If I hadn’t dismissed my nurse, Ximena, she would be right here in Mara’s place, saying the exact same thing. One of the hardest things about being queen has been learning when to disagree with the people I love most.
“I’m not doing this for love,” I say. “I mean, yes, I love him. But I’ve loved and lost before. It’s awful, but it’s a survivable thing.” I scuff the toe of my boot through the dirt, uncovering pine needles and half-rotted leaves shed by the cottonwood looming over me. My dirt, I think. My land.
“I desperately need that marriage alliance with him,” I tell her. “It will serve as a bond between our northern and southern regions. But mostly . . .” Here, I pause. The thought is still so nebulous in my mind, but I know it’s important. I know it the way I know the sun rises in the east each morning. “I need to see Invierne for myself. I need to learn more about it. Because something is wrong there.”
Storm and Belén have been tending the horses, and as one they freeze in their ministrations and turn to stare at me. “What do you mean?” Belén asks.
I start pacing. It hurts, but it feels good too, as if my body craves movement. “They are desperate for something. They sent an army of tens of thousands after me and my Godstone. When that didn’t work, they resorted to stealth and manipulation. Animagi martyred themselves to shake my country apart. So much loss of life. So much risk. And for what? Why?”
“It’s simple,” Storm says. “They believe it is God’s will that they have you. They believe he’ll restore their power, the kind they had before your people came to this world and changed everything. The animagi could do so much more with living Godstones than with those cold, dead things they carry.”
Mara gasps. It’s almost like a sob. “They burned down Brisadulce’s gate with ‘those cold, dead things’! They killed King Alejandro. They . . .” She flattens her palm against her belly. “They burned me. You’re saying they could do more?”
“Yes,” Storm says. “Oh, yes.”
But I’m shaking my head. “That’s not it,” I say, and they all stare at me. “I mean, I’m sure that’s part of it. But there’s more. None of you were there the day the animagus burned himself alive at my birthday parade, but you heard about it, yes? Read the reports?”
They nod.
“He said the Inviernos were more numerous than the stars in the sky. Is that true, Storm?”
He regards me thoughtfully. “There are many more of us than there are of you.”
“And that single declaration filled our whole country with panic and rage, because what if Invierne sends another army? Even larger than before? We would not survive another such onslaught. But what did he not say?”
“Ah,” Belén says. “I see.”
“What?” Mara says. “What do you see?”
“The animagus did not say they would attack again.”
I nod. “Inviernos only speak literal truth. But . . .” I look pointedly at Storm. “I have learned that they frequently deceive through omission.”
Belén turns to the Invierno. “Is she right? Does Invierne have no intention of invading again?”
Storm hangs his head. I made him dye his hair black so he wouldn’t stand out so much, but now his white-blond roots are growing out in a large skunk stripe along his part. “I don’t know,” he says wearily. “If my training as an animagus had been successful, I would have been inducted into the ruling council and thus privy to so much more. But I failed.”
I stretch my arms high to work out the kinks, somewhat enjoying the burn this produces in my thighs and lower back. “So my next question is: Why not? If they are as numerous as they say, why don’t they invade? I think something is preventing them. And I want to find out what it is.”
“Maybe they’ll invade after they have you and your Godstone,” Mara says. “Maybe that’s why they’re using Hector to lure you to them.”
“Maybe.”
“If they’re vulnerable in any way,” Belén says, “we should attack. Press our advantage.”
Storm turns back to his horse, but not before I catch the flicker of sadness on his face. He is wholly mine now, subject to me in both fealty and friendship. But it can’t be easy to hear us discuss the conquest of his homeland.
“I’ve thought of that,” I say softly. But if it’s true that they’re vulnerable, it means that Invierne is like a desperate mother puma cornered in her den, and thus more dangerous than ever.
We are still too near the village to risk a cooking fire, so we eat a cold meal of dates and jerky. Afterward, Storm sits cross-legged to meditate, and Mara practices a quick draw and pull with her bow and a quiver full of arrows.
Belén and I find an open space to practice, and I learn to block an overhanded strike with a dagger. Belén shows me how to position myself so that my entire body absorbs the blow. We practice until my wrist and shoulder socket ache and my already wobbly legs are as weak as coconut pudding. Exhausted but feeling accomplished, I flip out my bedroll to finally get some rest. No tents—the night is warm enough, and we need to pack up and move out as quickly as possible at first light.
Belén takes the first watch. I don’t bother to remove my boots before lying down. I’m asleep in moments.
A chill at my belly drags me from sleep. I wake with a sword pointed at my throat.
I start to roll away, but the sword presses deeper, pricking my flesh as the Godstone shoots ice through my veins. The villagers have found us. We’ll be hanged for thieves after all.
But no. The man staring down the blade at me has a complexion as tough as tanned leather. His hair and beard are wild and matted, his clothes ragged and torn, and he reeks of old sweat.
Highwaymen, then. We are being robbed. And murdered, if I don’t figure a way out of this.
I move my eyes to place my companions. Mara and Storm are in equally tenuous positions, each trapped beneath a sword held by a ragged man. I can’t find Belén. Either he has already fallen, or he is hiding nearby. Please, God, let Belén be hiding.
The man looming over me opens his mouth to speak, but I preempt him. “What did you do with the others?” I demand.
He blinks. “Others? What others?”
“Our companions. Five of them. They should have returned from scouting by now. If you have killed them, I’ll have your heads.” A knife is sheathed in my right boot. I’m not sure how to grab it without being obvious, but I have to try. I bend my knee slightly to bring my foot closer and reach, hoping the bedroll disguises my movements.
“The girl is lying,” says the one who has trapped Mara. “They have supplies for four people, no more.” His accent is thick and gruff, as if speech comes rarely.
“You’re certain? Wouldn’t do to have vengeance on our tail,” the third says.
My fingertips have reached the top of my boot. “If you let us live, I promise no one will come after you.” Just a little farther . . .
“An Invierno!” one yells. “Look at those eyes. Greener than an alpine meadow.”
The sword at my neck wavers.
I fling off the bedroll and leap to my feet, drawing my knife. Belén bursts from the bushes, screaming the Malficio war cry.
My would-be captor swings his sword at me. I jump back, and the tip misses my belly by a finger’s breadth. We circle each other warily. Someone scuffles behind me, and I want more than anything to turn and make sure my companions are all right, but I don’t dare.
“You’re a traitor, aren’t you, girl?” he says with a wicked grin that displays blackening teeth. “An enemy spy.”
If Hector were here, he would tell me to run instead of fight. But maybe I can come up under his guard. Or jam his nose into his brain, or—why is he grinning?
An arm wraps my shoulders and hot, sticky breath coats my neck as a knife pricks the skin just below my ear. “Best to drop your dagger, girl.”
Oh, God. He must have dispatched one of my companions to come after me.
I raise my heel and slam it into his instep, like Hector taught me. He screams as bones crunch, his grip releasing. I spin around and thrust my knife with all my strength. He is bent over in pain, so the knife plunges into the hollow of his throat, right above his sternum.
I yank my knife back. Blood sprays, and I blink to clear my eyes as I whirl to face my original attacker.
His eyes are wide with rage and terror, and he leaps at me, raising his sword. The blade flashes in the rising sun, and in this split second, I know I am not fast enough to avoid it.
Then his head whips back, and his body seems to twist in midair. He falls hard to the ground, one leg sprawled unnaturally, an arrow shaft protruding from his bloody eye socket.
I turn around slowly, dazed, breathless. It’s a moment before everything makes sense.
Mara stands tall and fierce, bow in hand. Blood oozes from a huge bruise already blossoming on her forehead. “He bashed my head with a rock,” she says in a shaky voice. “He thought he killed me.”
Behind her, Storm and Belén have wrestled the third man to the ground and are tying his hands. He seems unaware that he’s being tied down. He just stares at his fallen companions.
Our bedrolls and supplies are scattered everywhere, covered in dirt and blood. One of my pack’s straps is broken, torn from its mooring.
“How did this happen?” I ask. “How did they sneak up on us?”
“It’s my fault,” Belén says. “I fell asleep on my watch.” He runs a hand through his black hair. “I haven’t done that since I was ten years old.”
His eye patch is askew, and I focus with determination on the bridge of his nose. I say, “Among my Royal Guard, falling asleep on watch is punishable by death.” I don’t mean it as a threat, and I’m not sure why it comes out of my mouth.
Mara gasps. “Elisa, you can’t!”
“No, no, of course not,” I say quickly. “It’s just . . . this is my fault. I’ve pushed us too hard. Belén hasn’t slept in days. He kept watch last night as I slept, and I . . . I’m sorry.”
Storm puts up a hand to get my attention and points to the man sitting tied up at his feet. Unkempt hair is bound into a messy queue with a leather tie. He has a wide, flat nose with a large bump at the bridge, like it’s been smashed a time or two. His shoulders are like boulders, his forearms veined with muscle. He could break me in two if he wanted, and yet he gawks at me, wide-eyed with terror.
And I realize we’ve made another mistake. I mentioned my guard. The others said my name.
“You’re her,” he whispers. “You’re Queen Elisa.” Even with his hands tied, he manages to prostrate himself, forehead against the ground. “Forgive me, Majesty. I didn’t know.”
“Murder is not less of a crime when the victim is common born.” My knife is still in my hand. I hold it up to the light. “Why did you attack us?”
“For food, Majesty. Supplies. We can’t show our faces—”
“You’re deserters.”
He says nothing.
Conde Eduardo conscripted these men to fight against me, and they refused. From cowardice or loyalty, I’ll never know, because now that he has identified me, he must die.
Storm gives me a questioning look, and I nod slightly. In a single fluid motion, he whisks a stiletto knife from somewhere beneath his cloak and plunges it through the base of the man’s head, severing his spine. The man topples over and twitches in the dirt.
I’m somehow more horrified by this killing than the other two. So cold, so quick. I take a deep breath. I will not vomit. I will not even flinch. “There are still many things I do not know about you, Storm,” I say calmly as the body bucks once more before becoming irrevocably still.
“You have but to ask,” Storm says. “I am your loyal subject.”
I meet his green-eyed gaze steadily, considering. “Belén,” I say. “Storm and I will take the first watch tonight. We have things to discuss.”
We don’t dare take time to bury the bodies, so we drag them into a thicket of mesquite and cover them with brush and tumbleweed. There’s no way to clean the campsite. The best we can do is pour dirt and detritus on the blood puddles and hope no one passes by for a few days.
I scrub at my face and hands with sand, disturbed at how quickly blood goes cold and thick outside the body. My skin still feels sticky with it as we climb onto our horses.
We exit the copse of trees and nose our mounts back onto the trail. The ache in my legs has abated a little, but I’m not sure how I’ll make it a whole day on horseback. I think of Hector, and I grit my teeth and spur my mare forward.
Something squeals high above, and I look up to find three vultures circling lazily in the crystal sky.
The sun is not yet high when Mara slumps over her mare’s neck and lists to the side.
“Mara?” I call out, but she doesn’t answer. “Belén, something is wrong with Mara!”
He whips his horse around—I’m not sure how, since he rides without tack—and gallops toward us. He draws alongside Mara and hooks her armpits just as she topples from her mare’s back. As one, they tilt precariously.
I swing my leg around and slide from my mount just in time to grab my lady-in-waiting before Belén loses his grip. He slips off his horse, and together, we leverage her to the ground.
“Storm,” I call out. “Will you look around for a campsite?”