The Girl of Fire and Thorns (16 page)

I know I must learn more about the animagi; they seem to be the key to Invierne’s strength. The first documented instance of an animagus in battle is the account of Hitzedar the bowman. Since then, they’ve shown themselves infrequently, but to hear Alentín and Belén talk, encountering one of Invierne’s reclusive sorcerers is commonplace.

“Belén, I need to find out more about the animagi. What do they eat? What do they wear? What do they
want
? Maybe someone has infiltrated their camp. Maybe Conde Treviño—”

“You need to talk to Cosmé.”

“What?”

“Cosmé. If you want to talk to someone about sneaky things”—he waggles an eyebrow at me—“talk to her. She’s a spy.”

I allow my head to fall into my hands. Of course she is. She’s probably as efficient a spy as she is a laundress. I thank him and dash away in search of the travel escort/maid/healer/spy.

She’s in the half-cavern, tending the wounded. Another man died during the night, she tells me before I have a chance to say anything. But the others might heal. It will be a few days before we know for certain.

“Can I ask you some questions?” I expect her to brush me away, but I have to try.

“About?”

“Er . . . sneaky things.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“I’m trying to learn about Invierne. Especially the animagi. If my father or my sister were ruling in Conde Treviño’s place, we’d have infiltrated the enemy camp by now. We’d know who leads them, what their plans are, what they eat for breakfast, what they—”

“Treviño knows nothing.”

My disappointment is like a stone in my gullet. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” She stands stiffly and faces me. “I suggested it when I was in his court. I thought we should send spies with the supplies. But the conde and his daughter felt it too risky.”

That makes no sense. “Supplies?”

Cosmé’s face wrinkles with disgust. “The good conde made a deal with Invierne, you see. They don’t attack his holdings, he sends them sheep and foodstuffs.”

My heart beats against the base of my skull. “This is a jest.”

“No.”

“The conde is a traitor.”

“Yes.”

“Does the king know?”

She shakes her head. “Ariña would never tell him.”

Ariña? What does my husband’s mistress have to do with . . . then I understand, and I roll my eyes at myself for not having seen it sooner. “Ariña is Conde Treviño’s daughter.”

“Yes. She represents her father in the Quorum of Five.”

“So you were sent to spy. As Ariña’s maid. Spy on what?”

She shrugs. “Officially, to glean palace gossip. To help Ariña in her bid to become the next queen. But by then, Humberto and I had connected with Uncle Alentín’s group.” She snorts derisively. “I guess we’re revolutionaries of sorts, rebelling against the conde’s betrayal, against the king’s useless passivity. So I went to Brisadulce, hoping to find the bearer. I found you.” She looks around the cavern floor, at the sprinkling of injured villagers. She chuckles, but her eyes are devoid of humor. “What a fearsome group we make, don’t you think, Highness? A bunch of children, playing at revolution.”

“Call me Elisa.” I look around too, but instead of seeing hopelessness, I see wounded survivors. I see a lovely, hidden village that prospers in spite of the war. “Cosmé, how serious are you about continuing the fight? I mean, why not just walk away? If you fled, north of Orovalle maybe, you could live.”

Her lips press together as her black eyes widen. Even angry and sad and streaked with dirt, she is a beautiful girl. “I will never give up,” she spits, stepping forward until her forehead is inches from mine. “They killed my parents. They killed most of my friends. I’m going to kill as many of them as I can before they finally stick an arrow in my gut or burn me to ashes.”

I resist the urge to step back. “And the others? Do they feel as you do? Will they keep fighting?”

“Most of them, yes.”

We stare at each other for a long moment. “Good,” I say.

Surprise flickers in her eyes before I turn and walk away. The threads of a battle strategy are patterning together in my mind. It’s an insane plan, like nothing the warriors of Joya d’Arena have ever tried before.

It will never work.

Chapter 17

T
HE ceiling of our hut glows rich ochre in the candlelight. I stare at it, unable to sleep for the ideas buzzing in my head. Humberto’s breathing is steady and regular. He’s probably asleep already. I blurt, “I want to call a meeting. Of the whole village.”

Humberto starts, then rolls onto his side. “You do?” he yawns.

“I do.” I study his face, looking for disapproval or misgiving. He is quite handsome, I realize suddenly, with his desert-bred cheekbones and glorious hair.

He blinks, eyes lidded with sleepiness, and rubs the stubble on his chin. “A meeting for what?”

“To talk about the war. I have some ideas.”

“You should have Uncle Alentín call it. He’s been thinking of holding worship services for us all. The children look up to him.”

“Good idea.”

Humberto yawns again, then rolls onto his back and shields his eyes with a forearm.

“Do you think they’ll listen to me?” I ask.

He lifts his chin and looks at me upside down. “Yes, Princess. You are the bearer. They will listen to you.” He settles back and closes his eyes.

“You don’t still think someone will try to rip the stone from my body, do you?”

“I might,” he mumbles.

“What?”

“If you don’t let me sleep, I might rip it out myself.”

I’m much relieved to see the grin spread across his face. “Oh.”

“Good night, Princess.”

“Call me Elisa.”

He growls.

“Sorry. Good night.”

Alentín agrees to call a meeting, but suggests we wait. “We just sent scouts to look for more survivors,” he explains. “We’ll wait for them to return.”

I can’t argue, though I’m not happy at the prospect of growing sick with nervousness over the next several days. Alodia was always the one to address the court. Except for a few minor toasts, I managed to hide quietly in the background. This should feel different. Fifty or so orphaned children shouldn’t frighten me. It’s not like I’ll be standing before the golden horde of Orovalle while they study the puckered fabric at my waist or twitter about how much I ate.

I am the bearer, I tell myself. I represent hope for these people.

I find I can no longer sit still for such long periods of time, so I ask Cosmé to teach me about duerma leaf. She narrows her eyes in distrust as she ponders my request. For a moment, I’m reminded of Lord Hector, of the way his busy mind spun beneath his careful countenance. It saddens me to think of him and Alejandro and Ximena searching for me, worried about what has befallen me. I wish there was a way to get a message to Brisadulce.

“I’ll teach you.”

I step back in surprise. “Thank you.”

She guides me over the north ridge into a small twisting valley. The day is particularly hot, and grit fills my mouth with each sharp breeze.

“It grows in the shade,” she says. “Usually in soft soil, but not always. Look for it on the sunrise side of boulders.” She points to a low shrub with broad leaves of velvety sea green. “It produces small yellow berries twice a year. The berries are poisonous, but the leaves are very useful. I’ve been giving the wounded a mild tea to help them sleep.” She strips several leaves in a smooth, gripping motion. “Don’t pull it up at the root. If you strip the leaves, they’ll grow back next year.”

I copy her motion and end up with several, moist where they broke off from the stem. They smell faintly of cinnamon. “What did you use on me?” I ask. “It wasn’t a tea. And it worked quickly.”

Cosmé nods. “Duerma leaf holds a lot of water. If you take the fattest leaves and squeeze the moisture from them”—she plucks a larger leaf and waves it in front of my nose—“then let it dry into a powder, you get something that will make a person sleep for days if inhaled.”

“Like me.”

“Like you.”

“Could someone die from this?”

She shrugs. “Sometimes. A very concentrated dose would do it, maybe. If we harvested the berries, I’m sure I could concoct an effective poison. And sometimes people just react strangely to it.”

“So there was a chance I would die.”

She smiles, and I’m startled at the genuine humor in her black eyes. “A very small chance. At the time, you were quite . . . large. It would have taken an enormous amount.”

I glare at her, even though I don’t mean it. “And the tea you gave Ximena. How effective do you think that was?”

“She probably awakened late morning with a pounding headache.”

“Interesting. Very interesting.” I look around the tiny valley. It’s dry mostly, and rimmed in cactuses, but duerma leaf and mesquite huddle together in shady places. “Is there a lot of it around?”

She lifts her chin. “What exactly are you planning . . . Elisa?”

“Not sure yet. But I think we’ll need lots of duerma leaf. And—” I raise an eyebrow at her. “Sneaky people.”

The half-cavern fills quickly. We don’t usually light torches for fear of discovery, but tonight is the exception. Everyone has come, even the limping wounded. One of the scouts—a young man no older than seventeen—brought back five survivors, half starved but uninjured, so a hint of celebration buzzes in the chatter as we wait for Father Alentín to begin services. As I look out over the congregating people, my palms begin to sweat, and I regret eating so much jackrabbit stew for dinner. Our number nears sixty now. I try to think of something else.

I helped prepare dinner tonight, even skinned a rabbit under careful supervision. Rabbits, I learned, part from their skin with disturbing ease. My clumsy knife produced a ripped and useless hide, but I’m confident I can do it again if the need arises.

Alentín steps onto a boulder and holds his good arm at shoulder height until everyone is silent and attentive. He clutches a rose in his hand. I hope he either has another one stashed away, or doesn’t expect many petitioners. If he intends to officiate the sacrament of pain, a single rose will not remain sharp of thorn for so many prickings.

Together we recite the “Glorifica,” then he begins to sing. I recognize the words, though the melody is a bit different, more minor and haunting than I’m used to, but the combined voice of the children is as high and clear as bells. I catch on quickly and sing my hope to God.

We finish our hymn and line up for the sacrament. In Brisadulce, when Father Nicandro officiated, only a scattered few sought the pain of devotion. But here, in this place of desperate hope and brutal reality, every single person, adult and child, lines up to be pricked by the rose and receive a blessing.

Father Alentín prays, asking God’s favor on the ceremony, then quotes the
Scriptura Sancta
: “Has not God chosen those who are pained in this world to inherit his paradise? For it is through suffering we understand our need for his righteous right hand. Indeed, our spiritual needs outweigh our physical ones. Blessed be the name of God.” One by one they are pierced and blessed and tended to. Belén acts as the priest’s assistant, anointing their tiny prick wounds with ointment, wrapping them in bandages, giving the occasional cryer a quick hug.

When it’s my turn, Father Alentín smiles sadly, even as he grasps my neck and pulls my forehead against his own.

“What is it you seek, child?”

Last time, I prayed for wisdom. God must have answered my prayer, for I certainly feel wiser now. Older. Different. But I still don’t understand what God wants from me. I sigh. “Alentín, I need faith. I have so many doubts about God and His will.”

His lips, moist and warm, press against my forehead. “Everyone has doubts,” he whispers. “Pray through them. God will show you what to do when the time comes.”

He pricks my finger, and it throbs faintly. He holds my hand over the cooking pit—no glorious altar in this remote place—until a single drop of blood browns on the hissing coals. He nudges me toward Belén, who cleanses and wraps my finger with reverent care. Then I take a seat against the wall and close my eyes, breathing deep to calm my churning stomach.

The sacrament is over too soon. A hand grips my shoulder. I look up into Alentín’s kind face. “It’s time, Elisa.”

I can’t move.

“If you want to address everyone, you must do it now.”

“What if they don’t listen to me?”

He doesn’t answer. I put my fingertips to the Godstone and take a ragged breath. “God,” I whisper. But I am unable to finish my prayer for the sudden power that courses from my navel, up my spine, down my arms, like soft lightning. My eyes widen, my mouth hangs open, my fingers twitch.

“Elisa?”

I look around at the assembly. They sit cross-legged, mostly young faces shimmering with firelight and with hope. They stare at me, waiting. “I’m supposed to do this,” I murmur in wonder. The terror is still there. My legs are stone pillars as Alentín helps me to my feet, but there is rightness in my gut too, mixing with the fear. He leads me to the boulder. I don’t step up, knowing I’ll never be able to balance on the thing.

Alentín sits before me, and I am the only one left standing.

“Um, hello,” I say eloquently.

A few mutters and nods.

“I am Lucero-Elisa de Riqueza, Princess of Orovalle. And I, uh, bear the Godstone.” Some raised eyebrows, a few gasps—probably from the newcomers. “I was a guest of His Majesty, King Alejandro de Vega, in the city of Brisadulce for a time.” With a start, I realize I’ve been in the desert longer than I was with the king. “There, I was privy to a war council of the Quorum of Five. I know what is coming and what the king plans, and I can tell you it will not be enough. Alejandro has no intention of sending aid. We are on our own to defend the hill country.” I dare not tell of my part in Alejandro’s decision, but my face burns with the truth.

“You’re certain?” a man yells.

I look in the general direction of his voice. “I’m certain. He may send a small contingent to force evacuation, though.”

The place erupts with panic. Bile fills my throat at the hurt in their faces, at their sense of betrayal. But I need them to be angry. I clasp my hands behind my back and wait as the initial shock wears to a general din, then silence.

“We cannot look to the king for help,” I say when I have their attention again. “And we cannot depend on Conde Treviño to protect us. From what I understand, two vast armies prepare to march on Joya d’Arena. King Alejandro could defeat one of these armies perhaps, but two? And I know of no defense against the fire of the animagi.” I shake my head. “They are many, we are few. We are wounded and tired. They are grown men and women. We are mostly children. We can expect no aid. In short, we cannot war with Invierne and live.” I have practiced these words for days, yet I fear they are coming too fast.

“Then we die honorable deaths!” someone hollers. A buzz of agreement follows, though some stare at the cavern’s chalky floor in silence.

“Honor from death,” I snap, “is a myth. Invented by the war torn to make sense of the horrific. If we die, it will be so that others may live. Truly honorable death, the
only
honorable death, is one that enables life.”

“Are you suggesting retreat?” It’s Humberto’s soft voice. Even in the firelight I can see the disappointment on his face.

“Not exactly.” I smile at him, taking comfort in his presence. My own personal guard, like Lord Hector is to Alejandro. Humberto can’t help himself; he smiles back.

The crowd shifts uncomfortably. I must make my case quickly before I lose their confidence.

“I’ve thought long and hard these last few days about how we could defeat Invierne. But of course, defeating them here in the hill country is impossible. We cannot defeat Invierne; therefore we should not try. This does not mean”—I hold up my hand to forestall the grumbling disagreement—“that we will not fight. I believe we can and we should.”

My words are right and true, and I pace back and forth with the energy that buzzes in my limbs. “But we will never engage in an all-out battle. Our goal will be to harass them. Weaken them. Terrorize them. We will be the spirit of death that visits them in the night, the hidden viper in their path. We will be the Malficio, the curse on their existence. Yes, they will eventually cut a wide path through our hills, and they will reach King Alejandro and the costal holdings. But by the time they do, they will be exhausted from triple watches, starving from interrupted supply trains, and fearing for their lives, for they cannot know when next the Malficio will strike.” My smile is wickedly genuine when I say, “If we are very clever, very careful, I think we can give the king a huge advantage. I think we can help him win this war. But there can be no heroes, no honor in senseless death. Our goal will be to sting them only, and live to sting again.”

They nod to one another, murmuring assent. I almost have them.

“There are only fifty of us!” a young man yells. It’s Jacián, the silent companion on our desert journey. “And so many of us are wounded. Crippled, even. Most are far too young to hold a weapon.”

“Yes, and those who can’t fight will have even more important tasks.” At this, several heads perk up, eyes widen. I suddenly understand that the littlest ones, the ones who have suffered the most, could be my greatest adherents. I need only convince them they are needed. “I’m sure some among you are cunning gossips. You are to take refuge in the larger villages and begin spreading rumors of the Malficio, the spirit of vengeance that rises in the hills against Invierne. You will have no firsthand knowledge, naturally, but you will encourage speculation. The rumors should make their way to the enemy quickly. Then you will return.

“Others will harvest duerma leaf. As much of it as we can find. Still others will make garments to closely match those of our enemy. There is so much work ahead of us that every hand, every mouth, every mind will be needed.”

I scan the crowd, gauging their reactions. Most sit forward, attentive. Others narrow their eyes as they consider my words. Even Jacián nods a grudging accord.

“Since there are two armies,” Belén calls from his place beside Cosmé, “they must be talking to each other. If we can figure out how to stop them from communicating—”

“Yes!” I almost jump in excitement. I hadn’t made that connection yet. “Belén, that is exactly the kind of thinking we need.”