I snap into focus. In the distance, Belén yells something, and Mara shouts in answer. They are still alive. It spurs me to action.
I squeeze Hector’s shoulder. “I’m clumsy at this, so when I start burning, do not move.”
After he nods, I hurry behind the tree, running my hand along the rope until I feel the frayed spot where I had been sawing. I take a steadying breath, then reach deep into the earth for the zafira. It comes more slowly this time, but it comes.
Be controlled, Elisa. Be precise. I let just enough power leak out to dance a tiny flame at the tip of the dagger and no more. The still-damp blood on my blade sizzles, and I swallow against gagging. The zafira throbs inside me, begging to burst free, but I hold it tight. My forehead drips sweat. The rope begins to blacken and curl.
“Footsteps,” Hector says. “Behind us.”
The final coil of rope splits, and Hector launches forward, even as I whirl to see what approaches.
Too late. A sword descends. I roll left, and the sword lands on the end of my braid. He pulls back to stab, and I kick hard, catching his kneecap. He falls on top of me, and before I can squirm free he pins my legs with his knees, grabs my hair, and yanks my head back to expose my throat. I thrust with my daggers, but they glance off his armor.
Hector roars, flying through the dark at my attacker. Together, they crash to the ground, and Hector pounds him with fists, over and over again.
I scramble toward them on all fours. Hector’s broken fingers, his broken ribs . . . he can’t last long.
My daggers begin to glow again, and I shiver with power. I will send every last drop of it at my enemy. I will burn him to ash.
But I can’t get a clear angle. They grapple, rolling in the dirt. The attacker grabs Hector’s broken fingers and tugs them backward. Hector yells, but he does not give quarter, jabbing relentlessly with fist and elbows and knees.
They roll again. Hector is pinned. I see an opening and dart forward, swiping the attacker’s hamstring. He screams while his skin sizzles. I stumble back, choking on the smell of burning flesh, while Hector throws him off.
Hector springs to his feet. “Knife!” he yells, reaching a hand toward me but never taking his gaze off his enemy, who is bent over, gasping, in the dirt.
My hot daggers would melt his hands. I clamp one between my teeth and fumble my spare knife from its sheath. The injured man struggles to his feet in spite of his useless leg. His wound does not bleed; my blade cauterized it.
“Here!” I toss the knife, and Hector snatches it from the air, flips it around for a better grip, then throws it.
The blade zings through the air so fast that I hardly register it until our attacker topples back, the hilt protruding from his throat. He lies there wide-eyed, twitching and choking on his own blood.
My heart still kicks in my chest; my breath comes fast. He is small. Dark, like me. A Joyan traitor.
I look up to find Hector staring at me. He is bent over slightly, clutching his injured side. The sound of battle is fading around us. “Belén!” I call.
“Here!”
“Mara!”
“Here!”
“Storm!”
No answer.
Hector needs no prompting. He strides over to the fallen Joyan and, wincing, bends over and yanks the dagger from his throat. He wipes it on the Joyan’s shirt. “Let’s find him,” he says.
We weave through the nervous horses toward the campfire. Figures manifest—Mara, without a single arrow left in her quiver; Belén, whose eye patch has come askew. They’re both breathing hard. Bodies litter the ground. Mara’s bow is drawn with her last arrow as she surveys the bodies around her, watching for movement.
“They’re dead, Mara,” Belén says. “We got them all.”
Their gazes lock. Mara lets her bow drop into the dirt, and they start toward each other as if an invisible force draws them together.
Hector clears his throat.
They whirl on us, startled. Mara’s gaze drops to the ground, and she finds it necessary to pick something off the sleeve of her shirt.
“Lord-Commander,” Belén says as we approach.
Hector reaches out with his left hand, and Belén clasps it. “Belén. Lady Mara. Thank you for coming.”
“Where is Storm?” I demand.
“He ran off after Franco,” Mara says. She points southward, where the forest growth is thick and dark. “That way.”
“Why?” I murmur, though as soon as the word leaves my lips, I know exactly why. He is done being frightened of that man. But Franco is a trained assassin, and I fear that Storm, heady with new power, has underestimated him.
“Did anyone else get away?”
“No,” says Belén. “A few were killed fighting each other, just as we hoped. We got everyone else. But I should have kept better track of Franco. I should have targeted him first.”
I wave off his apology. “We accomplished our goal. I just wish Storm hadn’t run off.”
“Do we pursue?” Hector asks.
I pace in front of the campfire. Glowing embers left over from Storm’s magic are scattered throughout the clearing, bathing us all in eerie warmth. How long will they glow?
“We must retrieve Mula before going anywhere,” Mara says. “She’s still hiding in the trees.”
I nod, hating the thought of risking the little girl more than we already have. I turn to Belén. “Can we track them in the dark?”
“Yes, but it will be slow going.”
“Hector, can you travel? Or should I heal you first?”
He shakes his head. “You always pass out after a healing. We can’t afford the delay. I can ride, but I think”—he holds up his hand to display unnaturally crooked fingers—“I ought to set and splint these first.”
I turn my back on my companions and stare into the trees. They seem as dark and impenetrable as night itself. “All right then. We find Mula, set Hector’s fingers, and—”
A shape flies out of the dark, barrels into me, taking me to the ground. Agony shoots through my skull as red blotches my vision. Blood fills my mouth. I turn to spit, to breath, but hands wrap around my neck, crushing the life from me.
My mouth opens and closes, as if the motion can suck air into my dying lungs. Blackness narrows my vision to a single point of focus; my attacker’s delicate face and chin, his wild, not-quite-Joyan eyes. Franco.
Something knocks him to the side. Air rushes into my lungs so fast I almost choke on it. I clamber to my feet, swaying, my stomach heaving. I fumble for my daggers.
“Mula!” Mara screams.
Franco is pounding brutally at something beneath him. A tiny something.
The zafira rushes into me, filling me like rage. I raise my daggers, but Hector gets there first. One hand on the back of Franco’s head, one on his chin, and snap! Franco topples over.
Mula lies on the ground, unmoving. I rush over to her, drop to my knees. The daggers thunk into the dirt beside me.
“Mula,” I whisper.
“Bad . . . man,” she manages. Something gurgles in her unnaturally concave chest.
No. No no no no no.
Rosario said something similar once. And thinking a little of Mula, but mostly of the precious little boy I’m helpless to save right now, I place my hands on Mula’s crushed chest. “For my love is like perfume poured out,” I say, and I send all the power of the earth into her.
Her tiny body arches beneath my palms, and she screams and screams. Am I pouring too much into her? But I can’t seem to stop.
When I’m as dry as deep desert, I collapse on top of her.
16
I wake to the warmth of sunshine and the scent of rabbit stew. I’m wrapped in my bedroll, facing a cheery fire. Mara’s iron cook pot steams beside it.
“Elisa?” Hector’s worried voice.
I sit up, rubbing my eyes. “Where’s Mula? Is she . . . ?”