by Rae Carson
“Maybe.”
We travel the rest of the way in silence, and as the Godstone cools in my belly, I grow frustrated with my cowl. It blocks too much of my vision. The skin of my neck starts to prickle. Danger could be coming up behind me, even beside me, and I would not know until it was too late.
Our cart jerks to a halt. I start to lift my head to peer around us but think better of it.
“State your business,” come the sibilant voice of an Invierno man.
“Cargo bound for the Deciregus of Crooked Sequoia House,” says Storm, and I can’t help but admire the way our deception is hidden in the truth of his words.
“Prepare for inspection.”
Hector’s arm slips from my shoulder and reaches beneath his cloak toward his scabbard. My own hand seeks out the dagger in my belt.
“Are you in the habit of inspecting the merchandise of Deciregi?” asks Waterfall smoothly. “His Eminence would prefer to maintain privacy and discretion in this matter. But just so you have something to mark in your ledger . . . come here, mule girl. Show him your feet.”
A long pause. I exchange a quick glance with Mara. She and Belén have affected an air of arrogant disinterest, sitting tall on their mounts, their gazes never deigning to linger on any one thing for more than a moment.
“You may pass,” comes the Invierno voice. And then, more formally, “The gate of darkness closes.”
“The gate of darkness closes,” Waterfall answers. The cart lurches forward.
We pass beneath a massive archway, and I blink against sparks of reflected sunlight, for the whole structure is made up of small glass blocks set in thin lines of mortar. More glass hangs from the top by thin ropes. They are gem shaped and brightly colored, spinning and swaying in the breeze, casting prisms on the surfaces around us.
Our path begins to twist and climb the moment we are inside the city walls. We pass food vendors, a blacksmith, two glassblowing booths, and a small plaza where three young boys are playing a game with sticks and a ball. It all looks so familiar, so normal.
But differences begin to manifest. Everyone’s clothing is oddly uniform, with only minor variations on a theme of embroidered tunics beneath thick cloaks with cowls. We pass stocks containing five Inviernos—three men and two women—who are naked and shivering, bruised and beaten, wallowing in their own filth. Two corpses, darkened and withered, swing from ropes attached to a high turret. A vulture perches on the head of one.
No one smiles.
We pull into a carriage house. A segmented door rolls shut behind us, clanging to the ground, leaving us in total darkness.
A rush of footsteps. The whisk of drawn steel. Torchlight sears my vision.
I blink to adjust. We are surrounded by an entire company of Invierno soldiers, their swords drawn. Behind them, a line of archers has drawn their bows.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
.....................................................................
18
“STEP from the cart, please,” someone says. “You two, dismount. Move slowly; keep your hands visible.”
Mara and Belén share a slight nod. Hector does not reach for his sword, but his hand hovers near his waist. My companions are prepared to fight and die if I order it.
The wagon wobbles beneath my weight as I get to my feet. I push back my cowl and say, “We will do as you ask. You have nothing to fear from us.”
The others follow my lead. Belén and Mara swing off their horses, and Hector stands beside me. Belén offers a hand and helps me step from the wagon.
The soldiers part to make way for another man. He is of average height for an Invierno, with slicked-back golden hair and a severe nose. A tree is embroidered over the left breast of his cloak—a bright evergreen bending under its own weight.
“I am the seneschal of Crooked Sequoia House. Please follow me.”
He whirls and strides away, not bothering to see if we follow. But we do, and even though we are surrounded by soldiers, I’m encouraged by the fact that they have not made us give up our weapons.
He leads us through narrow corridors lit by torches. Everything shimmers—the walls of granite and quartz, the glass shards in the mortar, the silver sconces. We turn a corner and come face-to-face with enormous double doors made of knotty pine. My Godstone turns to ice.
The seneschal swings the doors open to reveal a towering audience hall. A giant sequoia grows right out of the floor, so vast that I cannot gauge its full height. A short stone wall surrounds the massive trunk, and light streams down from clerestory windows, illuminating its high green boughs. The strange insect birds I first discovered on the hidden island flit through the branches. A shimmery layer of detached gossamer wings blankets the base of the tree.
Beyond the tree is a throne, made of the twisting, woven trunks of juniper. On it sits the most frightening and beautiful Invierno I have ever seen. His skin is near translucent and baby smooth, and the hair flowing past his waist is as white as a summer cloud. He clutches the armrests with long, slender fingers. His right hand is bare. But his left is gloved in a shining metal gauntlet with barbed fingertips.
His eyes have no pupils, no irises. Instead, they are as black and liquid as tar.
He is attended by young Inviernos in bare feet and knee-length shifts. They stand near the throne, a handful on each side, and I cannot tell if they are male or female. Each of their shifts displays the same embroidered sequoia as the seneschal’s cloak.
My Godstone pounds ice through my veins, but I refuse to let the pain show on my face.
“Kneel before His High Eminence,” the seneschal booms. “The Bitterest Cold Cannot Shatter the Mighty Pine, Deciregus of Crooked Sequoia House.” Storm and Waterfall drop to their knees before the beautiful Invierno, and everyone follows suit. Except me.
The Deciregus—Pine—lifts his spindly bare hand to the Godstone amulet hanging from his neck and fingers it absently. “You do not kneel like the others?” comes his sibilant voice.
“I am queen of Joya d’Arena and bearer of a living Godstone. I kneel to no one.”
He grins, displaying teeth filed to points. “Welcome to Crooked Sequoia House, little queen.” He turns to Storm, who has prostrated himself forehead to the ground, arms stretched forward. “Rise, He Who Wafts Gently with the Wind Becomes as Mighty as the Thunderstorm.”
Storm gets to his feet, but he keeps his gaze downcast as he says, “Hello, Honored Father.”
I look at him sharply. He never told me the Deciregus was his father.
“My failed son. You have returned home to face honorable death, yes?”
Storm’s head snaps up, and he returns his father’s black gaze unflinchingly. “No.”
The Deciregus opens his mouth, but I jump in before he can say anything. “Your son is my official liaison to Invierne and under my protection. Harming him is an act of war.” I catch Storm’s eye and offer a slight smile. “He is no failure.”
The Deciregus hisses. “What do you know of Invierno honor, little queen?”
“I know that your condescension shows little. If we are to negotiate port rights for your people, I insist you address me properly, as Your Majesty.”
He taps his bottom lip with a slender forefinger. “We no longer need port rights, if we have you.”
“You do not have me.” My words are clear and strong, but my heart races. Maybe, finally, I will learn why Invierne sent a massive army through the desert after me. Why they stole Hector in a scheme to draw me here.
“You could not keep her against her will,” Storm says. “She is too powerful.” I hope he is right.
“If you did not come to stay, Your Majesty, then why did you come?”
I frown, realizing my companions are still on their knees only because the Deciregus has not yet released them. “Joyans, rise,” I command, and everyone stands. Mara shoots me a grateful look. To the Deciregus I say, “I have come for kno
wledge.” A partial truth, but the Inviernos barter in such things.
The Deciregus considers. He studies each of my companions, his gaze lingering a moment on Mula. At last he says, “The Frozen Waterfall Mourns Her Raging Youth, please prepare quarters for our guests.”
Storm’s sister is the only one still on her knees. Her eyes shift to avoid his gaze, and her voice shakes as she stands, saying, “Yes, Honored Father,” and then sweeps from the room. I stare after her, wondering if I have read her terror correctly.
I’ve been in this situation before, and I expect to be placed under house arrest. I listen for the sounds of drawn weapons and marching feet. But no one makes a move. The Deciregus says, “What knowledge, exactly, do you seek?”
I don’t hesitate. “I want to know why you have pursued me so doggedly. I want to know where the gate of darkness leads. And I want to meet the other bearer.”
If he is surprised that I know even that much, he does not show it. “And what do you offer in return for this knowledge?”
“Knowledge for knowledge, of course. And . . .” I wave a hand nonchalantly. “A few other minor concessions. If you tell me what I want to know, I will reveal the location of the zafira.” The fact that it lies buried beneath a mountain of rubble will have to wait for another time.
His Godstone flashes bright blue as he launches to his feet. “How do I know you speak the truth? All Joyans are liars.”
“So everyone keeps telling us,” Hector mutters under his breath.
“I have seen it with my own eyes,” Storm says. “I passed beyond the gate and tasted its power for myself. This is why my sister agreed to lead us here to speak with you—she sensed the growing power inside me. And Queen Elisa would be dismayed to discover that harm had come to someone who aided her.”
Is that why he sent Waterfall away? To be punished or killed?
But upon hearing Storm’s words, something in the Deciregus’s face changes. He steps down the dais, arms outstretched. Hector shifts into a defensive stance beside me, but the sorcerer has eyes only for Storm. “My son,” he says, and they clasp arms. “The only Invierno in thousands of years to pass the gate that leads to life. If the zafira let you live, then you are truly an animagus now.”
I eye him warily. His change of heart seems too sudden, and his smile does not reach his eyes.
The Deciregus turns to me. “All three of your questions lead to the same place. Rest. Eat. Tonight, while the city sleeps, I will take you to the Temple of Morning, where you shall have your answers.”
The seneschal signals, and a gaggle of barefoot Inviernos surrounds us and herds us away with the press of their frail bodies. We leave the audience hall and its massive sequoia behind for a dank tunnel that smells of algae and rat urine. After a few turns and a single flight of steep stairs, we come to a doorway that opens into a small stone chamber. There are several windows, but they are high up, making it impossible to see in or out. Tapestries covering the walls and rich rugs the colors of sunset can’t keep the place from feeling tight and cold.
“I apologize for the accommodation, Your Majesty,” the seneschal says. “But it’s the best we can do for now. We dare not put you somewhere prominent. Crooked Sequoia House has many enemies, and I would not place bets on your survival should it become known that we have offered you hospitality.”
“Thank you,” I say. “The room is fine.”
“I suggest that you and your party refrain from doing any magic. Every animagus in the city would sense you, if they have not already.”
“We have no intention of using magic while enjoying the hospitality of Crooked Sequoia House. Except to defend ourselves, of course.”
“Of course. I’ll have refreshments sent. The door will remain unlocked—you are not prisoners here. But my strong recommendation is that you stay out of sight.” The seneschal bows and departs, swinging the heavy door closed behind him.
“Well,” says Mara, staring at the door. “That went better than expected.”
“It went too well,” Storm mutters. He runs his fingers through his near-white hair and stares off into the distance. “I knew my father would jump at the chance to help us, but . . .” Doubt lines his beautiful features.
“Waterfall was sure he would too,” I remind him. “You must have had good reason.”
He nods. “He is one of only two Deciregi who believe that making war against your people is a shameful waste of resources and an evil in the sight of God. And allying with Joya’s queen and bearer would be a great coup against his enemies. Still . . .”
“I did not like him,” Mula says. “I did not like his eyes.”
“We will be wary,” I promise.
“Are you sure it’s a good idea to tell them where the zafira is?” Mara asks. She and Belén sit side by side on a narrow cot, their shoulders a finger’s breadth apart.
I let out a breath of frustration. “No,” I admit. “I’m not sure. But if what they believe is true, that our people stole it from them thousands of years ago, along with their land and livelihoods, then it’s the right thing to do.”
“Also, it’s buried under a mountain of rubble,” Hector adds. “It would take time and considerable resources to mine through to it.”
I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “Exactly. I like the idea of the Inviernos being thus occupied for many generations. I have a navy. They don’t. If they misbehave, we’ll simply cut them off from the island.”
Hector regards me with open admiration, and my face flushes. The moment passes too quickly. “We should be prepared for an ambush tonight,” he says.
“When they come for us,” Storm says, “they’ll divide us. They’ll insist that only animagi enter the Temple of Morning.”
“I will insist otherwise.”
“They’ll be quite firm,” Storm says. “They might allow you a personal attendant.”
“Belén will accompany me.”
Belén nods, but Hector says, “No. I’ll go.”
“Your ribs! Your broken—”
“Belén only has one eye.”
I glower at him. Hector is a better man than that.
He grabs my hand, and even though everyone is watching, he pulls me toward him and brings my fingers to his lips. His gaze on me is fierce. “Don’t make me watch them take you away.”
I swallow hard, realizing I don’t want to let him out of my sight either. “All right.”
Dusk is turning to night, and the high stained-glass windows cast jewel-like shadows across the walls. Oil lamps are set in alcoves around the room, and Mula takes it upon herself to light them all. Waterfall brings a tray with food and drink—an aromatic bread filled with pine nuts, hard-boiled duck eggs seasoned with basil and sage, and a large steaming pot of juniper-berry tea. I give a quick thought to poison, but Storm falls upon the food without hesitation, and I follow his lead. Everything is too dry for my taste, and savory rather than sweet, but still satisfying. Mula mewls like a kitten when she tastes the duck eggs and promptly shoves two more into her mouth.
Waterfall leans over to gather everything back onto her tray. Her breath catches, and her hand flies to her side.
Storm grabs her forearm. “How many?” he asks in a near whisper.
Waterfall wrenches her arm away. “He was merciful. Only five lashes.” She grabs the tray and sweeps from the room without looking back.
I stare after her, my skin crawling.
“You think my father treats her unfairly,” Storm observes. “Are all Inviernos so harsh with their own?”
“Oh, no. My father is considered lenient and softhearted.”
I gape at him.
“We uphold discipline and loyalty to the house above all things,” he explains. “My sister agreed to help us without consulting the house prince. She should have gone to him first.”
Mara says, “Then why didn’t she?”
Storm shakes his head. “She could not have gained audience until this evening. She wo
uld have delayed action, increasing the risk that you would be discovered. Or worse, giving another house a chance to make a move. If she had spoken to him without acting, she would have received at least thirty lashes.” At our horrified looks, Storm shrugs. “We have a saying. My people call it ‘choosing the path of fewest lashes.’”
“That’s terrible,” I murmur, half to myself.
“You mistake ‘terrible’ for ’different,’” he says. “You have a similar saying, do you not? ‘The lesser of two evils’? How many times have you found it necessary to choose between bad and worse? Many, I think, in just the short time I’ve known you.”
It’s different, somehow, to be physically punished for such a thing. I’m not sure how to explain, so I just nod. But my heart is sinking, for we have such a long way to go toward understanding each other.
Dusk turns to night, and still no one comes. The others stand aside to give me room to pace, accustomed to the habit by now.
I’ve been in this situation before. Was it a year ago—less?—when Conde Treviño used the auspices of hospitality to place us under house arrest? When his soldiers came for us, Humberto was the one to accompany me, only to be brutally murdered moments later.
I sense Hector watching me as I pace. I turn to face him, to soak up his presence, to memorize his features. Unbidden, the image flashes in my mind—a knife sliding across Humberto’s precious throat, his life blood spilling out onto my hands.
His gaze turns quizzical. “What is it?”
I stride toward him, fling my arms around his waist, rest my forehead against his chest. His arms wrap my shoulders. “I don’t want anything to happen to you,” I whisper.
“Ah. I see.”
I wait for the ensuing platitude. Ximena would have offered one. Everything will be fine, my sky. The back of my throat suddenly stings to think of her. Sometimes, maybe, she is just what I need.
But that’s not Hector’s way. I look up to find his gaze as intent as always—with love, I see now. And honesty.
“It’s my duty to ensure something happens to me instead of to you,” he says. “It’s an eventuality you must be prepared for. And if it does, I want you to fight through it. Promise me, if something happens to me, you will stay the course.”
