The Bitter Kingdom

by Rae Carson

  Storm considers. In the distance, I hear Mula say, “Mara, how come you have that scar on your eye?”

  “The trick,” Storms says, “is to become one with the world around you.” He shrugs sheepishly. “Though, to be honest, I’m not sure what that means. But my tutor had me do this.” He pulls his Godstone amulet from beneath his tunic and takes it off; the chain is just large enough to fit around his head. He stands tall, his feet shoulder-width apart. His amulet swings from one hand as he reaches it to the sky.

  “My tutor said it’s important to ground yourself to the earth,” he explains. “Otherwise the power rushing through you can throw you off balance. And you must always aim your amulet or staff away from your body, for when the zafira courses through it, it will be too hot to touch.”

  “I don’t have a staff or amulet,” I point out. “Just me.”

  He nods. “Indeed, I am very interested in seeing what happens with you. Archivists at the Morning Temple—that’s where the training of novices takes place—speculate that someone with a living Godstone would be immune to its more dangerous properties.”

  I nod, remembering how the animagus who held me captive used magic to freeze everyone around him. But it didn’t work on me.

  “You think I’m even immune to a Godstone’s fire?”

  “I doubt it. It becomes a natural thing after it leaves the stone itself, burning and spreading just like any other fire. But you might be immune to your own.”

  So I follow Storm’s example and set my feet shoulder-width apart. I imagine that my legs are rooted to the earth, conduits for the magic creeping beneath the earth’s skin.

  “Now what?” I ask.

  “This is the part I never mastered,” he says with a grimace. “But my tutor said that if I closed my eyes and blocked out everything around me, I should feel a connection to the magic of the earth. Almost like the tug of a string.” He lowers his amulet and shrugs. “But I never felt anything. I failed—”

  “Try it. I’ll try it if you do.”

  He opens his mouth, closes it. Stares at the amulet dangling from his hand.

  “It’s just you and me,” I add softly. “No one need ever know what transpires here today.”

  He reaches with a forefinger to hook his hair behind his ears—a nervous, useless gesture, for it is still too short. “All right,” he says. “We’ll try it without blood first. Ready?”

  I nod and close my eyes. I concentrate on the feel of the earth beneath my feet. I imagine a string connecting me to the zafira.

  Power rushes into me like a flood. My Godstone flashes hotter than desert sunshine, and my limbs tingle with an overwhelming desire to spring into action.

  I crack open one eye and peek at Storm. He is panting, his face is flushed, and tiny beads of sweat collect on his upper lip.

  “Anything?” I ask.

  He opens his eyes, and a huge smile spreads across his face. “Oh, yes,” he breathes. “It’s like a thread of power connects me to the world.” He stares wide-eyed at his caged amulet. A tiny spark pulses at its center. “What about you? Do you feel the thread?”

  “It’s more like a rushing river. A really warm river. I could probably heal someone right now. I’m not sure how to call fire, though.” As I relax my focus, though, the power drains out of me as if I’m a sieve.

  “You’re supposed to direct the line of power through your Godstone somehow. And apparently it helps to think angry, destructive thoughts.”

  “How pleasant.”

  He nods. “If by ‘pleasant,’ you mean the exact opposite of that. Here, I’ll try it.” He closes his eyes, breathes deeply, holds his amulet out toward the granite outcropping. “Just reach down,” he murmurs, “find the thread, direct it toward the stone.” His brow furrows, and his breathing quickens. “Then think about something that makes you angry—”

  A stream of red-orange fire erupts from his stone and pounds against the cliff, trailing sparks to the ground.

  The fire fades quickly, and I stare at the circle of char left behind, mouth agape. “You did it! Storm, you . . .”

  I turn to find him knocked to the ground. His long limbs are sprawled at awkward angles, and his amulet smolders beside him in a carpet of dead pine needles. But his smile is huge, and his green eyes blaze with triumph. “With practice,” he says, “the fire will get so hot it will turn blue. Then white. A white fire is powered wholly by the zafira, and will continue to burn even when it’s out of fuel. For years, sometimes.”

  I nod, thinking of the charred ring of destruction around my capital city and its unquenchable embers. “It was a white fire that struck Alejandro. And Mara. Mara’s burn resisted healing until I healed her myself.” I reach my hand down. We grasp forearms, and I help him to his feet.

  In his other hand, he dangles his now brightly glowing amulet at a safe distance. “With practice I’ll be able to aim better,” he says. “Ground myself so I don’t fall down.”

  My lips twitch. “I just hope you don’t set the mountainside on fire while you figure it out. And maybe you shouldn’t try for a white fire just yet. Not until you have some control.”

  His eyes narrow. “Your turn,” he says in challenge.

  I take a deep breath and turn toward the granite face. I imagine myself shooting fire from my belly, which sends me into a fit of giggles.

  “This is humorous for you?“

  No, I suppose it’s not. In answer, I close my eyes and open myself to the zafira.

  It comes in a rush, eagerly, as powerful as a sandstorm, as gentle as a feather. “Well, hello,“ I whisper, as if greeting an old friend.

  Now to focus it all on my Godstone, the conduit for my power.

  But unlike Storm, I feel no single thread. There is nothing to focus on. Instead, my whole body hums with power.

  My whole body. That’s the difference. A living Godstone is not the conduit.

  I am.

  “Elisa?“

  I lift my right arm and point toward the granite face. “Storm, you might want to step farther away.“

  And it’s as easy as telling it where to go. It blasts out of me, a bolt of blue-hot fire that explodes against the cliff face. Shards of rock fly everywhere. Something stings my cheek.

  I fall to my knees, gaping at the smoldering crater in the granite. The rock is glazed over, melted like glass. I feel empty, used up, like I could sleep for days.

  Storm’s laughing penetrates the haze. I turn to find him doubled over. “You’re not supposed to let it all out at once!“ he says between gasps. “You’re supposed to loose it in controlled bursts. No one else in the world has so much power, and yet you are the clumsiest thing I’ve ever seen. You are as vulnerable as a babe.“

  I smile sheepishly. “We both have a lot to learn.“

  “Yes. But, Elisa?“ His uncanny eyes flash with glee. “We’re animagi now.“

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  12

  HECTOR

  ONE of the horses died. Not the tiny mare with the white fetlocks, and I’m not sure why one horse should matter more than any other, but I’m glad.

  Four others sickened. They vomited green bile and collapsed onto the ground, thrashing their legs. The Inviernos had seen mountain laurel poisoning before, and they assured the Joyans that their horses would most likely be well enough to travel in a day or so. But Franco is out of patience with delays. After an afternoon’s debate, he ordered everyone forward, leaving the Joyans with sick horses behind.

  There are now only sixteen captors from whom I must escape.

  Poisoning the horses halted our progress for less than a day, but I sit straighter in the saddle, feeling stronger. Not helpless. Maybe I can do it again. My mind spins with other possibilities. Anything to slow us down and give Elisa a chance to catch us before she’s forced too deep into enemy territory.


  It’s almost like protecting her.

  I think hard about it as we navigate the tight, rocky trail of the mountainside. Below us stretches Invierne, a vast land forested with pine trees that, by some trick of light, seem as blue as the deepest part of the sea. Fog sends billowing tendrils through gorges and ravines. It rains or snows several times a day.

  After an evening meal of pine nuts and thin soup, the chip-toothed Joyan comes to tie me up for the night. My bonds are so badly frayed now that he is derelict not to notice. If he worked for me, I’d make him scrub chamber pots for a month.

  “Marreo,“ I say, using the name I’ve heard others use. “A word.”

  “You have nothing to say that I care to hear.”

  “It’s strange, don’t you think?“ I say as he works the triple hitch. “That only our horses got sick.“

  “Your horse is fine. So is mine.”

  “I mean only Joyan horses got sick.”

  This would normally be met by a smack across the face or a hissed warning to be silent. But Marreo just frowns.

  I’m encouraged. “It’s convenient that they outnumber us now. I won’t be surprised if you’re all dead or left behind by the time we reach the capital.“

  This does earn me a cuff, and my head spins with the impact.

  “Trust the Inviernos if you want to,“ I mutter, blinking rapidly. “But I am not your enemy here.“

  I am most definitely his enemy, and if he has any sense he knows it. I’m praying that he does not have any sense.

  He grunts and walks away. I stare at his back, hoping the traitor will fall asleep on watch again tonight.

  He does, and I’m the only one awake to observe when Franco speaks quietly to one of his men. After a hushed conversation in a language I don’t recognize, they clasp forearms, and Franco whispers, “The gate is closing.“

  “The gate is closing,“ he responds, as if by rote. They part, and the Invierno unsheathes a long dagger and slips back up the trail.

  The traitor Joyans we left behind, including the brawler who rides beside me, will not be making it home after all.

  I would never send only one man to dispatch four. Franco must have the highest confidence. It’s true that these Inviernos might be the most dangerous men I’ve encountered. They move with predator grace and display a level of fitness I’ve only seen among the most elite soldiers.

  I refuse to let myself feel sorrow for my countrymen. Treason deserves no less.

  Even so, there is no sense of triumph that my prediction to Marreo has already proven true. And if the Joyan soldiers don’t stand a chance, then neither does Elisa. Though she surprises me at every turn, she is no warrior.

  Somehow, I have to even the odds.

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  13

  I can’t tell the exact moment we cross the watershed, but one day our path slopes downward more than not, the clouds thicken, the icy mix of rain and snow becomes relentless.

  Storm and I practice with our Godstones each night. We create makeshift targets by scratching them into the cliff face, but hitting them feels like trying to thread needles with boulders. We are clumsy, haphazard, imprecise. Our sessions make me glad for the lifeless rocks and constant drizzle. Were we surrounded by forest, we’d likely set it on fire.

  Precision seems beyond my reach, until the evening I stumble upon the trick of using my dagger for a focus. By holding something in my hand and pushing my power through the object, I’m able to both direct and stem the tide so that I don’t exhaust myself with a single blast. Oddly, my dagger remains unscathed—just like my clothing. I am so giddy with triumph that I hardly sleep all night.

  Late the next morning, just as we’ve descended below the timberline, the breeze brings a strange scent, something both rotten and sugary—like rancid meat.

  Ahead, Belén holds up a fist to halt our procession, and we rein in our mounts. He waves with three fingers—the signal for silence—and slides from his horse. He creeps forward and melts into the trees.

  Horse whinnies, and I pat her neck to calm her. Mula twists in the saddle to face Mara and loudly whispers, “What’s the matter?“ Mara shushes her.

  Belén returns a moment later, his face grave. “Bodies ahead,“ he says. “Four men and four horses.“

  “Invierno or Joyan?“ I ask.

  “Hard to tell—they’ve been dead more than a day. But Joyan, I think. Their throats were slit, execution style. No sign of struggle. It happened very fast.“

  My face drains of warmth as I flash back to the Battle of Brisadulce, when animagi slit the throats of their own people to soak the earth with blood and work their fire magic. “And . . . was there . . . did any of them . . .”

  Belén’s face softens. “Hector was not among them.”

  I loose a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

  “Who’s Hector?” Mula asks.

  Storm says. “It’s rare for Joyans to cross the divide. Rarer still to do it this late in the year. If they aren’t Conde Eduardo’s men assigned to escort the commander, I can’t imagine who they are.”

  My heart kicks in my chest. So close. We could intercept them within days. Maybe sooner.

  I’m not sure what will happen then. Could we infiltrate their camp and sneak Hector away? What if we are forced to engage in a full-out battle? Though I’m handier with a weapon than I used to be, thanks to Belén’s training, I’ve little close fighting experience. Maybe we can take them unaware. Maybe . . .

  My breath catches. My Godstone. I could kill with it now. If I wanted to.

  The mounts prance nervously and show the whites of their eyes as we near the place where Belén found the bodies. We see a horse first, a dun-coated creature lying across the path, its belly hugely swollen, flies circling its wide-open eye. We step carefully around it as the others come into view: three more horses off to the side, their bodies flat on the ground save for their necks, which stretch upward, hung from their halters. They died while hitched to a tree.

  I don’t see any human bodies. Belén must have pulled them out of sight, and I make a mental note to thank him later.

  Someone whimpers, and at first I think it’s Mara, until I hear her say, “Just don’t look, Mula. We’ll be past them soon enough.“

  We travel as fast and as far as we dare, and it is nearly dark before we begin looking for a campsite. I light a fire with my Godstone, hoping it’s the last time we’ll have a fire for a while. With luck, by this time tomorrow we’ll be too near our quarry to risk it.

  Which means that Storm and I ought to practice tonight. I might be our last opportunity. Or are we too near the Inviernos? Would they sense our magic?

  Mula unloads everyone’s packs and flips out bedrolls, though no one tasked her with this. Then she scurries around collecting firewood. While Mara fries up some corn cakes, Mula sits cross-legged near the fire, back straight, and closes her eyes.

  “Are you a follower of God’s path?“ I ask.

  She opens one eye and snorts. “God hates me,“ she says.

  I gape at her.

  “I never pray anymore,“ she adds. “I was just thinking.“

  I swallow my surprise enough to ask, “About what?“

  “My name,“ she says. “You all are fine lords and ladies. And warriors. Your slave needs a good name. A strong name.“

  Belén looks up from oiling Mara’s bow. “What about Little Squirt?“ he says. “Or Skinny Girl?“

  “Belén!“ Mara snaps.

  But Mula is grinning. “It’s better than Old One-Eye,“ she says.

  “Knob Knees,“ he says.

  “Beak Nose,“ she throws back.

  “Blue Feet!“

  “Messy Hair!“

  “Those are all terrible names,“ Storm says, looking perplexed.

  Mula stares at him a moment, and then bursts ou
t laughing. Her laugher is high and crisp and utterly unself-conscious, and soon enough we’re all laughing with her. Even Storm cracks an uncertain smile.

  After we eat, Storm tells me that only an animagus or a priest could sense us at this distance, and it’s probably safe to practice. So we send fire bolts against a rocky mountainside, leaving scorch marks and blackened moss. Storm’s control is improving too, his bolts becoming smaller but more powerful and better aimed. My fear that we’ll set the forest around us on fire is greatly reduced.

  It’s a relief to the let the fire flow out of me, as if my mostly prayerless journey has kept it too long dammed. I’m dancing a tiny candle flame on the tip of my dagger when I say, “We improve at an alarming rate, Storm. Every day, the zafira is easier to call.“

  He nods. “We will continue to grow stronger as we approach the capital. All the animagi are at their most powerful there.“

  “Oh? Is it a place of power? Like the island?“

  The glowing embers from our last assault on the mountainside give a sharp cast to his nose and cheeks. He radiates dangerously as he says, “There is a source. Not the zafira, but . . . a lesser something. I would have learned about it had I completed my training.“

  I plunk down on the ground and cross my legs, snuffing the flame with a thought. I study the blade; it radiates heat but is otherwise unscathed. “Then why do they need the zafira?“ I muse. “Why did they send an army after it if they already have a source of power?“

  “When your ancestors came to this world,“ he says, “you forced us to give up our land and retreat across the divide. You changed us with magic from another world. Made us more like you. It was thousands of years ago, but no one has forgotten. The Inviernos are a bitter people, Majesty. They will stop at nothing to reclaim what they believe to be theirs.“

  I’m not satisfied with this explanation. “But why now? If they’ve been angry and bitter for several millennia, what has caused them to act only now?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “Did he call you Majesty?” says a voice at my shoulder. “Storm, why did you call her Majesty?”