Girl Of Fire & Thorns Omnibus

by Carson Rae

  “To talk about the war. I have some ideas.”

  “You should have Uncle Alentín call it. He’s been thinking of holding worship services for us all. The children look up to him.”

  “Good idea.”

  Humberto yawns again, then rolls onto his back and shields his eyes with a forearm.

  “Do you think they’ll listen to me?” I ask.

  He lifts his chin and looks at me upside down. “Yes, Princess. You are the bearer. They will listen to you.” He settles back and closes his eyes.

  “You don’t still think someone will try to rip the stone from my body, do you?”

  “I might,” he mumbles.

  “What?”

  “If you don’t let me sleep, I might rip it out myself.”

  I’m much relieved to see the grin spread across his face. “Oh.”

  “Good night, Princess.”

  “Call me Elisa.”

  He growls.

  “Sorry. Good night.”

  Alentín agrees to call a meeting, but suggests we wait. “We just sent scouts to look for more survivors,” he explains. “We’ll wait for them to return.”

  I can’t argue, though I’m not happy at the prospect of growing sick with nervousness over the next several days. Alodia was always the one to address the court. Except for a few minor toasts, I managed to hide quietly in the background. This should feel different. Fifty or so orphaned children shouldn’t frighten me. It’s not like I’ll be standing before the golden horde of Orovalle while they study the puckered fabric at my waist or twitter about how much I ate.

  I am the bearer, I tell myself. I represent hope for these people.

  I find I can no longer sit still for such long periods of time, so I ask Cosmé to teach me about duerma leaf. She narrows her eyes in distrust as she ponders my request. For a moment, I’m reminded of Lord Hector, of the way his busy mind spun beneath his careful countenance. It saddens me to think of him and Alejandro and Ximena searching for me, worried about what has befallen me. I wish there was a way to get a message to Brisadulce.

  “I’ll teach you.”

  I step back in surprise. “Thank you.”

  She guides me over the north ridge into a small twisting valley. The day is particularly hot, and grit fills my mouth with each sharp breeze.

  “It grows in the shade,” she says. “Usually in soft soil, but not always. Look for it on the sunrise side of boulders.” She points to a low shrub with broad leaves of velvety sea green. “It produces small yellow berries twice a year. The berries are poisonous, but the leaves are very useful. I’ve been giving the wounded a mild tea to help them sleep.” She strips several leaves in a smooth, gripping motion. “Don’t pull it up at the root. If you strip the leaves, they’ll grow back next year.”

  I copy her motion and end up with several, moist where they broke off from the stem. They smell faintly of cinnamon. “What did you use on me?” I ask. “It wasn’t a tea. And it worked quickly.”

  Cosmé nods. “Duerma leaf holds a lot of water. If you take the fattest leaves and squeeze the moisture from them”—she plucks a larger leaf and waves it in front of my nose—“then let it dry into a powder, you get something that will make a person sleep for days if inhaled.”

  “Like me.”

  “Like you.”

  “Could someone die from this?”

  She shrugs. “Sometimes. A very concentrated dose would do it, maybe. If we harvested the berries, I’m sure I could concoct an effective poison. And sometimes people just react strangely to it.”

  “So there was a chance I would die.”

  She smiles, and I’m startled at the genuine humor in her black eyes. “A very small chance. At the time, you were quite . . . large. It would have taken an enormous amount.”

  I glare at her, even though I don’t mean it. “And the tea you gave Ximena. How effective do you think that was?”

  “She probably awakened late morning with a pounding headache.”

  “Interesting. Very interesting.” I look around the tiny valley. It’s dry mostly, and rimmed in cactuses, but duerma leaf and mesquite huddle together in shady places. “Is there a lot of it around?”

  She lifts her chin. “What exactly are you planning . . . Elisa?”

  “Not sure yet. But I think we’ll need lots of duerma leaf. And—” I raise an eyebrow at her. “Sneaky people.”

  The half-cavern fills quickly. We don’t usually light torches for fear of discovery, but tonight is the exception. Everyone has come, even the limping wounded. One of the scouts—a young man no older than seventeen—brought back five survivors, half starved but uninjured, so a hint of celebration buzzes in the chatter as we wait for Father Alentín to begin services. As I look out over the congregating people, my palms begin to sweat, and I regret eating so much jackrabbit stew for dinner. Our number nears sixty now. I try to think of something else.

  I helped prepare dinner tonight, even skinned a rabbit under careful supervision. Rabbits, I learned, part from their skin with disturbing ease. My clumsy knife produced a ripped and useless hide, but I’m confident I can do it again if the need arises.

  Alentín steps onto a boulder and holds his good arm at shoulder height until everyone is silent and attentive. He clutches a rose in his hand. I hope he either has another one stashed away, or doesn’t expect many petitioners. If he intends to officiate the sacrament of pain, a single rose will not remain sharp of thorn for so many prickings.

  Together we recite the “Glorifica,” then he begins to sing. I recognize the words, though the melody is a bit different, more minor and haunting than I’m used to, but the combined voice of the children is as high and clear as bells. I catch on quickly and sing my hope to God.

  We finish our hymn and line up for the sacrament. In Brisadulce, when Father Nicandro officiated, only a scattered few sought the pain of devotion. But here, in this place of desperate hope and brutal reality, every single person, adult and child, lines up to be pricked by the rose and receive a blessing.

  Father Alentín prays, asking God’s favor on the ceremony, then quotes the Scriptura Sancta: “Has not God chosen those who are pained in this world to inherit his paradise? For it is through suffering we understand our need for his righteous right hand. Indeed, our spiritual needs outweigh our physical ones. Blessed be the name of God.” One by one they are pierced and blessed and tended to. Belén acts as the priest’s assistant, anointing their tiny prick wounds with ointment, wrapping them in bandages, giving the occasional cryer a quick hug.

  When it’s my turn, Father Alentín smiles sadly, even as he grasps my neck and pulls my forehead against his own.

  “What is it you seek, child?”

  Last time, I prayed for wisdom. God must have answered my prayer, for I certainly feel wiser now. Older. Different. But I still don’t understand what God wants from me. I sigh. “Alentín, I need faith. I have so many doubts about God and His will.”

  His lips, moist and warm, press against my forehead. “Everyone has doubts,” he whispers. “Pray through them. God will show you what to do when the time comes.”

  He pricks my finger, and it throbs faintly. He holds my hand over the cooking pit—no glorious altar in this remote place—until a single drop of blood browns on the hissing coals. He nudges me toward Belén, who cleanses and wraps my finger with reverent care. Then I take a seat against the wall and close my eyes, breathing deep to calm my churning stomach.

  The sacrament is over too soon. A hand grips my shoulder. I look up into Alentín’s kind face. “It’s time, Elisa.”

  I can’t move.

  “If you want to address everyone, you must do it now.”

  “What if they don’t listen to me?”

  He doesn’t answer. I put my fingertips to the Godstone and take a ragged breath. “God,” I whisper. But I am unable to finish my prayer for the sudden power that courses from my navel, up my spine, down my arms, like soft lightning. My eyes widen, my mouth h
angs open, my fingers twitch.

  “Elisa?”

  I look around at the assembly. They sit cross-legged, mostly young faces shimmering with firelight and with hope. They stare at me, waiting. “I’m supposed to do this,” I murmur in wonder. The terror is still there. My legs are stone pillars as Alentín helps me to my feet, but there is rightness in my gut too, mixing with the fear. He leads me to the boulder. I don’t step up, knowing I’ll never be able to balance on the thing.

  Alentín sits before me, and I am the only one left standing.

  “Um, hello,” I say eloquently.

  A few mutters and nods.

  “I am Lucero-Elisa de Riqueza, Princess of Orovalle. And I, uh, bear the Godstone.” Some raised eyebrows, a few gasps—probably from the newcomers. “I was a guest of His Majesty, King Alejandro de Vega, in the city of Brisadulce for a time.” With a start, I realize I’ve been in the desert longer than I was with the king. “There, I was privy to a war council of the Quorum of Five. I know what is coming and what the king plans, and I can tell you it will not be enough. Alejandro has no intention of sending aid. We are on our own to defend the hill country.” I dare not tell of my part in Alejandro’s decision, but my face burns with the truth.

  “You’re certain?” a man yells.

  I look in the general direction of his voice. “I’m certain. He may send a small contingent to force evacuation, though.”

  The place erupts with panic. Bile fills my throat at the hurt in their faces, at their sense of betrayal. But I need them to be angry. I clasp my hands behind my back and wait as the initial shock wears to a general din, then silence.

  “We cannot look to the king for help,” I say when I have their attention again. “And we cannot depend on Conde Treviño to protect us. From what I understand, two vast armies prepare to march on Joya d’Arena. King Alejandro could defeat one of these armies perhaps, but two? And I know of no defense against the fire of the animagi.” I shake my head. “They are many, we are few. We are wounded and tired. They are grown men and women. We are mostly children. We can expect no aid. In short, we cannot war with Invierne and live.” I have practiced these words for days, yet I fear they are coming too fast.

  “Then we die honorable deaths!” someone hollers. A buzz of agreement follows, though some stare at the cavern’s chalky floor in silence.

  “Honor from death,” I snap, “is a myth. Invented by the war torn to make sense of the horrific. If we die, it will be so that others may live. Truly honorable death, the only honorable death, is one that enables life.”

  “Are you suggesting retreat?” It’s Humberto’s soft voice. Even in the firelight I can see the disappointment on his face.

  “Not exactly.” I smile at him, taking comfort in his presence. My own personal guard, like Lord Hector is to Alejandro. Humberto can’t help himself; he smiles back.

  The crowd shifts uncomfortably. I must make my case quickly before I lose their confidence.

  “I’ve thought long and hard these last few days about how we could defeat Invierne. But of course, defeating them here in the hill country is impossible. We cannot defeat Invierne; therefore we should not try. This does not mean”—I hold up my hand to forestall the grumbling disagreement—“that we will not fight. I believe we can and we should.”

  My words are right and true, and I pace back and forth with the energy that buzzes in my limbs. “But we will never engage in an all-out battle. Our goal will be to harass them. Weaken them. Terrorize them. We will be the spirit of death that visits them in the night, the hidden viper in their path. We will be the Malficio, the curse on their existence. Yes, they will eventually cut a wide path through our hills, and they will reach King Alejandro and the costal holdings. But by the time they do, they will be exhausted from triple watches, starving from interrupted supply trains, and fearing for their lives, for they cannot know when next the Malficio will strike.” My smile is wickedly genuine when I say, “If we are very clever, very careful, I think we can give the king a huge advantage. I think we can help him win this war. But there can be no heroes, no honor in senseless death. Our goal will be to sting them only, and live to sting again.”

  They nod to one another, murmuring assent. I almost have them.

  “There are only fifty of us!” a young man yells. It’s Jacián, the silent companion on our desert journey. “And so many of us are wounded. Crippled, even. Most are far too young to hold a weapon.”

  “Yes, and those who can’t fight will have even more important tasks.” At this, several heads perk up, eyes widen. I suddenly understand that the littlest ones, the ones who have suffered the most, could be my greatest adherents. I need only convince them they are needed. “I’m sure some among you are cunning gossips. You are to take refuge in the larger villages and begin spreading rumors of the Malficio, the spirit of vengeance that rises in the hills against Invierne. You will have no firsthand knowledge, naturally, but you will encourage speculation. The rumors should make their way to the enemy quickly. Then you will return.

  “Others will harvest duerma leaf. As much of it as we can find. Still others will make garments to closely match those of our enemy. There is so much work ahead of us that every hand, every mouth, every mind will be needed.”

  I scan the crowd, gauging their reactions. Most sit forward, attentive. Others narrow their eyes as they consider my words. Even Jacián nods a grudging accord.

  “Since there are two armies,” Belén calls from his place beside Cosmé, “they must be talking to each other. If we can figure out how to stop them from communicating—”

  “Yes!” I almost jump in excitement. I hadn’t made that connection yet. “Belén, that is exactly the kind of thinking we need.”

  “You said something about a viper?” A shy, feminine voice. It’s Mara, the young woman with the mangled ear who thanked me for coming those days ago. “I know you didn’t mean it this way, but my cousin in the village of Altavilla actually has some.”

  I nod, thinking of the possibilities. “Good. That’s very good.”

  And suddenly ideas fly at me from all sides. Many of them are ludicrous, but some are not. I encourage them all. It goes on for a long time, until someone yells, “Why should we help the king fight his war? He’s never helped us!”

  I shake my head. “No, we are not helping the king. We are using him to fight our war.”

  “But these are his lands.” It’s Jacián again. “Say the war is over. Say Joya d’Arena is victorious. Then we go right back to paying taxes to a man who can’t be bothered by us. If we help him, we should be honored in some way. Rewarded.”

  And now we come to the crux of the matter. I can’t control the smile that spreads across my face. “Do you want to be free of Joya d’Arena? Would you prefer to govern yourselves?” It’s a radical thought. Treasonous. I see shock in the faces around me. And interest. “Because if you do, I think I can make it happen. I think I can convince the king to give this land to you. No rebellion. No sedition. If you help him win this war, you can be your own nation.”

  They are so quiet, so still. It’s a huge claim, preposterous even. But I have yet to play my last trick.

  “How?” It’s Cosmé. She steps out of the shadows, and her eyes shimmer with tears. “How could you do this?”

  I take a deep breath. I’m about to betray a confidence, betray Alejandro, but the rightness still sparks in my chest. “I am not merely Alejandro’s guest visiting from afar. I am secretly his wife. And he still owes me a wedding gift.”

  I hear indrawn breaths. Cosmé’s jaw hangs open. A movement catches my eye, and I turn just in time to see Humberto’s back as he hurries out of the cavern and into the night.

  “His wife,” Cosmé mutters. “But he doesn’t know what has become of you! What if he marries . . . someone else?”

  For the briefest moment, I dare to ask myself: What if he married someone else in the wake of my disappearance? Would it be so bad?

  I shove the tho
ught away.

  I say, “My father agreed to commit troops as a condition of our marriage. Joya’s army never recovered from the last war, and Alejandro is desperate to fill his ranks. He won’t jeopardize their agreement. He can’t wait forever, but he will wait.”

  Alentín asks, “Would your father withhold troops if he learned you are missing?”

  “He might,” I admit. “And if he did, I’m afraid this plan would fall apart.” Trying not to sound too eager, I suggest, “Maybe it would be best to send Alejandro a message? To let him know I am safe and well?”

  Jacián shakes his head. “We would all hang!”

  “Not Alejandro, then,” I say. “I’ll write to my nurse instead, saying nothing about your identities or our location. Just a quick note to assure her that I live. Ximena will tell my husband only what he needs to know, and she can vouch for my safety to Papá if necessary. Ximena has served my family a long time, and her word will carry more weight with my father than even Alejandro’s.”

  They all agree, with some reluctance. I will write the message in the morning, and someone will carry it to the pigeon post at Basajuan. Though it may take weeks to reach Brisadulce, I feel such relief. I hope Ximena writes back.

  Briefly, I wonder if I ought to miss my husband more. I’ve thought of him constantly these last few days, but only in the context of making plans for our war. I don’t yearn for his company the way I do Ximena’s.

  Cosmé says, “Just tell us, please, that you can do as you say. That when the war is over, you will convince the king to hand over this territory.”

  A blanket of stillness settles over the crowd. They regard me with expectant hope.

  “I will do it,” I say with conviction.

  They break into excited chatter. We huddle together in the half-cavern late into the night, making plans. They are with me now, mind and heart. I still don’t know the purpose of the Godstone living inside me. I have no idea how to fight the animagi. But I’ve given them a chance. Something to fight for. It will have to be enough.

  When I finally stumble to my hut, exhausted, Humberto is not there. It feels strange to close my eyes without saying good night to him first. I lie awake a long time, keenly aware of the empty space at my threshold.