Incendiary (Hollow Crown #1)(36)
The stench hits my nose when the breeze shifts, and my horse rears on his hind legs, as if trying to retrace his steps. I grab the reins and pull. He is my courage, and I will ride him through that walk of death.
The four of us make the symbol of Our Lady over our torsos at the same time, then I click my tongue and lead us onto the wide road. We’re forced to slow down so as not to draw attention to ourselves.
We’ve ridden for hours, pushing our stolen horses onward without rest as the landscape changed from the Forest of Lynxes to the lush greens that border the Rio Aguadulce, but Andalucía is an oasis in a dry valley. I rub the flank of my horse. The capital is filthy, so we won’t stand out in our travel-worn clothes. Margo tucks her necklace into her brassiere. She never speaks of where the golden starfish pendant came from, but no matter where we are she doesn’t take it off. The others put away any visible metal. I have no jewelry to heighten my power. Robári are matched with platinum, a metal so rare, I’ve never even seen it, not even so much as a button. Though I can’t help but wonder, if I did procure a piece, would the Whispers even allow me to keep it?
We can’t pass as pious pilgrims, so we’ll be young farmhands trying our luck in the bustling, boisterous, rat-infested city everyone talks about.
The palace is at the very center of it all, the heart surrounded by streets that course like arteries and alleys like veins. The justice’s cathedral and the executioner’s square are beside the palace, connected beneath the city by a maze of tunnels that lead to sewers.
I remember Dez standing at the bottom of a hidden stairwell while the city burned around us. I trusted him the minute I saw him, but when he led me to Illan and the Whispers, waiting with the other children they were able to rescue, I screamed and fought. I remember closing my fist around one of the iron gates. Was it Illan or Celeste who yanked me free? My heart races and a sick feeling floods my gut. I turn over the side and throw up what little is in my stomach.
“I don’t suppose you ran away with a plan?” Esteban asks. When I sit back in my saddle, I realize he’s offering a handkerchief to me. It is the smallest gesture, but my eyes sting as I clean myself.
“Dez is in the cells,” I say. “I can retrieve the code, but I have to get down there.”
“How can you get the code?” Sayida asks me.
“I’ll steal the memory from the guard,” I lie.
Slowly, we canter up the final hill. My muscles are sore from riding and the poisoned cut throbs, a dull memory of pain that feels near and far. The Ren who lived in this city was rosy-cheeked and had a taste for sweets. She was spoiled, naive. Even at this distance, my nerves twist and warn me to go back, because perhaps I’m still naive to think I can save him, to think I’ve changed at all.
“I’ve never seen the capital before,” Esteban says nervously. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a narrow spyglass.
“Get a good look,” Margo says dryly. “It might be your last.”
I expect Esteban to respond with a teasing remark or, at the very least, a smile. But instead, he kicks his horse and rides ahead of us.
The traffic into town is heavier than I’d expect for so early in the morning. There are vendors lugging wagons brimming with fruits and vegetables. There’s a round woman who has four small children sitting on her rickety carriage and a fifth one who waves at me from atop a mountain of potatoes. But there are also young country girls in simple blush-colored dresses walking arm in arm, likely to spend the day at the market stalls. A group of boys in their Holy Day best riding in a carriage with their parents. Of course. It’s Holy Day. The justice doesn’t hold executions on Holy Day because it belongs to celebrating the Father of Worlds.
I kick at my steed and ride faster. Andalucía looms ahead. The shimmering palace juts above the other buildings like a gem encircled by rocks. Even its surrounding hedges are tall, taller than the iron gates that twist like ivy and create a perimeter.
To get there, we’ll have to go through the market square, where stone buildings with elaborate spires reach toward the sky. The wealthier rows of houses will be on the other side of the city, with their colored glass rippling in neat lines, and though I’m too far away to see, I know they depict scenes of the Father of Worlds and his creations.
As we approach, I imagine the best route for us to take once we cross the pillars that mark the entrance to the city. Here, buildings on the fringe of the bustling market and courthouse are mostly five or six stories and boxed around the cathedral. The closer the buildings are to the cathedral the tighter and taller they are, packed like crooked teeth leaning into a gap.
The fringe has a line of posts for horses, as the cobblestone streets are labyrinthine and crowded. The right of way is for pedestrians like those farm girls with small brass libbies in their pockets. Esteban is already tying his horse to a post, the creature lapping up water from a trough. He pretends like he doesn’t know me, which is no different than when we’re in ángeles.
“Take your gloves off,” Margo murmurs as she comes to a stop beside me. “They’re a dead giveaway in the height of summer.”
I do as she says and ball my bare hands into fists, feeling naked in the morning light.
“Stay close to me,” Margo whispers. She links her arm with mine, and my entire body tenses. Warmth radiates off her, the pull of her magics surrounding me, and when I look down, I stare at my hands in awe. They’re not the flawless, soft hands of a highborn girl, but they aren’t the scarred hands of a Robári either.