The Crown of Embers

Chapter 17

I scoot off the bed and throw a robe around my shoulders. Ximena is already awake, though her long gray braid is sleep mussed. She sits near the balcony, taking advantage of the morning light to work on a tapestry. She looks up at me. “Is everything all right now?”

“I need to dress quickly. No time for a bath.”

“We need to wash your face. With luck, people will think you had too much to drink and will not guess you spent the night crying.”

At least she doesn’t ask me why. “Fine. Is Mara awake yet?”

“She didn’t get back until very late.” She gathers the material in her lap and plops it into a basket near her chair.

“Let her sleep a few more minutes, but we’ll have to wake her soon.”

“Are you going to tell me—”

“Soon.” I don’t even want my own Royal Guard to know what will transpire next. My idea hinges on secrecy.

I send a guard to fetch the mayorodomo while Ximena begins sifting through my wardrobe. She holds up a riding gown; it has a split skirt and a tight black vest. I never ride, but I sometimes wear it when I need to feel strong.

I nod approval. Ximena has read my mood well.

I have just finished dressing, and Ximena is combing my hair in the atrium, when the mayordomo arrives. His dressing robe hangs crooked, and the left side of his head is sleep plastered into a solid wall of hair.

“Your Majesty?” he says, out of breath. “The guard said your summons was urgent.”

“Thank you for coming so quickly. Tell me, is Conde Tristán of Selvarica still here in the palace?” Ximena’s face in the vanity mirror shows perfect composure, but I sense increasing tension in her brushstrokes.

“He filed a departure notice very late last night.” He shakes his head with disgust. “Who departs during Deliverance week? And on the night of the gala! It was most untoward, and I—”

“But Tristán is still here? He hasn’t left yet?” I realize I’m wringing my skirt in my right fist. I release it and flex my fingers.

“I don’t know.”

“Find out. Now. If he hasn’t yet departed, tell him I require his presence immediately in my chambers.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” He executes a quick bow and hurries away on slippered feet.

Ximena puts her hands on my shoulders and makes eye contact with me in the mirror.

“I’ll explain soon,” I whisper. I just hope the conde has not had time to gather his entourage and flee from last night’s encounter.

Fortunately, I do not wait long.

When a guard escorts the conde into the atrium, Tristán drops to one knee and bows his head, refusing to meet my eyes.

“Rise.”

He does, and I note his traveling clothes: leather breeches, a loose blouse, a utility belt.

“Going somewhere so soon?”

He focuses on a point just above my head. “Yes, Your Majesty. I thought it prudent.”

“You were going to leave without saying good-bye.”

He looks sharply at me, really looks, not bothering to hide his confused suspicion.

I press on. “I had thought . . . or maybe just hoped that we had found a sort of connection, you and I.”

“Your Majesty, I . . . I’m sorry, but I thought . . . last night . . .”

“Your Grace.” I stand from my stool and offer him my arm. “Let’s go somewhere private where we can talk.” To Ximena, I say, “Wake Mara. I need that room.”

She hurries away. The conde and I follow at a slower pace.

When we enter the austere attendant’s room, Mara is sitting up in bed, rubbing bleary eyes. She and Ximena start to leave, but I hold up a hand. “Stay.” I close the door behind me.

“Keep your voices low,” I say. “My Royal Guard listens close for danger, and I do not care for them to know about this.”

“About what, Your Majesty?” the conde says wearily, looking at the floor. “Why am I here? If you’re going to punish me, or exact some kind of revenge, please get it over with.”

Ximena and Mara exchange a puzzled look.

Something about his frankness pleases me. I say, “Conde, I need your help.”

His gaze snaps to mine. “Oh?”

“How many people know about you and Iladro?”

“Not many. My mother. A few attendants.”

“Good. I need a reason to . . .” I almost say “escape.” “To leave the city and go south. I also need the Quorum—no, the whole country—to believe I am very serious about selecting a husband.”

His eyes flash with understanding. “You want to pretend we are betrothed.”

“Or at least pretend to begin negotiations. Which, of course, would require that I visit Selvarica and inspect your holdings.”

“Of course. I assume that, after an acceptable period of time, we would regretfully conclude that we are not as compatible as we had hoped?”

“It might be a long period of time. But yes.”

“And if I don’t agree to this? Will you expose me for the liar I am?”

“No.”

He stares at me.

“I’m not interested in that. If you don’t want to help me, you are free to go.” I shrug nonchalantly. “Though if you tell anyone about this conversation, I will destroy you.”

He cracks a relieved smile in response to my threat, which also pleases me. But then he leans against the frame of Mara’s bunk, and his eyes turn thoughtful. “You do realize that a broken betrothal would be a huge blow to my countship’s status? Everyone would assume the worst, that you found me lacking in some way.”

“I am prepared to offer something in exchange.”

“I’m listening.”

“Despite our incompatibility in marriage, you and I will discover a deep mutual respect and affection. I will be so taken with the good people of Selvarica, with their character, their potential to evolve into a great countship, that immediately upon returning to Brisadulce I will nominate your house to the open Quorum position.”

He gapes at me. “I . . . I hardly know what to say.”

“I also want two votes once you are a Quorum lord. Two separate occasions of my choosing when you must vote with me on an issue, regardless of your own feeling on the matter.”

He begins to pace. I force myself to remain silent and still, giving him time to consider. I glance at my ladies. Mara is wide-eyed, whether from surprise or alarm I cannot tell. But Ximena wears a soft, approving smile, and when I catch her eye, she gives me a barely perceptible nod.

At last he says, “This seat on the Quorum. It will be permanent, yes?”

I nod. “To be passed down through your heirs. Only the military seats are not inherited.”

“You think you can get the votes to approve my nomination?”

“I have one vote assured. I only need one more, and I have a few ideas on how to get it.”

“So you can’t guarantee that I will have a seat on the Quorum.”

“I guarantee that I will try my best. Even if my nomination does not pass—which is unlikely—you will be forever marked as one who has the queen’s favor.”

He stops pacing, runs a hand through his hair, looking suddenly sheepish. “We could marry in truth, you know,” he says. “You needn’t offer me the concession of a Quorum position. I think . . . I think we could be good friends, you and I. Marriages are built on less.”

Softly I ask, “Could you give me another heir?”

“Probably?”

I stare at him.

He sighs. “So, a fake betrothal in exchange for a Quorum nomination. And two votes if I take office.”

“That is my bargain.”

“Done.”

I reach out and clasp his offered hand. He returns my smile with a delighted grin that lights up his whole face, and I think, briefly, what a tragedy it is for women everywhere that he cannot love them.

Then I add, “This is a secret bargain, witnessed only by my two ladies. It’s fair that you be allowed two witnesses as well. Would you like me to repeat my offer in front of anyone?”

He doesn’t even think about it. “I trust you.”

“Then we are agreed. Would you mind postponing your departure? I would like to inform the Quorum of our imminent betrothal and give the nobility the opportunity to fawn over you.”

He bows. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

“Please. Call me Elisa.”

We make preparations quickly. Tristán’s people and mine will travel together in state. But there are certain precautions we must take, and Hector and Tristán spend long hours together, going over routes and formations and personnel.

Hector alone of the Royal Guard knows our betrothal to be a pretense.

We have a heated discussion about whether Storm the Invierno should accompany us. Ximena insists that he is too easily recognizable. But Father Alentín believes his knowledge could be useful. I point out that I would rather have him where we can keep an eye on him. When Hector promises to keep him cowled and hidden in a carriage, and Tristán vouches for the discretion of everyone in his entourage, we agree that Storm will come.

He is only too willing. He knows the truth of it: that I go in search of the zafira.

I cancel the Quorum meeting, the one I would have used to explain my foray into the prison tower, pleading eagerness to spend time with my potential husband. I tell Conde Eduardo that Tristán and I used the prison tower to begin negotiations, that with so many visiting the palace for Deliverance week, we both preferred privacy. It’s a weak lie, and by the narrowing of his black eyes, I know the conde does not believe me.

But he does not press. He merely says, “It’s not too late to change your mind and do what is best for our kingdom. I’m confident you’ll come to understand that one of the northern lords would be more suitable.”

I thank him for his counsel and assure him that I will make a considered choice.

The night before our journey, I am grateful for the darkness and solitude. I lie awake a long time, thinking of Alejandro. Though I’ve no intention of marrying Tristán, everyone thinks I do. A tear trickles down my cheek to think how easily displaced my late husband is. His presence touches everything around me. I see him in the dark woods and jeweled tones of his chamber, in the newly commissioned portrait in the Hall of Kings, in the face of his son. But the court gives him up so easily. When I do finally marry, it feels as though even the phantom memory will be well and truly gone.

“Elisa?” I feel the mattress dip as a tiny form crawls toward me on the bed.

I lift the blankets to let Rosario slip underneath. He worms close, and I wrap an arm around him.

“Does your nurse know you’re here?”

He shrugs against me, which means she does not. I press my lips to his forehead.

“You’re going away again,” he accuses.

“Yes.”

“I want to come.”

Excuses run through my head. But I settle on the truth, as I always seem to, with him. “Bad people are trying to hurt me. So I can’t have my heir travel with me. I need you to stay here and be safe.”

“Are they going to kill you?”

“I hope not. I’m going to try my hardest to live.”

“Hector will protect you.”

I smile. “Yes, he definitely will.”

“Will you come back?”

“I’ll try my hardest to do that too. I promise.”

He shifts, and his cold bare feet knock my leg, but I know better than to pull away. He says, “You always keep your promises.”

I catch my breath. It’s something I told him long ago. Little did I know at the time how important it would be to him, a boy to whom promises had never been kept. “I do.”

He is quiet for such a long time that I think he must be sleeping, but then he whispers, so softly that I have to strain to hear, “I don’t want to be king.”

It’s like a dagger in my chest, because if feels like failure. Of course he doesn’t. Of course he’s terrified. I know how hard it is to be frightened for so long. I’m so sorry, Rosario.

After a moment spent collecting myself, I say, “I think that if you decide you want to be king, you will be the greatest king in the history of Joya d’Arena. But I won’t make you. You don’t have to.” My court would have collective apoplexy if they heard me say this, but I could never force the boy.

He sniffs. “Promise.”

“I promise. But you have to promise me something too.”

“What?”

“Promise me you won’t discuss this with anyone until I get back.” The last thing I need is for the country to start rumbling about an abdication. “Not a word. Also, if anything goes wrong, or if anything scares you while I’m gone, I want you to find Captain Lucio, Hector’s second-in-command, and do exactly what he says. He will help you. If you can’t find Lucio, go to Matteo. He’s with Queen Cosmé’s delegation in the dignitaries’ suite.”

His wide eyes gleam in the dark. “I promise.”

I don’t want to frighten him, but this is important. So I ask, “Who did I just say to find if something goes wrong?”

“Captain Lucio or Matteo.”

“That’s my boy.” I pull the quilt up over his small shoulders. “How about you sleep here tonight?”

“Oh, all right,” he says, as if it wasn’t his grand plan all along.

The entire palace sees us off—servants, resident nobles, the city garrison. Conde Tristán’s carriage leads the procession, followed by several guards on horseback, another carriage for my servants and supplies, and finally the queen’s carriage, larger and more elaborate than the others, surrounded by even more guards on foot. The royal crest streams behind on pennants, and almost-sheer curtains hang in the gilt-framed windows.

But I am not in the queen’s carriage.

I walk just behind it, surrounded by the conde’s servants. I wear a rough cotton skirt and a shapeless blouse, a maid’s cap pulled low on my brow. My skin is powdered to appear lighter, and my hair—my most distinctive trait—is plaited tight against my head and hidden under my cap.

General Luz-Manuel and Conde Eduardo stand on a balcony overlooking the main gate. The general is as cold and unreadable as always, but the conde seethes blackly. His eyes are narrowed, his jaw taut, his arms crossed. It’s obvious that my last-minute excursion to Selvarica is not part of his plan, whatever it is. As we pass beneath him, under the palace portcullis, I force myself to look straight ahead lest I catch his eye.

Hector walks nearby, and from the crowd’s perspective, I hope it appears as though he guards the queen’s carriage. Through the almost-sheer curtains is the shape of a young woman sitting inside, a large crown on her head—my ruby crown, not my new one. The one made of shattered Godstones rides comfortably in my pack beneath the carriage bench.

Hector hired her. I don’t know who she is or where he found her. And I don’t want to know. She waves enthusiastically at the crowd, and I’m terrified for her, this decoy Elisa. I scan the onlookers for danger, thinking of all the ways to kill a person. It would be so easy.

Just like the day of my ill-fated birthday parade, we make our way down the Colonnade toward the city gate. To my left, a townhome towers above us, its high windows sparkling in the sunshine. An archer could hide up there, send an arrow spearing into the carriage, and then slip away in the chaos. And though the crowd is not as thick as it was for my birthday parade, enough strangers press close that I find myself flinching away. Any one of them could be carrying a dagger.

This is what it’s like to be Hector and Ximena, I realize. Always terrified for someone else, always distrusting, imagining weapons and foul intentions where there are none. Is that why Hector is so stoic and hard? Why Ximena keeps so many thoughts to herself? Because it’s the only way to deal with existing forever on the cusp of disaster?

My guard and my guardian.

Hector said that damage is the price of royalty, but maybe my price is so high that others will be forced to pay it. Maybe he and Ximena are the damaged ones. And Mara. And Rosario, who is afraid to be king.

It’s a very long walk.

But when the gate and the desert beyond come into view, my heart starts to pound, not with terror but with excitement, maybe even happiness. I’m desperate to get beyond these walls, into open air and sunshine. I can’t wait to feel the crush of sand beneath my boots, for the dry air to whip my hair against my cheeks. I hope we trade our horses for camels somewhere along the way. I miss their soft, long-lashed gazes and their resolute plodding. I even miss the scent of camel-dung campfires.

At last we pass through the shadow of the great wall and into the light. Our road leads south along the coastline, but to our left stretches my desert, vast and golden and shimmering with heat. Looking at it, my heart is so full I can hardly stand it. I feel freer, lighter, with each step we take away from the city. I want to skip or run or reach my arms wide to the openness of the sky and breathe it all in. I settle for kicking at bits of sand and gravel on the highway.

Hector sidles over and peers down, an odd look on his face. “I’ve never seen you smile like that before,” he says.

I hadn’t realized I was smiling. “Just glad to be outside, I guess. And look at that desert! Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Yes,” he says softly. “Beautiful.”

“Did you know that some nights, if you time it just right, you can glimpse the Sierra Sangre at sunset? As the sun dips below the ocean, the eastern horizon flashes red, bright as blood. It’s amazing.”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“You should look for it tonight. And in the afternoon, when it’s the hottest, all the colors of the world coalesce where the sand edges up against the sky. Like a ripple of light.”

“You don’t say.”

I look up at him sharply, wary of the amusement in his voice. Is he mocking me? “Surely there’s a place you love too? Somewhere you’re always happy to go back to? Where you feel more yourself than anywhere else?”

As Hector considers, our procession shifts to the right to allow the steady stream of oncoming traffic—a few dusty riders, both on camelback and horseback, one small merchant caravan. They view the queen’s carriage with wide eyes and keep their distance. Up ahead, Mara swings out of the servants’ carriage to walk beside it. I don’t blame her; I wouldn’t want to be ensconced with Storm for any length of time either.

“Yes, there is such a place,” Hector says at last.

“As your queen, I command you to tell me about it.” I want to whip off my maid’s cap, to expose my head to the sun and sky, but I don’t dare. Everyone in our group knows who I am—their participation in the plan is crucial— but the highway is too busy this close to the city.

“Well, since you command it,” Hector says wryly, “I’ll tell you about Ventierra, my father’s countship.”

For some reason, I’m feeling the need to tease. “Oh? Surely that tiny patch of dirt is nothing compared to this.” I gesture toward the dunes.

He takes it in stride. “‘That tiny patch of dirt’ is made up of rolling hills, bright green during the rainy season, golden when dry. The grass is like an ocean, so long that it ripples on a windy day. From a distance, it shimmers like velvet.” His eyes grow distant as he speaks, and the planes of his face soften. “Waves crash against the coastal cliffs, spewing geysers of white water into the air. Near the mouth of the river are tide pools—I spent hours and hours playing there as a boy. But nothing is more beautiful than a vineyard ready for harvest. Rows and rows of grapevines, dripping with frosty purple . . .”

“Ah,” I say. “That painting in your quarters.”

“Yes. I used to steal grapes off the vine when my father wasn’t looking. I felt sorry for them, getting beaten and pressed, rotting into something that smelled bad. It seemed to me that grapes would rather be grapes than wine.”

I laugh.

“What did I say?”

“Nothing. It’s just that I’ve never seen you smile like that before.”

Our gazes lock. The rest of the world drops away, and all I can think is, God, I love his smile. It melts the last few years off of his face, and I see the boy underneath, the one who scampered among tide pools and rescued helpless grapes. What happened to that boy? Alejandro, I suppose. And war. And me.

I say, “I’d like to see Ventierra someday.”

His smile fades. “I would too.”

“You miss it, then?”

He just shrugs.

I stare at his profile, which has gone flinty. It’s his way, when he’s trying not to feel too much.

“I didn’t realize you were so homesick.”

He whips his head around. “I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t have to.”

He shrugs sheepishly. “I like my home in Brisadulce too.”

“I’m glad.”

Up ahead, the curtains of the queen’s carriage part, and Ximena peeks out. I smile and wink. She starts to smile back, but then she sees Hector beside me and her smile fades. The curtain swishes back into place. I frown at the spot her head just vacated, wondering what she is thinking.

As evening burnishes the sand to copper, we bypass a busy way station of scattered adobe huts and palm-roofed stables in favor of making camp alone, well off the road and in the sand.

I peer into the queen’s carriage for my pack and tent. Ximena sits beside decoy Elisa, looking stiff and out of sorts. The girl herself has wilted beneath her veil and crown, and pools of sweat collect under her arms. I wince in sympathy. “I don’t think the crown is still necessary,” I tell her. “Or the veil. This far from the road, why don’t you open the curtains and cool off?” She and Ximena will sleep in the carriage, presenting a tempting target for any would-be assassin.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she says in a shy voice. I haven’t bothered to learn her name. I don’t want her to become too real to me.

I spot my pack and tent beneath the bench and grab them. I call out to Hector, “Where do you want me to set up?”

He gestures toward a flat spot, saying, “We’ll make a perimeter around you.”

I flip open the tent roll, pull out the poles, and get to work. My fingers fly with motion memory, and I revel in the feel of it, the crunch of sand as I bear down with my poles, the sound of fabric flapping in the wind. I leave the entrance open, tied up at the side with loops for that purpose. I rummage through my pack for flint and steel, then toss the rest of the pack inside my tent. Time to get a cook fire started, if Mara hasn’t already.

A shape looms before me, and I nearly drop my flint and steel.

Conde Tristán is staring at me, his eyes wide. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone set up a tent so fast. I didn’t know you could do that.” Other tents are going up around mine, including a larger one to be shared by Belén and Alentín.

My grin is smug. “Did you think I spent my days as leader of the Malficio embroidering? Composing odes to the desert sunset, maybe?”

He runs his hand through his hair. “No. I guess I just imagined more . . . administrative tasks.”

“I can also start a fire, skin a rabbit, forage for edible plants, tend minor wounds.” It feels good to brag shamelessly. “Oh, and I can definitely scare something off by flinging a rock in its general direction with a sling.”

Several paces away, Hector has removed the saddle from an antsy bay gelding and is toweling him down. He looks up from his work and catches my eye, a smug look on his face. Hector, at least, is unsurprised to find me so capable. He might even be a bit proud. It makes me feel warm all over.

Later as we sit around the campfire sipping Mara’s soup—not jerboa, but a light broth made with lentils and dried vegetables—the sun dips into the distant sea. I’m not paying attention to see if the sky flashes red on the opposite horizon because I’m staring north instead. Though we are too far from Brisadulce to see its walls, a soft sphere of radiance against the black sky marks the spot. I think of the thousands of lanterns and candles now brightening my capital city. And I think, with a twist of despair, how I feel so much happier, safer, abler away from it.

But we haven’t gone far the next day when Hector mutters, “I think we’re being followed.”

I snap my head up to look at him, then force myself to stare straight ahead. If indeed we are being followed, then it wouldn’t do for the queen’s Guard to be seen talking to a maid who looks uncannily like the queen.

I say, “Are you sure? This road is highly traveled.”

“No. Just something to watch for now. But a group of riders has kept a steady distance behind us since we set off. They don’t have carriages, and no one is on foot. So they should be traveling much faster than we are.”

“Everyone knows I journey south. Maybe someone is curious. In fact we may attract quite a caravan along the way.”

“Maybe.” But his tone is unconvinced.

“Would it help for me to walk in front of the queen’s carriage instead of behind it?” I say hopefully. I’m choking on dust, and I’ve had to tie my shawl across my nose on several occasions.

“It might,” he says. “Though I hate to give up the advantage of having you covered in filth. No one would recognize you like that.”

I can’t help turning to glare at him. His lips twitch, but the amusement fades quickly. “We’ll keep an eye on them,” he says.

“No.” I’m in the desert now. I know exactly what to do. “We’ll do better than that.”

“Oh?”

“If they’re still behind us when we camp tonight, I’ll send Belén to scout them.”

“You’ve decided to trust him, then?”

“I trust his ability to scout.” I think back to the day of Iladro’s poisoning. It felt so natural to call on Belén for help. The moment required it, and we slipped back into our old roles as if nothing had happened. “And I dare hope the other kind of trust will come in time.”

When we make camp, the riding party Hector spotted is still there, tiny black figures near the horizon. Other travelers come and go, but these riders stop when we do, make camp when we do. Their campfire glows as dusk fades to night.

I order everyone to forego campfires tonight, and we dine on jerky, dried dates, and flatbread. I don’t want anyone to see us from a distance, to know that we hold council.

We sit in a rough circle with only the moon and stars for light. There are almost thirty of us, including Tristán’s people, all of whom were personally vouched for. Even Storm dares exit the carriage to join us. The others eye him warily but make a space for him. He does not remove his cowl.

I stand and say, “Belén, come here.”

He approaches without hesitation and drops to one knee.

I ask, “Do you still wish to swear fealty to me?”

His soft indrawn breath is the only indication that I’ve taken him by surprise. “I do,” he says evenly.

“Then I would accept you into my service.”

He reaches up with both hands and clutches the fabric at my waist, quickly, as if he’s afraid I’ll change my mind. It’s intimate and unnerving, especially when the side of his thumb brushes across my Godstone, and I hear the whisper of drawn daggers somewhere nearby. But it’s the traditional gesture of a newly sworn vassal, and it must be allowed.

Belén intones, “I swear my life and service unto you. I swear to protect you and to honor you. I am yours to command in all things. For as long as I live, your people shall be my people, your ways my ways, your God my God.”

I take his hands and pull him to his feet while everyone in the group mutters, “Selah.”

He towers over me. I can’t help but stare at his eye patch. He was tortured. For me. Because he refused to give me up once he realized his mistake. On impulse, I pull him close and hug him tight.

He whispers, “Thank you, Elisa.”

Behind him, I glimpse Mara’s face. Her cheeks shine with moonlit tears.

I pull away, hoping I have not forgiven too easily. But it feels right to do it. “I need your help,” I tell him. “Tonight.”

“Anything.”

When I explain about the riders following us, he nods, unsurprised. I don’t even have to tell him what to do. He simply says, “I’ll be back by morning.” And he slips away into the darkness.

“Who do you think it is?” Mara asks, once he is gone.

I sit back down and cross my legs. “I suspect Conde Eduardo. He was displeased to hear of this journey and its purpose. He is set on me marrying a northern lord. And he knows I’ve been keeping things from him.”

“He does not know about me, yes?” Storm says in his sibilant voice.

“That is one of the things I’ve been keeping from him.”

“If they are the conde’s people,” Ximena says, “we might be able to use them to our advantage. Set a false trail, maybe.”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” I say.

“What if they’re thieves?” says a female voice I don’t recognize.

Hector barks a laugh. “Then they are poor thieves indeed,” he says. “Five against all of us?”

He is right to be amused. He and Tristán could probably defeat five common thieves alone. What I worry about, what I don’t say, is that they might be assassins. They might be observing, patient and cold, waiting for the right moment to creep into our camp.

Perhaps Hector is thinking the same thing, because he says, “Until we know for sure, we’re doubling our watch. Elisa, will you ride in the servants’ carriage tomorrow, out of sight?”

I open my mouth to protest, to say that I prefer my own two feet to a hot, bumpy carriage, but then I remember that I’ve decided to trust his judgment in these matters. “All right,” I say. And it really is.