Girl Of Fire & Thorns Omnibus

by Carson Rae

  And then he does smile, and my heart swells so huge it hurts. “I hope you broke his foot,” he says.

  “I’m certain of it.” And because I have no patience for dissembling, because knowing something bad is better than not knowing at all, I say, “So, about our betrothal—”

  “That was a very romantic proposal.”

  I suppose teasing is better than a flat-out rejection. “I should have thought to bring flowers on this wretched journey. And a minstrel to compose an ode to your virility.”

  He turns away, and I stare at his profile, recognizing the fierce mask he wears when he’s thinking hard. Just when I’ve decided I can bear the silence no longer, he reaches out and grabs my hand. “Do you want me for a husband? Or for a political bargaining piece?”

  I squeeze his fingers gratefully. It’s so much more of him than I had a moment ago. “Both,” I tell him truthfully.

  He sighs. “May I think about it?”

  “Of course.” And then I add, “I understand your hesitation.”

  “You do?”

  I twine my fingers with his. “Not just anyone could be married to a sorcerer queen. It would take someone extraordinary. The strongest of men.” And even though it’s pushing things a little too far, I say, “You may not be up to the task.”

  “You’re manipulating me.”

  “Is it working?”

  He doesn’t answer, but his eyes crinkle with a glimmer of a smile.

  “For now,” I say, “you can tell me what you meant about another bearer.”

  He nods. “I might as well tell everyone at once.” He releases my hand and gets slowly to his feet, favoring his left side. “And I want to know exactly what you and Storm are capable of now. Then we need—”

  “It can wait until tomorrow.” I love that even broken and bloodied, half starved and exhausted, his only thought is for our next move. “You need rest. Fresh clothes.” I wrinkle my nose.

  He nods with mock solemnity, and I turn to go find Mula and see for myself that she’s all right.

  “Elisa.”

  I freeze, tamping down the hope blossoming in my chest.

  “I thought about you every day. And I don’t know that I could have managed if not for that. But I . . .” his voice trails off.

  I breathe deep through my nose. “Have you eaten anything? By the smell, Mara’s stew is about ready.”

  “I am hungry.” His gaze drops to my mouth, and my lips buzz. He says, “And I would like to replace my clothes. I’ve been wearing these for weeks straight.”

  “And please shave that . . .” I make a vague gesture toward his face. “It’s disconcerting.”

  “As my queen commands.”

  Belén goes back to the Invierno camp for the distasteful work of scavenging clothing and supplies, including gloves for everyone.

  Mara uses the last of our cornmeal to fry up some cakes, which she sprinkles with pine nuts and dribbles with honey. Hector eats four.

  Storm sits cross-legged in front of the fire, gazing off into the darkening sky. Though he clutches his amulet tight, he cannot hide the way his hand shakes.

  Mula flips out her own bedroll and tells Hector it’s for him. I’m about to correct her, but then I realize Belén will probably return with an extra. Hector falls into it gratefully.

  “Are you the commander?” Mula asks, squatting down near his head. He manages a nod as his eyes are drifting closed. “I’m Mula, but that’s just my name for now. Did you know that Elisa is the queen? She has a sparkle stone. She healed me because I’m her best slave. Want to see my feet?”

  “Mula!” Mara calls. “Firewood, please.”

  The girl jumps up to help, and Hector shoots Mara a grateful glance before losing consciousness.

  In the morning, Hector sorts through the goods Belén brought back and selects two daggers, a short sword, and some new clothes. He hacks off his beard with one of the daggers, resharpens it, then uses Belén’s soap to shave. By the time he’s done, Mara has a breakfast soup ready. He eats two bowlsful.

  “Why are you staring at the commander?” says Mula, and I jump.

  “I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  I glare at her, and she slinks away. But she’s right. I’m soaking up his presence, worried that I might blink and discover he’s not here after all.

  After we’ve eaten and washed up, we sit around the campfire. It feels like the most decadent luxury, to huddle close to the flames in relative warmth instead of hurrying to our mounts and heading down the cold trail.

  It hits me all at once. I did it. I rescued Hector. We could turn around right now, beat the approaching winter over the pass, and be in Basajuan a little early.

  The thought fills me with warm relief, but it’s short-lived. There is something else I must do first.

  Mara is the one to open conversation. “Lord Hector, you said something last night about another bearer?”

  He pokes at the fire with a stick, crunching embers into ash. “Franco said there are two. I tried to get him to tell me more, but he wouldn’t.”

  I turn to Storm. “Do you know anything about this?”

  He shakes his head. “Though, it makes sense that someday, someone would be born with a Godstone that didn’t fall out. It hasn’t happened for millennia, not since your people came to this world. But I suppose it could.”

  My limbs tingle with . . . excitement? Dread? An Invierno bearer would be my enemy. And someone who grew up surrounded by sorcery might be formidable indeed. But what sets my hands to trembling, what squeezes my chest so hard it hurts to draw breath, is the simple possibility that there is someone out there like me.

  “Did you hear anything else?” I ask. “Anything at all?” I wince at how pathetic and pleading I sound.

  “About the other bearer, no,” Hector says. “But he mentioned something called the Deciregi.”

  “The ruling council. Yes, Storm told us about them.”

  “And I overheard talk of a gate. Another sendara.”

  I sit forward. “Oh?” Ximena and I speculated that there might be two gates, one that leads to life and one that leads to the enemy. The Scriptura Sancta alludes to both. If so, I most certainly destroyed the first when I brought a mountaintop down onto the zafira.

  Hector is nodding. “They called it the sendara oscura.”

  “The gate of darkness,” I whisper.

  “Franco pushed us hard. I thought it was because of the early winter. But I then I realized our urgency had to do with the gate. They think it’s closing. Or maybe dying.” Hector frowns. “I’m not sure what that means exactly, but that’s what they kept saying. ‘The gate closes.’ It was like a mantra they passed around, or a war cry.”

  My mind whirls as facts fall into place like puzzle pieces.

  “Have you heard anything like that before?” Mara says to Storm. “Anything about a gate?”

  I already know what he’s going to say. “Yes. It leads to the source of power animagi draw on in the capital city. I would have been brought to the gate had I completed my training. What lies beyond is a secret, only revealed to full initiates.”

  Hector regards me steadily. “We’re not going back, are we?” he says.

  My path is as crystal clear as an alpine brook. “We are not.”

  The others whip their heads around to stare at me, aghast.

  “We’re going to Invierne,” I explain. “To the capital city.”

  “Elisa, no.” Belén rises to his feet, his fists clenched. “I used to believe you had to go there to fulfill a prophecy, but I was wrong. We don’t know what that prophecy means. The ‘champion’ could refer to anyone. Let’s leave today. Now. Cross back over the mountains, head north to Basajuan, and be there in time for your council with Cosmé and your sister.”

  The fire crackles, and a glowing cinder lands near the toe of my boot. As I watch it fade from fiery orange to dead gray, I say, “I’m not doing this because of a prophecy.”


  “But it says—”

  “It says, ‘He could not know what awaited at the gate of the enemy, and he was led, like a pig to the slaughter, into the realm of sorcery.’ I know it too well, Belén. It’s been hanging over my head for more than a year. Am I the champion that will be led like a pig to the slaughter? Am I going to die young or disappear like most of the bearers before me?” I grind the now-dead cinder into the dirt with my boot. “But it doesn’t matter. Scripture never makes sense except in hindsight. I must make my choices based on reason and observation. And I choose to go to Invierne.”

  Hector’s face is resigned, and I know he understands, even if the others don’t. “Because their source of power is dying.”

  I nod at him gratefully. “The gate is closing. Maybe we can help it along. Destroy it utterly, the way I destroyed the gate to the zafira.”

  “We have a civil war brewing!” Mara says. “Going to Invierne would give Conde Eduardo even more time to shore up support. What about the people we left behind? Tristán, Lucio, Rosario.”

  I wince. She’s not wrong. Prolonging our journey is a huge risk. It will put so many people we love in danger.

  “The prince should be safe,” Hector says. “He’s too valuable.”

  God, I hope he’s right.

  Belén adds, “If the gate is dying, why not just let it die? Mara is right. We have a civil war to worry about.”

  I lock gazes with Storm. “Because if it’s dying, Invierne will have to attack again before their power source is gone. Right, Storm?”

  “Yes. I did not realize it until now, but yes.” Storm clutches the amulet beneath his cloak. It has become a reflex for him, the same way my fingertips always seek my Godstone. “The Deciregi have struggled to build support for another onslaught; we lost so many people in the last one. But if the gate is truly dying, our crops will begin to wither soon. Our mothers will become barren. They’ll have no trouble raising an army then. It will be even bigger than before.”

  “So we go now,” I say. “And we destroy the gate before they can build another army. And then . . .” It’s so preposterous, so huge, so perfect. “We have what Invierne wants—knowledge of another power source. If we succeed, if we survive, I will use their ensuing desperation to bargain for peace.”

  PART II

  17

  WE crouch on the lip of a high cliff overlooking Umbra de Deus, the capital of Invierne and the largest city I’ve ever seen. Steep walkways wind through warrens of stone cottages and stepped gardens, spired temples rise from impossible slopes, and stone plazas take advantage of every tiny plateau. The entire city catches the sunlight, sparkling brilliantly, as if it is made of tiny glass shards.

  From this distance, the Inviernos look like insects crawling all over the mountainside. The steep, switchbacked highway leading to the front gate routes a steady stream of movement in either direction. It’s dizzying to watch. My own capital city could fit inside this one three or four times. Storm was right—the Inviernos outnumber us by a terrifying amount.

  Hugging the base of the city on three sides is a twisting whitewater river. The eastern curve steams violently, sending tendrils of mist into the city’s lower streets. It steams because high above it and far away—though not far enough to suit me—are two cone-shaped mountains gripped by crooked fingers of glowing orange lava. Storm calls the mountains the Eyes of God, and he assures us they are safe, that they’ve been sending the earth’s fiery blood into the river for millennia.

  “Seems like a dangerous place for a nation’s capital,” I observe.

  “It’s a place of power,” Storm says. “Our ancestors believed the volcanoes gave them better access to the zafira.”

  “And do they?”

  “It’s a cause of great debate among the scholars of my people.”

  Hector frowns. “I don’t like this at all. The only way in is through the front gate.”

  “I have not seen a more perfect defensive architecture,” I admit with reluctant admiration. I would hate to lay siege to this place. I suppose they could be starved out over time, but the mountain slopes are too bare to sneak up unseen, too steep and dangerous to navigate at night.

  Belén says, “Storm, are you sure there is not a secret way inside?”

  “If there is, I do not know of it. But it is as I said. I can get help. Just like the citizens of Joya d’Arena, we are a fractured, quarreling people. And my family, once they understand you are on a mission of peace, will jump at the chance to aid you and gain advantage over the other nine houses.”

  Mara says. “We know nothing of your family. I grew up near the border, and all I know of Inviernos is bloodshed and cruelty and rage and . . .” Her voice trails off as tears fill her eyes.

  “And me,” Storm says softly. “You know me.”

  I sigh. We’ve been arguing about this nonstop for several days. I can’t put off making a decision any longer.

  Storm continues, “They’re expecting Elisa. Waiting for her. They surely sensed the way we called on the zafira to deal with Franco’s men. Such an outpouring of magic could only come from a bearer.”

  “You’re worried about an assassination attempt,” Hector says. “Even if she arrives in an official capacity.”

  “Exactly so. Let me go alone,” he insists, and turns to me. “I’ll bring back help. We’ll hide you in a cart, smuggle you in. We could paint your skin. Your features do have an Invierno cast, you know, even though you are short and stubby.”

  I glare at him.

  “I can pass for an Invierno,” Mula says cheerfully. “I just have to cover my feet.” She is lying on her back, chewing on the end of a dry stalk.

  Hector says, “I hate to say it, but—”

  “It’s our only plan,” I finish, and he nods grimly.

  Storm rises. “I’ll be back by sunset,” he says. “Stay out of sight.”

  I reach up and grab his hand. “You’re sure they won’t kill you on sight? There’s a death sentence on your head!”

  “I can reach my family compound before I’m recognized. They’ll delay turning me in to face my sentence once I claim knowledge of the zafira. They will help us.”

  I squeeze his hand, and he shifts uncomfortably. “You are my loyal subject, Storm. Which means if you are not back in a reasonable time, we must figure out a way to come get you. We don’t leave our people behind.”

  He blinks. “I understand.”

  I release his hand, and he disappears down the slope.

  “You have truly come to trust him as one of our own,” Hector observes.

  “I have.”

  We stare at each other, and I’m glad to note that after a few days of regular food and rest, he seems less gaunt and ragged, and the bruising around his eye has faded to a muddy yellow. We stare long past the point of awkwardness. His gaze drops to my lips. I’m the first to look away.

  I say to no one in particular, “But like Mara, I don’t trust Storm’s family. So stay alert, everyone.”

  A light snow is beginning to fall—again—as Belén gets to his feet. “I’ll keep an eye on the trail.” His disappears in the same direction as Storm.

  The rest of us huddle together, cloaks clutched tight. This near to the city, there will be no fire, no praying. It’s going to be a long, cold wait.

  The molten fingers of the Eyes of God glow bright as a sun against the darkening horizon. Insects flit through pine boughs, their bulging abdomens glowing like night bloomers. Mula has fallen asleep on Mara’s shoulder. Hector and I sit side by side, not quite touching. Just like he did during our final weeks together, after I destroyed the gate to the zafira, he avoids any physical contact. It seems as though things ought to have changed between us, somehow. But they haven’t, and I’m not sure what to do about it.

  Footsteps crunch through the underbrush, and we launch to our feet, drawing weapons. Even Mula jolts awake and whips out a dagger, her face fierce in the dying light.

  “It’s just me,” says
Storm. He strides toward us, followed by another, whose thick cloak and heavy cowl cannot hide her willowy, feminine shape. Belén brings up the rear. His sword is not yet drawn, but his hand rests on the scabbard.

  I peer at the newcomer, expecting to feel the usual jolt of alien wrongness at her appearance. But when she lowers her cowl to reveal long coppery hair and eyes the green of pine boughs, I feel nothing but grudging admiration for her beauty.

  Storm says, “I present to you The Frozen Waterfall Mourns Her Raging Youth.” And then he adds, “My sister.”

  I’m not sure why I’m surprised to learn he has a sibling. I say, “Thank you for coming.”

  I wrack my mind for memories of the Invierno ambassador who visited Papá’s court when I was a little girl. Do Inviernos bow? Curtsy? Is there a formal greeting that my father used?

  After too long a silence, Storm says, “You may call her Waterfall.”

  She gives him a sharp look.

  Storm explains, “Joyans find Invierno names complicated and incomprehensible.”

  I glare at him. Storm and I are going to have a conversation about “complicated and incomprehensible” versus “overwrought and inefficient.”

  But she merely shrugs. “Waterfall will do for now.” She speaks the Lengua Plebeya with careful attention, drawing out each syllable as if testing it. “Which one of you is the sorcerer queen? Oh . . .” Her gaze settles on my face. “It is you, of course.” To her brother, she says, “You’re right. She has the look about her, even though she is stubby.”

  I open my mouth to ask what she means, but I sense Hector at my shoulder, in his usual guard position, and I have to swallow the lump in my throat. It is so nice to have him back.

  “My brother says you wish an audience with the Deciregus?”

  Taking Storm’s cue, I say, “Yes. I have knowledge of something your people have been seeking for thousands of years.”

  Her eyes narrow. “What kind of knowledge?”

  If Storm did not share the nature of our mission, then she must trust him very much to have followed him out here alone. “I know where the zafira is,” I tell her.