Free The Shattered Mountain by Rae Carson

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

    T HE 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 ravine