I don’t bother to see if he complies, for Mara groans loudly, only half conscious.
“It’s the blow to her head,” I say. “She’s concussed.” I shouldn’t have ordered everyone to set off so soon. I should have taken the time to check everyone’s wounds.
Belén slaps her cheek lightly. “Stay awake, Mara.”
She groans again, blinking, her eyes unfocused.
“She saved my life,” I murmur as Belén palpates the pillowed bruise on Mara’s forehead. My heart sinks into my stomach as I realize he’s looking for a crack in her skull.
“Mara is a warrior,” he says simply, and he gazes at her with such respect and affection that my heart aches a little. “Did she ever tell you how she found your Malficio camp? How she led twelve children through the wilderness to safety after the Inviernos destroyed her village?”
“No,” I say.
“Shut up,” Mara mumbles.
He reaches out as if to stroke her cheek but stops himself, instead grasping her chin and turning her head to the side to get a better angle. “I don’t think anything is broken. But she should rest. She’ll probably vomit a lot.”
I breathe a sigh of relief.
Storm returns with news of a small clearing nearby, hidden from view but easy to access. No water source in sight, but we always carry extra and should have enough for a day or so.
Belén helps Mara to her feet and hitches her arm over his shoulder. “Elisa, can you lead our horses?”
I control the shudder before it can pass through me. “Of course.” Horses aren’t so bad, I tell myself, and these have been perfectly docile. I grab the reins of my mare and lead her forward, hoping Mara’s and Belén’s horses will follow. They do.
We’ve penetrated the foothills enough that sand and shale have ceded to gravely soil and stubborn grass. We make camp in a brown meadow surrounded by juniper bushes and struggling, stunted trees. The Sierra Sangre looms over us, the jagged peaks capped in snow that shines pristine in the sun, but blurs icy blue in the shadows. I can’t imagine conquering such a landscape armed with only mountain ponies and determination, but conquer it we must.
Beyond them lies Invierne, Storm’s homeland, my enemy, a country no one from Joya d’Arena has been allowed to set foot in for centuries. And yet they have invited me—no, coerced me—to come. To trade my life for Hector’s. To offer myself as a living, willing sacrifice toward an end I cannot guess.
They have no idea what is coming.
While Storm ties the horses to the scrub oak, Belén and I help Mara stretch out on her bedroll. “Elisa?” she whispers as I feel her forehead for fever. “My head hurts.”
It startles me. So rarely do I hear Mara complain. “I could heal you,” I offer. I’ve healed before with the power of my Godstone. I can only do it for people who are dear to me, and at great physical cost, but I can’t bear to see my friend in pain. Worse, our objective cannot bear more delays.
She shakes her head. “No, no, not yet. If one of us has to lose consciousness, it might as well be me.” Her head lolls to the side, and her eyes drift closed.
“Mara? Belén says you shouldn’t sleep.”
“Just . . . resting eyes. Heal me tomorrow. If I’m not . . .”
Belén slaps her awake again.
“I hate you,” she says.
“Yes,” he agrees solemnly. “For years now.”
I clamber to my feet. “I’m going to have a long talk with Storm. Tell me if something changes. Also, you will get some rest tonight. Think of it as a royal command.”
His lips quirk. “Yes, Majesty.”
Storm has tied up the horses, and now he sits against a tree trunk, his long legs sprawled out before him, his eyes closed. He always wears a cowl and cloak, no matter how stifling the desert heat, but for once his hood is tilted back, the ties of the cloak undone and open, showing the thin tunic beneath. It’s soft linen, and the hem and seams are embroidered with a border of golden flowers with winding blue stems. It’s far too lovely a frock for traveling.
With his face uncovered, his eyes closed and his features relaxed, I’m reminded how beautiful he is. Such a fine cast to chin and cheeks, with slightly tilted eyes and a small, straight nose leading to full lips. He looks like my sister, I realize with a start. She has the same uncanny beauty, the same delicacy that hides a sharp mind and steely focus.
My sister. I haven’t seen Alodia in more than a year. I hope she got my message, that she’s willing to participate in a parliament with Cosmé and me and will be waiting in Basajuan. I’ll need the support of them both if I’m to retake my country.
Storm opens one eye and peers at me. “What do you want?”
I grin. “The pleasure of your charming company, of course.”
He grunts, but he shifts aside to give me space against his tree trunk. I settle next to him, stretching out my legs. It feels nice to be in a different position. After being in the saddle so long, it seemed as though my legs would shape themselves to the barrel roundness of my mare’s body and never straighten again.
“You want to know about me,” he says. “How I killed that man so easily.”
I nod. “I’ve seen three people kill that efficiently, and all of them were highly trained.” I count them off on my fingers. “My former nurse, Ximena, who was groomed to be my guardian by the Monastery-at-Amalur. Hector, who is the commander of the most elite military force in Joya d’Arena. And Conde Tristán, who once rescued me and several of my Royal Guard almost singlehandedly. You move like them. So fast, so assured, so . . .” My voice breaks. They’re all people I’d give anything to see safe and in good health again—no matter the terms of our parting.
“Yes, I’m like them.”
I sigh, frustrated at how he makes me work for every smidge of information. “Why? Are you an assassin like the man who took Hector?”
He snaps, “I’m nothing like Franco.”
“In all the ways that matter, no. Storm, just tell me.”
He brings his knees to his chest. “I was trained to defend myself and to kill without hesitation because I am a prince of the realm. Everyone with royal blood receives an education in the killing arts.”
“Just how close were you to the throne of Invierne?”
He shakes his head. “It doesn’t work that way. There is no one king so much as a council of rulers called the Deciregi. Your people would think of them as priest kings.”
“The Deciregi,” I murmur. “They’re animagi, then? Sorcerers?”
“Yes. The ten most powerful in the world. A Deciregus must be of royal blood and born with a Godstone. I was groomed to represent my family in the Deciregi from a very young age. But I failed. My stone fell out too early, and I was never able to call upon its magic. So later, when my cousin was born with a Godstone and showed potential, they named him successor instead and exiled me to Joya d’Arena.”
“To recoup some of your honor in the role of ambassador.”
“I was to bargain for port rights and make inquiries as to the identity of the new bearer.”
“But you were forced to go into hiding?”
“Exactly so. Once the Invierne army began to gather, I knew my people had given up on diplomacy. This second failure made my life forfeit.”
The Deciregi. The most powerful animagi in the world. Those I’ve already faced seemed powerful enough, with their firebolts and invisible shields—not to mention their mysterious attraction to my Godstone, which makes it nearly impossible for me to hide from them.
“It’s brave of you to return with me,” I say, “given the death sentence on your head.”
He shrugs. “We’ll sneak in and out as quickly and quietly as possible.”
I bend my knees and rest my elbows on them, looking over toward Belén, who still leans over Mara’s prone form. I smile to myself. Mara hates Belén much less than she lets on.
“Elisa?” Storm says. “That is your plan, is it not?”
I place my fingertips to the Godstone, seeking assurance in its solidness. “Yes. But it won’t be as easy as you make it sound. That’s why they took Hector, after all—to draw me to Invierne. They’re expecting me. So, if stealth doesn’t work, I will make a loud and noisy entrance and wreak as much havoc as possible.” I turn to measure his reaction to what I’ll say next. “A deception may be in order. If we can’t rescue Hector quietly, I want you to pretend I am your prisoner.”
His mouth opens. Closes.
“I know lying is difficult for you,” I add hastily. “But deception is not. You had no qualms about convincing Eduardo’s soldiers you were an animagus.”
“I will not have to lie?”
“Not with words, no.”
He returns my gaze, and his green eyes dance. “Then, yes, I like this plan. They would not kill me if I brought them the bearer of the only living Godstone. They would welcome me as a hero.”
“A prince of the realm.”
He leans back against the tree trunk and closes his eyes. “A prince of the realm,” he agrees softly.
One way or another, I will have Storm reinstated and his honor restored. I haven’t told him yet, but he has an important role to play in wresting my kingdom back from Conde Eduardo. And I suppose now is as good a time as any to begin putting that part of my plan into motion.
Carefully I say, “Since going to meet the zafira, my Godstone has been more alive inside me than ever. More sensitive to my prayers, more . . . everything.”
His eyes turn as hard and glittery as emeralds, with either anger or excitement. “But you gave up the power. You brought a whole mountain down on the zafira!”
“Yes, I tried to give it up. And I don’t buzz with power the way I did when we were on that island. But it’s still there. Like a pesky fly that won’t be swatted away. I think the zafira isn’t as done with me as I am with it. So I might as well use it, right?”
“Of course.”
“So once we are into the mountains, away from the villages and priests who might sense my Godstone, I’d like to try a few things. I can already heal with it, and when I was connected directly to the zafira, I was able to create a protective barrier to fend off the gatekeeper.”
“You made things grow too,” he adds. A muscle in his jaw twitches, like he’s barely keeping his excitement in check. Maybe this is a conversation he has been anticipating. “And you freed me by breaking my chains. Nothing has been able to break them since.”
“And I couldn’t break them now, without direct access to the zafira. But there are some things I could always do just by reaching through the skin of the earth. Something happened to me in that cavern, Storm. And though it’s nothing like the feeling I got when the power was swirling all around me, I suspect . . . I hope . . . that I can do more than I used to.”
His fingers are fisted in his tunic now. He knows what I’m going to say next.
“So, I’d like to try summoning fire, like your animagi do. And . . . I’d like you to try it too.”
He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at me.
I press on. “I suspect the zafira changed you too. You could sense it as we approached, remember? And it touched you, claimed you for its gatekeeper before I stole you away. So maybe it has awakened your stone a little. Maybe you can do things with it now that you couldn’t before.”
His hand goes to his chest, where he clutches the amulet that hangs hidden beneath his tunic. I’ve seen it only once before—a tiny iron cage, black with age, that houses a blue jewel just like the one that lives in my navel.
Except his is powerless. Dead.
“We could train together, you and I.” Gently I add, “No one need know about it, save our companions.”
He is silent for a long time. One of the horses snorts and tosses her mane. Something rustles in the tumbleweed beside us.
“I will try it,” he says at last. “Once we are in the mountains. Near the divide, beyond the free villages, is a weeklong stretch of travel where we will not encounter even a trading post. That will be a good time.”
“Yes,” I agree, relieved to have convinced him so easily. “A very good time.”
6
HECTOR
IF Elisa were here, she could pray warmth into her body with the power of her Godstone. It gives me comfort. She’ll never be so cold as I am now.
Wind whistles down the mountain slopes, penetrating even my leather armor, flinging needles of icy rain. The Inviernos greet the cooling weather with laughter and smiles of relief, but we Joyans hunch over our horses for warmth, letting our mounts guide us rather than raising our faces to the wet cold.
In spite of the clove hitch, I stretch my fingers open, then tighten them into fists. Open, close—over and over again, to force warmth and movement. The effort grinds the ties into my wrists, but I keep at it. The air has gotten so cold that icy numbness is a greater danger than injury.
But by the time Franco calls a halt, I know I’ve miscalculated. I’ve lost the battle and my palms have cramped, my fingers curled into useless claws. Which means I must now deal with both numbness and injury.
One of the Joyans, a stocky man with a chipped front tooth, comes to help me from the saddle. I know him vaguely. A soldier from the city watch, one of General Luz-Manuel’s men. Yet more evidence that our highest-ranking military official has been plotting treason with the conde.
If I don’t dismount quickly, I’ll be yanked off. My left leg is steady in its stirrup as I swing my right leg over and slide to the ground. I can do it without grabbing the pommel now, though I always pretend to. With a little more practice, I’ll turn the dismount into a hard kick to someone’s face.