The Bitter Kingdom
Page 15“But it says—”
“It says, ‘He could not know what awaited at the gate of the enemy, and he was led, like a pig to the slaughter, into the realm of sorcery.’ I know it too well, Belén. It’s been hanging over my head for more than a year. Am I the champion that will be led like a pig to the slaughter? Am I going to die young or disappear like most of the bearers before me?” I grind the now-dead cinder into the dirt with my boot. “But it doesn’t matter. Scripture never makes sense except in hindsight. I must make my choices based on reason and observation. And I choose to go to Invierne.”
Hector’s face is resigned, and I know he understands, even if the others don’t. “Because their source of power is dying.”
I nod at him gratefully. “The gate is closing. Maybe we can help it along. Destroy it utterly, the way I destroyed the gate to the zafira.”
“We have a civil war brewing!” Mara says. “Going to Invierne would give Conde Eduardo even more time to shore up support. What about the people we left behind? Tristán, Lucio, Rosario.”
I wince. She’s not wrong. Prolonging our journey is a huge risk. It will put so many people we love in danger.
“The prince should be safe,” Hector says. “He’s too valuable.”
God, I hope he’s right.
Belén adds, “If the gate is dying, why not just let it die? Mara is right. We have a civil war to worry about.”
I lock gazes with Storm. “Because if it’s dying, Invierne will have to attack again before their power source is gone. Right, Storm?”
“Yes. I did not realize it until now, but yes.” Storm clutches the amulet beneath his cloak. It has become a reflex for him, the same way my fingertips always seek my Godstone. “The Deciregi have struggled to build support for another onslaught; we lost so many people in the last one. But if the gate is truly dying, our crops will begin to wither soon. Our mothers will become barren. They’ll have no trouble raising an army then. It will be even bigger than before.”
“So we go now,” I say. “And we destroy the gate before they can build another army. And then . . .” It’s so preposterous, so huge, so perfect. “We have what Invierne wants—knowledge of another power source. If we succeed, if we survive, I will use their ensuing desperation to bargain for peace.”
PART II
17
WE crouch on the lip of a high cliff overlooking Umbra de Deus, the capital of Invierne and the largest city I’ve ever seen. Steep walkways wind through warrens of stone cottages and stepped gardens, spired temples rise from impossible slopes, and stone plazas take advantage of every tiny plateau. The entire city catches the sunlight, sparkling brilliantly, as if it is made of tiny glass shards.
From this distance, the Inviernos look like insects crawling all over the mountainside. The steep, switchbacked highway leading to the front gate routes a steady stream of movement in either direction. It’s dizzying to watch. My own capital city could fit inside this one three or four times. Storm was right—the Inviernos outnumber us by a terrifying amount.
Hugging the base of the city on three sides is a twisting whitewater river. The eastern curve steams violently, sending tendrils of mist into the city’s lower streets. It steams because high above it and far away—though not far enough to suit me—are two cone-shaped mountains gripped by crooked fingers of glowing orange lava. Storm calls the mountains the Eyes of God, and he assures us they are safe, that they’ve been sending the earth’s fiery blood into the river for millennia.
“Seems like a dangerous place for a nation’s capital,” I observe.
“It’s a place of power,” Storm says. “Our ancestors believed the volcanoes gave them better access to the zafira.”
“And do they?”
“It’s a cause of great debate among the scholars of my people.”
“I have not seen a more perfect defensive architecture,” I admit with reluctant admiration. I would hate to lay siege to this place. I suppose they could be starved out over time, but the mountain slopes are too bare to sneak up unseen, too steep and dangerous to navigate at night.
Belén says, “Storm, are you sure there is not a secret way inside?”
“If there is, I do not know of it. But it is as I said. I can get help. Just like the citizens of Joya d’Arena, we are a fractured, quarreling people. And my family, once they understand you are on a mission of peace, will jump at the chance to aid you and gain advantage over the other nine houses.”
Mara says. “We know nothing of your family. I grew up near the border, and all I know of Inviernos is bloodshed and cruelty and rage and . . .” Her voice trails off as tears fill her eyes.
“And me,” Storm says softly. “You know me.”
I sigh. We’ve been arguing about this nonstop for several days. I can’t put off making a decision any longer.
Storm continues, “They’re expecting Elisa. Waiting for her. They surely sensed the way we called on the zafira to deal with Franco’s men. Such an outpouring of magic could only come from a bearer.”
“You’re worried about an assassination attempt,” Hector says. “Even if she arrives in an official capacity.”
“Exactly so. Let me go alone,” he insists, and turns to me. “I’ll bring back help. We’ll hide you in a cart, smuggle you in. We could paint your skin. Your features do have an Invierno cast, you know, even though you are short and stubby.”
I glare at him.
“I can pass for an Invierno,” Mula says cheerfully. “I just have to cover my feet.” She is lying on her back, chewing on the end of a dry stalk.
Hector says, “I hate to say it, but—”
“It’s our only plan,” I finish, and he nods grimly.
Storm rises. “I’ll be back by sunset,” he says. “Stay out of sight.”
I reach up and grab his hand. “You’re sure they won’t kill you on sight? There’s a death sentence on your head!”
“I can reach my family compound before I’m recognized. They’ll delay turning me in to face my sentence once I claim knowledge of the zafira. They will help us.”
I squeeze his hand, and he shifts uncomfortably. “You are my loyal subject, Storm. Which means if you are not back in a reasonable time, we must figure out a way to come get you. We don’t leave our people behind.”
He blinks. “I understand.”
I release his hand, and he disappears down the slope.
“You have truly come to trust him as one of our own,” Hector observes.
We stare at each other, and I’m glad to note that after a few days of regular food and rest, he seems less gaunt and ragged, and the bruising around his eye has faded to a muddy yellow. We stare long past the point of awkwardness. His gaze drops to my lips. I’m the first to look away.
I say to no one in particular, “But like Mara, I don’t trust Storm’s family. So stay alert, everyone.”
A light snow is beginning to fall—again—as Belén gets to his feet. “I’ll keep an eye on the trail.” His disappears in the same direction as Storm.
The rest of us huddle together, cloaks clutched tight. This near to the city, there will be no fire, no praying. It’s going to be a long, cold wait.
The molten fingers of the Eyes of God glow bright as a sun against the darkening horizon. Insects flit through pine boughs, their bulging abdomens glowing like night bloomers. Mula has fallen asleep on Mara’s shoulder. Hector and I sit side by side, not quite touching. Just like he did during our final weeks together, after I destroyed the gate to the zafira, he avoids any physical contact. It seems as though things ought to have changed between us, somehow. But they haven’t, and I’m not sure what to do about it.
Footsteps crunch through the underbrush, and we launch to our feet, drawing weapons. Even Mula jolts awake and whips out a dagger, her face fierce in the dying light.
“It’s just me,” says Storm. He strides toward us, followed by another, whose thick cloak and heavy cowl cannot hide her willowy, feminine shape. Belén brings up the rear. His sword is not yet drawn, but his hand rests on the scabbard.
I peer at the newcomer, expecting to feel the usual jolt of alien wrongness at her appearance. But when she lowers her cowl to reveal long coppery hair and eyes the green of pine boughs, I feel nothing but grudging admiration for her beauty.
Storm says, “I present to you The Frozen Waterfall Mourns Her Raging Youth.” And then he adds, “My sister.”
I’m not sure why I’m surprised to learn he has a sibling. I say, “Thank you for coming.”
I wrack my mind for memories of the Invierno ambassador who visited Papá’s court when I was a little girl. Do Inviernos bow? Curtsy? Is there a formal greeting that my father used?
After too long a silence, Storm says, “You may call her Waterfall.”
She gives him a sharp look.
Storm explains, “Joyans find Invierno names complicated and incomprehensible.”
I glare at him. Storm and I are going to have a conversation about “complicated and incomprehensible” versus “overwrought and inefficient.”
But she merely shrugs. “Waterfall will do for now.” She speaks the Lengua Plebeya with careful attention, drawing out each syllable as if testing it. “Which one of you is the sorcerer queen? Oh . . .” Her gaze settles on my face. “It is you, of course.” To her brother, she says, “You’re right. She has the look about her, even though she is stubby.”
I open my mouth to ask what she means, but I sense Hector at my shoulder, in his usual guard position, and I have to swallow the lump in my throat. It is so nice to have him back.
“My brother says you wish an audience with the Deciregus?”
Taking Storm’s cue, I say, “Yes. I have knowledge of something your people have been seeking for thousands of years.”
Her eyes narrow. “What kind of knowledge?”
She gasps. But her face hardens immediately, and she says, “You lie. All you Joyans are liars.”
“Queen Elisa speaks truthfully,” Storm says. “She took me there. I have seen the zafira with my own eyes, felt its power course through me.”
She taps her lower lip with a forefinger as her eyes rove my face and body. Beside me, Hector’s fingers curl around the hilt of his sword. From somewhere high above comes the screech of a raptor.
“I brought some powder to lighten your skin,” she says at last. “But I’m not sure it will be enough; you’re too short. We also brought a cart. It’s on the trail below. You must ride in it, hunched over, so no one can see your true shape.” Her gaze shifts to Hector. “You too must ride in the cart. You are too . . . broad. The rest of you will walk beside the cart or ride in on horseback. I will powder your faces and hands, but stay cowled. Except you.” She lifts her chin at Mula, who is clinging to Mara’s leg, eyes wide. “My brother says you bear the slave mark?”
Mula nods.
“Then you will lead. Walk barefoot. No cowl. With luck, everyone will think my brother and I are bringing in a batch of mule slaves.”
I look around at my companions. “This might be it. The gate of the enemy. None of you are required to accompany me. It’s your choice.”
Belén shrugs. “It’s a perfect plan.”
“As easy as falling in love,” Mara adds.
“Foolproof,” Hector agrees.
I don’t deserve such friends. I blink against the sting of threatening tears and say, “All you Joyans are filthy liars.”
Waterfall’s “cart” is a small, two-wheeled fruit wagon, pulled by a single draft horse. Its wooden floor and sides are stained dark and smell faintly of rancid juice. It’s barely large enough for Hector and me both. I smile to myself as I settle beside him, squeezing between the wall of the wagon and his hard shoulder.
The powder on my skin tingles. It smells of ash and dust and old flowers, and I fight the urge to sneeze. I study the back of my hand with dismay. It doesn’t look light skinned so much as dirty.
Mula and Storm take the lead, Waterfall smacks the draft horse, and we set off, rattling and creaking down the trail. Mara and Belén follow behind on their mounts. We left Horse—along with Hector’s mount for company—on long leads in a sheltered glen with plenty of grazing. I crane my neck for one last sight of her, hoping she’ll be all right until I get back.
Hector holds his elbows tight to his sides, trying to make himself as small as possible. I barely refrain from rolling my eyes.
But as we bump down the trail, our shoulders occasionally knock, and he flinches each time. Exasperation bubbles over, and I blurt, “You don’t have to try so hard to avoid me!”
His face freezes, but then he looks sheepishly off into the distance. “It doesn’t seem right to . . . take liberties when I have not given you an answer.” He says it quietly, and I have to strain to hear.
“There’s an easy solution to that,” I point out. “Just say yes.”
He turns his head to regard me, and my breath catches. How did I not notice, the moment I met him more than a year ago, how very striking he is?
“I don’t want to be a prince consort,” he says. “I have little desire to rule, even less to be a figurehead, and that’s what a prince consort is, you know. A useless trinket on the arm of his queen. It’s not what I ever imagined for myself.”