by Rae Carson
I shake my head. “I need you sharp, Belén. I won’t make the same mistake I made before and exhaust you.”
“I can sleep in the saddle with Hector at point.”
Hector sits on a nearby boulder, scraping one of his daggers with a whetstone. “And Mara will take up the rear—she’s handy with her bow. Storm has the next best distance advantage, with that Godstone of his. I want him beside Elisa. And I want Waterfall where someone can see her at all times.”
“You can trust her,” Storm says from the side of his mount. He buckles a saddlebag and gives the cinch a final tug.
“You really can,” Waterfall echoes in her soft, syrupy voice. “I have no use for any of you Joyans, and I would just as soon murder you all in your sleep, but my brother is now heir to Crooked Sequoia House and I am bound by oath to obey him.”
Storm leans toward her and says in a teaching voice, “Joyans consider it is rude to express one’s true opinion unless it is unequivocally flattering.”
Her brow furrows. “Then how do they express anything at all?”
I roll my eyes at both of them and walk over to mount Horse. She cranes her neck to give me a side-eyed gaze. I stroke her neck. “Good morning, stupid girl. Ready to ride?” I grab the reins and lead her toward the trail. A head toss sends her ridiculous mane flying, and she steps high through the snow.
We travel in silence. There is an odd, expectant hush over the world, as if the thick snow and rolling clouds demand quiet, and everything is helpless but to obey. Even the footsteps of our horses are muted. I marvel at how like a desert this place is, with nuances of light and color that gradually separate themselves from a seemingly uniform and barren landscape.
It is almost time for our afternoon meal and rest break when Storm clicks to his mount and pulls even with me and Horse. “I smell a storm,” he says.
“Well, obviously,” I say, reaching out with a gloved hand to catch snow in the palm of my hand.
“No, I mean it’s going to get worse.”
I wipe my hand on my pants. “Any more will block our trail.”
He nods. “We are still at least a day away from the divide. We should take shelter at the nearest way station.”
“The Deciregi may have crossed out of the rain shadow already. If we stop, it could put them days ahead of us!”
Storm leans over, grabs Horse’s reins from my pommel, and yanks us to a stop. I glare at him, but all my anger fades when he says, “If we don’t stop, we’ll die.”
“That bad?” I say in a small voice.
“I know little about your desert. I could not survive on my own there. I have needed help and guidance to make my journeys as an ambassador. But I do know the mountains. Here, you need my help and guidance. And I say we stop.”
I know what Hector would think; he’d worry that Storm is betraying us, that he stalls us on purpose.
As if my thoughts have summoned him, Hector calls a halt at the front of the line and turns his horse around. “Elisa!” he calls. “I feel a storm coming. A bad one.”
When two people I trust say the same thing, I must consider it a majority opinion. “Storm, can you guide us to the next way station?”
“It’s still a ways off. We must hurry.”
“Ride point for a while.”
He and Hector trade places, and we set off again. The trail is narrow enough that my leg occasionally brushes Hector’s, but neither of us moves to a single-file position.
“Do you have any rope?” he says after a while.
“A little. We all do. Why?”
“The storm could make it too difficult to see one another. I don’t want anyone getting lost.”
“Just like a sandstorm.”
“Just like a sandstorm. If it comes to that, we’ll attach ourselves to a rope line.”
Moments ago, I would never have imagined such a thing as the delicate fluff of snow whirling so thick and hard that it could separate us. But the wind is picking up, turning the falling snow to needles on my face, and I blink rapidly, as if focusing my eyes harder will suddenly make my way clear.
Lightning splits the sky right above us. Thunder booms immediately after, followed by a great crack that echoes like a drumbeat. To our right, a massive sequoia topples over. It crashes through the trees around it, shedding snow and trailing sparks, barely missing the trail. The sharp tang of burned resin fills the air.
The horses mill frantically, and it’s a moment before we have them under control again.
“A thunder snow,” Storm calls out. “Quickly!” He kicks his horse into as fast a gallop as the snow will allow. We follow after, and even Horse picks up her pace with little urging.
“Turnoff ahead!” Storm shouts through the rising wind. “So stay close.”
Hector kicks his horse and pulls even with Storm. They speak for a moment, then Hector pulls a coil of rope from his saddlebag. Starting with Storm and working backward, he loops the rope through everyone’s left stirrup, leaving enough space between horses to maneuver, but not much more. When he gets to Waterfall, he ties off and starts over with a new section of rope.
Once we are lined up, we fork off from the trail onto a path that is completely invisible to me. Our way is narrow and rocky. It’s also steeper, with dangerous switchbacks, and I lean over Horse’s back to keep my seat as she climbs. It would be easy to lose footing in this snow and slip over the edge.
Lightning flashes again, and the sky is so bright for a moment that a picture of the world around us—the tight slope hugged by snow-laden pines, backlit by a greenish sky—is seared into my mind. Thunder booms, and Horse rears up a little, but I pat her neck and she settles.
Ahead, Belén leans precariously in his saddle, and at first I think he’s falling, but then he reaches down and scoops up a large fallen branch. He regains his seat nimbly, then cracks the smaller, forking branches off it as we travel, tossing them into the snow. He’s left with a thick pole that’s almost as tall as he is. I watch in awe as he balances the heavy pole along his left thigh and rides with it.
The wind whips through the trees, across the ground, sending flurries everywhere. Belén and his horse become a blurry outline of darkness, choked out by relentless white. Someone up ahead yells something, but I’ve no idea what.
And then a wind blows through, so monstrous that it nearly knocks me from my saddle. I grasp at the pommel, taking comfort in the fact that the others are near, for the rope connecting us remains taut. But I can neither see nor hear them. I am alone in a darkness of pure white.
Horse plows forward resolutely, head down against the wind. “That’s a good girl,” I mutter, even though I know she can’t hear my voice. “The best girl.”
My feet and hands are becoming numb, dangerously numb, and my teeth chatter. I pray warmth into my limbs. Please, God, help us get through this. You’ve seen us through worse, so I know it’s possible. I’m not sure how Storm will find the way station in this mess, but with you to guide him . . .
Warmth races through my blood in response to my prayer. I’ve never known if the Godstone’s warmth is a true warmth. I’ve considered that it’s illusory only, a mental manifestation that comes from communion with God. I suppose that if I get to the way station and discover frostbite, I’ll know. I just wish in the meantime that I could pray warmth into my companions as well.
I don’t know how long we travel. I slump over the horse as the wind batters me. I am limp and useless, with a jaw that aches from clenching so hard and a forehead with perspiration gone icy.
“We’re here, Elisa,” someone says. “We made it.” Hands pull me from the saddle, and I don’t protest. “Can you stand?”
I’m wobbly, but yes, I can. I look into Hector’s worried face and nod. He wraps me in his arms, and we are both so bundled up it’s like two pillows hugging. I squeeze back as best I can.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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24
WE’VE reached a cave, its opening almost completely covered in deadfall and snowdrifts. Without a word, we attack the entrance, dragging dead branches out of the way and scooping at snow with gloved hands. It’s a race against the weather, for every bit of snow we shovel away is half returned to us by relentless wind.
My fingers are numb and my back aches, but I don’t stop until we’ve cleared enough of an opening for the horses to pass through. Hector draws his sword and disappears inside. He returns a moment later. “All clear!” he yells.
The cave’s opening is low and crooked and dark, and Horse balks. I give her a kiss on the nose and say in soothing tones, “Are you the stupidest horse who ever lived? Yes, you are!” Her hears perk forward, her nostrils flare, and she follows me inside.
The entrance opens into a wide chamber barely large enough for all of us. In the center is an old fire pit, but with the snow so heavy, blocking any vents, we’ll have to be careful. Indentions in the far wall are used for shelves. They hold a small iron pot, some broken cutlery, two chipped wooden cups, and a bundle of kindling.
We lead the horses toward the back, where the cavern curves around a lip of stone and opens into another small chamber. This one is just high enough for the horses to stand comfortably. A small pile of moldy hay lies against one wall. Between that and the little grain we have left, we might have enough to feed them for a day or two.
Mara sets herself the task of getting a fire going, and soon the cave is bathed in cheery warmth. The ceiling is too low, the cavern too crowded, and we might be running out of food. Still, we exchange smiles of shared relief as we unsling our packs and array our bedrolls around the fire pit.
Belén stations himself near the entrance, armed with the long branch he dragged along, and now I finally understand why. Already, a snowdrift re-forms. We’ll be blocked in by nightfall.
“We must watch the entrance in shifts,” he says. “Keep a hole open for smoke. Otherwise we’ll suffocate.”
We skipped lunch, so none of us has the patience for a hot meal. But Mara insists on putting something warm inside us before we go to sleep. So as we dine on dried figs, bread, and cheese, she sets water to boiling to make pine-needle tea.
I’m feeling satiated and warm when Hector stands and stretches. “I need to check the horses,” he says. He turns to me. “Want to learn how to polish tack?”
It’s suddenly hard to breathe, because I know exactly what he’s thinking. “All right,” I manage.
From the corner of my eye, I catch Mara smiling as I get to my feet and follow Hector to the back of the cave and around the small lip of stone.
His arm hooks my waist, and he pulls me into the dark.
I melt against him. His mouth crashes down on mine, and he kisses me desperately, furiously. I respond by pouring out weeks of frustration and worry into our embrace, running my hands up his arms, over his shoulders. My fingers tangle in his hair as I assure myself that he’s here, that he’s mine.
His hand slips under my shirt, splays against the skin of my back. I break off our kiss to trail my lips along his jaw toward his ear, where I whisper, “I’m still taking the lady’s shroud.”
His breath hitches, and he buries his face in my neck and rests there a moment. His heartbeat is as ragged as my own.
Finally he says, “Are you sure, Elisa?”
It’s baffling and amazing to me how, after everything, he can remain the least bit uncertain of my feelings. “It’s one of the few things I’m sure of.”
He lifts his head and considers me thoughtfully. Then he tips up my chin with his thumb and kisses me again—a sweeter, gentler kiss that feels like sun breaking through the clouds.
The pit of my stomach buzzes as I press my forehead into his chest, saying, “I told you that you would kiss me again.”
He laughs. “It’s the ‘and more’ part I remember most vividly.” He gently pushes me away, putting a safe cushion of distance between us. He grabs my hands and lifts them to his lips. “When we reach Basajuan, maybe I can get you to myself for a while.”
The earth tilts a little.
“In the meantime,” he adds, “I really should teach you how to care for tack. I find myself in need of a distraction.”
I grin. “Good idea.”
The storm rages all night and into the morning. After a breakfast of bean mash and hard biscuits dipped in tea, we gather at the fire to take stock of our situation.
“How much food do we have left?” Hector asks as he polishes one of his daggers. It seems he is always doing something toward the upkeep of his weapons. Maybe I should learn from his example.
“One bag of dried corn, two of grain—we should save that for the horses,” says Mara. “Some dates. A round of cheese. Dried meat for one day. I can stretch the meat farther with a stew. I’m out of flour for thickening.”
“You can use pine bark instead of flour,” Hector says.
“We could eat one of the horses,” Belén points out.
My stomach turns at the thought, but I say, “We’re nearly out of grain and can’t feed them anyway.”
“Anything we slaughter will keep for days in this temperature,” Mara says.
“I’ve eaten horse before,” Mula says. “Tastes like dog.”
“Maybe there’s some grass or underbrush buried in the snow outside,” Hector says. “But no one ventures farther than that until it clears. And if you do go out, you must be tied to a rope. No exceptions.”
We all nod agreement.
“Elisa?” Storm says. “What if the weather clears? What then?”
His sister is nodding as he speaks. “The pass is snowed in by now,” she adds. “There is no way through.”
I turn on her. “Then we’ll blow our way through,” I snap. “Storm and I. With our Godstones.”
She opens her mouth to say something but changes her mind.
“I’m not sure that will work,” Hector says.
“Why not?”
“Anything you melt will just refreeze in this temperature. Not even our mountain horses can handle an ice trail. Especially not at an incline.”
The walls close in around me, and darkness boils in my center. I can’t give up. I refuse to believe that after everything I’ve gone through, everything I’ve put my friends through, I’ll be foiled by mere weather. Or maybe not “mere weather.” The rare cold, the poor visibility, the thunder snow, it’s all thanks to Lucero and his volcanoes. “There has to be a way. There has to.”
“The Deciregi might be stuck too,” Belén says. “Or better yet, maybe they’re dead.”
Storm stares at him. “Do you really mean that? Or are you speaking falsehood to comfort Elisa? I can never tell.” To me he says, “The Deciregi were at least a day ahead of us. The storm came at us from behind, so I’m sure they crossed into Joya d’Arena before the heavy snow hit. They’re probably headed north toward Basajuan even now.”
Everyone ponders for a moment. One of the horses snorts, and the fire pops, sending an ember flitting to the ground near the toe of my boot, where it flares and dies.
“Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Mara says. “Maybe the storm will blow itself out soon and the weather will break warm.”
“Maybe,” Belén says, but his voice is tinged with doubt.
I pull my knees to my chest and rest my forehead on them. I mutter, “If the Deciregi reach Basajuan before we do, they’ll raze it to the ground and use the area to mount another offensive, even more massive than the first, against Orovalle and Joya d’Arena. We will lose everything.” And everyone.
“We may have to look to our own survival,” Hector says. I usually love this about him, that he can be practical and frank in the direst circumstance. But right now I can’t help my twinge of annoyance.
“I want ideas, Hector. Solutions.”
“Your safety is my highest priority,” he says, just as sternly. “And I won’t let you starve in
this cave or freeze to death on the trail. If the mountains remain impassable, we must consider retreating back to Umbra de Deus as soon as the weather clears.”
I lift my head to glare at him. “What good does it do to protect a queen if there is nothing to be queen of?”
Firelight shadows the planes of his face and gives a shimmer of red to his black hair, making him look fiercer than ever. Softly, he says, “Do you really think I obsess over your safety just because you are my queen? Surely you know better by now.”
Vaguely, I’m aware of everyone else shifting uncomfortably, of the storm sending a gust of wind inside that makes our fire dance crazily. But I can’t tear my gaze from his face. I know what he’s thinking. I could give it all up. I could wait out the winter and then retire to a hidden location, somewhere remote, and live out my days. All I have to do to survive is remove myself from danger. And Hector would be with me.
I’ve been prepared to give my life for my land and people. But only if it accomplishes something. I’ve never believed in senseless death. At what point does our situation become so perilous and impossible that continuing the fight is senseless?
God, what should I do?
“I have an idea,” Waterfall says.
As one, we turn to stare at her.
“The mines,” she says.
Storm frowns at his sister. “Are your orders to get us all killed? Even if it means sacrificing yourself?”
“No! Of course not. I don’t deny that the mines are deadly. But they’d offer protection from weather and cold. We could travel halfway to Basajuan through the tunnels. The storm will have cleared by the time we come out.”
“Storm,” Hector says in a voice more like a growl. “Tell us about these mines. Tell us everything you know. Do not leave out a single detail.”