The Crown of Embers fat-2 Read online

  I’ve never been inside the prison tower. It’s the highest point of the palace, and I expect that from its topmost chamber, I could see everything from the great sand desert and the walls of Brisadulce, across the merchant’s circle and the Wallows, to the docks and the blue horizon beyond.

  The tower is made of gray limestone, a dull and dirty contrast to the coral sandstone of its shorter brothers. It rises like a blight on the sky, and I see how impossible it would be to escape such a place. There is only one way up or down, and that is the stairway inside its walls.

  It’s an odd group that accompanies me to interrogate our prisoner: a one-armed priest, an aging nurse, a Quorum lord, and, unexpectedly, a seven-year-old prince. Hector had to cancel their daily swordsmanship lesson, and little Rosario was determined to come from the moment he learned the reason.

  Our group is nothing if not memorable, and I curse myself for thoughtlessness. The news that someone of vast import is being kept here will be palacewide by evening.

  Before we step through the arched entryway, I bend down and grasp Rosario’s shoulder. “You’re sure you want to come, Highness? There’s an Invierno up there. He looks a lot like . . .” Like the animagi who killed your papa. “Er, like those other Inviernos we saw.”

  He puts his hand to the wooden practice sword at his belt. He glares at me, saying, “I’m not afraid.”

  I know better than to smile. “Well, I am. Just a little.”

  “I’ll protect you. Like Hector does.”

  The boy has always idolized my guard, but even more so since his father’s death. “That does make me feel better. Thank you.”

  As I straighten, Hector catches my eye and shrugs. I nod in response. If Rosario thinks he is ready to face an Invierno again, it would feel cruel to forbid it.

  The moment we leave the sunny courtyard for the shade of the tower, I am hit full in the face by the scents of sweat and urine and moldy straw. The tower guards lurch up from a rough table strewn with playing cards and snap to attention. They are Luz-Manuel’s soldiers, not Royal Guard, and they eye us warily as we pass. I hope they will do as ordered and keep quiet about their latest prisoner.

  Hector leads us to the creaking stair that zigzags up one side of the stone wall. The inner structure consists of a series of wooden platforms, with huge beams and smaller wooden trusses to hold each platform in place. The stairway opens up to the platforms at regular intervals, and in the dim light provided by long slits in the wall, I see people, ten or so to a platform. They are barely clothed, scrawny, filthy, hairy. I can’t begin to guess their ages. Each is manacled to the wall, out of reach of the stairway.

  One, a woman with wild hair, strains against her bonds and spits at me. The glob lands on the planking near my feet. Ximena moves toward her, but I put a hand to her forearm.

  “She suffers enough,” I say.

  Another prisoner, a man with a gray beard that swallows his face, gives the spitting woman a swift kick to the ankle. “Some of us remember,” he says to me, and his voice has the harsh accent of the dockworkers. “We remember what you did for us, Your Majesty.”

  As Hector hustles me away, I wish I’d had the presence of mind to thank the man, to let him know how much his words of support mean to me.

  I can’t help but wonder what they all did to wind up in this awful place. Surely something terrible. By the time we reach the top, I am breathless, nauseated, and wracked by uncertainty. Maybe I shouldn’t have had the Invierno brought here. All he did was refuse a royal summons.

  The final, highest platform is the least squalid, with several extra slits for light and air, a small cot, and a slop bucket instead of rushes. But Storm obviously does not appreciate the distinction. He paces back and forth like a restless cat, all lithe grace and hunting fury. Ankle manacles are hidden by his long black cloak, but they rattle with every step.

  When he sees us, he growls deep inside his chest, which sends shivers across the back of my shoulders. It’s not a sound I’ve heard a human make before.

  A tiny hand slips into mine, and I glance down to make sure Rosario is all right. But the hand gripping mine is the only indication Rosario is frightened. He leans forward, eyes narrowed, glaring at his enemy. I give him a light squeeze.

  “Hello, Storm,” I say in an even voice.

  He whirls, and his moss-green eyes snap to mine. “You rank cow,” he spits, and Hector’s sword whisks from its scabbard. “We had a bargain.”

  Without breaking the Invierno’s gaze, I put my free hand to Hector’s chest to forestall anything hasty. “And you broke it. You refused audience.”

  “I would have gladly accepted audience in my village.”

  I laugh, genuinely amused at his audacity. “Surely you realize my predicament? There have been two attempts on my life. One not far from the underground village you call home. Of course I couldn’t risk it.”

  “And yet you would risk my life by bringing me here. I’ll be dead within two days. You have surely killed me.”

  I decide to give him the honesty he claims his people value so much. “Given a choice between my life and yours, I will choose mine. Every time. Without hesitation.”

  Some of the fight fades from his eyes. “I would do the same,” he concedes.

  “I plan either to let you go or move you to a different location. I haven’t decided yet.”

  With a lift of his sharp chin, he indicates my companions. “Who are these people? The cripple and the old woman? I recognize only the commander and the prince.”

  “The ‘cripple’ is my friend Alentín; the ‘old woman’ is my friend Ximena.”

  “They must be important for you to bring them.” When he realizes I’m not going to tell him, he shrugs and says, “What must I do to be let go?”

  “Tell us about the gate that leads to life.”

  His eyes widen. He uses hooked forefingers to tuck his honey-gold hair behind his ears, and the motion startles me for its normalcy, its humanity. He turns his back to us. I wish I could see his face.

  Still facing the wall, he says, “Take me with you.”

  “What? Take you where?”

  “South. When you go in search of it.”

  “Of what? We haven’t decided to go any—”

  He whirls, and his green eyes spark. “You’ll go. Make no mistake. It is the will of God.”

  It’s utterly infuriating, the number of people I’ve encountered in my life who claimed to be the authority on God’s will.

  “I’m losing patience, Storm. Tell me everything you know about it, or you will never leave this tower on your feet.”

  His lips purse as he weighs the options. Then: “The gate that leads to life is a place of mystery and power across the sea. But it is impossible to navigate there. Only those chosen by God can find it, much less pass through.”

  “And why would anyone pass through?”

  “Because it leads to the zafira.”

  The Godstone leaps. I double over with the intensity, gasping for breath, as the stone pounds wave after wave of heat through my body.

  “Elisa!” Hector’s arm wraps around my waist. “Ximena, help me—”

  “I’m all right,” I gasp out. “Just give me a moment.” It reacted this way once before—when I destroyed the animagi with my Godstone amulet. What is it, God? What are you trying to tell me?

  Hector loosens his hold with slow reluctance and steps away. I force breath into my body until I can straighten again. The Godstone continues to pulse, though with less power, and my bodice sticks, sweat soaked, to my skin. Rosario’s hand now grips mine so tightly that I can hardly feel my fingers.

  The Invierno regards me through the lidded eyes of a smug, well-fed kitten. “Oh, yes, you will go.”

  Ximena demands, “What is this zafira?”

  He regards her contemptuously.

  She repeats her question in the Lengua Classica, adding, “If you don’t tell us, we will leave you here to rot or be assassinated, whiche
ver comes first.”

  If he is surprised that she speaks his language, he doesn’t show it, but he says, “The zafira is the soul of the world, the magic crawling beneath our feet. The animagi use it to power their amulets. But those who pass through the gate can harness the power of the zafira directly, without the barrier of the world’s skin. And it is power beyond imagining.”

  My body tingles with the Godstone’s heat, and maybe with curiosity. Power beyond imagining. “How do you know about this?” I demand. “Is it in a scripture? Is it legend?”

  “My people have always known. But we have been cut off from it. For more than a thousand years, we have had to grasp at the zafira through the world’s shell, our power a fraction of what it once was.”

  “So that’s it,” Hector says. “That’s what the Inviernos want.”

  I look up to see his eyes narrowed and distant. “Hector?”

  “They’ve been campaigning for port rights for years. They want to search for it.”

  “Is that true?” I ask Storm.

  “It is.”

  “So why reveal it now?”

  “It is as I told you. I am Your Majesty’s loyal subject.”

  “It must be terrible to subject yourself to a rank cow.”

  He nods in solemn agreement. “Indeed.”

  I consider him a moment. He is too valuable to risk. “I’m going to let you go. I’ll send guards to escort you in secrecy. But next time you must answer my summons.”

  He opens his mouth as if to protest, then snaps it closed. Instead, he bows. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  I turn to go, and my companions follow my lead. I’m sure Alentín and Ximena are itching to get back to the archive and scour it for references to the zafira. But Rosario yanks on my hand, stopping me. I look down into pleading eyes and a trembling lower lip. “What is it, Highness?”

  He gathers himself up, blinks a few times, turns to face the Invierno.

  Rosario says, “You are a very, very bad man.” And he releases my hand and flees down the stairs ahead of us.

  Hector and I exchange a puzzled look. He says, “I think Rosario just needed to . . . say something?”

  “I’m not, you know,” says Storm. “A bad man. I’ve always tried to do right, to follow the path of God.”

  I shrug. “From the mouths of innocents flows truth.” I head for the stairs, not bothering to gauge his response. We hurry down, past the startled soldiers at their card table, and after our prince.

  We find him alone in the courtyard. The sun glints off tears streaming down his cheeks. He wipes at them furiously, and we all slow down to give him time to compose himself.

  In the most casual tone I can muster, I say, “I have a lesson now with Hector, but Father Alentín might have a moment to take you to the kitchens for some coconut pie.”

  He nods, gulping. Then he wraps my waist in a quick hug. He lets me ruffle his hair for just a moment before pushing off and finding Alentín’s hand. The priest winks at me over his shoulder, and I watch them saunter off together toward the kitchens.

  “He’s a remarkable boy,” Ximena says.

  “He is. I just worry sometimes that he is . . . damaged. He watched his father burn.”

  “Alejandro was damaged too,” Hector says, his brow furrowed. He rubs the pommel of his sword with his thumb. “Perhaps it is the price of ruling.”

  As I head back to my suite, flanked by my guard and my guardian, I wonder at his words, afraid to ask if he thinks I am damaged too.

  As I anticipated, instead of staying to observe my self-defense lesson with Hector, Ximena hurries off to the monastery archive. Fernando steps outside to guard the door to the king’s suite. The rest take up their posts in my own chambers. Like last time, I am dressed in my desert garb: soft breeches, a loose blouse, leather boots.

  Hector’s brow is still furrowed, and he paces back and forth like a restless cat. I search for a way to break the silence. “Er . . . will I stomp on your foot again today?”

  “No,” he snaps, and I almost take an involuntary step back. “Today, you’ll learn which body parts should be sacrificed in defense of others.” His words are clipped and harsh, his gaze dark with intensity.

  “For instance,” he continues, “it’s better to block a sword with your forearm and let the bones shatter than allow someone access to your throat. And I’ll show you which part of your forearm to use so that you’re less likely to bleed out. After that, I’ll demonstrate some pressure points, places on the body where you can inflict great pain with very little effort. And then—”

  “Hector.”

  “—we’ll do some stretching exercises to give you better range of motion, especially in your arms and shoulders. It’s easier to slip from someone’s grasp without injury if—”

  “Hector!”

  “—the muscles are already limber and flexible. We need to get you thinking of your elbows, the crown of your head, even your chin, as potential weapons at your disposal. After that—”

  “HECTOR! Stop.”

  His mouth snaps closed.

  “You can’t possibly teach me all of that in one afternoon.”

  He resumes pacing. “In that case, we’ll get as far as we can. I think it’s best we start with pressure points and then move—”

  Swiftly I close the distance between us and cup his face with my hands.

  He freezes, inhaling sharply.

  We regard each other for a long moment. His jaw is warm in my palms. My right ring finger trails into his soft hairline. I watch carefully as the mania fades from his eyes.

  “I need you to be clear-headed, Hector. I need that from you more than anyone.”

  He whispers, “I can’t fail to protect you too.” With gentle fingers, he peels my hands from his face. They’re so much bigger, rough with calluses. “He was my best friend. I let him die. I dream . . .” His voice trails off.

  “That’s your nightmare, isn’t it? The one you wouldn’t tell me about? You dream of Alejandro’s death.”

  “No. Not him.”

  I expect him to drop my hands, to put distance between us the way he always does. But he merely changes the subject. “Elisa, you take too many risks. Every day. Like just now, interviewing the Invierno yourself. The animagus who burned himself alive could have hurt you if he wanted to. We were helpless to stop him. You almost died in the catacombs. And the poison . . .”

  “You saved my life in the catacombs.”

  “I shouldn’t have had to.”

  No, he shouldn’t have. My face grows hot with shame. Hector is the most honorable man I know, devoted to his country, to his duty, to me. And I have prevented him from doing what is most important to him. “You advised me to cancel the birthday parade. You advised me not to go to the catacombs alone. You can’t be blamed for my stubbornness.”

  He looks down at our entwined hands and mumbles, “And yet I like your stubbornness.”

  And abruptly, he releases them. I let them fall to my sides, where they ache coldly.

  He says, “Dismiss me.”

  “No.”

  “I’ve failed to protect you. Someone else should—”

  “I don’t want anyone else.” My own words echo in the air around me, hammering me with their truth, and I can’t contain my slight gasp. I don’t want anyone else.

  He runs a hand through his hair, looks everywhere but at me. Silence stretches between us.

  “I’ve been a fool,” I admit finally. “I’ve been so afraid of seeming weak. Of being like . . . like Alejandro. I’ve made bad decisions. Hector, you are the person I trust most in the world. I would do better to heed your counsel. And from now on, I will. But I promise you . . .” I force a smile. “If I die? You are definitely dismissed.” I hold my breath and await his response. I know the morbid joke will either infuriate him or put him at ease.

  After a moment he shakes his head ruefully. He returns my forced smile with his own feeble attempt and says, “In that case, today I wil
l teach you nothing more than the warm-up series practiced by the Royal Guard. In addition to strengthening and stretching your muscles, I think you’ll find it meditative and calming.”

  I exhale my relief. “Good. I could use ‘meditative and calming’ right now.”

  “Turn around.” From behind, he reaches for my right arm and gently lifts it to shoulder level. “I’ll guide your movements.”

  But something in the air has changed. I am too deeply aware of the warmth of his nearness, the scents of mink oil and aloe shaving gel, the touch of his callused but gentle fingers. And I am forced to conclude that doing the slow, dancelike warm-up exercises of the Royal Guard with Hector as my partner is not calming at all.

  Chapter 13

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

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

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

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

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

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

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