Belén shows me how to saddle Horse, and I promise to try it on my own next time. We mount up, Belén leads the way, and moments later we’re back on the trail.
The ground turns rocky as we enter a series of steep switchbacks. Our horses’ legs are so spindly and fragile, and I fear they will snap like kindling on the jagged outcroppings that mar our path. But the horses clomp along unbothered, and after a while I forget to worry.
We pause for lunch in a small green valley, divided down the middle by a crystal creek. Trout dart under the grassy bank as we approach, and Mara squeals. “We could have fish for lunch!” she says. “I can show you how to catch them with your hands. Trout are the easiest to clean and spit, and then—”
I picture Hector being driven through these mountains, weeks ahead of us. I would bet my Godstone crown he’s planning his escape, trying to delay their progress. God, I hope he’s being treated well. What if he’s injured? Or starving? “We water the horses, and then we move on. We’ll rest when we’ve made camp for the night.”
Mara looks away. “All right.”
Guilt stabs my chest. I’m pushing too hard again. I don’t know what else to do.
As we ride, Storm tells us this trail is usually well traveled, for it’s one of only two main trading routes between Joya d’Arena and the free villages that hug the alpine slopes. But in the days since the highwaymen attacked us, we’ve seen no one.
“It’s the coming war,” Mara says. “No one will leave the shelter of the mountains to trade. They fear conscription into the conde’s army.”
“It doesn’t surprise me that he would extend his draft into territory that doesn’t belong to him,” I say. Eduardo comes from a long line of ambitious condes, and over the centuries, several attempts have been made to annex the free villages into the countship of Montamayor. But they are a wily, reclusive, and independent people, and far more trouble to govern than they are worth.
“We should stock up on supplies in the free villages,” Storm calls at my back. “Now that we have horses, we can carry more.”
Storm has proven adept at assuring his own comfort. I glance back over my shoulder at him and say, “I may send Mara to pick up a few things, but I’m not sure it’s safe.”
“It’s definitely not safe,” he says. “But no one there will recognize you. Even I can walk through the free villages. It’s the one place where your people and mine exist in relative peace.”
I rein in Horse and twist in the saddle to face him. “Truly?”
“I always speak truly.”
I frown. “My old tutor, Master Geraldo, taught me all about the free villages. He never once mentioned peace with Invierne.”
He shrugs. “I wouldn’t call it peace with Invierne. I’m sure Invierne would love to annex and control the area just as much as your wayward conde.”
I turn back around and spur Horse onward to catch up to Mara and Belén. She takes a few quick steps, then slows to her usual plodding, but I’m thinking too hard to mind.
Master Geraldo said the free villages were a dangerous place, a magnet for black market merchants and army defectors and wanted felons. It makes sense that it would attract the same type of people from Invierne. But it’s strange that he never mentioned an Invierno presence.
Or maybe not so strange. Only recently have I realized how much Master Geraldo kept from me, especially anything pertaining to the Godstone I bear. My old tutor wasn’t the only one. My sister, Alodia. My nurse, Ximena. Even my brief and well-meaning husband, Alejandro. All of them conspired to keep the chosen one—me—ignorant. Unsullied by damning knowledge. They believed God had ordained my obliviousness, based on an alternate translation of one of the Scriptura Sancta’s more obscure passages.
They were wrong.
Suddenly I want to see the free villages more than anything. I want to see my people and Storm’s living side by side. I want to know what a place without king or council looks like, how a society can exist without fealty.
Mostly, though, I want to see it because during the last year I have learned, through much heartbreak, that the things people work hardest to keep me ignorant of are the things most worth pursuing.
8
WE find ourselves on the bald face of a giant granite outcropping. The trail disappears, marked only by piles of stone left by previous travelers to guide the way across the bare mountainside. Without the cover of pine forest, the wind is as loud and steady as a rushing river, the sun bright and fierce.
We take a moment to gaze westward toward the desert and see how far we’ve come. Below, the foothills spread wide, forested nearby but becoming sparser and sparser until they disappear into a hazy yellow horizon. Looking down at the vast landscape makes me feel strong, like I’ve accomplished something magnificent.
I imagine the Invierno soldiers who traveled this unforgiving path. There must have been an endless stream over many years to have amassed the enormous army that eventually attacked and nearly destroyed my capital city. I am filled with a sense of grudging admiration for the determination and stubbornness such a venture would take.
We cross the outcropping and drop into a grassy valley. Storm says the first free village is just ahead, past a copse of spruce. Though no one here is likely to recognize us, Belén has warned us to be alert at all times. I clutch my reins so tight they dig into my palms, because at last we’ve come to a place where we can ask openly about travelers who have passed through before us.
I momentarily forget all this when I catch first sight of it. Massive stone walls jut from rolling grass, rising four or five times the height of a man before ending in jagged ruins, as if a giant cleaver has lopped off their tops. Chunks of quarry stone lie scattered throughout the meadow, half buried in sod.
I’ve seen this before—huge granite blocks so tightly fitted that the mortar is either invisible or absent, vegetation scaling the sides, corners rounded and worn smooth from centuries of wind and rain.
It’s just like the hidden valley Storm and I discovered on our way to the zafira—the valley I destroyed. Perhaps the towers in this mountain village were also built by the ancestors of the Inviernos, long before God brought my own people to this world.
The village has grown up around these ruins, incorporating ancient walls and cornerstones into its own odd architecture. We pass a small cottage that uses one of the towers for its rear wall. Its roof is steep and pointed—never have I seen such a steep roof—and smoke curls lazily from a fat chimney. A stout woman dressed in doeskin leans over a porch railing, beating dust from a large pelt with a club. She studies us as we pass, but seems unconcerned.
Farther in, we encounter a large plaza of paver stone. Market stalls ring the area, and merchants cry their wares to everyone passing through. It’s a busier, louder place than the commandeered village where we stole our horses. Looking around, listening to the rhythm of haggling, I could almost forget that a war is coming.
We toss a few coins to a stable boy who promises to feed and rub down our mounts, then Storm leads us toward the inn—a larger building with two gable windows. The setting sun reflects against the panes, and I can’t shake the feeling that they’re fiery eyes, glaring at us.
We’re stepping onto the wood-plank porch when something flashes bright blue in my peripheral vision. I turn, puzzled.
Beside the inn is one of the many merchants’ stalls, and it’s obvious why this one faces west. In the setting sun, its wares are as bright as candle flames, for the stall is filled with glass. Glass of every color, sculpted into goblets and jewelry and candlestick holders, even blown into delicate sculptures of animals and people.
A mobile hangs from the ceiling, dangling squares that dance and sway in the gentle breeze, throwing prismatic shards against the walls of the hut—and against the face of the tall, supremely beautiful Invierno woman inside.
Storm nudges me forward, but I can’t stop staring. She has light-brown eyes shaped like a cat’s, an elegant nose and chin, and shining reddish-brown hair. If her coloring were a little darker, if she were not quite so tall, she would look like a Joyan woman.
She returns my stare without flinching, her expression curious. My Godstone flashes warm, and her eyes widen slightly.
I stumble up the stairs, Storm at my back. “I think she sensed your Godstone just now,” he whispers. “I’ll speak with her later and try to convince her it was mine.”
I nod numbly, allowing myself to be led inside.
The interior is dim and hazy, acrid with smoke from both the enormous hearth and the pipes of several bearded man huddled around a table in the corner. Dry rushes line the edges of the room where the wall meets the stone floor. I watch, aghast, as one of the bearded men stands, turns toward the wall, and urinates into the rushes.
As soon as he is done, a little girl no more than eight years old darts over with an armful of fresh rushes that she drops right on top of the old ones. One of the men reaches out and pinches her rear, but she ignores him and scurries away.
I’m about to tell Belén that maybe coming here was a mistake, that replenishing our supplies can wait and I’m not that curious about this place after all. But a tall man in a fur cap and a shop apron places himself between us and the doorway, eyeing us hungrily.
“You are Joyans, yes?” he says. “You have come a long way in a perilous time.”
His words are friendly, but cold calculation hardens his roving eyes as he sizes up our bearing, our cloaks, even our desert boots. We outfitted ourselves carefully, choosing nondescript clothing. Perhaps it is not nondescript enough.
Belén’s return grin is equally calculating. “My companions and I hope to do a tidy business where lesser merchants fear to tread,” he says.
“Wise! Very wise indeed. You’ll be taking rooms, then?”
“Yes,” Belén says. “Two, please. And what does your cook have today?”
The man’s gaze fixates on Belén’s eye patch. “Venison stew. The best in the mountains.” He leans forward and says, in a conspiratorial voice, “But for our higher class of customers, those that have the coin for it, we also have a limited amount of lamb shanks braised in garlic sauce, served with fresh flatbread.”
My mouth waters.
Belén turns to me for a decision. Reluctantly I say, “The venison stew sounds delicious.” We’ve drawn enough attention to ourselves with our finely woven shirts and thick cloaks.
I think of Mara’s spice satchel, hidden in her pack. Once we realized we would make the first leg of our journey on foot, we exchanged most of our coin for spices, which are less cumbersome to carry. Mara’s satchel holds marjoram, allspice berries, cardamom, dried ginger, and even some saffron—enough wealth to get us killed if we are foolish.
And Mara isn’t the only one with hidden cargo. Shoved down into the bottom of my own pack is a wooden box containing my crown of shattered Godstones. Storm insisted—and rightly so—that I might need it at some point. It’s worth more than this entire village, and its discovery would identify me with absolute surety.
“Mula!” the man yells, and the tiny girl who carried the rushes dashes to his side and looks up, wide-eyed. Why would someone name a child a word that means “mule”?
“Venison stew for our guests,” the innkeeper bellows. “Four bowls. Quick, or you’ll feel the back of my hand.”
My Godstone eases warmth into my belly as I peer at her departing figure. It’s hard to see in the dim smoke haze, but there’s something unusual about the cast of her nose and chin, about the way she moves.
Belén directs us to a table. It’s rough-hewn, the planks poorly joined. We sit on stumps to await our meal. I hope the little girl serves us. I want a better look at her.
We don’t wait long. She hurries up, balancing four bowls in a miraculous feat, and slides them onto the table. Murky brown stuff slops over the side of one of them. She stares at the slight mess, horrified.
She is so tiny that even though I’m sitting, her head barely reaches my shoulder. Her limbs are scrawny beneath the ragged hem of her shift. Her feet are bare, her toenails crusted with dirt. A large bruise purples her forearm.
She looks up at me with pleading eyes, and I gasp. “Please don’t tell that I spilled the stew,” she whispers.
Her eyes are lightest brown, almost yellow, like a cat’s. And she has the same high cheeks and delicate chin as Storm. But her skin is darker than that of any Invierno I’ve seen, her short, ragged hair a sooty black. My Godstone pulses warmly, as if greeting an old friend.
“Lady?” she says again, and her voice quivers. “You won’t tell, will you?”
“There is nothing to tell,” I say gently. “I see no spill.”
Her grin is as quick and bright as lightning, and she dashes away.
“Why so interested in the girl?” Belén asks around a mouthful of stew.
“I thought she might be an Invierno child,” I say, grabbing my spoon. “But now I’m not so sure.”
“She’s a mule,” Storm says.
I pause, the spoonful of stew halfway to my mouth. “What do you mean?”
He takes a deep breath, as if greatly burdened to instruct me in something so obvious. “She’s a mixed child. Part Invierno, part Joyan.”
I set my spoon back down. “Oh. Are there . . . many . . . mixed people?”
“Oh, no, they are quite rare. A union between our people rarely produces children, and when it does, they grow up to be infertile, unable to bear children of their own.”
“Ah,” I say, though my heart is racing. “Mules.” This is what Master Geraldo didn’t want me to know. But why?