The Shattered Mountain

16

THE next day, Reynaldo says they have gone as far as he can take them. Now all they can do is wander around until the perimeter guard finds them.

There is no indication that anyone is near, no sign of life or habitation, but one moment they’re skirting a huge butte of layered sandstone, and the next, two young men materialize as if by magic in their path.

“Who are you?” one demands, his hand on the hilt of a hunting knife at his belt.

Reynaldo whispers, “We’ve made it.”

“Refugees,” Mara tells them. “Our village was destroyed by Inviernos.”

The boys eye them warily. Their collective gaze roves over Julio’s body, draped over the packhorse, but their expression gives away nothing.

Reynaldo steps forward. “I am cousin to Humberto and Cosmé. I have a standing invitation to join your cause, and these are my companions.”

“Were you followed?”

Reynaldo doesn’t even blink. “We were. But we took care of it.”

The boys exchange a glance. One nods at the other and says, “I’ll take a look. Tell the others we need to extend the perimeter for a few days.

As he melts back into the scrub, the remaining boy says, “This way. Keep quiet.”

They are led through a maze of twisting ravines and choking bramble. Mara considers that the boy might be leading them in a roundabout way on purpose. If so, it’s a smart plan, because she is well and truly lost in moments. Marlín’s tiny hand slips into hers, and she gives it a reassuring squeeze. “Do you need me to carry you?” she whispers down to the girl.

“No. I’m a big girl now,” she says.

The ravine opens into a small vale. Figures appear on the ridge above, surrounding them, just like the Inviernos who attacked their village. Mara has a moment’s panic.

But instead of attacking, they pour down the slope. Some smile in greeting. Only a few have weapons—all sheathed. They are children, mostly. Clean, well-fed, healthy.

These perfect strangers take their hands, murmur words of welcome. One young man lodges himself under Hando’s good shoulder and supports him the rest of the way.

A beautiful girl with short, curly hair takes charge. She lifts the corner of the blanket covering Julio’s body and says, “Too late for this one. Take him to the other side of the butte.” Someone grabs the reins to the packhorse and leads it away. Mara swallows hard, but does not protest.

“This one needs an amputation immediately,” the beautiful girl says when she sees Hando’s black-streaked forearm. “Head gash here will need stitches,” she says of Teena. “Too late to treat your burn,” she tells Marco. “But maybe some salve will help.” Mara hadn’t realized Marco had been burned; he never complained.

One by one she goes through each member of their party, directing others to action, until finally she reaches Mara. “You’ve been though a lot,” she says, her head cocked quizzically.

Mara shrugs. “It’s war.”

The girl nods. “I’m Cosmé. Welcome to our camp. If you betray us, I’ll kill you.”

“If you betray me or these children, I’ll kill you first.”

Cosmé flashes a grin. She indicates a general direction with her head. “Head over to the cavern if you want some hot stew.” And then she’s off, tending to the wounded.

An old man with a missing arm approaches next. “You are Mara, the leader of this group, yes?”

“I guess.”

He reaches up and clutches her shoulder. “I am Father Alentín, priest to these wayward miscreants, and you, dear girl, are most welcome. Come, I’ll show you the way.”

As they head up the slope together, Mara says, “Everyone here seems so . . . healthy.”

“Compared to recent refugees, I suppose,” he says with a sad smile. “We’re managing. Lots of wounded, though. We lose someone almost every day. But!” His grin becomes enormous. “This war may have just taken a turn for the better.”

They crest the rise, and Mara looks out on a small but beautiful village of adobe hutas built into the side of an enormous butte. Just beyond, the butte curves inward, resulting in a massive half cavern that is open to the sky but sheltered from the worst of wind and rain.

“What do you mean by a turn for the better?” she asks. Looking at this bright, warm place, she can almost believe it.

“We found the bearer, you see,” he says. “God’s chosen one. There.”

Mara follows the direction of his pointing finger and sees two people standing on the highest point of the ridge—a boy with wild hair, and a plump girl with a thick braid. The boy doesn’t look like anything special. Intelligent and sturdy, maybe, with a roundness to his features that gives him an air of perpetual surprise.

As Mara and the priest approach, he leans over and whispers, “Her name is Elisa. She is a princess of Orovalle, and we stole her right out from under the nose of His Majesty King Alejandro, may sweet wisdom drop from his lips as honey from the comb.”

The chosen one is a girl? Mara peers closer.

She can’t be more than sixteen years old, and she seems out of place in this harsh desert. Her limbs are too soft, her gaze too wide with horror and shock. But her pretty brown eyes spark, and there’s a stubborn set to her lips that makes Mara wonder.

The princess stares as they come face-to-face. Stares hard and with keen interest, the way Julio always did. And just like with Julio, she is compelled to fill the silence. “I’m Mara,” she says. She’s not sure what makes her add, “Thank you for coming.”

Mara feels the girl’s eyes on her back as she heads into the half cavern. Somehow, in this moment, Mara knows that nothing about her will go unnoticed ever again.