Belén gives her an admiring look, and she blushes. He says, “It would be a while before they figured out the fire came from your arrows rather than our fake animagus. Especially if we did it at first light, when the rising sun makes seeing tricky.”
“Mara, that’s brilliant,” I tell her, even as my heart sinks at the thought of setting anything on fire. I hate that I must cut a swath of devastation through my own country in order to save it. Weakly, I ask, “Please promise you’ll do as little damage as possible?”
“Of course,” she says gently.
“So Belén and I will take a room for the night,” I say. “On a prearranged signal—at dawn, so the village can see just enough to identify an Invierno?—Mara and Storm will attack. In the chaos, we’ll sneak into the stable and grab four horses. Then circle around for the two of you.”
Mara digs into her spice satchel and retrieves a leather pouch. She empties some gray-green flakes into her palm and scatters them into her pot. “You should free the remaining horses,” she says without looking up. “Or even kill them. Otherwise, we’ll be pursued.”
I stare at her. Mara is lovely and lithe, soft-spoken and unassuming. I often forget how capable and ruthless she can be. She lived a lifetime before becoming my lady-in-waiting, and though she doesn’t talk about it much, I know that the scars she bears—the drooping eyelid, the mangled earlobe, the burn mark on her belly—are minor compared to those wounds that no one can see.
“There are so many things that could go wrong with this plan,” Belén says.
I purse my lips, thinking hard. Chief among the possibilities, of course, is me. I haven’t handled horses since I was twelve years old. My sister, Alodia, always excelled at horsemanship, but I avoided the creatures—at first to prevent yet another unflattering comparison between us, and later because they were so large, and it had just been too long, and somehow in avoiding them I had let myself become frightened of them.
But I’m determined to do it now. For Hector. For my kingdom. Surely there’s not much to it? How hard can it be to get on and stay on until we are out of danger?
“I’ll scout around tonight,” Belén says. “Find a good rendezvous point. We need to convince Storm, then figure out a way to minimize his exposure. They’ll start shooting at him as soon as he shows himself.”
Storm chooses this moment to push through a wall of bramble and reenter the camp. His arms are full of twisted deadwood, and smears of sweat mar his perfect face. “Convince me of what?”
I take a deep breath and explain the plan.
Storm drops the firewood near Mara’s pit and sits beside it, cross-legged. The manacles on his ankles gleam in the failing light of evening.
“In my country,” he says, “it is a great crime to impersonate an animagus. Punishable by death.”
“But will you do it?” I ask gently.
He hesitates the space of a breath before saying, “Of course. I am your loyal subject.”
3
THE inn is a dim, smoky place that reeks of urine, moldy rushes, and week-old stew. Instead of the large sitting cushions and low tables that I’ve become accustomed to in the western holdings, the room contains a haphazard mix of trestle tables, benches, and stools. Almost every spot is occupied by conscripted soldiers, and they look up when Belén and I enter, then stare unabashedly.
I try to appear relaxed and indifferent, telling myself firmly that this village lies along a trade route, and strangers are not that uncommon.
A burly man approaches, wringing a hand towel. A graying beard curls down to his chest, stopping just before it reaches a once-white apron that has been patched in several places. “No vacancy,” he says in a gravelly voice. “But I can serve you up some lamb stew and send you on your way.”
Belén and I exchange an alarmed glance. We should have considered this possibility.
“We’ll sleep anywhere,” I say hastily. “We just need a place out of the wind and dust for once.”
He rubs his chin, studying us. “Been a lot like you through here lately,” he says. “Fleeing east ahead of the coming war.”
Belén nods. “We have family in the free villages.”
“Head too far east, and you take your chances with Inviernos,” says the bearded man.
“Better them than civil war, when your enemy looks just like your brother,” I say.
He peers at me through the dimness, and I expect him to say something like, You look familiar or You’re too dark skinned to be from around here. Instead he shrugs and says, “The loft in the stable is unoccupied. The straw is clean. I’ll give it to you for half the price of a regular room.”
“Done,” Belén says. “And our thanks.”
He gestures for us to follow, and we weave through the tables, pass under a wooden stair, and push through a cluttered and busy kitchen. He opens a back door into a small stable that stinks of manure—an improvement on the scent of the common room we just vacated.
The innkeeper indicates a nearby ladder. “Up there,” he says. “Four coppers gets you each a bowl of stew. Six coppers gets you stew with meat. Shall I have Sirta bring some for you?”
“Please,” I say. “With meat.” My expectations for the stew are low, but last time I was in the desert I learned never to turn down a meal.
He leaves, and Belén and I climb into the loft. The ceiling is low and made of dried palm thatch. It’s hot up here—a little too hot—and I already miss our camp that is open to the breeze and to the stars. But the innkeeper did not lie; the straw is fresh and clean.
“We got lucky,” Belén says. From below comes a soft snort and a hard thunk as a horse paws against his stall door.
“Yes, we did.” And I can’t help but wonder: If luck is a finite thing, to be doled out in increments, have we used it up too quickly? From habit, my fingertips find the Godstone at my navel. Please, God. Let this work.
Heat washes through my body as the stone pulses a joyous response. I jerk my hand away.
I’ve been praying less lately, even though I feel bereft without prayer. Ever since my encounter with the zafira, when the magic of the world touched me directly, the Godstone has been too eager, like a tidal wave inside me yearning to rush free.
By the time the girl, Sirta, comes with the stew, it’s too dark to discern anything about her. How she maneuvers two bowlfuls up the ladder I cannot guess, but we thank her and eat eagerly. The meat is gamey, and the cook used too much salt, but it’s not as bad as I expected.
Normally, I’d use any idle time to practice with my daggers. Belén has taken up where Hector left off, teaching me to defend myself, even to fight a little. But the loft offers little room for exercise, and I don’t want to make noise that would draw attention. So after eating, we settle in to wait impatiently. We’ll make our move at first light.
I don’t realize I’ve dozed until Belén shakes me. “The sky brightens,” he whispers. “Soon, now.”
I stretch and blink myself awake, then shoulder my pack and follow him down the ladder.
The back of the stable is open to the outside so that the building resembles an overgrown potting shed. A guard passes the opening at steady intervals. I’m hoping that when Storm and Mara begin their attack, he’ll run off on foot instead of pursuing the enemy on horseback.
Seven of the eight stalls are occupied by horses. The eighth is stacked high with hay bales. Most of the tack, however, has been wisely stowed elsewhere. Belén and I poke around quietly and come up with only two saddles, one bridle, two soft halters, and a single blanket.
“Mara and I will go bareback,” he whispers. “You can have the horse with a saddle and bridle.” I breathe my thanks.