The Girl of Fire and Thorns Complete Collection (70 page)

I smell acrid smoke. The walls around me tremble.

“Water!” someone yells.
“Water, water!”
The others take up the cry.

Agonizing moments pass in a haze of icy warnings and warming prayers as we pit our buckets and pots and ladles against their sorcery. At last the streaming light fizzles away. The animagi stagger back and are absorbed into the writhing wall of Inviernos.

A cheer thunders through our wall, shaking it as much as the animagi’s magic did. I join in the cheer because they need me to.

Lord Hector finds me moments later. “Do you think they’ll try again?” he whispers in my ear.

“Yes. They will rest. Then they’ll find twenty-five more who are willing to be sacrificed, and they’ll come at us again.”

He grips my upper arm so hard I gasp. “Elisa, you shouldn’t be here. There’s probably a black crater the size of Alejandro’s banner crown on the other side of that gate. We can last through three more attacks at the most.”

“I’m the queen!” I protest. “I should be here to—”

“You said it yourself. They must not find your Godstone. Did you see what they just did with only five?”

I swallow and nod.

“Good. I’ll find someone to escort you back. Be prepared to flee through the tunnels if the wall is breached.”

“And . . . Alejandro?”

“I’ll try to convince him to return, so watch for him. He is more a nuisance here anyway.”

Only the stress of battle would make him say such a thing aloud. His eyes flash with regret and surprise, but I put a hand to his shoulder, grateful for his honesty. “Hector, be safe.”

But instead of going back to my suite, I rush to the monastery to see Father Nicandro.

He huddles in the empty gathering hall, on his knees before the candlelit altar. I kneel beside him.

“Oh, dear girl, there should be so many more of us here,” he breathes. My heart catches at the sorrow in his voice. “Have the people of Joya d’Arena strayed so far from the path of God that we do not turn to him even in such times?”

“Perhaps things are not desperate enough,” I say. “Perhaps they will come soon.”

“Perhaps.”

“Father, I have not come to pray either.”

He looks up startled. I tell him about the streaming fire that beat against our gate. “You see, Nicandro? It’s the blood. Something about the blood feeding the earth that allows them to use their amulets.”

He glares at me in warning, his dark eyes becoming very sharp. “You want to try something with the amulet you took.”

“I do. Father, I have to try something.”

He slumps against the altar. “What did you have in mind?”

It only takes moments to prepare. I pull the amulet from beneath my vest and stare at it while Father Nicandro collects a ceremonial rose. He gestures me toward the altar.

“No,” I tell him. “We should do this in the garden. Where no one will chance upon us.”

He hesitates only a moment before leading me behind the altar and out the door. The monastery garden is tiny, with a three-tiered marble fountain and a bench that fits no more than two. We sit together, beneath a trellis woven with the vines of a creeping sacrament rosebush. The roses are not in bloom, which exposes the long thorns in sharp clarity.

In unison, we chant the “Glorifica.” I put the fingertips of my right hand to the Godstone, the fingertips of my left to the amulet. Also a Godstone, I remind myself. Not for the first time, I wonder about the one who bore it. Did it detach from her body at the moment of her death? Did she part with it willingly, or did an animagus rip it from her belly while she lay screaming in agony?

Nicandro pulls my head forward until our noses almost touch. “What is it you seek, dear girl?”

I take a deep breath, then I pour all the longing of my soul into my request. “I seek victory over my enemies.”

The prick is deep and painful. The first drop wells too quickly on the thorn, and when the priest pulls his rose away from my finger, three more quickly follow. They drop and bead against the hard-packed earth.

While the dry ground drinks my blood, I pray. I reach with my mind deep into the earth’s crust. I imagine the amulet at my chest glowing with sorcery. I concentrate so hard that I lose my surroundings; the grotto garden, Father Nicandro, the clear desert sky above, all fade into a miasma of need and of prayer-induced heat.

But nothing happens.

I open one eye to peek at the priest.

“Maybe you need more blood?” he asks skeptically.

All the air inside me leaves in a disappointed rush. “If this was the way, I would have sensed
something
. I know I’m no sorcerer, but I have a Godstone living inside me! I should be able to
do
something.”

He puts an arm around my shoulders. “Maybe the prophecy isn’t about
you
doing something,” he murmurs. “Maybe it’s all the bearers.”

I lean my head against his shoulder. “Is this that strange idea you were telling me about? The one you couldn’t explain?”

He sighs into my hair. “Yes. Yes, that’s the one.”

I am sick with helplessness as I rush back to my suite. The halls are empty and silent, my footsteps loud. What Hector said was true; we cannot risk Invierne finding my Godstone. But I hate feeling useless. I want to be at the wall with everyone else, hauling buckets of water, preparing for the wounded.

How long will it take for the animagi to regain their strength and attack again? An hour? A day? The siege will be short-lived, of that I’m sure. My heart clenches to think of the brave people of my Malficio, of the risks they took, the lives we lost. All for nothing, since my brilliant strategy assumed a drawn-out siege that would make our enemy vulnerable.

The possibility that Humberto died for nothing is unbearable.

Rosario and Mara are huddled on my bed when I enter. Ximena sits next to the empty fireplace, sewing a skirt.

“What happened, Elisa,” Mara says flatly as soon as she sees my face.

“The animagi attacked. We held them off.”

“Papá will kill them all,” Rosario says.

Ximena and I exchange a sad look. Then I plop next to him and hug him tight, but he squirms away, giving me a disgusted look.

I finger my amulets—the dead Godstone and the ugly pendant—and think about the empty victories they symbolize. I failed to accomplish anything with the Malficio. I failed to use my Godstone against the enemy, the way Homer foretold. Perhaps, centuries from now, a priest will show the list of God’s chosen to another young bearer. Perhaps he will point at my name and say, “Ah, yes. Lucero-Elisa. Yet another failed bearer.”

I gaze at Alejandro’s tiny son. Just maybe I’ll have one last chance to do something right. When the animagi break through our gate, someone must get the prince to safety. I may have failed to save Joya d’Arena, but maybe I can still save its heir.

“Ximena! No, wait. Mara.” Mara will know what to bring, how to pack. “Go to the kitchens and storage rooms to find traveling food. Enough for all four of us for two weeks. Hurry!” There should be plenty of dry goods to choose from; Alejandro’s household has been stocking up for months.

“Are we going on a journey?” Rosario asks.

“As soon as possible. But I need to stay a little longer.”

He sighs. “Because you haven’t found your Godstones yet.”

“Yes.”

“I think the condesa has them.”

“What?” I exclaim. Ximena’s head whips up.

“I tried to go in her rooms three times. But her lady says she needs rest. What are monthly courses?”

I almost bite my lip. “Er . . . that’s when a woman doesn’t feel very well for a while.”

“Oh. Well, Condesa Ariña has been having them for a long time.”

Ariña has definitely been scarce. She made a brief appearance at my coronation, but I haven’t seen her since. I wonder if Alejandro kept his promise to have her watched.

“Why do you think she has them?”

“I looked everywhere else.”

It makes sense. When Cosmé and I disappeared, Ariña undoubtedly took the opportunity to search my suite. I just wonder if she commandeered the palm out of pique, or if she knew the Godstones were hidden there.

“Well, Your Highness, I think we should pay a visit to the condesa immediately.” I lean toward him conspiratorially. “I’ll keep her distracted so you can dig.”

A sallow woman with gray-brown hair opens the door. “The condesa is not seeing visitors right—oh, Your Majesty.” Her curtsy is awkward and quick.

“May we come in?” I give Rosario’s hand a reassuring squeeze. Or maybe it’s to reassure myself.

Her body is firmly lodged in the opening, preventing me from seeing inside. “Well, Your Majesty, I’m afraid the condesa truly feels—”

We don’t have time for this. I stare evenly at the maid. “I insist.”

She steps back, head down. “Yes, Majesty.”

I push inside. Ariña’s suite is very similar to mine, with a large bedroom and adjoining bath area. She prefers darker, jeweled tones, though, which surprises me. I imagined her surrounded by whites and airy pastels.

Ariña lounges on her poster bed in a nightgown of deep plum, one arm wrapped around a shiny emerald throw pillow. She raises a wineglass to me as I enter. “Your Majesty!” It sounds like an expletive in her mouth in spite of her childlike voice.

“Hello, Ariña.” She is less beautiful than I remember. The same slender limbs, the same startling honey-gold eyes. But she’s like an old corn husk, all dried out and empty inside.

“Have you come to gloat?” she asks.

I actually hadn’t considered gloating, so intent am I on finding the Godstones. I smile sweetly. “I came to check up on an old friend.”

She giggles, and I finally realize she’s drunk.

“Actually, I’d like to discuss something with you. Alone.” I need to get the maid out of the suite so Rosario can start searching.

Ariña flicks her fingers, and the maid scurries out the door.

“You don’t mind if the prince uses your garderobe, do you?” I ask. I don’t give her a chance to respond before giving the boy’s hand another gentle squeeze and sending him into the bathing room with a wink.

Uninvited, I take a seat beside her on the bed. “I have some questions for you about your father. I need to understand why Conde Treviño—”

Her eyes widen. She stares at my chest, blinking erratically.

“What is it?”

“That. How did you get that?” She gestures with her glass, and a bit of golden wine sloshes over the side and across her fingertips. She doesn’t seem to notice.

I put my hand to my chest and feel the amulets there. “Which one are you—”

“Roldán’s amulet. It’s my father’s. You should not be wearing it.”

“It became mine when your father tried to sell me to the enemy.”

“Ah, yes. Because you bear the Godstone. That was very clever of you, by the way, to keep it a secret when you first came here.”

“Tell me about the amulet.”

She shrugs. It’s hard for her to focus.

I snap my fingers in front of her nose. “Ariña!”

She blinks. “Roldán’s amulet. It’s the first piece he ever made. Roldán became a famous master jeweler, and collectors pay very high prices for his early work. That piece”—she sloshes the wineglass toward me again—“is crude but priceless. It’s been in my family for centuries.”

I put my hand to the amulet. It’s not easy to grasp, with its rough lines and awkward protrusions, but as soon as my skin brushes cold metal, the Godstone flares bright and warm.

“This jeweler, Roldán.” It’s hard to keep the shaking out of my voice. “Was he a bearer?”

She peers at me in obvious contempt. “Of course.”

I feel hot and constricted, like the walls are closing in. No, it’s the history of the Godstone that presses around me with such unwavering insistence. It’s a rich, living thing that surprises me at every turn.

“All the bearers throughout time,” Father Nicandro said.
All the bearers.

A tiny, filthy hand creeps into mine and tugs. “Can we go now?”

I look down into Rosario’s excited face. He waggles his eyebrows rather obviously. I hope Ariña is too drunk to notice.

“We’ll let you get some rest, Condesa. I hope you feel better soon.”

I turn to go, Rosario in tow. Ariña says, “Didn’t you have questions for me? Don’t you want a glass of wine?”

“Maybe later.” I open the door.

“
He
doesn’t want to talk to me either, you know. Since you came back. And now, someone follows me everywhere I—what happened to my palm tree?”

Just then, the monastery bells begin to toll in deep, steady triplets. It is not time for services. The bells can only mean one thing: Our gate has been breached.

We slam Ariña’s door behind us and flee down the hall.

Chapter 33

W
E tumble into my suite. Rosario reaches into his pocket and pulls out the leather bag, brown near to black now, and already dusting the floor below it in fine soil. I clap and hug him and kiss him on the cheek.

“We’ll take them with us,” I breathe. “Invierne will never have them.”

“Now are we going on a journey?” Rosario asks.

“Yes.” If Mara doesn’t return soon, we’ll have to leave without her. With the walls breached, we can’t have more than a few minutes.

“Will Papá go with us?”

I had forgotten Alejandro! “Remember, your papá may be needed at the wall.” If anything, the opposite is true, but there’s no need for Rosario to know that.

The door flies open, and Alejandro bursts in. His eyes are wide, and soot streaks his face. “They burned through the gate,” he whispers. “Only two attacks, and they were able to burn it down.”

“Are they on their way here?” I demand.

He gulps. “In minutes. Elisa, what do we do?” Rosario creeps from behind me to swallow his father’s legs in an embrace.

“We flee. Mara will be back any moment with supplies. We’ll leave through the sewer tunnels and hope the tide is not too high.”

“But the cliffs . . . we’ll have to climb part of the way, and Rosario doesn’t swim well, and—”

“We can make it.” I glare at him. “I’m leaving, and I’m taking Joya d’Arena’s heir with me so at least one of you survives.” My tone is harsher than I intend, but I swallow my twinge of guilt. Cosmé was harsh with me once or twice. It made me stronger.