I plunk down on the ground and cross my legs, snuffing the flame with a thought. I study the blade; it radiates heat but is otherwise unscathed. “Then why do they need the zafira?” I muse. “Why did they send an army after it if they already have a source of power?”
“When your ancestors came to this world,” he says, “you forced us to give up our land and retreat across the divide. You changed us with magic from another world. Made us more like you. It was thousands of years ago, but no one has forgotten. The Inviernos are a bitter people, Majesty. They will stop at nothing to reclaim what they believe to be theirs.”
I’m not satisfied with this explanation. “But why now? If they’ve been angry and bitter for several millennia, what has caused them to act only now?”
“I wish I knew.”
“Did he call you Majesty?” says a voice at my shoulder. “Storm, why did you call her Majesty?”
Storm’s features freeze with dismay.
“It’s fine,” I tell him. “She was bound to figure it out eventually.”
Mula crouches before me and peers into my face, golden eyes narrowed. “Is she a condesa?”
In a resigned voice, Storm says, “You have the privilege of addressing Her Royal Majesty, Queen Lucero-Elisa né Riqueza de Vega.”
Mula’s eyes grow huge. With a loud whoop, she jumps up into the air, pumping her tiny fists. She tears off across the clearing toward our campfire yelling, “Mara! Belén! I am slave to the queen!”
I wince. I must soon have a solemn talk with the girl, wherein I introduce the word “discretion.”
14
HECTOR
FIFTEEN captors. I work through several scenarios in my head, and always come to the same conclusion: Fifteen is still too many.
Too many for me to fight. Too many for Elisa to fight, for her party is bound to be small. I must get them to expend their energy fighting one another.
My skin is still welted from its last battle with mountain laurel. I grit my teeth as I shove more down my shirt, into my pockets, even down my boots—enough to poison many horses this time. It’s easier to hide my movements now that waist-high ferns bask in the shelter of giant sequoias.
When night comes, I slip the rope and creep over to the picket line. This time I feed the Invierno horses. I contemplate giving Franco’s horse an extra helping but decide against it. It’s not the horse’s fault his rider is a murderer and a spy.
As I’m tying myself back up, snow begins to fall. I still wear only light desert armor; my captors have not bothered to protect me against the cold. A smart strategy. The first fat flakes melt against my skin, and I shiver.
In the vast silence of snowfall, I suddenly feel very alone. I’m usually adept at shielding my mind against thoughts that could weaken me. But my resolve is failing. I miss my men, with their bawdy jokes and boundless energy. I miss the hot sun and the endless desert horizon. I miss sparring each morning with Prince Rosario.
I miss her.
For the first time, I allow myself to consider that she might not come at all. Ximena would try to prevent her, I’m sure of it. Elisa told Franco she loved me. Was it an act to get me quickly away? I wouldn’t fault her for it. I should reconsider rescuing myself.
But, no. She whispered that she would come, and nothing changes her mind once her course is set. I fall asleep hoping for it, dreading it, telling myself to be ready if the time comes. Imagining a thousand ways it can go wrong.
Sometime during the night I wrap my arms around my shoulders in a desperate bid for warmth. Which is how, in the morning, my captors discover my severed bonds. I wake to the splitting pain of a boot to my ribs. I can only absorb a few kicks before blackness retakes me.
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.