by Rae Carson
We step softly among adobe huts. Our plan to sabotage Invierne’s tithe depends on our unannounced arrival. The messenger who brought the conde’s summons is not to know of our departure, lest he take word to Basajuan. Adán and others have been instructed to keep him busy and distracted—even if that means making him a prisoner—to ensure that we have several days’ head start.
A soft nickering greets us as we round the butte. Jacián is already there, holding the reins of two horses; they are huge and colorless in the dark. I recoil when one shakes its head, rattling metal cheek pieces.
“Horses?” I whisper to Humberto, though it sounds more like a squeak. “I thought we were going to take the camels.”
My face burns at his quiet chuckle. “Horses are faster. And we’re not going deep enough into the desert to require the camels. Don’t worry. We won’t make you ride one.”
I sigh in relief and determine to keep my distance.
The others come in quiet twos and threes, and within moments our traveling party is complete. Led by Jacián, we head westward at a brisk walk. We are a perfect grouping of ten, including quiet Cosmé and tall Mara. I place my fingertips to the Godstone and pray that this journey will not be so ill-fated as my last.
We cut northward and take advantage of the flat terrain with a steady, ground-consuming pace. To my delight, my legs churn effortlessly. My ankles don’t ache, my lungs don’t burn, the skin of my legs remains smooth and unchafed. The horses allow us to carry more varied foodstuffs than on our last journey, and every night, Mara cooks for us all, alternating flatbread and lightly stewed jerky with freshly caught rabbit or wild turkey. She has even brought her own satchel of spices that she puts to expert use.
While we travel, Cosmé is distant and quiet, her delicate features sculpted in steel. Humberto tells me she was reluctant to leave Belén behind, that only a combined appeal from himself, Jacián, and Father Alentín caused her to agree to this journey. He says this is common behavior for her, that she pouts in isolated silence for days when she doesn’t get her way. Humberto knows her much better than I do, but I am reluctant to dismiss her so easily. I fear that her withdrawal is more deeply rooted than he realizes.
After a week of unbroken travel, Jacián leads us eastward, back into the hills. The sun is high and hot, and sweat is trickling down my neck and soaking the collar of my robes when I smell smoke. At first, I think it must be the cook fire of a fellow traveler. But as we continue on, the scent grows stronger, then unbearably acrid. We exchange uneasy glances. I put my fingers to the Godstone, trying to detect a hint of its icy warning, or even a pulse of warmth, any activity that would give me a clue as to what lies ahead. But it is as indifferent as a common stone.
We crest a ridge and are finally able to see, ahead and slightly north, a mantle of smoke on the horizon. It is no lazy campfire, but a wide swath the sickly brown color of devastation.
Jacián spins to face us. “The village of Cerrolindo burns,” he says. “I was going to guide us around it, but—”
“There may be survivors,” Cosmé cuts in.
We look at each other, and I know what our decision will be by the determined faces of my companions.
“Elisa,” Humberto says. “Your Godstone. Is it telling you anything?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
“Then the enemy is gone,” Jacián declares, and we need no further prodding to hurry down the hill after him.
By the time we reach the village, I’m almost sobbing from the unrelenting smoke and from my own dread. I can hardly keep my eyes open for the sting, but even through the blurry haze of tears and hot fog I see the blackened skeletons of buildings. Wooden posts that end in charred jaggedness, rock walls layered in soot, remains of tables and chairs caved in on themselves and glowing red.
“Look for survivors!” Humberto yells. He pulls his cowl over his head and ties his shawl to cover his nose and mouth. Quickly I mirror his actions. “And be careful,” he hollers. “Any of the remaining structures could collapse.”
I hurry through smoldering streets and curving alleys, blinking to keep my eyes moist, desperate to find life. I nearly stumble over the charred body of an animal—I can’t tell if it’s a sheep or a dog—and I almost vomit over the smell of burned meat, the reddish ooze leaking through cracks in its charred skin.
“Over here!”
I can’t tell who cried out or where the voice comes from, but it fills me with hope. “Where are you?” I shout back.
“North end!” Humberto’s voice.
I plunge back into the smoke, my forearm raised as if it could shield my eyes from the nebulous stuff, and head in the direction I think is northward. I see a tall figure on my left. It’s Mara. She hurries to my side, and we rush ahead together.
My lungs burn by the time we reach them, a huddled mass of soot-smeared skin and hacking lungs, a family of four. Humberto is squatted down next to the smallest, offering comfort. He looks up at me as Mara and I approach, tears shimmering in his eyes.
“They were locked inside that building,” he says in a wavery voice. “They were left to burn.”
“Oh, God.” The cruelty of it is unfathomable. “Who did this to you?” I demand, as if I don’t know. The Godstone sends raging heat into my chest in response to my anger.
A face peers into mine. Wide-eyed, blistered, female. “The animagi,” she whispers. “They said they were taking their revenge on us. They said they would destroy a village each time the Malficio struck.”
She doubles over with coughing, but I hardly notice. The earth below me sways too much.
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.