The Girl of Fire and Thorns fat-1 Page 21

  Lizards scatter from my path as I walk; a squealing turkey vulture circles wide to the north, against a backdrop of roiling clouds. I step along with renewed energy. The cuts in my forearm sting, and my finger throbs, but I can’t help smiling as I travel. I escaped the army of Invierne. I faced capture, sorcery, even the beginnings of torture, yet I escaped. It is in no small part due to my Godstone. I should have been paralyzed by the animagus’s sorcery, burned by the amulet I now wear around my own neck. But his magic didn’t affect me, and I can only suppose my Godstone protected me. Homer’s Afflatus says that the purpose of the bearer is to fight sorcery with sorcery. Maybe this strange immunity to magic is what he referred to.

  I wish I could discuss it with Humberto. Or Father Alentín. With a pang, I realize I want more than anything to talk it over with Ximena. I’m desperate to see her again, to feel her strong arms holding me tight. I hope she does not receive my message that I am well, only to learn later that I died here in the scrub desert.

  I crest a rocky bluff and gaze across the cracked wilderness. Razorback ridges snake eastward, separated by deep canyons, dotted with mesquite and juniper trees that are starving and broken like crippled old men. I’m so small standing here, the land before me so vast and stark. My aloneness hits me like a kick in the gut. My smile fades, and I shiver with cold. From habit, I pray to warm myself. But the cold isn’t coming from the Godstone anymore. A bright flash to the north catches my eye. Blue-black clouds plunge toward me, heralded by a frigid wind.

  I curse myself for a fool for soaking my clothing before setting off. Cosmé or Humberto would have known better. The wind strengthens; wet robes slap, stinging, against my skin. I hope it rains. The water might wash away my trail, and the wet clothes wouldn’t matter so much. But thinking of the trail I’ve left brings another uncomfortable realization: I’m standing high on a ridge in full view of potential pursuers.

  My skidding descent sends me into a dry wash. But dry for how long? I remember Humberto’s warning about flash floods and jog along the wash, scanning the sides for a place to shelter. The sun has set and colors have muted to gray before I find a large boulder with a slight overhang, nestled beneath a spreading juniper. I climb up, shivering with cold, and huddle against the smooth stone. I wish I had my tinderbox with flint and cutting steel. Or even Cosmé’s jerboa soup. As the first fat drops plop against the ground at my knees, I begin to wonder if, in spite of my unlikely escape, I’m destined to die out here after all.

  It rains all night, alternating between soaking sheets of water and icy drizzle. It’s too dark to see the bottom of the ravine, but water rushes by, as deafening as the wind. I pray continuously, and the Godstone overcomes the worst of the chill, but I’m far too uncomfortable to sleep. And I’m afraid that if I doze, I’ll lose my perch and tumble into the water rising some unknown distance below me. When the rain finally abates, I decide to wait out the night instead of trying to climb in the dark. I’m dizzy from hunger, chilled and sore, and I know I’d never make it. It’s the longest night of my life.

  Dawn brings pinkish light, a crisper, crystalline world, and rekindled determination. It is true that I am no warrior, that I am ill suited to wilderness survival. But I can find a way. “You have a first-rate mind,” the traitor, Belén, told me. Thinking of Belén steels me further. I must get back to Father Alentín’s village somehow, to warn them.

  The ravine is filled with water now, muddy and brambled. I refuse to look at it as I scramble from my ineffectual shelter and up the rise. My robes aren’t as soaked as they could be, but they are damp enough to chill me thoroughly. I pray as I walk along the ridge, knowing I’m in plain sight but not daring to travel where a wall of water could wash me away. Hunger gnaws at my stomach. At least I won’t lack water sources for a while.

  The sun warms my back as it rises, bringing a smidge of comfort. And an idea.

  I stop in my tracks, turning the thought over in my mind. On the journey to Invierne’s camped army, my Godstone grew colder with increasing danger. As I travel away, it warms again to my body. Over the years it has always warmed to my prayers, even to certain people. Just maybe, it can be my beacon to safety.

  Placing my feet carefully while minding the stone is arduous. I head westward, sloping ever downward, hoping to feel a pulse of increased warmth or a little tug. Hours pass before I notice something, and when I do, it’s only a faint itch. A ghost sensation, perhaps, created by my desperate hope. But when I twist a little to my right, it tickles again. Only a tiny buzz of warmth at my navel, but I’m so excited I plunge down the embankment. At the muddy bottom I pause again and pivot around until the sensation is strongest. My hands shake with exhilaration. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll live through this.

  I hunch my shoulders and push forward determinedly, stopping at intervals to drink from sinkholes in the rock or to concentrate on the Godstone, trotting headlong when I get a surge of warmth. I travel in this way for hours. But my ongoing hunger and the increasing throb from my forearm exact a toll. I feel myself weakening. My legs plunk down with each step as if made of lead; my vision shimmers with dizziness and maybe fever. My body is desperate to rest, but if I don’t find food and treatment for the infection that swells my arm, it won’t matter. I push on.

  The Godstone’s telling tickle strengthens, a good thing since my mind is too hazy to pay attention otherwise. As afternoon hangs the sun in my path, blazing and blurring, my feet begin to stumble. I trip along a soft ridge, a winding wrinkle of ochre earth. Something thin and twisted catches my ankle, and I pitch forward into the air. My shoulder cracks on gravel, then my hip. I can’t breathe for the impact as I tumble down the ravine; my vision narrows. Then the sounds of sliding scree and cracking bones fade. I still hear them, but remotely, with indistinct curiosity. Then I don’t hear them at all.

  My eyelids flutter. Light and pain burst across my body, sharp as daggers, bone deep. I cry out, but the breath in my lungs spreads like fire beneath my right breast.

  “Elisa? Are you awake?”

  That voice! That precious voice. “Humberto?”

  He’s laughing, giddily, and kissing my cheek, caressing my forehead, saying my name over and over again. “I went back for you, but I couldn’t find you anywhere, and the whole army was in such a panic for some reason, and then it rained and I couldn’t even pick up a trail—”

  “Humberto. I’m very hungry.” When I open my mouth, pain zings from my jaw to the back of my neck. I don’t know how I’ll manage food.

  “Oh! Of course. I have jerky, and—”

  “Need . . . soft . . .”

  I hear eager rummaging. Water poured from a skin. “I’ll make some soup,” he says. “Mine isn’t as good as Cosmé’s, but it’ll do.”

  I close my eyes, content to let him take care of me, happy and amazed to be alive. I flex my toes and wriggle my arms to assess the pain. It’s everywhere constant, but worse along my ribs and at my left temple. I lie prone, a bundle of softness stuffed beneath my neck, a sling pinning my right arm against my side. A fire crackles beside me. For the first time in days, I’m blissfully warm.

  “Humberto? My arm . . .”

  The fire pops as he rearranges the kindling. “I think you cracked a couple of ribs when you fell down that hill. I put your arm in a sling so you wouldn’t move it while you slept.”

  “You saw me fall?”

  “Elisa, you tumbled right into my carefully hidden camp.”

  My shocked sob brings piercing pain to my ribs. Tears leak from my eyes, and my breathing comes faster. It was Humberto I tracked. My Godstone led me to Humberto.

  The pain from trying not to cry is too much. My vision dims.

  “Humberto,” I whisper.

  “Are you all right, Elisa?”

  I see his shadow looming, growing darker. “While you make soup, I—I’ve decided to pass out again.”

  I sink into a lovely place, dark and soft. But something tugs at the edge of my mind. Something I mus
t tell Humberto right away. About a traitor.

  I sleep.

  Chapter 23

  IT’S nearly dark when I wake. I open my eyes and flinch away from the grin hovering over my face.

  “I thought I heard you waking up. Still hungry?”

  I mutter something. Humberto lifts my head and spoons soup between my lips. It’s plain and watery and amazing. I giggle.

  “What? Why are you laughing?”

  “This is just like before. After you kidnapped me. Except the soup isn’t as good.”

  He sits back on his heels, his smile fading. “I’m sorry about that, Elisa.”

  “No, the soup is fine!”

  “I mean about the kidnapping.”

  “Oh.” I take a deep breath, then catch myself as pain punches my chest.

  “It was a bad fall.” He spoons more soup into my mouth. “You were lucky. You could be coughing blood, or you could have broken a leg, or—”

  “I don’t feel lucky. I think it’s getting worse.”

  “Cracked ribs hurt the worst on the second day. It will feel better after that.”

  “Humberto!” A wave of nausea ripples from my head to my stomach as I struggle to sit up. “We have to go now. We have to warn everyone.” I’m so dizzy, but I must stand somehow.

  “We’re not going anywhere.” He puts a hand to my chest and forces me back down. “You shouldn’t travel for at least two weeks.”

  “Two weeks! Humberto, we were betrayed. We must warn Father Alentín.”

  The spoon freezes in the air above me as his eyes narrow. “Betrayed?” he whispers. “What do you mean?”

  I look longingly at the spoon. “It was Belén. I saw him in the camp, eating with the Inviernos like they were lifelong friends.”

  The spoon shakes. I reach my chin toward it, my mouth open, hunger still gnawing at my spine.

  “Belén would never—”

  I lie back, sighing through the pain in my lower chest. “How else did they find us? They didn’t stumble onto us, remember? They didn’t spot us from below. They came straight for us. They already knew.”

  He is silent for so long. My stomach growls. Then: “Are you sure it was Belén you saw? Absolutely sure?”

  “I’m sure. I walked right past him.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “Maybe. I don’t think he recognized me.”

  He stares past me. “Belén,” he murmurs. “Why would you do this?”

  I can’t bear the hurt in his face. “I’m so sorry.”

  “You’re right. We have to warn everyone.”

  “Maybe there’s another explanation. Maybe he came to find me.”

  “Hmm. Maybe.” But his voice lacks sincerity. “Here, finish your soup.”

  I slurp it eagerly, and I’m almost done before I notice the prickle at the back of my throat, the faint taste like cinnamon. “You put duerma leaf in my soup.”

  “I did. Just enough to help you sleep through the pain tonight. Tomorrow you will tell me what you were doing in Invierne’s camp. And we’ll figure out what to do next.”

  My eyelids grow heavy as the world begins to swallow my body. “Humberto. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Me too, Princess.”

  “You mean you walked right out of his tent in his own robe?” His voice is incredulous, and laughter crinkles the corners of his eyes.

  “Yes. I wish I could have taken the robe with me, but I was afraid it would show up against the cliff.”

  “You climbed the cliff? In the dark?”

  I reach my hand toward him, showing off the wet, brown-stained bandage wrapped around my finger. “I don’t recommend it. I ripped off a fingernail. Oh, and also . . .” I lift my other arm and peel away the fabric. It throbs where the animagus clawed me, but the pain is not so fierce as the ache in my ribs, and I had nearly forgotten it. The bandage has dried against my skin, and I have to yank on it to unwrap it. “I think this is infected.”

  He holds my wrist and rotates the forearm, his eyes moving along the length of the parallel welts. “It’s not too bad,” he says. “I’ll need to open them up and squeeze the infection out, then let it drain for a day or two.” His look intensifies. “It will hurt. But the skin around it looks healthy. If we do it now, I’ll think it will heal nicely.”

  I swallow. “Let’s do it.”

  He holds his knife blade in the flames for a moment, then lets it cool. He chatters to distract me while he slices me open, and I’m surprised at how little it hurts. I feel mostly pressure, like he’s cutting into a very close layer of clothing. But when he starts to squeeze, black spots flash and swirl just behind my eyelids. I sneak a glimpse, just once. The fluid oozing from my arm is viscous and greenish, tinged with blood. I turn my head away and grit my teeth as Humberto pinches down the length of my forearm. When he flushes it with icy water, tears spring to my eyes.

  The fire flares as he tosses the bandage atop the burning branches. For a brief moment, the air smells of rotting meat. I lie still, collecting my breath.

  “I should make you wait weeks before traveling,” Humberto muses aloud. “But we need to get back to the village as soon as possible.”

  Humberto could go without me, but I’m afraid to suggest it. I don’t ever want to be alone again. Instead, I ask, “What happened to Cosmé and Jacián?”

  “My sister and I found Jacián a few hours later. Or he found us, rather. He’d been watching the camp and saw us being pursued.” His face tightens. “We split up to avoid them. I don’t know if either of them made it. If they did, they’re far away by now.”

  “But you came back.”

  “I couldn’t leave you.”

  We stare at each other. I want him to kiss me again. Maybe I ought to say something about it.

  Finally I manage, “We’re still very close to the army.”

  His gaze shifts to my lips. “Yes.”

  “You shouldn’t keep the fire going.”

  “Um . . . no.”

  “Then put it out, Humberto. I’ll live without it. Tomorrow, we leave.”

  He shakes his head as if to clear it. “You can’t possibly walk.”

  “I most certainly can. I’ll start slow, I promise. You can scout ahead in the morning. Find a secluded campsite just a few hours ahead, then come back and get me. If that works, maybe I can go a little farther the next day.”

  He starts to protest but goes silent. I know he’s desperate to find out about the others and warn the village. “We’ll try it,” he concedes. He smiles softly. “And see? I told you that you’re braver than you know.”

  His face is so intent on mine that I have to look away.

  Every step sends pain jolting into my ribs and back. Walking is both worse and better, though, for the motion chases some of the stiffness away. Breathing is near impossible, but my head clears, my neck relaxes, and the bruises on my arms and legs turn from purple to sickly yellow. The Godstone no longer flares in icy warning, but I continue to pray as I walk.

  The next day, we do the same, traveling only a few hours. The day after that, my breakfast tea sends spicy tingles to the back of my throat.

  “Did you put duerma leaf in this?”

  He just stands there, looking smug.

  I sway backward, into the bedroll he gave up for me. My eyelids are too heavy for a decent glare. “. . . hate you,” I say.

  “You can tell me all about it tomorrow.” He leans forward, and I’m only vaguely aware of his lips pressing against my forehead.

  As we travel, I’m delighted to see the vegetation disappear, to feel the air warm, hailing the encroaching desert. When the soil turns red and buttes reach for the sky in fiery layers, I even feel a pang of homesickness.

  A sentry meets us while we are yet a half-day’s walk from the secret village, then hurries ahead to warn everyone not to kill us on sight. After exchanging a questioning look, Humberto and I quicken our steps. He strides ahead unerringly, and I thank God for leading me to him. T
his dry hill country is a maze of twisting ravines and identical buttes, and I never would have found my way without help.

  At last our mountain rises before us, the huge overhang of the half-cavern embracing the village tight within its shelter. Everyone is there to greet us, smiling, and my eyes fill with tears. It is so different from my first suspicious reception here. Alentín hobbles toward me, his one arm outstretched. I rush forward, ignoring the residual pain in my ribs, and wrap my arms around his skinny frame.

  So many faces I recognize, this time open and hopeful. They try to grab my hands and hug my thighs, but Humberto pushes them away. “She is injured!” he hollers. “Don’t squeeze too hard.”

  My face burns with humiliation. For some reason, I hate feeling coddled in this particular moment. Then I spot Cosmé elbowing her way mercilessly through the crowd. She slows upon seeing Humberto, her relief apparent. They exchange an acknowledgment; then she approaches me and I notice, unaccountably, that she’s cut her hair short again. Her jaw twitches, her eyes widen. She leans forward—for a moment I think she’s going to hug me—then she whacks my shoulder and grins. “I didn’t think you’d make it back.”

  I sigh. “I didn’t either.”

  “She killed an animagus,” Humberto announces.

  Everyone stares at me in silence.

  “Well, we don’t know that,” I protest, shifting on my feet. “I never saw the body.”

  “But you gave him duerma berries and burned his tent to the ground.”

  I shrug.

  Cosmé peers at my face. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Can we talk about this later? I really need a bath. And food. Anything but jerky or dates.”

  But she won’t let it go. “Lying isn’t going to make you into a hero.”

  The spark of anger in my gut quickly fades to sadness and exhaustion. I have nothing to say, so I turn away, thinking only bathing thoughts. Then, I get an idea. I stop.

  “Cosmé,” I say over my shoulder. “I brought a gift for you.” I reach into my sash and pull out the animagus’s yellow-white braid. I toss it at her feet. “For being such a good friend.”