The Bitter Kingdom

Such silly hopes. Now, even if I save the world, he’ll never know.

“Elisa?” My sister starts toward me, one hand half raised.

I turn my back on her. “Storm, Hector, with me. And Cosmé—I’ll need you to order the gates opened. The rest of you stay here.” We’re halfway to the door when an unbidden prayer for safety and luck springs to my lips, but I tamp it down. The Deciregi may not know that I’m here yet. It should be an interesting surprise.

When I’m in the doorway, I turn around and say to my roomful of new vassals: “Pray for me.”

33

HECTOR knows the palace well, for he held it under martial law for several days while we deposed Cosmé’s father, Conde Treviño. He rushes us through the corridors, never hesitating, and I follow without question.

We burst into sunshine. The courtyard teems with soldiers carrying buckets of water and quivers of arrows to the wall. There’s an order to the chaos, with organized lines and officers stationed at regular intervals barking orders to their men.

The portcullis is lowered, and behind it, the huge wooden double doors are shut and barred. They rattle every few moments with another impact. Smoke curls through the crease.

“Now, Cosmé,” I say.

“Oh, God, Elisa, are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” I’m sure I’m going to try.

She takes a deep breath and yells, “Raise the portcullis and open the gate!”

“Storm, Hector, stay near so I can keep the barrier over us all.” They close in at my shoulders. I plant my feet, reach with my awareness into the depths of the earth.

Hector bends and presses a kiss to my temple. He wastes precious moments holding his lips there, and then says, “For just in case.”

Cosmé repeats her command, because no one can believe she would want to do such a thing, but she does, and they do, and the doors open wide to reveal a smoke-hazed landscape of rubble and charred buildings.

The Deciregi face me, all eight of them in a phalanx formation. I allow myself a small surge of satisfaction at the surprise on their perfect faces. Arrayed behind them are dozens of lesser animagi. All are surrounded by robed, barefooted acolytes. Other acolytes lie crumpled on the ground, wide-eyed but sightless, blood pooling beneath their slit throats. Willing sacrifices.

I draw more of the zafira into me, and it comes eagerly, almost as if I’m near a power source. The lead Deciregus raises his glowing staff and flings a bolt in my direction. I whip up my barrier to counter, and the bolt shatters against it.

I draw even more power inside me, until my limbs tingle and the power is like a thousand flies buzzing beneath my skin, yearning to burst free.

“Walk forward with me,” I whisper to Storm and Hector. “When I say ‘now,’ we attack hard and fast. Storm, take the man on the right, Hector the left. Try for a killing blow, but don’t linger. Get back into position immediately, and I’ll spring the barrier back up.”

Together, we step outside the gate. The Deciregi level their combined power at us, and bolt after bolt ricochets off my barrier. I feel each blow in my bones, as if I’m parrying with my daggers, but I grit my teeth and push us forward.

The lead Deciregus thrusts his staff to the side and reaches for an acolyte—a young Invierno man no older than me, with knobby feet. The young man kneels, his eyes glazed with either fear or mania, and the Deciregus grabs his hair, yanks his head back, and slashes across his throat with a dagger, and oh, God, it’s such a familiar, awful sight that bile rises in my throat and my barrier wavers.

The young man twitches as blood gushes from the wound. It seeps down his front to the ground where it puddles—and then the earth begins to absorb it.

The power inside me flares, and suddenly I understand. Their blood sacrifices don’t power their Godstones. But somehow they keep the zafira renewed, prevent the animagi from tiring too quickly. This is why they only needed a brief rest after razing the fields, how they were able to pound bolt after bolt against my walls during the Battle of Brisadulce.

I ground myself against whatever comes next. The Deciregus smiles slightly as he retrieves his staff, raises it high. Blue-white fire curls into a ball at the tip; the air around it shimmers. He shouts something, and the ball streaks forward, too quickly to track.

The impact is like a thunderclap. My barrier crackles and sparks, but then the fire dissipates and we are left shaken but standing.

The other Deciregi shift uncomfortably in their formation. “Hold your ground!” their leader yells in the Lengua Classica.

“Keep moving,” I say to Hector and Storm. More bolts smash against my shield, and my head begins to pound, but pain is nothing, their bolts are nothing. They have no idea what is coming at them. I have bolstered an entire mountain.

I draw my dagger, let the zafira’s strength seep into it. I sense Storm edging back from my burning blade. Almost there. Just a little more power and then . . .

I lower the barrier, sweep my dagger around, and slingshot a bolt so hot it blazes white. Their shield collapses like shards of glass that evaporate into steam just before hitting the ground. The Deciregus behind the leader staggers to her knees.

The rest are stunned. A split second is all I need. “Now!” I yell.

I leap forward, slashing with my blazing dagger, and flay the Deciregus’s throat open. His skin sizzles, and blood pumps out, pours onto the ground. He stares at me, his oily black eyes unreadable, and he tries to speak but can’t.

The earth loves his blood, slurps it up like it’s spring rain in the cracked desert. I reach for the zafira, and it’s as though his blood becomes my blood, and power darts like lightning through my veins.

I take the barest moment to assure myself that Storm and Hector have hit their targets. “Back!” I yell, and I slam the barrier into place as a barrage of firebolts rains down around us.

Two Deciregi are slain, toppled across the bodies of their willing sacrifices. Another bends over, clutching his abdomen, which steams and reeks of liquefied skin.

“I should have hit harder,” Storm says in a disgusted voice. “I didn’t know how much the blood would renew me.”

The remaining Deciregi are backing away. One turns to flee.

“Wait!” I yell, and I thrust out with my barrier and surround them. Instinctively, I draw it tight, tight, tighter, until they are completely frozen. So that’s how they do it. “I would speak with you.”

I give them a moment to fully comprehend their situation before saying, “I will not require your surrender. I intend to let you go. In return, I ask only for a peaceful audience.”

Gradually, ready to snap it back in place at the slightest provocation, I loosen my barrier. They glance around at one another, wide-eyed and breathless.

Finally a woman steps forward. She is the only woman among them, and she looks almost exactly like Hawk, with her kohl-black eyes and shimmering white hair. Unlike Hawk, tiny lines spread from her eyes and the edges of her mouth, and though the rest of her skin is stretched as taught as a girl’s, I have a feeling she’s as old as the stars.

“We trapped you,” she spits. “You were captive in the bearer’s pit.”

“Yes. I was.”

When no explanation is forthcoming, she says, “There will be no audience. Kill us now. Without a power source, we’re dead anyway.”

I shrug. “Eventually. You’ll sicken and die over many generations. But it’s not necessary. You see, I can take you to the gate that leads to life.”

Her eyes widen. “All you Joyans—”

“Are filthy liars, yes, yes.” I wave a hand dismissively. “Please, put aside a few thousand years of mindless hatred toward me and my people and think for just a moment. How else did I acquire so much power? Why does the zafira come to me so easily? Why am I the only bearer in your history to escape from your pit?”

She hesitates.

“You saw the Eyes of God explode, did you not? You know what I’m capable of.”

She reaches up to clutch the amulet hanging from her neck. “You’ve been there,” she accuses. “You’ve tasted the zafira directly. There is no other explanation for such power.”

“And I’m willing to show it to you.”

Her eyes narrow. “Why? Why would you do this?”

“Because I am your champion.”

Her eyes flicker, and someone behind her gasps. I hand her the parchment, hoping I haven’t smeared it. “I am a bearer and a quee—”

“Empress,” Hector whispers in my ear.

Oh, God. I start over. “I am a bearer and . . . an empress. Twice chosen by God.” I hate that I’m parroting the zealous words Ximena once spoke to me, but Inviernos respect egregious demonstrations of arrogance. “As you can see from that document, three nations are now united under my rule—against you. Your armies cannot withstand the combined might of the Joyan Empire. And your magic cannot stand against mine. So I suggest you reconsider your willingness to hold audience.”

She cocks her head at me, like a cat eyeing potential prey. “I must consult with the other Deciregi.”

“Please.” I wave her off, and she turns to the others. They huddle like hens, whispering.

Hector bends his head and whispers, “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“But that barrier . . . and your father . . .”

“I said I’m fine,” I snap. Sympathy is the last thing I need right now, and I don’t dare look at his face. If I read the understanding there, the love, I’m likely to fall apart. But I reach back for his hand and give it a squeeze. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Thank you.”

The Deciregus turns back around. The others take up formation behind her, only six of them now, and one badly injured. A breeze kicks up, whipping their cloaks around their legs and flinging ash into our faces. “We agree to hold audience,” she says, and anger practically drips from her voice. “But I assume this means placing us under house arrest while we have discussions? In that case, only two will stay. We cannot risk losing more of us. The others will return to Invierne.”

“Agreed.” I was going to suggest it anyway. Two will be much easier for us to keep an eye on.

Without another word, one of the Deciregi steps forward. He is short for an Invierno, not even Hector’s height, and his snow-white hair is tied back in a single braid that reaches almost to his knees. The others peel off and begin walking away. There are no farewells, not even a glance backward.

“Come,” I say. “I’ll introduce you to the queens of Basajuan and Orovalle.”

We sit at the table in the audience hall. Everyone is straight-backed in their chairs, eyes hard and angry, voices sharp. No one wants the Inviernos within the palace walls, but I personally vouch for their good behavior. Alodia demands that the sorcerers be placed in the prison tower under heavy guard, but I refuse. Cosmé demands reparations for the destruction wrought by Inviernos to Basajuan and its surrounding villages. “Years of destruction,” she says. “Centuries.” But I refuse her too.

For my plan to work, enemies must treat one another as neighbors. And it has to start somewhere.

Beneath the table, Hector sneaks his hand over and grasps mine. I twine my fingers with his.

Our discussion is not going anywhere today. We are too fresh from battle, too exhausted, too frightened. We need time to cool off. To rest. And dear God, I need time to bathe.

I release Hector’s hand and rise to my feet. “Let’s convene an official parliament tomorrow,” I say. “Cosmé, would you mind offering us hospitality for the night?”

“We prepared a whole wing for you when we got your letter, thinking you’d come in state.” Her smile is too bright for the circumstances. “There’s so much room, we’ll just send the Inviernos along with you.”

“Of course.”

“And guards. Lot of guards. For your own protection in these trying times.”

I sigh.

34

THERE are enough rooms for us each to have our own, and at my request, the mayordomo orders baths for everyone. Red is delighted to have a room and bath service of her own, just like a real lady, she says.

The mayordomo ushers us down the hallway. We peel off one by one—first the Inviernos, then Belén, then Red.

Mara sidles up to me. “Are you sure you don’t need me tonight?” she whispers.

“Go with Belén,” I whisper back.

Her answering grin is shy but wide. She wraps me in a quick hug. “See you in the morning,” she says, and then she dashes back down the hall.

“Here we are, Your Majesty,” says the mayordomo, indicating a door. “There are fresh linens and hot bathwater inside. Pull the blue cord by the bed if you need anything.” He opens the door to a small but lovely suite decorated in ivory and royal blue. “Her Majesty said to put the Lord-Commander in the room next to yours, that you might require his counsel as you prepare for tomorrow’s parliament. A door adjoins your suites.”

“Oh,” I manage, glancing up at Hector’s suddenly rigid face. “Thank you.” Cosmé misses nothing.

I turn to say good-night to Hector, but as we stare at each other, speech leaves me. Everything that comes to mind seems so formal, so cold, when all I want to do is wrap my arms around his neck and hold him close, tell him how much I appreciate his steady presence, his enduring encouragement, his sure-burning intelligence. Maybe I should just invite him inside, but with everything that has happened today, I’m not sure it’s the right time.