by Carson Rae
She gasps. But her face hardens immediately, and she says, “You lie. All you Joyans are liars.”
“Queen Elisa speaks truthfully,” Storm says. “She took me there. I have seen the zafira with my own eyes, felt its power course through me.”
She taps her lower lip with a forefinger as her eyes rove my face and body. Beside me, Hector’s fingers curl around the hilt of his sword. From somewhere high above comes the screech of a raptor.
“I brought some powder to lighten your skin,” she says at last. “But I’m not sure it will be enough; you’re too short. We also brought a cart. It’s on the trail below. You must ride in it, hunched over, so no one can see your true shape.” Her gaze shifts to Hector. “You too must ride in the cart. You are too . . . broad. The rest of you will walk beside the cart or ride in on horseback. I will powder your faces and hands, but stay cowled. Except you.” She lifts her chin at Mula, who is clinging to Mara’s leg, eyes wide. “My brother says you bear the slave mark?”
Mula nods.
“Then you will lead. Walk barefoot. No cowl. With luck, everyone will think my brother and I are bringing in a batch of mule slaves.”
I look around at my companions. “This might be it. The gate of the enemy. None of you are required to accompany me. It’s your choice.”
Belén shrugs. “It’s a perfect plan.”
“As easy as falling in love,” Mara adds.
“Foolproof,” Hector agrees.
I don’t deserve such friends. I blink against the sting of threatening tears and say, “All you Joyans are filthy liars.”
Waterfall’s “cart” is a small, two-wheeled fruit wagon, pulled by a single draft horse. Its wooden floor and sides are stained dark and smell faintly of rancid juice. It’s barely large enough for Hector and me both. I smile to myself as I settle beside him, squeezing between the wall of the wagon and his hard shoulder.
The powder on my skin tingles. It smells of ash and dust and old flowers, and I fight the urge to sneeze. I study the back of my hand with dismay. It doesn’t look light skinned so much as dirty.
Mula and Storm take the lead, Waterfall smacks the draft horse, and we set off, rattling and creaking down the trail. Mara and Belén follow behind on their mounts. We left Horse—along with Hector’s mount for company—on long leads in a sheltered glen with plenty of grazing. I crane my neck for one last sight of her, hoping she’ll be all right until I get back.
Hector holds his elbows tight to his sides, trying to make himself as small as possible. I barely refrain from rolling my eyes.
But as we bump down the trail, our shoulders occasionally knock, and he flinches each time. Exasperation bubbles over, and I blurt, “You don’t have to try so hard to avoid me!”
His face freezes, but then he looks sheepishly off into the distance. “It doesn’t seem right to . . . take liberties when I have not given you an answer.” He says it quietly, and I have to strain to hear.
“There’s an easy solution to that,” I point out. “Just say yes.”
He turns his head to regard me, and my breath catches. How did I not notice, the moment I met him more than a year ago, how very striking he is?
“I don’t want to be a prince consort,” he says. “I have little desire to rule, even less to be a figurehead, and that’s what a prince consort is, you know. A useless trinket on the arm of his queen. It’s not what I ever imagined for myself.”
My heart is sinking like a stone, but then he adds, “For you, though, I am considering it.”
Mara and Belén ride just out of earshot, but Mara catches my eye and gives me a quick wink. I send her a mock glare.
Hector adds, offhand, “You could order me to marry you. You’re my queen, after all.” His gaze on me is unwavering as he awaits my response.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Never.”
He arches an eyebrow.
“You once said you couldn’t have me just a little, that just a little wouldn’t be enough. Remember?”
“Yes,” he whispers. I hope he is also remembering the way he kissed me that night, the way he held me close, thinking it was the last time.
“I feel the same. I want all of you, Hector. I want the political match you bring, yes. But I would be miserable if I didn’t have your heart too.”
He lifts a forefinger and traces my bottom lip. My skin soaks up his touch like I am parched desert, desperate for spring rain. I barely manage not to lean into him. “You feel so strongly about me, then?” he says.
“Don’t be daft. I love you.”
He grins. “You’ve never said.”
I blink up at him. “I haven’t?”
“Not directly. You told Franco so, but it crossed my mind once or twice that you might be lying, saying what he wanted to hear.”
Is that what all this was about? He was worried about how I really feel about him? I work very hard to keep my expression serious. “Well, I do. I love you.”
He raises his eyebrow again. “More than you loved Alejandro?”
“I never loved him.”
“More than you loved that boy from the desert?”
“His name was Humberto, and now you’re just being petty.”
He has not stopped grinning like a little boy about to open his Deliverance Day gifts. He leans closer until our lips are a finger’s breadth apart. He brushes a strand of hair from my neck, and I shiver. “If we were alone right now,” he says, “I would . . .”
“I would let you.”
The wagon hits a rut, and our foreheads crack together, which startles a too-loud “Ow!” from me. He raises fingers to his head, wincing.
“Stop!” I say. “You’ll rub off the powder.”
His hand freezes, then he lowers it, grimacing. “Well, come here, then.” Not that there’s anywhere to go in this tiny cart, but I duck under the crook of his arm, which he wraps around my shoulder. I’m careful to keep my powdered face away from his cloak as I lean into him. His lips press against the top of my head, and I close my eyes.
“I love you too,” he whispers in my ear. “Wholly. Madly.”
“Does this mean you’ll marry me?”
“I suppose.”
I elbow lightly him in the stomach. “Even if it means being a prince consort? And being married to someone so egregiously powerful?”
He sighs. “Even then.”
“If it helps, I’d like you to continue on as commander of the Royal Guard and my personal defender. I mean, if you want to.”
His arm around me tightens. “I’d like that.”
“Now all we have to do is live through the next few weeks.”
“I confess, I suddenly have an overwhelming desire to survive.”
My whole body tingles warmly. I’m very glad I never stopped taking the lady’s shroud.
“Hoods up, everyone!” calls Storm. “We’re about to turn onto the main highway.”
As one, we flip up our cowls, which surely seems suspicious to anyone watching. But as the trails curves around to merge with traffic—hoards of Inviernos on foot, a few carts like ours, one large carriage with a team of four—I see that cowls are the fashion of the day. Or maybe it’s a practical necessity in this cold climate.
Our ride smoothes the moment the wheels clunk onto the slight lip of stone paving. I peer over the edge of the cart. Each paver stone fits so perfectly to the next, and the thin lines of mortar sparkle with tiny bits of colored glass. This highway is a work of art. It doesn’t seem fair that my enemy should have such a glorious highway when the main thoroughfare leading from my capital city is rife with ruts and half covered in sand. Because of our recent war with these people, I’ve had no funds for repair.
I know it’s small-minded of me even as the thought pours out, but I can’t help it: If I ever lay siege to this place, I will turn this offending highway to rubble.
The Inviernos surrounding us are invariably tall, lithe, and lovely. Seeing so many, pressed so close together, I realize how odd my people must se
em to them, how graceless and stunted and dark.
“Try not to gape,” Hector whispers. “You’ll attract attention.”
He’s right. I curl tighter against him, trying to seem invisible, instead listening hard to the world around me. It’s a cacophony of footsteps, cartwheels, and clattering horseshoes, and just below it all, the constant hum of chatter. I catch several words in the Lengua Classica. But there are more words I don’t recognize, the syllables stretched out in swinging high and lows, like a song. Storm once told me the Inviernos have been here for thousands of years, that my own people are comparatively recent interlopers on this world. So it makes sense that they would have their own language, something ancient and alien.
I sit straight up as the thought hits.
“Elisa?” Hector says.
“Why do so many Inviernos speak the Lengua Classica?” I whisper, fast and low. “If our people brought the language to this world, and the Inviernos were already here as Storm claims, why did they adopt it?”
Storm looks over his shoulder and shoots me a glare. I lean back against Hector, chastised.
“Storm always says what he believes to be true,” Hector says. “But maybe he has been misled about this.”
“Maybe.”
We travel the rest of the way in silence, and as the Godstone cools in my belly, I grow frustrated with my cowl. It blocks too much of my vision. The skin of my neck starts to prickle. Danger could be coming up behind me, even beside me, and I would not know until it was too late.
Our cart jerks to a halt. I start to lift my head to peer around us but think better of it.
“State your business,” comes the sibilant voice of an Invierno man.
“Cargo bound for the Deciregus of Crooked Sequoia House,” says Storm, and I can’t help but admire the way our deception is hidden in the truth of his words.
“Prepare for inspection.”
Hector’s arm slips from my shoulder and reaches beneath his cloak toward his scabbard. My own hand seeks out the dagger in my belt.
“Are you in the habit of inspecting the merchandise of Deciregi?” asks Waterfall smoothly. “His Eminence would prefer to maintain privacy and discretion in this matter. But just so you have something to mark in your ledger . . . come here, mule girl. Show him your feet.”
A long pause. I exchange a quick glance with Mara. She and Belén have affected an air of arrogant disinterest, sitting tall on their mounts, their gazes never deigning to linger on any one thing for more than a moment.
“You may pass,” comes the Invierno voice. And then, more formally, “The gate of darkness closes.”
“The gate of darkness closes,” Waterfall answers. The cart lurches forward.
We pass beneath a massive archway, and I blink against sparks of reflected sunlight, for the whole structure is made up of small glass blocks set in thin lines of mortar. More glass hangs from the top by thin ropes. They are gem shaped and brightly colored, spinning and swaying in the breeze, casting prisms on the surfaces around us.
Our path begins to twist and climb the moment we are inside the city walls. We pass food vendors, a blacksmith, two glassblowing booths, and a small plaza where three young boys are playing a game with sticks and a ball. It all looks so familiar, so normal.
But differences begin to manifest. Everyone’s clothing is oddly uniform, with only minor variations on a theme of embroidered tunics beneath thick cloaks with cowls. We pass stocks containing five Inviernos—three men and two women—who are naked and shivering, bruised and beaten, wallowing in their own filth. Two corpses, darkened and withered, swing from ropes attached to a high turret. A vulture perches on the head of one.
No one smiles.
We pull into a carriage house. A segmented door rolls shut behind us, clanging to the ground, leaving us in total darkness.
A rush of footsteps. The whisk of drawn steel. Torchlight sears my vision.
I blink to adjust. We are surrounded by an entire company of Invierno soldiers, their swords drawn. Behind them, a line of archers has drawn their bows.
18
“STEP from the cart, please,” someone says. “You two, dismount. Move slowly; keep your hands visible.”
Mara and Belén share a slight nod. Hector does not reach for his sword, but his hand hovers near his waist. My companions are prepared to fight and die if I order it.
The wagon wobbles beneath my weight as I get to my feet. I push back my cowl and say, “We will do as you ask. You have nothing to fear from us.”
The others follow my lead. Belén and Mara swing off their horses, and Hector stands beside me. Belén offers a hand and helps me step from the wagon.
The soldiers part to make way for another man. He is of average height for an Invierno, with slicked-back golden hair and a severe nose. A tree is embroidered over the left breast of his cloak—a bright evergreen bending under its own weight.
“I am the seneschal of Crooked Sequoia House. Please follow me.”
He whirls and strides away, not bothering to see if we follow. But we do, and even though we are surrounded by soldiers, I’m encouraged by the fact that they have not made us give up our weapons.
He leads us through narrow corridors lit by torches. Everything shimmers—the walls of granite and quartz, the glass shards in the mortar, the silver sconces. We turn a corner and come face-to-face with enormous double doors made of knotty pine. My Godstone turns to ice.
The seneschal swings the doors open to reveal a towering audience hall. A giant sequoia grows right out of the floor, so vast that I cannot gauge its full height. A short stone wall surrounds the massive trunk, and light streams down from clerestory windows, illuminating its high green boughs. The strange insect birds I first discovered on the hidden island flit through the branches. A shimmery layer of detached gossamer wings blankets the base of the tree.
Beyond the tree is a throne, made of the twisting, woven trunks of juniper. On it sits the most frightening and beautiful Invierno I have ever seen. His skin is near translucent and baby smooth, and the hair flowing past his waist is as white as a summer cloud. He clutches the armrests with long, slender fingers. His right hand is bare. But his left is gloved in a shining metal gauntlet with barbed fingertips.
His eyes have no pupils, no irises. Instead, they are as black and liquid as tar.
He is attended by young Inviernos in bare feet and knee-length shifts. They stand near the throne, a handful on each side, and I cannot tell if they are male or female. Each of their shifts displays the same embroidered sequoia as the seneschal’s cloak.
My Godstone pounds ice through my veins, but I refuse to let the pain show on my face.
“Kneel before His High Eminence,” the seneschal booms. “The Bitterest Cold Cannot Shatter the Mighty Pine, Deciregus of Crooked Sequoia House.” Storm and Waterfall drop to their knees before the beautiful Invierno, and everyone follows suit. Except me.
The Deciregus—Pine—lifts his spindly bare hand to the Godstone amulet hanging from his neck and fingers it absently. “You do not kneel like the others?” comes his sibilant voice.
“I am queen of Joya d’Arena and bearer of a living Godstone. I kneel to no one.”
He grins, displaying teeth filed to points. “Welcome to Crooked Sequoia House, little queen.” He turns to Storm, who has prostrated himself forehead to the ground, arms stretched forward. “Rise, He Who Wafts Gently with the Wind Becomes as Mighty as the Thunderstorm.”
Storm gets to his feet, but he keeps his gaze downcast as he says, “Hello, Honored Father.”
I look at him sharply. He never told me the Deciregus was his father.
“My failed son. You have returned home to face honorable death, yes?”
Storm’s head snaps up, and he returns his father’s black gaze unflinchingly. “No.”
The Deciregus opens his mouth, but I jump in before he can say anything. “Your son is my official liaison to Invierne and under my protection. Harming him is an act of war.
” I catch Storm’s eye and offer a slight smile. “He is no failure.”
The Deciregus hisses. “What do you know of Invierno honor, little queen?”
“I know that your condescension shows little. If we are to negotiate port rights for your people, I insist you address me properly, as Your Majesty.”
He taps his bottom lip with a slender forefinger. “We no longer need port rights, if we have you.”
“You do not have me.” My words are clear and strong, but my heart races. Maybe, finally, I will learn why Invierne sent a massive army through the desert after me. Why they stole Hector in a scheme to draw me here.
“You could not keep her against her will,” Storm says. “She is too powerful.” I hope he is right.
“If you did not come to stay, Your Majesty, then why did you come?”
I frown, realizing my companions are still on their knees only because the Deciregus has not yet released them. “Joyans, rise,” I command, and everyone stands. Mara shoots me a grateful look. To the Deciregus I say, “I have come for knowledge.” A partial truth, but the Inviernos barter in such things.
The Deciregus considers. He studies each of my companions, his gaze lingering a moment on Mula. At last he says, “The Frozen Waterfall Mourns Her Raging Youth, please prepare quarters for our guests.”
Storm’s sister is the only one still on her knees. Her eyes shift to avoid his gaze, and her voice shakes as she stands, saying, “Yes, Honored Father,” and then sweeps from the room. I stare after her, wondering if I have read her terror correctly.
I’ve been in this situation before, and I expect to be placed under house arrest. I listen for the sounds of drawn weapons and marching feet. But no one makes a move. The Deciregus says, “What knowledge, exactly, do you seek?”
I don’t hesitate. “I want to know why you have pursued me so doggedly. I want to know where the gate of darkness leads. And I want to meet the other bearer.”
If he is surprised that I know even that much, he does not show it. “And what do you offer in return for this knowledge?”
“Knowledge for knowledge, of course. And . . .” I wave a hand nonchalantly. “A few other minor concessions. If you tell me what I want to know, I will reveal the location of the zafira.” The fact that it lies buried beneath a mountain of rubble will have to wait for another time.