The Girl of Fire and Thorns fat-1 Read online

  We receive indifferent glances as we pass—a woman beating a rough-woven blanket, two dirty-kneed boys who scamper into an adjoining alley, a tall bearded man selling coconuts—but we are travel worn, our carriages scarred by the battle with the Perditos. Nothing royal or noteworthy. I’m glad because I don’t feel ready to be seen.

  The ground slopes upward as we twist deeper into the city. Here the buildings stretch higher with cleaner lines, brighter curtains. Occasionally, twilight flashes against real glass panes. With the change in architecture, I expect my new home to be rich and spectacular.

  It’s not. Rising from a hill in the center of the city, Alejandro’s monstrous palace is the ugliest structure I’ve seen. The history of Joya d’Arena shows in its patchwork of sandstone and river rock, of plaster and wood; the collective effort of a millennium of overzealous builders. The earth surrounding the walls is barren and gray, nearly indistinguishable from the stone in the fading light. The place desperately needs brightening. Maybe Alejandro will let me plant bougainvillea.

  Torch lamps light our path as we steer around the palace toward the stables. We stop at guard intervals, and I hear voices ahead, though I can’t make out the words. Perhaps Alejandro has identified himself. I imagine how he tells them about me. I’ve brought the most wonderful, beautiful woman home with me for my bride! Then servants scurry away to prepare feasts and flowers and singing for our arrival. I laugh aloud. I’ve had such ridiculous thoughts since my wedding.

  I jump when Ximena’s fingers squeeze my knee. It had grown dark enough for me to forget she rides just across from me. But I’m saved having to explain my laughter when Alejandro’s head appears in the carriage window, backlit by torches.

  “Elisa!” He grins like a little boy about to show off his favorite toy. “We’re home.”

  Home. I manage a shaky smile in return.

  “I told my seneschal we are weary from our journey and will do no receiving tonight. Also”—his smile turns apologetic—“I said you are a very special guest who should be given every courtesy. So let me know if anything is not to your liking.”

  A special guest. Is that all?

  But he grasps my hand as I descend from the carriage. When I look up to thank him, he doesn’t let go, just clasps it tighter and says, “I’ll show you to your suite.”

  I nod, swallowing. Ximena steps down behind me.

  We’re in a sandy carriage yard, the stables to our left. The darkness blurs details, but I hear nickering horses and smell manure tinged with the sharpness of fresh-cut hay. To our right, the monolith of the palace is heavy in the sky above me. My companions scurry about, unloading carriages and packhorses. I don’t see anyone unfamiliar, which seems odd. Whenever Papá and Alodia return from a journey, the whole staff turns out in greeting.

  Nighttime, no servants, a side entrance, a special guest.

  For whatever reason, Alejandro has decided to keep me a secret.

  It’s hard to keep my hand in Alejandro’s, because I’m not sure he cares. My pulse thumps in my throat, from exertion and maybe disgrace, as we enter the palace and maneuver through corridors and up a flight of stairs. Ximena follows behind. I’ve read the Belleza Guerra innumerable times, so I know I should concentrate on the route, get to know my surroundings. But I can’t think past the humiliation that burns my face.

  We stop at a mahogany door carved with vines and flowers. Alejandro opens it, and we step into a breezy chamber lit by beeswax candles. I don’t have time to take in all the details because Alejandro pulls me toward him and takes my other hand.

  “I’m going to ask you to keep a secret for me,” he says as Ximena brushes past into the room. He looks the same as he did on our wedding night, his eyes cinnamon brown in the candlelight. “I’m not ready to reveal that I’ve married. It’s something I must save for the proper time.”

  He is so intent on me as he pleads for understanding. Still, I say nothing.

  “And I think it would be best,” he continues, “if you didn’t tell anyone about the Godstone just yet.”

  I suck my cheeks in and take a deep breath, refusing to cry in front of him.

  “Elisa?”

  As much as I want to help him, to win him over, I’m suddenly desperate to feel like I still belong to myself. So I fix him with my best approximation of Alodia’s glare, the one she uses on lazy cooks and little sisters. “I will trust you, Alejandro. For now. Because my sister told me I should. But that is the only reason. I very much hope you will give me another.”

  I am shocked into silence when he wraps his arms around me and pulls me close. “Thank you,” he says into my hair. Then he releases me, grabs my hand, and brings it gently to his lips.

  I tremble at the warmth of his kiss, but when he bids me good-night, I am unable to return his smile with one of my own.

  He closes the door behind him on the way out. I turn toward the bed, a high, thick thing with diaphanous curtains and a three-tiered stepstool. Ximena has already turned down the covers. She gazes at me with understanding, having missed nothing of my exchange with Alejandro. I can’t help myself anymore. Sobs quake through my chest, my nose runs, and I just want to go to sleep and never wake up.

  The Godstone is an icy fist in my stomach, twisting and grinding against my spine. I can’t breath; my lungs are frozen in shock. Alejandro looms above me. He reaches for the stone. “Give it to me!” he shrieks. I scurry backward on the bed like a bug, curl against the headboard. Alejandro advances. He has the eyes of a hunter, sparking red and catlike. The way he moves, the way he smells—there’s an animal inside him, squirming just under his skin. I don’t remember grabbing the dagger, but it’s cold and hard in my hand. I stab and stab at Alejandro until blood streams over my forearm and my palm aches from impact.

  I blink. Lady Aneaxi smiles. “Trust,” she says, reaching for the Godstone. Her nails prod the skin of my abdomen; they scrape around the stone. Fiery pain darts through my pelvis, down my legs. She digs deeper and pulls. It feels like my spine is coming out through my navel. The pain is too much to bear. I manage a breath. Quick and shallow, but it’s enough that I can scream. Aneaxi draws back, startled. Her fingertips, swollen and black with infection, drip crimson. She grins. “You must wake up, my Elisa.”

  “Elisa! Someone is at the door.”

  I open my eyes to a silk canopy of orange and coral, trimmed in glass beads that catch the gentle morning light. Ximena nudges my shoulder as a thump sounds at the door.

  “I think you were dreaming, my sky.”

  My muscles melt into the silk covers; I unclench my jaw and catch my breath. The bed is yielding and soft. The kind a girl can sink into if she doesn’t want to face the day. But the knocking continues.

  I pull the covers up to my chin. Ximena smiles in sympathy as I call out, “Come!”

  A girl about my age enters. She is petite and beautiful with elegant cheekbones, graceful and dainty even in her homespun wool. She curtsies low; it looks like a dance step, like she’s about to twirl away. I stare at the shimmering black hair poking from beneath her maid’s cap. Finally I realize she’s awaiting permission to address me.

  “Speak.”

  She stands and smiles. One of her front teeth folds in slightly. I focus on the flaw as her gaze follows the form of my body beneath the covers, comes to rest on my face. Black eyes flash, like she has learned something valuable. She raises an eyebrow just slightly; then her expression becomes vacant, and she lowers her head.

  “I was sent to help you prepare for breakfast.”

  My stomach growls, and I imagine fresh baked bread with honey, fig cakes with sweetened coconut milk.

  “Your name?” I ask.

  “Cosmé.” She has the odd, lilting accent of the desert people.

  I flip back the covers and sit up. The floor is a long way down, and I scoot over the edge until my toes touch the sheepskin rug. “Cosmé, my clothes are a disaster from my journey. Could you find a blouse and skirt for me?”
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  Her brow knits in confusion. “I could find a corset and a dress maybe . . .” Then she gasps. “You’re from Orovalle!”

  Dread fills my gut. A corset would make me look like a stuffed pig, and except for my false wedding, I’ve never worn anything so restrictive. Do the women of Joya only wear corsets?

  “Yes, I am visiting from Orovalle. You may address me as Lady Elisa.” I catch an approving look from my nurse.

  She curtsies again. “I’ll see what I can find, Lady Elisa.” And she glides away as if she were the princess and I a dumpy maid in a sooty dress.

  While she is gone, Ximena and I explore the suite a bit. There are three rooms. My bedroom with the huge bed has a dressing table, a tiny balcony overlooking a dry garden, sheepskin rugs, and large, tasseled cushions. The smaller maid’s room has bunked beds and a wardrobe. A cool atrium with a garderobe and bathing pool connects the two. The pool is square shaped and marvelously tiled with tiny, hand-painted designs in blue and yellow. A glowing skylight suffuses the atrium with hazy gold. The entire suite contains not a single chair. I remember Alodia recounting how the people of Joya d’Arena use cushions for sitting.

  Another door leads from my bedroom, but it is locked.

  The suite is no larger than my chambers at home, but it’s rich with deeper colors, finer fabrics. I love the silk and gauze that canopy my bed and swathe my walls. But I miss the tinkle of fountains, the creeping allamanda that sneaks tendrils of green through my window.

  Ximena brushes and plaits my hair as we wait. It’s my favorite time of morning because I love the feel of her fingers against my scalp, the gentle tugging. My hair is shining and black, with waves that fall to my waist. Ximena usually creates two braids, one atop the other, because there is so much of it. Aneaxi used to tell me I had pretty lips and eyes, too. She was wrong, of course; my lips look like fat slugs and my eyes are far too small, overwhelmed as they are by cheeks like pomegranates. But it’s nice to have one lovely thing.

  Cosmé returns with an armful of clothing. She spreads everything out on the bed and I can hardly breathe for the beauty of it all. So many colors, so many fabrics and trims. Glass beads sewn into panels, gem-encrusted bodices, the tiniest, most detailed lace. I run my fingers along the skirt of one dress. It’s a soft coral, like my canopy, with a light fringe at the hem. But everything is petite. Made for a dainty person like Cosmé.

  “. . . that Queen Rosaura was about your height,” she is saying, “so I thought one of these might fit.”

  Of course they won’t fit. They are so obviously too small that I stare at the tiny maid. She has insulted me on purpose, and I don’t know why.

  Ximena’s hand rests on my shoulder, and it’s all I can do not to cry. I stare at the tile floor, at a sheepskin rug that curls up on one end. Softly, she whispers in my ear, “I washed your blouse and skirt in the atrium last night. They are nearly dry.”

  I almost choke with relief. “Thank you.”

  Cosmé guides us downstairs to a vast, loftily ceilinged dining hall. Light streams blue from high stained windows. People are already seated on cushions when we enter, a row of steaming dishes between them, and they look up in mild interest. The men are clean shaven, the women corseted. Everyone wears bright colors, blank expressions. No one speaks. I don’t see my husband anywhere.

  A woman stands to greet us, smiling, and I smile back gratefully. She glides forward, golden arms outstretched. Her eyes, shimmering honey brown beneath black lashes, are startling in her tanned face.

  “You must be Alejandro’s special guest!” she says. Her voice is soft and high like a girl’s. Only faint lines and slight weariness around her eyes reveal that she is older than I, maybe late twenties.

  I nod, unsure what to say. I wish the king was here so I could follow his lead.

  “Come, sit with me.” She grabs my arm, and I let myself be pulled along. “I’m Condesa Ariña. I’ll introduce you to everyone after you’ve had something to eat.”

  As Ximena and I settle beside her, the damp ruffles of my skirt stick cold against my legs. It is odd that the condesa has not asked my name, that she speaks of my husband with such familiarity.

  I try not to be too interested in the food as she fills a wooden platter for me, selecting from various dishes before us. I look at the people seated around me; they eat daintily, glancing away as soon as my gaze catches theirs. The chamber is stone-cold gray and huge, too huge for two handfuls of people. I miss my cozy adobe.

  Condesa Ariña sets the platter in my lap. “Here you are, Lady Elisa.” So she already knows my name. I’ve told no one to address me that way save Cosmé. I glance toward the curtained doorway we entered through, but the maid is gone.

  I attack the food. It’s a bit bland, but so much nicer than traveling fare. I bite into a puffed pastry, remembering an almond glaze that would contrast beautifully with the mild egg flavor. Maybe Alejandro’s kitchen master will be willing to experiment with some of Orovalle’s finer dishes.

  Then I remember Ximena. Ariña hadn’t bothered to serve her. I hand her my platter, smiling in apology. She winks at me and grabs a tiny quiche. As I settle the platter between us, I notice several of my companions looking at me strangely. I wonder what I’ve done wrong. Maybe they’re not used to seeing a servant treated with respect. Or maybe I don’t eat daintily enough for them. I stuff another pastry into my mouth and stare right back.

  Attention shifts toward the doorway. The curtain moves aside, and Lord Hector enters, followed by Alejandro. I’m so relieved to see them both. Everyone stands and bows low, and I sit there like a fool, not sure what to do. Does a wife bow to her husband in Joya d’Arena? Does a princess bow to a king? I only bowed to my father on formal occasions.

  I clamber to my feet, and my face flushes hot when I realize my damp skirt is stuck to the backs of my legs. Alejandro can’t see, but I’m sure Condesa Ariña is making a careful study of my ample rear. I don’t dare yank my skirt from behind.

  Alejandro strides toward me, smiling like he’s glad to see me. His skin is fresh scrubbed; his hair sweeps away from his forehead in soft, black waves. I’m caught by the way it curls behind his ears, by the strength of his jaw that frames otherwise delicate features. He grabs my shoulders and leans in to kiss my hot cheek.

  “I trust you slept well, Highness?” he asks loudly.

  Highness. I feel the collective gaze of my breakfast companions hammer me with silent surprise.

  He turns to face them. “Have you met everyone yet, Elisa?”

  “Only Condesa Ariña, who has been most kind.” To our left, Lord Hector’s mustache twitches.

  Alejandro looks over the top of my head toward the beautiful lady. “Yes, I’m sure she has been.” His gaze travels around the room. “I’d like to introduce Lucero-Elisa de Riqueza, princess of Orovalle. She is visiting us indefinitely on behalf of her father, King Hitzedar.”

  I almost laugh when all those who have been so carefully indifferent bow to me. So, I do get to be a princess of Orovalle. At least I’ll have that. But by revealing who I am, surely they will know about the Godstone I carry. In Orovalle, everyone knows the name of the bearer. Perhaps things are different in Joya d’Arena. Centuries ago, when my ancestors left Joya to colonize our little valley, few remained who followed the path of God.

  Alejandro gestures for me to sit. “Please. I didn’t mean to interrupt your breakfast.” I do so gladly, giving a worried thought toward plucking the plastered skirt from my rear when next I stand. He settles between me and Ariña. Lord Hector stands guard behind him.

  I can hardly bear the polite nonsense from the others that ensues. Did you sleep well? How is breakfast? Let me know if you need anything! And of course there are inquiries about my journey, which I answer in monosyllables, not wishing to discuss Aneaxi’s horrifying death or the jungle battle. Alejandro introduces me to each of them, but they all blur in my mind. I only remember a conde Eduardo, a general Luz-Manuel, and of course, the condesa Ariña.
I’m good at memorizing things, and I should note everyone’s name, but it’s hard to care. I’m still so tired, so alone.

  I find myself leaning toward Alejandro. It would be nice to feel his arms around me, like the day of the Perditos’ attack, or last night when I told him I’d trust him. But I stop myself. I’m not really his wife in this stifling place, and in spite of our conversation on our wedding night, hardly even his friend.

  Maybe he senses my sudden sorrow, because I see a question in his eyes. I manage a slight smile. Beyond him, the lovely Ariña watches us. Her face wears a child’s pout, like she might cry. She catches my gaze and looks down at her platter. I study her profile, intrigued. Something about her eyes, wide with hurt, about the way she swallows hard.

  “What is it?” Alejandro whispers.

  Is there something between you and Ariña? “Er . . . thank you for sending Cosmé to help me this morning.”

  “Cosmé came to you? I didn’t send the girl.” His whisper rings with alarm. “I didn’t send anyone. I was going to have breakfast brought to your room.” He lowers his voice further. “Cosmé is Ariña’s maid.”

  “I see.” And I certainly do. Ariña wanted to find out about Alejandro’s “special guest.” What will she do when she learns about our marriage?

  “I can forbid her to attend you again.”

  I start to nod, then think better of it. “No. But thank you.” Then I grin. “Don’t be afraid to be queen,” Alodia had said. I am not the queen yet, but I intend to be.

  I lean across him, toward Ariña. “Condesa?”

  “Highness?” Such a lovely, innocuous voice.

  “Thank you for lending me the use of your maid. I tragically lost my lady-in-waiting on our journey and found Cosmé’s presence such a comfort.”