The Crown of Embers

Chapter 7

IT’S late evening, and sunset glows warmly through my balcony windows. Ximena and I sit cross-legged on my bed, surrounded by faded parchment and musty scrolls—old palace architectural plans, retrieved from the monastery archive by my request. We’ve been studying them for hours.

One shows the restoration of the throne room, another the monastery addition, but none give clues about secret tunnels or underground villages. I push them away with frustration.

Something slips from one of the scrolls—a tighter coil of vellum, blackening along its tips. Curious, I break the wax seal with my thumbnail, and my fingers smear with something dark—rot or mold?—as I unroll it onto my thigh.

It’s a map of Joya d’Arena. My native county of Orovalle is unmarked—the beautiful valley that lies north of the Hinders was undiscovered when this map was drawn. Which means it is probably five hundred years old, a priceless treasure that I have now exposed to light and air. I should send it back to the archive immediately for treatment and safekeeping. But I can’t make myself look away.

The eastern holdings beyond the desert—now the country of Basajuan, ruled by my friend Cosmé—are referred to as “territories.” Only the northern and southern holdings are clearly defined. Much like my country appears now, I realize with a start. The arable land of Joya d’Arena is once again a crooked sort of hourglass—fat on the top and bottom, thin and fragile in the center where the desert and ocean push together right here at my capital.

But Joya d’Arena is not alone anymore. I have allies now, protecting my borders on two sides—my father and sister to the north, Cosmé to the east. It makes me feel a little safer.

“My sky, there’s something I must tell you,” Ximena says.

I look up at my nurse. Dust smudges her right cheek, and wisps of gray hair dangle from her usually neat bun.

She takes a deep breath, as if steeling herself. “I’ve been doing some research on the Godstone. Since you fell into a coma.”

I straighten too fast, and several scrolls topple off my bed. “Oh?”

She runs a reverent forefinger across the parchment in her lap. “You know the prophecy in Homer’s Afflatus, the one that says, ‘He could not know what awaited at the gate of the enemy, and he was led, like a pig to the slaughter, into the realm of sorcery’?”

“Father Alentín thinks I fulfilled that prophecy when I was captured by Inviernos.” I keep my tone and expression bland, afraid she’ll change her mind about talking to me. Ximena spent years cultivating my ignorance on matters pertaining to the stone I bear. She believed it was the will of God. I know how much it costs her to turn her back on this tenet of a deeply personal faith.

“I’m not so sure you did.”

I swallow hard. “Oh.” I’ve been clinging to the hope that I am done with ‘the realm of sorcery,’ that being queen will be my great service to God.

She dumps the parchment off her lap and stands. “It’s the word ‘gate’ that gave me pause,” she says as she begins pacing at the foot of my bed. “In the Lengua Classica, it’s an archaic usage that also sometimes translates to ‘path.’ As in, ‘narrow is the path that restores the soul,’ from the Scriptura Sancta.”

“Go on.”

“It’s the same word we just found etched into the tunnel below the catacombs.”

I whisper, “‘The gate that leads to life is narrow and small so that few find it.’” I wrap my arms around myself. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” I say, but my heart patters and my limbs tingle. There is something to what she’s saying. Something important.

“I made a study of that word when I was a scribe. I went through all four of the holy scriptures looking for usages. It occurs exactly ten times. Five times, it refers to the gate—or path—of the enemy. But the other five times, it refers to something positive. Like life, or restoration, or healing.” Ximena pauses and grabs one of my bedposts. We lock gazes, and she says, “What are the chances of each reference occurring exactly five times?”

I shrug. “It’s the holy number of perfection. Something will occur exactly five times if God wills it.”

“Exactly. He must will it so. Such things do not happen by chance.” She resumes pacing, and her face grows distant. “I always thought those verses were metaphorical. I thought the path that restores the soul was a way to live one’s life. The way of faith, maybe. But what if . . .” She takes a deep breath. “What if it’s a real place? What if they are both real places?”

The Godstone buzzes with affirmation, sending prickles up my spine. “Both of them, real places,” I murmur. “The gate of the enemy, and the gate that leads to life.”

“I don’t know, my sky. But I’m looking into it.”

“Father Nicandro might be able to help. He has provided quiet aid to me in the past. Also, he is fluent in the Lengua Classica, and I trust him with my life.”

She nods. “I’ll discuss it with him. I’m at the point where I need access to the restricted areas of the monastery archive anyway.”

“Ximena,” I whisper. “What if it is a real place? What if I still have to go there?”

A year ago, she would have offered meaningless platitudes—or maybe a pastry—in an attempt to brush away my fears. But now she just gazes at me, her small black eyes full of determination, maybe even excitement. I shiver.

Glass shatters. Something thumps to the ground.

Ximena rushes into the atrium. I follow as quickly as I can.

Mara is doubled over beside the bathing pool, hands clutching her stomach. Several items from the vanity lie strewn about the floor. The moist air is too thick and sweet with my freesia perfume.

“What’s wrong?” I demand. “What happened?”

“I . . . shaking out your gown . . . my . . .”

“Her scar,” Ximena says. “It split open again.”

Her scar. From when the animagi burned her. Mara threw herself into the path of Invierne’s sorcerers to allow me time to work the magic of my Godstone. She barely survived. I have hardly given a thought to her injuries since that day.

I yell for one of the guards to fetch Doctor Enzo.

Mara slips to the ground, legs stretched out. Ximena unlaces her bodice to reveal a white chemise dotted with bright blood. Then she gingerly peels the chemise from Mara’s midriff.

I can’t control the gasp that escapes me. A ropy scar, about four fingers wide, stretches across her stomach, ridged with peaks and valleys of skin where her navel ought to be. Blood wells along a line of split skin.

“It’s deep this time,” Ximena says, blotting gently with the edge of Mara’s ruined chemise. “But it’s clean and straight. Easily stitched.”

“This time?” I ask. “It happens often?”

“I’ve been forgetting,” Mara says between breaths, “to put salve on it.”

“What salve? Where?” I demand.

“Small pot on the shelf by her bed,” says Ximena, continuing to blot.

“I’ll be right back.” I hurry through the atrium to the maids’ room.

It’s much smaller than my own chamber, with one high window, four bunked beds, and a shelf next to each bed for personal items. A few simple gowns hang from pegs on the wall below the window, and beside them is a writing desk with several half-melted candles. Such a tiny place to live. I can’t imagine how crowded it will feel when I finally acquiesce to my mayordomo’s request to take on more attendants.

I spot the round clay pot on the shelf beside Mara’s bed and grab it. Even without lifting the lid, I catch the strong scent of eucalyptus.

I’m hurrying back through the atrium when I step on something sharp. I nearly drop the pot as I lurch sideways to shift the weight from my foot. The effort tears at my abdomen, but I keep my balance. I peer down at the floor to see what nearly tripped me.

It’s one of my ancient Godstones, detached from its long-dead bearer. After using it to magnify the power of my own living Godstone and defeating the animagi, I tossed it along with its used-up brothers into a jewelry box on my dressing table. Mara must have knocked it over.

I lift it up between thumb and forefinger. It’s as blue-black as a bruise and jagged from its final devastating act. But in the wash of atrium light, I catch the hint of a spark, a tiny mote of untouched perfection deep inside the shattered jewel.

I hand the pot to Ximena, set the cracked Godstone on the vanity table, and crouch to face my lady-in-waiting.

“It’s doesn’t hurt that badly,” Mara assures me. “It just caught me by surprise.”

“She’s being brave,” Ximena says. “The rip is deep, and she shouldn’t be moved until Doctor Enzo gets here. The salve will help keep the skin moist.”

Someone pounds at my door, and with an apologetic shrug to Ximena and Mara, I hurry back to the bedchamber. A guard is peering through the peephole. “It’s the mayordomo, on some urgency,” he says.

His timing could not be worse. “Show him in.” I smooth my rumpled pants, wishing I’d taken the time to bathe and change today.

The mayordomo has made a gallant attempt at elegance, with a velvet vest over a blouse with flared lace cuffs. But as always, his clothes are a size too small, and his belly strains the buttons near to popping. He dips into a courtier’s bow.

“Rise.”

“Forgive the intrusion, Your Majesty.” He eyes the manuscripts strewn across my unmade bed. “I know you said to clear your schedule, but a delegation from Queen Cosmé of Basajuan has just arrived. I’ve assigned them to the dignitaries’ suite. They expressed a strong desire to see you as soon as possible.”

A delegation from Cosmé! I hope she sent friends, dear people I have not seen since my time in the desert. “You were right to inform me. See if they require food and drink. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Ximena appears in the doorway to the atrium, Mara’s pot still clutched in her hand.

The mayordomo bows again. “Yes, Your Majesty. If you’re ready to receive guests, does that mean we may discuss your schedule? Several noblewomen have applied for the open attendant positions—a queen needs more than two ladies! And I’m afraid you’ve acquired a long list of suitors; His Grace the conde Tristán of Selvarica has been relentless in trying to schedule an audience with you. There was a riot in the merchants’ alley yesterday over the wheat shortage, so the mayor would like to discuss increasing the guard presence there and in the Wallows—”

I wave him silent. “Later. See to our guests.”

He flees without another word. I frown at his back, unease curling in my stomach. Another riot. I resolve to call him back the moment I’m finished with the delegation.

“You’ll need a quick bath and a change of clothes,” Ximena says.

“No time for a bath,” I say, heading toward her.

“You can’t dress yourself with that injury!”

I grab the pot from her hands. “I’ll apply the salve while you shake out my dress and undo the bodice.” The stuff inside is thick and brown, with the consistency of something between wax and date jelly.

Ximena squeezes my shoulder and grabs my gown from the floor where Mara dropped it.

I crouch beside Mara and dip two fingers in the pot.

“It’s not right, Elisa,” Mara protests. “You’re my queen. You shouldn’t—”

“Oh, shut up. Should I avoid the tear itself?”

“No. It’s also a disinfectant. It will sting, but . . . I’ll be fine if you want to wait—”

I hush her by touching a blob of the stuff directly to the tear. She hisses.

Her skin feels strange beneath my fingertips, so lumpy and stiff, hardly like skin at all. But it’s as warm as normal flesh and bleeds just as easily. Gently I massage the salve along the edges of the wound, pretending not to notice when it mixes with seeping blood. I refuse to let myself feel revulsion, all the while thinking, Mara is this way because of me. She did it for me.

Mara makes no sound, but her head falls back against the wall as she squeezes her eyes closed.

“Your gown is ready,” Ximena says.

I give Mara’s arm a squeeze, then rinse my hands. Ximena dresses me with quick efficiency and then directs me to the edge of my bed. I’m not quite healed enough to bend over and reach my feet, so Ximena slides my stockings on. While she works, I pull out the pin holding up my braids and unravel my hair.

Thinking of Mara sitting alone on the floor of the atrium, I say, “The mayordomo is right, isn’t he? I need more than two attendants.”

“Serving you is an easy privilege, my sky. But once in a while, when we must hurry or when something goes a little wrong, like today, then yes, it would be nice to have one more person. Maybe two.” She slips on a pair of soft leather slippers.

My world is already so crowded with guards and constant visitors. It’s been nice to have a smidge of privacy in the atrium with only my two ladies, who are dear friends besides. I cannot imagine adding a stranger to the mix. But as Ximena sweeps up a layer of my hair and pins it with a mother-of-pearl comb, I say, “I’ll speak to the mayordomo about it soon.”

She plants a kiss on my cheek. “You’ll do what is best.” She helps me to my feet.

“Will you stay here with Mara?”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine without me.”

I open my mouth to snap that it’s a command, not a question. But at the last moment, I decide on a softer tack. “It will bring me comfort to know you are with her.” And I turn away, signaling the guards to accompany me.

We step into the corridor, and they center me in a tight formation of creaking leather and swinging swords.

Lord Hector hurries up as we round the first corner. The guards shift formation so he can walk beside me. “I just heard about the delegation,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

“Healthy and hearty and eager to see old friends.” We descend a wide stairway, and I gladly take his offered arm.

“It’s strange to think of Cosmé as queen,” he says. “I still picture her in her maid’s cap.”

Thinking of my friend brings an easy smile. “And I still see her in leather boots and a desert cloak, tending to the wounded and teaching the little ones to use their slings.”

“She has always been exceedingly capable,” he says.

“Indeed.” Many times I have wished I were half so capable as Cosmé.

When we reach the dignitaries’ suite, my guards clear a path so I can knock on the door myself. An older boy answers, and I don’t recognize him until his face lights up upon seeing me. “It’s Queen Elisa,” he hollers over his shoulder.

I clasp his upper arm. “You’ve grown tall, Matteo.”

His eyes are wide as he steps aside, and we have passed beyond him when he adds hurriedly, “I’ll be fourteen next month!”

The suite is about the size of my own, with two large beds instead of one. The bathing area is partly blocked by a velvet curtain, but I see the edge of a garderobe and a large wooden tub with carrying handles.

A familiar voice says, “Hello, Elisa,” as a figure pushes the curtain aside.

My breath catches as I look into the grinning face of Father Alentín, the one-armed rebel priest who became my mentor in the desert. He wears a traditional rough-woven tunic and robe, and as usual, his empty sleeve is tucked in at the shoulder.

Alentín wraps me in a hug. “Oh, my dear girl,” he says. “It has been too long.” He embraces me with such easy spontaneity, as if I’m merely a girl instead of a queen, and I melt into it.

I let myself cling to him, inhaling the dusty cook-fire scent of his woolen robe. I have to squeeze my eyes tight and swallow hard. “It’s good to see you too,” I manage.

He murmurs, “I have been praying for you every day.”

I step back and hold him at arm’s length. “And I you! How is Cosmé?”

“Struggling with limited funds to establish a stable government and build a garrison on the Invierne border. Growling at anyone who gets in her way. Putting nobles in their places.”

“So, the usual.”

“She sends her love. Actually, she said ‘regards,’ which amounts to the same thing.”

I smile. There was a time when Cosmé held me in very low regard indeed.

Alentín’s expression turns serious. “Elisa, there is something else. Something you should know.”

“Oh?”

He turns toward the bathing area and hollers, “Come on out now.”

“What?” I say. “Who are you—”

A young man steps from behind the curtain, and my throat squeezes. He is impossibly tall and reed thin, with a sharp jaw and hooked nose that make him austerely handsome. He wears a black leather patch over one eye.

It is Belén.

The betrayer. The boy who sold me to the Invierne army. He nearly ruined everything we had fought for, in his mistaken belief that he was doing God’s will.

Softly he says, “Hello, Elisa.”

I’m not sure what to say. It aches a little to see him, because before he betrayed me, he was my friend. And once he realized his mistake, he risked his own life to warn me of the animagi’s plans.

But I can’t force warmth into my voice when I say, “Why are you here, Belén?”

He opens his mouth but changes his mind about whatever he was going to say. Instead he hangs his head.

Alentín reaches out and gives Belén’s shoulder a squeeze. “This boy is quite reformed. But he remains unpopular in Basajuan, as you can imagine. The court demands his execution, but Cosmé can’t bear to see him killed. She thought to make use of his scouting ability, sending him on forays into enemy territory. Alas, his reporting visits to the city have become increasingly challenging. There was a scuffle in the stables—”

“But why send him here? Why to me?”

“Because I asked her to,” Belén says. He dares to hold my gaze. I catch myself looking back and forth between his eye and his patch before focusing determinedly on the bridge of his nose. “The Scriptura Sancta says that making amends is a holy and cleansing fire unto the soul. And that’s what I want to do: to make amends, to pledge my life to your service.”

I stare at him.

He whispers, “Please, Elisa.”

“I’ll think about it.”

He hides his disappointment quickly. “Thank you.”

I have a sudden urge to strike out at something, or maybe someone. Cosmé should not have sent Belén to me without regard for my wishes. Alentín should have known better than to support the plan. And yet I am forced to accept Belén’s presence here, since he travels in a delegation.

I have trouble enough holding my own at court. How much worse is it to be manipulated by my allies and friends? To have them foist off their own problems on me? I glare coldly as I address them both. “From this point forward, you shall address us as Your Majesty.”

They bow. “Of course, Your Majesty,” the traitor says.

To Alentín I say, “Are you here in an official ambassadorial role?” Though I know the answer; it’s the only way to ensure Belén’s safety.

“I am,” he says, and his bearing is suddenly stiff. “Queen Cosmé wishes you to know of an incident that occurred in her public marketplace and would like your view on it. In short, an animagus appeared, demanded that you give yourself over to Invierne as a willing sacrifice, and then burned himself alive.”

I gape at him. “It was the same here!”

He nods gravely. “I was in your city not two minutes before I learned of the event.”

But I hardly hear him for the pounding in my ears. Two similar occurrences in succession speak of planning, of deadly seriousness. What is so important as to be worth two martyrs? What could they possibly want with me?

You will know the gate of your enemy.

Frowning, I say, “Belén?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Delegation or no, if I sense you are out to harm me or any of my people, I will have you imprisoned and tried for treason. If Hector does not kill you first.”

If he has a response, I do not know or care, for I spin on my heel and head toward the door. My guards fall in around me.

I pause in the threshold and say to Alentín, “Weekly services will be held tomorrow in the monastery. You and Belén and Matteo should attend.”

His eyes are wide. “Yes, Eli—Your Majesty.”

They all regard me as if I am a stranger, and a creeping emptiness worms through my chest. I am nearly returned to my suite before I recognize the feeling as loneliness.