by Carson Rae
“He said a very important person made the tiles. A person no one cares about anymore, but Father Nicandro thinks people might care again soon.”
It makes no sense. “That’s it? That’s all he said?”
Rosario sinks into himself, becoming a tight ball. “I don’t remember,” he says in a small voice.
I’m frightening him. I take a relaxing breath. “Rosario, this is such a big help. Thank you.”
He beams.
I don’t ask him if he tried to find the Godstones. A quick glimpse at his hands, at the crescent of dirt under each fingernail, tells me all I need to know. I excuse myself to visit the monastery.
Father Nicandro is delighted to see me. I stifle a grin when he hugs me, for he barely reaches my cheek and is as slight as a child. He ushers me by candlelight into the scribing alcove, and we settle on stools around the table.
“Majesty, I’m so glad you came. We haven’t had a chance for a proper conversation since you returned. Now tell me . . .” He leans forward, nose twitching. “Is it true that you were taken to the gates of the enemy?”
I shrug. “I don’t know, Father. I was in the enemy camp for a short time, but not in the country of Invierne itself.”
“Very interesting. And it’s true that—”
“Father, I’m sorry to be in a hurry, but I need to know about the tiles in my atrium.”
“What tiles?”
“Prince Rosario said you knew about them. Little yellow flowers with blue spots. Actually, they’re quite unattractive—”
“Oh, yes! I should have realized you’d want to know about them.”
“What do you mean?”
“Almost every tile with that design was painted by Mistress Jacoma herself. Her father owned a tile factory. Since the time she could walk, she amused herself by painting her father’s tiles.” At my confused look, he adds, “She bore the Godstone, Your Majesty.”
I gasp. I knew this. Somehow, I knew.
“She died when she was about your age. Barely seventeen. Written accounts reveal that she never completed her service. But she painted over two thousand tiles with that obnoxious yellow flower. Artists copied the pattern for generations. You can find it in every castle and monastery in Joya d’Arena. Sadly, the only people who remember her now are a handful of priests and artists.”
“Mistress Jacoma,” I echo in wonder. “A bearer.”
The priest leans forward and peers at me with round black eyes. “Remember when I showed you that passage in the Afflatus?”
“I remember.”
“I have a theory about it. You know how it speaks of individual bearers at one point, and then seems to change? How it suddenly refers to all bearers in general?”
I nod, remembering the hours I spent pouring over Alentín’s copy of the Afflatus, wondering if I would be the one to face the gates of the enemy.
“Well, I think we’ve been looking at it the wrong way. What if it does refer to each bearer—and to all bearers—at the same time? What if this act of service is something that all bearers throughout time accomplish together?”
“What are you saying?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says wearily. “I don’t know what I’m saying. It’s just the spark of an idea. I feel like there’s something larger here, and I’m only grasping the edges.”
“I will give the idea some thought. Thank you, Father Nicandro. I may have more questions for you.”
“Of course.” He smiles. “I’m glad you’re back safe, my queen.”
I refrain from pointing out that I don’t feel safe at all.
The next morning, Alejandro orders the gates sealed, leaving any remaining refugees without asylum. It’s the right thing to do. Hector’s captain reports dust whorls along the eastern horizon, heralding the coming army. Still, my chest aches for the thousands who didn’t make it inside.
I spend a good part of the afternoon staring at the tiles in my atrium. There is a message here. I’m sure of it. I study the color and shape of the flowers, trace the edges of curving petals with my fingertips. I feel a kinship with this ancient tile painter. Another girl, like me. Jacoma, what are you trying to tell me? She doesn’t answer, of course, but God whispers warmth into my belly as if I’m talking to Him. I will need more than warmth from him if we are to win the day.
I’m still in the atrium when I hear the cry go up. Feet patter by in the hallway; panicked shouting drifts through my open balcony. Then the monastery bells toll a slow, deep warning.
I leave Rosario in Ximena’s care and rush from my suite. Alejandro is already in the hallway. As soon as he sees me, he grabs my hand and pulls me down the corridor, past the kitchens and into the stables.
I freeze at the sight of enormous horse heads overhanging their stall doors. “Alejandro,” I squeak. “I don’t ride.”
He frowns. “It’s just to the wall and back.” Already the stable hands are saddling a big dun stallion. “It will take too long to walk,” he insists.
“I’ll take her.” I whirl at Lord Hector’s voice. “Your army needs you, sire,” the guard continues. “I’ll escort Her Majesty to the wall. We’ll join you shortly.”
Alejandro nods, then swings up onto his horse and trots away.
The streets are full of people rushing to get a first glance at the enemy. Lord Hector and I weave through buildings, around panicked citizens, and reach one of the many crudely erected bits of scaffolding that now press against the inner wall. Hector hauls me up a set of rickety stairs to the top. Instantly the wind beats at my hair; sand stings my eyes. I sniff the dry desert cleanness and feel a pang of loneliness for my desert rebels.
Movement draws my gaze downward. A line of cavalry stretches in both directions as far as I can see, the late afternoon sun glinting from mouth pieces and sweating hides, obsidian arrowheads and white face paint.
White face paint.
I wonder how they brought so many horses through the desert. Even if they took the long route, hugging the greener line of the Hinders, they must have been hard-pressed to provision the animals for such a long journey. They can’t expect them to survive a long siege in this barren place.
A group breaks off from the rest and gallops forward. They curve into a circle and ride around and around, brandishing spears, screaming like mountain cats. Even at this distance, the swirling pattern of black and white on their limbs makes me shudder.
“Hector,” I gasp frantically. The horses didn’t make the trek all the way from Invierne.
He bends down so I can whisper in his ear.
“Those aren’t Inviernos,” I tell him. “They’re Perditos.”
He nods solemnly. “Yes. We’ve long suspected an alliance between them.”
“They’re here to begin starving us out in advance of Invierne’s real army.”
“I’m afraid so.”
We stand there a long while. Lord Hector’s eyes harden to a dangerous glint, his face a sculpture of resolve. It’s as if he’s in deep meditation of purpose, storing something up within himself. I just pray.
The Perditos trap us in our own city. Alejandro, Hector, and General Luz-Manuel spend the next days strategizing about food rations and building up a store of water to combat the Inviernos’ fire. While they are occupied, Rosario and I hunt for the Godstones.
Word reaches me that His Highness suffers an unnatural obsession with dirt. At least once per day someone catches him next to an overturned potted plant and a river of moist soil. I treat each complaint with proper gravity, then shower my little prince with praise as soon as the door is closed. Still, his enthusiasm for the task begins to wane. I almost order a palacewide search. But the memory of Belén’s betrayal holds me back. I still don’t know whom to trust. I cannot allow the wrong person to learn about the missing Godstones.
The troops my father promised as a condition of my marriage arrive in three great ships. Hector and Captain Lucio guide them in groups through the sewer tunnels that lea
d from the sea cliffs into the city. I tear through the barracks that day, looking for familiar faces. So many things remind me of Orovalle: the spicy scent of oiled leather, the de Riqueza sunburst embroidered into sashes, the loose-fitting blouse worn by all of Orovalle’s soldiers when not in full battle gear. But I recognize no one. For that matter, no one recognizes me. After a while, I have to admit to myself that I’m looking for Papá, or even Alodia, and I walk away feeling foolish.
Their arrival is none too precipitous. The very next day, the first wave of Invierne’s massive army materializes against the shimmering desert horizon. The Perditos greet them with feral celebration, screaming and riding in circles, shooting arrows into the sky. I stand beside Hector at the top of the wall to watch their approach. In those first moments, the combined forces of Orovalle and Joya d’Arena fall into awed silence. The enemy are so many, and they are barefoot, colorful, not quite human.
I too am silent, but for a different reason. I’m remembering my own first view of Invierne’s massive army, the way their campfires lit the dark hills in either direction as far as the eye could see. So I know this first wave is just a fraction of the forces to come.
Beside me, Hector hammers his fist on the stone. “I wish we knew what they wanted.”
“They believe this is God’s will,” I say softly.
“Acquiring a seaport? Invading another country? Killing innocent people? Which of their actions, exactly, are they going to blame God for?”
Something about his edged tone pleases me. “They want me, or the stone I bear.”
“Yes, but why?”
“I wish I knew.”
He regards me dead on. “They won’t have you, Elisa. Not as long as I’m alive.” He whirls and walks away, down the wall until he disappears behind a group of bowmen.
Another message comes via pigeon from Cosmé. My fingers shake as I unroll it, and Mara peers over my shoulder as I read.
Elisa,
Section of Invierne’s southern army broke off and joined march toward Brisadulce. Five animagi heading your direction; only three were sent against southern holdings. I think they know you’re there.
We continue to harass army’s rear, but Perditos make our task difficult. They have begun shooting our pigeons. This will be my last message.
Take care,
Cosmé
Chapter 32
AS the Inviernos come, the line of enemies thickens into a dark ribbon across the desert, then a great river. The river expands until, from the vantage point of the wall’s highest tower, they seem like an ocean of fleas writhing in the sand.
I huddle inside the wall with the bowmen, the Godstone chilling me, unable to tear myself away from the strange scene below us. The slitted loopholes between bricks splay to the inside, allowing a huge viewing range. Like everyone else, I stare through a loophole until my eyes water with heat and glare, looking for any subtle shift that could hint of their attack plan.
Finally the animagi show themselves. I see the unlikely white-gold of their heads first, bobbing through the ranks of Inviernos. They break free of the army to stand facing our main gate. Five of them, just as Cosmé said, all wearing supple, whitish robes, their amulets darkly caged at their breasts. When they raise their eyes to the wall—their Godstone-blue eyes—I double over in icy agony.
“Your Majesty!”
I peer up into the sun-browned face of Captain Lucio. “I’m fine, thank you.” I manage a smile and straighten, my insides already warming from the prayer that flew from my heart with instinctive ease. I can pray in any circumstance, now.
I remember what the general said about offering an encouraging word to the king, so I take my leave of the captain and descend to the road, where my husband is overseeing the accumulation of water barrels.
Alejandro is relieved to see me. He puts an arm around my waist and pulls me close, but he’s not giving comfort so much as taking it. “The portcullis outside will hold,” he assures me. “Even if they burn the gate.”
Soldiers passing by on the road don’t bother to hide their grins. They don’t know that we have yet to share a bed, and they like to see their king and queen embracing. So I hug Alejandro back, even though I can’t offer encouraging words in return.
Never in my life have I so desired to be proved wrong. But the next morning, when our soaking gate steams under the onslaught of the rising desert sun, the animagi attack exactly as I foretold. They stand shoulder to shoulder, slender as palm trees, just outside the range of our weapons. I pray harder than ever to breathe life into my frozen limbs.
Five others, clumpy haired and barefoot, slip from the crowd to face the animagi, one on one. They kneel to the ground and throw their heads back. A trumpet sounds, but it is eerie and keening, like no instrument I’ve ever heard. As one, the animagi whip daggers from within their lovely robes. I don’t see the flash of blades against flesh, but the bodies topple over and blood, crimson and sparkling in the sun, pools too quickly to disappear into the sand.
At the sacrifice of their own people, the amulets around the animagi’s necks begin to glow.
The Godstone is a knife of icy rage.
Five more Inviernos come forward and surrender to the animagi. And five more after that. They continue the passionless process of slitting throats until twenty-five bodies lie crumpled in the sand, their blood feeding the magic that squirms beneath the earth.
Five times five.
And the amulets glow brighter.
“More water!” I yell past the bile in my throat. I don’t know how well my voice carries inside the crowded wall, so I yell again. “More water on the gate now!”
I don’t bother to see if anyone follows through with my command. My eye is drawn back through the arrow slit and to the caged Godstones that glow blindingly in the distance. The animagi tilt their heads toward the sky, mouths agape in effort or ecstasy. My nails dig at the sandstone in front of me as streaming light, blue-white, brilliant and arrow straight, thrusts from the amulets and pounds against the gate.
I smell acrid smoke. The walls around me tremble.
“Water!” someone yells. “Water, water!” The others take up the cry.
Agonizing moments pass in a haze of icy warnings and warming prayers as we pit our buckets and pots and ladles against their sorcery. At last the streaming light fizzles away. The animagi stagger back and are absorbed into the writhing wall of Inviernos.
A cheer thunders through our wall, shaking it as much as the animagi’s magic did. I join in the cheer because they need me to.
Lord Hector finds me moments later. “Do you think they’ll try again?” he whispers in my ear.
“Yes. They will rest. Then they’ll find twenty-five more who are willing to be sacrificed, and they’ll come at us again.”
He grips my upper arm so hard I gasp. “Elisa, you shouldn’t be here. There’s probably a black crater the size of Alejandro’s banner crown on the other side of that gate. We can last through three more attacks at the most.”
“I’m the queen!” I protest. “I should be here to—”
“You said it yourself. They must not find your Godstone. Did you see what they just did with only five?”
I swallow and nod.
“Good. I’ll find someone to escort you back. Be prepared to flee through the tunnels if the wall is breached.”
“And . . . Alejandro?”
“I’ll try to convince him to return, so watch for him. He is more a nuisance here anyway.”
Only the stress of battle would make him say such a thing aloud. His eyes flash with regret and surprise, but I put a hand to his shoulder, grateful for his honesty. “Hector, be safe.”
But instead of going back to my suite, I rush to the monastery to see Father Nicandro.
He huddles in the empty gathering hall, on his knees before the candlelit altar. I kneel beside him.
“Oh, dear girl, there should be so many more of us here,” he breathes. My heart catches at the
sorrow in his voice. “Have the people of Joya d’Arena strayed so far from the path of God that we do not turn to him even in such times?”
“Perhaps things are not desperate enough,” I say. “Perhaps they will come soon.”
“Perhaps.”
“Father, I have not come to pray either.”
He looks up startled. I tell him about the streaming fire that beat against our gate. “You see, Nicandro? It’s the blood. Something about the blood feeding the earth that allows them to use their amulets.”
He glares at me in warning, his dark eyes becoming very sharp. “You want to try something with the amulet you took.”
“I do. Father, I have to try something.”
He slumps against the altar. “What did you have in mind?”
It only takes moments to prepare. I pull the amulet from beneath my vest and stare at it while Father Nicandro collects a ceremonial rose. He gestures me toward the altar.
“No,” I tell him. “We should do this in the garden. Where no one will chance upon us.”
He hesitates only a moment before leading me behind the altar and out the door. The monastery garden is tiny, with a three-tiered marble fountain and a bench that fits no more than two. We sit together, beneath a trellis woven with the vines of a creeping sacrament rosebush. The roses are not in bloom, which exposes the long thorns in sharp clarity.
In unison, we chant the “Glorifica.” I put the fingertips of my right hand to the Godstone, the fingertips of my left to the amulet. Also a Godstone, I remind myself. Not for the first time, I wonder about the one who bore it. Did it detach from her body at the moment of her death? Did she part with it willingly, or did an animagus rip it from her belly while she lay screaming in agony?
Nicandro pulls my head forward until our noses almost touch. “What is it you seek, dear girl?”
I take a deep breath, then I pour all the longing of my soul into my request. “I seek victory over my enemies.”
The prick is deep and painful. The first drop wells too quickly on the thorn, and when the priest pulls his rose away from my finger, three more quickly follow. They drop and bead against the hard-packed earth.