The Girl of Fire and Thorns (6 page)

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.”

Ariña smiles, catlike. “You’re quite welcome.”

“I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind lending her to me for the duration of my stay? She does excellent work.”

Her face freezes for such a quick instant that I’m almost sure I imagine it. “Of course, Highness.” She inclines her head in perfect acquiescence.

“Thank you.”

The
Belleza Guerra
devotes several lengthy passages to the art of keeping one’s enemies close and intimate, and I know Alodia would approve. I finish my breakfast with genuine pleasure, savoring the tiny quiches and spicy sausage.

Chapter 6

A
FTER breakfast, Lord Hector pulls me aside. I look up at dark eyes—darker even than Alejandro’s—and a rugged, mustached face. His skin is too weathered and crisscrossed with scars for one so young, but I should not have thought him unkind. Hard, perhaps, but not unkind.

“Your Highness, Alejandro told me to warn you.” He talks fast and low. “You may go anywhere in the palace or the city of Brisadulce. But you must always be accompanied by Ximena. It is not safe otherwise.”

I nod, wide-eyed at both his warning and the implication that Ximena is indeed capable of protecting me.

“In fact,” he continues, “if you have no plans for the day, His Majesty would like for me to show you around.”

Of course I don’t have plans. “Thank you, Lord Hector. I’d like that.” Were I home in Orovalle, I’d be making my way to Master Geraldo’s study by now. What will I do with my days here?

“In an hour, then.” He bows low and returns to Alejandro’s side.

I return to my suite to write a letter.

I copy it three times, hoping my sister will read the anger and frustration in my harsh pen strokes. “We lost Aneaxi to a jungle infection.” Such a huge and horrible thing reduced to a single, pathetic phrase, but I can only send so much on a pigeon’s leg. I roll the tiny parchments to fit inside casings no longer than the first joint of my forefinger. Ximena takes them—all three fit easily into the palm of one hand—and leaves our suite for the dovecote. I offer a quick prayer of thanks that my sister’s pigeons survived our jungle ordeal.

Then I laugh wryly. How quickly and unbidden the prayer came. It is such a habit to attribute all of life’s good things to God. For the first time I can remember, I wonder if I should be thanking someone else. Alejandro’s soldiers, maybe. Or even myself. We are the ones who won through that day, not God.

I put my fingertips to my abdomen. The stone is smooth and warm even through the cotton weave of my skirt, proof that God—or someone—is there. Someone placed this thing in my navel with its burning affirmations, its icy warnings. And through it, someone responds to my prayers with tangible comfort.

But that same someone ignored my prayers and allowed my lady-in-waiting to die. It makes no sense, but Aneaxi’s dying wish was that I not lose faith. I’m trusting a lot of people on faith. My sister, Ximena, Alejandro, and now God himself.
I will need more than this, O God. If you love me as Aneaxi said, please send me something to go on. Something soon.
Tender heat blossoms in my belly, spreads into my chest and down my arms until they tingle delightfully. It is the same as that night by Aneaxi’s bed, the night I pleaded with God for her life, so I’m afraid it means nothing.

Cosmé arrives before Ximena returns. She curtsies, but I catch her sullen look. I don’t release her from her curtsy until I’m certain she is uncomfortable.

“Hello, Cosmé.”

She rises. “Highness, the condesa says you sent for me.” Her short black hair curls so appealingly from under her maid’s cap, and her black eyes are wide with virtue. I want to pinch her.

I swallow guiltily. “Yes. I’ll need a maid for my stay, and I’m quite taken with you.” I wonder if it sounds as silly to her as it does to me. “Ariña was kind enough to lend you to me.”

“What would you have me do?”

I hadn’t thought this far. She will need to be kept busy. Too busy to spy or gossip.

“Er . . .” I look around my suite, searching for ideas. Like all the rooms I’ve seen in this monstrosity of a palace, it is far too large for so few furnishings. It feels open and gaping and altogether unhomelike. “I need a chair. Two chairs. If you can’t find any, I trust you to commission them. Also, I need plants. Large plants in pots. Anything green and alive. I want two for the balcony, at least two for the bedroom, one for Ximena’s room.”

Cosmé gapes at me like I’ve swallowed a scorpion. I try not to look too smug. Not only will such a task take her all day in this empty, barren place, it will give her something harmless to blather passionately about.

I’m still congratulating myself when Ximena appears.

“It’s nice to see you smile,” she says.

I don’t want to talk about the things that have stolen my smile lately. “You released the pigeons?”

She nods. “The handler was quite curious. It was wise to write in the Lengua Classica.” The holy language. Ximena scribed copies of the scriptures for years and is probably as fluent, if not more so, than I.

“When Lord Hector comes,” I say, trying to sound offhand, “let’s see if he’ll take us to the monastery.”

Longing widens her eyes. “I would like that very much,” she whispers.

We don’t wait long. Lord Hector appears in the doorway dressed in light armor—rawhide instead of steel, a brown walking cloak instead of the crimson drape of the Royal Guard—and bows from the waist.

“Ready, Highness?” I take the offered arm and step into the hall, Ximena following behind.

Lord Hector’s knowledge of the palace and its history astounds me. He guides us through the armory, the reception hall, the grand ballroom, the library. Know your environment, the
Belleza Guerra
says. So I focus carefully on what he tells us. I repeat words and phrases in my mind and create pictures to accompany them, the way Master Geraldo taught me. And tomorrow, I will retrace this walk and try to remember everything I learned. It won’t be difficult; Lord Hector’s enthusiasm is contagious.

In the portrait room, he points out Alejandro’s father, a thickset and graying version of my husband. King Nicolao, the guard tells us, beat back the forces of Invierne to save the hill villages east of the desert. He was killed by a stray arrow during battle.

Something about Nicolao, or maybe about the last war with Invierne, silences the guard.

“You served Alejandro’s father?”

He nods, his eyes fixed on the painting. “Indirectly. When I was twelve years old, I became Prince Alejandro’s page. We often kept company with the king. He was a good man.” I don’t know him well enough to determine if it’s wistfulness that softens his voice.

But something makes me ask, “And Alejandro?”

He finally looks away from the face of King Nicolao to stare at me. “His Majesty is . . . different from his father. But he is also a good man.”

“You are young to have made Royal Guard.”

“I grew up here in the palace, and Alejandro was like an older brother to me. When the position became available, it gave him comfort to assign it to me.”

It’s hard not to fidget under his gaze. Lord Hector is formidable and stern in the space beside me, and so intent that it’s possible he’s trying to communicate something different. He has the look of one with a mighty mind, whose thoughts spin hidden beneath the impassive surface.

Master Geraldo would like Lord Hector.

The guard raises an eyebrow, and I realize I’m grinning. “You remind me of someone,” I explain.

He smiles back. Years of soldiering drop from his face, and I realized he’s even younger than I thought. His teeth are startling; so white beneath his mustache and so rarely displayed. He says, “Someone whose company you enjoy, I hope.”

The words feel strangely out of character for him. “Of course,” I manage.

But I sense him stiffen, and a sudden cushion of awkwardness makes him feel far away.

He gestures toward the portrait next to King Nicolao’s. It’s of a woman with silk-smooth skin and obsidian hair. She wears a cream-colored gown and fingers a matching string of pearls with a delicate, tapered hand. She reminds me of my sister, with the same subtle grace and serene composure that elevates a pretty woman to true beauty.

“That is Queen Rosaura, Alejandro’s first wife and mother to Prince Rosario.”

My heart drops into my stomach and warmth floods my cheeks. I hadn’t truly understood, until this moment, how impossible it would be for Alejandro to love me.

“Highness?” the guard asks. “Do you feel unwell?”

I put my hand to my stomach. “Did you hear that growl?” I give a nervous laugh as Ximena catches my eye. I wish she didn’t know me so well. “Lord Hector, why don’t you show us to the kitchens next?” And I offer him my arm. It’s a trick of Alodia’s I’ve observed hundreds of times, whenever she needs to distract or confound.

He takes my arm and we turn to go, but not before I glimpse a crack in his composure. It’s fleeting, but I’m struck by how the lines around his eyes and mouth settle into sorrow with comfortable familiarity.

The kitchen master is delighted to fill me with honey and coconut scones. By the time we reach the monastery, I’m miserable from stuffing myself and from walking so much.

The monastery attaches gracelessly to the north wing of Alejandro’s palace. One moment we walk beneath wood-beam braces, along sandstone hallways trimmed in the same blue-gold tile as my atrium; the next, we are surrounded by low-ceilinged adobe, curving walls, and clay tile floors. It’s as if we’ve stepped from Joya d’Arena into Papá’s palace hacienda, and I feel a pang of desire for home.

A tiny, aged man draped in undyed wool hobbles toward us, pointed features twitching. Ximena surprises me by asking, “You are Father Nicandro?”

He claps and grins wide. “Lady Ximena! I received word from Father Donatzine to expect you.” He embraces her while Lord Hector and I look on, invisible.

I close my eyes while they chatter, inhaling the poignant scent of roses and prayer candles. I know I will return to this place often, to pray or merely to be silent and alone. The Godstone responds to my thoughts with warm, soft comfort.

Father Nicandro breaks off midsentence. He turns his head to study me. “Donatzine did not tell me,” he whispers. “Ximena, you are guardian to the bearer!”

Lord Hector steps closer, as if to shield me, while wariness clouds Ximena’s eyes. My heart beats faster. The priest sensed the Godstone living within me. And this displeases my nurse.

“Are you certain it was wise to bring her here?” Nicandro asks.

I’m right here!
I want to scream.
I am not a small child to be discussed over, the way Papá and Alodia always do.

Ximena doesn’t answer him right away. I watch her consider for a moment, eyes narrowed. “We thought it best.” Her voice is soft, meant to not carry. “In Orovalle, the bearer is well known and closely watched. She’ll be safer here, where few people still follow the path of God.”

Safer. Is this why they married me off so quickly? Because the Godstone puts me in danger? I flash back to the painted savage who lay dead in jungle trash for recognizing what I bear in my navel. I glance at Ximena, relieved to note her long, gray, pinless braid.

Of course she probably knows many ways to kill a man.

I hurry forward, placing my body between Ximena and the priest. For once, I’m glad for my girth. “Father Nicandro.” I smile with my mouth, though I cannot force pleasure into my eyes. “I’m Elisa, and I’m very glad to meet you.”

I am not a tall girl, but I tower over him by half a head. He smiles up at me, delighted. “Welcome to the Monastery-at-Brisadulce. Ours is the first, you know. Built only a few years after God carried our ancestors from the dying world in his righteous right hand.”

I nod. “I hear you have the oldest known copy of the
Belleza Guerra
.”

“Yes, yes. Several centuries old. Sadly, the vellum cannot last much longer.”

I feel Ximena behind me, watching, but I ignore her. “I’d dearly love to compare it to my own copy. There are a few places where I fear the text may have been altered a bit.”

His smile widens, his pointed features twitch with excitement, and I know I’ve found a friend at last. “Please, come by anytime. I take it you are adept in the Lengua Classica?”

“It’s the most beautiful language in the world.”

I could not have chosen a better response, for he claps me on the back and ushers me into a thorough tour of the monastery and its accompanying library of sacred documents. Ximena and Lord Hector follow behind in silence.

Much later, Lord Hector guides us back to our suite. We thank him and bid him good-bye, then I collapse onto my bed. I haven’t walked so much in years.

Ximena draws a bath while I rest. A breeze flutters the curtain of my balcony and rustles the fronds of a large palm. A palm! I sit straight up and look around the room. Two chairs, simple but sturdy, rest beside the strange, locked door. Several potted plants sit against the opposite wall: another palm, a tree with coin-size leaves, a tiny rose bush with soft pink buds. I lie back, smiling, not at all displeased at the prospect of thanking Cosmé.

My nurse calls me into the atrium. I worry for my new friend, Father Nicandro, and I cannot meet her gaze as I undress. She grabs my arm to support me as I step across slippery tiles into the bath. The water is delightful against my sore feet and smells faintly of cloves.

Ximena begins to knead my shoulders after I settle in, but I stop her.

“Ximena?”

“Yes, my sky?”

“Will you . . .” It’s so hard to ask, and the words feel like stones in my throat. “I mean, are you going to kill Father Nicandro?”

She gasps a little, as if catching on a sob. “Oh, Elisa.” I feel her lips press against my hair. They linger there for a long time. “No, I will not.”

I sigh and close my eyes, able to relax at last. “Thank you.”