by Carson Rae
My heart pounds as I stand. I step among the wounded, and I approach Cosmé, refusing to look down at them. I grit my teeth with determination, trying to make a stone of the revulsion and fear in my chest.
“Cosmé.”
She doesn’t look up. “I’m very busy. If you need something, ask someone else.”
I take a deep breath. “Can I help?”
She rings a dirty rag out onto the ground, then dips it into the bucket beside her. “There is nothing you can do. Go eat something.”
I almost walk away. Instead, I say, “I know you hate me. But don’t let that make you stupid.”
Her head whips up.
“Let me get you some fresh water,” I continue before she can respond.
Slowly her gaze moves to the bucket next to her. She nods. “Actually, that would help. Here.” She lifts it toward me. “Don’t dump it anywhere near our drinking water.”
It’s heavy, and the handle digs into my fingers, but I hurry away, glad to do something besides touch infected flesh.
I fetch water all morning. Once the others see what I’m doing, buckets appear out of nowhere. I dump the smelly, brownish, sometimes viscous stuff against the sunny side of the butte, then hurry into the caverns for a fresh refill. I can hardly keep up with demand, though I move as fast as I can. By the time the last wound has been cleaned and stitched and bandaged, my thighs and shoulders burn and I can no longer feel my fingers.
I collapse against the wall and close my eyes, trying to relax my cramping forearms.
“Highness.”
I look up. Cosmé stands over me with a water skin and a plate of steamed trout on a bed of greens. My mouth waters. “You haven’t eaten anything all day,” she says.
I reach up. “Thank you, Cosmé.”
She turns to go, hesitates, turns back around. “I don’t hate you.”
I’m not sure what to say, so I just nod acknowledgment.
That night, I sit cross-legged in my hut, Alentín’s copy of Homer’s Afflatus in my lap. I delve deeper this time, studying it sentence by sentence, as if I were in Master Geraldo’s study pouring over the Scriptura Sancta.
My candle is half burned when Humberto enters. He grins at me before laying his bedroll out in front of the door.
“I thought you might spend the night with your cousin instead,” I say, glad to see him.
“Plenty of time to catch up with him later. And he needs the rest.” He sits and pulls his boots off with a grunt. “Studying the Afflatus again?”
“Yes.” I roll my shoulders to relieve the ache there. “I’m hoping to find some kind of clue.”
He scoots onto my bedroll and sits beside me. He stares at my face. “You seem . . . that is . . . I mean . . .”
I don’t understand why he’s so flustered. “Humberto?”
He shakes his head. “Your eyes. They do something to me.”
I blush furiously, but I’m saved having to reply when he says, “What I meant to say is that you seem worried. Frightened.”
I gape at him. “Of course I’m frightened. I was kidnapped, remember? Dragged across the desert on some vague hope that I can save you. I want to help. In spite of everything, I really do. But I don’t know how. There was one other bearer from Orovalle. Hitzedar the bowman. He killed thirty-four men, including an animagus. My country was saved that day. In my whole life, I’ve killed one person in battle, and I hardly knew what I was doing—”
“What? You killed someone?”
“Yes. And I don’t care to discuss it. But my point is, I’m not a warrior. I don’t know how I can possibly save you.” I put my face in my hands. “Hitzedar was lucky. He completed his service. So many others never completed theirs. Many of them died.” I look up at him finally, but it’s hard not to cry. “Humberto. I don’t want to die.”
He puts an arm around me and pulls me to his chest. “I don’t want you to either.” As he strokes my back, I let the tears fall. “You are braver than you know, Princess. And smart. I think you can help. I truly believe that.”
“How do you know?” I whimper into his robe.
“Have you heard of Damián the shepherd?”
“No.” But it sounds familiar.
“He was my great-grandfather. He bore the Godstone.”
I look up at him, amazed, and I remember where I’ve heard it before. “I’ve seen the name. On a list of bearers kept in the Monastery-at-Brisadulce.”
His smile beams pride. “Damián was a hardworking man. He lived in a village many days’ journey from here, closer to the Invierne border. He used to stay out all night with his sheep. He wasn’t very comfortable around people, you see. One day he discovered a tiny spring, a damp spot, really. It was in a small valley that got lots of shade and had plenty of grass for grazing. A water source made it a perfect location for a village. So he set himself the task of digging a well where the little spring was, all by himself. He told his wife about it, very excited. I think it was an excuse to stay away from home longer. She was a shrew. But he never finished.”
“What happened?”
“He dug down a ways, nearly the height of a man, but not far enough to get more than a trickle of water. Then when a sheep slipped down an incline and got tangled in a bramble, Damián went after it, but he slid on the scree and tumbled to his death.”
I glare at him. “I thought this was going to be an encouraging story.”
He smiles. “It’s not over. His well was forgotten, overgrown by mesquite. Almost twenty years later, a large scouting party from Invierne came through that little valley led by an animagus. The men of Damián’s village lined up on the ridge with spears and bows, only slightly outnumbered. But the animagus sent his fire against them, and they began to burn. The villagers were just about to turn and run for their lives, when the animagus suddenly disappeared. At first they thought it was new magic, something they’d never seen before, but then the enemy panicked. The villagers took advantage of the confusion and slaughtered them from the ridge above.” He leans closer and his eyes spark with amusement. “Later, they discovered the animagus had fallen into Damián’s well and broken his neck.”
I frown up at him. “So you are saying that Damián’s act of service was to dig a well? Part of a well?” Could it be true? Could an act of service be something this subtle? This inglorious?
Humberto shrugs. “When the men returned to the village, they told Damián’s widow about the part her long-dead husband had played. She showed them his Godstone, something she had kept since his death. She said she knew something important had happened because it had cracked right down the middle.”
“His Godstone cracked?”
“It did.”
“That makes no sense.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve seen Godstones. Old ones whose bearers have been dead many centuries. They weren’t cracked.” I wish I had thought to ask Father Nicandro if the Godstones came from bearers who had completed recognizable acts of service.
“Well, I don’t know much about Godstones, but I do know my great-grandfather saved the village that day. It was a big scouting party, and the fact that it was led by an animagus means it had significance. Up until that point, the inhuman ones were mere legend, never sighted. It’s possible Damián’s well delayed Invierne’s invasion for years.”
“It’s possible. And Damián never knew he completed his service.”
“He never knew.”
I lean my head against his shoulder. Strange how the presence of this boy is so much more comforting than my husband’s ever was. Near Alejandro, I was too dazzled to be at ease. “You think I will complete my service,” I say, “even if I never understand how?”
“Yes.”
But I could still die inanely, like Damián, or suffer grave injury, like Homer. Like a pig to the slaughter . . .
“You know, Princess.” Humberto’s thumb grazes my chin. “My grandfather, Damián’s son, was one of the men on the ridge th
at day. If he had died, Cosmé and I, my cousin Reynaldo, even Uncle Alentín . . . none of us would be here today.”
And suddenly I understand why Homer accepted his injury. I understand why it is better to die from my service than never complete it at all. Far, far better. Homer and Damián never profited from their acts of heroism; everyone who followed did. In the same way, I may never reap the benefits of mine, should I complete it. But that doesn’t matter, because God placing his stone in my belly was never about me.
The next day, I set the Afflatus aside in favor of my old favorite, the Belleza Guerra. Every passage inspires more questions. I spend the whole day running back and forth between my borrowed copy of the manuscript and the people who have survived the war thus far.
Father Alentín tells me the warriors of Invierne are unskilled but numerous as the stars in the sky. They pour from the snowy heights of the Sierra Sangre, led by animagi who wield amulets of fire. Though five of Invierne’s warriors perish for every one of ours, it is not enough. Once an animagus enters the battle, our people must flee or die.
“How many exactly?” I ask him. “Is their army nearby? Do they seem ready to march?”
“There are two armies,” he says. “One within a few days’ travel by horse. Another much farther north, a stone’s throw from Conde Treviño’s holdings.”
“Two armies. With quite a distance between them.”
He nods, rubbing the stump of his shoulder.
“How many?” I ask again.
“My girl, there are thousands. Ten thousand at least, and their numbers swell daily.”
Two enormous armies. Even the combined might of Joya d’Arena and Orovalle could not compare. “One will skirt the desert to the south,” I muse aloud. “The other will follow the jungle line to the north. They’ll advance on Brisadulce and the costal holdings from opposite directions. A giant pincer.”
Alentín leans closer. “I think so too. But I doubt that His Majesty, may orchids bloom in the wake of his passing, is prepared to fight a war on two fronts.”
“I fear you are correct.” Alejandro, with his inability to make decisions or commit to anything, is prepared for nothing. I glance at the priest’s maimed shoulder. Tentatively, I say, “Do you mind telling me how you lost your arm?” It feels rude to ask, but I must learn all I can.
“An arrow shattered my arm just above the elbow. In the days it took me to travel to this hiding place, it sickened with disease. I passed out soon after I arrived. When I woke up, the arm was gone.” He shrugs. “An arm for a life. Not such a bad trade.”
“So they use arrows.” Like the Perditos of the jungle. “What other weapons?”
“For questions about weapons, my girl, you should ask Belén.”
I thank him and hurry away in search of the tall boy. I find him outside an adobe hut, scraping a fresh sheepskin with a half-circle blade whose handle fits neatly into his palm. We haven’t spoken much since our journey across the desert, and I’m wary as I approach. But he greets me with more warmth than I expect, even brightens with interest at my question.
“They use the bow and arrow mostly,” he says. “Their bows are much larger than ours. The height of a man or longer. They don’t shoot with the same accuracy as our bowmen, but their arrows fly much farther.”
“Could we make a similar weapon?”
“No.” He looks up from the sheepskin. “We’d need trees. Lots of very tall trees with wood that hardens just the right amount as it dries.”
“What other weapons?”
“Some spears. Most carry short swords. We have the advantage there, with our long blades. You don’t ever want to wrestle one, though.” He sets the knife atop the skin and pushes up the sleeve of his robe. Four parallel lines of raised, whitened flesh streak down his forearm.
I shudder. “They look like claw marks. Really large claw marks.”
He retrieves the scraping blade. “I don’t think they have claws. More like gloves with something sharp rigged into the fingertips. They fight like animals. Like mountain lions, but without the cunning.”
Again, I think of the Perditos. My stomach flips a little as I remember their random attack patterns, the slinking grace with which they moved.
“But the weapon you need to watch for,” he says, punctuating the syllables with flicks of the knife, “is the amulet of an animagus. They wear them around their necks on heavy chains or leather ties. They never use them during the first part of the battle, something I’ve always wondered about, but after a while, that amulet starts to glow. Then light comes out of it, pure and white hot, fast as an arrow. It burns everything it touches.” He shakes his head sadly. “We’ve won a few skirmishes against Invierne, even outnumbered as we are. But whenever an animagus leads them, we lose. Quickly and badly. We’ve learned to call retreat as soon as we see that amulet smolder.”
I know I must learn more about the animagi; they seem to be the key to Invierne’s strength. The first documented instance of an animagus in battle is the account of Hitzedar the bowman. Since then, they’ve shown themselves infrequently, but to hear Alentín and Belén talk, encountering one of Invierne’s reclusive sorcerers is commonplace.
“Belén, I need to find out more about the animagi. What do they eat? What do they wear? What do they want? Maybe someone has infiltrated their camp. Maybe Conde Treviño—”
“You need to talk to Cosmé.”
“What?”
“Cosmé. If you want to talk to someone about sneaky things”—he waggles an eyebrow at me—“talk to her. She’s a spy.”
I allow my head to fall into my hands. Of course she is. She’s probably as efficient a spy as she is a laundress. I thank him and dash away in search of the travel escort/maid/healer/spy.
She’s in the half-cavern, tending the wounded. Another man died during the night, she tells me before I have a chance to say anything. But the others might heal. It will be a few days before we know for certain.
“Can I ask you some questions?” I expect her to brush me away, but I have to try.
“About?”
“Er . . . sneaky things.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“I’m trying to learn about Invierne. Especially the animagi. If my father or my sister were ruling in Conde Treviño’s place, we’d have infiltrated the enemy camp by now. We’d know who leads them, what their plans are, what they eat for breakfast, what they—”
“Treviño knows nothing.”
My disappointment is like a stone in my gullet. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.” She stands stiffly and faces me. “I suggested it when I was in his court. I thought we should send spies with the supplies. But the conde and his daughter felt it too risky.”
That makes no sense. “Supplies?”
Cosmé’s face wrinkles with disgust. “The good conde made a deal with Invierne, you see. They don’t attack his holdings, he sends them sheep and foodstuffs.”
My heart beats against the base of my skull. “This is a jest.”
“No.”
“The conde is a traitor.”
“Yes.”
“Does the king know?”
She shakes her head. “Ariña would never tell him.”
Ariña? What does my husband’s mistress have to do with . . . then I understand, and I roll my eyes at myself for not having seen it sooner. “Ariña is Conde Treviño’s daughter.”
“Yes. She represents her father in the Quorum of Five.”
“So you were sent to spy. As Ariña’s maid. Spy on what?”
She shrugs. “Officially, to glean palace gossip. To help Ariña in her bid to become the next queen. But by then, Humberto and I had connected with Uncle Alentín’s group.” She snorts derisively. “I guess we’re revolutionaries of sorts, rebelling against the conde’s betrayal, against the king’s useless passivity. So I went to Brisadulce, hoping to find the bearer. I found you.” She looks around the cavern floor, at the sprinkling of injured villagers. Sh
e chuckles, but her eyes are devoid of humor. “What a fearsome group we make, don’t you think, Highness? A bunch of children, playing at revolution.”
“Call me Elisa.” I look around too, but instead of seeing hopelessness, I see wounded survivors. I see a lovely, hidden village that prospers in spite of the war. “Cosmé, how serious are you about continuing the fight? I mean, why not just walk away? If you fled, north of Orovalle maybe, you could live.”
Her lips press together as her black eyes widen. Even angry and sad and streaked with dirt, she is a beautiful girl. “I will never give up,” she spits, stepping forward until her forehead is inches from mine. “They killed my parents. They killed most of my friends. I’m going to kill as many of them as I can before they finally stick an arrow in my gut or burn me to ashes.”
I resist the urge to step back. “And the others? Do they feel as you do? Will they keep fighting?”
“Most of them, yes.”
We stare at each other for a long moment. “Good,” I say.
Surprise flickers in her eyes before I turn and walk away. The threads of a battle strategy are patterning together in my mind. It’s an insane plan, like nothing the warriors of Joya d’Arena have ever tried before.
It will never work.
Chapter 17
THE ceiling of our hut glows rich ochre in the candlelight. I stare at it, unable to sleep for the ideas buzzing in my head. Humberto’s breathing is steady and regular. He’s probably asleep already. I blurt, “I want to call a meeting. Of the whole village.”
Humberto starts, then rolls onto his side. “You do?” he yawns.
“I do.” I study his face, looking for disapproval or misgiving. He is quite handsome, I realize suddenly, with his desert-bred cheekbones and glorious hair.
He blinks, eyes lidded with sleepiness, and rubs the stubble on his chin. “A meeting for what?”