Rae Carson: The Shattered Mountain

Dedication

FOR JILL MYLES, WHO REFUSED TO GIVE UP ON ME

MARA wakes in the predawn chill. She did not stoke the fire in her tiny bedroom the night before, knowing the cold would rouse her early. She will need the darkness and solitude for her deception.

She swings her legs over the cot and places bare feet on the earthen floor. The chill creeps through the soles of her feet, into her legs, as she fumbles across the tree stump she uses as a nightstand for flint, steel, and tinder.

A spark, a wisp of smoke. She touches a candle wick to the tinder, and the sudden glow makes her feel warmer than she actually is. Or maybe it’s just the thought of escape.

She places the candle on the floor so she can find stockings and boots, and the light flickers across her toes. Even more than the candle, more than the thought of getting away, a memory wraps her with warmth and light and love—Julio’s fingers tracing her toes with callused but gentle fingers, almost but not quite tickling. She always thought her toes too long and thin, to accommodate her too-long, too-thin body. But thinking about Julio makes her wonder if her toes might be a little bit beautiful, too.

From the common room come the rustling of parchment and the clink of a mug set upon the table. Mara’s blood freezes, even as her heart pounds out the aching rhythm— No, no, no, not this morning of all mornings .

Papá is awake.

She could try to bluff her way past him, but not even the prospect of meeting Julio in the meadow makes her brave enough. She should go back to sleep and try again later. Julio will wait for her. He’ll worry, but he’ll wait.

Heart sinking, Mara starts to pull her feet back under the quilt, but she kicks the candlestick and sends it soaring. It clatters against the wall, snuffing the flame.

Her hand flies to her mouth to stifle a gasp, but it’s too late.

“Mara?” comes the gruff voice. “Is that you?”

No help for it now. She shoves her feet into her boots—too dark to find the stockings—saying, “Yes, Pá. I startled awake.”

Leaving the boots unlaced, she pads toward the doorway. Her stomach clenches as she pushes aside the doeskin that separates her bedroom from the common area. “Sorry to disturb you,” she says, keeping her voice mild.

Papá sits on a large cushion at a low table. Parchment and scrolls are strewn before him, seeming to writhe in red-orange shadows cast by a flickering candelabra. He stares at her, quill poised in the air, black ink marring his gray beard. The candlelight shades his eyes and his cheekbones; for a moment he looks as gaunt and alien and cruel as an animagus, one of the enemy sorcerers that have been prowling their hills in recent months.

The irony of this comparison is not lost on her.

“I rarely see you up at this hour,” she says, trying to sound offhand as she strides toward the adobe hearth. Their huta is the largest in the village, with four rooms and a common area large enough for many guests. Her father is the village priest, after all, and very nearly wealthy.

“I’m holding services tomorrow,” he says. “With the Inviernos coming closer and closer every day, and the king unwilling to send troops, our people need a call to hope and faith.”

As if hope and faith could stop the weapons and sorcery of the Inviernos . “So this will be an important sermon, then?” she say, just to fill the cold air with something besides her own dread. She swings the iron arm holding the kettle over the fire to reheat the water. It squeals; if this were not her last morning in the huta , she would oil the joint.

“The most important I have ever given,” he says with gravitas and conviction that make her squirm with guilt. He is a good man in so many ways, a devoted shepherd to his flock of people. For the thousandth time, she wishes his kindness extended to her.

If he was up all night working on his sermon, he must sleep soon. Which gives her an idea.

“Would you like some tea, Pá?” Just the tiniest amount of duerma leaf would do it. He’s already exhausted. And Mara is the best cook in the village—she can disguise or enhance any flavor. He would never know.

“Yes, thank you.”

His quill scritch-scritch es against parchment as she sorts through the shelves, gathering herbs for her cheesecloth. Hopefully, she is now forgotten, invisible. Carefully, surreptitiously, she reaches behind a bundle of dried mint for the packet of duerma leaf.

“Are you tending the sheep again today?” he asks, louder this time, and she almost drops it. Of course she is tending the sheep. He only asks to remind her how much he hates letting her out of his sight, out of his control.

“Yes,” she says, not turning to face him.

“You’re not meeting that boy again, are you?”

“Of course not,” she lies.

She doesn’t hear him move, but suddenly her forearm is in an iron grip. His thumb presses into the flesh above her wrist so hard that tears spring to her eyes. But she knows better than to gasp or wince. Or drop the duerma leaf. Mara blinks rapidly to clear her eyes, then turns to face her father.

His smile is too brittle to fool anyone save by the most meager candlelight. “Is that why you’re up so early, Mara?” he says, almost crooning. “Because you can’t resist the desires of the flesh?”

She straightens and holds her head high. She shouldn’t, because she’s taller than he is now, and feeling small makes him mean. But she does it anyway. “I startled awake,” she says softly. “But since I did, I might as well head to the meadow early. I spotted a stand of sage yesterday, so I’m bringing my spice satchel. I could gather enough to keep us in savory scones until spring. If you’d rather I didn’t go, just say the word.”

The only thing Papá enjoys more than sermonizing from the Scriptura Sancta is the money she earns at the market with her baking. She has trapped him neatly.

“I don’t like you going alone,” he murmurs. “It’s not safe.”

He’s right. It’s not. Which is why she and Julio must make their escape before the Inviernos have blocked all the roads. But she doubts her safety is his true concern. “Come with me,” she coaxes.

His thumb digs so deep that it takes all her control not to cry out, and for a terrifying moment, Mara fears he’ll call her bluff.

All at once he releases her. Warm blood rushes into her hand, and she stumbles backward, hitting the shelves.

“Add a few pine needles to the tea,” he says, settling back down on his cushion. “I need something tart to keep me awake a while longer.”

“Yes, Pá,” she says, still clutching the duerma leaf.

IT takes almost an hour for Papá to collapse onto the table. She nudges his shoulder gently, but he does not stir. He will know at once what she has done when he does finally wake. Mara will be long gone by then.

She gathers her bow and quiver, her spice satchel and water skin, and leaves through the back door. A dry wash runs behind their huta . It’s overgrown with yucca and mesquite this time of year, perfect for making a quick escape from the village. Not that anyone would question seeing her on her way to the sheep pens at this hour, but she can’t lose the niggling worry that Papá will wake up after all. She imagines him barreling out the door toward her, fist raised to strike.

But the day is so beautiful, and the sheep bleat with such delight at seeing her, that the worry fades as she herds them up the mountain. Mara has always loved early mornings—the clarity of the air, the chirping rock wrens, the waking lizards, the freedom and solitude. She especially loves the way light edges the teeth of the Sierra Sangre, reminding her that not even the mighty mountains can hold back the dawn.