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.”
And sometimes what I need is for my fear to be addressed forthrightly. I nod up at him, feeling a little stronger. “I promise.”
A knock sounds at the door.
Everyone jumps to their feet, hands to weapons. I glance around and see readiness in the eyes of my companions. “Enter!” I call out.
The seneschal opens the door. “Your Majesty,” he says with a slight incline of his head that would never suffice as proper deference in Joya d’Arena. “His Eminence the Deciregus requests your company and that of his son. He bids you come quickly and with all possible quietude.”
“Of course.” I gesture for Hector to follow.
The seneschal raises a hand to stop me. His fingers are long and spidery and as pale as the moonrise. “Only animagi may pass through to the Temple of Morning.”
I almost roll my eyes at the sheer predictability. Before I can respond, Storm says, “But each animagus may bring a personal attendant. It is the law, and you must allow it.”
The seneschal’s blue eyes narrow. “Attendants are slaves. They come only to serve.”
Hector glares him down. “I am my queen’s to command. In everything.”
They size each other up for a moment, and finally the seneschal shrugs. “As you wish.” He turns to Storm. “Will you bring an attendant as well?”
Storm looks to me, and I consider. It would be nice to have Belén’s blade with us. But I mentally divide our strength and realize I dare not leave Mara with only a little girl to fight at her back. “Mula will accompany Storm,” I say.
Mula steps forward quickly, her golden eyes bright.
As the four of us follow the seneschal out the door, I glance back, expecting a final good-bye or a wish for luck. Mara gives me an encouraging nod, but she can’t hide the concern in her face. Belén snakes a hand over to grab hers, and she squeezes back fiercely.
The seneschal leads us deep into Crooked Sequoia House, through narrow corridors dimly lit by torches. We reach a door made of pine so old it is dry and cracking. He pulls a large brass key from his pocket and inserts it into the lock.
The door opens to a small, windowless room. Its gray stone walls and floor are completely bare—save for the large tapestry hanging on the opposite wall. The seneschal shifts his torch, and the light reveals the tapestry to be a woven masterwork in stunning colors. An animagus stands atop a high promontory, overlooking a green valley. He is different than the Inviernos I’ve encountered—taller, as thin and wispy as a stalk of grass, with blue eyes so large they seem to engulf his face. He has only three fingers on each hand, and I cannot tell if the differences are the result of a primitive style of art or if they represent an accurate depiction.
The animagus raises his staff to the sky, and blue lightning streams from the tip, colliding in a shower of sparks with a giant insectlike creature the size of a small building. The creature’s gossamer wings are stretched wide, and its gaping black mouth screams its death throes.
The door slams shut behind us, and I jump. “That tapestry is ancient,” the seneschal offers. He speaks softly, but his voice echoes. “It illustrates a great victory, the details of which are lost, alas. But we keep tapestries like this in good repair, hoping we’ll someday know more.”
“Does such a creature exist?” I ask, reaching up to reverently trace a spidery black leg.
“Not anymore, though we have found their remnants. When your people came to this world, they destroyed or changed everything they considered a threat. Now only Inviernos remain, along with some lesser cousins of this great bug.” His voice turns wistful. “We are all shadows of what we once were.”
I open my mouth to ask more, but he pushes the tapestry aside to reveal a low, dark tunnel. I give Storm a questioning look.
“I knew there was a secret entrance,” he explains, “though I didn’t know where. The ruling houses are arrayed in a crescent around the Temple of Morning. I’m sure each house has an entrance of its own.” He stoops low to follow the seneschal inside. “I believe it is safe, Majesty,” he says over his shoulder.
Mula steps in after him with no hesitation, but Hector peers inside and says, “There is little quarter for sword work.”
“An enemy would share the disadvantage,” I point out.
He nods and gestures for me to go first. But he adds, “Have your daggers ready.”
19
THE tunnel is so small that we go single file. Mula walks upright; the rest of us duck to avoid the low ceiling. Only the seneschal carries a torch, and once the tapestry swings back into place, I can’t see where I’m placing my feet. It’s the perfect place for an ambush, and we all step quietly, ears pricked.
Since coming to the city of Umbra de Deus, my Godstone has been riotous with activity—cool one moment, hot as a fire the next. All the things my stone responds to are gathered in once place—close friends, enemies, other Godstones. The Deciregi aside, who knows how many animagi inhabit this place, each with a stone of his own? So I have been ignoring it, knowing there is no way to parse its message, to determine which proximate thing it responds to at any given moment.
But as we proceed down the tight, dark corridor, everything changes. The flashes of hot and cold are replaced by a soothing vibration, an almost melodic sensation that, if it were a sound, might be a song. It fills my limbs with buzzing, joyous warmth, as if I’m about to greet the sunrise. “Storm?” I say.
“I feel it too,” he says, but there is no surprise in his voice.
The torch ahead winks and flashes with the seneschal’s steps. The light snags on a gouge in the wall, a curving darkness set off by lighter gray.
“Stop!” I say, and everyone halts. I brush past Mula and put a finger to the gouges. Not gouges—scripted letters. I’ve seen them before.
The gate that leads to life is narrow and small so that few find it.
“Just like in the tunnel beneath . . . leading to the zafira,” Storm says.