I’m about to protest, but the guards surround us and herd away. From the corner of my eye, I see Conde Treviño whisper something to an attendant; then the crowd parts before us, revealing a side door. We enter a dark hallway as the throng behind us relaxes into humming speculation.
Worry knots in my chest as we are led down the hall, up a flight of creaking stairs. The guard opens a door to a large suite of eggshell-colored adobe walls and wood-beam braces. It’s windowless and unadorned, but adequate enough for four or five, with its rounded fireplace and wide beds. But the guard ushers all nine of us inside and slams the door. Then we hear the grind and thud of the bolt shoved into place.
We stand there, stunned, until Cosmé lowers her cowl. She is laughing.
We gape at her.
“What did you expect?” she asks. “We definitely surprised him. I haven’t seen him twitch like that since the day I informed him of our unfortunate relationship.” She plops onto the nearest bed, a smug grin on her face.
“He didn’t recognize you,” Humberto says.
“I just kept my head down and covered. He had eyes only for our princess.”
“What will he do next?” young Benito asks in a tight voice.
“Once he’s had a chance to collect his thoughts, he’ll send for Elisa and one or two others. He’ll question you, first together, then separately. The rest of us will be held as leverage.”
“You know him well,” I say.
She avoids my gaze. “Yes.”
So we settle in to wait, trying not to panic over our sudden captivity. I hope she is correct, that I’ll have a chance to talk to him before he turns us over to Invierne.
We nap in shifts. The guards outside ignore our repeated requests for food, and I ache with hunger by the time we hear the rasp of the sliding bolt. Those lying down jump to their feet. Together, we face the doorway. Cosmé huddles in the back, cowl raised.
Two thickset men enter. Short swords slant away from their hips; daggers hug their boots, sheathed in buckled leather. “Lady Elisa of the Malficio?” one says.
I step forward. “I am Lady Elisa.”
“Come with us. You also.” He points to Humberto and Benito.
One guard angles behind us, and I hear the distinct rasp of steel on stone as he unsheathes his sword. Humberto grasps my hand as they herd us through several hallways. I squeeze back gratefully.
By the time we arrive at an ornate mahogany door, I am praying furiously. The door opens, and we are prodded inside. It’s an office of sorts, with a polished desk and a huge fireplace. I’m slightly nauseated by the lushness of the room, with its brightly gilded edges, plush carpet, and scalloped curtains. It reeks of spicy incense, like the animagus’s tent. I barely swallow my cough. The guards lead us to one of several couches facing the desk and shoves us down.
A smaller door behind the desk opens. A tall, wrinkled man in plain robes glides through, followed by Conde Treviño. The conde seems slight next to his towering companion, but sharp faced. Quick of motion.
“Lady Elisa,” the conde says in a musical voice. “I’m so glad you came.”
“Why have you taken us captive?” I demand, then add, “Your Grace.”
His smile is slick and lovely. “For your own protection, of course.”
I let him have his lie. “That was very kind of you, then.” But Humberto stiffens beside me, and his quiet anger gives me the strength to say, “I was pleased to receive your message, Your Grace. I think an alliance between my people and yours would be very beneficial.”
“Oh?” His lips quirk as if it’s a great joke, and he raises an eyebrow, a startlingly familiar gesture. It must have been no trouble at all for Cosmé to convince him of his paternity.
The wrinkled man standing at his shoulder remains unflappable.
“Certainly,” I affirm, even more suspicious now. “The skill of my people, combined with your resources, would give His Majesty the advantage he needs to win the war against Invierne.”
He sighs dramatically. “I’m afraid there will be no alliance, for there will be no war.”
Benito gasps. My hands clench into fists. “What do you mean?” I whisper.
“I have brokered a deal for peace.” His voice rings with pride. “Thousands of lives will be saved.”
Humberto shakes his head. “Invierne will burn your city to the ground,” he spits. “No matter what promises they have made to you.”
“No, no, you are wrong,” Treviño says, advancing on us. The tawdry amulet at his neck slithers on its chain, like a whisper, and I flinch at the Godstone’s hot response. “I have found them to be most reasonable. A pleasure to treat with. Why, just yesterday I received word from their ambassador of a poison spreading through the camp. They thought I had instigated this egregious act of war. Of course I assured them I had not. Then the ambassador suggested that perhaps the Malficio were responsible. Imagine my surprise to find you on my doorstep this very morning!” He paces now, red-and-gold cloak swishing at his ankles, revealing daggers sheathed against his boots. “All I have to do to preserve my city and my people is turn you over to them. All of you. I regret it, I really do. But peace is worth it, don’t you think?” He whirls on me and bends over until his nose is a handsbreadth from mine. “So, my lady, you will tell me exactly where your hidden camp is.”
I swallow, searching frantically for some clever strategy, some brilliant rhetoric that will save us or at least buy us time. All I manage is, “I’ll never tell you.”
The conde steps back and shrugs. “You will. Then you will be sent to Invierne’s camp as a measure of good faith. They’re desperate to have you, for some reason.” He flicks his fingers at one of the guards. A heavy hand grips my shoulder, and fingertips dig deep under my collarbone.
“No!” Humberto launches to his feet. “Take me. I am the leader of the Malficio. The girl is just a decoy.”
The air in my lungs takes on the weight of a boulder. No, Humberto. Please, no. I’m shaking my head, trying to catch his eye, but his gaze remains fixed on the conde.
Treviño turns to the wrinkled man, a question in his eyes.
“He lies,” the old man rasps. “She is the leader. And the bearer. I felt her Godstone earlier. This boy is nothing.”
A priest! Together, the conde and the priest stare at Humberto as if they are coyotes sizing up a juicy rabbit.
Dread curls in my gut.
Humberto’s face is a frozen sculpture of fear. But then it relaxes into resignation. He turns to me, regards me steadily, his eyes so full of warmth, his smile so brave. “My Elisa,” he whispers. “Surely you know how much I—”
“Kill him,” Treviño says.
“No!” I lurch from the couch to shelter his body with my own. But the guard’s hand tangles in Humberto’s hair, wrenches his head backward.
I’m reaching for him as steel glints, cold and swift, against his neck. The flesh parts smoothly into a crimson smile.
He tumbles forward, and I grab him. In spite of his shuddering, in spite of his liquid breath, his arms slide around my waist, and he clasps me fiercely to himself. He chokes out something guttural. My name. He’s trying to say my name.
Humberto’s legs give way, and we crumple together to the rug. I bury my face in his hair as he drowns against me. The arms around my waist go slack. Too late, I whisper, “I love you.”
I could hold him forever, but hands seize him, pull him from my grasp. I sit back on my heels, shaking, staring at his limp body as it is dragged away. His eyes are still wide, but the boy I knew does not live in them anymore.
I hear a keening sound. High-pitched, wild. I realize it’s me.
I’m lifted to my feet by pressure at my armpits. The conde stands before me. I lunge for him. The guard yanks me backward and I whirl on him too, but I am weak. In moments my arms are pinned at my side and I’m facing the conde again. Treviño has a spatter of blood across his cheek, a line of drops arching up to his brow. From my hair, I realize. When I whirled.
He whispers in a low voice, “You will tell me all about the Malficio. Each day you are silent will result in the death of one of your companions. I will send for you again tomorrow afternoon. If you do not reveal the location of the Malficio’s camp, this boy dies.”
Benito. I had forgotten he was there.
The guards drag us through the corridors, back to our room. I have no strength left. No resolve. Not even rage. Just grief so huge that I think I’ll drown in it.
The others understand as soon as the guard opens the door. They have only to note Humberto’s absence, see my hair and my riding leathers, steeped in blood already sticky and cold.
Except for Cosmé, who demands, “What happened? Where’s Humberto?”
The door slams, locking us in again.
I can’t speak. I’m shaking too badly. The faces of my companions blur as a sharp pain streaks through my temples. Oh, God, oh, God . . . The Godstone warms to my grief.
The Godstone.
That’s what Invierne wants. Not me, not the Malficio. Just the stone inside me to complete their perfect grouping of ten.
“I need a knife,” I say.
They gape at me.
“A knife!” I scream. “Doesn’t someone have a knife?”
Jacián advances on me, his face darker than ever. He reaches into his boot and pulls out a tiny blade no longer than my forefinger, then flips it around and offers it, handle first. He steps back and crosses his arms, unspoken questions in his eyes.
I rip off my leather vest and pull up the undershirt to reveal my stomach, taut now and flashing with blue fire.
“What are you doing?” someone asks.
I push the blade’s tip into my navel, right where the edge of my skin overlaps the embedded stone. I dig inside, feeling around the side of the jewel. Astonishing pain shoots through my abdomen, down into my buttocks, whisking my breath away. It’s like lightning, quick and fiery. But it’s not as bad as grief, so I dig and pry. Blood dribbles down my skin into my pants, mingling with Humberto’s. But the Godstone won’t budge. I try using my fingers, but I can’t get a good grip. I try shoving the knife in from a different direction. The pain is too much. I’m growing weak; I can’t feel my legs anymore.
I give up trying to dislodge it and decide to cut around it instead. I’ll have to cut deep. Don’t think, Elisa, just do. I raise the knife.
A hand on my wrist, small but strong. Fingers digging in at the base of my palm. The knife clatters to the floor. “It’s all right, Elisa.” Cosmé’s voice. Arms wrap around me. Dark hair caresses my cheek.
“But I don’t want it,” I whisper in her ear. “I’m done. He never should have chosen me. He was wrong and I’m done.”
“Maybe he’s not done with you.” Together we sink to our knees. She’s holding me so tight I think I might die of it.
“But, Cosmé . . .”
“I know.” Her body quakes softly against mine, and my cheek is wet with her tears. “I know.”
Chapter 28
COSMÉ and Mara do their best to help me clean up in the bathing room. They strip my blood-soaked leathers and toss them into a corner. Our austere suite does not have running water, so they wipe at my skin with a strip torn from a bedsheet. My abdomen throbs, and the knife wounds I inflicted upon myself continue to ooze, but I’m a little less crusty, a little less cold, when Mara drapes the remaining portion of sheet around me and ties it cleverly at my shoulder.
“When the guards come next, I’ll ask for water buckets,” she says.
We gather in the sleeping chamber. Most of us sit on the beds, feet dangling over the edge. Only Jacián and Mara stand. We fit so easily now, with one less person.
Jacián is the one to break the silence. “We can overpower the guards. There are eight of us. We have my knife.”
Cosmé shakes her head. “It’s too small a doorway. We would have to overwhelm them, whereas they need only keep us inside. And without weapons . . .” Her voice is steady, her eyes free of tears. I grind my teeth at the wrongness of it, that she is able to ignore her brother’s loss with such ease when I can hardly draw breath.
“Maybe we could lure one of the guards inside?” Benito suggests.
Jacián nods. “Or even two. I don’t think we’re guarded by more than four at a time. So half of us draw the guards in, the other half storm the doorway.”
“There would be casualties,” Cosmé says. “They have weapons. We don’t.”
We look at each other in dismay. She’s right, of course, and after today, the prospect of casualties is devastatingly real.
“It’s time,” Cosmé whispers, “for me to declare myself to the conde.” But her head is lowered, and her fist clutching the bedcover turns white. She hates him, I realize. It’s not dislike or discomfort or shame, but raging hatred with a dash of fear.
“It might make things worse,” Jacián says. “What will he do when he learns his daughter has betrayed him and joined the Malficio?”
“Don’t, Cosmé,” I whisper. I’m looking at the floor, at my bare toes wriggling along the fringe of a threadbare rug, but I can feel their collective gaze on my face. “Treviño is bluffing. Invierne will march against him because of our poison, I’m sure of it. He hopes to save himself by offering the Malficio. But they don’t care about that. They only want my Godstone.”
Cosmé crouches before me and peers up into my face. “You cannot give yourself to them.”