by Rae Carson
The Shadow Cats
( Fire and Thorns )
Rae Carson
Once a century, one person is chosen for greatness. And it was not Alodia.
Alodia is the crown princess of the realm. The sister who knows how to rule, and the one who is constantly reminded that she has not been marked for a grand destiny. But Alodia has plans, and she will be the greatest queen her people have ever known. So she travels--with her hopeless, naïve, chosen sister--to a distant part of their land, to begin to secure her supporters. This region needs its princesses, for it is plagued with a curse. The crops don't grow, the spring doesn't arrive, and a fierce jaguar stalks the shadows, leaving only empty homes splashed with blood behind. If Alodia can save them, no one will be able to deny her strength and her sovereignty.
But what she discovers could change the fate of her kingdom, if not her world. And it will most certainly change her opinion of her younger sister.
"The Shadow Cats" is a prequel to the riveting Fire and Thorns trilogy: Book One, The Girl of Fire and Thorns; Book Two, The Crown of Embers; and Book Three, The Bitter Kingdom.
THE SHADOW CATS
RAE CARSON
Dedication
FOR HOLLY MCDOWELL,
FELLOW ADVENTURER AND AUTHOR, SISTER OF THE HEART
Prologue
I crouch hidden among the boulders, my body broken and bloodied. Below me, someone is about to murder my best friend, the one person who understands me.
If I act, I will likely lose my own life. If I don’t, I’ll lose so much more.
A chorus of aches and injuries scream at me to stop, but I creep forward. My fingers close on a rock, the only weapon at hand.
1
I despise open carriages, even in the finest weather or upon the smoothest road, and this journey offers neither. The air in the mountains is brisk with cold, as though spring is reluctant to visit here. The mule path we follow shows little evidence of human care; it’s ragged with rocks and roots and steep switchbacks. My rear aches from the constant jolting. It’s a wonder we haven’t lost a carriage wheel yet.
But during the last few days, we’ve passed through remote villages that no representative of the royal family has visited in more than a decade. And I find myself grateful for the one advantage an open carriage provides: it allows me to observe.
What I see fills me with dread.
People line the road as we pass. They are crusted with dirt and weathered by sun and wind, wearing clothes so ragged I would not dress my scullery maids in them. They clutch their children to their chests and watch our procession with curiosity, maybe a touch of misgiving. But as my carriage approaches, the heralds call out, “Her Royal Highness Juana-Alodia de Riqueza, Crown Princess of Orovalle!” And the curiosity I read in their faces turns to outright hostility.
Some kneel and bow their heads in proper supplication. But others stand stubbornly until my guards rest their hands meaningfully on their scabbards and bark the order to show respect.
I hold my head high and school my features into bland pleasantness. It’s the expression Lord Zito, my personal steward, says often causes him trouble, because he knows it means I’m hiding something.
And right now, what I don’t want the world to see is how angry I am with my father, the king. The situation is even worse than I feared. Papá has neglected this district dreadfully since the end of the last war with Invierne. Now the wealthiest here ignore the capital, preferring to trade with Joya d’Arena, the kingdom across the border, while the poorest flee into the jungle-choked Hinders to join the Perditos, bandits who steal whatever they can from whoever they find. It’s the perfect recipe for rebellion.
When I am queen, I will put a stop to it all. I will regain the loyalty and trust of our people. I will make this region strong again. And to do it, I will need the help of Paxón, the conde who rules this region.
Which is why, when we received an invitation to the wedding of Conde Paxón and a certain Lady Calla, I insisted to Papá that I be allowed to attend. Furthermore, I insisted on bringing wedding gifts fit for a royal ally—with well-armed soldiers to deliver them.
According to my informants, his bride-to-be is a lovely young woman with a wealthy father. But it would not matter to me if she were a crofter’s daughter. It’s past time for the conde to marry. He was a tremendous soldier in the last war. Afterward, he pursued hunting and drinking with the same ruthless tenacity—until he met his match in a giant boar who gored him. If it were up to me, I would knight the boar for putting an end to Paxón’s wild ways and making him look to his legacy. A conde with a family is a man with something to lose, and a man with something to lose is always more eager to stand behind the shield of a strong king. Or queen.
I intend to know his measure and show him mine before he becomes my vassal.
A ruckus from behind causes me to whirl in my seat, and my temper flares. My fifteen-year-old sister, Elisa, follows me in her own carriage, accompanied by her nurse, Lady Ximena. She always carries a bag full of pastries when she travels, and now she throws bits of bread to the scrawny children lining our rocky road.
Mothers urge them toward the carriage, knowing the guards will be reluctant to draw blades against them. Emboldened, the children slip through their formation and bang on the sides of the carriage, thrusting up dirty hands for more. A baguette drops onto the dusty earth. Three small boys scramble for it, pulling it to shreds.
My sister is delighted. She grins enormously and breaks her bread into pieces as fast as she can. I signal to Zito, but he already moves toward her carriage, barking orders. That’s the exact moment Elisa realizes her predicament, that her naive generosity has created a mob. The smile dies on her face as she recoils against her nurse.
My hand flies to my bodice where my dagger lies hidden. The guards shout at everyone to disperse, but one boy tries to climb inside the carriage. Lady Ximena shoves him back into the waiting arms of a guard. A woman shrieks—the boy’s mother?—as, finally, the guards draw their swords.
And just like that, the children slink away. Most melt into the leafless trees, until only a few remain to observe our procession from a cautious distance.
The horses pulling Elisa’s carriage swish their tails and toss their heads nervously, which makes it difficult for me to discern if she’s all right. I crane my neck, rising up from my seat.
Our eyes meet. She gazes at me sullenly, as if daring me to scold. Slowly, deliberately, I turn away from her and settle back onto my bench.
She’s wrong—I don’t want to scold her. Now that I know she’s unharmed, I want to smack her. Of all the stupid things to do.
Papá insisted she come along, that a wedding celebration would get her away from the musty books and rotting manuscripts she loves so much, give her a chance to see more of the kingdom. “She is your heir, after all,” he said. “Until you produce one of your own. She could use the experience of a diplomatic journey.”
But Elisa has shown as much interest in ruling as the team of horses pulling her carriage, and Papá is at a loss about what to do with her. No matter that she is God’s chosen, the first in a hundred years to bear his sacred stone. God nested it in her belly, like a berry shoved into a soft muffin, as a sign that she will one day perform an act of heroic service.
It’s laughable. And a little bit sad. People like the ones we’ve seen on this journey, who have been harried by poor harvests and enemy skirmishes, could use a hero. The servants mutter that maybe God picked the wrong sister.
These thoughts swim in my head as our procession continues, eating away at my heart and mind like deadly poison. I must get them under control. This state visit is the important thing,
and I have to be at my best.
I search my entourage for Lord Zito, the man who taught me much of what I know about the conde and this region, for he has not returned to my side after leaving it to aid my sister. His horse is easily recognizable by the spear jutting from a guidon cup attached to his saddle, and I spy it off to the side in a plowed field. I watch, puzzled, as Zito dismounts and crouches in a furrow. He grabs a handful of soft dirt, crumbles it between his fingers, sniffs it, tastes it.
“Stop,” I tell my driver. The command echoes up and down the line. The stamp of boots ceases, and the wheels of the carriage creak to stillness.
“Lord Zito,” I call out. “Does mountain dirt taste better than dirt in the capital?”
But Zito does not smile. “What do you see here, Your Highness? Look around you.”
His voice is high-pitched and girlish. During the last war with Invierne, he was barely more than a boy when his service brought him an injury that left him a eunuch. But it also brought him the king’s favor, which resulted in his appointment as my steward. I haven’t had a nurse since Elisa was born. Papá knew by the time I could walk that I would be like a son to him, and only a personal steward would do.
I look around, trying to see what Zito sees. Though he is prone to these impromptu teaching moments, he has never been so graceless as to instruct me within hearing of my entire entourage. Whatever he has noticed must be very important indeed.
The fields are plowed but barren, with only a few sickly sprouts poking from the soil. The pastures are still brown from winter. On the terraced slopes that rise beyond, orchards that should be covered in blossoms show only stunted blooms. The trees covering the hills are a web of bony branches, yet to bud.
“Spring is a tardy guest to its mountain home,” I say.
“Spring does not arrive this late,” he says, and his words would not alarm me were it not for the deadly seriousness in his voice.
“A drought?” I say.
He straightens and brushes the dirt from his hands, then holds his palms out so I can see the muddy streaks. It is far from drought-dusty.
“The last time I saw fields like this, it was damage of my own doing,” he says. “I salted a village the Inviernos settled on our side of the mountains. But there is no taste of salt here.”
“So what is causing it?”
He shrugs, but I know it is not the casual gesture it appears. “We should discuss it later,” he says. Privately, he means.
My gaze sweeps the mountainsides again, and now the rocky outcrops and dense stands of naked trees seem ominous.
Zito remounts and gestures the column forward, commanding them toward Khelia Castle with all haste. I sit back on the bench, lost in thought. No wonder the people seem so desperate and distrustful. How long have their fields been bare? Perhaps they’ve been feeling the sting of the king’s neglect even more than I realized. And maybe open carriages, which provide access even to small children, were a bad idea after all.
2
WE have only a single league left to travel, but it takes hours over these poor roads. I’m so eager to reach Khelia and ask the conde about the blight on his land that I would abandon the carriages and supply wagons to ride ahead if I could. Alas, my sister fears horses and would rather cut off an arm than ride any distance.
We have not gone far when a great crack sounds. I twist in my seat and watch horrified as Elisa’s carriage tips dangerously and one of its wheels tumbles down the mountainside. Guards grab the carriage and strain to keep it from toppling after. A trunk slips its ties and slides off the luggage shelf to bounce down the rocky slope, spilling garments as it goes. I breathe relief when Elisa and Ximena scramble out of the carriage to safety.
The guards work quickly to divest the carriage of its remaining cargo and divvy it up among the packhorses. Still, it’s too long before we’re ready to proceed, and I want to scream with frustration over the delay.
I scoot over on my bench to make room, and Elisa and Ximena climb into my own carriage, which Zito surrounds with a thicket of guards. Most are devout followers of the path of God, and I saw how quick they were to defend her from a potential mob, how quick to grab her carriage and get her to safety. If danger comes to us both, I wonder, would they be more ready to protect their chosen one than their crown princess?
Elisa settles across from me and leans back against the thin cushions. Strands of hair have escaped her braid; they curl around her face, which is damp from sweat. Her plump cheeks are blotched red as apples. Ximena tirelessly fans Elisa with a browned palm leaf. After a while, the dry rustling is like an itch on my brain. I despair of ever being free of the sound.
“Will we be there soon, do you think?” Elisa says wearily.
“I asked Papá to loan us his winged carriage, but it was at the coach wright’s for repairs,” I answer.
“There’s no need to be mean,” Elisa says. “I’m not complaining.” She closes her eyes, turning her sweating face to take the best advantage of Ximena’s fanning. “This blight on the countryside worries me,” she adds. “If we get there early enough, I can spend some time praying for the conde and his bride before we are whisked away for formal appearances. I’ve tried to in the carriage, but it’s just too hot. My Godstone . . .” She opens her eyes and regards me steadily. “You know how it warms when I pray.”
She seems to have an endless supply of subtle and creative ways to remind me that even though I will be queen someday, she is God’s chosen one. The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them: “Oh, I know better than to expect you to do anything once we arrive. Just hurry off to pray or rest. Let me handle the business of representing Papá.”
Elisa flinches. Nurse Ximena gives me a sharp look.
I turn my head, guilt pricking my chest. Fury is like a monster inside me, the one thing in my life I’ve been unable to master. I send up a quick prayer of apology. I know you don’t listen to me the way you listen to my sister. But I’m sorry just the same. And then, because I am me and not my sister, I add: Of course if you would help me see the strength in her, or nudge her to be a little more useful, then I wouldn’t have to be sorry.
Very likely this is why my prayers are seldom answered.
When the castle finally comes into view—much later in the day than I had hoped—I stare in astonishment. Lord Zito’s descriptions have not prepared me for the sight.
Khelia rises on a huge spur of granite that overlooks the confluence of two rivers: the Hinder, which pours from the jungle-choked mountains to the south, and the Crowborn, a rocky spine twisting down from the Sierra Sangre that flows wet only three seasons out of the year. The castle walls come together in a point—like the prow of a ship cresting the green waves of the jungle canopy. Three towers rise up in a line behind it, like the ship’s mast stumps.
Elisa is as wide-eyed as I am. “According to legend,” she says, “Khelia was built thousands of years ago by a rich admiral around the wreck of his warship when a great sea dried up.”
That’s my sister. Fond of useless knowledge. “Just stories,” I reply. “Repeated by simple people to explain the castle’s unique profile.”
“Perhaps. But the foundations are ancient, much older than the walls. Some say the Inviernos built it. Even the name of the castle is thought to come from an Invierno word.”
I shrug. “The importance of Khelia is that it watches over a crossroads. To the east lies Invierne—”
“And to the south,” Elisa interrupts, “in the jungle of the Hinders, the Perditos crouch like vultures, ready to strip anyone or anything to the bone. The walls of Khelia, and the soldiers stationed here, guard Orovalle from these threats. I am not stupid, Alodia.”
Whisk, whisk, whisk. Ximena waves the fan, giving no indication that she witnesses yet another argument. She has become adept over the years at turning a deaf ear to them.
As the carriage winds up the long road to the peak, the castle wall looms over us, seemingly impregnable. It is lucky
this castle stands guard on Orovalle’s behalf. I intend to make sure it continues to do so.
Papá, you have been foolish to neglect Paxón for so long.
Trumpets rend the sky with the first measures of the “Entrada Triunfal.” The carriage passes through a massive wooden gate into a tiled courtyard surrounded by high adobe walls. I brace myself for the inevitable thunder of cheering that always greets me on state visits.
But there is only silence.
The citizens of the castle fill the wide courtyard in neat little groups arranged by status and rank. Directly across from us, the conde and his bride-to-be stand with their stewards, servants, and extended families. Behind them are rows of craftsmen, draftsmen, farmers, and children—their faces scrubbed, wearing their finest clothes.
None of them seem happy to see us.
To our right stand two dozen knights wearing Paxón’s crest—a golden ship on an emerald green background. A hundred liveried soldiers stand behind them. To our left are a dozen armed guards wearing polished armor more in the style of Joya d’Arena, our neighbor beyond the Hinders. The small group of soldiers backing them is made up of battle-scarred veterans.
We are supposedly among allies. But I can’t help thinking that both the crown princess and the bearer of the Godstone are flanked and outnumbered.
“Elisa,” I say quietly, keeping my expression neutral. “I know you don’t feel well. You and Ximena should go to the chapel and pray. I’ll make excuses for you.” Pray that I have misread this situation.
“Don’t be afraid, dear sister,” Elisa says, and for a moment I imagine that she knows exactly what I am thinking. But no, she remains as blind to subtle—and not so subtle—social cues as ever. “I won’t embarrass you. Let’s go meet them.”
She hops down from the carriage and walks straight into the lion’s mouth.
