I glare at Storm, who gazes blandly into the distance, betraying nothing of his thoughts.
“I cannot guarantee your safety at that point,” Pine continues. “The others will contend that if you return with news of the queen’s fate, your country will declare war on ours and invade. It might be better if you all just . . . disappeared. You’ll never be allowed to return home. But in honor of the queen making my son into an animagus and bringing him home to me, I’ll try to convince them to spare your lives.”
Pine pauses expectantly. Does he presume gratitude? Obeisance? He’ll get neither.
Eventually the Deciregus shrugs. To Storm, he says, “You must choose. Will you be escorted back with the others? Or will you retake your place as my heir?”
A muscle in Storm’s jaw twitches. Then he says, clear and strong, “My first loyalty has always been to Crooked Sequoia House.”
I clench my hands into fists to keep them from drawing my sword and running the Invierno through. My nails bite into my palms—a welcome pain. As soon as I get the chance, Storm is a dead man.
Hawk and Pine move to escort us away. Mula looks up at me for direction, and I nod assurance. Once we’re reunited with Mara and Belén, we’ll figure out what to do next.
As we crunch across the shattered glass, back toward the tapestry and the tunnel leading to Crooked Sequoia House, Storm is too cowardly to meet my eye. I imagine myself throttling his too-elegant neck. But a glimpse of his chest gives me pause. Through his thin linen shift comes the glimmer of Storm’s Godstone, raging bright with power.
He leads us back to our holding room. The door squeals behind me, and I turn just in time to catch a final glimpse of Storm’s unfazed countenance before it slams shut and a deadbolt thuds into place.
“Hector! Where is she?” Mara demands.
I swallow hard. “They’ve taken her. There was a trapdoor, and—”
Grief slams me, so hot and hard that I double over. Elisa. How many times have I awakened in the dead of night, gasping, pouring sweat, from the nightmare of losing her?
A hand grips my shoulder. “We’ll get her back,” Belén says. “I swear it. Now . . .” He pushes me toward the cot and forces me to sit. “Tell us everything that happened,” he orders.
Get control of yourself, Hector. I take a deep breath and say, “First, you should know that Storm has betrayed us.”
Mara gasps. “I don’t believe it.”
Mula climbs up into her lap and wraps scrawny arms around Mara’s neck. “The commander speaks for true,” she says.
I tell them everything. Mara cries a little as Mula strokes her hair. Belén hits the wall with a fist.
Then we make a plan. Then we wait.
If Elisa were here, waiting along with us, she would pace. She would bite at her thumbnail and go back and forth until everyone was dizzy from watching her. In her absence, I pace instead. It’s better than doing nothing. And something about the physical movement frees my mind to move more quickly, unhindered.
Hours pass. The sun is high, our tiny room bright, when I hear footsteps, followed by the scrape of the bolt being lifted.
We rush to get in position—Belén and I to either side of the door, Mula in clear view of the opening as she pretends to sleep on the cot, Mara slightly off to the side with her bow drawn.
I shift to the balls of my feet, unsheathing a dagger. This is it.
The door creaks open.
No one moves. No one breathes.
Just a little wider, I pray. Just a little farther.
Something rolls through the cracked opening, and Belén dodges to avoid it. It clunks against the leg of Mula’s cot. A water skin. Two more items follow—bulging leather bags.
The door slams shut; the bar thuds into place.
I utter the foulest oath I know.
Mara opens the bags. “Jerky,” she says. “And a loaf of bread. At least they don’t plan to starve us.”
I’m about to resume pacing, but Belén grabs my arm. “It was worth a try,” he says. “But next time, we force the door open and fight our way out.”
I nod. We agreed to try to capture someone as a hostage and keep casualties to a minimum. If we’re to parlay with the Deciregi, we shouldn’t start off by killing their people. But I won’t hesitate if it’s the only way out of this room.
Mula uses Mara’s tinderbox to light all the oil lamps in the room. She is holding the largest in her hand when she startles, almost dropping it. Hesitantly, almost shyly, she looks from the lamp in her hand to the door and then back again.
I have a guess about what she’s thinking. I’ve come to admire the little girl. She is as pesky as a mosquito and as full of energy as a spring colt. But she can be calculating. Determined. She’s a little bit like Elisa.
“Skinny Girl,” I say, using Belén’s name for her. I can’t bring myself to call her a mule.
When she looks up at me, panic flits across her odd features as quickly and naturally as if from long habit, but she channels it into a glare. “What?”
“It’s a good idea.”
She looks down at her lamp. Back up at me. Straightens. “I’m going to try it.”
“We should break the window first,” I say. “Give the smoke a place to go.”
Mara and Belén exchange a glance. They’ve been sitting side by side on the cot, their shoulders brushing, but they separate to look around for something to throw.
“Maybe I could shoot through it?” Mara says.
Belén reaches for her bow, propped up against the wall, and hands it to her.
Mara draws an arrow from her quiver and taps it against her cheek as she sizes up the window. She draws, holds, releases.
The arrow zings through the air, cracks against the window, glances off, and whirls end over end to the ground.
Mara frowns. “Bad angle,” she mutters. “I need a more direct hit.”
I step forward. “Can you shoot from my shoulders?”
She brightens. “That might work! You’d have to stand firm to give me an accurate shot.”
She climbs from the cot onto my shoulders. The heel of her boot digs into the crook of my neck, and I sway beneath her weight. I plant my feet, one leg in front of the other, to find a new center of balance. Belén hands the bow and an arrow up to Mara.
Her weight shifts as she notches the bow and draws. I’m as still as a statue lest I throw off her aim. The bow twangs; the window explodes. Shards of glass fall like water and crash onto the floor.
Belén steadies Mara as she climbs down from my shoulders.
Mula holds the oil lamp aloft, a question in her eyes.
“Try it,” I say.
She pulls the still-burning wick from the clay base, then upends the contents onto the thick wooden door. Sassafras scent fills the room as slick oil drips down the wood grain. The drips never reach the floor; the thirsty wood soaks it up.
Mula steps back as far as her reach will allow. Turning her face away, she touches the burning wick to the oil slick on the door.
I hold my breath.
Nothing happens, and I reach for another lamp sitting in a nearby alcove—maybe we need more oil. But all of a sudden it does catch, in a great whoosh of air and heat.
Mula jumps up into the air. “Did you see that?” she asks, grinning wildly.
The flames licking at the door are near invisible, as wavering and insubstantial as a desert mirage, save for the occasional flame tip of orange or blue. The heat singes my face. I order everyone against the far wall. We raise our cloaks to cover our noses, and together we watch the door burn.
The fire weakens and dies.
It leaves a shiny black crater, but it’s shallow and small. I glance around the room, refusing to give up. Three oil lamps left. In my barracks, anyone caught with four oil lamps in a single room would have served double watches for excess and recklessness. Now I’d give my best sword for ten more.