Something squeals high above, and I look up to find three vultures circling lazily in the crystal sky.
The sun is not yet high when Mara slumps over her mare’s neck and lists to the side.
“Mara?” I call out, but she doesn’t answer. “Belén, something is wrong with Mara!”
He whips his horse around—I’m not sure how, since he rides without tack—and gallops toward us. He draws alongside Mara and hooks her armpits just as she topples from her mare’s back. As one, they tilt precariously.
I swing my leg around and slide from my mount just in time to grab my lady-in-waiting before Belén loses his grip. He slips off his horse, and together, we leverage her to the ground.
“Storm,” I call out. “Will you look around for a campsite?”
I don’t bother to see if he complies, for Mara groans loudly, only half conscious.
“It’s the blow to her head,” I say. “She’s concussed.” I shouldn’t have ordered everyone to set off so soon. I should have taken the time to check everyone’s wounds.
Belén slaps her cheek lightly. “Stay awake, Mara.”
She groans again, blinking, her eyes unfocused.
“She saved my life,” I murmur as Belén palpates the pillowed bruise on Mara’s forehead. My heart sinks into my stomach as I realize he’s looking for a crack in her skull.
“Mara is a warrior,” he says simply, and he gazes at her with such respect and affection that my heart aches a little. “Did she ever tell you how she found your Malficio camp? How she led twelve children through the wilderness to safety after the Inviernos destroyed her village?”
“No,” I say.
“Shut up,” Mara mumbles.
He reaches out as if to stroke her cheek but stops himself, instead grasping her chin and turning her head to the side to get a better angle. “I don’t think anything is broken. But she should rest. She’ll probably vomit a lot.”
I breathe a sigh of relief.
Storm returns with news of a small clearing nearby, hidden from view but easy to access. No water source in sight, but we always carry extra and should have enough for a day or so.
Belén helps Mara to her feet and hitches her arm over his shoulder. “Elisa, can you lead our horses?”
I control the shudder before it can pass through me. “Of course.” Horses aren’t so bad, I tell myself, and these have been perfectly docile. I grab the reins of my mare and lead her forward, hoping Mara’s and Belén’s horses will follow. They do.
We’ve penetrated the foothills enough that sand and shale have ceded to gravely soil and stubborn grass. We make camp in a brown meadow surrounded by juniper bushes and struggling, stunted trees. The Sierra Sangre looms over us, the jagged peaks capped in snow that shines pristine in the sun, but blurs icy blue in the shadows. I can’t imagine conquering such a landscape armed with only mountain ponies and determination, but conquer it we must.
Beyond them lies Invierne, Storm’s homeland, my enemy, a country no one from Joya d’Arena has been allowed to set foot in for centuries. And yet they have invited me—no, coerced me—to come. To trade my life for Hector’s. To offer myself as a living, willing sacrifice toward an end I cannot guess.
They have no idea what is coming.
While Storm ties the horses to the scrub oak, Belén and I help Mara stretch out on her bedroll. “Elisa?” she whispers as I feel her forehead for fever. “My head hurts.”
It startles me. So rarely do I hear Mara complain. “I could heal you,” I offer. I’ve healed before with the power of my Godstone. I can only do it for people who are dear to me, and at great physical cost, but I can’t bear to see my friend in pain. Worse, our objective cannot bear more delays.
She shakes her head. “No, no, not yet. If one of us has to lose consciousness, it might as well be me.” Her head lolls to the side, and her eyes drift closed.
“Mara? Belén says you shouldn’t sleep.”
“Just . . . resting eyes. Heal me tomorrow. If I’m not . . .”
Belén slaps her awake again.
“I hate you,” she says.
“Yes,” he agrees solemnly. “For years now.”
I clamber to my feet. “I’m going to have a long talk with Storm. Tell me if something changes. Also, you will get some rest tonight. Think of it as a royal command.”
His lips quirk. “Yes, Majesty.”
Storm has tied up the horses, and now he sits against a tree trunk, his long legs sprawled out before him, his eyes closed. He always wears a cowl and cloak, no matter how stifling the desert heat, but for once his hood is tilted back, the ties of the cloak undone and open, showing the thin tunic beneath. It’s soft linen, and the hem and seams are embroidered with a border of golden flowers with winding blue stems. It’s far too lovely a frock for traveling.
With his face uncovered, his eyes closed and his features relaxed, I’m reminded how beautiful he is. Such a fine cast to chin and cheeks, with slightly tilted eyes and a small, straight nose leading to full lips. He looks like my sister, I realize with a start. She has the same uncanny beauty, the same delicacy that hides a sharp mind and steely focus.
My sister. I haven’t seen Alodia in more than a year. I hope she got my message, that she’s willing to participate in a parliament with Cosmé and me and will be waiting in Basajuan. I’ll need the support of them both if I’m to retake my country.
Storm opens one eye and peers at me. “What do you want?”
I grin. “The pleasure of your charming company, of course.”
He grunts, but he shifts aside to give me space against his tree trunk. I settle next to him, stretching out my legs. It feels nice to be in a different position. After being in the saddle so long, it seemed as though my legs would shape themselves to the barrel roundness of my mare’s body and never straighten again.
“You want to know about me,” he says. “How I killed that man so easily.”
I nod. “I’ve seen three people kill that efficiently, and all of them were highly trained.” I count them off on my fingers. “My former nurse, Ximena, who was groomed to be my guardian by the Monastery-at-Amalur. Hector, who is the commander of the most elite military force in Joya d’Arena. And Conde Tristán, who once rescued me and several of my Royal Guard almost singlehandedly. You move like them. So fast, so assured, so . . .” My voice breaks. They’re all people I’d give anything to see safe and in good health again—no matter the terms of our parting.
“Yes, I’m like them.”
I sigh, frustrated at how he makes me work for every smidge of information. “Why? Are you an assassin like the man who took Hector?”
He snaps, “I’m nothing like Franco.”
“In all the ways that matter, no. Storm, just tell me.”
He brings his knees to his chest. “I was trained to defend myself and to kill without hesitation because I am a prince of the realm. Everyone with royal blood receives an education in the killing arts.”
“Just how close were you to the throne of Invierne?”
He shakes his head. “It doesn’t work that way. There is no one king so much as a council of rulers called the Deciregi. Your people would think of them as priest kings.”
“The Deciregi,” I murmur. “They’re animagi, then? Sorcerers?”
“Yes. The ten most powerful in the world. A Deciregus must be of royal blood and born with a Godstone. I was groomed to represent my family in the Deciregi from a very young age. But I failed. My stone fell out too early, and I was never able to call upon its magic. So later, when my cousin was born with a Godstone and showed potential, they named him successor instead and exiled me to Joya d’Arena.”
“To recoup some of your honor in the role of ambassador.”