The Crown of Embers

Chapter 8

MARA is stretched out on my bed, Doctor Enzo hovering over her as he tucks in the edges of a bandage. The guards have turned politely away, as they do when I am dressing.

I grab her hand. “How do you feel?”

“Rather like I just split in half.”

Enzo snorts. “Well short of half. Although stitching scar tissue is a complicated and delicate process. I used seven stitches this time, all quite small thanks to a new needle I commissioned.”

Seven? This time? I’m about to ask about the other times when Ximena hurries in from the atrium. “I have everything set to rights. Mara made quite a mess when she fell.”

Mara squeezes my hand. “Who was it? Anyone from Father Alentín’s camp? I was so hoping—”

“Alentín himself is here.” I hush her startled exclamation. “But there is more, which I will tell you in a moment.”

Her eyes narrow, and she nods.

Doctor Enzo pulls Mara’s chemise down over the bandage and straightens. “Light work only for the girl,” he tells me. “For a week. Bandages must be changed daily, the salve applied each time. Would you like me to look at you too, since I’m here?” He stares toward my abdomen, and his fingers twitch with eagerness. “I hear you’ve been up and about against my recommendation. I predict you have continued to heal anyway. I consulted some records in the archive of previous bearers, and—”

“Later, Enzo. You are dismissed.”

He mutters disjointed grumblings as he exits the suite.

Mara struggles to sit up. I give her arm a gentle pull, and she slides from the bed onto her feet.

I relate my meeting with Alentín. Ximena’s eyes narrow at the news that another animagus burned himself alive. And when Mara learns that Belén is in the palace, she collapses back onto the bed, looking dazed.

Ximena paces. “I don’t like this,” she murmurs. “Just how many animagi must there be for Invierne to sacrifice them so easily? And Belén. He needs to be watched. Which means we must assign some of the Royal Guard to their quarters. After the lockdown, I’m not sure we can trust the palace garrison.”

“Which means,” Hector says, “using some of the men who are assigned to your own protection.”

Fernando, from his post at the door, clears his throat and says to Hector, “My lord?”

“Yes?”

“There is not one among us who would balk at a double watch.” I gape at him, realizing he must have come straight here after poking around in the catacombs. Do my guards ever rest?

But they are all nodding agreement.

“I’m glad to know it,” Hector says. “It may come to that.”

In the silence that follows, I know what everyone is thinking: Before the war, the Royal Guard was a full garrison of sixty. Now, only thirty-two remain. No, I correct myself. Thirty-one, with the loss of Martín.

Determining the right size for a Royal Guard is a delicate balance. Too many, and my court would distrust me, fearing what I could do with my own personal army. But right now I don’t have nearly enough. It makes me weak, vulnerable. And everyone knows it.

I tell my mayordomo that I’m ready to ease back into a schedule. The first thing I want to do is address the recent spate of riots, but he insists I begin by interviewing suitors, starting with Conde Tristán of Selvarica. The conde is here for next week’s Deliverance Gala and has taken to accosting the mayordomo in the halls with regular requests for an audience.

I agree to see him first thing in the morning, telling myself that everything else can wait another day, and the mayordomo wilts with relief.

So I rise early, and while Mara sleeps in, I sit on my vanity stool while Ximena sculpts my hair into an elaborate coif of loops and curls. I’m holding up my neck curls so she can work the clasp of a sapphire-drop necklace—a piece I inherited from Queen Rosaura—when she says, “You’re very nervous and fidgety this morning.”

I hadn’t noticed the fidgeting, but my stomach is indeed in knots. “Yes,” I admit. She finishes clasping the necklace, and I drop the curls. Our eyes meet in the mirror. “Oh, Ximena, the appearance of the animagus, the assassination attempt—they have weakened my position greatly.”

“Yes,” she agrees solemnly.

“The way I see it, I have two bargaining chips right now: the vacant spot on the Quorum, which every noble house in the country is vying for, and my own marriage. My country is splintering apart. I must acquire strong allies with my choices. I can’t make the wrong decisions!”

“Three bargaining chips,” she says.

“Three? What do you mean?”

She gazes at me a moment, her eyes full of sympathy. “Hector, as second-highest ranking officer in the kingdom, has an automatic Quorum seat. He is young and handsome. He has the friendship of the queen. He is of modest but noble birth. He is, in short, the most eligible bachelor in your kingdom. You could marry him off to tremendous advantage.”

“Oh.” I blink at her, vaguely stunned. “Yes, of course.” Why has this never occurred to me?

A knock sounds at the door to my bedroom, and moments later, a guard announces the presence of Lord-Conde Eduardo.

I fix a smile on my face as he enters the atrium. At least it’s not the general.

“Ah, Your Majesty, I’m delighted to see you looking so well!”

My nose twitches against his sharp myrrh musk as I take his outstretched hands and kiss his cheek. “It feels good to get back to a regular schedule,” I say.

“Yes, I heard you would begin interviewing suitors today. I cleared my schedule so I could come and offer my support to you during your meetings.”

My grin is so hard and stiff that my teeth ache. “Oh, you shouldn’t have, Your Grace. I hate to think I’m keeping you from important matters.”

He waves off my protest. “Our kingdom is desperate for stability. This might be the most important decision you make during your entire reign. Of course I will be there for you.” He grasps my shoulder and squeezes tight, looking like a concerned father with his furrowed brow.

But every instinct screams against allowing him to accompany me. Think, Elisa!

I duck my head respectfully. “In that case, I am grateful for your presence and your counsel.” He brightens visibly. “But I have a few more private preparations to make. Will you meet me in my office?”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” His eyes sweep over me, taking note of my gown, my hair, my necklace. “You’ll wear your crown, won’t you?”

“I wasn’t planning—”

“It’s important you go into these interviews appropriately accessorized by the symbols of your office, don’t you think?”

I groan inwardly, thinking of the headache I’ll have by the time we break for the noon meal. “Of course you’re right, Your Grace.”

He smiles indulgently. “I’ll see you soon.” He bows and exits my bedchamber.

As soon as the door closes at his back, I say to no one in particular, “I want Conde Eduardo out of my office as soon as possible.”

“I’ll take care of it, my sky,” Ximena says, and her soft voice has such a weight of authority that I have no doubt she can do as she promises. “I need some time—you’ll have to suffer his company at first. But I’ll have him away as soon as possible.”

“Thank you.”

When she places the crown on my head, it feels like a millstone. I fantasize about commissioning a new one, something delicate and feminine and light. But my coffers are drained, and a new crown would be an insulting extravagance when I can’t even afford to hire and train more Royal Guards.

She pushes hairpins through the loops in the lining, but it doesn’t matter—the crown lists to the right until the heavy edge presses against the top of my ear.

“I feel like I’ve grown an extra brow,” I say, wrinkling my forehead experimentally. Sure enough, the crown slips even farther, and the cartilage of my ear starts to fold over. Ximena does some rearranging until the crown wobbles but stays put. No sudden head movements, I tell myself as she pronounces me ready to receive suitors.

I’ve hardly used my office since Alejandro’s death. It’s a bright room, with wood-paneled walls and two long windows whose deep ledges are lush with potted ferns. But I’m not yet at home here. Sitting at the desk, I feel like an imposter, like I’m playing at ruling. Still, it’s better than my vast, echoing audience hall with its backache-inducing throne.

Hector takes his position at my right shoulder, Conde Eduardo at my left. Guards stand sentry at the windows and doorway. My secretary sits in a corner at a small desk, his quill poised to take notes. I can only see the top of his head because a small tower of documents sits at the edge of his desk, blocking my view. I’m supposed to review and sign them all. I force myself to ignore the stack; I can’t think about it now.

My heart pounds with nervousness as we wait. How does a queen handle a suitor? When I was a princess of Orovalle, I was overweight and solitary, with an unnatural attraction to musty scrolls. Anyone who wished to court me did so behind the scenes, in negotiation with my father.

As queen, I must do my own negotiating. Everyone will want something—a new title, better trading opportunities, or maybe just power. Though they’ll pretend otherwise, none will want me.

I don’t know how I’ll bear the polite dance of flirtation and innuendo that always precedes these agreements. Or even how to navigate the maze that is a royal marriage treaty. I certainly don’t want to make any missteps that would cause Eduardo to feel he must jump in and help.

“He arrives,” says a guard.

I straighten in my chair, trying to look regal.

A barrel-shaped man with thinning hair enters. His eyes are wide, his expression serious. Droplets of sweat collect on his protruding upper lip. He bows low.

“Your Majesty,” says Conde Eduardo at my ear. “May I present Lord Liano of Altapalma?”

I look up at him sharply. I was expecting Conde Tristán.

“I took the liberty of making some slight changes to your receiving schedule so we could accommodate my good friend here,” Eduardo explains. “I know how eager you are to make the acquaintance of some of the northern lords.”

I’m not sure whether to protest or pretend gratitude. Is it a common practice here in Joya for everyone else to manage the monarch’s schedule?

I force blandness to my face and say, “Welcome, Lord Liano. Thank you for coming.”

He rises from his bow but says nothing. Am I supposed to direct our conversation?

“Lord Liano is heir to the countship of Altapalma until his older brother produces a son.” Eduardo jumps in. “He’s a devout observer of the holy sacraments and an accomplished hunter.”

“Wild javelinas,” Liano blurts out. “I’ve won the annual tournament three years in a row.”

I can’t stop staring at his wet upper lip. “Oh. That’s . . . impressive,” I manage.

His whole body shifts forward with eagerness. “And I tan javelina hides! My hides are soft enough to make riding garb for even the finest ladies. I make all my own hunting weapons. And . . .” He draws himself to full height. “I am Grand Master of the Society for the Advocacy of Javelinas as Livestock.”

“So accomplished,” I murmur, more than a little stunned. I could not marry this man. Not ever. Not even to save my country. I’d rather abdicate.

Someone pounds on the door, and Lord Liano jumps.

A guard answers. After a muted conversation, he says, “Pardon me, Lord-Conde Eduardo, but Your Grace is summoned on a very urgent matter. Something about a letter from home?”

Eduardo’s face blanches. He makes quick apologies and hurries out the door. I suddenly breathe easier. Thank you, Ximena.

I turn back to Lord Liano. “I am forced to cut our appointment short, my lord. I’m afraid my dear friend the conde was overly eager in scheduling you, as I have another appointment in moments.”

His expression turns tragic, like that of a child who just had his favorite sweet taken away, and I hastily add, “But I’d love to discuss . . . javelina hunting further at some point. Are you in town awhile for the Deliverance Gala?”

He bows. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

“Then I look forward to seeing you.”

Once he is gone, I turn to Hector, who is trying very hard not to laugh.

“I can’t, Hector. Not him.”

“You can do better,” he agrees.

Another knock, another murmured conversation, and my guard swings the door wide to receive Conde Tristán.

A small, foppish man with puffed sleeves and a plumed hat sweeps in and bows with a flourish. I am about to greet him, but he intones, “I present to you His Grace Conde Tristán, master equestrian, fighting man, and the pride of Selvarica.”

Ah, just a herald then.

He steps aside as a second man strides through the door. He’s of average height and lanky, and he moves with a dancer’s purposed grace. His features are a touch too delicate for true handsomeness, the black hair gently curling at his nape a little too beautiful, but his eyes shine with warmth and intelligence. He looks younger than I imagined. I’m surprised to find myself returning his shy smile with one of my own.

He bows, straightens, stares.

“Um, hello,” I say lamely. “Welcome.”

“Thank you. Er, Your Majesty. It is . . . You are . . .” He shakes his head ruefully. “I’m sorry. I’m usually more articulate than this. It’s just that you are so much more beautiful than I remember.”

My eyes narrow as I try to discern his level of sincerity. In my peripheral vision, I notice Hector shift on his feet and cross his arms over his chest.

I decide to be frank. “Don’t be ridiculous, Your Grace. You and I both know my court has pronounced me unlovely.”

He decides to be frank right back. “True. Gossip has you pegged as portly, prone to uncouth wardrobe choices, and alarmingly blunt.” His smile reveals straight white teeth. “I concur that you are blunt.”

“I assure you they are correct about my fashion sense too. Were it not for my devoted attendants, I would be dressed in sand chaps and a goat-hair tunic.”

“I’m certain you would be stunning in them.”

I wait for him to make placating noises about the gossip regarding my reputed corpulence, and I’m a little disappointed, a little relieved, when he does not.

I’m not sure what to say next. From the corner comes the scrape-scrape of quill against parchment as the secretary feverishly records our meeting. I imagine him writing: . . . goat-hair tunic.

My head is now pounding from the relentless weight of my crown. Frustration boils over, and I say, “Conde Tristán, why are you here?”

He has the grace to seem flustered. He says, “I was hoping we could get to know each other. It is no secret that my people would benefit greatly if I were to . . . ally myself . . . with Your Majesty. But there is no hurry. I simply propose that we meet once in a while and see if we enjoy each other’s company.”

“That’s it for now? No requests, no favors?”

“Well, there is one thing.”

Of course there is. “What?”

“At the upcoming Deliverance Gala, would you be so kind as to honor me with two dances?”

Oh, God, I will have to dance. It hadn’t occurred to me. I’m a terrible dancer.

The horror on my face must be apparent, for Conde Tristán takes a step backward, eyes wide with alarm. “I apologize, Your Majesty. Perhaps I am too forward—”

“Yes, you may have two dances. But it is my plan to test your devotion by stepping on your feet.”

His eyes crinkle with genuine mirth. “I shall look forward to it. You may find, though, that I am not so easy to step on.”

I force myself to resist his smile, even as I admit to myself that I like him a little. I gesture to one of the guards and say, “Please escort the conde and his . . .” Herald? Assistant? “. . . and his man back to their rooms and make sure they have everything they need.”

If the conde is discouraged by the dismissal, he doesn’t show it. “Until the festival, Your Majesty.” He executes a polished bow. His attendant does the same, and they leave with the guard.

After the door shuts, Hector says, “He thought you were joking about stepping on his feet,” and we exchange a quick smile.

The secretary scribbles last-minute notations about the meeting. Will he record every single word spoken in this room?

“Mr. Secretary,” I say.

He looks up, mid–pen stroke. A smudge of ink mars the tip of his nose. “Your Majesty?”

“I’m thirsty. Fetch me a glass of water, please?”

He frowns with the understanding that I’m getting rid of him but schools his expression quickly. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Once he’s gone, I lean back in my chair and look up at Hector. “What did you think of the conde? An improvement on Liano, at least, yes?” I rub at my temples. The weight of this stupid crown is making it hard to think.

Hector’s gaze turns inward as he ponders. I have always liked this about him, the way he mulls ideas over in his head. He never feels obliged to speak until he has exactly the right words.

He says, “Conde Tristán is at the top of Lady Jada’s list, but I think it has more to do with his general popularity and charm than it does his suitability. Selvarica is a small southern holding, consisting mostly of islands. It’s difficult to access, not heavily populated. I’m not sure what the conde feels he can offer the throne. I think you can do better. And Eduardo and Luz-Manuel have both expressed a preference that you choose someone from the north.”

He says it all without emotion, as if quoting an academic text. I look down at my lap. “But what of him?” I say softly. “What kind of man is he, do you think?”

Seconds pass. I feel his eyes on me, but I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze, so I focus hard on the hands resting atop my skirt. My dark skin lies in sharp contrast to the blue of my gown. My right thumbnail is uneven from my habit of biting it. I should have Mara file it for me.

At last he says, “He inherited young, when his father died in a riding accident. By reputation, he is intelligent and charming. The ladies of the court consider him quite dashing. That’s all I know.”

His voice is so tight that I look up to try to read his face. It’s hard and determined. We stare at each other for a long moment.

I need to fill the silence, to explain, so I say, “I know I’ll marry for the benefit of Joya d’Arena, and my own feelings will not be a consideration. So it’s silly to hope . . . but I can’t help it. . . . That is, I hope I marry a good man. Like Alejandro. I know he didn’t love me, but he was my friend.” The sigh that escapes is almost like a sob.

His eyes flash with something—pity, maybe—and he reaches down, grabs my hand. His thumb sweeps across my knuckles as he says in a gruff whisper, “I can’t imagine there is a man in all of Joya who is good enough for our queen. But if such a man exists, we will find him. I swear it.”

I swallow hard. “Thank you.”

The mayordomo rushes unannounced through the doorway. Hector drops my hand and lurches to attention.

“Your Majesty!” the mayordomo pants. “He’s here. Lo Chato from the Wallows. Do you still wish to grant immediate audience? You’re scheduled to see Lady Jada next. I could ask her to wait.”

My startled reaction has dislodged my crown, and it slips down my brow. I pull it off, wincing when strands of hair are yanked out by the roots. “Did Lo Chato come alone?” Even saying the name gives me a shiver.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

I set the crown on the edge of my desk. I hate that I am not big enough, not strong enough, to wear it. “Then send him in,” I whisper.

He bows and exits the office.

“Be ready,” Hector says to the guards, and hands move to scabbards; eyes shift toward the door. With a metallic whisk, Hector draws his gauntlet daggers. A smart choice, since his position between my desk and the wall gives him little range of motion for a sword.

The mayordomo enters and says in a clipped, formal voice, “Your Majesty, I present Lo Chato of the Wallows.”

A figure glides into the room. He is impossibly tall, and he wears a long black cloak with a deep cowl that shadows his face. He drops to one knee, bows his head, and waits silently.

“Rise,” I say, hoping he doesn’t notice the tremor in my voice. I place a fingertip to the Godstone, hoping for a tickle of warmth, or even a chill—anything to indicate whether the person before me is friend or foe. But I feel nothing.

The cowled man straightens.

“Remove your hood.”

He raises his hands, and I already know, even as he slides the hood back from his head—by the pale peach of his hands, the preternatural grace of his movement—what will be revealed.

Eyes as green as moss, a face so sharply delicate as to be catlike, waist-long hair the syrupy gold of honey.

It takes only a split second for my guards to ring him with swords. Hector steps in front of me, daggers in defensive position.

The man before me carries himself like an animagus. My forearm throbs with the phantom memory of a sorcerer’s claws lashing into my skin, and I stare at his hands, expecting to see clawlike points embedded in his nails.

His nails are cracked and encrusted with dirt, but they are free of barbs. And unlike the uncannily perfect animagi I encountered, he has faint lines across his forehead; a patch of dry, peeling skin across his nose; and weary, bloodshot eyes. Not blue, those eyes. And his hair is not white.

Not a sorcerer, then. I breathe deeply through my nose, savoring this feeling of relief.

Still, an Invierno has been secretly living in my city, leading a group of my own people.

The mayordomo stands just out of range of the guards’ swords, gaping at the creature he escorted in. I say with a steadiness that surprises me, “The secretary will return soon from an errand. Please head him off. And tell no one, not even Lady Jada, the nature of my current appointment.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” He departs gratefully.

I gesture to one of the guards to close and bar the door.

The Invierno regards me calmly.

I’m not sure how to proceed, so I say, “Thank you for coming.”

“Your Majesty commanded it, and I obeyed.” He speaks perfect Plebeya, without even a trace of the clipped impatience I’ve heard from animagi.

“Why would an Invierno feel compelled to obey me?”

“I am Your Majesty’s loyal subject.”

Not likely. “Is Lo Chato your name?”

“A title.”

“Do many Inviernos carry the title of ‘Lo Chato’?” I ask, too tentatively.

“We have more Chatos than you have condes,” he says.

I don’t want to call him that. Not ever. “And your name?”

“My name, in God’s language, means ‘He Who Wafts Gently with the Wind Becomes as Mighty as the Thunderstorm.’”

One of the guards snorts.

He shrugs. “It’s a common name in Invierne. But the people of my village call me Storm when they are being familiar.”

“Ah, yes. Please explain why you live in a cavern beneath the Wallows.”

“I first came to serve as ambassador to Joya d’Arena. I was a member of King Alejandro’s court for several years. As the war began, I found it necessary to go into hiding.”

The first part is easy enough to prove. “Hector, do you recognize this man?”

Hector is studying him, eyes narrowed. “No. Well, maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“It could be him. There are similarities. The man I remember had darker hair.”

“I see.” I purse my lips, thinking hard. I can’t read the Invierno’s face, much less separate truth from falsehood. “You call yourself my loyal subject. That sounds more like defection than hiding.”

“You are correct, Your Majesty. I was not hiding from the people of Joya, but from my own.”

“Why?”

His face is void of feeling as he says, “I had failed, you see. After years of campaigning for port rights, I had nothing to show for my efforts. My life was forfeit, and my choice was to either go home in disgrace and face execution, or find a new home here.”

“A harsh sentence.”

“My kind embrace honorable death. I am wretched in my unusual desire to live beyond the shame of my failure.”

I shudder, remembering the zeal with which the animagus atop the amphitheater burned himself. And before that, how dozens of Inviernos submitted themselves to the animagi’s knives, the way their blood poured into the sand and fueled the fire magic that nearly burned our city to the ground. Did they all believe they were embracing honorable death?

Hector asks, “Why didn’t you seek asylum? The king would have granted it.”

“Your king could not have protected me. I had to disappear completely.” Storm smiles for the first time—a slow, edged grin that sends shivers down my back. “Surely you realize? Your city is crawling with Invierne spies.”

The guards exchange a startled glance.

I breathe deeply through my nose to keep steady. Though my pulse races, I wave a hand nonchalantly and say, “Everyone spies on everyone else. My own father, King Hitzedar of Orovalle, has several spies in my court.”

Storm says, “Your Majesty, there are hundreds. Living right here in the city.”

“Inviernos like you? Or are Joya’s own citizens turning against her?”

“Both.”

Hector says, “We would recognize Inviernos among us.”

He just shrugs and looks off in the distance as if bored.

I lean forward. “Would we, Storm? Would we recognize them?”

His expression turns smug. “All of you Joyans and Orovalleños look exactly alike, with your dirty skin and dark hair and wood-rot eyes. You are like black rats crawling across the sand. But we Inviernos are a colorful people, and as numerous as the stars in the sky. It is rare to find some among us who resemble you enough to pass, but found them we have. Enough to make spies.”

“You claim to be my loyal subject, yet you speak as though you hold my people in contempt.” I should be angrier, but I find myself fascinated with his complete disregard for propriety.

“You are a contemptible people. I am loyal out of necessity, not love.”

Strange that he does not make even the barest attempt at flattery. “Hard to believe you were unable to make diplomatic headway in my husband’s court, charming as you are.”

He nods knowingly. “This is the sarcasm your people are so fond of. When you say one thing but mean another. Inviernos value honesty too much for it, in accordance with God’s will.”

I don’t have the time or energy for a doctrinal debate, so I let that go. “The animagus who burned himself alive . . . surely you heard about it?”

He nods. “Everyone within two weeks’ journey has heard by now.”

“Did you know him? Did you know what would happen?”

“No, and no. I was not surprised, though. The animagi are fond of such demonstrations.”

“Are you the person who tried to kill me?”

He doesn’t even flinch. “No.”

“If your life is in such great danger, why answer my summons?”

His lips twist into that cruel smile. “I came to warn you, my queen. It occurred to me that a warning would be taken more seriously if it came from me rather than from an ignorant, impoverished denizen of the Wallows.”

He’s probably right about that. “And what is your warning?”

“You are in grave peril, Your Majesty. I have seen the signs, and I know Invierne will make another play. Soon. But this time, there will be no army to defend against. This time, they will come at you like spirits in the night, and you won’t recognize the danger until it’s too late.”

The animagus uttered similar words. I swallow the panic that rises in my throat. “Why? Why warn me?”

“I like my life. My secret village turns a nice profit on river scavenge. The people I lead are stupid and filthy, but they treat me with respect, even worship. All my needs are tended to. I would like things to stay exactly the way they are, and I know the city of Brisadulce has its best chance of remaining stable if you are in power and well aware of the Invierne threat.”

Hector leans forward, nostrils flared, face hard. I have never seen him so angry. “The Inviernos will find that Elisa is very difficult to kill,” he says, making the dagger dance in the air by some gymnastic of wrist and fingers.

Storm laughs, and the sound is as brittle as breaking glass. “Did I say kill? I don’t believe I did. Invierne wants her very much alive. Though I assure you that if one of Invierne’s innumerable spies gets hold of her, she will wish herself dead.”

It’s possible that I hate this man after all. “This audience is over,” I snap. “Take him to the prison tower.”

My guards pin his arms and turn him around.

“Arresting me will mean my death, Your Majesty,” he calls over his shoulder. “And once Invierne finds me and kills me, you’ll learn nothing more. I know you’re curious. About us. About what we want with that thing in your belly.”

“Wait!” I say, and the guards halt. “And if I let you return to your village?”

“Visit any time and ask all the questions you want. As I said, I am your loyal subject. You have nothing to fear from me.”

I pretend to consider for a long moment. “You may go free. But Storm, in accordance with God’s will, I must be honest and tell you that I hope you will give me an excuse to kill you.”

Something flits across his face. I hope it’s fear. He bows. “Until we meet again, Your Majesty. Remember to watch yourself.” The guards step aside. He flips the cowl over his head and sweeps from the room.

I whisper to the guards, “Follow him.”

They nod, wait a few beats, and then one slips out the door after him.

“Well,” says Hector, sheathing his daggers. “I believe that really was the former ambassador, different hair color notwithstanding. I remember him being deeply unpleasant.”

“Arrogant superiority must be a cultural obsession. The animagi I encountered were much the same.”

He crosses his arms and leans a hip against the desk. “You could simply make it known that he’s here. If what he said is true, his own people will take care of him.”

Seeing Hector in such a relaxed pose helps me force the tension from my own limbs. I take a cleansing breath and say, “I’m glad you were here, Hector. I admit that was terrifying.”

His sloppy grin makes my stomach clench, not unpleasantly. “You faced him down like a seasoned warrior,” he says.

“Only because I had your daggers at my back.”

“Always.”

“Do you think he was telling the truth? About the spies? About why he wanted to warn me?”

Hector shrugs. “Alejandro and I used to speculate that the Inviernos are incapable of falsehood. They tend to go silent and refuse to speak rather than lie. He was wrong about one thing, though. Someone wants you dead, as your wounds attest.”

Reflexively, my fingers find my Godstone. Then they shift left, skim my bodice. It’s thin enough for me to feel the ridges of my new scar. Another possibility occurs to me, and I gasp in surprise.

“What is it?”

“Hector, what if it wasn’t an assassination attempt. Is that possible? Did someone mean to take me alive?”

His dark eyes seem to whirl as his considerable intelligence chews on the idea. Without breaking my gaze, he says to the remaining guard, “Lucás, step outside and watch the hallway.”

“Yes, my lord,” comes the voice. The door creaks open, bangs closed.

Hector and I are alone.