Page 97 of The Familiar

Santángel forced himself to ignore the pain in his back and leapt free, taking Luzia with him. He hit the ground with her beneath him and struggled to protect her body from any stray hoof, but the horse was already crashing through the trees and away from them, wild in its panic.

He fought to breathe. One of the arrows had pierced his right lung and every attempt to draw air was a jagged stutter. Soon his lungs would start to fill with blood. He needed to remove the arrows before his body tried to heal around them.

“Luzia, close off the clearing,” he gritted out, each word an agony.

He heard her whisper, heard men shouting to one another as the woods closed in. His own vision was fading.

He gave his head a shake. He needed to stay awake. “You’re not hurt?” he managed.

“I’m fine,” she said, though her face was full of fear. “Let me heal you.”

“There’s no time. You must run. Make a path through the woods and close it off behind you.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“I cannot die, but you can. Get to San Sebastián. I’ll find you. Please, if you value your life as I do, go. Trust me to meet you. Trust me to survive as I trust you to do the same.”

“Santángel—”

“I have begged for nothing in this life, but I am begging you now, Luzia. Go.”

She pressed a kiss to his lips and ran.

Valentina didn’t understand what was happening. One moment she was watching the Prince of Olives build a ship of war and cursing herself for encouraging Luzia to court his friendship. The next Vázquez was shouting and the king’s soldiers were moving to block the road that led away from the lake.

“Where is the worm Pérez?” Vázquez howled, storming off the stage.

Valentina couldn’t see Don Antonio in the crowd, nor his red-bearded courtier, nor his liveried guards.

“What is this?” Marius asked. “Where is he?”

“He has fled,” Don Víctor snapped, “and we have all helped him do it.”

Valentina wanted to ask a thousand questions. Why would Pérez choose this moment to flee? Had he planned this from the start? How far could he hope to get when the king’s authority stretched across Castile, Valencia, Portugal? His forces were everywhere.

“Where can he go? Why would he do something so rash?”

“He will go to Aragón,” said Don Víctor, “where Philip’s authority is weakest. Where the hell is my familiar?”

Did he mean Santángel? And where was Luzia? The Prince of Olives was wading through the water as Doña Beatriz stood at the shore, begging the soldiers to help retrieve him from the lake. The surface was cluttered with broken boards; no remnant of Luzia’s cross or Donadei’s galleon remained.

It all seemed silly now, as people pushed and shoved around them, some of them fleeing into the woods, others trying to speak to Vázquez or arguing with his soldiers, insisting they be allowed to leave.

“What do we do?” Valentina asked. “Will we be arrested?”

But Don Víctor was already striding toward his coach.

“Will you not help us back to Madrid?” Marius demanded.

“Find your own way,” said Don Víctor. “Our partnership is at an end.”

“Damn him to hell.” Then Marius’s eyes alighted on Doña Beatriz’s cinnamon mare. “Come along.”

“We cannot—”

“Come along.”

“We’ll be thieves!”