The Bitter Kingdom

15

WE don every single item of clothing we brought with us—extra shirts and tunics, stockings, and underthings. Belén shows us how to stuff our boots with dry grass—a trick he learned while scouting for Queen Cosmé. Even Mula ceases to balk at wearing boots and, instead of scampering ahead down the trail, stays quietly in the saddle, curled up against Mara’s chest for warmth.

The cold is so overwhelming, so everywhere present, that I almost don’t notice when my Godstone turns icy with warning.

“Belén!” I call out.

He halts his mount and twists to face me.

I drop my voice. “My Godstone! It . . . I think someone is on the trail ahead of us.”

My companions know exactly what my stone’s warnings mean. Without being prompted, everyone moves off the trail and into the cover of trees. Belén dismounts, pulling his dagger from its sheath. “Back soon. Stay quiet.” He takes off down the trail at a fast but silent jog.

Mara whispers, “They must be very near for your Godstone to react so, yes?”

“I don’t know! Everything is different since the island.”

We share a long look. It might be Franco. And Hector.

“Is it the bad men?” Mula whispers.

I nod. “If there is fighting, I want you to hide, understand?”

Mula’s eyes are very large.

Mara gives her a squeeze. “If you get scared, just don’t think about it. Close your eyes and think of something that makes you happy until one of us finds you.”

My first lady-in-waiting, Aneaxi, used to tell me something similar. I thought it was ridiculous, even as a child, because by telling my mind not to ponder something, I was certainly pondering it.

“All right,” Mula says, gazing up at her like a trusting lamb. “I will think about my name.”

Then again, maybe Mara knows a lot more about children than I do.

The sun curves high, and the near-frozen moisture on the ground steams into the air. The horses paw at the carpet of pine needles. Mula grows fidgety. Finally Belén returns.

His breath frosts in the air. “It’s Franco.”

Horse dances beneath me, and I realize I’m squeezing her with my knees. “Any sign of Hector?”

“Tied to a tree. Badly beaten.” At the look on my face, he adds, “But clearly alive.”

Determination hardens like a rock in my gut. “How far up the trail? Can we catch them?”

“All of us, traveling in stealth, could be there by the time the sun is at its zenith. They are stalled. Some of their horses have sickened. As I left, Eduardo’s and Franco’s men were starting to argue. I wouldn’t be surprised if a fight breaks out. If it doesn’t, we might be able to provoke something.”

“Maybe Mara can shoot an arrow into their midst?”

Belén shrugs. “I was thinking a throwing knife in Franco’s neck would do the trick.”

“How many men?” Storm asks.

My face warms. It’s the first question I should have asked. I’ve let my concern for Hector override common sense and caution.

“Five Joyans, ten Inviernos. We are vastly outnumbered. But maybe if we take them by surprise—”

“I have a plan,” I say with more confidence than I feel. Are Storm’s and my abilities too new to put to such a dangerous test? At what point does a bold plan become reckless?

“Elisa?” Mara prompts.

“We’ll have to be very quick and very precise, but this is what we’re going to do.”

We wait until dusk. The wind picks up, masking the sounds of our movement as Mara and I sneak down the slope toward Franco’s camp. Mula follows behind at a safe distance, with stern orders to keep out of sight. All our exposed skin—faces, necks, hands—is smeared with mud. Our clothes are turned inside out so the rougher, duller warp shows. I grip a dagger in each hand, and a spare waits in my belt. Mara has an arrow notched in her bowstring.

Voices drift up to us before we spy them through the trees, blurred and dark in the fading light. Everyone is talking at once, and I can only make out a few words—something about poison and horses and freezing to death in the snow. Their talk becomes louder and more heated as we steal down the hillside. Belén was right—they’re ready to come to blows.

They just need a little nudge.

By waiting until dusk, we’ve made it easier to sneak up to the camp unseen, but we’ve also made it difficult to see. Mara must be able to see well enough to distinguish an Invierno from the others.

I mouth “Closer,” and Mara nods.

Slowly we weave toward them, using the massive trunks for cover. I’m so much quieter than I used to be, my steps light, my balance assured. Humberto would be proud.

Mara holds up a fist, and I duck behind a tree as she does the same.

“I say we leave,” comes a man’s low voice. “Now. Take the horses and get away from here. Do you really think the Invierno dogs will take us inside their capital city and then let us live?”

It’s the perimeter guard. They’ve drifted much closer to the camp than they should, no doubt drawn by the arguing. “I don’t feel right leaving the commander with them,” comes another, gruffer voice.

The din of argument turns to shouting.

“We must decide quick!” says the first man. “They’re intent on their mission. If we move fast, they’ll not take the time to pursue.”

Mara slips from behind her tree, draws her bow, sights.

“And the commander?”

“We slit his throat. Better that than whatever the dogs have planned for him.”

Fear stabs through me, as merciless as a dagger.

The fletching is tight against Mara’s cheek as she holds steady, waiting for Belén’s signal. She won’t shoot the men nearby; instead she will shoot over them, or maybe between them, into the throng below. I peer slowly around my trunk to get the lay of things. The two guards are less than a stone’s throw away, but hardly more than black shapes among the trees. Their backs are to us. Beyond them, several others are silhouetted against a glowing campfire.

Belén’s signal sounds: the caw of a mountain jay, three times in quick succession.

I hold my breath as Mara’s arrow flies. It skims so close to one of the guards that he puts a hand to his ear is if batting away a mosquito.

It impales a tall figure below in the back. He topples face-first into the campfire, scattering embers and sparks. Silently I count. One.

“You filthy Joyan animals!” comes Storm’s unmistakably Invierno voice. “I knew you’d betray us!”

I freeze, worried that he has overplayed it, but I needn’t have, because the camp erupts into chaos.

Steel rings on steel. Someone roars an order to form up. Another body topples into the campfire. Two.

The guards launch down the slope toward the fight, but Mara sends arrows flying, two in quick succession. One guard drops to his knees, an arrow sticking out of his neck—three—but Mara’s second shot goes too far left and the other man whirls, shield up, and spots her.

He charges. Mara notches another arrow.

My Godstone pulses with energy, and I fill up like a cauldron, ready to boil over with power. My stone wants to unleash its fire on the world. And I want to let it. Not yet, Elisa. I grip my daggers tighter.

Mara’s shot flies a little wide, scraping his arm. He bellows rage.

He reaches the spot where I crouch hidden. I launch at him, right arm raised high. He whirls, whips ups his shield, and blocks it neatly. My shoulder aches from the impact, but already I’m swiping low with my left hand. The blade lays open his right thigh, and he drops to the ground. Mara sends an arrow into his chest.

Four. Only eleven to go.

I take the barest moment to catch my breath before whispering, “I’ll find Hector.”

“Be safe.” She notches another arrow and heads down the slope.

I skirt to the left toward the horses. The sounds of fighting fade. They’ve figured out that they’ve been tricked. I just hope they damaged each other sufficiently first. I risk a small prayer. Please, God, lend strength and speed to my friends.

A bolt of blue fire sears my vision and smacks a tree near the campfire. Dry pine needles burst bright, then plunge to the ground in a shower of ash and sparks.

If Storm is using his Godstone, it means I’ve little time.

The horses loom before me, huge black shapes in the growing dark. They toss their heads and snort as I weave through them. Everything is so dark now. Black lumps could be bushes or boulders or people. If only I had more light!

I agreed not to use my Godstone unless things became desperate, to save my strength in case someone needed healing, but surely this is desperate enough. I draw on the zafira, and my daggers begin to glow. The light catches on something ahead—rope wrapped around a tree trunk, bright against the bark. I snuff the power inside me, and the world goes dark again as I rush forward.

“Hector?” I whisper.

A gasp. Then . . . “Elisa?”

I drop to my knees and attack the rope with my dagger. The sounds of battle are growing furious. “Are you injured? Can you fight?”

“Am I hallucinating?” Oh, his voice. So achingly familiar—deep and slow and precise. But he’s talking from someplace far away.

I smack his shoulder. “I need you in the present moment, Hector. Can you walk, at least?”

He laughs, though it ends in a cough. “Yes, I can walk. I have a broken rib, two broken fingers on my right hand, and a concussion. My shield arm is fine. If you have a spare shield, or even a dagger or short sword—”

“I brought an extra dagger for you. God, this rope! I can’t saw—”

“An Invierno, coming this way. A giant with a very long sword. Please tell me you have a bow?”

I leap to my feet and place myself between Hector and the approaching enemy. He rushes at me, and I plant my legs and center myself the way Storm taught me, drawing strength from the earth, becoming one with it.

The zafira fills me up. I focus it all on the daggers in my hands. They begin to glow, revealing the desperate face of my attacker and the long line of steel in his right hand.

I swing my right dagger around my head and slingshot a firebolt toward him. He dodges left, and it grazes his shoulder. But he keeps coming.

I sling a smaller dart from my weaker left. It hits him square in the belly, and he bends over, his tunic blackening. Still, he stumbles forward.

The power is draining from me. I don’t have time to gather more.

“Watch the sword arm!” Hector yells.

The Invierno raises his blade. Time slows. I know exactly what to do.

I block with my left dagger—just like Belén taught me—while thrusting with my right. I take him deep in the belly as the impact shivers down my forearm and pounds my shoulder socket. I jerk upward with my dagger until the blade lodges in the bone of his sternum. His sword clatters to the ground.

I try to yank my dagger out, but it’s stuck. He topples, his hot blood pouring over my hand. I put the flat of my foot against his ruined belly and shove him off. My dagger jerks free, and I stumble backward. Five.

The earth sways. I spent too much magic too quickly. Or maybe I’m trembling because I just flayed open a man’s belly. I stagger toward Hector and fall to my knees beside him, gasping. “These ropes. Too tough. I can burn them, but need a moment to . . .” My voice trails away as finally, finally, I look at him.

His gaunt face is covered in a curling beard, his left eye is swollen shut, his lips are cracked and peeling. But he stares at me with the same intensity as always, and it feels like coming home. I reach up with a forefinger and gently trace his eyebrow.

“Elisa,” he whispers. “I need you in the present moment.”

I snap into focus. In the distance, Belén yells something, and Mara shouts in answer. They are still alive. It spurs me to action.

I squeeze Hector’s shoulder. “I’m clumsy at this, so when I start burning, do not move.”

After he nods, I hurry behind the tree, running my hand along the rope until I feel the frayed spot where I had been sawing. I take a steadying breath, then reach deep into the earth for the zafira. It comes more slowly this time, but it comes.

Be controlled, Elisa. Be precise. I let just enough power leak out to dance a tiny flame at the tip of the dagger and no more. The still-damp blood on my blade sizzles, and I swallow against gagging. The zafira throbs inside me, begging to burst free, but I hold it tight. My forehead drips sweat. The rope begins to blacken and curl.

“Footsteps,” Hector says. “Behind us.”

The final coil of rope splits, and Hector launches forward, even as I whirl to see what approaches.

Too late. A sword descends. I roll left, and the sword lands on the end of my braid. He pulls back to stab, and I kick hard, catching his kneecap. He falls on top of me, and before I can squirm free he pins my legs with his knees, grabs my hair, and yanks my head back to expose my throat. I thrust with my daggers, but they glance off his armor.

Hector roars, flying through the dark at my attacker. Together, they crash to the ground, and Hector pounds him with fists, over and over again.

I scramble toward them on all fours. Hector’s broken fingers, his broken ribs . . . he can’t last long.

My daggers begin to glow again, and I shiver with power. I will send every last drop of it at my enemy. I will burn him to ash.

But I can’t get a clear angle. They grapple, rolling in the dirt. The attacker grabs Hector’s broken fingers and tugs them backward. Hector yells, but he does not give quarter, jabbing relentlessly with fist and elbows and knees.

They roll again. Hector is pinned. I see an opening and dart forward, swiping the attacker’s hamstring. He screams while his skin sizzles. I stumble back, choking on the smell of burning flesh, while Hector throws him off.

Hector springs to his feet. “Knife!” he yells, reaching a hand toward me but never taking his gaze off his enemy, who is bent over, gasping, in the dirt.

My hot daggers would melt his hands. I clamp one between my teeth and fumble my spare knife from its sheath. The injured man struggles to his feet in spite of his useless leg. His wound does not bleed; my blade cauterized it.

“Here!” I toss the knife, and Hector snatches it from the air, flips it around for a better grip, then throws it.

The blade zings through the air so fast that I hardly register it until our attacker topples back, the hilt protruding from his throat. He lies there wide-eyed, twitching and choking on his own blood.

My heart still kicks in my chest; my breath comes fast. He is small. Dark, like me. A Joyan traitor.

I look up to find Hector staring at me. He is bent over slightly, clutching his injured side. The sound of battle is fading around us. “Belén!” I call.

“Here!”

“Mara!”

“Here!”

“Storm!”

No answer.

Hector needs no prompting. He strides over to the fallen Joyan and, wincing, bends over and yanks the dagger from his throat. He wipes it on the Joyan’s shirt. “Let’s find him,” he says.

We weave through the nervous horses toward the campfire. Figures manifest—Mara, without a single arrow left in her quiver; Belén, whose eye patch has come askew. They’re both breathing hard. Bodies litter the ground. Mara’s bow is drawn with her last arrow as she surveys the bodies around her, watching for movement.

“They’re dead, Mara,” Belén says. “We got them all.”

Their gazes lock. Mara lets her bow drop into the dirt, and they start toward each other as if an invisible force draws them together.

Hector clears his throat.

They whirl on us, startled. Mara’s gaze drops to the ground, and she finds it necessary to pick something off the sleeve of her shirt.

“Lord-Commander,” Belén says as we approach.

Hector reaches out with his left hand, and Belén clasps it. “Belén. Lady Mara. Thank you for coming.”

“Where is Storm?” I demand.

“He ran off after Franco,” Mara says. She points southward, where the forest growth is thick and dark. “That way.”

“Why?” I murmur, though as soon as the word leaves my lips, I know exactly why. He is done being frightened of that man. But Franco is a trained assassin, and I fear that Storm, heady with new power, has underestimated him.

“Did anyone else get away?”

“No,” says Belén. “A few were killed fighting each other, just as we hoped. We got everyone else. But I should have kept better track of Franco. I should have targeted him first.”

I wave off his apology. “We accomplished our goal. I just wish Storm hadn’t run off.”

“Do we pursue?” Hector asks.

I pace in front of the campfire. Glowing embers left over from Storm’s magic are scattered throughout the clearing, bathing us all in eerie warmth. How long will they glow?

“We must retrieve Mula before going anywhere,” Mara says. “She’s still hiding in the trees.”

I nod, hating the thought of risking the little girl more than we already have. I turn to Belén. “Can we track them in the dark?”

“Yes, but it will be slow going.”

“Hector, can you travel? Or should I heal you first?”

He shakes his head. “You always pass out after a healing. We can’t afford the delay. I can ride, but I think”—he holds up his hand to display unnaturally crooked fingers—“I ought to set and splint these first.”

I turn my back on my companions and stare into the trees. They seem as dark and impenetrable as night itself. “All right then. We find Mula, set Hector’s fingers, and—”

A shape flies out of the dark, barrels into me, taking me to the ground. Agony shoots through my skull as red blotches my vision. Blood fills my mouth. I turn to spit, to breath, but hands wrap around my neck, crushing the life from me.

My mouth opens and closes, as if the motion can suck air into my dying lungs. Blackness narrows my vision to a single point of focus; my attacker’s delicate face and chin, his wild, not-quite-Joyan eyes. Franco.

Something knocks him to the side. Air rushes into my lungs so fast I almost choke on it. I clamber to my feet, swaying, my stomach heaving. I fumble for my daggers.

“Mula!” Mara screams.

Franco is pounding brutally at something beneath him. A tiny something.

The zafira rushes into me, filling me like rage. I raise my daggers, but Hector gets there first. One hand on the back of Franco’s head, one on his chin, and snap! Franco topples over.

Mula lies on the ground, unmoving. I rush over to her, drop to my knees. The daggers thunk into the dirt beside me.

“Mula,” I whisper.

“Bad . . . man,” she manages. Something gurgles in her unnaturally concave chest.

No. No no no no no.

Rosario said something similar once. And thinking a little of Mula, but mostly of the precious little boy I’m helpless to save right now, I place my hands on Mula’s crushed chest. “For my love is like perfume poured out,” I say, and I send all the power of the earth into her.

Her tiny body arches beneath my palms, and she screams and screams. Am I pouring too much into her? But I can’t seem to stop.

When I’m as dry as deep desert, I collapse on top of her.