“Don’t!” Rumi yells, jerking me away. The tips of my fingers brush the vine and the effect is instant. Hot, searing pain flares, burning the skin where I touched the plant. I try to wipe my hand on something, but Rumi grabs my wrist like a manacle.
“¡Para!” he yells to the other guards. “Necesito fuego.”
The guards encircle us, torches raised, as Rumi examines my fingertips. “Don’t touch anything—it’ll spread and only make it worse. I’ll be right back.”
I’m hardly listening. The pain is excruciating. Blisters form as each finger swells, and my palm feels as if it’s on fire. Carajo, it hurts. My breath comes out in sharp pants as I try to stop myself from crying. They already think I’m weak—spoiled, even. Maybe it’s true. A hoarse laugh escapes me in between huffs. Look at me. I’m a joke. I’m not strong or brave like my friend. I’m not a warrior.
I’m a condesa without a country.
CAPÍTULO
Dos
The guards start mumbling in the old tongue, and I catch a few disgruntled looks. I’m slowing them down. They want to leave the jungle as much as I do. The farther in we go, the longer the journey back. There isn’t a stretch of safe ground in this forest. I could literally hide under a rock, but then a frog might croak and douse me in, I don’t know, poisonous spit.
I glance down at my fingers, the skin a blotchy red that slowly spreads down to my wrist. I let out a small whimper and raise my head to search for relief amid the heavy greenery. I want to find a pond to sink my whole hand into.
Rumi returns carrying thick leaves. He tears them apart and crushes the bundle into an oily pulp. He smears the slick moisture over my hand and down the length of my forearm.
The burning feeling fades. My relief nearly sends me to my knees. “Gracias.”
He spreads the rest of the oily mess onto his own hands and I wonder if, by touching me, his hands were infected too. “De nada.”
“How did you know what to do?”
“I know plants,” Rumi says. “The one you touched exudes an irritant that keeps insects at bay.” He holds up the crushed oily leaves. “And this one comes from the violet family. It dulls pain by numbing the area.”
I stare at my hand in wonder. It’s still swollen and marred with blisters, but at least it doesn’t sting anymore.
“He’s the best healer we have,” one of the guards says proudly. “My son’s cough has disappeared—”
“I hardly did anything, Usuy,” Rumi says. “Your son is strong.”
At his words, the guard’s chest puffs up. I turn my attention to the crushed leaves, trying to commit the color and shape to memory. This is a plant I don’t want to forget. One of the guards nudges my back, and we form a single-file line and continue our trek. We walk seemingly for hours. My pants are a shredded mess, my tunic soaked with sweat. The mosquitos are endless. Buzzing in my ear, sticking to my skin, riding my breath. My clothing isn’t the fortress I think it is either. I slide the fabric up my arm and discover several welts marring my skin.
I’m not used to the exercise, long as it is from the miles we’re traveling. I’m not told where we’re heading, how much farther there is to go, or if I’ll be given a weapon to defend myself against the jungle once they leave. But then, that’s the point.
The princesa wants me dead.
At last,at last, one of the guards signals and we stop. The Llacsan turns to look at the healer, who gives a slight nod. I look around, but the forest is as dense as ever. I thought we’d find a clearing, or someplace close to a water source. But no. They’re dumping me in a nondescript area. A single column of stone is the only landmark, made nearly invisible by the amount of foliage suffocating it.
“You’re leaving mehere?”
Rumi ignores me as he rummages in his pack. I tilt my head back to study the overhang of tangled branches and leaves. I can’t find a single star through the tree limbs. The constellations are useless to me under the canopy. Any messages from Luna are hidden, not that I have much success in interpreting the stars. My first and foremost failure as the only remaining Illustrian seer.
Fear grasps at my heart. I’m so close to unraveling, and the urge to give in to my frustration and hurt nearly overwhelms me. I want to drop to my knees and howl and sob and scream out everything that’s in me, but I can’t—I’m terrified they won’t care. That their last sight of me will be a crying mess on the ground.
Pride keeps my back straight. Lifts my chin and fortifies me for the night ahead.
Rumi finds two items in his pack, both wrapped crudely in fraying fabric. Wordlessly, he hands them to me. I open the smaller one—rolls of bread, smashed together from being tossed around in his bag. The second bundle is longer, and when the wrapping falls softly to my feet, my breath hitches at the back of my throat.
It’s my dented bronze telescope. The one tool I need to properly read the constellations.
“From Ximena,” he whispers.
I bite down hard on my bottom lip. I want to hurl both gifts into the dark jungle. Let the beasts devour her pity. But my fingers clutch the telescope as if on their own accord, refusing to let go. I lift my eyes as they fill with tears. I dash at them angrily. Rumi stares for a moment, deliberating, until something in his gaze changes—softens and bends like a slash of starlight.
“Help her settle in for the night.” He slings his pack off his shoulder. “I’ll start a fire.”
