The Crown of Embers

Chapter 26

I hurry back to the captain’s quarters to grab my pack. I peek inside and find, to my immense relief, that my bottle of lady’s shroud is intact. Mara holds up her satchel and nods, which I take to mean that hers survived too.

The Aracely’s dinghy was lost to the hurricane, but by some miracle our trawler stayed tied down on the quarterdeck. I’m eager to get to shore, but Hector insists on letting another group go first. “Let them scout around, make sure it’s safe,” he says, and I agree reluctantly.

I pace back and forth across the deck as a group of eight men with supplies rows toward the beach. Once they are close enough, they jump out and pull the boat onto shore, unload, and then disappear into the jungle. It seems like forever passes before they reemerge, waving with a signal that all is well. Finally two men push off and hop back into the boat, leaving the rest behind to start setting up a camp.

Mara, Belén, Storm, Hector, and I are in the second group to ferry over. As we settle in the boat, the tug on my Godstone is so insistent as to be nearly painful. To distract myself from the discomfort, I trail my fingers in the warm, clear water as we skim the bay. The fish astound me. I see brightest gold, flashes of red, even Godstone blue. I’m tempted to dive in for a swim.

Once we reach the shallows, I jump from the boat and splash through water, heedless of soaking my clothes. We drag the boat onto the sand, and I’m surprised when my legs waver, as if the land leaps and rolls like an ocean.

Hector notices my teetering and grins. “You’ll adjust to solid ground soon enough.”

The sailors who disembarked before us have begun setting up a haphazard camp. They’ve already lined a fire pit and erected one tent—but they’re doing it all wrong. I suppose that, as seamen, they’ve had few opportunities to organize encampments on land. On the other hand, I’ve had plenty.

“You there,” I call. “Haul the supplies farther into the trees. We need shelter from wind and surf. And you, would you move the fire pit, please? Find a spot where sparks won’t catch on dried palm fronds overhead.” I tap my fingers to my lips. If we’re to be here for weeks, then we need a latrine pit, far away from our water source. “Belén, do you see a good spot for digging a—”

“Latrine? Against the cliff face, there,” he says, pointing. “It’s downwind and far enough from the stream.”

“Yes, perfect.” I gesture toward a man I’ve seen in Felix’s confidence on several occasions. “Do you read and write?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Compile an inventory of all our supplies—fishing gear, foodstuffs, tools, material we could use for repair, everything you can think of.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

I eye the stream critically. The silt has created a small sandbar that protects it at low tide and keeps the mouth narrow. I mutter, mostly to myself, “We may have enough undamaged netting to stretch all the way across, which would take care of our fishing needs even if we come up short on other tackle.”

I look up to find Hector staring at me thoughtfully.

“Anything I haven’t thought of yet?” I ask him.

He closes the distance between us. My breath catches as he grasps my upper arm. In a low voice meant for my ears only, he says, “If you were like this, with this kind of confidence, this clarity of thought, while in Brisadulce, no one would dare challenge your rule.”

My heart sinks a little. He means it as encouragement more than criticism, and the thumb sweeping across my shoulder attests to how much he cares. But it stings because he’s right. A whole country is so much vaster, more complicated, more important, than a village of desert refugees or a temporary island camp. That’s why I’m here, after all. Because I need something more than just me to do a good job of it. I haven’t been enough.

“Perhaps I spoke out of turn,” Hector says. “But I truly believe you have it in you to be a great queen.”

I lift my chin. “Thank you for saying so.”

“I’ll get started on that latrine.” He turns to go.

“Hector, wait.”

He whirls. Sand clings to the bottom of his soaked breeches, and the moisture in the air has turned his hair into a mass of waves.

I say, “You have never said anything to me that is out of turn.”

He knows I’m speaking of a different moment entirely, for he allows himself a slow, satisfied smile that turns my insides to date pudding.

I add, “I expect honesty and truth from you always.”

He nods once, firmly. “And you shall have it.”

We end up making camp in a small clearing well back from shore, where the coconut palms are interspersed with rambling pink bougainvillea bushes and thick banyan trees with sprawling roots. Morning-glory vines wind up their trunks, dripping purple flowers. Their close cousins, the yellow night bloomers, twine in sync with them, and it’s hard to see where one ends and the other begins. But when evening falls, the morning glories will twist closed as the night bloomers unfurl, bathing our campsite in soft light.

After a late-afternoon meal of dried jerky, pistachios, and fresh mango, I announce that I will begin searching for the zafira first thing in the morning, while Felix’s men make repairs to the ship.

“You know which direction to go?” Hector asks.

“Oh, yes,” I say, pressing my fingertips to the Godstone. “It’s very . . . compelling.”

“I’d rather explore a bit first,” he says. “The island seems to be deserted, but I’d like to be sure.”

I sigh. Of course he would. “The day after tomorrow, then?”

“I think it would be best.”

I nod, but I avoid his gaze as I come to a decision.

The hurricane is not the only test I will face; I’m certain of it. Storm said it will get harder as I get closer, and I’ve put everyone else at risk enough as it is. We have lost two men overboard already. I could not bear to lose Mara or Belén. Or Hector.

I have demanded his honesty but not given him mine, for tomorrow I will deceive him. While he’s out exploring, I will slip away—alone.

When I finally dare glance at him, he is studying me through narrowed eyes.

Beside me, Mara wipes her fingers on her pants and says, with a mouth still full of mango, “I need a bath. And to wash my clothes. Maybe we could find a good place upstream?”

I’m glad for the excuse to turn away from Hector. “That sounds lovely. My boots still stink of sewer.”

“Belén and I will scout first,” Hector says. “We’ll need to sweep the area.”

Mara and I make no effort to disguise our shared eye roll.

We tell Captain Felix where we’re going, and then the four of us make our way upstream. It’s a rough hike through thick jungle and slippery mud. The farther inland we go, the rockier and steeper it gets, and I step carefully.

At last the stream widens into a pool, hemmed in by black boulders and curving palms. In the middle of the pool, just slightly off center, is a large bean-shaped rock with a flat top. “It’s perfect!” Mara exclaims.

While Hector and Belén scout around, we empty our packs and rinse everything—spare clothes, knives, water skins—of any leftover sewage. I even pull out my crown box. The wood is warped and streaked with salt, the cushion a soggy mess. But the Godstone crown is as pristine as ever. I dunk it in the pool, wipe it down carefully with my spare blouse, and then set it atop my pack to dry.

When they are out of sight, when we can’t even hear them rustling through the jungle, we pull out our bottles of lady’s shroud and quickly down the appropriate dose. Mara grins all the while, delighted with our little intrigue. But I feel awkward and strange. I’m still not sure what I’m going to do. And Hector feels far too important to be merely the object of two giggling girls playing at love.

But maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be. Perhaps by forcing smallness onto this thing that is so huge in my heart, I’ll be able to manage it.

They return and declare the area safe. “We’ll be within earshot,” Hector says as he and Belén retreat downstream.

“I just bet you will,” Mara mutters.

I look at her, startled. “You really think they would . . . peek?”

She sighs. “Just wishing. Neither of them would. Too honorable.” She waggles a finger at me. “But don’t think it hasn’t crossed their minds.”

I manage a wan smile in return. The thought of being so exposed fills me with a little excitement and a lot of dismay. I don’t despair of my body the way I used to. But it’s still worrying.

Being naked before Mara, however, is another matter; she’s my lady-in-waiting, after all. “Race you,” I say.

Together we struggle with the laces of our blouses, shuck our boots and our pants, and jump in. It’s deep, and when I break the surface, I gasp from the cold shock. But it’s clean and clear and wonderful, and soon Mara and I are splashing and laughing and forgetting to wash anything.

We swim for a long time before Mara finally grabs soap from her pack and we lather everything—our skin, our hair, our clothes. We hang the clothes to dry, then lie side by side on the flat rock, soaking up the warmth of late afternoon.

“Your scar,” I say. “It really is better.” It’s less angry, less puckered.

“Yours too,” she says, and then she laughs. “We’re an oddly matched pair, aren’t we?”

The sun is dipping behind the giant peaks and tree frogs are beginning to chorus by the time we swim to shore and don our still-damp clothes. We find Hector and Belén downstream a ways, and it’s obvious they did some washing up of their own, for they are scrubbed clean and smell faintly of soap.

“Sorry to keep you waiting so long,” I say to Hector as we begin the trek back. “We lost track of time.”

“It’s not a problem,” he says, but his voice is curt. I glance up to find his face has gone flinty cold.

I look away, feeling vaguely hurt. But I won’t ask if I’ve done something to anger him in front of the others. The four of us hike through the jungle in silence.

The night bloomers have unfurled by the time we return to camp. Our tents float in a garden of stars, reflecting palest blue in their soft light. A breeze rustles the palm fronds above us.

After a quick meal of whitefish baked on sticks over the fire pit, I unravel the hasty braid Mara did for me after our swim. I’m beginning to loose the laces of my blouse when the import of what I’ll do tomorrow hits me. My fingers pause on the ties.

I know so little about the zafira. I have no idea what will happen or what I’ll find. I don’t even know if I’ll make it back. What if I never see him again?

I crawl from my tent and go in search of Hector.

I find him on the beach, just outside the line of palm trees. He sits on a hollowed-out log, one knee bent, the other long leg stretched out in the sand. He grips a tall stick, which he whittles with his dagger. It takes me a moment to realize he’s making a spear.

He looks up as I approach, his face unreadable.

“Do you mind company?” I ask.

With a lift of his chin, he indicates the space on the log next to him. I settle beside him, careful to avoid the end of his stick, and lean forward to rest my elbows on my knees. The sea glows with the light of a half moon. I lift my face to the breeze and listen to the gentle lap and suck of the surf and the whisk-whisk sound of Hector’s knife against the wood.

“What are you doing here, Elisa?” he asks in a weary voice.

I flinch away. “I . . . I didn’t mean to intrude. If you’d rather be al—”

“Did you come to torment me?”

“What?” Well, yes, maybe a little. “I know you’re angry at me, but I’m not sure why.”

He’s gripping his dagger too tightly, and his next stroke lops off the tip of his spear. He sighs. Dagger still in hand, he wipes his brow with his wrist. He says, “I’m not angry at you. Mostly at myself.”

“Oh?”

He opens his mouth to say something but changes his mind. Instead he whittles at his ruined stick, and I recognize the expression as the one he wears when chewing on a particularly tough problem.

Finally he says, “Honesty in all things, right?”

“Yes, please.” But I’m coiling in on myself, trying to make my heart a stone, because I have no idea what he’s going to say.

He stares out across the moon-glass bay. “It was difficult for me today,” he says, “to stand guard for you. To hear you laughing and splashing with Mara, knowing you were . . . bathing. Very . . .”

“Oh,” I breathe. “I see.”

“The most important thing I do is protect you. I would die to keep you safe.” He’s gripping his dagger so tightly his knuckles are turning white. “But you make it very difficult. Sometimes you can’t help it, of course. But sometimes you can.”

“I don’t understand.” I don’t know why, but my chest tightens with shame. “I’ve been taking your advice. I’m taking fewer risks. . . .”

He lets the dagger and spear drop into the sand and twists to straddle the log. His eyes are very close when he says, “I can’t defend against you.”

My heart is a drum in my chest.

His forefinger reaches toward me, to my cheek, gently sweeps a strand of hair behind my ear. From there his finger trails along my jawline, up to my mouth.

My lips part. My whole body buzzes.

“I told you I wouldn’t let it interfere with my work. But every time you smile at me, and especially when you look at me the way you’re looking at me right now, everything disappears.” His thumb sweeps across my bottom lip, down my chin. His voice is low and dark as he says, “When it happens, I’m not guarding you anymore. Your enemy could come up behind me, and I would never know, because all I’m thinking about is how badly I want you.”

My heart sings. I stare at his mouth. It’s beautiful, with full pale lips set off by his sun-darkened skin. I would only have to lean the tiniest bit to close the distance between us.

He starts to back away.

In desperation, I blurt, “Mara says I should take you as my lover.”

His indrawn breath is as sharp and hard as if I’ve wounded him. My face fills with heat, and I can’t bear to look at his face. I’m embarrassed at my own weakness, unable to say such an important thing straight out. I want you as my lover, I should have said. But I can’t bring the words to my lips, because if he says no, he’ll be saying no to me, instead of merely to Mara’s idea.

But he’ll have none of that. “Elisa. Are you asking?”

Panic and hope war inside me. It’s up to me, as it has always been. I can ask him or not. Asking him is terrifying. But not asking would be so much worse.

“Yes, I’m asking. Hector, I—”

With a swift motion, he cups the back of my head and presses his warm lips to mine. The pit of my stomach drops away as I open my mouth to his.

He groans, wrapping his other arm around my waist, pulling me toward him until I am almost in his lap. I arch against him; my breath comes fast as he explores my mouth. Before, his kisses were patient and sweet. But there is nothing of sweetness in him now, just heat and desperate need.

He tangles his fingers in my hair and yanks my head back, breaking our kiss. I let out a little “Oh!” of disappointment, but then he’s sliding his mouth along my jaw, to the pulse at my throat. “Elisa,” he murmurs. “I’ve wanted to do this for a long, long time.”

His words send me spiraling with dizzy gladness. I clutch at his hair—it’s even softer than I imagined—and press my lips to the top of his head. I close my eyes, wanting to memorize this perfect moment, and I breathe deeply of leather oil and fresh-washed jungle and something a little sharper, something distinctly Hector.

His lips brush my collarbone and then dip lower, toward my breasts. I slide my hands to the hem of his shirt and start to pull, desperate for more, more skin, more him.

He freezes. Then he pushes me away.

“Hector?” I gasp out, suddenly aching and bereft.

He closes his eyes tight, takes a deep breath. Opens them. They are huge and warm and . . . wet? as he whispers, “Elisa . . . I . . .”

Why did he stop? Did I do something wrong?

He tries again. “I can’t. I won’t.” He slides back, putting cold hard space between us.

I pull my knees to my chest, curl into a tight ball. This is what I’ve feared, why it was so hard to ask. I find myself shaking my head against whatever comes next.

“I need to explain,” he says.

I find a tatter of pride and say, “No, you don’t owe me an—”

“I said I need to explain.”

I rest my chin on my knee to steady myself. “All right.”

He says, “You have every possible power over me.”

“What?”

“You have the power of a dear friend, you have all the power that a beautiful woman has over a man who loves her, and most importantly, you are my sovereign. You have the power to command me in everything.”

Something about his choice of words makes me angry. “You have plenty of power over me too,” I say.

But it’s like a dam of control has burst, and he hardly hears me for needing to get out all the thoughts that have been spinning in his head.

“Have I told you about my parents?” he asks. “They’re best friends. Partners in everything.” His eyes grow distant as he talks, and his mouth curves into a sad smile. “I’ve watched them my whole life, the way they are with each other. So easy and natural. They finish each other’s sentences. They can exchange a look across the dining table and instantly know what the other is thinking.”

The gaze he turns on me is fierce, like he’s desperate for me to understand. “Neither is subject to the other; they’re more like two halves of a whole. And that intertwining of lives, of being, it’s amazing to see. Being lovers . . . it feels like it would be such a big thing, yes?”

God, yes.

“But it’s only the littlest bit of who they are together. And theirs is the only kind of love I could have with you. Anything else makes me less.” He takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “I won’t become a helpless marionette or a temporary diversion for my queen.”

Pain blooms beneath my breastbone, because I’m starting to understand.

He grabs my hands. I lower my knees and let him draw me toward him until our foreheads touch. “I understand how careful you have to be with your alliances right now. So when we get back from this, you’ll marry someone else. I will too. Maybe your sister. We might be able to arrange a tryst on occasion, and God, part of me thinks I should do anything, anything, if it means having you once in a while. But it wouldn’t be enough.” His thumbs caress my knuckles. “Don’t you see, Elisa? I love you the way a drowning man loves air. And it would destroy me to have you just a little.”

I choke on a sob, and tears leak from my eyes. It’s the cruelest of cruelties, for him to love me so deeply but refuse to have me.

He lifts his fingers toward my face and gently, so gently, wipes a tear from my cheek. He says, “I’m glad to know, though, that you think of me that way. I’ll always remember that.”

Grief threatens to strangle me. I have to push it away before I dissolve into a puddle of despair.

I blurt, “I just started taking lady’s shroud. Isn’t that silly of me?” I mean to sound cavalier, like I’m ready to laugh at myself and move on. But my face flames as soon as the words are in the air.

He grasps my hands and rises, pulling me to my feet. “You’ve been thinking about this a lot,” he says, a touch of wonder in his voice.

I nod, swallowing against further tears. “At least as much as you have.”

“Oh, I doubt that very much.” And suddenly he’s kissing me again, a deeper, longer kiss, and it’s a good thing our arms are wrapped around each other, because I don’t think I could stand on my own.

I want the moment to last forever, but of course it can’t. This time, when he pushes me away, I’m ready for it. I slide my arms from his shoulders, let them fall to my sides.

He takes a step back. We regard each other solemnly.

He says, “I won’t kiss you again.”

My vision wavers and the world tilts beneath my feet. I won’t kiss you again. Humberto said that to me once. It proved prophetic, for he died not long after.

Hector is turning his back, walking away from me. How can he, when my head still swims with his words and my skin still hums with his touch? When my heart feels as jagged as Godstone shards?

Something wells up inside me. Desperation, maybe, that I have loved and lost yet again. Or terror; people have a tendency to die after kissing me.

But no, neither of those. It’s rage.

I clench my hands into fists and yell, “Hector!”

He whips around.

“You were never, never, going to be just a diversion to me.”

He sighs, nodding. “That was unfair of me,” he says. “I’m sorr—”

“And you will kiss me again. That and more. Count on it.”

His mouth slams closed, and his eyes flare like a starving man’s.

I whirl and stride away.