A shape flies out of the dark, barrels into me, taking me to the ground. Agony shoots through my skull as red blotches my vision. Blood fills my mouth. I turn to spit, to breath, but hands wrap around my neck, crushing the life from me.
My mouth opens and closes, as if the motion can suck air into my dying lungs. Blackness narrows my vision to a single point of focus; my attacker’s delicate face and chin, his wild, not-quite-Joyan eyes. Franco.
Something knocks him to the side. Air rushes into my lungs so fast I almost choke on it. I clamber to my feet, swaying, my stomach heaving. I fumble for my daggers.
“Mula!” Mara screams.
Franco is pounding brutally at something beneath him. A tiny something.
The zafira rushes into me, filling me like rage. I raise my daggers, but Hector gets there first. One hand on the back of Franco’s head, one on his chin, and snap! Franco topples over.
Mula lies on the ground, unmoving. I rush over to her, drop to my knees. The daggers thunk into the dirt beside me.
“Mula,” I whisper.
“Bad . . . man,” she manages. Something gurgles in her unnaturally concave chest.
No. No no no no no.
Rosario said something similar once. And thinking a little of Mula, but mostly of the precious little boy I’m helpless to save right now, I place my hands on Mula’s crushed chest. “For my love is like perfume poured out,” I say, and I send all the power of the earth into her.
Her tiny body arches beneath my palms, and she screams and screams. Am I pouring too much into her? But I can’t seem to stop.
When I’m as dry as deep desert, I collapse on top of her.
16
I wake to the warmth of sunshine and the scent of rabbit stew. I’m wrapped in my bedroll, facing a cheery fire. Mara’s iron cook pot steams beside it.
“Elisa?” Hector’s worried voice.
I sit up, rubbing my eyes. “Where’s Mula? Is she . . . ?”
He sits on a log beside me, polishing his new dagger. His broken fingers are splinted and wrapped in linen strips. “She’ll be fine. Franco kicked her ribs in. But you’d never know.” His voice holds a touch of wonder.
“And Storm?”
“He appeared soon after Franco. I think he’s upset with me for killing him.”
I slowly get to my feet. My muscles burn, and my neck throbs with the phantom memory of Franco’s bruising fingers. I stretch my arms to the sky, trying to loosen everything up, surprised and grateful to have come through a hard fight with no lasting injury.
Hector jumps to his feet when I do, from habit, I suppose, for it is rude to remain sitting when one’s queen stands, but I hate that there is any formality between us. I reach out to take his hand, but he flinches away, and I drop my arm. Hurt wells up in my chest.
I look around the campsite, trying to appear nonchalant. It’s a small glen, hugged up against a granite outcropping. Was it Hector who carried me here when I was unconscious?
“Where is everyone?”
His gaze has not left my face. “Belén is hunting. Mara found a stand of blackberries; Mula is with her. Storm left, saying only that he’d be back. Everyone deals with the aftermath of battle in their own way.”
Hector’s left eye is purple and still nearly swollen shut. His hair is wild and matted, his clothing torn, his nails cracked and crusted with black dirt. I ache to wrap my arms around him.
“How do you feel?” I ask, for lack of anything better to say.
“I’ll be fine in a day or two.” Then he adds, “Thank you for coming for me.”
His words are kind, but his tone is bland and his expression rigid. He is near enough that I could reach out and grab his shoulders, but I have no idea how to close the vast distance between us.
He was angry with me when we parted, and rightly so. I deceived and dishonored him. Never again. Honesty in all things.
“We’re betrothed,” I blurt, at the same moment he says, “There is another bearer.”
“What?” we both say.
He runs a hand over his matted beard. Strange how his cuticles, the shapes of his fingers, the curve of his thumb, are so familiar and dear, even beneath the grime.
“I would never hold you to it,” I say in a rush. “It would build up support in the south. I’m hoping the announcement has stalled Eduardo’s efforts. But I won’t make you. You don’t have to . . . marry me.”
The log he was sitting on is a giant fallen tree trunk that stretches across the edge of the clearing, half buried in sod and wind trash. One end is jagged and black from lightning. Hector plunks back down onto it and slumps, as if the weight of his shoulders can no longer be borne.
I sit beside him, holding my back straight, careful not to touch, even though I want to, more than anything.
He says, “You wielded those daggers as one born to it. And your magic. It’s . . . godlike. You’re—you’re one of them now.”
I’m not sure why his words cut so deep, but they do. “No,” I whisper. “Not like one of them. I’m much more powerful than even ‘one of them.’ Honesty in all things, right?”
He turns to peer at me closely, his good eye narrowed.
“The truth, Hector, is that it scares me, how powerful I’ve become. Almost as much as it delights me.”
His beard twitches, and he almost, almost smiles.
“Daggers aside,” I say, “you should also know that I found myself in quite a predicament earlier with a highwayman. I stomped on his foot, just like you taught me. It was very satisfying.”
And then he does smile, and my heart swells so huge it hurts. “I hope you broke his foot,” he says.
“I’m certain of it.” And because I have no patience for dissembling, because knowing something bad is better than not knowing at all, I say, “So, about our betrothal—”
“That was a very romantic proposal.”
I suppose teasing is better than a flat-out rejection. “I should have thought to bring flowers on this wretched journey. And a minstrel to compose an ode to your virility.”
He turns away, and I stare at his profile, recognizing the fierce mask he wears when he’s thinking hard. Just when I’ve decided I can bear the silence no longer, he reaches out and grabs my hand. “Do you want me for a husband? Or for a political bargaining piece?”
I squeeze his fingers gratefully. It’s so much more of him than I had a moment ago. “Both,” I tell him truthfully.
He sighs. “May I think about it?”
“Of course.” And then I add, “I understand your hesitation.”
“You do?”
I twine my fingers with his. “Not just anyone could be married to a sorcerer queen. It would take someone extraordinary. The strongest of men.” And even though it’s pushing things a little too far, I say, “You may not be up to the task.”
“You’re manipulating me.”
“Is it working?”
He doesn’t answer, but his eyes crinkle with a glimmer of a smile.
“For now,” I say, “you can tell me what you meant about another bearer.”
He nods. “I might as well tell everyone at once.” He releases my hand and gets slowly to his feet, favoring his left side. “And I want to know exactly what you and Storm are capable of now. Then we need—”
“It can wait until tomorrow.” I love that even broken and bloodied, half starved and exhausted, his only thought is for our next move. “You need rest. Fresh clothes.” I wrinkle my nose.
He nods with mock solemnity, and I turn to go find Mula and see for myself that she’s all right.
“Elisa.”
I freeze, tamping down the hope blossoming in my chest.
“I thought about you every day. And I don’t know that I could have managed if not for that. But I . . .” his voice trails off.
I breathe deep through my nose. “Have you eaten anything? By the smell, Mara’s stew is about ready.”
“I am hungry.” His gaze drops to my mouth, and my lips buzz. He says, “And I would like to replace my clothes. I’ve been wearing these for weeks straight.”
“And please shave that . . .” I make a vague gesture toward his face. “It’s disconcerting.”
“As my queen commands.”
Belén goes back to the Invierno camp for the distasteful work of scavenging clothing and supplies, including gloves for everyone.
Mara uses the last of our cornmeal to fry up some cakes, which she sprinkles with pine nuts and dribbles with honey. Hector eats four.
Storm sits cross-legged in front of the fire, gazing off into the darkening sky. Though he clutches his amulet tight, he cannot hide the way his hand shakes.
Mula flips out her own bedroll and tells Hector it’s for him. I’m about to correct her, but then I realize Belén will probably return with an extra. Hector falls into it gratefully.
“Are you the commander?” Mula asks, squatting down near his head. He manages a nod as his eyes are drifting closed. “I’m Mula, but that’s just my name for now. Did you know that Elisa is the queen? She has a sparkle stone. She healed me because I’m her best slave. Want to see my feet?”
“Mula!” Mara calls. “Firewood, please.”
The girl jumps up to help, and Hector shoots Mara a grateful glance before losing consciousness.
In the morning, Hector sorts through the goods Belén brought back and selects two daggers, a short sword, and some new clothes. He hacks off his beard with one of the daggers, resharpens it, then uses Belén’s soap to shave. By the time he’s done, Mara has a breakfast soup ready. He eats two bowlsful.
“Why are you staring at the commander?” says Mula, and I jump.
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
I glare at her, and she slinks away. But she’s right. I’m soaking up his presence, worried that I might blink and discover he’s not here after all.
After we’ve eaten and washed up, we sit around the campfire. It feels like the most decadent luxury, to huddle close to the flames in relative warmth instead of hurrying to our mounts and heading down the cold trail.
It hits me all at once. I did it. I rescued Hector. We could turn around right now, beat the approaching winter over the pass, and be in Basajuan a little early.
The thought fills me with warm relief, but it’s short-lived. There is something else I must do first.
Mara is the one to open conversation. “Lord Hector, you said something last night about another bearer?”
He pokes at the fire with a stick, crunching embers into ash. “Franco said there are two. I tried to get him to tell me more, but he wouldn’t.”
I turn to Storm. “Do you know anything about this?”
He shakes his head. “Though, it makes sense that someday, someone would be born with a Godstone that didn’t fall out. It hasn’t happened for millennia, not since your people came to this world. But I suppose it could.”
My limbs tingle with . . . excitement? Dread? An Invierno bearer would be my enemy. And someone who grew up surrounded by sorcery might be formidable indeed. But what sets my hands to trembling, what squeezes my chest so hard it hurts to draw breath, is the simple possibility that there is someone out there like me.
“Did you hear anything else?” I ask. “Anything at all?” I wince at how pathetic and pleading I sound.
“About the other bearer, no,” Hector says. “But he mentioned something called the Deciregi.”
“The ruling council. Yes, Storm told us about them.”
“And I overheard talk of a gate. Another sendara.”
I sit forward. “Oh?” Ximena and I speculated that there might be two gates, one that leads to life and one that leads to the enemy. The Scriptura Sancta alludes to both. If so, I most certainly destroyed the first when I brought a mountaintop down onto the zafira.
Hector is nodding. “They called it the sendara oscura.”
“The gate of darkness,” I whisper.
“Franco pushed us hard. I thought it was because of the early winter. But I then I realized our urgency had to do with the gate. They think it’s closing. Or maybe dying.” Hector frowns. “I’m not sure what that means exactly, but that’s what they kept saying. ‘The gate closes.’ It was like a mantra they passed around, or a war cry.”
My mind whirls as facts fall into place like puzzle pieces.
“Have you heard anything like that before?” Mara says to Storm. “Anything about a gate?”
I already know what he’s going to say. “Yes. It leads to the source of power animagi draw on in the capital city. I would have been brought to the gate had I completed my training. What lies beyond is a secret, only revealed to full initiates.”
Hector regards me steadily. “We’re not going back, are we?” he says.
My path is as crystal clear as an alpine brook. “We are not.”
The others whip their heads around to stare at me, aghast.
“We’re going to Invierne,” I explain. “To the capital city.”
“Elisa, no.” Belén rises to his feet, his fists clenched. “I used to believe you had to go there to fulfill a prophecy, but I was wrong. We don’t know what that prophecy means. The ‘champion’ could refer to anyone. Let’s leave today. Now. Cross back over the mountains, head north to Basajuan, and be there in time for your council with Cosmé and your sister.”
The fire crackles, and a glowing cinder lands near the toe of my boot. As I watch it fade from fiery orange to dead gray, I say, “I’m not doing this because of a prophecy.”