by Rae Carson
“Yes. I did not realize it until now, but yes.” Storm clutches the amulet beneath his cloak. It has become a reflex for him, the same way my fingertips always seek my Godstone. “The Deciregi have struggled to build support for another onslaught; we lost so many people in the last one. But if the gate is truly dying, our crops will begin to wither soon. Our mothers will become barren. They’ll have no trouble raising an army then. It will be even bigger than before.”
“So we go now,” I say. “And we destroy the gate before they can build another army. And then . . .” It’s so preposterous, so huge, so perfect. “We have what Invierne wants—knowledge of another power source. If we succeed, if we survive, I will use their ensuing desperation to bargain for peace.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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PART II
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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17
WE crouch on the lip of a high cliff overlooking Umbra de Deus, the capital of Invierne and the largest city I’ve ever seen. Steep walkways wind through warrens of stone cottages and stepped gardens, spired temples rise from impossible slopes, and stone plazas take advantage of every tiny plateau. The entire city catches the sunlight, sparkling brilliantly, as if it is made of tiny glass shards.
From this distance, the Inviernos look like insects crawling all over the mountainside. The steep, switchbacked highway leading to the front gate routes a steady stream of movement in either direction. It’s dizzying to watch. My own capital city could fit inside this one three or four times. Storm was right—the Inviernos outnumber us by a terrifying amount.
Hugging the base of the city on three sides is a twisting whitewater river. The eastern curve steams violently, sending tendrils of mist into the city’s lower streets. It steams because high above it and far away—though not far enough to suit me—are two cone-shaped mountains gripped by crooked fingers of glowing orange lava. Storm calls the mountains the Eyes of God, and he assures us they are safe, that they’ve been sending the earth’s fiery blood into the river for millennia.
“Seems like a dangerous place for a nation’s capital,” I observe.
“It’s a place of power,” Storm says. “Our ancestors believed the volcanoes gave them better access to the zafira.”
“And does it?”
“It’s a cause of great debate among the scholars of my people.”
Hector frowns. “I don’t like this at all. The only way in is through the front gate.”
“I have not seen a more perfect defensive architecture,” I admit with reluctant admiration. I would hate to lay siege to this place. I suppose they could be starved out over time, but the mountain slopes are too bare to sneak up unseen, too steep and dangerous to navigate at night.
Belén says, “Storm, are you sure there is not a secret way inside?”
“If there is, I do not know of it. But it is as I said. I can get help. Just like the citizens of Joya d’Arena, we are a fractured, quarreling people. And my family, once they understand you are on a mission of peace, will jump at the chance to aid you and gain advantage over the other nine houses.”
Mara says. “We know nothing of your family. I grew up near the border, and all I know of Inviernos is bloodshed and cruelty and rage and . . .” Her voice trails off as tears fill her eyes.
“And me,” Storm says softly. “You know me.”
I sigh. We’ve been arguing about this nonstop for several days. I can’t put off making a decision any longer.
Storm continues, “They’re expecting Elisa. Waiting for her. They surely sensed the way we called on the zafira to deal with Franco’s men. Such an outpouring of magic could only come from a bearer.”
“You’re worried about an assassination attempt,” Hector says.
“Exactly so. Let me go alone,” he insists, and turns to me. “I’ll bring back help. We’ll hide you in a cart, smuggle you in. We could paint your skin. Your features do have an Invierno cast, you know, even though you are short and stubby.”
I glare at him.
“I can pass for an Invierno,” Mula says cheerfully. “I just have to cover my feet.” She is lying on her back, chewing on the end of a dry stalk.
Hector says, “I hate to say it, but—”
“It’s our only plan,” I finish, and he nods grimly.
Storm rises. “I’ll be back by sunset,” he says. “Stay out of sight.”
I reach up and grab his hand. “You’re sure they won’t kill you on sight? There’s a death sentence on your head!”
“I can reach my family compound before I’m recognized. They’ll delay turning me in to face my sentence once I claim knowledge of the zafira. They will help us.”
I squeeze his hand, and he shifts uncomfortably. “You are my loyal subject, Storm. Which means if you are not back in a reasonable time, we must figure out a way to come get you. We don’t leave our people behind.”
He blinks. “I understand.”
I release his hand, and he disappears down the slope.
“You have truly come to trust him as one of our own,” Hector observes.
“I have.”
We stare at each other, and I’m glad to note that after a few days of regular food and rest, he seems less gaunt and ragged, and the bruising around his eye has faded to a muddy yellow. We stare long past the point of awkwardness. His gaze drops to my lips. I’m the first to look away.
I say to no one in particular, “But like Mara, I don’t trust Storm’s family. So stay alert, everyone.”
A light snow is beginning to fall—again—as Belén gets to his feet. “I’ll keep an eye on the trail.” His disappears in the same direction as Storm.
The rest of us huddle together, cloaks clutched tight. This near to the city, there will be no fire, no praying. It’s going to be a long, cold wait.
The molten fingers of the Eyes of God glow bright as a sun against the darkening horizon. Insects flit through pine boughs, their bulging abdomens glowing like night bloomers. Mula has fallen asleep on Mara’s shoulder. Hector and I sit side by side, not quite touching. Just like he did during our final weeks together, after I destroyed the gate to the zafira, he avoids any physical contact. It seems as though things ought to have changed between us, somehow. But they haven’t, and I’m not sure what to do about it.
Footsteps crunch through the underbrush, and we launch to our feet, drawing weapons. Even Mula jolts awake and whips out a dagger, her face fierce in the dying light.
“It’s just me,” says Storm. He strides toward us, followed by another, whose thick cloak and heavy cowl cannot hide her willowy, feminine shape. Belén brings up the rear. His sword is not yet drawn, but his hand rests on the scabbard.
I peer at the newcomer, expecting to feel the usual jolt of alien wrongness at her appearance. But when she lowers her cowl to reveal long coppery hair and eyes the green of pine boughs, I feel nothing but grudging admiration for her beauty.
Storm says, “I present to you The Frozen Waterfall Mourns Her Raging Youth.” And then he adds, “My sister.”
I’m not sure why I’m surprised to learn he has a sibling. I say, “Thank you for coming.”
I wrack my mind for memories of the Invierno ambassador who visited Papá’s court when I was a little girl. Do Inviernos bow? Curtsy? Is there a formal greeting that my father used?
After too long a silence, Storm says, “You may call her Waterfall.”
She gives him a sharp look.
Storm explains, “Joyans find Invierno names complicated and incomprehensible.”
I glare at him. Storm and I are going to have a conversation about “complicated and incomprehensible” versus “unwieldy and inefficient.”
But she merely shrugs. “Waterfall will do for now.”
She speaks the Lengua Plebeya with careful attention, drawing out each syllable as if testing it. “Which one of you is the sorcerer queen? Oh . . .” Her gaze settles on my face. “It is you, of course.” To her brother, she says, “You’re right. She has the look about her, even though she is stubby.”
I open my mouth to ask what she means, but I sense Hector at my shoulder, in his usual guard position, and I have to swallow the lump in my throat. It is so nice to have him back.
“My brother says you wish audience with the Deciregus?”
Taking Storm’s cue, I say, “Yes. I have knowledge of something your people have been seeking for thousands of years.”
Her eyes narrow. “What kind of knowledge?”
If Storm did not share the nature of our mission, then she must trust him very much to have followed him out here alone. “I know where the zafira is,” I tell her.
She gasps. But her face hardens immediately, and she says, “You lie. All you Joyans are liars.”
“Queen Elisa speaks truthfully,” Storm says. “She took me there. I have seen the zafira with my own eyes, felt its power course through me.”
She taps her lower lip with a forefinger as her eyes rove my face and body. Beside me, Hector’s fingers curl around the hilt of his sword. From somewhere high above comes the screech of a raptor.
“I brought some powder to lighten your skin,” she says at last. “But I’m not sure it will be enough; you’re too short. We also brought a cart. It’s on the trail below. You must ride in it, hunched over, so no one can see your true shape.” Her gaze shifts to Hector. “You too must ride in the cart. You are too . . . broad. The rest of you will walk beside the cart or ride in on horseback. I will powder your faces and hands, but stay cowled. Except you.” She lifts her chin at Mula, who is clinging to Mara’s leg, eyes wide. “My brother says you bear the slave mark?”
Mula nods.
“Then you will lead. Walk barefoot. No cowl. With luck, everyone will think my brother and I are bringing in a batch of mule slaves.”
I look around at my companions. “This might be it. The gate of the enemy. None of you are required to accompany me. It’s your choice.”
Belén shrugs. “It’s a perfect plan.”
“As easy as falling in love,” Mara adds.
“Foolproof,” Hector agrees.
I don’t deserve such friends. I blink against the sting of threatening tears and say, “All you Joyans are filthy liars.”
Waterfall’s “cart” is a small, two-wheeled fruit wagon, pulled by a single draft horse. Its wooden floor and sides are stained dark and smell faintly of rancid juice. It’s barely large enough for Hector and me both. I smile to myself as I settle beside him, squeezing between the wall of the wagon and his hard shoulder.
The powder on my skin tingles. It smells of ash and dust and old flowers, and I fight the urge to sneeze. I study the back of my hand with dismay. It doesn’t look light skinned so much as dirty.
Mula and Storm take the lead, Waterfall smacks the draft horse, and we set off, rattling and creaking down the trail. Mara and Belén follow behind on their mounts. We left Horse—along with Hector’s mount for company—on long leads in a sheltered glen with plenty of grazing. I crane my neck for one last sight of her, hoping she’ll be all right until I get back.
Hector holds his elbows tight to his sides, trying to make himself as small as possible. I barely refrain from rolling my eyes.
But as we bump down the trail, our shoulders occasionally knock, and he flinches each time. Exasperation bubbles over, and I blurt, “You don’t have to try so hard to avoid me!”
His face freezes, but then he looks sheepishly off into the distance. “It doesn’t seem right to . . . take liberties when I have not given you an answer.” He says it quietly, and I have to strain to hear.
“There’s an easy solution to that,” I point out. “Just say yes.”
He turns his head to regard me, and my breath catches. How did I not notice, the moment I met him more than a year ago, how very striking he is?
“I don’t want to be a prince consort,” he says. “I have little desire to rule, even less to be a figurehead, and that’s what a prince consort is, you know. A useless trinket on the arm of his queen. It’s not what I ever imagined for myself.”
My heart is sinking like a stone, but then he adds, “For you, though, I am considering it.”
Mara and Belén ride just out of earshot, but Mara catches my eye and gives me a quick wink. I send her a mock glare.
Hector adds, offhand, “You could order me to marry you. You’re my queen, after all.” His gaze on me is unwavering as he awaits my response.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Never.”
He arches an eyebrow.
“You once said you couldn’t have me just a little, that just a little wouldn’t be enough. Remember?”
“Yes,” he whispers. I hope he is also remembering the way he kissed me that night, the way he held me close, thinking it was the last time.
“I feel the same. I want all of you, Hector. I want the political match you bring, yes. But I would be miserable if I didn’t have your heart too.”
He lifts a forefinger and traces my bottom lip. My skin soaks up his touch like I am parched desert, desperate for spring rain. I barely manage not to lean into him. “You feel so strongly about me, then?” he says.
“Don’t be daft. I love you.”
He grins. “You’ve never said.”
I blink up at him. “I haven’t?”
“Not directly. You told Franco so, but it crossed my mind once or twice that you might be lying, saying what he wanted to hear.”
Is that what all this was about? He was worried about how I really feel about him? I work very hard to keep my expression serious. “Well, I do. I love you.”
He raises his eyebrow again. “More than you loved Alejandro?”
“I never loved him.”
“More than you loved that boy from the desert?”
“His name was Humberto, and now you’re just being petty.”
He has not stopped grinning like a little boy about to open his Deliverance Day gifts. He leans closer until our lips are a finger’s breadth apart. He brushes a strand of hair from my neck, and I shiver. “If we were alone right now,” he says, “I would . . .”
“I would let you.”
The wagon hits a rut, and our foreheads crack together, which startles a too-loud “Ow!” from me. He raises fingers to his head, wincing.
“Stop!” I say. “You’ll rub off the powder.”
His hand freezes, then he lowers it, grimacing. “Well, come here, then.” Not that there’s anywhere to go in this tiny cart, but I duck under the crook of his arm, which he wraps around my shoulder. I’m careful to keep my powdered face away from his cloak as I lean into him. His lips press against the top of my head, and I close my eyes.
“I love you too,” he whispers in my ear. “Wholly. Madly.”
“Does this mean you’ll marry me?”
“I suppose.”
I elbow lightly him in the stomach. “Even if it means being a prince consort? And being married to someone so egregiously powerful?”
He sighs. “Even then.”
“If it helps, I’d like you to continue on as commander of the Royal Guard and my personal defender. I mean, if you want to.”
His arm around me tightens. “I’d like that.”
“Now all we have to do is live through the next few weeks.” “I confess, I suddenly have an overwhelming desire to survive.”
My whole body tingles warmly, and I’m suddenly very glad I never stopped taking the lady’s shroud.
“Hoods up, everyone!” calls Storm. “We’re about to turn onto the main highway.”
As one, we flip up our cowls, which surely seems suspicious to anyone watching. But as the trails curves around to merge with traffic—hoards of Inviernos on foot, a few carts like ours, one large carriage with a team of
four—I see that cowls are the fashion of the day. Or maybe it’s a practical necessity in this cold climate.
Our ride smoothes the moment the wheels clunk over the slight lip of stone paving. I peer over the edge of the cart. Each paver stone fits so perfectly to the next, and the thick lines of mortar sparkle with tiny bits of colored glass. This highway is a work of art. It doesn’t seem fair that my enemy should have such a glorious highway when the main thoroughfare leading from my capital city is rife with ruts and half covered in sand. Because of our recent war with these people, I’ve had no funds for repair.
I know it’s small-minded of me even as the thought pours out, but I can’t help it: If I ever lay siege to this place, I will turn this offending highway to rubble.
The Inviernos surrounding us are invariably tall, lithe, and lovely. Seeing so many, pressed so close together, I realize how odd my people must seem to them, how graceless and stunted and dark.
“Try not to gape,” Hector whispers. “You’ll attract attention.”
He’s right. I curl tighter against him, trying to seem invisible, instead listening hard to the world around me. It’s a cacophony of footsteps, cartwheels, and clattering horseshoes, and just below it all, the constant hum of chatter. I catch several words in the Lengua Classica. But there are more words I don’t recognize, the syllables stretched out in swinging high and lows, like a song. Storm once told me the Inviernos have been here for thousands of years, that my own people are comparatively recent interlopers on this world. So it makes sense that they would have their own language, something ancient and alien.
I sit straight up as the thought hits.
“Elisa?” Hector says.
“Why do so many Inviernos speak the Lengua Classica?” I whisper, fast and low. “If our people brought the language to this world, and the Inviernos were already here as Storm claims, why did they adopt it?”
Storm looks over his shoulder and shoots me a glare. I lean back against Hector, chastised.
“Storm always says what he believes to be true,” Hector says. “But maybe he has been misled about this.”
