The Girl of Fire and Thorns (30 page)

But it is all an act, for as the afternoon wears on, my navel begins to pulse with telltale cold. It’s faint, nothing a quick prayer can’t erase. But it means that Invierne is coming for me, that they are even closer than we thought.

Chapter 31

W
HEN the coronation ends I expect to return my attention to the serious matter of war preparation. Instead, it seems as though half the citizens of Joya d’Arena need a royal consultation or a queenly favor. The other half is anxious to place me in their debt, and they inundate me with nuggets of wisdom regarding certain pertinent matters, shower me with gifts, introduce me to people of crucial importance. I spend the first two days as queen bobbing my head like a chicken and saying “Thank you.”

On the second afternoon, while the petite but unlovely Lady Jada chatters at me in my suite, frustration builds like an avalanche in my gut. There are so many things I could be doing. I need to be searching for the Godstones, going over battle strategy with General Luz-Manuel, preparing for refugees, having a talk with Condesa Ariña, maybe spending time with Rosario.

Rosario. No one notices him. No one cares what he does.

I interrupt Lady Jada’s aspersion of inferior laundering practices by raising my hand. “I just realized I’ve forgotten to attend to something very important.” I smile blandly. “I hope you can forgive me.”

She wrinkles her tiny nose in confusion but recovers quickly. “We’ll have to talk again soon,” she says, curtsying.

“I look forward to it.”

As soon as she leaves, I turn to Ximena. “Rosario is going to stay in our suite for a few days. I need an extra bed brought in, some clothes for playing in, maybe a few toys. Tell his nurse she has a week off. In fact, tell her she doesn’t have to come back until the war is over.”

Her smile is broad. “I’ll go at once.”

I send Mara to retrieve the boy himself, then spend a few minutes pacing through my suite, thinking. Every time I glance at the tiles rimming my bathing pool, the Godstone hums in response.

Mara returns, Rosario in tow. His eyes are wide, his gaze bordering on suspicious.

I grin. “I thought you might like to stay with us for a while.”

His eyes narrow. “How come?”

I open my mouth to tell him something comforting and innocuous.
I want us to get acquainted
, or
I need a companion for a few outings
. But I remember growing up in Papá’s palace hacienda while adults talked over my head, and what I say is, “I need your help.”

His lips purse with serious consideration. “I told Papá I could help. With the war. But he said I had to wait until I was older.”

“Well, I need your help right now. With the war. How would you like to do a little spying?”

His lips curve into a shy grin.

Late in the afternoon, the first wave of refugees arrives. They are mostly young and healthy—the ones who could travel quickly. We accommodate several hundred in the palace, a hundred more at surrounding estates. I spend the early evening making them as comfortable as possible, sifting through their tales of hardship and escape for any possible mention of the friends I left behind. I learn that the Malficio continues to make its presence felt, that thousands of people, mostly refugees, now contribute to its purpose. But my Godstone grows colder, and I worry for the those who will not reach us ahead of Invierne’s advancing army.

That night in the dining hall, I share a private meal with my husband and General Luz-Manuel. We’re finishing off a platter of wild turkey glazed with honey and shredded orange peel when a breathless scout tumbles in, Lord Hector on his heels. He reports sighting a huge line of cavalry, less than a day away.

“Just cavalry?” Alejandro asks.

The scout confirms and is dismissed.

“That doesn’t make sense,” he muses as Lord Hector plunks down beside him.

“It’s just an advance guard,” Luz-Manuel says. “They’re here to cut us off. The bulk of the army will arrive during the next month or so.”

Alejandro sighs. “Then we must cover the pits and close the gates.”

I put a hand to his arm. “Refugees will trickle in all night. Can we keep the gates open that long, at least?”

He hesitates until Lord Hector nods. “Every person will be needed on the walls,” the guard points out.

“True. The gates will stay open, then.” Alejandro kisses my forehead and takes his leave, accompanied by Lord Hector.

The General and I regard each other for a moment, and I see the strain of the last months in the sag of his eyes, the gauntness of his cheeks. Besides Hector and Alejandro, he is the only member of the Quorum I’ve encountered since I returned. Conde Eduardo left months ago to defend his holdings from Invierne’s southern army, and Ariña has kept to her quarters.

“I’m glad you’re here, Your Majesty,” he says, a slight frown creasing his brow.

My eyes widen. Luz-Manuel has never shown me the least bit of welcome.

“I may need your help,” he explains. “His Majesty is . . . well, he is not a man to make quick decisions. A lovely trait when it comes to matters of state. But during battle . . .”

It’s because the king is afraid.
I nod. “I’ll help any way I can.”

He rubs at his bald spot. “Thank you. Another voice of encouragement in his ear may be all he needs.”

“You should know, General, that Invierne would love to get their hands on the stone I bear. There may come a time when it would be best to make myself scarce.”

He nods. “Yes, Hector told me how they believe they can harness its power.”

I say nothing.

He continues, “We’ll protect you as best we can, but if they take Brisadulce, they win the war, with or without your Godstone.”

“They’re going to burn their way in. Through the gate.”

His face becomes graver. “The refugees spoke of a strange fire. Some even bear the scars. We’ve been hoarding water at the walls, but our gate is strong. Thick.”

“General, I’ve seen the devastation caused by this fire and I assure you, the animagi are perfectly capable of burning the gate down.”

“The portcullis outside will hold,” he assures me.

“If the gate bursts into flame, what else might catch fire? The siege towers, certainly.” We have built several along the wall at steady intervals. Most are used to keep weapons within easy access. “And surely there is woodwork inside the walls themselves? What about the nearby buildings?”

“How close must they approach to use this . . . fire?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry, but I just don’t know. Maybe one of the refugees—”

“I’ll ask,” he says. “And we’ll station our strongest bowmen here at the gate. Hope for the best.”

“Oh, and tell those bowmen to keep themselves hidden. No peeking over the walls.”

“Why?”

“The animagi can freeze a man where he stands. Just by looking at him.”

Mara almost flings herself into my arms when I return to my suite. “I asked everyone I saw today, but no one knew. I mean, everyone knew which tiles I was talking about, but no one knew anything about them.” She’s nearly dancing from excitement.

Rosario huddles on my bed, grappling with his toes while watching my maid’s exuberance with wary curiosity.

“I suppose you discovered something?” I ask.

She grins. “Rosario knew about them.”

“Oh?” I turn to the little prince.

“Father Nicandro told me.” He scrunches his nose in distaste. “During history lesson.”

My breath catches in my chest. This is going to be something important. The thrumming of my Godstone attests. “What exactly did Father Nicandro tell you?”

“He said a very important person made the tiles. A person no one cares about anymore, but Father Nicandro thinks people might care again soon.”

It makes no sense. “That’s it? That’s all he said?”

Rosario sinks into himself, becoming a tight ball. “I don’t remember,” he says in a small voice.

I’m frightening him. I take a relaxing breath. “Rosario, this is such a big help. Thank you.”

He beams.

I don’t ask him if he tried to find the Godstones. A quick glimpse at his hands, at the crescent of dirt under each fingernail, tells me all I need to know. I excuse myself to visit the monastery.

Father Nicandro is delighted to see me. I stifle a grin when he hugs me, for he barely reaches my cheek and is as slight as a child. He ushers me by candlelight into the scribing alcove, and we settle on stools around the table.

“Majesty, I’m so glad you came. We haven’t had a chance for a proper conversation since you returned. Now tell me . . .” He leans forward, nose twitching. “Is it true that you were taken to the gates of the enemy?”

I shrug. “I don’t know, Father. I was in the enemy camp for a short time, but not in the country of Invierne itself.”

“Very interesting. And it’s true that—”

“Father, I’m sorry to be in a hurry, but I need to know about the tiles in my atrium.”

“What tiles?”

“Prince Rosario said you knew about them. Little yellow flowers with blue spots. Actually, they’re quite unattractive—”

“Oh, yes! I should have realized you’d want to know about them.”

“What do you mean?”

“Almost every tile with that design was painted by Mistress Jacoma herself. Her father owned a tile factory. Since the time she could walk, she amused herself by painting her father’s tiles.” At my confused look, he adds, “She bore the Godstone, Your Majesty.”

I gasp. I knew this. Somehow, I knew.

“She died when she was about your age. Barely seventeen. Written accounts reveal that she never completed her service. But she painted over two thousand tiles with that obnoxious yellow flower. Artists copied the pattern for generations. You can find it in every castle and monastery in Joya d’Arena. Sadly, the only people who remember her now are a handful of priests and artists.”

“Mistress Jacoma,” I echo in wonder. “A bearer.”

The priest leans forward and peers at me with round black eyes. “Remember when I showed you that passage in the
Afflatus
?”

“I remember.”

“I have a theory about it. You know how it speaks of individual bearers at one point, and then seems to change? How it suddenly refers to all bearers in general?”

I nod, remembering the hours I spent pouring over Alentín’s copy of the
Afflatus
, wondering if I would be the one to face the gates of the enemy.

“Well, I think we’ve been looking at it the wrong way. What if it does refer to each bearer—and to all bearers—at the same time? What if this act of service is something that all bearers throughout time accomplish together?”

“What are you saying?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says wearily. “I don’t know what I’m saying. It’s just the spark of an idea. I feel like there’s something larger here, and I’m only grasping the edges.”

“I will give the idea some thought. Thank you, Father Nicandro. I may have more questions for you.”

“Of course.” He smiles. “I’m glad you’re back safe, my queen.”

I refrain from pointing out that I don’t feel safe at all.

The next morning, Alejandro orders the gates sealed, leaving any remaining refugees without asylum. It’s the right thing to do. Hector’s captain reports dust whorls along the eastern horizon, heralding the coming army. Still, my chest aches for the thousands who didn’t make it inside.

I spend a good part of the afternoon staring at the tiles in my atrium. There is a message here. I’m sure of it. I study the color and shape of the flowers, trace the edges of curving petals with my fingertips. I feel a kinship with this ancient tile painter. Another girl, like me.
Jacoma, what are you trying to tell me?
She doesn’t answer, of course, but God whispers warmth into my belly as if I’m talking to
Him
. I will need more than warmth from him if we are to win the day.

I’m still in the atrium when I hear the cry go up. Feet patter by in the hallway; panicked shouting drifts through my open balcony. Then the monastery bells toll a slow, deep warning.

I leave Rosario in Ximena’s care and rush from my suite. Alejandro is already in the hallway. As soon as he sees me, he grabs my hand and pulls me down the corridor, past the kitchens and into the stables.

I freeze at the sight of enormous horse heads overhanging their stall doors. “Alejandro,” I squeak. “I don’t ride.”

He frowns. “It’s just to the wall and back.” Already the stable hands are saddling a big dun stallion. “It will take too long to walk,” he insists.

“I’ll take her.” I whirl at Lord Hector’s voice. “Your army needs you, sire,” the guard continues. “I’ll escort Her Majesty to the wall. We’ll join you shortly.”

Alejandro nods, then swings up onto his horse and trots away.

The streets are full of people rushing to get a first glance at the enemy. Lord Hector and I weave through buildings, around panicked citizens, and reach one of the many crudely erected bits of scaffolding that now press against the inner wall. Hector hauls me up a set of rickety stairs to the top. Instantly the wind beats at my hair; sand stings my eyes. I sniff the dry desert cleanness and feel a pang of loneliness for my desert rebels.

Movement draws my gaze downward. A line of cavalry stretches in both directions as far as I can see, the late afternoon sun glinting from mouth pieces and sweating hides, obsidian arrowheads and white face paint.

White face paint.

I wonder how they brought so many horses through the desert. Even if they took the long route, hugging the greener line of the Hinders, they must have been hard-pressed to provision the animals for such a long journey. They can’t expect them to survive a long siege in this barren place.

A group breaks off from the rest and gallops forward. They curve into a circle and ride around and around, brandishing spears, screaming like mountain cats. Even at this distance, the swirling pattern of black and white on their limbs makes me shudder.

“Hector,” I gasp frantically. The horses didn’t make the trek all the way from Invierne.

He bends down so I can whisper in his ear.

“Those aren’t Inviernos,” I tell him. “They’re Perditos.”

He nods solemnly. “Yes. We’ve long suspected an alliance between them.”

“They’re here to begin starving us out in advance of Invierne’s real army.”