The Girl of Fire and Thorns fat-1 Page 19

“Lo Chato né sería feliz si alquino nos escapría.” The Cat will be displeased if someone eludes us.

  The guttural voices seem louder, nearer. Before me, an arm’s length away, a hand settles on the limestone waterfall, lit by sun streaming through fissures in the earth above. A thick, pale hand. Crisscrossed with scars the puckering white of bread dough.

  Please, God. Make him go away.

  I wait for an arm to follow. Maybe a pale face. I close my eyes, refusing to look. Finally I hear, “Né vieo nado.” I see nothing. The sound of slithering footsteps fades. I sense my aloneness, and it is an empty, sorrowful thing.

  I refuse to move, afraid it’s a trick, afraid they stand guard at the entrance, waiting for me to reveal myself. I wish I had duerma leaf with me, so I could sleep through this nightmare. Then, days from now, I would wake, either captured or free. Or I would be dead and I wouldn’t wake at all. Either way, I would escape this terror of not knowing what would befall me, not knowing if my enemy lurked just around the corner.

  My stomach aches with emptiness. I need to relieve myself. But I refuse to twitch a finger, even to breathe too deeply. My lower back aches with the need for release and from holding my legs so tight against my torso. Still, I manage to doze off, infused with the warmth of my life’s most earnest prayers. Please watch over Humberto and Cosmé and Jacián and Belén. Let them escape. Let them live.

  When I wake, my back is rigid as stone and my stomach is a hole in my gut, throbbing with hunger. It’s impenetrably dark, so I know I’ve slept at least until late afternoon, maybe longer. I reach, quietly, for my pack and manipulate the ties, surprised at how naturally my fingers decipher the knots, and reach inside for my packet of jerky. The meat—dried strips of mutton cured in salt and then sweetened with honey—is comforting, though it sticks in my teeth as I tear it apart. Afterward, I sip from the water skin, wondering if I should conserve, wondering how long I’ll be stuck in this hole. I feel around in my pack to see what Humberto left me. Another packet of food, a second water skin, a candle, a knife, a tinderbox. I’ve never lit a fire myself, though I’ve watched the others do it. It can’t be that difficult.

  I sheath the knife against the hide of my boots, shoving it under the camel-hair wrapping. Before I do anything else, I must relieve myself. I consider digging a hole right here in my tiny cavern, but then I’d be forced to sit atop my own waste. Better to sneak down the incline now and crawl back up before morning.

  Gradually, silently, I force my leg over the stone lip, then grasp it with my hands as the other leg follows. I slide down the incline on my belly and let go at the last instant, breathing a too-loud sigh of relief when my boots contact the sand floor. I straighten and listen a moment. Nothing. I take a few experimental steps forward. Still no sound.

  I don’t dare go too far, for I’ve no assurance I’ll find my way back in the dark. Sitting on my heels relieves the pressure in my abdomen a bit. I scoop sand away, stopping at intervals to listen. Then I pat at the ground, feeling for the depression, and mark the deepest spot with a toe while I lift my robes and fiddle with the drawstring of my pants. The urge to go is overwhelming, and I barely settle into a squat in time.

  I hear voices, then sliding footsteps.

  I don’t have time to finish. I yank up my pants and scramble toward the incline while warm urine pours down my leg. The limestone is too slick, too soft. I climb partway up, clawing at the stone, ignoring the burning rawness of my fingertips, but my legs tangle in pants that were left loose and untied. The voices approach. My scrambling becomes frantic, but each time my fingers find purchase, my foot slips. Tears of panic run down my face. Then the Godstone turns to ice, and I gasp in shock. My fingertips freeze. I lose my grip and slide down. My rear slams into the cavern floor; the breath in my lungs flees in a single, violent gale.

  Torchlight burns my eyes. Rough hands seize my shoulder. They yank me to my feet, spin me around. I see pale faces, matted clumps of hair, angry eyes.

  One turns away in disgust, wrinkling his nose. I smell my own urine then, robustly sharp. For a brief moment, the humiliation overpowers my fear. Until one of them says, in the Lengua Classica, “Take her to the Cat.”

  A shorter, powerful man holds a dagger to my throat as they shove me forward. I think of my own knife, stashed against my boot, even as I shuffle ahead surrounded by Inviernos. For the first time, I let myself remember the Perdito I killed, the way the knife rebounded against bone, how it slid between his ribs the way a needle slides into thick tapestry. The blood soaking my skirt cooled so quickly. Could I kill again?

  “This girl is no warrior,” one says. He is right, of course. When I killed the Perdito, it was mostly by accident.

  “Where are your companions?” another demands.

  I open my mouth to say, What companions? But then I remember that most of the hill folk do not speak the Lengua Classica. So instead, I say in the Plebeya, “I don’t under- stand you.”

  The blow is so sudden, I don’t even have time to be afraid. My lip splits wide and throbs with pain as he leans closer, his eyes fiery orange in the torchlight. “You barbarians are all filthy,” he spits. “Urinating on yourselves. Speaking such a filthy language.” He turns to the others. My eyes have adjusted now, and I see five of them, all men dressed in undyed leather with fur trim. “Take her down the cliff,” he orders. “If she can’t keep up, throw her over the side.”

  They rush me through the cavern to the entrance and force my legs to dangle over the edge. It’s too dark to see where to place my feet and hands, but a spear in my face inspires me. I slither along, feeling for brush or niches. It’s not as difficult as it seemed during the day. With my body pressed against the ground, I realize it’s not perfectly vertical. I consider sliding down and out of reach of my captors. I’d risk a broken leg, or worse, but it would be unexpected. A quick glance downward changes my mind. The campfires of Invierne’s army stretch forever. Once on the ground, there will be no escape. So I take my time—as much time as the spear pointed at my eyes allows—and I climb down with careful precision.

  My arms burn by the time we reach the valley floor, but I am oddly energized. I consider dashing away, but I’m not quick enough or strong enough to evade my captors. I imagine what it would feel like to have that spear crush its way into my back. Right now, for whatever reason, I am alive. As they lead me toward a large, bleached-white tent, the only outward sign of resistance I dare is a head held high.

  Others look up from their fire pits as we pass, eyes wide with curiosity. One hunches over a skewered rabbit, and her posture pushes the outline of breasts against a fur-trimmed leather vest. I stare right back at her as my captors prod me forward. I realize I cannot distinguish the men from the women from a distance. They all wear the same clothes, have the same clumpy hair, the same pale skin.

  A small brass bell dangles from the tent wall. One of the Inviernos gives it a shake.

  “Enter,” someone calls, and ice clutches at my abdomen once again. I pray for warmth and safety as one of my captors sweeps aside the tent flap and thrusts me inside.

  Spicy incense curls around my head, beckoning me toward a stone altar covered in candles, all in varying stages of melting. I blink to clear my eyes of smoke and light.

  “You’ve brought me another barbarian,” the same voice sneers. It is deep and as cold as the ice in my stomach. “Why didn’t you just kill her?”

  The squat man to my right bows. “Forgive me, my lord. I thought it strange that someone who is clearly not a warrior would be hiding in the cave above our camp. But if you’d like me to take her away and bother you no more—”

  “Not a warrior, eh?” A figure steps closer. He is of medium height, my height, and thin as the trunk of a coconut palm, blinding in robes as white as quartz. His face is pale and slick, as if a sculptor carved it with an artist’s attention to beauty. A long braid of white hair curls across his shoulder like a snake. No, it’s lightest yellow, like the innermost edge of the s
unrise. Most disconcerting of all are his eyes. Never have I seen such eyes, for they are blue, as blue as my Godstone. How can he see?

  He leans forward until his bloated lips are a handsbreadth from my brow. “You are a soft little thing, aren’t you. Are you a warrior?”

  Is this the Cat? An animagus, perhaps? Is this one of those responsible for burning the flesh of my people? For sending both my father’s and husband’s countries to war? Staring into his unnatural eyes, something sparks in my gut. Something altogether different from the stone there. My body begins to pulse with it; my cheeks feel hot. I realize it’s rage.

  I narrow my eyes and say, loud and clear in the Lengua Plebeya, “I’m sorry. I don’t understand a word you’re saying.”

  He studies my face a moment; then his eyes flash, wild and dangerous, and he turns his back and glides away. The way he moves makes my skin crawl. He’s as graceful as the smoke curling around us, smooth and effortless.

  From a wooden stand next to the bright altar, he grabs a wineskin and pours a shimmering dark red liquid—wine, I hope—into a ceramic mug. As he sips, he regards us thoughtfully from over his shoulder. “You never found the three that escaped?” he asks.

  “No, my lord,” says the short man.

  He sips again. With his free hand, he reaches forward and flicks his fingers with irritated nonchalance. My companions freeze. I stare at them, at eyes wide with terror, as they choke and wheeze, unable to move. This is sorcery, I realize, and my Godstone flares in response.

  The blue-eyed man glares at me. “You still move!” he says. He flicks his fingers again. I’m not supposed to be able to move. I’m supposed to be paralyzed like the others. So I go very, very still, even though the rage still thrums through my skin. I hear Alodia’s voice in my head. Sometimes it’s best, she used to say smugly, to let your opponent think he has control.

  “If they are not found tomorrow, they will have passed from our reach,” he says.

  My mind trips on his earlier words. The three that escaped . . . But I have four companions. Maybe one is also prisoner in this camp. Or dead. It’s hard to maintain my false stillness while thinking of Humberto. I imagine him facedown on the rocks, a spear protruding from his back, or maybe an arrow. My cheek twitches.

  “Find the others,” the blue-eyed man says, his voice quiet now, conversational. He flicks his fingers again, and the others flee. He advances on me.

  I’m still terrified, but it’s a thinking kind of fear, and different possibilities tumble through my head in fierce competition.

  The candlelight sparks against something hanging on a brown leather tie around his neck. A tiny cage dangles at the midpoint of his chest, small enough to wrap in the palm of my hand, with black, ironlike bars and a tiny latch at the top. There’s something bright inside.

  “Soft thing,” he whispers, looming closer, and the little cage swings against his chest. “I see the intelligence in you. There is something about your face. Something strange.”

  I hear his words, but they don’t make sense. I can only stare at his amulet, at the shimmering blue stone locked in its tiny cage. I’ve seen such a thing before, in Father Nicandro’s study, in my own navel.

  It’s a Godstone.

  Chapter 21

  I’M stunned, truly frozen, though not by the animagus’s sorcery. Can this be the amulet spoken of? The one that leaves rippling burn scars on the bodies of my people? If so, how could God allow something so sacred to be used in such a way?

  It cannot be the animagus’s own Godstone, unless he ripped it from his own belly. More likely he found it some other way. Father Nicandro gave me only three, but nearly twenty centuries have passed since God brought us to this world. Nearly twenty bearers. And then comes the most dreadful thought of all: Is it possible, then, that God would choose bearers among the enemy?

  He studies me as these thoughts race through my mind. I hope my face hasn’t given away too much.

  He smiles. His teeth are yellow and sickly, at odds with the perfect planes of his face. “You’ve made me late for dinner,” he croons. “But don’t worry. I’m a reasonable man.” He cocks his head to one side, then rotates it to the other, and I feel like a small rodent facing down a mountain lion. “You don’t understand the holy language, do you? Don’t worry, don’t worry. When I return, the earth shall have a bit of your blood, and then we shall see.” He caresses my cheek, and I barely suppress a shudder at his touch, cool and dry like snakeskin. “I’ll bring you something to eat. Be a good girl and don’t move while I’m gone.” He chortles at the joke.

  And he leaves me alone in the tent.

  I look around frantically, wondering how much time I’ll have. This could be my only chance to escape, but I must think quickly. I consider running, but there are too many Inviernos between me and the hills. It would be best to wait for the animagus to return. To kill him. Maybe I could take his Godstone and hold it before me like a weapon as I flee the tent. I don’t know how to use it, of course, but maybe it would buy me time. Maybe not. At least I would die knowing I’d rid the world of one of Invierne’s sorcerers. Hitzedar the bowman killed one. And Humberto’s grandfather, Damián. Now, it’s my turn.

  I feel ridiculous reaching for the knife at my boot, even more so when I feel the urine that sogs my pants beneath my robe. I decide to not think about it.

  I don’t know if I can make myself stab someone again. Killing with a knife is so personal, an intimacy I never thought to endure. Besides, as my captors so aptly pointed out, I am no warrior.

  So, to be successful, I must catch him by surprise. I hide the knife in my sash so that the handle pokes my back. I’m just as likely to stab myself with a sudden twist of my torso, for nothing stands between the blade and my skin but a worn robe. But I don’t know where else to hide it that is within easy reach.

  I glance around the tent, looking for anything else that might aid me. A sleeping roll lies against one wall, thick with yellowing wool. The ground is worn down and smooth, empty but for the stone altar shimmering with candles, the wooden stand with a wineskin, and a few gray-brown plants stunted from lack of sun. I peer at the plants. There’s something familiar about their velvety texture, about the withered, brownish berries. I move closer to where they wilt at the base of the altar, realizing the thing was built around a natural boulder. And the plants are indeed familiar. The color is all wrong, from being deprived of sun and fresh air, but they are certainly duerma plants.

  There cannot be much time left. I flick several berries into my palm, dismayed at how dry they are, how easily they separate from their stems. I wince when the wineskin’s stopper comes unplugged with a slight pop. I drop a berry inside, then hesitate, thinking. The rest, I separate with my fingernail to expose the insides before letting them tumble inside.

  I hear footsteps, and I take a moment, stupidly, to glance toward the tent flap. He must find me in the exact position he left me. Where was I standing? Were my arms at my sides or slightly forward? I rush back to the spot I was in and turn to face the altar. No, not quite right; the candles were hotter against my skin. The tent flap opens as I shift slightly to my left. The hidden knife blade pokes at my back as cooler air flushes my face and flutters the candles like an invisible, sweeping hand.

  The animagus enters, chuckling. “Ah, you are such an obedient thing. You did not move at all. Not even to wet yourself again.” He carries two wooden bowls, and in spite of my predicament, my mouth waters at the rich smell of venison with basil and garlic. “You will find that I am a kind man. See? I have brought you something wonderful to eat.” He sets a bowl on the ground before me, and sits cross-legged. “Sit.”

  I stare at him.

  “Sit, sit, sit,” he says, flicking at the air, then patting the ground in front of him.

  I comply, slowly, watching him for a sudden movement.

  He scoops a chunk of meat toward his mouth. His teeth clamp down on it so that bits of grizzle and stringy flesh dangle from his thick
lips. He shakes his head around, flinging meat across his cheek, before jutting out his chin and gulping it down. He didn’t bother to chew.

  I look down at my own bowl, devoid of appetite.

  “Eat!” he orders, indicating the bowl.

  I hesitate. What if he poisons me?

  “Eat, eat, eat!”

  I dip a finger into the sauce and lift it to my lips. After a tentative taste, I suck it off eagerly.

  “Now, as we dine . . .” He lobs another chunk into his mouth and swallows it whole. “You will tell me about your companions, the ones who fled the cave before we found you.”

  I just gape at him, trying to look like an imbecile.

  “I shall rephrase.” And he says, in the Lengua Plebeya, “Tell me about your companions.”

  I gasp.

  He smiles. “It is distasteful for me to speak your language. It is like dirt in my mouth. Therefore, you will tell me what I want to know. Quickly, so I do not have to sully myself with too many barbarian words.”

  My heart pounds. It would have been so much easier to pretend ignorance. Now, I must choose my words with exceeding care.

  “What are you going to do to me?” I ask, not bothering to disguise the tremor in my voice. I need to stall him long enough that he takes a solid draft of wine. Or gets close enough that I can stab him after all.

  “I’m going to dine with you while you tell me about your companions. If you do not tell me, I will feed the earth a bit of your blood and use magic to open your mouth. Then you will decide.”

  “Me?” I whisper. “I will decide?”

  “Whether you live or die.”

  There will be a cost, a choice. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t care. If I can kill him, it won’t matter.

  “I want to live,” I say, pretending to be more afraid than I am. Suddenly, I realize I’m no longer cold. No longer in a state of perpetual prayer to keep my limbs from freezing. Maybe because whatever happens next will be my act of service? Or maybe it’s the presence of the foreign Godstone.