“Times like this,” Storm grumbles, “it would be useful for one of us to be able to call fire with a Godstone.”
“Nothing would light anyway,” I say. “Not in this deluge.”
But I can’t stop thinking about his words. We shiver together as the rain slaps our bedroll canopy. I pray hard for wisdom and warmth, and as the Godstone sends tendrils of heat through my body, I wonder about calling fire, about what I would have to do.
The animagi almost always use blood to wake the zafira and pull it from the ground. And the animagi send fire from stones that are caged in amulets or embedded into staffs. Neither is an option for me. How am I supposed to shoot fire from my belly? Would my clothes burn? What about my skin?
One of the greatest frustrations about being the only chosen one in four generations is that there is no one to tell me what to do. I’ve only centuries-old scripture to guide me, pored over by learned priests and eager revolutionaries who decide what those scriptures mean based on their own desperate hopes. None of them have felt God’s own power rippling through their bodies; none of them really know.
It seems to me that when God decided he wanted to communicate with humankind, he could have come up with a much better plan.
The sound of the rain changes from drum taps to shattering glass; the hail has come.
Our bedrolls sag with the weight of water. It drips from my nose, soaks my cloak, and I feel I’ll never be dry again. Hail bounces and cracks all around us. One huge chunk rolls up to the toe of my boot, and I pick it up. It’s solid ice, half the size of my fist, crusted in dirt.
A horse screams, and I lurch up, hitting my head on a branch.
“Nothing we can do for it now,” Belén shouts above the noise.
I bring my knees to my chest and huddle against the tree trunk, pressed in on either side by the shoulders of my friends. I pray in a furious bid for warmth and comfort. God, we can’t afford to lose a mount. Please keep our horses safe. Keep Hector safe. Make this storm pass soon. Is it your will that I learn to use the stone’s destructive power? If so, I could use some guidance. Storm could use your help too. I don’t know if you answer the prayers of Inviernos. Actually, I’m not sure you answer mine either, but if you do . . .
Eventually my head drops onto Mara’s shoulder, and I fall asleep praying.
I wake to sunshine flashing on puddled water, to dirty clumps of hail melting in the shadowed lees of boulders, to rock wrens singing like it’s the best day of their lives.
Aside from the crick in my neck, I feel refreshed and restored. I’m suddenly grateful for that horrid storm. It forced a rest that I didn’t have the wisdom or patience to allow.
Mara’s mare has a bloody gash on her neck, but she seems fine. Mara cleans the gash and smothers it with salve—the same salve she uses every day on her burn scars. The mare accepts these ministrations like an attention-starved puppy.
Until recently, I believed all horses were alike. They’ve been giant, four-footed animals with ugly dispositions and alarmingly large teeth for so long that it’s a bit startling to notice how different their personalities are. Mara’s mare, for instance, is a blood bay, except for a wide white blaze down her nose that suits her perpetually excited demeanor. My huge, plodding mare has a dark-brown coat that seems black at night, with the most unruly mane I’ve ever seen. Her shaggy forelock covers her right eye and reaches almost to her mouth. Maybe the reason she moves so slowly is that she can hardly see where to go.
Mara’s mare head-butts my lady-in-waiting in the chest. Grinning, Mara plants a kiss between her wide, dumb eyes, then murmurs something.
“Have you named her?” I ask.
“Yes! Her name is Jasmine.”
I grimace. “But jasmine is such a sweet, pretty flower.”
Mara laughs. “Have you named yours?”
“Her name is Horse.”
She rolls her eyes. “If you want to get along with your mount, you have to learn each other’s language. That means starting with a good name.”
“All right.” I pretend to consider. “What about Imbecile? Or Poops A Lot?”
Mara shakes her head.
We lay out our bedrolls in the sun while we down a quick breakfast of pine nuts, jerky, and flatbread. The bedrolls are still wet when we roll them up and attach them to our packs. I should call an early halt and give them time to air out again. Or maybe we’ll just sleep directly on the ground tonight. It can’t be worse than sleeping hunched beneath a cottonwood during a thunder burst.
Belén shows me how to saddle Horse, and I promise to try it on my own next time. We mount up, Belén leads the way, and moments later we’re back on the trail.
The ground turns rocky as we enter a series of steep switchbacks. Our horses’ legs are so spindly and fragile, and I fear they will snap like kindling on the jagged outcroppings that mar our path. But the horses clomp along unbothered, and after a while I forget to worry.
We pause for lunch in a small green valley, divided down the middle by a crystal creek. Trout dart under the grassy bank as we approach, and Mara squeals. “We could have fish for lunch!” she says. “I can show you how to catch them with your hands. Trout are the easiest to clean and spit, and then—”
I picture Hector being driven through these mountains, weeks ahead of us. I would bet my Godstone crown he’s planning his escape, trying to delay their progress. God, I hope he’s being treated well. What if he’s injured? Or starving? “We water the horses, and then we move on. We’ll rest when we’ve made camp for the night.”
Mara looks away. “All right.”
Guilt stabs my chest. I’m pushing too hard again. I don’t know what else to do.
As we ride, Storm tells us this trail is usually well traveled, for it’s one of only two main trading routes between Joya d’Arena and the free villages that hug the alpine slopes. But in the days since the highwaymen attacked us, we’ve seen no one.
“It’s the coming war,” Mara says. “No one will leave the shelter of the mountains to trade. They fear conscription into the conde’s army.”
“It doesn’t surprise me that he would extend his draft into territory that doesn’t belong to him,” I say. Eduardo comes from a long line of ambitious condes, and over the centuries, several attempts have been made to annex the free villages into the countship of Montamayor. But they are a wily, reclusive, and independent people, and far more trouble to govern than they are worth.
“We should stock up on supplies in the free villages,” Storm calls at my back. “Now that we have horses, we can carry more.”
Storm has proven adept at assuring his own comfort. I glance back over my shoulder at him and say, “I may send Mara to pick up a few things, but I’m not sure it’s safe.”
“It’s definitely not safe,” he says. “But no one there will recognize you. Even I can walk through the free villages. It’s the one place where your people and mine exist in relative peace.”
I rein in Horse and twist in the saddle to face him. “Truly?”
“I always speak truly.”
I frown. “My old tutor, Master Geraldo, taught me all about the free villages. He never once mentioned peace with Invierne.”
He shrugs. “I wouldn’t call it peace with Invierne. I’m sure Invierne would love to annex and control the area just as much as your wayward conde.”
I turn back around and spur Horse onward to catch up to Mara and Belén. She takes a few quick steps, then slows to her usual plodding, but I’m thinking too hard to mind.