The Bitter Kingdom
Page 21The Godstone swinging from his amulet still glows from whatever magic he used to intimidate the soldiers, but Storm makes no effort to call on it. Neither does he try to break away from my grip. Instead his lips turn up into a sad, slanted smile, and he says, “I lied.”
We stare at him.
“You always speak for true,” Mula whispers. “Always.”
“Not this time.”
I’m about to protest, but Storm cuts me off.
“Lord-Commander, I won’t pretend to love her the way you do. But I do owe her my life and my honor. I am Joyan now. And we are, all of us, filthy liars.”
“Well, if he wasn’t lying then,” Mara says, “he’s lying now. Which means he’s telling the truth. So let’s go!”
I’m not sure that makes sense, but I release my grip and order, “Take us to her.”
Storm heads down the corridor at a fast jog. It’s a relief to run freely, knowing Storm can talk or intimidate our way out of any encounters.
We’re coming, Elisa.
21
MY consciousness explodes into a world of pain.
I’m dying. I know it with certainty. Blood pours from my mouth, and I choke, then cough, which sends more knifelike pain into my side. My rib has punctured a lung. I will drown in my own blood.
I lie on my back in total darkness. My right leg is cricked beneath me in a way it shouldn’t be. My left shoulder sits oddly, and I make a tiny attempt to move it, but fire shoots up my neck and into my spine.
I take a deep breath to calm myself, bringing another fit of choking. Tears leak from my eyes. I don’t have much time.
My skull seems intact, and I cling to the thought. If I have my mind, I have everything I need. And just maybe, I can heal myself.
Doctor Enzo thinks I’ve healed myself instinctively, though more slowly than I’ve healed others. But I’m not sure what to do. I can’t heal my leg in its current position. I would just have to rebreak it later.
Maybe healing is like all the other powers drawn from the zafira. Maybe it can be focused. Deliberate.
I’ll start with my rib, since that is what’s killing me. If it works, I’ll probably pass out again. And once I wake up, I’ll have to straighten my leg and shoulder before healing them. It will be awful. Maybe the most awful thing I’ve ever done.
Coughs spasm through my chest, and I turn my head to the side to let more blood pour out.
Don’t think, Elisa. Just do.
I close my eyes and open myself to the zafira. It rushes in like a flood, filling me with warmth and light. I imagine that I sense Lucero holding the floodgates wide for me. I imagine his toothless smile, his voice whispering “I will help.”
How close to death must I be, to hallucinate so?
I think hard about my broken rib. I make the pain in my side my whole existence, embracing it, understanding it. I imagine the bone moving back into place, the tissue inside knitting together.
Let go and let me.
“Lucero?” I whisper.
Promise me. If I do this, you will kill me.
I hesitate.
We don’t have much time. I can only draw the zafira when no one else is using me.
“I promise.”
Pain reaches its fingers inside me and pries me open. My back arches off the ground, and I scream.
Coughing, choking, gagging . . . I wake, and turn over just fast enough to vomit all over the ground. I spit to clear my mouth. Cough a few more times. Spit again.
And I take a deep, glorious breath. My lungs are clear.
I clamber to my feet, trying my best in the dark to avoid the mess I just made. I stretch out my right leg and test it by flexing my foot back and forth. Perfect. A bit of stiffness, but no pain. Lucero must have straightened my leg before healing me, though I’ve no idea how he accomplished such a thing. I roll my shoulder. It twinges a little; I’ll have to be careful with it for a while.
But I’m alive. And healthy. Thanks to the man who is determined to die.
I reach out with my awareness for him, the same way I would reach for the Godstone’s power: Lucero? But there is nothing. It’s like shouting into an empty cave, my only response a faint mental echo.
I call the zafira and form tiny candle flames at my fingertips. It’s effortless now, either from practice or from being in a place of power. I use the light to explore my surroundings.
The walls are round and made of impenetrable stone. The floor is different—not dirt, exactly, and not stone. Bedrock, maybe. A pile of bloody vomit shimmers off to the side, and I move my glowing hand away to avoid looking. There are no windows. No doors. Just rounded walls that stretch up into darkness. I fell a very long way.
It’s a pit.
The walls are too smooth to climb. I kick at the floor—too hard to dig. There must be a way out. If they want me for their living sacrifice, then they must have a means of retrieving me. Maybe with a rope, lowered from the trapdoor above.
If they want me alive, that means they have to feed me, give me water to drink. It means . . .
No, it doesn’t mean anything. What was it Pine said? Something about the living sacrifice existing perpetually at the point of death?
I sink onto the ground, my flames winking out. They will starve me until I can no longer defy them. No, I’ll be mad with dehydration long before that. Or suffocation, if this pit is airtight. Already the air feels thin and damp from my own exhaled breath. Or do I imagine it?
I hug my knees to my chest and rest my forehead on them, determined to think, think, think, until I’ve figured out how to escape. I don’t lift my head from my knees until I’ve thought of several possibilities.
The trapdoor I fell through is too high for the light of my meager candle flames to reach. But maybe it’s made of wood. If so, I can burn through it.
I unsheathe my daggers, glad for their reassuring weight in my hands. Odd that they never bothered to disarm us. Or maybe not so odd. The weapons of Joya d’Arena are little use in a place of magic.
Unless, like me, one uses them to do magic.
I wilt with disappointment. I caught only the merest glimpse, but it was enough to see that the ceiling is made of pure stone. There is a slight indention marking the trapdoor, but neither is it made of wood. It’s a marvel of engineering, really, to have a door of solid stone that slides so smoothly.
I let myself rest before trying my next idea, knowing things will be easier if I use the zafira’s power in strategic increments. I will not exhaust myself. I will not allow myself to be brought to the point of death. So I sit on the ground and close my eyes. I take slow, deep breaths, as if I were going through the warm-up exercises of the Royal Guard.
Nothing will stop Hector from trying to get to me. And if I can’t figure a way out of this pit for myself, I need to think of a way to make it easier for him to find me—like he did when I was searching for him.
When calm has again settled over my body, I rise, summoning flames to the fingertips of my left hand, and begin a thorough inspection of the walls and floor. It seems too much to hope that there is a hidden door somewhere, but I look for one just the same.
The walls are made of huge stone blocks. If they are as thick as they are wide and tall, then no dagger will pry them loose, and it is unlikely that any cry for help will filter through. But I do not give up until every block, every mortar-filled crease, has suffered the scrutiny of my probing fingers.
The wall is impenetrable, all the way around.
One section, though, feels a little cooler than the rest. And when I’m done inspecting the pit’s entire girth, I return to it and lay my ear against it.
Definitely cold. And I hear something, even through the thick stone. A hum, as unceasing and relentless as rushing water.
Maybe it is water. The balcony where the altar stood looked out over a great cliff and the river below. I fell a very long way. I am probably halfway to the river. Maybe closer. And the cold part of the wall is undoubtedly the part that is exposed to wind and water, on the very outskirts of the city.
I begin to pace, worrying my thumbnail with my teeth. The first time I trained with Storm, I blew a small crater into the granite cliff. My firebolt was so powerful that the rock melted, like fired glass. I was exhausted afterward. Storm teased me for being so clumsy.
But could I blow a hole through this stone wall? Nothing for it except to try.
I back away from the cold section, as far as the pit will allow. The last time I did this, shards flew in every direction, drawing blood. A risk I’ll have to take.
Once again, I draw on the zafira. It fills me slowly this time—I have not rested long enough—but it comes. I draw in as much as I can take, until my skin itches and my fingers shudder with the need to release it.
No careful control, this time. No strategic rationing of power. I grasp hold of every vestige of energy within me and fling it forward in a bolt of ice-blue fire. It crashes into the wall, sprays sparks and slivers of stone in all directions. Pain slices into my left cheek, and warm liquid slips down to my jaw.
The place where my firebolt impacted the wall shimmers slightly, as if molten, but not enough to illuminate the wall. I step forward to get a closer look, but my legs quiver with sudden exhaustion, so I work my way around the pit instead, using the curved wall for support. My breath comes too fast; my heart kicks in my chest.
The wall beneath my fingers warms as I approach, but the area already darkens, the embers winking out, and I can no longer see. I call on the zafira to light my fingertips, but nothing comes. I am an empty vessel.
I lean against the wall, panting. Please, God. I just need to see. Then I can rest.
Power trickles into me, just enough to light one finger flame. I hold it up to the wall.
Where the stone block used to be, there is now a glassy indention. Only two knuckles deep, but at least it’s something.
I’ll need every bit of strength I have for the next one, as much power as I can muster. A small water skin is attached to my belt. Next to it is a pouch with a bit of meal made of jerky, cheese, and grain. I can last a few days if I have to.
Finally I allow myself to slide to the ground and close my eyes. Sleep takes me instantly.
My stomach aches with hunger and thirst when I wake. I take a pinch of meal from my belt and wash it down with a single swig of lukewarm water. It is not nearly enough, and my stomach rumbles angrily.
I don’t even know how long I’ve been asleep. Minutes? Hours? When I first awakened in this pit, my body broken and bloodied, the air was winter chilled. It is much warmer now, and moist, as if filled with my own hot breath.
It’s weaker this time, the light winks out faster, and I crumple onto the ground with despair. I squeeze my eyes tight. Think, Elisa!
I need more power. Maybe I could figure out how to call upon Lucero. Maybe I could channel the power of nearby animagi.
Nearby animagi. Surely they can sense my efforts. Maybe I’ll break free only to find them waiting for me.
The thought of escape suddenly feels so ludicrous I almost laugh at myself.
“Hector,” I whisper aloud. “This time, I might need you to come save me.”
I wake from another attempt because of the light streaming across my face. Hope surges. Maybe I broke through and didn’t realize it!
But no, it’s the trapdoor above. I blink against the onslaught of brightness, trying to make sense of it. Do I imagine the shape of a head, framed by the light?
“Will you consent to be our willing sacrifice?” booms a male voice. “Will you make Umbra de Deus your home and never leave, knowing that your noble sacrifice brings prosperity and happiness to the great nation of Invierne?”
“No! Of course not. I’m—”
The trapdoor slams closed, shrouding me again in darkness.
I stare at it, willing whoever it was to return. Maybe I could bargain my way out. Maybe I could lie, say I was willing . . .
I sigh. Maybe I need to blow a hole in the wall and get myself out of here.
The zafira comes unwillingly this time. It’s like wrestling with sludge to get it to fill up my limbs enough to fling another firebolt.
It’s even weaker than the last. My head swims and my bones ache with exhaustion.
An awful possibility looms: What if I’m playing into their hands? Maybe they don’t starve bearers to the point of death in this pit. Maybe the bearers bring on their own demise with repeated attempts at escape.
This time, I allow myself a little more food and water. And next time I wake, I’ll pray for a while. Eat and drink more. Renew my strength. Because a volley of puny firebolts will not get me out of this pit. But a few monstrous ones might.
Next time I will produce white fire, something that will continue to burn even after I’ve passed out.
My final white fireball explodes through the stone wall.
Icy wind whips my face, bringing the faint scents of sulfur and pine. Even though my legs tremble with fatigue, I rush toward the opening, gulping at the fresh air, afraid to hope.
The top of the opening, where my bolt landed a direct hit, glows like molten glass. Wary of touching it, I peer into the cold night. Umbra de Deus is as brightly lit as any large city. Its radiance filters down the stone ramparts and glistens against the rushing water below.
Only two body lengths separate me from the river, and my hole is right above the temple’s foundations, which are ancient, cracked, and crooked—and therefore climbable. But the rapids and the mist rising from the water’s surface will make for slippery handholds.