The Girl of Fire and Thorns (14 page)

Even Cosmé joins our conversation at times, though she is guarded. There are so many things I want to know, about the Godstone, about the prophecy she spoke of, about her service to Condesa Ariña. But I dare not ask. Her desire to rip the stone from my belly is never far from my thoughts, so I’m careful to keep our discourse light and unprovoking.

Because of the way the afternoon sun blazes at my back, I know we travel east, toward the outer holdings and the amassing army of Inviernos. But the fastest way to silence the group is to ask about our destination. On my third attempt, Humberto finally says, “It’s a secret place, Princess, and you’ll not learn more than that.”

We leave the plateau and enter a rocky desert of squat bushes and occasional cactuses. The camels graze as they walk, chewing on dry grass and rigid thorns with equal enthusiasm. I’m delighted to hear the cry of vultures. And everywhere are unblinking lizards, too brave or lazy to scatter from our path until the last instant.

Our incline steepens; the way grows jagged with deep fissures and buttes that spring from the earth to dizzying heights. I could wander the maze of this desert for a lifetime and never find my way home. My only hope is that our secret destination will provide some means of getting a message to my husband.

At long last, after nearly a month of hot travel, we skirt a monolithic butte layered in smears of orange and yellow. On the leeward side, a village cozies up to the mountain in a series of giant stair steps, near invisible with its matching orange-hued brick. People scurry about and wave like mad when they spot us.

My heart pounds and my throat tightens. Not long now until they realize they were wrong to take me, that I cannot help them at all.

Cosmé rushes forward to greet an older man coming toward us. He wears the same generous desert robes as my companions, so it’s a moment before I notice that one sleeve lies flat against the side, empty. Other villagers come into view. They are ragged. Wounded. Several faces bear burn scars, rippling like the windy side of a sand dune. Others, like the man clinging to Cosmé, are missing limbs. One young boy, not much older than Rosario, wears a wad of wool shoved into his eye socket, tied down with a strip of dirty fabric.

Most of them are children.

I remember back, a lifetime ago, to the meeting of the Quorum of Five. We’d just received a dispatch from Conde Treviño that requested aid but assured us there had been no casualties yet. Perhaps news travels slowly.

“Oh, Humberto,” I whisper, frantic. “We didn’t know—
I
didn’t know—that the war had started already.” I place my fingertips to my Godstone and send a quick prayer for warm comfort.

Humberto reaches down and gently lifts my chin with his forefinger. The hopelessness in his eyes frightens me. “Princess. The war with Invierne never ended.”

Chapter 15

I
don’t understand. The last war was a skirmish, really. It ended after only two years of fighting, when Alejandro’s father drove Invierne high into the Sierra Sangre.

The older man releases Cosmé from a one-armed embrace and hobbles toward me, staring. “Cosmé,” he whispers. “You have brought me the champion.”

She snorts. “She bears the Godstone, anyway.”

He ignores her, his black eyes fixed on my abdomen. “It sings to me,” he murmurs. “They said it would, should I ever encounter it, but I did not believe.”

“Who?” I demand. “Who said that?” Father Nicandro sensed it too, but I didn’t have the chance to ask him about it.

“The priests, of course. At seminary.” His face twitches beneath a short gray beard.

Humberto steps forward. “Princess, this is my uncle, Father Alentín, formerly of Conde Treviño’s holding.”

“You’re a priest?” I’ve never seen one like him before, ragged and filthy and mutilated.

He blinks. “So sorry, my child. Or . . . Princess? I’m not being very welcoming, am I? It’s just I never expected . . . I mean . . . yes, a priest. Ordained at the Monastery-at-Brisadulce, and”—shaking fingers press against his lips as he closes his eyes—“I cannot believe we found the bearer at last.”

The Godstone is quiet within me, neither warning nor approving, but his hopeful desperation disturbs me. From behind him, tattered children creep toward us, eyeing me with a mix of awe and suspicion. I resist the urge to hide behind Humberto.

Humberto settles a protective arm across my shoulders and says, “We’ve traveled a great distance, Uncle. We desperately need baths and something to eat. Fresh meat, maybe. Some fruit would be nice. Anything not dried.”

My mouth waters at his words, and I lean into him gratefully.

The children surround us and herd us toward the clinging adobe buildings. Even exhaustion and thirst cannot overcome my wariness, for some in the crowd—like Cosmé—regard me with such predatory hunger, as if I am a juicy pig roast garnished with pepper sauce.

The buildings are merely a front for a cool cavern system that worms through the great butte. Fresh springs provide drinking water, even a wide, shallow pool for bathing and laundry. Cosmé shows me where I can undress and bathe in private, a little alcove tucked away with a rock shelf for my clothes. She thrusts a dirt-encrusted bulb at me—it’s layered and crisp like an onion—and tells me it will lather against my skin. The water is cold and reaches midthigh, but it’s clear as crystal, and my toes wriggling in the sand seem closer, like I could reach down and grab them without bending.

As soon as I’m alone, I try to remember how Lady Aneaxi, and later Ximena, laundered my clothes. We had servants for that purpose, so my ladies laundered rarely. I recall soaking and rubbing, a little soap. Unsure how much time I’ll have, I hurry out of the robes and dunk them. After much swirling and wringing, I apply the onionlike bulb and get a light lather. It smells tartly of broken leaves but seems to work well enough, as grime and oily sweat and a few stray hairs swirl away in the circulating water. I also wash my nightgown, the one I wore when Cosmé and the others wrested me from my bed. It’s made of creamy silk and fine lace with tiny glass buttons along the front, and it might be valuable enough to trade, valuable enough to bribe an escort back to Brisadulce.

I wring it out gingerly. Then, holding it at the shoulder seams, I give it a light flip to pull the fabric taut, the way Ximena would. And I freeze, looking at the thing in my hands. It feels foreign, from another life. So delicate and lovely. So . . . huge.

I gasp. Shaking, I pull the soaking garment against my torso, hold it at shoulder level, let the hem swim in the water. It’s more than huge. It’s a tent of a gown, with armholes that scoop halfway down my rib cage, with extra gathers to allow a bust of mountainous proportion.

I let it drop into the water.

I’ve been wrapped in shapeless robes and camel-hair chaps for nearly a month. Breathing hard, I peer—hesitatingly—at my navel. I’m shocked to see the winking blue of my Godstone peering back. I raise an arm and admire the curving shape of it, the way my upper arm tapers so naturally into my forearm, like they were meant to live together. I run my hands across my breasts, down my sides, over my buttocks, around to my thighs. Then tears spring to my eyes as I do it again.

I am not even close to thin. Certainly not beautiful like Alodia or Cosmé. But I don’t have to part my breasts or press into my stomach to see my Godstone. I still crave honey pastries, but my head doesn’t pound to think of them. I can walk all day without getting a rash.

I can walk all day.

I lie back in the water and float, smiling up at sparkling stalactites, at shafts of aquamarine light that pour through clefts in the rock. When Cosmé returns to fetch me, I tell her I need more time.

I’m not done being naked.

That night, everyone gathers beneath a monolithic overhang. It’s as if the cupped hand of God swept along the base of the rock, leaving a vast half-cavern with a canopy that is part rock, part star-pricked sky. A cooking pit glows red in the center, surrounded by too few people. No more than forty, and at least two-thirds of them are younger than me.

Father Alentín presides over a feast of lamb braised with turnips, fresh parsley, and marjoram. He pats the sandy ground in invitation, and I settle next to him, cross-legged. The others give us wide distance, glancing over their bowls. I eye them warily.

As I eat, I hold each bite in my mouth, savoring the moist richness, the zing of just-warmed turnip. He tells me flocks of sheep are hidden in a nearby valley, along with fields of potatoes and turnips and carrots. He encourages me to eat as much as I want, assuring me that although people lose their lives daily in this time of war, food, at least, is plentiful.

“Father,” I mumble around a mouthful of meat. “Alejandro, the king. He does not know you are at war.”

Speaking my husband’s name makes my throat twinge with sadness. I hope he is well. I hope he searches for me.

Alentín is shaking his head. “Of course he doesn’t, dear girl. No one has told him.”

I chew and swallow. “I don’t understand.”

“We don’t dare tell him we already fight, that we’ve already lost more battles than we can count. His Majesty, may he live forever and prosper greatly, bears no great love for the hill country. He’d just as soon give us up for lost than send help. He’d
rather
give us up. He’s already so short on troops from the last war, you see, and we’ve been such trouble. So difficult to govern from across the desert, with little of value to offer the crown. Our sheep and cattle are the finest in the kingdom, but are poor stock indeed after a forced march across wasteland. He is better served to take inferior tithes from the coastal holdings.” I nod, remembering my studies with Master Geraldo. Joya d’Arena’s greatest weakness, he always said, was its sheer size.

A girl no more than eight years old approaches shyly with a tray of date balls. I decline, already full, but Alentín grabs one and pops it into his mouth. He chews as he talks. “The one thing we have is gold. The hills vomit a bit of the stuff every year during the flash floods, but His Majesty, may multitudinous sons spring from his loins, does not have an exceeding passion for it. Still, it’s
something
to keep his interest. We got word a few years ago, from someone highly placed in his court, that if full fighting broke out in the hills, he might declare us a casualty and simply surrender the land.”

Oh, he definitely would. My heart thuds, as I recall how glad Alejandro was when I advised evacuation of the villages. I was foolish enough to think his gladness was for me, for my wise counsel. Now I see that he was looking for an excuse to turn his back on these people. “You do not dare tell him how nearly lost the hill folk already are.”

“We do not dare. By all accounts, he is a good man but a weak king. He always chooses the surest, easiest path, if he chooses any path at all.”

Though his words ring with disappointing truth, I doubt he would say such things if he knew I was the king’s wife. “So he must be made to believe there is still hope, lest he refuse any aid.”

“Yes.”

But the king will never send aid. I cannot look at the priest’s face for wondering what part I have played. I close my eyes for a moment and imagine meeting with the Five all over again. If I knew then what I know now, would my counsel have been different? If I had seen these ragged orphans in the flesh, seen how they suffered, would I have found a way to justify a distant war front? It’s so hard to know.

“Father Alentín, what exactly do you think I can do for you?”

He wipes his mouth with the hem of his robe and belches happily. “We hope you can save us, of course. For nearly twenty years, we searched for the bearer. These last few, while the fighting has been most intense, we sent people to every part of Joya d’Arena looking for you.”

Anger rumbles in my chest like an avalanche. Even here, so far from home, the expectation for my service is a yoke around my neck. I say through gritted teeth, “How can I save you? I’m just a girl. I eat too much. I hate the idea of ruling things. There is nothing I can . . . Well, I’m good at embroidery. Shall I embroider you a lovely victory tapestry?” I want to hit something. I eye Cosmé, talking to Belén in the distance.

“My dear girl, you have something none of us have.”

I sigh. “The Godstone.”

“Sorcery.”

“What?” Sorcery is such an archaic term, used only in classical study. “No, I don’t. The
Scriptura Sancta
forbids sorcery.”

He smiles. “Ah, little princess, humans were never meant for this place, you know. But the First World died and God brought us here with his righteous right hand anyway.” He leans forward, black eyes intent. “Homer’s
Afflatus
tells us that magic crawls beneath the skin of this world, desperate to squirm free. To combat it, God selects a champion every century, someone who can fight magic with magic.”

He settles back and crosses his legs while I reflect on my midnight meeting with Father Nicandro in the monastery library. . . .
He was led, like a pig to the slaughter, into the realm of sorcery
.

“Invierne!” I gasp. “That’s the realm of sorcery!”

He nods. “My niece tells me you are from Orovalle, a Vía-Reforma kept in ignorance of bearer lore.”

I bow my head, unsure whether or not to feel ashamed.

“Foolish cultists,” he spits. “His Majesty, may sun finches warble sweet melodies in his ear, was wise to steal you away.”

Steal me away. As Alentín scrambles to his feet, it occurs to me that maybe Alejandro agreed to our sham of a marriage only in part because Papá promised troops. Maybe he needed a savior too.

Alentín asks, “Would you like to borrow my copy of the
Afflatus
?”

“Oh, yes,” I breathe. “Very much.”

I’m given two beeswax candles—precious commodities, Father Alentín tells me—and a squat box of an adobe hut. After hanging my nightgown on a peg, I flip my bedroll across hard-packed clay and settle onto my stomach to read the
Afflatus
. I shiver at the introductory paragraph, knowing I read God’s history, hoping I’ll discover something of my own destiny.

It is I, Homer the mason, chosen of God to bear His Stone. To the families survived of God’s righteous right hand, now scattered to the edge of the sand: Greetings.

Homer tells his own story first. Like me, he received the Godstone on his naming day when a shaft of light thrust into his navel. Growing up, he was feared. Sometimes ridiculed. The priests took an interest in the boy, for they sensed something about the stone, something that made them want to sing hymns or pray or maybe laugh aloud. So they took him into the monastery and taught him to read and write the Lengua Classica. Then, when he turned sixteen, they sponsored his apprenticeship to a local mason.

He was tending the brick ovens one day when God smote him with a vision and demanded he write down every word. Homer fell against the oven door, comatose, and his arm sizzled there while God spoke to him. When he came to, he rushed to the monastery. His left arm was charred and oozing, but he refused all aid until he sat upon a scribing stool with ink, quill, and vellum before him.

Homer bore the burn scars proudly for the rest of his life, but I wonder about a god who would allow such a thing. Surely this man held a special place in God’s heart. Yet he suffered greatly.

And he was not the only one. According to Father Nicandro, some of the bearers died during their acts of service. Many did not complete them at all. I wonder which would be worse.

I’m just beginning Homer’s account of the actual vision when a presence fills the doorway behind me. I turn over.

Humberto stands there, eyes wide, bedroll under one arm. He cuts a slimmer figure than when we first met—like it did me, the desert sucked all the water out of him—and the candlelight accentuates new hollows beneath his cheekbones. I’m glad to see him.

“Hello, Humberto.”

“Princess.” But he doesn’t move to enter.

“You still think I’m in danger? That someone could murder me for the stone I carry?”

He shifts on his feet. “I can’t say. My people are not mur-derers. But they are desperate. And hardened.”

“Then it would help me sleep soundly tonight to know you were nearby.”

He grins and enters, then lays his bedroll before the threshold. As he unlaces his boots, I see him eye the hanging nightgown.

It’s the loveliest thing in the village, its tiny weave and shimmering folds so obviously out of place. “It doesn’t fit anymore,” I say casually. “But it’s the only thing I have left from . . . from before. I can’t bear to part with it.” It’s not true, of course. I hope it will be my way out of this remote village.

He stretches out onto his side and props his head up with a forearm. “Don’t worry, Princess.” He nods solemnly toward the gown. “A few weeks of regular food and water will set you right.”

He closes his eyes and sighs, too quickly to see my perplexed look. Does he think I want to fit into the nightgown again?