The Girl of Fire and Thorns Complete Collection (7 page)

I do not correct them. I haven’t decided what to do with my knowledge that the Perditos have allied with Invierne, that magic was used to sicken our land. I say only that Zito and I rescued each other from bandits, that we killed Espiritu and scattered the Perditos. I order my guards to spread the idea that maybe the Perditos were the ones causing God’s wrath, that the land heals itself because we chased them away.

When Conde Paxón presents Zito with a new spear—sturdier than his old one and carved with swirling jungle vines—I remember the animagus’ broken staff. I’m sure Father Donatzine at the Monastery-at-Amalur would love to study such a talisman. If nothing else, the jewel on the end of it might be of value. But my ankle is too fragile to retrieve it myself, and I’m not sure who to send in my place without raising questions I’m unwilling to answer. I decide to let it go. The jungle will claim it soon enough, with creepers and detritus and thick ferns. It will never be found.

In the days leading to the wedding, Conde Paxón and Lord Jorán share hunting escapades and late-night dessert wines like they’ve been friends for decades. Soldiers from Khelia and Isodel cheerfully practice together in the yard. Lord Jorán even pulls me aside one day and expresses a sincere hope that Isodel will once again come into the fold of Orovalle, that he is prepared to swear himself as my vassal.

Papá will be proud of everything I have accomplished here.

But Zito says nothing. He refuses to talk about what happened, even to me.

The day of the wedding dawns more beautiful than anyone anticipated. Lady Calla is a lovely bride, and Conde Paxón an endearingly nervous mess. After the ceremony, Zito and I are seated on a dais apart from the others, because of our injuries and my station. He wears a red cloth over his eyes, tied at the back of his head. He leans into his new spear, his ear turned to the sounds of celebration.

“Describe everything to me,” he says.

Hope sparks inside me at the genuine interest in his voice. Maybe he’s
not
going to sneak away to die on me after all. I swallow hard and say flippantly, “Oh, it’s a typical wedding. If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. The father of the bride has had too much to drink and dances like an old bear. The groom’s men and the bride’s maids flirt shamelessly with one another, knowing that on this day, they’ll be forgiven anything. The servants linger at the buffet table, sneaking their lord’s food while he pretends not to notice.”

“And the groom and bride?”

“He is an old, crippled soldier, past his prime, and she is young and beautiful.”

Zito’s face freezes. After an awkward silence, I hastily add, “They look deliriously happy. It is a marriage of great affection, maybe even love. Still, I give it a fortnight before they are as glum as any married couple.”

He doesn’t even crack a smile. “And Elisa? How is your sister?”

“She and Lupita are inseparable. I’ve offered to foster Lupita, you know, when she is old enough. Lady Calla had raptures when I made the suggestion. It’s funny—Lupita could have any flowers she wants now that they are blooming, but she chose the scarlet hedge nettle. It looks awful.” And wonderful. It really is a good symbol for the people here. Softly, I add, “I have been thinking about Elisa.”

Zito says nothing, but he turns his blind face to me.

In a queer twist of fate, my sister is a hero now. The speculation I fed to the guards evolved during the last two weeks. Someone must have wondered if Elisa used the power of her Godstone to chase away the Perditos and heal the land. It’s been such a popular notion that none of her protestations can convince them otherwise.

I smile to myself. Elisa will forever have the acclaim for something that Zito and I did. And for some reason, I don’t mind at all.

“Thinking what?” Zito prods at last.

“Papá has considered giving Elisa away to one of our lesser but wealthy lords to refill our coffers. But maybe she belongs with someone in a position of
power
. She . . .” For some reason, it’s hard to say. But this is Zito. I can say anything to him. “She has potential, Zito. She will act when forced. And when she sets her mind to something . . . Well, getting her away and on her own might be just what she needs.”

His features shift slightly, but without his eyes to measure his mood, I’m not sure what it means. I suppose I must get to know my steward all over again. If he stays with me long enough.

“I’m glad you’ve come to see some worth in her,” he says at last. “The two of you, working together, would be a pair to be reckoned with.”

He might be right, but I shrug my usual dismissal—a gesture that I realize, belatedly, is wasted on him. So it is his blindness that forces me to say, for once, what is in my heart. “I am willing to work toward that end, Zito, if you promise me that you will be here for it.”

And it is like the sun breaking through the clouds to see my friend’s lips lift into a tiny smile. “I promise.”

Once a century, one person is chosen for greatness
.

Elisa’s quest begins in

T
HE
G
IRL OF
F
IRE AND
T
HORNS.

She does not know what awaits her at the enemy’s gate.

Her epic adventure continues in the sequel,

T
HE
C
ROWN OF
E
MBERS
.

Read on for a taste of each book!

THE GIRL OF FIRE AND THORNS

RAE CARSON

1

P
RAYER candles flicker in my bedroom. The
Scriptura Sancta
lies discarded, pages crumpled, on my bed. Bruises mark my knees from kneeling on the tiles, and the Godstone in my navel throbs. I have been praying—no, begging—that King Alejandro de Vega, my future husband, will be ugly and old and fat.

Today is the day of my wedding. It is also my sixteenth birthday.

I usually avoid mirrors, but the day is momentous enough that I risk a look. I can’t see very well; the lead glass ripples, my head aches, and I am dizzy from hunger. But even blurred, the wedding
terno
is beautiful, made of silk like water with tiny glass beads that shimmer when I move. Embroidered roses circle the hem and the flared cuffs of my sleeves. It’s a masterpiece, given its rushed stitching.

But I know the
terno
’s beauty will be much diminished when buttoned.

I sigh and motion for help. Nurse Ximena and Lady Aneaxi creep toward me, armed with button hooks and apologetic smiles.

“Take a deep breath, my sky,” Ximena instructs. “Now let it out. All of it, love.”

I push air from my lungs, push and push until my head swims. The ladies jerk and loop with their flashing hooks; the gown tightens. The bodice in the mirror puckers. It digs into my skin just above my hips. A jagged pain shoots up my side, like the stitch I get walking up the stairs.

“Almost there, Elisa,” Aneaxi assures, but I have a sickening hunch that when next I inhale, the gown’s grip on my lungs will prove deadly. I want to rip it off. I want not to get married.

“Done!” they announce together, and step back, one on each side, to admire their handiwork. “What do you think?” Aneaxi asks in a tiny, faltering voice.

The
terno
only allows quick, shallow breaths. “I think . . .” I stare woozily at my breasts. The neckline presses a fleshy furrow into my skin. “Four!” I giggle anxiously. “Four breasts!”

My nurse gets a funny, choking look on her face. When my breasts overcame my chest last year, Ximena had been the one to assure me men would find them irresistible.

“It’s a beautiful gown,” Aneaxi says, looking pointedly at the skirt.

I shake my head. “I am a sausage,” I gasp. “A big, bloated sausage in a white silk casing.” I want to cry. Or laugh. It’s hard to decide.

Laughing nearly wins out, but my two ladies surround me, wrinkled, graying mother hens clucking sympathy and assurance. “No, no, you are a lovely bride!” Aneaxi says. “You’ve had another growth spurt, is all. And such beautiful eyes! King Alejandro won’t notice if the
terno
is a bit snug.” So I cry, because I cannot bear sympathy and because Ximena won’t look me in the eye when Aneaxi speaks her kindly false words. After a moment, though, the tears are because I don’t want to wear the
terno
at all.

While I gulp and heave, Aneaxi kisses the top of my head and Ximena wipes at my tears. Crying requires breath. Great, heaping buckets of it. The silk strains, the puckers bite into my waist, the fabric rips. Crystal buttons tinkle against the glazed floor as air rushes into my famished lungs. My stomach responds with an angry growl.

My ladies drop to the floor and run their fingers through the hair of sheepskin rugs, along the crevices between clay tiles, seeking the liberated buttons. “I need another week,” Ximena mutters from the floor. “Just one week to fit you properly. A royal wedding requires some notice!” It frightens me too, the suddenness of it all.

The bodice is loose enough now that I can reach back and undo the remaining buttons by myself. I shrug my arms from the sleeves and start to tug the gown below my hips, but the fabric rips again, so I pull it over my head instead. I toss the gown aside, not caring when the skirt misses my bed and crumples onto the floor. I pull on a rough woolen robe. It scratches my skin, but it is huge and comfortingly shapeless.

I turn my back on the ladies’ scavenging and go downstairs to the kitchens. If my gown isn’t going to fit anyway, I might as well soothe my pounding head and rumbling stomach with a warm pastry.

My older sister, Juana-Alodia, looks up when I enter. I expect her to wish me a happy birthday at least, but she just scowls at my robe. She sits on the hearth ledge, her back against the curving oven. Her legs are elegantly crossed, and she swings a slender ankle back and forth while she nibbles on her bread.

Why is she not the one getting married today?

When he sees me, the kitchen master grins beneath a flour-dusted mustache and shoves a plate at me. The pastry on it is flaky and golden, dusted with ground pistachios and glazed with honey. My mouth waters. I tell him I’ll need two.

I settle next to Alodia, avoiding the hanging brassware near my head. She eyes my plate with distaste. She doesn’t roll her eyes at me, but I
feel
like she does, and I glare at her. “Elisa . . . ,” she begins, but she doesn’t know what to say, and I make a point of ignoring her by shoving the flaky crust into my mouth. My headache lessens almost immediately.

My sister hates me. I’ve known it for years. Nurse Ximena says it’s because I was chosen by God for an act of service and Juana-Alodia was not. God should have chosen her; she is athletic and sensible, elegant and strong. Better than two sons, Papá says. I study her as I chew my pastry, her shining black hair and chiseled cheeks, the arched eyebrows that frame confident eyes. I hate her right back.

When Papá dies, she will be queen of Orovalle. She wants to rule and I do not, so it is ironic that by marrying King Alejandro, I will be queen of a country twice as large, twice as rich. I don’t know why I am the one marrying. Surely Joya d’Arena’s king would have chosen the beautiful daughter, the queenly one. My mouth freezes, midchew, as I realize that he probably did.

I am the counteroffer.

Tears threaten again, and I clench my jaw until my face aches, because I’d rather be trampled by horses than cry in front of my sister. I imagine what they said to make him agree to this match.
She was chosen for service. No, no, nothing has happened yet, but soon, we are certain. Yes, she is fluent in the
Lengua Classica.
No, not beautiful, but she is clever. The servants love her. And she embroiders a lovely horse.

He would have heard truer things by now. He will know that I am easily bored, that my dresses grow larger with every fitting, that I sweat like a beast during the desert summer. I pray we can be a match in some strange way. Maybe he had the pox when he was young. Maybe he can barely walk. I want a reason not to care when he turns away in disgust.