The Crown of Embers

Chapter 13

That evening, I send Mara to bed early for some healing rest. Ximena helps me don my nightgown, then leaves for a late night of poring over musty documents with Fathers Nicandro and Alentín.

In spite of everything that has happened, in spite of my doubts about God and his will and his words, I still find the Scriptura Sancta to be a soothing balm to the day’s stresses, and I look forward to reading each night by candlelight before sleeping.

But I am too restless tonight. The words blur on the page. After I’ve read the same sentence several times without comprehending, I toss the manuscript onto the quilt and swing my legs over the edge of my bed. I grab the candle and its brass holder from my bedside table and carry it toward the atrium.

In the archway, I say to the guards, “I would like some privacy, please.” They oblige by turning their backs as I enter.

The water in my ever-circulating bathing pool shimmers blue, and I don’t have to look up at the skylight to know that the moon is full or near to it. As I approach with my candle, shards of reflected flame-light dance on the surface.

I set the candle on the tiled edge of the pool.

Before me is my vanity mirror—and my own reflection. I wear a silk nightgown of pale lavender edged in delicate lace. The looseness of the gown drapes pleasantly, flatteringly, and my thick sleeping braid snakes around one shoulder almost to my waist. My skin glows in the candlelight. I feel almost beautiful.

I light the oil lamp on my vanity so I can see better.

The outline of my Godstone is sharp against the thin material. I slip the nightgown’s straps from my shoulders and let it fall to the ground.

I study my naked reflection, curious. I try to see myself through someone else’s eyes. Would someone else look past the welted red scar, the faceted blue of my Godstone to notice the slight softness in my lower belly? The way my inner thighs just brush when I stand? My legs will never be willowy and elegant like my older sister’s, but they’re straight and strong.

Finally I allow my gaze to drift toward my breasts. They are the softest part of me, heavy enough that during the day, it is more comfortable to have them bound in a bodice. Unbound, they swoop low and full, enough to balance my hips nicely. Staring at them, I become acutely aware of cool air against their dark tips.

Ximena always told me men would notice my breasts. I’ve never noticed anyone noticing. But maybe I wouldn’t. Mara says I’m pathetically ignorant in matters of love.

Slowly, face flushing, I lift my right hand to cup my left breast. I squeeze gently, and it is a tiny battle to decide what I want to understand most: the feel of a hand on my breast or a breast in my hand.

“Elisa?”

I whirl, hand dropping.

It’s Mara. She stands in the doorway to the attendants’ quarters, her hair mussed, her eyes heavy with sleep.

“I thought I heard something. Are you all right?”

She’s seen me naked a hundred times, but I have a vague sensation that I’ve been caught at something shameful. “I’m fine. Couldn’t sleep.”

She regards me a moment as if considering. Then she beckons with one hand. “Why don’t you come sit with me awhile?”

I crouch to grab the puddle of silk at my feet and hurriedly slip my arms through the straps. I stand and follow Mara into her room.

Mindful of her wounded stomach, she lowers herself onto one of the bottom bunks and pats the mattress beside her. “Sit,” she says, as if she were the queen and I the maid.

I sit.

“You can tell me anything, you know,” she says.

“I know.”

A shaft of moonlight edges through the high window and hits the opposite wall above our heads, leaving us in shadow. It is the darkness and her patient silence that give me the courage to ask, “Mara, have you ever had a lover?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Yes. Two.”

“Oh.” How can someone so young have had two lovers already? I’m desperate to ask about them, about what it was like, if either of them broke her heart. But I can’t make my mouth say the words.

“I’ll tell you about them, if you like,” she says.

Oh, thank God. “All right. Yes.”

“The first was when I was barely fifteen. He was two years older, a virgin like me. We flirted for a week or two. He was the handsomest boy I’d ever seen. One day I took my father’s sheep to a high canyon to graze. He followed, and I thought it was the most romantic thing in the world. We started kissing, and then we were taking each other’s clothes off, and then I realized that the rocky ground was poking into my back, and it was very cold outside, and the sheep started drifting away. . . . I changed my mind about what we were doing. But I didn’t say anything. I just endured. It was over after a few painful seconds. The next day in the village, he ignored me. We hardly spoke to each other during the next year.”

I stare at her shadowy outline in horror. “That . . . I’m so sorry. It sounds . . . terrifying.”

She shrugs. “It wasn’t so bad. You know, my father was the priest of our village. Very strict. He used to say he could tell when a girl had lost her virginity by the way she walked. And I walked around very carefully for days after, terrified that he would know. But he never did. I was exactly the same person after as I was before. Just, maybe, a little wiser.”

My heart is pounding. “Was it awful afterward?” I ask. “To be ignored like that?”

“Yes. I wish I’d waited, had the courage to say no or push him away. But the awfulness didn’t last. We both met someone else.”

“Oh?”

She takes a deep breath, releases it. “Julio was a little older. Not as handsome, but so much kinder. I used to make a goat-milk scone with pine nuts that I smeared with honeyed apricots. I sold it at market every week. He always bought several, and he always lingered to talk. It was months before he kissed me. Months more before we made love, which by the way was wonderful. We made love a lot. As often as possible. He was going to ask my father for my hand.”

Softly I ask, “What happened to him?” Though I think I know.

“He was killed when Inviernos burned our village. Just before I met you in Father Alentín’s rebel camp.”

I remember. She was so sad at first. Meeting God’s chosen one seemed to bring her comfort. “Oh, Mara.”

“I still miss him. But I also know how lucky I am. I could have been pregnant when he died, for we were careless. My father could have found out and beaten me for it.” She points to the scar above her eyelid. “I have another scar like this one between my shoulder blades. But Julio saw past the scars and found me beautiful.”

Her voice catches a little on the word “beautiful,” so I reach an arm around her shoulder and give her a squeeze. “You are beautiful.”

She laughs. “I know! Even with these awful scars. Julio always said he loved my smile. And my nose! Admit it, my nose is perfect.”

“Your nose is perfect.”

She leans into me. Her soft hair smells of honeysuckle. Her voice trembles a little when she says, “I do worry sometimes, since being burned by the animagi, that maybe I’m too scarred now. And burn scars have a particular awfulness, all ridged and warped and oddly colored. I may never take a lover again. I couldn’t bear for someone I cared about to . . . to be repulsed.”

It’s a feeling I understand well. I used to dread the moment when Alejandro would turn away from me in disgust. But he died before I found the courage—or maybe the desire—to be naked before him.

“And I worry that what I shared with Julio is something that only happens once to a person,” Mara says. “Maybe I’ve used up my love luck.” She shrugs.

“I worry about that too.”

She sighs. “I liked Humberto. He was always smiling, always cheerful. I didn’t realize you were lovers until you told me about him.”

“We weren’t.”

“You never . . . ?”

“Never.”

And somehow she understands that by saying “never,” I’m not just talking about Humberto, for she says, “You will. As queen, it’s inevitable. You will marry, and everyone will pressure you to have a child so that there is more than one heir to the throne.”

“You make it sound so calculating.”

“Oh, it often is. But after marrying you could take a lover. Most of the royals do, or so I’ve heard.”

I’m glad the darkness hides my flushed face. “I couldn’t. When I married Alejandro, he had a lover already. It was . . . hurtful. Even though there was no intimacy between us.”

“I see.” And I know she does. I grab her hand and squeeze tight. I could never say it aloud, but I hope she understands how glad I am that she is here with me tonight instead of Ximena.

Her voice turns mischievous. “Well, maybe you’ll get lucky. Maybe you’ll marry a man who is rich and powerful and wise and wonderful to be naked with.”

I can’t help the giggle that bubbles from my mouth.

“Maybe,” she says, “you should ask all your suitors to drop their breeches so you can inspect the merchandise.”

“Mara!”

“You could make it a royal command.”

I toss a pillow at her.

She just laughs at my discomfort. But then she sobers and says, “You’re beautiful too, you know. When you get intense, you spark. And you have the kind of hair any man would want to get tangled in.”

Of its own accord, my hand goes to my braid, strokes it. I’ve always liked my hair. Would a man really notice it?

Mara adds, “You don’t have to settle for a first time like mine.”

I shift the subject. “Well, if I ever meet that young man, I’ll . . . er . . . speak sternly to him.”

“Oh, you have already. It was Belén.”

I am stunned. “I thought . . . he and Cosmé . . .”

“Yes. But that was after.”

I had no idea the two knew each other before we formed the Malficio. What must it be like for Mara to have him show up here in the palace? I say, “I can make sure you never encounter him while he is here.”

“No need. I’m quite over it. We even got to be friends again when we stayed in Father Alentín’s camp.” She stands. “And you, my queen, need to get some rest. Full schedule tomorrow.”

I stand. On impulse, I wrap my arms around her. She freezes for a split second, but then she returns my embrace. “Thank you,” I whisper.

After I creep back to bed and blow out my candle, my thoughts are still too busy, my skin too warm, for easy sleep. It’s terrifying to consider that I might someday share a bed with a man who is a stranger, a calculated alliance, someone who might not care for me at all.

The next evening, escorted by Hector and several guards, I am hurrying toward my office for appointments with a few more suitors when Conde Eduardo intercepts us.

“May I walk with you, Your Majesty?” he asks.

Ugh. “Please.” Hector moves aside to give him room. I hope the conde is not planning to intrude on my meetings again.

Eduardo is formally dressed as always, with gold epaulets that mark him as both a high conde and a Quorum lord. My nose stings at the sharp mix of tallow and palm oil, which means his close-cropped black beard has suffered a recent repair.

“I hear you visited the prison tower yesterday,” he says.

“Hmm,” I say noncommittally.

“And that the young prince accompanied you.”

Once again, I curse myself for thoughtlessness. I should not have sent Storm to the tower, no matter how much I wanted to put him in his place. Now I must give an account or raise further suspicions. And I must say something that satisfies Eduardo enough that he won’t pursue little Rosario with his questions.

In response to my silence, he adds, “The prison guards say it was a man. Tall, cowled. He only stayed for a few hours before being escorted away by the Royal Guard.”

“Yes, that’s an accurate description.” My mind races. What to tell him? The truth will only lead to more questions about where the Invierno came from and what I want with him. I’m not ready to reveal the cavern beneath the Wallows or the fact that I’m using Storm to learn more about the Godstone.

Which leads me to the disconcerting realization that I do not trust Conde Eduardo, that my distrust goes well beyond that of mere political machinations. He is my own Quorum lord, a man who was a great ally during our war with Invierne. But my every instinct screams caution.

“Your Majesty—”

“Eduardo, obviously there are things we must discuss, but I’m afraid a quick jaunt through the hallway will not do justice to all I have to tell you.” I give him my winningest smile. “Do you think we could call a special Quorum meeting soon? Maybe two days hence?”

He frowns. “That’s the day of the Deliverance Gala.”

I feign surprised disappointment. “Of course. Thank you for reminding me. And everyone will be exhausted from the festivities the day after. So perhaps four days from now?”

I’ve trapped him neatly. He can’t push without seeming desperate or impolitic. Still frowning, he nods and says, “I’ll let everyone know and make arrangements.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“One last thing before I leave you to your errands.”

“Oh?” What now? I slow down, realizing I had unconsciously increased my pace as if to get away.

“Lord Liano has expressed a strong desire to see you again. I would take it as a personal favor if you would grant him a dance or two at the gala.”

I school my features into perfect pleasantness and say, “I would be happy to.”

He bows. “Until the gala, Your Majesty.”

I incline my head, and he strides away.

All my breath leaves me. I hadn’t known I was holding it.

“That was well done,” Hector whispers once we are a safe distance away.

Strange how I can brush off Ximena’s praise as the ravings of a madly affectionate nurse, but kind words from Hector feel like drops of water in the desert. “Thank you. But Hector, four days. That’s how long we have to come up with something plausible.”

“We’ll do it. Somehow.”

“You and I should meet with—” My Godstone turns to ice.

“Elisa?”

“Hector! Something—”

He whirls with lightning speed, placing himself in my path, as an arrow meant for me impales the back of his shoulder.

He gasps. The blood drains from his face.

Heedless of the shaft sticking from his flesh, he grabs me, pushes me against the wall. “To the queen!” he yells, and my guards hem me in on all sides in a smooth maneuver that comes only from long practice.

Hector turns to face whatever is coming, sword drawn, and now I see that the arrow is lower than I thought. Below his shoulder blade. In his ribs. Bright blood spreads across his tunic. Oh, God.

An arrow whistles down the corridor and clatters harmlessly against a forearm shield. Another thunks into a guard’s calf muscle. He cries out but does not break formation.

More arrows spear down the corridor from the opposite direction. We are trapped.

“Should I pursue?” a guard asks. “See if I can break through?”

“No!” Hector says. “They’re trying to lure us into doing exactly that. Stay tight. They may not attack openly.”

So we wait. Hector’s back is to me, and I am lodged between him and the wall. Sweat breaks out at the nape of his neck. His skin is as white as an Invierno’s.

Please, God, I pray furiously, my fingertips to my navel. Not Hector. Keep him safe. Keep all my guards safe.

A crazy thought occurs to me. “Hector, shouldn’t we yell for help?”

He actually laughs. “Yes, yes of course!”

So we do, every single one of us, and my voice soars over them all.

In moments, I hear running footsteps, the clang of steel on steel. Someone comes to our rescue.

The blood from Hector’s wound drips to the floor now. My head swims at the sight. Don’t you dare faint, Elisa.

Then something about the smell, metallic and hot, snaps me back to myself. It’s familiar.

It’s war.

I know exactly what Cosmé would do. “Hector, I need to break off the arrow shaft.”

“Wait . . . what?” His voice is breathy with pain. I hope the arrowhead has not embedded itself in bone.

“You may need to use that arm. Can’t risk the shaft getting knocked around. Please.”

He twists to give me an easy grip. “Hurry.”

Though I watched Cosmé do this a few times in our rebel camp, I never did it myself. My teeth are chattering and my hands shake, from the icy Godstone or from fear I cannot tell as I wrap both hands around it. Cosmé always braced the body part, snapped hard and fast.

He hisses from pain. “Snap lower,” he says. “As close to my ribs as possible.”

I move my hands until one rests against his back. The sounds of fighting come closer. Don’t think, Elisa. Just do.

With a grunt, I snap the shaft in two. The jagged end snags my palm, drawing blood. I toss the shaft to the ground and wipe my hand on my skirt.

Hector sways on his feet. Instinctively I wrap my arms around his waist to hold him up. He leans against me a moment, then straightens, breathing hard. “It’s all right. I’m all right.” But I’m not so sure. I know he can handle the pain, but his body could go into shock.

A flurry of bodies approaches. I see glinting blades, swinging limbs, a wooden shield. “To the queen!” calls a voice I recognize.

It’s Conde Tristán. He works his way toward us, accompanied by men dressed in the sky blue and ivory of Selvarica. The assailants are no one I recognize. I count five, but in the chaos I can’t be sure. They’re dirty and unshaven and clothed in little more than rags, but they wield quality blades and bows.

Tristán cuts through attackers with astonishing speed, a short sword in one hand, a dagger in the other. His fighting style is beautiful, almost like a dance. He and his companions give no quarter, and the attackers cannot draw their bows.

Now that we have reinforcements, Hector gestures for three guards to investigate the opposite end of the corridor, and they take off running. The wounded guard is swaying on his feet, and Hector yanks him back toward me, saying, “Don’t engage. Defend the queen.”

Only two attackers remain. Hector lunges at one and pierces him cleanly through the breast. Tristán leaps, whipping his sword around toward the other as I yell, “I need him alive!”

The conde adjusts midair, lands easily, sends the hilt into the attacker’s temple. The filthy man crumples to the ground. The Godstone’s ice fades and is replaced by soft warmth.

My guards, Hector, Tristán, the men from Selvarica all look around at one another, in that shared moment of relief and triumph I’ve seen a dozen times before. Bodies litter the corridor. Tristán nudges one with the toe of his boot and watches for movement. Nothing.

“Mercenaries?” Tristán says.

Hector nods. “They fought poorly, and their attack was ill conceived. They might not even know their employer.”

I point out, “There’s no way men dressed like that can afford weapons like those.”

“We’ll need to question the one His Grace conked on the head,” says Hector. “But he may not be able to tell us . . .” He sways.

I jump forward, lodge myself under his armpit, and wrap his arm around my shoulder. Blood soaks his shirt. It smears all over the skin of my neck, seeps into my bodice.

“Find Doctor Enzo!” I say to no one in particular. “Tell him to meet us in the commander’s quarters.”

Hector is almost limp in my arms. Fear stabs at my gut.

“Conde Tristán, can you escort us to the barracks?”

“Of course.” He gestures to one of his own men. “Stay with the unconscious one. Tie his ankles and wrists. Roll him onto his side in case he vomits.”

And we’re off, down the corridor toward the barracks. Hector sags hard against my shoulder, and his feet drag. My thighs burn with effort as each step pounds a prayerful rhythm through my head: Not Hector, not Hector, not Hector.