Rae Carson: The Girl of Fire and Thorns

She places her cheek against mine and strokes my hair, sighing. “Be well, Elisa, little sister.”

I just stand there, stunned. My husband grips my hand and pulls me through the crowd of well-wishers toward our carriage. I know I should look up and smile. I should show the nobility a final, glorious view of their princess as she rides off into eternal happiness. It’s what Alodia would do. But my vision is too blurred with tears, my face too hot, because my sister hasn’t embraced me that way since we were children in the nursery together.

The carriage step is too high to navigate comfortably. The foreign guards look on as Alejandro steps in and then pulls me up beside him. I give him a grateful smile, noticing the birdseed and rose petals that have stuck in his black hair. I put a hand to my head and wonder how long it will take for Ximena to brush the mess from my own hair. My nurse is already ensconced with Lady Aneaxi in the rearmost carriage, and suddenly, I can’t wait to see them again, to let them fuss over me. I resolve to seek them out at my earliest opportunity.

The seat is plush blue velvet, but it lurches hard against my rear as we set off. The nobleza d’oro cheers heartily, and for a moment, the air is a haze of seed and flowers and mad waving. The carriage window sits high enough that I can see across the courtyard, over the celebrating horde, to my father and sister. The morning sun is high now, casting a golden glow on the adobe of my sprawling palace, on the walls of beautiful Amalur. I drink in the sight of archways with their green creepers, of cobbled paths and tiled fountains. Mostly, though, I am transfixed by my sister. Her eyes are closed and her lips move as if in prayer. The sun shimmers against her cheeks, against the moisture there.

ALEJANDRO seems content to bear my company in silence. I fold my hands into my lap to keep them still and pretend to be indifferent while the carriage rattles away from my home. I imagine all the ways to start a conversation. Alodia always comments about shipyard construction, or the price of wool, but such topics would feel odd in my mouth. I should ask him about our marriage, and why my sister demands such caution, but I find it less frightening just to be silent.

The carriage lurches to a stop. The door swings open. Sunlight pours in around the enormous silhouette of a bodyguard, and I raise my forearm against the glare. Confused, I turn to my husband.

“It’s all right, Elisa,” he says. “The guard will show you to your carriage.”

My carriage? I try to puzzle this through. “My . . .”

“It would be foolish for my wife and me to travel in the same carriage.”

My face tingles at his words—“my wife”—even as I parse his meaning. I’ve read of such things. In times of war, important figureheads must never consolidate targets. I nod and take the guard’s hand. A rough hand, strong and unkind.

“I’ll check in on you when we stop to eat,” my husband says.

We step down and away from the carriage, the unkind guard and I, and he leads me toward the back of our dusty procession. Plumeria trees, heavy with white blossoms, border the road, and I can no longer see the palace. My mind whirls with analysis, as if I were in Master Geraldo’s study again, engrossed in the Belleza Guerra .

Never consolidate targets.

I freeze and look up at the guard. His face is youthful and handsome, in spite of its hard lines and sculpted mustache. Irritation flickers in dark eyes, but he composes himself quickly. “My lady, we must get you to your carriage.” His voice is rough and strained, as if speech comes rarely.

Do not be afraid to be queen , Alodia had said. “You will address me as Your Highness.” My voice is steady and confident, like my sister’s. I feel ridiculous. “After the coronation, you will address me as Your Majesty.”

He raises one brow. “Of course, Your Highness. Forgive me.” But his look is skeptical, mocking.

“What is your name?”

“Lord Hector, of His Majesty’s personal guard.”

“I’m glad to meet you.” I flash a courteous smile, the way Alodia would. “Lord Hector, what are we in danger from?”

My face warms and my heart drums in my chest. At any moment, he’ll recognize this bluff of insane confidence.

But his brow softens, and he nods. “It is not my place to give details, Highness. But I will mention your question to His Majesty.”

I can’t bring myself to prod further. He ushers me toward the back, where my ladies have already opened their carriage door. It’s covered in dust from being at the rear, but their arms are outstretched, waiting to help me step up.

They want to know why I do not travel with my husband. Awkwardness is common at first, they assure me. Don’t worry. You’ll adjust to each other soon enough. I grit my teeth, frustrated with their blind assurances but grateful for them just the same. I look down, unable to explain.

The carriage pitches as we set off again. It’s hotter inside, and my skin becomes sticky. Were I athletic like Alodia, I’d get out and walk. I wonder if this is why my husband does not care to travel with me. Perhaps there is no danger at all.

I am married to a stranger, and no one has bothered to tell me why, other than to make vague references to a treaty. Surely the fact that I bear the Godstone has something to do with it. But since no one is forthcoming, I will have to find out for myself.

As Ximena wipes my damp forehead with her linen skirt, as Aneaxi pours me some cool wine from a traveling skin, I pray silently, asking God to make me a little stronger, a little braver.

Our route lies through the jungle of the Hinders, the mountains dividing our two countries. True to his word, the king checks on me regularly. At meal stops, he asks detailed questions about my comfort. Are your cushions thick enough? Would you prefer your carriage to take a turn at the head of the procession? Is the wine to your liking? He is sweetly attentive, always taking my hand and looking me in the eye, like he truly cares.

In response to the question I asked Lord Hector, my husband tells me the jungle is a dangerous place, crawling with the descendants of convicts who were tossed into the wild a century ago when Joya’s prisons overflowed. But we cannot risk a sea voyage this near to the hurricane season.

Master Geraldo spoke of these Perditos, the lost ones of the jungle. My teacher said they stayed far away from the highway, so I’m not sure I believe Alejandro.

Sometimes our path is steep enough that my back rests comfortably against the boards of the carriage wall and I am able to doze in spite of the constant lurching. But after a while, desert cactuses and royal palms give way to golden rain trees, dripping yellow teardrops. The seed pods clunk onto the carriage roof at irregular intervals, making it impossible to nap. At night, I sleep fitfully in a large tent with my ladies.

The jungle rages with noise. Screaming birds, chittering spider monkeys, and buzzing insects all battle for attention. The wind cannot penetrate the foliage to cool us as we travel, but we hear it, whooshing through the canopy above. It is, truly, the most deafening place I’ve ever been.

On the morning of day four, the jungle goes silent. It happens so suddenly, so profoundly, that I peer around the curtain, expecting to find that God has whisked us to another time and place. But the silk-cotton trees still loom above me, their dark buttresses impenetrable in the filtered light. The same palm fronds twist desperately around them, seeking sunlight.

Two carriages ahead, Lord Hector drops from the roof to the ground, sword in hand.

Our procession has been large and clamorous with its carriage wheels, snorting horses, and clanking armor. Yet the jungle never saw fit to honor us with silent fear. Beside me, Lady Aneaxi mutters in prayer.