Girl Of Fire & Thorns Omnibus

by Carson Rae

  “There’s no need to be mean,” Elisa says. “I’m not complaining.” She closes her eyes, turning her sweating face to take the best advantage of Ximena’s fanning. “This blight on the countryside worries me,” she adds. “If we get there early enough, I can spend some time praying for the conde and his bride before we are whisked away for formal appearances. I’ve tried to in the carriage, but it’s just too hot. My Godstone . . .” She opens her eyes and regards me steadily. “You know how it warms when I pray.”

  She seems to have an endless supply of subtle and creative ways to remind me that even though I will be queen someday, she is God’s chosen one. The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them: “Oh, I know better than to expect you to do anything once we arrive. Just hurry off to pray or rest. Let me handle the business of representing Papá.”

  Elisa flinches. Nurse Ximena gives me a sharp look.

  I turn my head, guilt pricking my chest. Fury is like a monster inside me, the one thing in my life I’ve been unable to master. I send up a quick prayer of apology. I know you don’t listen to me the way you listen to my sister. But I’m sorry just the same. And then, because I am me and not my sister, I add: Of course if you would help me see the strength in her, or nudge her to be a little more useful, then I wouldn’t have to be sorry.

  Very likely this is why my prayers are seldom answered.

  When the castle finally comes into view—much later in the day than I had hoped—I stare in astonishment. Lord Zito’s descriptions have not prepared me for the sight.

  Khelia rises on a huge spur of granite that overlooks the confluence of two rivers: the Hinder, which pours from the jungle-choked mountains to the south, and the Crowborn, a rocky spine twisting down from the Sierra Sangre that flows wet only three seasons out of the year. The castle walls come together in a point—like the prow of a ship cresting the green waves of the jungle canopy. Three towers rise up in a line behind it, like the ship’s mast stumps.

  Elisa is as wide-eyed as I am. “According to legend,” she says, “Khelia was built thousands of years ago by a rich admiral around the wreck of his warship when a great sea dried up.”

  That’s my sister. Fond of useless knowledge. “Just stories,” I reply. “Repeated by simple people to explain the castle’s unique profile.”

  “Perhaps. But the foundations are ancient, much older than the walls. Some say the Inviernos built it. Even the name of the castle is thought to come from an Invierno word.”

  I shrug. “The importance of Khelia is that it watches over a crossroads. To the east lies Invierne—”

  “And to the south,” Elisa interrupts, “in the jungle of the Hinders, the Perditos crouch like vultures, ready to strip anyone or anything to the bone. The walls of Khelia, and the soldiers stationed here, guard Orovalle from these threats. I am not stupid, Alodia.”

  Whisk, whisk, whisk. Ximena waves the fan, giving no indication that she witnesses yet another argument. She has become adept over the years at turning a deaf ear to them.

  As the carriage winds up the long road to the peak, the castle wall looms over us, seemingly impregnable. It is lucky this castle stands guard on Orovalle’s behalf. I intend to make sure it continues to do so.

  Papá, you have been foolish to neglect Paxón for so long.

  Trumpets rend the sky with the first measures of the “Entrada Triunfal.” The carriage passes through a massive wooden gate into a tiled courtyard surrounded by high adobe walls. I brace myself for the inevitable thunder of cheering that always greets me on state visits.

  But there is only silence.

  The citizens of the castle fill the wide courtyard in neat little groups arranged by status and rank. Directly across from us, the conde and his bride-to-be stand with their stewards, servants, and extended families. Behind them are rows of craftsmen, draftsmen, farmers, and children—their faces scrubbed, wearing their finest clothes.

  None of them seem happy to see us.

  To our right stand two dozen knights wearing Paxón’s crest—a golden ship on an emerald green background. A hundred liveried soldiers stand behind them. To our left are a dozen armed guards wearing polished armor more in the style of Joya d’Arena, our neighbor beyond the Hinders. The small group of soldiers backing them is made up of battle-scarred veterans.

  We are supposedly among allies. But I can’t help thinking that both the crown princess and the bearer of the Godstone are flanked and outnumbered.

  “Elisa,” I say quietly, keeping my expression neutral. “I know you don’t feel well. You and Ximena should go to the chapel and pray. I’ll make excuses for you.” Pray that I have misread this situation.

  “Don’t be afraid, dear sister,” Elisa says, and for a moment I imagine that she knows exactly what I am thinking. But no, she remains as blind to subtle—and not so subtle—social cues as ever. “I won’t embarrass you. Let’s go meet them.”

  She hops down from the carriage and walks straight into the lion’s mouth.

  3

  THE moment my feet touch ground, everyone in the courtyard kneels. Zito holds out his arm to escort me, and together we move toward the conde in what I hope is a stately and dignified manner. With his other hand, Zito uses his spear like a cane, and the tap-tap echoes throughout the courtyard.

  When we reach the conde and his lady, Zito waves back the herald and announces us himself. “Her Royal Highness Juana-Alodia de Riqueza, Crown Princess of Orovalle and the Jewel of the Golden Valley. Her Royal Highness Lucero-Elisa de Riqueza.”

  I offer my ring, and the conde kisses it, showing neither eagerness nor reluctance. “Rise,” I say. The conde stands, and everyone with him.

  I try to ignore the sounds of armor shifting, the quiet rattle of swords.

  “Your Highness,” Zito says. “I present Conde Paxón, Castellan of Khelia, Guardian of Crowborn Crossing, and a First Knight of the Crown.”

  The conde is a man of middle age, with pain lines on his face that belie his trim, active-looking figure. A brace imprisons his right leg, the one mauled by a boar. Even so, he noticeably leans to his left, keeping his full weight off it.

  “Welcome, Your Highness,” Paxon says. “We are honored that you have come all this way to share in our celebration.”

  “The honor is ours,” I reply. He smiles in response, but never have I seen a man who seemed less likely to celebrate. The lady beside him keeps her eyes lowered, but her face is red and blotched. From crying? “And this is?”

  “This is Lady Calla de Isodel,” he says. He indicates the older couple standing behind her and adds, “And these are her parents, Lord Jorán and Lady Aña de Isodel.”

  Even at a distance, Lord Jorán’s oiled beard reeks of myrrh; he must be very wealthy indeed. His wife is expertly coifed and lightly rouged, though she lowers her eyes and slumps her shoulders, impressively achieving a meek mildness that blurs her beauty.

  “I was intrigued by the name Isodel when I saw it on the invitation,” I say. It’s not a place I’d heard of before, which was odd, as I’ve memorized my kingdom’s geography down to every last hillock. Before setting off on our journey, I found it necessary to look up references to Isodel in the monastery archive. I’m curious how the people will represent themselves to the crown. “Do tell me about it,” I say.

  My question is directed at the young bride, for I wish to take her measure. But her father steps in front of her and says, “Your Highness, you have not heard of it because Isodel is like a flipped coin, falling sometimes on one side and sometimes on the other, according to chance—”

  “Lady Calla?” I interrupt, and I’m not sure which irritates me more: his assumption that I would travel here in ignorance, or his refusal to let his daughter speak.

  Lady Calla glances at her father, shamefaced, then back to me. It’s the first clear look I have of her face. She is lovely enough to make other young women insane with envy, but unlike that of her cowed mother, hers is not a sheltered beauty. Her face is tan from
the sun, and laugh lines spread from the corners of her eyes, though no trace of a smile touches her features now.

  “Isodel is a small holding in the Hinders,” she says at last. “Near the merchant road, surrounded by terraced orchards and herds of sheep. As my father said, sometimes it falls on one side of the border, sometimes on the other. Joya d’Arena currently claims our land, but King Alejandro has not sent his tax collectors our way in many years. That would not be so bad, but he has not sent his soldiers either, and Perditos threaten our trade.” She glances at her betrothed, and Conde Paxón gives her an encouraging nod. “Without a good marriage, it will not matter who claims Isodel—there will be nothing left.”

  I’m delighted at her forthrightness and her concise appraisal. But her father glowers, and her mother coughs discreetly into her hand. I’m about to break the awkward silence with an inane observation about the weather when a door slams. An unkempt girl of about ten, sun darkened and wind burned, dashes across the courtyard toward us.

  “Tía Calla, Tía Calla!” she cries. A young nursemaid pursues her, but when she sees me, she falls to her knees, muttering apologies.

  Not so the girl, who runs to Calla’s side. Her knees are badly scuffed. Nettles cling to her hair and hems, and her slippers are caked with dried mud.

  “Lupita!” Lady Calla says with a pointed look. “This is the royal princess Alodia. You must curtsy to her and say ‘Your Highness’ and wait until she bids you rise.”

  I expect an ill-behaved protest, but the untidy girl shows extraordinary grace, curtsying swiftly and perfectly. “Your Highness,” she intones with grave seriousness, though mischief dances in her eyes.

  “Rise, Lupita.”

  She jumps up as swiftly as she knelt, and looks back and forth between Calla and Elisa. “Is she the one? Are you the one? Are you the bearer of the Godstone? Can I see it?”

  There are a few nervous titterings, but Elisa addresses the child calmly. “A lady never shows such things in public.”

  Lupita nods. “But have you come to save us?”

  Elisa’s face freezes, and I squirm with embarrassment for her. The thought of my sister saving anyone is absurd, a fact of which she is too well aware.

  I’m dying to ask what they need saving from, but Lord Zito steps forward and says, “Conde, the sun is setting. Perhaps it would be best to continue this conversation inside.”

  4

  ZITO, Elisa, Ximena, and I follow the conde and his mayordomo to the audience hall, which is dimly lit by grimy clerestory windows. The dry air smells faintly of incense. Dusty tables are scattered haphazardly throughout, covered with cold candles in various states of melt. It feels like a place that suffers human company rarely—a good place for secrets, perhaps.

  Zito leans over and whispers, “You shamed Lady Calla’s father.”

  “He shamed himself,” I whisper back. “But I don’t care about him. Unless he is the reason everyone seems so anxious? Or is it the blight on the land that has the castle on edge?”

  “Maybe His Grace will tell us.”

  “His Grace will tell you what?” We turn at the sound of the conde’s voice. He has edged closer to us, using his cane for support.

  Zito says, “I observed that your father-in-law seems tense and unhappy, and Her Highness asked me why this might be.”

  “It’s a complicated situation,” Paxón says.

  The mayordomo leads us all to a mahogany table with matching chairs that creak their age as we sit.

  Paxón asks the mayordomo to fetch refreshments. He stretches out his bad leg, then takes a deep breath and says, “This wedding was intended as a bold stroke, princess, a way of strengthening my countship’s border. With the Perditos to the south and the Inviernos to the east both growing audacious, I hoped to acquire a strong ally in the Hinders. I had also hoped . . .” His face turns sheepish. “That such a bold move would gain the attention and interest of your father. I want him to understand that we continue to take our duty of guarding Orovalle’s border quite seriously.”

  A surge of triumph fills me, but I tamp it down. Such a gesture will require something in return from the crown, something to assure Paxón that he remains a valued vassal. One thing is certain: I will see this wedding done. It fits so neatly into my plans to shore up the region in preparation for my own reign.

  The conde has fallen silent and thoughtful. “But?” I prompt.

  “But . . . ever since Lady Calla and her family have arrived here, so that we might get to know one another before we wed, we have been cursed. We have lost God’s favor.”

  I try not to gape at him. “Strong words. The Scriptura Sancta says, ‘It is not for man to know the intent of God.’” I glance over at Elisa to see if she notices my thinly veiled message, but if she does, she hides it well.

  “And yet the signs are there,” the conde says. “We’ve plowed our fields and planted our seeds, but nothing sprouts. The trees refuse to blossom.”

  Elisa leans forward. “Many things affect the arrival of God’s bounty,” she says. “Rain, cold, and so on.”

  Paxón shakes his head. “We have been touched by neither late frost nor early drought. Indeed, the weather this year has been just short of perfect. But nothing grows. Almost everything that sustains this castle comes from within a league of its walls, but everything within a league is dead, save for the wild, uncultivated jungle that abuts our southern wall.”

  “It does seem unnatural,” I concede.

  Paxón winces at the word, but he does not deny it. “Lord Jorán has expressed doubts about going through with the wedding. He fears God’s wrath. Thus far Isodel remains untouched, but if it is some kind of blight, it is bound to spread. Besides that, all these extra guests have depleted our stores, which we expected to replenish with early crops. Fights have broken out between Lord Jorán’s soldiers and my own. And then . . .” He pauses, runs a hand through his hair.

  I exchange a worried look with Zito. “And then?” I say.

  “There is Espiritu,” he says.

  “Espiritu?” Elisa asks. “What is that?”

  “He appeared about a month ago,” Paxón says. “They call him Espiritu for the way he slips into sheep pens and chicken coops and melts away with his prey. He makes no sound, leaves no mark save for an occasional drop of blood or a scattering of feathers. But they hear him in the night, screaming at the moon in rage and heartbreak. Our soldiers have searched the hills for him, but they find only empty cottages, marked with signs of blood and violence.”

  “A jaguar, maybe?” Elisa says. “Man-eaters are rare, but not unknown. There was a pair that worked together, terrorizing the northern holdings for several years before they were hunted down and killed.”

  “How do you know about the shadow cats, Your Highness?” says Paxón, and I don’t appreciate the mockery in his tone. “Have you hunted them yourself?”

  “I . . . I’ve read about them. I read a lot.”

  “Then let me tell you some things that you will not find in books. Our seamstress was working just the other night, sewing a flounce onto Lady Calla’s wedding terno by candlelight. Espiritu screamed, sending shivers through her heart. When she awoke in the morning, she discovered the flounce’s seam had gone crooked, the stitches slipped, as if even the terno could not bear Espiritu’s jagged grief.”

  “Well, perhaps she should not sew by candlelight,” Elisa says. But my skin prickles.

  Paxón continues, undeterred. “And two nights ago, when the ostler was oiling the tack for my mount, the one I’ll ride in the wedding procession, the great cat screamed again and panicked the horses. It took half the night to soothe them. In the morning, the ostler discovered that rats had fouled the last of the oats and the barrel of apples had gone to rot.”

  “How can the cry of a great cat do that?” Elisa says. “It is more likely caused by the same thing that poisoned your fields.”

  I wince. Elisa possesses all the subtlety of a cudgel. “My dear sister,�
�� I say. “Let us respect their wisdom in these matters. Perhaps Espiritu is the instrument of God’s judgment.”

  Ximena lays a hand on Elisa’s arm, but my sister ignores her. “But what is being done here that God would wish to cast judgment on?” she says.

  “The wedding, maybe?” says the conde. “Though why—”

  The door cracks open, and Lady Calla and Lupita enter, followed by the little girl’s nurse, who is anxiously wringing her hands.

  “Please join us, Lady Calla,” I say, indicating an empty chair.

  Calla pushes the little girl ahead of her. She has donned a clean dress, and most of the wildness has been brushed from her hair, though she still wears the mud-covered slippers. I smile to think of the many times Zito or my attendants tried to clean me up in a hurry, only to discover later that they had missed a bit of bramble or a pair of slippers.

  “We are sorry for interrupting you,” Calla says. “Guadalupe-Esteva, go on now. Apologize to the princess.”

  I fold my hands in front of me, bemused. Maybe I will ask her to serve as my personal page while I am here.

  She walks over to Elisa and drops into a curtsy.

  “I’m very sorry that I asked you personal questions, Your Highness,” Lupita says. “It was . . .” She looks up at Lady Calla and gets a nod of encouragement. “It was disrespectful and inappropriate,” she finishes.

  “You are forgiven,” Elisa tells her graciously, with no reprimand and no instruction.

  Just like that. My jaw clenches. It is well and good to be so indulgent, to never demand recriminations or consequences, when one does not have to consider the responsibilities of ruling.

  “Are you excited about the wedding?” Elisa asks the little girl.

  “I was supposed to be a flower girl, but there are no flowers.”

  “We’ll find some dried flowers for you to carry,” Calla says, resting her hand on the girl’s head.

  “They aren’t the same,” Lupita says.

  “No, they aren’t,” Elisa says, pulling something from the little girl’s hair. “Where did this nettle come from?”