Rae Carson - The Girl of Fire and Thorns

But I’ve had several perplexing hints that I don’t know much about it at all: Alodia’s warning that I should trust no one. The execution of a man who recognized my Godstone. The way Father Nicandro reverently referred to my nurse as my guardian. And now Alodia’s letter, which says I was to be taken safely away.

The Belleza Guerra says to beware of power, for it is the sparking stone of fear. What is it about my Godstone that sparks so much fear?

I place my fingertips against the smooth surface. Even through my nightgown, it pulses soft and warm. If I decide to play this terrifying game, my first move must be to discover what it truly means to be the bearer. And I will have to sneak around Ximena to do it.

I close my eyes and pray. Did you place your stone inside me to help me become queen? I can’t decide how I want God to answer.

A warm hand presses against my forehead, and I open my eyes. Ximena looks down at me with an affectionate smile. “You look better,” she says. “More color to your cheeks.”

I smile back. “I feel much better.”

“Are you ready to eat more? I could get some pastries for you, some chilled juice?”

“No, thank you.” My mind whirls with planning, for I may have thought up a way to speak with Father Nicandro in secret. “I’m not hungry.”

THE Scriptura Sancta says that all men are equal in the sight of God, and once every week servants sit shoulder to shoulder with merchants and nobles. The first time Ximena and I attended weekly services at the Monastery-at-Brisadulce, we sat on our rough bench surrounded by the merest handful of strangers. Each week the crowd grew, and today, every seat on every bench is taken, and the air is hot with bodies.

I suspect I am the cause of their renewed devotion. Everyone wishes a glimpse of this reclusive princess of puzzling status, this large, foreign-clad girl who frequents the sacred library and prays with such piety. I’m glad for the throng. So many people will make it easier to slip my note to Father Nicandro, right under Ximena’s guardian gaze.

I bow my head as the priests, led by Father Nicandro, guide us through the “Glorifica.” Translated into the Lengua Plebeya, it lacks the lyrical beauty of the original language. Still, the words burn my heart with their richness, and the Godstone responds to our chanting with joyous warmth.

My soul glorifies God; let it rejoice in my Savior

For he has been mindful of his humble servant

Blessed am I among generations

For he lifted me from the dying world

Yea, with his righteous right hand he lifted me

He has redeemed his people, given them new life abundant

My soul glorifies God; let it rejoice in my Savior.

The altar blazes with a spread of prayer candles. Behind it, Father Nicandro lifts a single rose toward the ceiling. It’s the holy variety—I can see the thorns even at this distance—chosen and consecrated because of its bloodred sheen and sharp spikes. He intones about this perfect symbol of the beauty and pain of faith, and we echo our response.

After a hymn of deliverance, Father Nicandro asks those who wish to be blessed to make their way forward with quiet decorum. It was for this reason I chose a seat on the edge of the bench. The ruffles of my skirt trail into the aisle, and I tug them closer to clear the way.

A scattered handful of people rise and begin edging center and front, toward the altar. My head is bowed, but my eyes are open, and I sense someone approach from behind in the aisle. My timing must be perfect. A quick glance over my shoulder reveals a tall, middle-aged woman in a gray maid’s frock. I wait until she is nearly to the edge of my bench.

I launch to my feet and step out in front of her. I hear a gasp as her knees impact, just slightly, the backs of my thighs. I turn my head and smile apologetically; her return grin is shy but genuine.

Ximena rises to follow, but it is too late. At least one person will stand between us, and my nurse will not be able to see what transpires as I ask my blessing.

One by one, each petitioner whispers to Father Nicandro. He prays, then pricks a fingertip with a rose’s thorn. Together, they hold the bleeding finger above the altar until the stone receives a single drop of sacrifice. Father Nicandro makes the cupping sign of the righteous right hand beneath the supplicant’s chin, then passes him or her off to another priest, who awaits with a cleansing cloth and water with witch hazel.

When the young boy in line before me begins whispering to the priest, I reach, so slowly, beneath the waistband of my skirt for the message I prepared. The success of my plan depends on the priest, on his willingness to receive my message during a holy sacrament, on his ability to seem unfazed.

Perhaps I’ve made a mistake. Father Nicandro will be angry with me. What if he interrupts the ceremony? What if Ximena sees? His life could be forfeit after all.

I change my mind. My hand reaches for my waistband again, to shove the message away, but I am not quick enough. The boy has stepped aside to cleanse his finger and Father Nicandro’s gaze has lowered, briefly, to the tiny roll of parchment pinched between my thumb and forefinger.

I step forward to take the boy’s place, holding the roll tight against my breast. Father Nicandro’s left hand cups the back of my neck and pulls my head downward until we are forehead to forehead.

“Your Highness,” he whispers. “What do you seek from God today?” With his other hand, the one that holds the rose, he reaches out and grasps the parchment between his middle and index fingers. With one quick, smooth motion, my message disappears into his voluminous sleeve, as if he is well practiced at intrigue.

He waits calmly for my answer. I give him the truth. “Wisdom,” I whisper back. “I need so much more than I have.”

I sense approval in his voice when he intones the blessing. The prick is fast and deep; I suspect the priest is nonplussed after all, for it is deeper than usual. It throbs as we hold it over the altar, the ensuing drop welling fat. It sizzles and browns when it lands on the hot stone. A smaller drop follows immediately.

Nicandro jerks my hand away and gives me an apologetic smile. I smile back, happy to leave this place with nothing worse than a too-deep thorn prick.

I retreat to the corner to have my finger bathed and bandaged, and the tall maid takes my place. My heart pounds with what I’ve just done. I pray Ximena did not see our exchange, and that Father Nicandro reads the note soon. Meet me tonight , it says. At the first morning hour, next to the ancient texts.

After services, I plead exhaustion and take a nap. I will need the extra sleep to stay quietly awake well after Ximena retires to her room. Like me, she reads from the Scriptura Sancta every night, and it could be hours before she blows out her candles to sleep.

I’m awakened from my nap by a knock at the door. Ximena sets down her sewing—she has been constructing looser- fitting skirts and blouses for me from the material at hand—and moves to the door.

She opens it a crack, but the male voice on the other side is muffled. “She’s resting,” Ximena says.

“Who is it?” I whisper from the bed.

“One moment,” she says to the visitor, then turns to me. “It’s General Luz-Manuel. Again.”

I mouth the words, “I can’t turn him away twice.” I’m glad Cosmé has the day off and won’t be here to spy on me as I receive the general. I tumble from my bed as Ximena tosses me a dressing robe. I whisk it around my shoulders and tie it at my neck.