Girl Of Fire & Thorns Omnibus Read online

  “Who?”

  “Muffin. When the fire came.”

  “Oh.” Mara snugs her a bit closer. “I know you miss Muffin, but I need you to be brave for just a little while longer, all right?”

  “All right.”

  Such an ordinarily simple task lies before them—get from one place to another. But they are in bad shape. She catalogs their injuries: Julio’s arrow wound, Hando’s bite, the gash on Teena’s head, Alessa’s badly blistered feet, and now this tiny girl who has been walking barefoot through mud and mesquite for who knows how long. How will she keep them all going?

  Mercifully, the slope levels off a bit as they near the desert floor, and Mara lets her eyes rove the jagged desolation below them. It’s a warren of buttes and gullies that glow coppery red in the sun, almost as far as the eye can see. Beyond it lies the deeper desert, a sea of sand, but at this distance it is only a yellowish haze on the horizon.

  The place is as barren as it is beautiful, yet the nomads of Joya d’Arena make their home here. And she will, too, if they’re to have any chance of surviving this war.

  “I should lead from here,” Reynaldo says.

  “It’s a maze down there,” Mara says. “No wonder the rebels chose this for their hideout.”

  “Someone should hang back and make sure we’re not followed,” he adds. “The perimeter watch won’t let us pass if there is any chance we’ve led the Inviernos to their camp.”

  The back of her neck prickles. She had not considered that their enemy might follow them unseen. “Any volunteers?” she asks.

  “I’ll do it,” says Adán.

  “No!” She needs him nearby and safe, for Julio’s sake. “I . . . er . . . I may need help carrying the little ones, and you’re the strongest.”

  “I can do it,” says another boy. He is the next oldest after Adán, a quiet one who prefers whittling with his knife to conversation.

  She searches her memory for his name and snags it. “Thank you, Benito. Don’t hang back too far—it will be easy to get lost once we’re down there.”

  His lips turn up in a cocky half smile. “I’ll be fine,” he says, and then he disappears into the brush.

  Reynaldo leads them west, away from the Shattermount’s flooded fault line. The sky is still drizzly and gray, their journey slippery with mud. Marlín grows heavy in her arms.

  Late in the afternoon, the sun breaks through the clouds, sending streamers of gold onto the earth and causing a bright rainbow that stretches the length of two days’ journey. They exchange relieved smiles and pick up the pace. They will rue the relentless desert sun soon enough, but for now they glory in the way it steams away the soaked terrain.

  Reynaldo calls a halt. At Mara’s questioning look, he says, “Did you hear something?”

  Mara orders everyone to silence. Quietly, she lowers Marlín to the ground, then stretches her aching arms as she listens for anything unusual.

  “Mara!” comes the voice, faintly. “Help!”

  “Is that Benito?” Adán asks, but Mara is already sprinting back the way they came, swinging her bow from her shoulder.

  She hears the sounds of struggle before she finds them—crunching gravel, a grunt, a sharp yell of pain. She nearly trips on them as they roll around in a tangle of hair and limbs. Yellow hair snarled with black, pale skin against dark. The Invierno’s anklet bones rattle as they wrestle in the mud.

  There’s no way she’ll get a clean shot. Her hand flies to the knife at her belt, but their grappling bodies move so fast, and she doesn’t trust herself not to stab Benito by mistake.

  The Invierno’s yellow braid whips around, and she sees her chance. She lunges into the fray, grabs the end of the braid, yanks it hard. He yelps, his head snapping back. Benito takes advantage and sends a fist into his stomach, then another. He rolls the Invierno onto his back and starts to pound at his face. Something crunches.

  “Benito, that’s enough.” Mara’s belly squirms with wrongness.

  But the boy is blind with fear and rage, and he sends his fist crashing into the enemy’s jaw, his ear, his eye.

  “Benito!” she yells.

  A shape blurs past her. It’s Adán. With a roar, he plunges his skinning knife into the Invierno’s chest. Mara senses the other children coming up behind her, even as Adán wrenches his blade from the Invierno’s bloody chest and raises it to strike again.

  “No!” Mara darts forward, grabs Adán’s arm. “Stop!”

  Adán lashes out blindly with his other hand. His knuckles crack against her cheek, and she tumbles backward, landing hard on her rear.

  Red spots dance in her vision as her eye socket blossoms with pain.

  “Oh, God. Mara, I’m so sorry. I . . . oh, God.” Adán throws his knife away from himself and stares at his hands as though they belong to a stranger. Spatters of blood cover his shirt.

  Mara gets shakily to her feet. “Adán and Benito,” she says, her voice like thunder. “You are responsible for this, therefore you will dispose of this body.”

  “He surprised me!” Benito says. “We stumbled onto each other, and all of a sudden, he was on top of me, and I—”

  She holds up a silencing hand. “If more scouts discover him, they will know we passed this way. So you will bury him thoroughly and clean up any blood. The rest of us will set up camp and wait for you.”

  Soft crying trickles up to her ears, and Mara looks down to see Marlín at her elbow, the girl’s horrified gaze fixed on the bloody corpse of the Invierno. Mara bends over and picks her up. “I need you to be brave for me, Marlín,” she says.

  Marlín sniffs. “You say that a lot.”

  “Only because it’s the truest thing I know right now.”

  “No fire tonight,” Reynaldo says. “There could be more scouts nearby.”

  “Did he track us, do you think?” Mara asks. They haven’t even bothered to disguise their trail.

  “I doubt it,” Reynaldo says. “But after we break camp tomorrow, we should get rid of any footprints, cover the site with brush. Try to make it look like we were never here.”

  “Good thinking.” To Benito and Adán, she says, “No shallow grave. We don’t want coyotes digging him up.”

  “You’re punishing us,” Benito says. “Even though he is the enemy!”

  Mara stares him down. “You and Adán were not wrong to kill. This is war, after all. But you were wrong to lose control. Join us in camp only when you’re certain you have it back again.”

  Mara has survived this long only by remaining in control. If she is going to keep these children alive, they will have to learn it too.

  15

  THEY haven’t eaten in two days. They have all thinned noticeably, no one more so than Julio. His cheeks are gaunt, and his eyes are dark, sunken shadows in his otherwise pallid face. At least once per hour, someone complains about hunger.

  Mara begins to practice with her bow in the evenings and early mornings. Several of the others have slings, and she makes them train together. She tells them they all need to practice so they can hunt as they go. But really, she needs something to distract them from their aching, empty bellies.

  And she knows that if they encounter another Invierno scout, she’ll need more skill with the bow to protect them. She practices a quick draw and notch, over and over. Next, she’ll teach herself to hit a moving target.

  “Where did you get that bow?” Reynaldo asks her one morning. They have stepped away from the campsite while the others linger over hot tea. Mara used some of the precious herbs from her satchel to make it. Anything to fool their stomachs for a little while.

  “Pá got it for me as a Deliverance Day gift,” she says, as she sights a withered pinecone that she placed atop a boulder.

  “It must have been expensive,” he says wonderingly. “It’s beautiful wood. Someone would have had to go high into the Sierra Sangre for that quality of pine.”

  She lets her arrow fly. It misses the target by a handspan at least, and she fr
owns. “Arrows don’t come cheap either. I think that’s why he got it. He didn’t actually like the idea of me using it. He just wanted to show off his wealth at a time when all the village children were practicing with their slings.”

  Reynaldo studies her thoughtfully. “I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but . . .”

  Mara raises an eyebrow at him. “A dead priest, no less.”

  His gaze is slightly shifted, as if he can’t quite bring himself to look her in the eye. It’s the scar on the corner of her eyelid he’s avoiding, the one her father gave her when she was ten years old. “But he was not a good man, was he?” he says.

  “No, he was not.”

  Reynaldo winds up with his sling and throws. His loosed pebble arcs toward the pinecone, but drops too soon and thunks against the boulder instead. “One time my má was sick,” he says, seeming not to notice how badly he just missed. “Bad sick. And your pá rode hard all night to get to our farmstead in time to sit the death watch. He tended her himself. Forced her to sip her tea, changed out wet cloths for her forehead. And come morning, her fever broke and she was fine.”

  Mara clenches her jaw, not sure how to respond. Yes, her father was known for acts of tremendous kindness. She came to see them as pretense. Little deceptions meant to cover up the truth of their lives.

  But hearing Reynaldo talk about it, she can’t help but wonder if they were genuine after all. In the same way that the best lies have an element of truth, maybe evil is made all the more powerful when it is accompanied by the startling presence of grace. She says, “He was a good man too. In some ways. That’s what made him so terrifying.”

  Reynaldo stares openly now, as if seeing her scar for the first time. Mara always thought it made her look perpetually sad, or at least tired. Until Julio assured her it gave her a sultry air, like she had just been thoroughly kissed. What does Reynaldo see?

  “Mara!” someone calls out. “Come quick!” The voice is edged with panic.

  She sprints back toward the campsite without a moment’s hesitation, Reynaldo at her heels.

  The children are gathered around something. Mara leaps over the fire pit and elbows them out of the way, demanding, “What is it? What’s wro . . .”

  It’s Julio. He has fallen over, and his cheek grinds into the earth as he gasps for breath. Beside him, a wooden bowl lies overturned in a tiny, muddy puddle of sage tea.

  Mara drops to the ground beside him. “Julio?” She places her fingertips at his neck and is relieved to find a weak, scattered pulse.

  “He started shaking,” Alessa says, tears in her voice. “Then he dropped his bowl and fell over, but he wouldn’t stop twitching, and then—” Someone shushes her.

  Julio’s eyelids flutter open. “Mara,” he whispers. “My Mara.”

  “Is it the pain? I’ll make you some more tea. We need to make sure you’re getting enough to drink. Then I’ll—”

  His hand traps hers, brings it against his chest with surprising strength. His skin is as hot and dry as the desert sun. “No. Just . . . sit with me, please.”

  She blinks rapidly. “Don’t you dare give up. Don’t you dare.”

  He sighs. “Promise me you’ll—”

  “Yes. Adán. I know. But you have to promise not to give up.”

  Julio tries to speak but can’t. He takes a few breaths. Tries again. “Not him. You. Promise me you won’t hate the world.”

  She shakes her head. “I . . . Oh, Julio.”

  He smiles. “You burn so bright, Mara.”

  He’s too weak to say anything else. They sit there for a moment, staring into each other’s eyes. She doesn’t see the Julio in front of her—only the Julio from the meadow, carefree and confident, full of exuberant words and all kinds of plans. Her only plan, her only hope, was him.

  Then his hand drops away, plops onto the ground where it lies limply. His head rolls to the side. The light fades from his eyes.

  “Julio?” She grabs his limp hand and squeezes. “No, no, no, no.” She kisses his knuckles, over and over again. Her tears make muddy streaks on his skin. “Julio, you have to fight. Don’t give up. Please, I need—”

  A hand settles on her shoulder. “He’s gone, Mara,” Reynaldo says.

  But Julio’s hand is still warm. How can he be dead when his hand is still warm? It’s like her insides are splitting open. No, no, no, no.

  “Mara?” The voice comes from far away. Another world. Another life.

  She stretches out beside Julio, rubs her hands up and down his arm, gazes upon his beautiful but colorless face.

  “Mara!”

  “Go,” she says, not taking her eyes off of Julio. “Just go.”

  “He wouldn’t want you to be like this.” Adán’s voice this time.

  “I don’t care.”

  “Didn’t you promise to take care of me?” His voice turns plaintive and high, like he’s a small boy instead of nearly a man. “You promised. I know you did.”

  She looks up. His face is wet with tears, and he is half bent over with a pain of his own.

  Mara did promise. And she meant it, so she ought to make good. But she feels as though a chunk of her own self has been cruelly excised, leaving only pain. “I don’t know how . . .” she sobs out. “I can’t . . .” Maybe part of her died with Julio, and the rest longs to follow.

  Arms wraps around her. Then more, and still more, until she is at the hot, heavy center of a dozen pairs of embracing limbs.

  “We’ll carry you for a bit,” Reynaldo says. “It’s our turn.”

  And they do. Reynaldo and Adán heave Julio’s body across the packhorse and tie him down. Then they brace Mara—one under each arm—and lift her from the ground.

  Tiny Marlín plants herself in their path. She reaches up and pats Mara’s hip. Pat, pat. Patpatpat. Her face is a mask of solemnity.

  She says, “I need you to be a brave girl for me, Mara.”

  Mara doesn’t know how to respond. Marlín steps aside, and Reynaldo and Adán hold Mara up. She hangs limp between them.

  They’re about to step forward, but Mara says, “Wait.”

  They wait.

  Mara gathers her feet beneath her. She leans over and gives Reynaldo a kiss on the cheek, then does the same to Adán. “Thank you,” she says, straightening. “But I can walk on my own.”

  16

  THE next day, Reynaldo says they have gone as far as he can take them. Now all they can do is wander around until the perimeter guard finds them.

  There is no indication that anyone is near, no sign of life or habitation, but one moment they’re skirting a huge butte of layered sandstone, and the next, two young men materialize as if by magic in their path.

  “Who are you?” one demands, his hand on the hilt of a hunting knife at his belt.

  Reynaldo whispers, “We’ve made it.”

  “Refugees,” Mara tells them. “Our village was destroyed by Inviernos.”

  The boys eye them warily. Their collective gaze roves over Julio’s body, draped over the packhorse, but their expression gives away nothing.

  Reynaldo steps forward. “I am cousin to Humberto and Cosmé. I have a standing invitation to join your cause, and these are my companions.”

  “Were you followed?”

  Reynaldo doesn’t even blink. “We were. But we took care of it.”

  The boys exchange a glance. One nods at the other and says, “I’ll take a look. Tell the others we need to extend the perimeter for a few days.

  As he melts back into the scrub, the remaining boy says, “This way. Keep quiet.”

  They are led through a maze of twisting ravines and choking bramble. Mara considers that the boy might be leading them in a roundabout way on purpose. If so, it’s a smart plan, because she is well and truly lost in moments. Marlín’s tiny hand slips into hers, and she gives it a reassuring squeeze. “Do you need me to carry you?” she whispers down to the girl.

  “No. I’m a big girl now,” she says.

  The r
avine opens into a small vale. Figures appear on the ridge above, surrounding them, just like the Inviernos who attacked their village. Mara has a moment’s panic.

  But instead of attacking, they pour down the slope. Some smile in greeting. Only a few have weapons—all sheathed. They are children, mostly. Clean, well-fed, healthy.

  These perfect strangers take their hands, murmur words of welcome. One young man lodges himself under Hando’s good shoulder and supports him the rest of the way.

  A beautiful girl with short, curly hair takes charge. She lifts the corner of the blanket covering Julio’s body and says, “Too late for this one. Take him to the other side of the butte.” Someone grabs the reins to the packhorse and leads it away. Mara swallows hard, but does not protest.

  “This one needs an amputation immediately,” the beautiful girl says when she sees Hando’s black-streaked forearm. “Head gash here will need stitches,” she says of Teena. “Too late to treat your burn,” she tells Marco. “But maybe some salve will help.” Mara hadn’t realized Marco had been burned; he never complained.

  One by one she goes through each member of their party, directing others to action, until finally she reaches Mara. “You’ve been though a lot,” she says, her head cocked quizzically.

  Mara shrugs. “It’s war.”

  The girl nods. “I’m Cosmé. Welcome to our camp. If you betray us, I’ll kill you.”

  “If you betray me or these children, I’ll kill you first.”

  Cosmé flashes a grin. She indicates a general direction with her head. “Head over to the cavern if you want some hot stew.” And then she’s off, tending to the wounded.

  An old man with a missing arm approaches next. “You are Mara, the leader of this group, yes?”

  “I guess.”

  He reaches up and clutches her shoulder. “I am Father Alentín, priest to these wayward miscreants, and you, dear girl, are most welcome. Come, I’ll show you the way.”

  As they head up the slope together, Mara says, “Everyone here seems so . . . healthy.”

  “Compared to recent refugees, I suppose,” he says with a sad smile. “We’re managing. Lots of wounded, though. We lose someone almost every day. But!” His grin becomes enormous. “This war may have just taken a turn for the better.”