The Girl of Fire and Thorns, Page 27

Page 27

  Author: Rae Carson

  I try to ignore the pain, to keep climbing. It’s too dark to see how far I’ve left to go, and I dare not take time to gauge my progress. My grip is slippery with blood now, the muscles in my forearms spasm. Reaching above my head, I feel the cliff face curve back on itself into an overhang, and my heart pounds in dismay. Climbing over it is impossible. My muscles already threaten to betray me. I scrape to the side, looking for another way up.

  The overhang stretches a long way. Spiderwebs stick against my face as I scoot along, but I resist the urge to bat at them. I pray as I travel, desperate for the Godstone’s warmth to breathe life into my stiffening limbs.

  At last I feel a break in the overhang. I clamber upward eagerly, expecting to be spotted any moment. My right forearm hooks around a large ledge. No, it’s the top of the cliff. I’m almost sobbing in relief as I yank my body over the top. Unable to trust my shaky legs, I roll away from the edge.

  I shouldn’t rest. I should launch to my feet and run west, my back to the glow of Invierne’s massive army. But my limbs won’t move. I lie on my back, catching my breath, staring at the star-pricked sky. Away from the campfires, the stars are brilliant. White sparkles in a quilt of black.

  The beauty of the night sky offers strange comfort. It is unchanging. Immune to the wars of this world. Something to count on. I scramble to my feet and run.

  I should have thought to steal some food. Or water, at least. I stumble along as dawn breaks against my back, finally understanding how precarious my situation is. I’m too exhausted to outrun pursuers. I’m thirsty. And I have no idea where I’m going.

  The fear in my head beckons me to continue, no matter what. But another voice—one that has become familiar in these last months—reasons that I will soon be useless without water and rest. I need to drink, to sleep. Otherwise, I’m likely to stumble from sheer exhaustion. And in this harsh land of jagged rocks and steep ravines, a stumble could lead to death, as it did for Damián the shepherd.

  I decide to travel until I find a stream; then I will look for a place to hide and sleep. But how to find water? I close my eyes, thinking of Humberto, wishing he were here to guide me. I think of the kiss we shared, imagine his lips against mine. The possibility of never seeing him again makes my chest hurt.

  Then my eyes snap open, and I force myself to remember our journeys together. What would Humberto do? I scan the horizon, looking for ravines coupled with vegetation that is thicker, greener, than the rest. An area ahead and slightly south looks promising. I step forward with renewed energy.

  It’s a dry wash, worn smooth from spring flash flooding, cracked from the heat. But rich vegetation lines the edge, and I know I’m on the right track. I hike up a gravelly rise to survey the land, and try again.

  I see a depression rimmed in thick piñon. Its southward direction dismays me, but I must have water. My ankles shake as I trudge toward it; my tongue is thick with dryness. When I reach the edge, the trees are too thick to see, but I hear a gurgling sound. Or maybe that’s just wind in the branches. I grab at trunks, at outcroppings, as I slither haphazardly down the scree, into the dusty hollow. The branches break wide. A tiny brook snakes along the bottom, no wider than my leg, but clear as crystal. Gasping, I fall to my stomach and lap at the water. I drink until my stomach can hold no more.

  I want nothing more than to sleep. But I force myself to remove my boots and pants and soak the dried urine from them in the stream. With the edge of my desert robe, I wipe down my legs. They are red and bumpy, and the water stings even as it cools my skin. I hang my pants to dry on a branch, giving a quick glance to my surroundings to make sure they’ll not be easily spotted from above. I crawl beneath the shady boughs of a sprawling piñon pine. I curl my bare legs under my robe and rest my head on a bed of pine needles. Sleep comes easy.

  The sun is low when I wake. Though my back and arms ache from climbing, I rise immediately to take advantage of the remaining light. I have nothing for carrying water, but I must keep moving, as far away from Invierne’s army as I am able, so I dare not travel along the southward-running brook. I drink as much as I can, which makes the hunger fade a bit. Wincing, I peel the bloody strip from my forearm, wash it as best I can, and rewrap it tightly. The welts sting, and I know I must find a village before infection sets in. I study my finger carefully. Only half of my nail ripped off, and the tender part has scabbed nicely. I tear another strip from my robe and bandage my finger. Remembering our desert journey from Brisadulce, I soak my clothes through before setting off, to protect my body from the heat.

  Lizards scatter from my path as I walk; a squealing turkey vulture circles wide to the north, against a backdrop of roiling clouds. I step along with renewed energy. The cuts in my forearm sting, and my finger throbs, but I can’t help smiling as I travel. I escaped the army of Invierne. I faced capture, sorcery, even the beginnings of torture, yet I escaped. It is in no small part due to my Godstone. I should have been paralyzed by the animagus’s sorcery, burned by the amulet I now wear around my own neck. But his magic didn’t affect me, and I can only suppose my Godstone protected me. Homer’s Afflatus says that the purpose of the bearer is to fight sorcery with sorcery. Maybe this strange immunity to magic is what he referred to.

  I wish I could discuss it with Humberto. Or Father Alentín. With a pang, I realize I want more than anything to talk it over with Ximena. I’m desperate to see her again, to feel her strong arms holding me tight. I hope she does not receive my message that I am well, only to learn later that I died here in the scrub desert.

  I crest a rocky bluff and gaze across the cracked wilderness. Razorback ridges snake eastward, separated by deep canyons, dotted with mesquite and juniper trees that are starving and broken like crippled old men. I’m so small standing here, the land before me so vast and stark. My aloneness hits me like a kick in the gut. My smile fades, and I shiver with cold. From habit, I pray to warm myself. But the cold isn’t coming from the Godstone anymore. A bright flash to the north catches my eye. Blue-black clouds plunge toward me, heralded by a frigid wind.

  I curse myself for a fool for soaking my clothing before setting off. Cosmé or Humberto would have known better. The wind strengthens; wet robes slap, stinging, against my skin. I hope it rains. The water might wash away my trail, and the wet clothes wouldn’t matter so much. But thinking of the trail I’ve left brings another uncomfortable realization: I’m standing high on a ridge in full view of potential pursuers.

  My skidding descent sends me into a dry wash. But dry for how long? I remember Humberto’s warning about flash floods and jog along the wash, scanning the sides for a place to shelter. The sun has set and colors have muted to gray before I find a large boulder with a slight overhang, nestled beneath a spreading juniper. I climb up, shivering with cold, and huddle against the smooth stone. I wish I had my tinderbox with flint and cutting steel. Or even Cosmé’s jerboa soup. As the first fat drops plop against the ground at my knees, I begin to wonder if, in spite of my unlikely escape, I’m destined to die out here after all.

  It rains all night, alternating between soaking sheets of water and icy drizzle. It’s too dark to see the bottom of the ravine, but water rushes by, as deafening as the wind. I pray continuously, and the Godstone overcomes the worst of the chill, but I’m far too uncomfortable to sleep. And I’m afraid that if I doze, I’ll lose my perch and tumble into the water rising some unknown distance below me. When the rain finally abates, I decide to wait out the night instead of trying to climb in the dark. I’m dizzy from hunger, chilled and sore, and I know I’d never make it. It’s the longest night of my life.

  Dawn brings pinkish light, a crisper, crystalline world, and rekindled determination. It is true that I am no warrior, that I am ill suited to wilderness survival. But I can find a way. “You have a first-rate mind,” the traitor, Belén, told me. Thinking of Belén steels me further. I must get back to Father Alentín’s vi
llage somehow, to warn them.

  The ravine is filled with water now, muddy and brambled. I refuse to look at it as I scramble from my ineffectual shelter and up the rise. My robes aren’t as soaked as they could be, but they are damp enough to chill me thoroughly. I pray as I walk along the ridge, knowing I’m in plain sight but not daring to travel where a wall of water could wash me away. Hunger gnaws at my stomach. At least I won’t lack water sources for a while.

  The sun warms my back as it rises, bringing a smidge of comfort. And an idea.

  I stop in my tracks, turning the thought over in my mind. On the journey to Invierne’s camped army, my Godstone grew colder with increasing danger. As I travel away, it warms again to my body. Over the years it has always warmed to my prayers, even to certain people. Just maybe, it can be my beacon to safety.

  Placing my feet carefully while minding the stone is arduous. I head westward, sloping ever downward, hoping to feel a pulse of increased warmth or a little tug. Hours pass before I notice something, and when I do, it’s only a faint itch. A ghost sensation, perhaps, created by my desperate hope. But when I twist a little to my right, it tickles again. Only a tiny buzz of warmth at my navel, but I’m so excited I plunge down the embankment. At the muddy bottom I pause again and pivot around until the sensation is strongest. My hands shake with exhilaration. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll live through this.

  I hunch my shoulders and push forward determinedly, stopping at intervals to drink from sinkholes in the rock or to concentrate on the Godstone, trotting headlong when I get a surge of warmth. I travel in this way for hours. But my ongoing hunger and the increasing throb from my forearm exact a toll. I feel myself weakening. My legs plunk down with each step as if made of lead; my vision shimmers with dizziness and maybe fever. My body is desperate to rest, but if I don’t find food and treatment for the infection that swells my arm, it won’t matter. I push on.

  The Godstone’s telling tickle strengthens, a good thing since my mind is too hazy to pay attention otherwise. As afternoon hangs the sun in my path, blazing and blurring, my feet begin to stumble. I trip along a soft ridge, a winding wrinkle of ochre earth. Something thin and twisted catches my ankle, and I pitch forward into the air. My shoulder cracks on gravel, then my hip. I can’t breathe for the impact as I tumble down the ravine; my vision narrows. Then the sounds of sliding scree and cracking bones fade. I still hear them, but remotely, with indistinct curiosity. Then I don’t hear them at all.

  My eyelids flutter. Light and pain burst across my body, sharp as daggers, bone deep. I cry out, but the breath in my lungs spreads like fire beneath my right breast.

  “Elisa? Are you awake?”

  That voice! That precious voice. “Humberto?”

  He’s laughing, giddily, and kissing my cheek, caressing my forehead, saying my name over and over again. “I went back for you, but I couldn’t find you anywhere, and the whole army was in such a panic for some reason, and then it rained and I couldn’t even pick up a trail—”

  “Humberto. I’m very hungry. ” When I open my mouth, pain zings from my jaw to the back of my neck. I don’t know how I’ll manage food.

  “Oh! Of course. I have jerky, and—”

  “Need . . . soft . . . ”

  I hear eager rummaging. Water poured from a skin. “I’ll make some soup,” he says. “Mine isn’t as good as Cosmé’s, but it’ll do. ”

  I close my eyes, content to let him take care of me, happy and amazed to be alive. I flex my toes and wriggle my arms to assess the pain. It’s everywhere constant, but worse along my ribs and at my left temple. I lie prone, a bundle of softness stuffed beneath my neck, a sling pinning my right arm against my side. A fire crackles beside me. For the first time in days, I’m blissfully warm.

  “Humberto? My arm . . . ”

  The fire pops as he rearranges the kindling. “I think you cracked a couple of ribs when you fell down that hill. I put your arm in a sling so you wouldn’t move it while you slept. ”

  “You saw me fall?”

  “Elisa, you tumbled right into my carefully hidden camp. ”

  My shocked sob brings piercing pain to my ribs. Tears leak from my eyes, and my breathing comes faster. It was Humberto I tracked. My Godstone led me to Humberto.

  The pain from trying not to cry is too much. My vision dims.

  “Humberto,” I whisper.

  “Are you all right, Elisa?”

  I see his shadow looming, growing darker. “While you make soup, I—I’ve decided to pass out again. ”

  I sink into a lovely place, dark and soft. But something tugs at the edge of my mind. Something I must tell Humberto right away. About a traitor.

  I sleep.

  Chapter 23

  IT’S nearly dark when I wake. I open my eyes and flinch away from the grin hovering over my face.

  “I thought I heard you waking up. Still hungry?”

  I mutter something. Humberto lifts my head and spoons soup between my lips. It’s plain and watery and amazing. I giggle.

  “What? Why are you laughing?”

  “This is just like before. After you kidnapped me. Except the soup isn’t as good. ”

  He sits back on his heels, his smile fading. “I’m sorry about that, Elisa. ”

  “No, the soup is fine!”

  “I mean about the kidnapping. ”

  “Oh. ” I take a deep breath, then catch myself as pain punches my chest.

  “It was a bad fall. ” He spoons more soup into my mouth. “You were lucky. You could be coughing blood, or you could have broken a leg, or—”

  “I don’t feel lucky. I think it’s getting worse. ”