The Bitter Kingdom

42

GUARDS carry the wounded away to be tended. Hector and I reunite with Conde Tristán and Mara near the palace gate. They are covered in dust and sweat and smiles. A large scratch on Mara’s arm oozes blood.

“Went exactly as planned,” Tristán says. “We waited until half the city watch was in the yard, then slammed the gate down. They surrendered in moments.”

I clasp him on the shoulder. “Nicely done, Lord-Conde.”

His smile fades as the full import hits him. He is about to become a Quorum Lord, per our bargain. “Iladro can come out of hiding,” he says as if he can hardly believe it. “And my mother. Selvarica is safe.”

Mara is craning her neck, looking everywhere, panic blooming in her face. “Where’s Belén?”

“He was injured.”

Her face drains of color.

“It’s serious, but he should live. I’ll take you to him.”

We dash across the courtyard and jog down the hallway to the sick ward. It’s full of injured soldiers—Imperial Guard, palace garrison, and city watch. Doctor Enzo scurries around cots with his attendants, barking orders. It already smells of old blood and dying flesh.

I pull her toward Belén’s cot. The bald patch on his head has blistered, and someone has covered it in sticky salve.

“Belén,” Mara whispers. She takes his hand and kneels beside him.

I would heal him if I could.

He stirs, sees Mara, smiles. “If I promise to live, will you marry me?”

She strokes his cheek. “No.”

I leave them alone.

In the following days, I pardon every soldier who followed Eduardo and Luz-Manuel so long as they swear fealty to me and to the Joyan Empire. Not a single one refuses.

When this is done, I announce that I will hold court in the audience hall, inviting all Joyans to witness “an act of judgment and an act of mercy.” Every nobleman and woman within a day’s journey comes, and the hall is packed tight with bodies. I sit on my hard-backed throne, wearing my crown of shattered Godstones, and formally announce my betrothal to Lord-Commander Hector de Ventierra, and I read aloud both the accord that formed the Joyan Empire and the peace treaty with Invierne.

When the ensuing buzz has died down, I call for the prison guards to present Conde Eduardo and General Luz-Manuel to the court.

They shuffle in, manacles clanking around their ankles. A guard forces them to their knees at sword point.

My herald unrolls a parchment and reads their list of transgressions. When he is finished, the hall remains silent, save for the shuffle of a skirt, the clearing of a throat. The general looks off into the distance as if bored. The conde glares at me as though he might summon my death by the force of his gaze.

An act of judgment and an act of mercy. I’ve been pondering it for days. And though Eduardo is the mastermind behind their insurgence, it is General Luz-Manuel who still holds the respect of too many armed men.

“General Luz-Manuel,” I say. “For the crimes of treason, murder, and collusion with enemy spies, I sentence you to death. Your beheading will take place tonight, when the monastery bells call the sixth hour.”

The audience hall murmurs, feet shifting. This is not unexpected. The general’s face betrays nothing.

“Conde Eduardo,” I say. “For the crimes of treason, murder, and collusion with enemy spies, your title and lands are stripped and given over immediately to your heir.” I lean forward as the audience holds its collective breath. “But you will live.”

Everyone gasps.

“Our neighbors the Inviernos will be undertaking a mining project on Isla Oscura. You will aid them. You will live out your days as a laborer in their employ.”

And finally the rage in his eyes dims and is replaced by horror, for there is nothing worse for Eduardo than being subject to someone he hates.

I do not attend the general’s beheading. I know I should. But I’m so sick of death. I’m in my suite, curled up on my bed, when the cry goes up and I know the deed is done.

Queen Alodia surprises me by accepting the invitation to attend my wedding as an honored bridesmaid. I’m vaguely aware that I had bridesmaids in my first wedding, but I paid them no mind. They were handpicked by Papá and Alodia from among Orovalle’s golden horde. They were political choices, not personal ones.

The day of my wedding dawns bright and cold, with a desert winter sun. Mara, Alodia, and Red help me prepare in my atrium. It might be the last time I prepare here, for Hector and I will take the newly renovated king’s suite. It’s much larger, more practical for two people. I suppose we might someday prefer adjoining chambers, but I can’t imagine it.

I have chosen my own gown this time. I am dark-skinned with a tendency toward plumpness, and I selected a gown that, instead of being in a raucous battle with these features, reveals them. Accentuates them. The fabric is made of dusky cream silk that makes my skin shimmer. The neckline dips low on my chest. Maybe too low. But Ximena was right—I did learn to enjoy my breasts. My rounded arms are shamelessly bared. My black hair falls in artful cascades down my back.

“You look beautiful,” Alodia says.

I startle at the compliment. Then I smile. “I’m beautiful to the one person who matters.”

She nods. “Hector’s mouth will drop open when he sees you.”

“I hope so. But I meant me. I’m beautiful to me.”

Mara weaves a string of pearls through my hair while Alodia laces up the back of my gown. Red studies the process keenly. She is especially fascinated when Mara rims my eyes with kohl and spreads a bit of rouge on my lips.

“Are you interested in becoming a queen’s attendant, Lady Red?” Alodia asks.

She wrinkles her nose. “No, I want to be a spy. Like Belén.”

Mara laughs as she places the Godstone crown with its shattered gems on my head. It was Alodia’s idea that I wear it instead of a veil. “Let’s remind the people, shall we?” she said with that familiar calculating tone. “Of what you have done and who you are.”

What I am is a former bearer with an empty navel, but almost no one knows it. And I haven’t decided whether or not to tell anyone else.

The monastery bells ring the hour, and it’s time to go. I say a quick prayer of gratitude as we exit the suite and are surrounded by my Imperial Guard in their shimmering ceremonial armor. We march solemnly through the palace toward the monastery hall, but I feel anything but solemn. I want to skip like a little girl and shout for joy.

When we reach the entrance, a hush falls over the enormous crowd inside. They rise to their feet as musicians begin strumming the marriage blessing on their vihuelas. Red steps ahead of me with her basket and drops rose petals along my bridal walkway.

At the end of the aisle stands Hector, so straight and strong. My friend, my lover, my chosen life anchor. I was surprised when he picked Storm for one of his attendants, along with Belén; his brother, Captain Felix; and Prince Rosario. They all stand proud beside the groom, and Storm makes no effort to disguise the fact that he is both an Invierno and an animagus. His amulet dangles sharp and stark against his white robe. I hope that in generations to come, many more Inviernos will be included in royal weddings.

Belén is nearly healed. His hair is growing out as white as the animagus’ who burned him.

Hector wears a crown for the first time in his life, as befits the imperial prince consort. His eyes shimmer.

My father is dead. I have no brother, no doting uncle or distant conde with whom I fostered. So Father Nicandro volunteered to walk me down the aisle. I declined. Then Belén offered, but I declined him too. This time, I said, I will give myself away.

So I step out alone. But my sister and my best friend step out behind me, and I feel their presence like a comforting blanket, a hot mug of wine, a cool breeze on a sunny day. We reach the altar, and Hector grabs my hands before Father Nicandro indicates that he should. He stares at me, unable to smile for trying so hard not to cry.

Nicandro waxes on about marriage in the Lengua Classica, but I don’t hear a word he says because I’m too busy basking. We made it, Hector and I. We lived. And though our joining merges two regions and saves a nation, this is what I would have chosen for me.

“I love you,” I mouth at him. He just swallows hard and nods.

The night is beautiful, washed with the warm glow of lanterns, the air moist and cool against my bare skin. I allow myself the luxury of listening to Hector breathe softly beside me, feeling sleepily content.

But sleep does not come.

I’ve accomplished everything I set out to do. I stopped a civil war, established peace for our generation, fulfilled a prophecy. And I lived to share the next day with the most amazing man I’ve ever known.

So why am I restless?

I rise from the bed, slowly so as not to wake my husband, grab my dressing gown from its peg, and wrap it around my shoulders. I step into the adjoining sitting room and settle at the small writing table. From the drawer I pull parchment, quill, and ink.

I consider where I ought to start, and once I have it figured out, I dip my quill and begin to write, at first furiously, then with abandon, until my hand cramps and daylight filters through the linen curtains.

My cracked Godstone winks up at me from the writing table where I carelessly tossed it days—or was it weeks?—ago. I grasp it between thumb and forefinger and hold it up to the dawning light. The center is opaque now, as black as night. It is irrevocably dead.

“What are you doing?” Hector asks.

I almost drop the stone. “I’ve been writing. Everything I can remember.”

He pads in on bare feet and leans down to kiss my forehead. “You have ink on your nose,” he says, and he kisses that too. Then he leans a hip against the table and says, “Tell me about it.”

I set down the Godstone and rub my tired eyes. “One hundred years from now . . . no, closer to eighty, I guess . . . another bearer will come along. And I don’t want her—or him—to have to figure everything out like I did. I was so unprepared, Hector. No, the world was unprepared. Everyone had a small piece of the puzzle. I had to learn bits of it from Ximena, from the priests, even Storm and the Deciregi. No one knew everything. Because we were busy being at war or arguing over doctrine or . . .”

I take a deep breath. “I won’t let that happen again. I’m an empress now. Right or wrong, my writings will be considered sacred. If I scribe it, it won’t be forgotten.”

He considers, and I know he’s turning it over in his mind, considering all possible angles. “It’s a good idea,” he says. “But you might want to keep it private, order it released upon your death. It might be a good tool for Rosario too. He’ll know that other rulers have struggled before him, that he is not alone.”

“Yes, for Rosario.” I dip my quill and add his name to a different sheet of parchment.

“And what’s that?” he asks.

I blow on the ink, then hold it up. “It’s a list. There’s so much I want to get done. I want to map the catacombs, find out if that inscription in the tunnel leads to another place of power—maybe there are undiscovered gates of power all over the world. The Wallows are desperately poor, but full of good people—maybe I’ll establish a school there, or at least a library.”

“If they could read, we could hire some of them to—”

“And how exactly did our ancestors mix our blood with that of the Inviernos? Why are some Inviernos born with Godstones, when mine appeared on my naming day as if by magic? Was it God? If so, where do the machinations of our ancestors end and those of God begin . . .” My voice breaks off at the sound of chuckling.

“You will accomplish everything you set out to,” he says. “Of that I have no doubt.”

I regard him smugly. “I know.”

He indicates the Godstone with a chin lift. “What are you going to do with that?”

I stare at it. There is nothing beautiful or potent about it now. “Maybe I’ll make a necklace out of it to match my crown. If I get around to it.”

Gently, he asks, “Do you miss it?”

“No,” I say honestly. “My true power was never in my Godstone.” I grab it from the table, open the parchment drawer, and toss it inside. It glides to the back, out of sight, and I slide the drawer home.

“Speaking of power . . .” I rise from my seat and wrap my arms around his neck, kissing his cheek, his throat, running my hands over his broad shoulders. He buries his face in my hair.

“It would destroy me to have you just a little,” he once said to me. I push him back, regard him thoughtfully. At the time, he was worried I had too much power over him, that I wouldn’t be able to give him my whole self.

“Hector, I have to ask. Do you want to be an emperor? Because I could make you one. You could be my equal in rank, with just as much authority. Tristán still owes me votes on the Quorum. We could ram an edict through—”

“No need,” he says, reaching up to brush my bottom lip with his thumb. “I’m a good leader, but you’re a great ruler. I am strong enough—man enough—to be subject to you.”

“Are you?” I arch an eyebrow at him.

He scoops me up and carries me to the bed, where he lays me gently down, grinning enormously. “I am.”

“Show me,” I command.

He shows me.