“No!” I clamber from our shelter. Ximena yells something indecipherable. She grasps my arm, but I wrench away. I feel so slow as I run toward my husband, my belly and breasts bouncing painfully with each step. As I pass the collapsed carriage, I pull the knife from my bodice. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I can’t let Alejandro die. The painted men circle my husband, unaware of my approach. They move closer as Alejandro readies his sword with his good arm.

Desperate tears stream down my face as I launch at the nearest one. Together we plunge to the ground, and I’m crying and stabbing and stabbing until my arm is slick, until my shoulder burns from the impact of blade against bone.

Someone pulls me away. It’s Alejandro. I blink to clear stinging vision and see two painted men lying at our feet. He must have dispatched the other. I should speak to him, and my mouth opens, but something bright draws my gaze downward. Crimson. So much of it, all down my bodice, soaking my skirt. Metallic saliva tingles against my tongue, and suddenly, I’m shaking so hard I feel like my teeth will rattle from my jaw.

Alejandro pulls me close against his chest and strokes my back, muttering words I can’t take in. The battle is winding down, and soon enough, I will fret about my burned possessions, or Alejandro’s injured arm, or Aneaxi’s broken leg. But for now I can’t think beyond the warmth of Alejandro’s chest. He doesn’t love me yet, but in this place of death, in this precious moment of shared relief, he holds me.

We lose fifteen men to the Perditos. Others, like Alejandro and Aneaxi, are injured but will mend.

While Aneaxi sleeps, Lord Hector straightens her leg and splints it. I walk a few paces away to breathe different air and to wipe blood from my face with broad, waxy leaves. My dress is filthy and soaked, the blood already turning brown and thick, but most of my extra clothes burned with our carriage. My stomach grumbles—I can’t remember the last time I was this hungry—but I’d feel ridiculous asking for food while others tend to the wounded.

Lord Hector finds me later, sitting on a stump, staring at the foliage around me.

“Your Highness, we have a prisoner.”

I look up at him and notice that his mustache is matted and sticky. “Oh?” I’m not sure why he’d bother to inform me.

“King Alejandro said that you would decide how to deal with him.”

Me? My heart thuds.

Perhaps it is a test, meant to appraise the girl who will be queen. Or maybe Alejandro is busy with other matters. “The man is a murderer,” I say, for no other reason than to give myself a moment to think.

“You have but to say the word, and I will dispatch him myself.”

My throat constricts at the thought. It doesn’t feel right that I should have the power of life and death.

I’d rather no one else died today.

“Does he speak?”

“Yes.”

“Then I have some questions for him.”

Lord Hector helps me to my feet. There is a glow of respect in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. It warms me, but only for a moment. The cost of such respect has been too high.

The painted prisoner sits in a ring of swords. His hands are tied before him; his ankles are chained. He knows his situation is perilous. He glances around at his guards, white eyed, understanding that any one of them could stick a blade into his heart.

He sees me approach, and hope flickers in his eyes. Or cunning. There’s something obscene about the paint swirls all over his body. They are ghostly, nauseating. Up close, I see hollow bones woven into his long, clumpy hair.

“My lady,” he says. His voice is perfectly clear and crisp, incongruous coming from his savage mouth.

I almost correct his address, but I don’t care to reveal who I am. “I’ve been tasked with deciding your fate. Is there a reason, any reason at all, why I should spare you?” I can think of a very good reason, but I need to know if he’s amenable.

He is silent for a moment. Then: “I could help you.”

“How?”

“I know the jungle. I know her secrets.” His eyes are huge, like a cornered animal’s.

“Will you answer any question asked of you? Truthfully? Without reservation?” Lord Hector nods his approval of my question. He thinks I am being strategic, but I simply do not have the courage to watch someone else die.

“I will,” the Perdito says.

“Then I will spare you.”

“Thank you, my lady.” He leans forward, clutching the fabric of my waist, head down in veneration. It’s the customary genuflection of a newly sworn vassal, and I find that I hate it. It’s too intimate, too dangerous, even with the sword points now aimed at his neck.

Then he stiffens. His fingers have glanced across the Godstone beneath my bloody skirt. I know what he feels. A faceted surface, hard as diamonds but warm with life. He recoils.

“You!” he whispers. His eyes are wide and wet with frightened tears; his breath comes in gasps.

Someone lunges forward, a blur of gray hair and ruffled skirts. A gurgling sound, a body slapping the ground. Ximena! She backs away, and I see our prisoner lying flat on his back, my nurse’s hairpin protruding from beneath his jaw.

I stare at the pin—so tiny—at the blood pooling around it, slipping across his skin into the jungle soil.

“So sorry, my sky. I thought he was about to attack you.” She might have been telling me I was late for morning prayer.

I gaze unbelieving at my nurse, amazed at the speed with which she moved, wondering why recognizing the life in my navel would sentence a man to death.