The Girl of Fire and Thorns (7 page)

Chapter 7

C
ANDLES sputter in the breeze from my open balcony, and the words of the
Scriptura Sancta
blur on their pages. I am reaching over to snuff the flames when someone knocks on the mysterious door.

Ximena tumbles into my room through the atrium, her hair mussed, her face alert. I shrug in answer to her unasked question. The knock sounds again.

“Come,” I call as my nurse sidles close to my bed.

The door opens silently. Alejandro stands in the doorway, straight and tall and wonderful.

“Hello, Lucero-Elisa. Ximena.”

Ximena relaxes into a graceful curtsy. “Your Majesty.” She straightens and smiles. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll return to bed.”

The king and I haven’t been alone together since our wedding night.

“How was your first day in Brisadulce?” He leans against the wall; the distance between us is disappointing but safe.

“Fine.” I search for something clever to say. “Your kitchen master makes excellent honey and coconut scones.”

At his raised eyebrow, I consider pulling the covers over my head. Queen Rosaura’s delicate face and slender neck swim before me. I doubt she spent much time in the kitchens.

But his pleased smile holds no contempt; he’s taking the compliment to heart. “I’m just sorry I wasn’t able to show you around myself.”

I’m sorry too. I would have liked the excuse to cling to his arm all day. “Lord Hector was pleasant company.”

“Lord Hector is a good friend,” he says carefully. “He became my page when he was a boy. As he grew older, I took him more and more into my confidence.”

I nod politely, wondering what the point is. I haven’t known Alejandro long, but he does not seem one for idle conversation. To fill the space, I say, “He spoke highly of you.” It’s not the exact truth, but it seems appropriate.

“He speaks highly of you also.”

“Oh?” I hope the dim candlelight hides my blush.

“Indeed. He says you’ve got steel in you, that you are wise beyond your years. He wouldn’t say more, which is odd because, as I’ve said, we’re very close.” It bothers him that Hector would keep something from him. And it bothers me to see how deeply aware of my “years” Alejandro is.

“I have no idea what he means,” I lie. Lord Hector watched me intervene on Father Nicandro’s behalf. I don’t know why the guard chose not to relate the incident to Alejandro, but I don’t mind having this harmless secret together.

Alejandro shrugs and looks away, and I find the gesture so vulnerable, so endearing, that I almost blurt the day’s events. I wish he would sit next to me on the bed. I imagine what it would be like to feel his cheek against mine, my fingers in his hair.

Finally he says, “I need your help, Elisa.”

“My help?”

“Please. I’m leaving tomorrow for Puerto Verde, to visit my mother and retrieve my son. He’s been fostering there the last three years.”

“Oh.” I look down to hide my disappointment. “How long will you be gone?”

“A month.”

A whole month!
I’m proud of the evenness in my voice when I say, “And how do you want me to help?”

He grabs one of my new chairs and swings a long leg around to straddle it backward. His arms hug the chair back, and he cocks his head. “Yours is the newest presence in Brisadulce, and a royal one, no less. While I’m gone, some of the others will approach you to take your measure. Maybe to see how useful or important you can be to them.”

I nod along with him. I understand these subtle battles, this understated leveraging for power. I’ve observed it my whole life, my response always one of stunning disinterest. At home, Juana-Alodia is the virtuoso, and Orovalle’s
nobleza d’oro
dances enthralled by her melody.

“You can help me so much, Elisa,” he continues. “Just by paying attention. Write it down if you must. Write down who seeks you out, what they offer, anything you think may be important. And then, when I return . . .”

He wants a spy in his own household. Perhaps he worries that some in his court are preparing to move against him. Or maybe, like Alodia, he simply uses every available pawn to play the game. They would have been well matched, my husband and my sister.

He takes my silence for hesitation. His gaze is unwavering as he rises from the chair and approaches my bed. “Please, Elisa,” he whispers.

My heart pounds in my throat as he takes my hand. It’s shapeless against his straight, strong fingers. But he leans closer, and I smell the spicy wildness of him.

“This is what we discussed,” he whispers. “That night. When I said I could use a friend.”

Our
wedding
night. Why can’t he say it? But I nod anyway. I’d agree to anything, with his lips so near mine.

He leans back, the intensity gone, replaced by that easy, boyish grin. Now that he no longer hovers next to me, my mind begins to clear.

“The door you came through. Where does it lead?”

If he is taken aback by the change in subject, he does not show it. “My suite. It attaches to this one, of course.”

Of course. These rooms must have belonged to Queen Rosaura. He has given me that, at least.

“You will bring the prince back with you, then?”

“Oh, yes! He’s a bright boy. Already a skilled horseman. I’d like very much for you to meet him.”

“I’d like that too.” But it’s not true. I feel even less ready to be a mother than a wife.

He turns to go. Once in the doorway that connects our suites, he glances over his shoulder and says, “Lord Hector was right. There’s steel in you.”

The days following Alejandro’s departure pass interminably. Though I’ve agreed to be his eyes and ears, I avoid the dining hall and its maneuvering nobility as often as possible, preferring to take my meals alone with the kitchen master. He’s a kind fellow, thin and flour dusted, and he seems glad for the company.

During the afternoons, I seek out Father Nicandro. Together, we pour over the
Belleza Guerra
, spotting contextual inaccuracies in my own copy. His study is so like Master Geraldo’s, with its haphazard scrolls and dusty vellum and close-in adobe walls. It smells of candles and age and drying ink, and I have but to close my eyes to imagine myself home in Orovalle, in the one place where I don’t feel useless.

Questions tumble around in my head about the Godstone, about its history, about what Nicandro meant when he called Ximena my “guardian.” But my nurse is always hovering about, guarding me from myself, and I’m afraid to ask lest she change her mind about sparing the priest. One morning I rise early and creep from our suite to seek him out, but he is not there. When I return, Ximena scolds me for venturing out without protection, and the fear in her eyes, true and fierce, frightens me.

Cosmé is in constant attendance. Though no one will take Aneaxi’s place, Cosmé is the most efficient maid I’ve ever had. I tell her so, frequently, and it gives me such a twist of pleasure to watch her react to praise from someone she despises. The
Scriptura Sancta
calls it “the fire of kindness.”

She is cleaning out my fireplace one day, her hands and arms black with soot up to her elbows, when I invite her to move her things into Ximena’s room.

“There is plenty of room,” I assure her. “And I know the servants’ quarters are cramped.”

“Thank you, Highness,” she says without looking up. “But I have my mistress’s suite to myself right now.”

“You do?” I realize I haven’t seen Condesa Ariña in days, maybe weeks.

“She went to Puerto Verde with the king, of course.”

She says it so flippantly, between shovelfuls, but her words are like fists in my stomach.

My voice is tight and wavery. “Does she accompany His Majesty often?”

Cosmé stands, the bucket of soot weighing her shoulder down. A gray-black smear streaks her lovely forehead. “They get away together as often as possible. She accompanies him almost as often as Lord Hector. Would you like a fire tonight, now that it’s all clear?”

“No, thank you,” I whisper. Who would need a fire in this place? I can hardly breathe for the strangulating heat around my neck.

That night, after Ximena has gone to sleep, I sneak down to the kitchens. The kitchen master is there, getting a head start on tomorrow’s batch of bread. He says nothing when he sees my unshed tears, just gestures toward a bench near the round oven and hands me a platter of cheeses. A pungent variety with tiny bits of pepper tingles on my tongue. I eat until my belly aches, until I can no longer distinguish the spice of the peppers. I wash it all down with two glasses of wine and lurch back to my suite.

The next day, General Luz-Manuel, a man I’ve only seen from across a cluster of food platters, calls on me. My head aches from lack of sleep, so I feel justified turning him away with apologies, pleading illness. I know I’ve failed Alejandro by denying a member of his household. Married to him less than a month, and already I’ve failed. But it’s hard to care.

My husband has a mistress. I know it with certainty. “Mistress” has always felt like such a naughty word, but not a serious one. I am a naive child, so out of my depth.

I lie in bed all day. Condesa Ariña’s face flutters in the canopy above me—the coral of her gently flushed cheeks, the softness of her skin. She has a part of my husband that I don’t even begin to understand. I try not to think of them together, but I can’t help it. Then, without meaning to, I start imagining his warm hands on my bare skin. It’s exciting and terrifying, and part of me is glad that I may never know. I’m not sure I could bear to be naked before him.

Late in the afternoon, a pageboy brings a message from the dovecote. Ximena grabs it and sends him away before he can ask questions. She breaks the canister’s seal and hands it to me. I recognize Alodia’s hurried script.

I read the letter over and over, imagining my sister’s exasperated face. When we were children together, she would huff away, rolling her eyes. The Lucero-Elisa of a month ago would have seen this letter as but a grown-up version of that same contempt, that same frustration at my inability to meet hers and Papá’s expectations. But I feel the truth of it now. Alodia thinks I could play the game if I chose to, and play it well.

She thinks I could be a great queen.

It’s heady stuff. I begin to wonder, hesitantly, if she is right. I’ve never wished to rule. Ruling is tedious and exhausting, but better, perhaps, than being useless. And it might be the only way to make Alejandro mine in some way, to matter to him. I toy with the idea for hours, asking what Alodia would do in my place, remembering applicable passages in the
Belleza Guerra
.

I make a mental list of my advantages. Alejandro is housing me in the queen’s suite. I’m not sure what it means, but it’s significant enough that his mistress sent her maid to spy on me the day after I arrived. I have Ximena, a woman I don’t begin to understand, but whose loyalty to me is unquestioned. I’ve made a friend in the head priest of the Monastery-at-Brisadulce. I am a princess of Orovalle and therefore outrank everyone save Alejandro and his young son.

But the hugest advantage of all is that I bear the Godstone. A tremendous honor, I’ve always been told, bestowed by God only once every hundred years, a sign that I am destined for greatness.

But I’ve had several perplexing hints that I don’t know much about it at all: Alodia’s warning that I should trust no one. The execution of a man who recognized my Godstone. The way Father Nicandro reverently referred to my nurse as my guardian. And now Alodia’s letter, which says I was to be taken
safely
away.

The
Belleza Guerra
says to beware of power, for it is the sparking stone of fear. What is it about my Godstone that sparks so much fear?

I place my fingertips against the smooth surface. Even through my nightgown, it pulses soft and warm. If I decide to play this terrifying game, my first move must be to discover what it truly means to be the bearer. And I will have to sneak around Ximena to do it.

I close my eyes and pray.
Did you place your stone inside me to help me become queen?
I can’t decide how I want God to answer.

A warm hand presses against my forehead, and I open my eyes. Ximena looks down at me with an affectionate smile. “You look better,” she says. “More color to your cheeks.”

I smile back. “I feel much better.”

“Are you ready to eat more? I could get some pastries for you, some chilled juice?”

“No, thank you.” My mind whirls with planning, for I may have thought up a way to speak with Father Nicandro in secret. “I’m not hungry.”

Chapter 8

T
HE
Scriptura Sancta
says that all men are equal in the sight of God, and once every week servants sit shoulder to shoulder with merchants and nobles. The first time Ximena and I attended weekly services at the Monastery-at-Brisadulce, we sat on our rough bench surrounded by the merest handful of strangers. Each week the crowd grew, and today, every seat on every bench is taken, and the air is hot with bodies.

I suspect I am the cause of their renewed devotion. Everyone wishes a glimpse of this reclusive princess of puzzling status, this large, foreign-clad girl who frequents the sacred library and prays with such piety. I’m glad for the throng. So many people will make it easier to slip my note to Father Nicandro, right under Ximena’s guardian gaze.

I bow my head as the priests, led by Father Nicandro, guide us through the “Glorifica.” Translated into the Lengua Plebeya, it lacks the lyrical beauty of the original language. Still, the words burn my heart with their richness, and the Godstone responds to our chanting with joyous warmth.

The altar blazes with a spread of prayer candles. Behind it, Father Nicandro lifts a single rose toward the ceiling. It’s the holy variety—I can see the thorns even at this distance—chosen and consecrated because of its bloodred sheen and sharp spikes. He intones about this perfect symbol of the beauty and pain of faith, and we echo our response.

After a hymn of deliverance, Father Nicandro asks those who wish to be blessed to make their way forward with quiet decorum. It was for this reason I chose a seat on the edge of the bench. The ruffles of my skirt trail into the aisle, and I tug them closer to clear the way.

A scattered handful of people rise and begin edging center and front, toward the altar. My head is bowed, but my eyes are open, and I sense someone approach from behind in the aisle. My timing must be perfect. A quick glance over my shoulder reveals a tall, middle-aged woman in a gray maid’s frock. I wait until she is nearly to the edge of my bench.

I launch to my feet and step out in front of her. I hear a gasp as her knees impact, just slightly, the backs of my thighs. I turn my head and smile apologetically; her return grin is shy but genuine.

Ximena rises to follow, but it is too late. At least one person will stand between us, and my nurse will not be able to see what transpires as I ask my blessing.

One by one, each petitioner whispers to Father Nicandro. He prays, then pricks a fingertip with a rose’s thorn. Together, they hold the bleeding finger above the altar until the stone receives a single drop of sacrifice. Father Nicandro makes the cupping sign of the righteous right hand beneath the supplicant’s chin, then passes him or her off to another priest, who awaits with a cleansing cloth and water with witch hazel.

When the young boy in line before me begins whispering to the priest, I reach, so slowly, beneath the waistband of my skirt for the message I prepared. The success of my plan depends on the priest, on his willingness to receive my message during a holy sacrament, on his ability to seem unfazed.

Perhaps I’ve made a mistake. Father Nicandro will be angry with me. What if he interrupts the ceremony? What if Ximena sees? His life could be forfeit after all.

I change my mind. My hand reaches for my waistband again, to shove the message away, but I am not quick enough. The boy has stepped aside to cleanse his finger and Father Nicandro’s gaze has lowered, briefly, to the tiny roll of parchment pinched between my thumb and forefinger.

I step forward to take the boy’s place, holding the roll tight against my breast. Father Nicandro’s left hand cups the back of my neck and pulls my head downward until we are forehead to forehead.

“Your Highness,” he whispers. “What do you seek from God today?” With his other hand, the one that holds the rose, he reaches out and grasps the parchment between his middle and index fingers. With one quick, smooth motion, my message disappears into his voluminous sleeve, as if he is well practiced at intrigue.

He waits calmly for my answer. I give him the truth. “Wisdom,” I whisper back. “I need so much more than I have.”

I sense approval in his voice when he intones the blessing. The prick is fast and deep; I suspect the priest is nonplussed after all, for it is deeper than usual. It throbs as we hold it over the altar, the ensuing drop welling fat. It sizzles and browns when it lands on the hot stone. A smaller drop follows immediately.

Nicandro jerks my hand away and gives me an apologetic smile. I smile back, happy to leave this place with nothing worse than a too-deep thorn prick.

I retreat to the corner to have my finger bathed and bandaged, and the tall maid takes my place. My heart pounds with what I’ve just done. I pray Ximena did not see our exchange, and that Father Nicandro reads the note soon.
Meet me tonight
, it says.
At the first morning hour, next to the ancient texts.

After services, I plead exhaustion and take a nap. I will need the extra sleep to stay quietly awake well after Ximena retires to her room. Like me, she reads from the
Scriptura Sancta
every night, and it could be hours before she blows out her candles to sleep.

I’m awakened from my nap by a knock at the door. Ximena sets down her sewing—she has been constructing looser- fitting skirts and blouses for me from the material at hand—and moves to the door.

She opens it a crack, but the male voice on the other side is muffled. “She’s resting,” Ximena says.

“Who is it?” I whisper from the bed.

“One moment,” she says to the visitor, then turns to me. “It’s General Luz-Manuel. Again.”

I mouth the words, “I can’t turn him away twice.” I’m glad Cosmé has the day off and won’t be here to spy on me as I receive the general. I tumble from my bed as Ximena tosses me a dressing robe. I whisk it around my shoulders and tie it at my neck.

Ximena rolls her eyes conspiratorially, then opens the door. “Please come in, General.”

He rushes in, as if afraid I’ll change my mind. He’s thin and stooped, balding at the top, and he wears the same sculpted mustache as Lord Hector and the rest of the Royal Guard.

Thinking of Lord Hector makes me smile. I’ll be glad to see him again, one of the few who have been truly kind to me since I came here.

“Highness.” He bows low.

“General Luz-Manuel. I apologize for not being more prepared for visitors.”

He waves off my apology. “Do you often feel poorly, Highness?” His eyes are so full with concern.

“I’m always tired after services,” I respond evenly. “Don’t you find the sacrament of pain emotionally exhausting?”

He just shrugs. “The reason I came . . .” He looks down at the floor. “I’ve been elected to invite you, er, officially, to the next Quorum meeting.”

Joya d’Arena’s Quorum of Five. Alejandro’s council, consisting of top-ranking nobles and officers. I must be cautious here, lest they use me to maneuver during his absence.

“Naturally, I’d be happy to attend. I’m not sure what I could offer, though.”

He clears his throat. Perhaps he resents his task as errand boy, or disagrees with the Quorum’s decision to include a child in their meeting. “We are beginning preparations for the war with Invierne.” Like my sister’s letter, he treats war as a foregone conclusion. “We’d like our next discussion to include representation from Orovalle.”

It makes sense. If the people of Joya don’t know about my marriage to Alejandro, then they probably don’t know my father has already committed troops. But this is exactly the kind of thing Alejandro told me to expect, so I know I must play along.

“When is the next meeting?”

“One week from yesterday, directly following the noon meal.”

I give him my most confident smile. “I’ll be there.”

After he leaves, Ximena looks up from her sewing. It always amazes me how invisible she is to visitors. They are foolish to ignore my nurse, for she misses nothing.

“Be careful with the Five, my sky. By reputation, they are clever enough to give even Juana-Alodia a turn.”

I glare at her. Even she measures me against my sister. “I can handle them,” I snap.

“I didn’t say you couldn’t. Just be careful. Be
smarter
than Alodia.”

I look down at my coverlet, feeling guilty for doubting her. “I’ll try.”

Ximena stays up late to finish my skirt. I read from the
Scriptura Sancta
, but even my favorite passages are lifeless on the page. I keep glancing at my nurse. Irritation wars with affection as I watch her bow over the fabric long into the night, wrestling with buttons and ruffled silk. She works so hard on my behalf, and tonight, I betray her.

At long last, she gathers the fabric together and stands, yawning. “I’m so sorry, my sky, but I can hardly see the stitches anymore. I’ll have to finish tomorrow.”

I fix her face in my mind, the round cheeks, the worry lines at her temples. I wish I’d had more time with Aneaxi, wish I’d known to memorize her features. Already her laughing eyes blur and I can’t remember if she stood eye level with me or a little taller. “Thank you, Ximena. The skirt is lovely.”

She lumbers over to my bed and bends down to kiss my forehead. “Sleep well, my Elisa.”

Thankfully, the glow seeping through the atrium from her bedroom flickers out almost immediately, and I’m left wide-eyed in the cool dark.

I wait.

My eyes grow heavy, but nervousness keeps me awake. I dare not light a candle to read. After a while, I rise from the bed to pace silently on slippered feet.

The sound of monastery bells, distant but pure, drifts through my open balcony and strikes midnight. Still I wait, listening at the atrium’s edge for movement from Ximena’s room. Finally I wrap myself in a long robe and creep out the door.

The hallways are silent and glowing. Sparse torches make odd light patterns against sparkling sandstone, and I almost laugh, for Alejandro’s monstrous palace is nearly beautiful at night. I’m terrified that I’ll be seen. The shape of my body is nothing if not recognizable, and even a fleeting glance would give me away.

I chide myself for cowardice. I’ve as much right to walk the halls late at night as anyone else. A clever excuse would not be so hard to come by. Still, my thighs burn from stepping with quiet precision, and when I finally reach the wooden monastery doors, my jaw aches from clenching my teeth.

I hurry inside and tiptoe to the library to await Father Nicandro. Just enough moonlight filters in through the long windows for me to find my way into the archive where the oldest documents are stored. I settle on a scribing stool.

I don’t wait long. A pool of candlelight announces his presence. I look up, startled, marveling at his stealth.

“Your Highness,” he whispers. “You used our most sacred ceremony to summon me here. I trust you had good reason?”

My shoulders slump. “I’m sorry, Father. I thought it best, but . . .” I shrug, unable to look him in the face.

He settles next to me, placing the candleholder on the table between us. In its flickering light, I see ancient scrolls on shelves, piles of parchment ready for copying, wooden cupboards that house the oldest, most light-sensitive documents, and I realize I’ve forced him to bend yet another tenet of his occupation. “I’m so sorry.” I gesture lamely at the candle. “I wasn’t thinking. I know candles don’t belong in scribing rooms.” Sunlight only was the rule back home, for it became too easy to knock over a lamp or candle after hours of scribing. My neck is hot with embarrassment.

“Elisa. What is it? Why this secret meeting?”

I look up, and his eyes are so full of compassion that I blurt, “I need help. I need to know about the Godstone.”

A grin splits his face. “I suspected as much. I will help in any way I can.”

My relief is so great, it’s hard to keep my lower lip from quivering. “Really?” It’s overwhelming, this feeling that someone will help me.

“Really. Had you been born here, in Brisadulce, it would have been my task to instruct you in all things pertaining to the Godstone. So we shall discuss it thoroughly while keeping an eye on this candle.” His tone is one of gentle teasing. “Now tell me, what
do
you know of it?” In the candlelight, his eyes are more piercing than ever, his nose beakish. I warm to his zeal, so like my old tutor’s.

I take a deep breath. “I know all the passages in the
Scriptura Sancta
relating to the Godstone and the bearer by heart. So I know God chooses one child each century for an act of service.” I realize my fingers have traveled to the stone in my navel from habit. “I know God stuck this thing in me during my naming ceremony. I can feel it living there, pulsing like a second heartbeat. It responds to things sometimes, things I don’t always understand. Mostly, it responds to my prayers.”

He nods along with me. “And the Godstone’s history? What do you know?”

“Besides myself, only one bearer has been chosen from Orovalle. That was four centuries ago, soon after our valley was colonized. All the others have been from Joya.”

“Do you know anything about the nature of this service?”

I shrug. “Just that it’s something big and wonderful and . . .” I’m gesturing with my hands, trying to explain a concept that feels so huge, but remains vague in my mind. “I guess I don’t know much about it at all. I grew up hearing about my destiny. People seem to think I’m going to be some kind of . . . hero.” I feel the blush creeping into my cheeks. It’s ludicrous, and I peer through the dimness, expecting to find those sharp eyes mocking me.

But it’s too dark to tell. “And the first bearer from Orovalle. Do you know what act of service he performed?”