I laugh and clap him on the back. When I turn to leave the cavern in search of volunteers, a tall, thin figure blocks my path.
“Take me with you,” Mara says, her voice soft but insistent. I peer up at her, noticing the soot stains on her cheek, the wisps of still-ragged black hair escaping the leather tie at her nape. Her face has healed nicely, though a shimmery scar from a much older injury weighs down her left eyelid. The drooped effect makes her appear perpetually sad. She has a faint scent about her, as always, of garlic and roasting meat. I imagine she’s weary of preparing food for eighty people. “I’ve always wanted to see a big city,” she continues hurriedly. “My family, they’re all . . . gone, so you see, I wouldn’t be leaving anyone behind anymore. . . .” Her voice shakes as her eyes plead with mine.
“Would you be willing to cook for us?”
“Yes.”
“Will you make jerboa soup every single night of our journey?”
She wrinkles her nose. “I’d prefer not to, but if—”
“Please come.”
She smiles in relief, opens her mouth to say something, then snaps it closed and hurries away. I smile sadly at her back, hoping I’ve done her a favor by letting her come.
I hear shouting. A flurry of motion draws my gaze to the cavern’s opening. “Find Elisa!” someone hollers. I rush outside, squinting in the daylight. Below, where adobe buildings begin to creep up the slope toward our caves, a group of boys hauls a filthy, ragged creature my way. Through the puzzle of heaving arms and billowing robes, I can make out greasy hair, skeletal fingers, the ripple of burned flesh.
I step down the sloping path, heart pounding, though I’m not sure why. As I approach, my throat constricts. The man is emaciated, his knees shredded from being dragged along by our villagers. His torn robe hangs lopsided, revealing lumpy, barely healed burns on his bare shoulder. His head swings limply from his neck, and I can’t help wincing at the pasty patches of scalp showing through clumped hair. His head rolls upward. I look into a crusty crater of an eye socket. He peers at me sideways through his remaining eye, and I gasp.
It is Belén.
“Oh, God,” I whisper, hand to mouth. “Belén, what happened to you?”
He exhales raggedly. “Elisa.” His shoulders shake. He might be sobbing. “Elisa, I came to warn—” His eye closes tight, with pain or concentration. He takes a deep breath and tries again. “Warn you. Go back to the king. Leave this place. Before the animagi find you.”
The Godstone warms to his words. Because he speaks truth? “Belén, you need water and food. I’ll have Cosmé tend—”
“No! Not Cosmé. Oh, God, anyone but her.” He continues to mutter, but his words unravel into nonsense.
Tears prick at my eyes. I bite my lip and clench a fist until I feel steady. I gesture to the two holding his arms. “Take him inside. Be gentle. We need him fit enough to tell us what he knows.” They move off immediately, lifting the bedraggled man between them. I turn to the other three. “Was he followed, do you think?”
They look at each other, shrug, turn back to me. “We’ll scout around, Highness,” says a boy with bright eyes.
“Thank you. I fear he may have led Invierne right to us.”
“We should extend the guard perimeter for a few days,” he suggests. “Just in case.”
“Good thinking. What is your name? I’m so sorry, but I’ve forgotten.”
He beams. “Adán. I was a trapper like my father before I joined the Malficio.”
I hope he doesn’t notice how reluctant my smile is; he can’t be more than thirteen. “I’m placing you in charge of scouting for possible pursuers, Adán.”
He nods solemnly. “We’ll report back by nightfall.” Together they rush off, so eager to risk their lives.
But I can’t worry about them. I swallow and take a deep breath before heading back to the half-cavern. I find Belén slumped against the curving wall. Cosmé is already there, sponging his face. They don’t speak. When she tilts his chin to look for wounds, his eye darts to the side to avoid her gaze. The young men who brought him watch from a quiet distance.
“Cosmé.”
“He is no traitor,” she snaps without turning.
“That may be. When will I be able to talk to him?”
She blots at a crusted gash along his hairline with a wet cloth. “He’s delirious from fever. He needs rest and water. Talk to him in a day or so.”
“He spoke of a warning. He was quite frantic about it.”
“He needs rest.”
I sigh, remembering the way Papá and Alodia used to talk over my head. “Belén.”
Cosmé whirls and stands. Tears shimmer in her eyes. “I said, he needs rest. Before he does anything else. Or he might not recover.”
I ignore her. “Belén, when you feel ready to talk, have Cosmé or one of the guards send for me.”
“Elisa.” The voice is so cracked and low that I’m not sure he really spoke. “Elisa!”
I rush forward and crouch beside him. He smells of rot, but I lean toward his face anyway. “I’m here, Belén.” He may be a traitor, but before that he was my friend, and my chest stings to see him this way.
“You must get away. You and the Godstone. They know, Elisa.”
“They know what?”
Cosmé squats beside me, ready to interfere on Belén’s behalf if necessary.
“They know you’re the bearer. They want your Godstone.” His hand darts out from within tattered robes and clutches my wrist with desperate strength. “They must not get your stone, Elisa. All of Joya will be destroyed if they do. You must flee. Now. Today!” He gasps, and his eye rolls back. Cosmé lunges forward to catch his head before it impacts the limestone wall.
I stand slowly, pondering his words, while Cosmé gently lays him out. He tries to speak, but she hushes him and continues to bathe his injuries. Her motions are careful and slow, as if Belén is made of precious glass. All the while she murmurs to him, runs fingers through his hair, caresses his face.
“I’ll find out what I can,” Cosmé says in a resigned voice.
“Thank you.” Looking down at them, I hug myself against a stab of cold. Then I flee the cavern in search of Humberto. I’m suddenly desperate to see him. I need his cheerful smile and laughing eyes, his steady counsel.
Chapter 25
WE delay our journey to Basajuan to allow ourselves time to learn all we can from Belén. The first day, he spews thoughts in panicked bits, and we cannot string them together in a way that makes sense except to understand that he fears for my life and for the fate of all of Joya d’Arena. I feel oddly detached from his ravings. Fear has been my steady companion for so long now. What is another warning? Merely the words of a madman, harmless and deflected as easily as a will-o’-the-wisp.
Humberto, however, cannot share my calm. He is never far, and every time I glance in his direction, I see huge brown eyes lingering on me, bright with feeling. He is aware of me in a way Alejandro never was, and it gives me a little thrill each time I notice him noticing me. I wonder if he thinks about our kiss as often as I do.
I don’t dissuade him from looking after me. He’s the most determined and capable person I know, equally adept at snaring rabbits or finding water or making people laugh. I know he’ll do everything he can to keep me safe.
On the afternoon of the next day, I sit on a pebbly mound, my back against the sun-warmed side of the butte. I spread Homer’s Afflatus across my lap and read it over again, hoping to find something that will help me, something missed by centuries of devout scholarship. The village is only steps away but out of sight. Never in my life have I been so sought after for my opinion, my approval, my presence, than in these last days. I have power over these people, power they freely gave to me. It’s frightening and strange and a little bit wonderful. It’s also exhausting, and I’m relieved to be alone.
I hear the crunch of footsteps and sigh. But my disappointment gives way to delight when Humberto’s head bobs above the rise. I smile in greeting.
“You shouldn’t be alone,” he says.
My grin widens. “I’m not alone anymore, am I?”
Our shoulders touch as he settles beside me. He rests his forearms across bended knees and stares out toward the desert. “I need to talk to you about something.”
My smile fades. I swallow. “About what?”
He doesn’t look at me, just digs at the shale with the heel of his boot. “That day. In the cave. Before you were captured.”
Heat floods my neck at the memory of his kiss. I’ve started to invent this conversation a dozen times in my mind but never pursued it, as if talking about it—even thinking about it—would make it ordinary and final. It’s a kiss that can’t ever have a happy ending, and I’d prefer that it stay dreamlike in my memory, full of possibility.
“Elisa, I’m sorry.”
I whip my head around to study his profile. “Why?”
“I thought . . .” He looks skyward and breathes deeply. “I thought I’d never see you again. I was scared and sad, and . . . and I’d been wanting to kiss you so badly. It made me stupid. I promise I won’t be . . . inappropriate with you again.”
This was not how I imagined our exchange would go. I press my lips together, determined not to cry. “Do you regret it, then?” I whisper.
A half smile flits across his lips. “No. I mean yes. I mean—”
“I’m not sure I want to be married to Alejandro.”
His head whirls, and I jump, startled as much by my own words as his quick motion. It’s true, I realize, my heart pounding in panic. Alejandro is the handsomest man I’ve ever known. But it’s not enough.
“What do you mean?” he asks softly, and the hope in his eyes makes my throat hurt.
“I have to be married to him. I’ve made promises to the Malficio and I must be Alejandro’s wife to keep those promises, but . . .”
“But what?”
The truth is huge and heavy. “He doesn’t love me. I used to wish he would learn to. But now that I’ve been gone . . . I guess I don’t respect him very much.” Not the way I respect you. “He’s handsome. Very charming. But he can be indecisive.” I think of his refusal to acknowledge me as his wife, his neglect of Rosario, even his disregard of his mistress. “And he’s unkind sometimes, thoughtless.”
Humberto’s gaze holds mine. I love the lines of his face—so proud and strong. I ache to trace the curve of his stubbled cheek with my fingertips. My lips part.
“Elisa,” he whispers.
I lean closer. My lips buzz; my heart pounds.
“I won’t kiss you again,” he says.
I snap my mouth closed.
“Not that I wouldn’t like to, understand,” he says with a lopsided grin. He returns his gaze to the safety of the desert landscape. He is silent a moment. Then: “You are the bravest person I know. And smart. And…” He shifts his feet. “And beautiful. The king is a fool for not loving you.”
My next breath is more like a sob. I should laugh off his words, or thank him for saying so, but my throat won’t open.
Instead, I join him in careful study of the dry scrub and its occasional lizard. We sit together a long time, shoulders barely touching, and watch the sun paint the land in pink and coral as it dips below the jagged horizon.
The air is dim and cool when Cosmé finds us.
“Belén is ready to talk,” she says.
We scramble to our feet and hurry after her. Humberto doesn’t say anything to me, doesn’t even look in my direction. But as we walk I feel his arm brush mine, then his fingers. He grabs my hand and squeezes, too briefly, before letting go. My hand is unbearably cold as we enter the village.
Belén repeats his warning first. “Elisa, please leave. Go back to Brisadulce. Or better, go far away. Somewhere no one would expect to find you.”
Humberto and Father Alentín exchange an uneasy glance, but I ignore them. “Start at the beginning, Belén.” I try to keep my voice gentle. “Tell us how they knew about our cave.” He wears a patch now, so I’m spared the view of his wasted eye.
He hangs his head. “I told them.”
Cosmé looks away. Jacián just glowers.
“Why?” I ask.
He rocks back and forth. “They told me they’d spare my village.” But his eye is unsteady. Continued fatigue, perhaps. Or maybe he’s hiding something.
I shake my head. “That doesn’t sound like you, Belén. You wouldn’t betray Cosmé that way.” I feel the young woman’s glare at my back as I crouch down and lean toward Belén’s ruined face. “Why did you do it?”
He continues rocking.
“Belén?”
“I brought you to the gates of the enemy!” he spits. “I thought it was the right thing!”
I lurch backward on my heels, stunned. “You thought you were fulfilling Homer’s prophecy.”
He nods, still refusing to look at my face. “I knew the others could get away. I thought you needed to be in the enemy camp. I thought it was God’s will.”
God’s will. How many times have I heard someone declare their understanding of this thing I find so indefinable?
Humberto steps forward. “Something changed your mind,” he says. His face has nothing of the sad desperation that fills his sister’s. Instead, he seems furious.