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
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
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