The Crown of Embers Read online

  I lurch away, but I am too cold, too slow.

  Light winks against a steel edge. I raise my banner against the wicked glimmer.

  Something rams the silk, slides off, ricochets against my forearm. My skin parts; pain sluices up to my shoulder.

  I drop the banner, scurry backward in a crab crawl, but I collide with a pedestal. The blade plunges again.

  I scream as it glances off my Godstone, slips into my stomach as if I am made of butter.

  The pain is like nothing I’ve experienced. I know I will burst from it.

  Warmth glides across my belly, down my thighs. The blade is ripped from my body, and I crumple to the stone. My cheek splats into a pool of my own blood.

  My last thought is of Alejandro, and how surprised he’ll be to see me.

  Chapter 4

  I awaken as if into a dream—a dream of light and heat and pain.

  I should open my eyes, but I can’t seem to find them in my head. I ought to cry out, but I’m too distant from my flesh to figure out how. I’m lost in the desert of my own mind, in a wilderness of sand and light.

  . . . dead soon, I imagine the general’s voice saying, distantly, as if from another world. . . . the priest . . . final sacrament. He wants me to die. I know it with surety, even from this bright, lost place.

  But I refuse.

  And later, maybe much later: Elisa? . . . Hector. . . hand moved! Rosario’s high voice this time—someone who very much wants me to live. I focus hard on his words, cling to them as to a lifeline.

  Warmth. Pressure. My hand! Someone squeezes it.

  I make my hand my whole world. Hand hand hand hand. I push through the sand and light and heat, and with every bit of strength I have in me, I squeeze back.

  My next awakening is more real, my perception sharper, my pain so much more exquisite. My eyes are crusted closed, and I give up trying to open them.

  My head is heavy and huge, like it has swollen to twice its normal size. The worst pain, though, is in my abdomen, just left of the Godstone.

  I remember, and my breath comes in short gasps. The darkness, the gleaming steel edge, the dagger plummeting . . .

  No. All this pain means that I am alive. I will think about that instead.

  Even with my eyes closed, I know I’m in my bed. A cool night breeze caresses my fevered skin, bringing a sweet concoction of freesia and hibiscus. My balcony curtains whisper as they move; my bathing pool gurgles with a fresh infusion of water.

  Someone found me, brought me here. Someone saved my life.

  I sense movement against my shoulder. My stomach muscles clench involuntarily, which sends a wave of pain all the way to my breastbone. I force myself to relax, to breathe.

  Then I turn my head to discover what rests at my shoulder. I get a noseful of soft, freshly washed hair, a blast of warm, sleeping breath.

  I’d recognize his scent anywhere. It’s Rosario, my little prince. I wonder if he’s here by design or if he slipped his nurse again.

  It makes my head swim to lift my neck, but I do it anyway, just enough for my lips to find his forehead. He snuggles closer, which helps me focus. I’m awake a long time. In pain. Glad to be alive.

  When I stir again, my eyes open easily. I start to sit up but abandon the effort. Pain aside, my stomach muscles simply do not cooperate. What if the assassin’s dagger broke something inside me?

  Rosario is gone, but I am surrounded by guards. One stands at the foot of my bed, two at my balcony, two at the entry door, one at the opening to my atrium.

  I take a deep breath. “Morning,” I say with enormous effort. My voice is that of a stranger, all cracked and dry.

  They snap to attention.

  One steps forward. My vision wavers with heat and dizziness, but I recognize Lord Hector by the broad set of his shoulders.

  He whispers, “Elisa?”

  Questions tumble in my mind, competing for attention. Who rescued me? Did they find the assassin? How badly am I hurt? Where are Mara and Ximena? Did I imagine Rosario cuddled beside me in the dead of night?

  Bringing all this to my lips is impossible. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

  “Your Majesty?” he says. “Are you able to tell me how you feel?”

  My bedroom is taut with silence as everyone awaits my response. They need me to respond. They’re afraid I can’t.

  So I try again. “Sandstorm,” I manage.

  It’s not coming out right. The guards exchange worried glances.

  I take an excruciating breath. “Sandstorm,” I repeat. “Like I’ve been lost. And flayed alive.”

  Lord Hector wilts with relief. “You look it too.”

  The others gasp at his audacity, but I laugh. It sounds like a wheeze.

  Hector turns to one of the guards. “Get word to General Luz-Manuel and Conde Eduardo at once. Tell them Her Majesty is awake and of sound mind.”

  Hearing his name, I’m tickled by a darkly distant memory of the general sitting my deathwatch. Or did I imagine it?

  “I’ll fetch Ximena and Mara,” Hector says. “I forced them to eat and rest.”

  “Thank you.” Already my vision clouds, and I want more than anything to close my eyes. “Wait! How long was I—”

  “Three days.”

  It’s like a punch to my already-aching gut. “And the assassin?” Words, at least, are coming more easily.

  “Disappeared. We’ve searched everywhere.”

  I feared as much. Why else would I require so many sentries? “Was Invierne behind it? Was it related to the animagus’ threat?”

  “The other Quorum members think so. The people think so. Conde Eduardo posted notices throughout the city advising that no one go anywhere alone. Several districts have requested a stronger guard presence.”

  My mouth opens to ask if anyone has suggested giving me over to Invierne, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I say, “Did you find me down there? Are you the person who saved my life?”

  He freezes, and I wish my vision were clearer, for I would dearly love to read his face.

  “I’ll send your ladies,” he says, and he strides away before I can respond.

  I’m drifting in almost-sleep when Nurse Ximena and Lady Mara bustle inside, followed by a lanky man I recognize as the royal physician. Hector does not accompany them.

  Ximena showers my face with kisses. “Oh, my sky,” she says. “We thought . . . we were worried that . . . it’s good to see you awake.”

  Mara fluffs my pillows. She doesn’t meet my gaze, but I notice a tear in the corner of her eye, which she quickly scrapes away. “You remember Doctor Enzo?” she says.

  “Of course. He took wonderful care of the king . . .” I almost say, as he lay dying. “After he was injured.”

  The ladies step aside, and Doctor Enzo leans forward to peer at me. He has a beakish nose and a razor-thin mustache that twitches with excitement as he absorbs information about my look and bearing. “I’m surprised to see you awake so soon. Your vision must be disastrous. Can you see at all?” Doctor Enzo was never one for niceties.

  “It seems to be getting better.”

  “Nauseated?”

  “Mostly dizzy. Doctor, please tell me—”

  “Right here.” He makes a stabbing gesture left of the Godstone. My stomach clenches painfully in response. “Fortunately, the assassin missed. The knife slid in sideways. Didn’t hit the important bits. There’s a muscle here”—with his forefinger, he indicates an imaginary line alongside my navel—“that was nearly severed. If you remain very still for a couple of weeks, it may heal properly. As it is, you’ll have a tremendous scar. May I document your recovery? It’s such a devastating and fascinating injury.”

  “He didn’t miss,” I whisper.

  “What was that?”

  “The assassin didn’t miss. The blade was deflected by my Godstone.”

  Someone gasps. The guards exchange looks of wonder, and I almost laugh. No sorcery was involved in the Godstone
’s interference, nothing divine. It was random luck.

  “There’s a slice across your forearm also,” Doctor Enzo continues. “Bled a good bit, but stitched up beautifully. Some of my finest work. In a few years, you’ll have only a faint scar.”

  “Why am I so dizzy?”

  “You hit the back of your head. Your skull is intact, but your face swelled magnificently. You may have permanent damage.”

  I’m as taken aback by his emotionless delivery as the words themselves: Permanent damage. My heart squeezes at the thought. I am not beautiful. I am not a devotee of court politics. I’m not particularly queenly in bearing. What I am is well-studied and intelligent. My mind is my single advantage, the one thing I’ve allowed myself to take pride in. Any kind of damage is unacceptable.

  “When will I know?” I ask in a shaky voice. “If there is . . . damage?” This conversation may be better had in private, away from the guards. Perhaps it is unwise to offer even the barest hint that the new queen is compromised.

  Doctor Enzo pats my shoulder awkwardly. “The fact that you are awake and alert is a good sign.”

  I am not reassured. But I am too tired to think about it a moment more. Of their own volition, my eyes drift closed.

  No. I snap them open. I’ve been asleep long enough. “Doctor, send someone to fetch my mayordomo.” I need his report on the state of things immediately. Conde Eduardo and General Luz-Manuel have no doubt been ruling in my absence, and if they are willing to contest my worthiness in a face-to-face meeting, how much more will they undermine me while I am indisposed?

  My mayordomo arrives within minutes. He is a decadent man prone to egregious ruffles and bright colors, but I admire his quiet dignity as my guards search him for weapons. It’s probably the first time in his tenure as ranking palace official that he’s been treated so abominably.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly,” I say in a warm voice, hoping to lessen some of the sting.

  He has hardly risen from his bow when he blurts, “Your Majesty, the city garrison just put down another riot. They made several arrests.”

  I start to lurch to a sitting position, but the tearing at my abdomen sends me crashing back against my pillow. “Another riot?” I say weakly. “Why?”

  “There have been three in protest of the tax increase. All were quickly put down by the garrison, but each riot has been progressively larger. . . .”

  My head swims. Riots? Tax increase? How could I forget about a tax increase? Maybe this is what Doctor Enzo meant by “permanent damage.”

  “Remind me,” I say carefully, “about the details of this tax increase.”

  “The Quorum pushed it through while you were indisposed.”

  I gape at him. “Can they do that?”

  “According to article 67 of the Concordancia, when the monarch is physically unable to perform his duties, the longest-sitting member of the Quorum must vote on his behalf.”

  “So the general had two votes.”

  “Yes.”

  I clutch at my sheets until they are balled into my fists, but sharp pain darts up my forearm, so I force myself to unclench. Maybe I would have voted for a tax increase, I tell myself. Maybe it’s for the best. We’re desperate to refill the coffers for reconstruction. To rebuild our army before Invierne can mount another attack.

  “And how did Hector vote?” I ask in a small voice.

  “He abstained.”

  I sink into my bedcovers with relief, though I’m not sure why it’s so important. “Thank you for your report,” I tell him.

  He turns to go.

  “Wait!”

  He spins and drops into a courtier’s bow. “Your Majesty?”

  “That day. When the animagus burned himself. Did you order the palace lockdown?”

  “No, Your Majesty.”

  “Who did?”

  “It was General Luz-Manuel.”

  The soldier told me it was the conde. The conde told me it was the mayordomo. What am I missing?

  “Did you speak to the general in person?”

  His eyebrows knit together thoughtfully. “I received word through His Grace the conde’s emissary, Lord Franco. He is a much trusted adviser. Did I do wrong?”

  Franco again. I must meet this person, and soon. “No, you did well. I assume the city has been searched thoroughly?”

  “No other Inviernos have been discovered, though I’m sure the mere possibility of another attack contributed to this sudden spate of riots.”

  My city is splintering apart. I sense it as surely as if I still stood on the palace wall with Hector, watching it happen. “Thank you. You may go.”

  Doctor Enzo insists I’m in no shape to hold appointments or even make decisions, so the mayordomo clears my schedule. But I hate being useless. I lie awake for hours each day, trying to figure out how to rule effectively from my bed. First I summon Lord Franco, the man who reportedly ordered the palace lockdown, but I’m told that he has left for Conde Eduardo’s southern holdings to oversee rebuilding projects.

  I demand an accounting from General Luz-Manuel for the tax increase. He insists that he couldn’t wait. His queen was not expected to survive, and can he be blamed for acting quickly when so many of Brisadulce’s unemployed citizens are desperate for the construction work the increase would provide?

  Though I’m unable to find fault with his arguments, I can’t shake the phantom memory of the general looming over my unconscious body, eager for my death. Something else is taking shape beneath his placid surface of diplomatic politeness. I’m sure of it.

  Prince Rosario visits often at first, sneaking out of the nursery to be with me while the guards pretend not to notice. But once the boy has assured himself that I’m no longer in danger of dying like his father, his visits grow less frequent. I don’t mind. It’s hard to have him at my bedside without the freedom to ruffle his hair or play a quick game of cards.

  Word has spread like wildfire that I seek a husband—even though I’ve made no official announcement. Gifts pour in from the nobility—especially potential suitors—and there’s a disconcerting intimacy about them. “Sapphire earrings to match the blue of your Godstone,” one note reads. “Since you are a scholar of holy scripture, here is a centuries-old copy of the Belleza Guerra,” says another. So many strangers know so much about me, and they shower me with priceless gifts, just on the chance of catching my attention.

  No one is sure what to do with the gifts, so Ximena shoves them into a corner of my atrium for later sorting.

  I also get notes that are unnerving. A journeyman tanner blames me for not having enough hide to practice his craft and calls for my abdication. A young widow with four children begs for a job. An acolyte from the Monastery-at-Puerto Verde sends a withered black rose, saying that the Godstone’s blasphemous sorcery blackens my soul and makes a mockery of our most precious sacrament.

  Several letters claim that because I allowed the eastern holdings to secede and form their own nation, I should do the same with the southern holdings. One letter boldly declares the south to be an independent nation.

  General Luz-Manuel promises that each letter will be investigated for sedition and any true threat to my person will be dealt with. But even his assurances fill me with misgiving.

  Every night, I dream of my assassin. In my nightmares, the catacombs are a huge black emptiness. I’m moving forward, arms outstretched against the dark, when I see a wicked glimmer. I have a flash of horrified understanding before the assassin becomes an inferno, and his flaming blade is plunging into my stomach, tearing me in half, and I scream and scream. . . .

  Someone is always at my bedside when I wake. My ladies calm me with gentle words and cool, soothing hands, whispering that I’ll heal faster if I don’t try to leave the bed, that I’m safe now. But I can’t return to sleep until Ximena has read to me from the Scriptura Sancta, or Mara has plied me with a cup of spiced wine, or Hector has checked the balcony for intruders.

  One afternoon I�
��m startled by a commotion outside. I hear shouting, the ring of steel, tromping boots.

  Beside me, Ximena continues to loop and pull with her embroidery needle, but she meets my gaze with her own puzzled look.

  Lord Hector bursts through the door. “Elisa! I need your help.”

  “What is it?” Fear shoots through me. The last time I saw him so wide-eyed and breathless, the animagi were burning down the city gate.

  “It’s an execution. I tried to stop it, but General Luz-Manuel—”

  “Whose execution?” I demand. “Why?”

  “Martín. General Luz-Manuel found him guilty of conspiring with Invierne to assassinate you. He sentenced him to death by beheading.” He leans over and places his hands on the foot of my bed. “Elisa, he’s one of my own men. I trained him myself. He would never harm you.”

  I try to rise from the bed. “Martín would never . . . he was going to name his baby—”

  Ximena pushes me back down. “You’re supposed to rest!”

  I struggle against her. “Hector, help me up. Take me out there if you have to carry me yourself.” The blood pumping through my veins makes my thoughts spin faster, and I revel in the clarity of it.

  I could try to stop the execution with a missive, but there might not be time to authenticate the message. And Martín would forever be known as the man who may have allowed an assassin to attack the queen—unless I declare my belief in his innocence before the entire city.

  Ximena steps out of the way, her face carved in stone, as Hector reaches beneath my shoulders and knees and lifts me to his chest as if I am a small child. My boundless nightgown tangles at his knees.

  My nightgown! I can’t barrel into the courtyard dressed like this.

  “Ximena, please bring my robe.” I wrap my good arm around Hector’s neck. “Hurry!”

  He maneuvers me through the door and into the hallway, gesturing with a lift of his chin for the other guards to accompany us. Ximena trails behind, my robe in her hands.

  “The assassin was already there when I arrived,” I say as we rush through the palace corridors and down a flight of stairs. “I have no idea how long he was lying in wait. Maybe days. He could have sneaked down during anyone’s shift.”