The Crown of Embers (22 page)

“I will go with you, of course,” she says. “As your guardian—”

“No.” There. I’ve said it.

Her black eyes fly wide. Not with surprise, I note carefully, but frustration and anger. She knew it was coming as much as I did.

“You are the queen’s most visible attendant,” I explain. “Mara has been my lady-in-waiting for less than a year. But you’ve been with me my whole life, and everyone knows it. You
must
be seen with my decoy.”

“I have to go with you,” she whispers. “Always. It is my duty. I was ordained for it by the Monastery-at-Amalur. Elisa,
it is God’s will
.”

And that is exactly the wrong thing to say to me, because anger boils up in my throat, so thick I almost choke on it. “You will attend my decoy as if she were me.” I enunciate each word, my voice sharp and hard. “You will protect her with your life.”

Her chest rises as she draws breath to argue further, but Tristán wisely interjects. “So, you, Mara, Belén, and Storm. Lord Commander Hector too, I presume?”

“Yes. Hector. He’s the one with the plan.” I meet Hector’s eye and note the slightest softening of his features. “The five of us.”

Hector says, “We’ll slip away at dusk disguised as highway traders. A small wagon waits for us in the stables, packed with a few odds and ends. We’ll take it to the docks, ostensibly to trade with one of the ships there, but of course, we will never disembark. If something goes wrong, I have an alternate escape prepared through the sewer beneath the inn.”

“Ugh,” Mara says.

“We’ll hope it doesn’t come to that,” Hector says. “And a few weeks from now, we’ll rendezvous in Selvarica after finding the
zafira
.”

“That’s it, then,” I say. “Everyone get a good night’s sleep. Except Belén.”

Belén’s answering grin is as quick and bright as lightning. He is the first to slip out the door. Everyone else follows at a more leisurely pace.

I overhear Ximena saying, “Hector, a word with you, please?”

His face is expressionless as he follows her to a dark corner of my suite. She speaks softly to him, but her gaze is intent, her fists clenched at her sides.

Mara whispers, “You made the right decision.”

“Yes.” But I press my fingertips to the Godstone and pray.
Oh, God,
did
I make the right decision?
Ximena is the closest thing I’ve ever had to a mother. She has always wanted what is best for me. It feels strange to have pushed her away, like pushing away an extra limb or a small part of my soul.

It also feels a little bit like freedom.

“What do you think she’s telling him?” I ask.

Mara covers her mouth to mute soft laughter, and I look at her, startled. “I’d bet all the saffron in my spice satchel,” she says, “that she’s threatening to hang him upside down by his toes if he ever takes your clothes off.”

“Oh!” Mara talks about these matters with such casual ease, and I’m not sure I’m ready to hear it. Still, I study Hector’s reaction very, very carefully. He has drawn himself to full height, chin raised, eyes hard.

“You could order her to tell you,” Mara suggests.

“She would lie if she thought it necessary.” As the words leave my mouth, their truth hits me full force. She has not always wanted what is best for me. She has always wanted what
she thinks
is best for me. And she has never hesitated to work around me or anyone else to accomplish it.

Hector is shaking his head. Ximena sticks a finger in his chest and hisses something at him. His eyes narrow, and he spits something in response. Then he turns his back on her, sweeps past Mara and me, and exits the chamber.

Ximena’s cheeks are flushed, and her breath comes fast. I’ve never seen her so angry, so lacking composure.

A year ago, this would have terrified me. I stand and approach her.

Her gaze on me turns soft with longing, and I wish there was a way to convince her that separating myself from her doesn’t mean I love her less. I give her the only peace offering I know. “Ximena, I’m ready for you to braid my hair now, if you don’t mind.”

She nods, swallowing. “Yes, my sky.”

I wake to someone jostling my shoulder. My eyes fly open. A forefinger presses against my lips, and I hear, “Shh, Elisa.”

“Belén?”

“Franco is coming here,” he whispers. “Now.”

Oh, God.

“The others accompany him, but at a distance,” he adds. “He’ll slip inside the inn, and his companions will block the entrances to prevent escape. Majesty, it’s a siege.”

I fling the covers away and sit up. “Where is Storm?”

“He came in not long after our meeting.”

“And how long until sunrise?”

“About three hours.”

My heart thumps in my chest. This is it. We have to make it happen now, or never. I glance at decoy Elisa, sleeping in the narrow bed against the opposite wall. She could die tonight.
I
could die tonight.
Please, God, keep us all safe.
The Godstone responds to my wispy prayer by sending dry heat up my spine. At least it has not yet gone cold. “Get Hector. I’ll wake the ladies.”

“Stay away from the windows.” And then he’s gone, as quickly and easily as a breeze.

I shake Ximena awake first and explain. She dives into her pack and pulls out a gleaming stiletto. I gulp back a wave of nausea. A stiletto is useless for cutting; its only purpose is to stab, hard and deep, even through armor. She grips the hilt with the ease of long familiarity.

“Wake Mara,” she says. “And get into the corner beside the dresser.”

“The girl?” I indicate decoy Elisa, who is softly snoring.

“Let her sleep.”
Let her be a target,
she means.

“How . . . will you be able . . .”

“Rope ladder out the window, but we have to draw them toward this room first, and you must be gone by then.”

I’m shaking Mara awake when the doorknob twists. Ximena strides unerringly toward the door, elbow bent to plunge her stiletto. But it is only Hector, followed close behind by Tristán.

Hector says, “Storm and Belén will meet us in the cellar. Do you have your things?”

“At the door beside you.” I indicate Mara’s and my packs propped against the wall. They are always ready to go, a habit from our time as desert rebels.

Tristán pushes past Hector and heads toward my sleeping decoy. To my shock, he crawls into bed with her. She startles awake, but he shushes her, drapes an arm around her shoulders, says, “I’m here to protect you, my lady.”

But I realize the truth of it: They’ve brought an extra warrior to protect her, yes, and who would be surprised to learn that the queen’s betrothed is sneaking into her bed?

“Tristán,” I say. “Thank you. And please be careful. Eduardo opposes our match; I’m sure of it. If he can’t kill me, he may go after you.” And with those words, I fully embrace the staggering possibility that I am at war with my own Quorum lord.

“Just find the
zafira
,” Tristán responds. “Joya d’Arena needs it.”

Ximena hugs me close. “Be safe, my sky. Be wise. Remember God’s words from the
Common Man’s Guide to Service
: ‘Blessed is he who puts the sake of others before his own desires.’”

Even now she can’t help but warn me away from Hector. I pitch my voice low so that only she can hear. “I know you want him for Alodia.”

Ximena goes rigid in my arms. “It’s a good match,” she whispers back.

“Elisa!” Hector hisses from the doorway. “We must go
now
!”

“Yes. A good match. Ximena, be well.” I push her away. “Protect the girl.”

Then Mara and I grab our packs and hurry out the door.

Chapter 20

W
E
are met outside by four of my Royal Guard. “Go with God, Your Majesty,” one says, and I barely have a chance to nod before Hector is hustling me down the corridor.

“Wait.” I freeze in my tracks.

“Elisa, we must go!”

But it’s not right. Too much depends on sleight of hand, on stealth, on chance.

I turn back up the corridor toward the guards. “You!” I say to the one who addressed me. “Find the mayor of Puerto Verde. Rouse him from sleep. Tell him his queen demands his presence right now. Tell him to bring his entire household. Tell him I expect him here within minutes.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” He flees.

“And you, rouse every single person in this inn. Make noise. We want chaos. Lots of it. You two, stay and guard this door with your lives. Where are Tristán’s guards?”

“One floor below,” Hector says.

“Let’s go.” I jog down the hallway toward the stair, my pack bouncing at my back. Hector and Mara hurry after me. When we reach the floor below, I bang on doors and walls as we pass. Hector follows my lead, pounding with the pommel of his sword, producing a shocking, hollow boom that no one could possibly sleep through.

Belén intercepts us, gliding up like a wraith. “I lost track of Franco,” he says. “He may be inside.” Doors swing open, people spill into the hallway, sleep mussed and startled. “Is this your doing?” he asks, looking around in alarm.

“We need chaos. A reason to be in the corridor, more obstacles for an assassin.”

He nods. Then he bangs on the nearest door and yells, “Fire!”

I take up the cry. “The stable is on fire!” Then, softer, to Belén, “Go light the stable on fire. Bring the whole city down on us.”

His answering grin gives me shivers. “Meet you in the cellar,” he says, and then he’s gone.

We rush down the stairs, through another corridor, into the kitchens. We duck to avoid hanging brassware, skirt a huge stone bread oven, and find the trapdoor leading to the cellar. Hector grabs the iron ring and heaves it open, revealing steps that lead into dank gloom. It smells of pickled fish and spilled wine.

“Mara, you first,” he says, and as she descends my heart is in my throat, for he has ordered her to go first in case danger lies in wait at the bottom.

After a moment comes her clear whisper: “No one here but Storm!”

Hector nudges me down and follows after, closing the trapdoor over our heads. We are left in utter darkness. I step carefully, feeling with my toes for the edge of each step.

I hear the strike of flint and steel, and brightness sears my vision. It dies, then light flares again, softer and surer. Storm stands at the bottom of the stair holding a torch aloft, Mara beside him. His cowled head nearly brushes the ceiling.

He scowls. “You made me cut and dye my hair.”

Surely he understands that we face greater problems? “I thought it would greatly improve your looks,” I snap.

“Shorn hair is a sign of shame. You humiliate me greatly.”

“I’ll light a candle tonight in honor of your dead tresses.”

His frown deepens. “Where is Belén?”

“Causing chaos. We wait for him.”

It seems that we wait forever, and the space grows tight and hot. Food stores surround us—a few wine barrels, hundreds of tightly sealed ceramic jars, slabs of raw meat hanging from ceiling hooks. Opposite the stair is a low, dark hole in the wall, a trash chute, I presume, that leads to the sewer and the sea.

“Hector, has the ship you were expecting made port yet?”

“No. But her colors were seen yesterday evening. As soon as the wind picks up, she’ll be here.”

“So we row out there and hope for the best?” It seems like too tenuous a plan to me. One of the hardest things about being queen is determining when to trust someone to take care of things for you and when to take charge yourself. I have trusted Hector and Tristán to handle all the arrangements and contingencies for this journey. They are good men, natural leaders. I hope they have thought of everything.

“I can signal them from a distance,” he says cryptically. “We’ll head out to sea and keep going until we intercept them. It will be fine so long as the waters are calm.”

I study his face. “You must know this ship and crew
very
well. To be able to exchange signals. To know their exact route.”

“Yes.” This time I’m looking for it, so I catch the twitch in his jaw that tells me he is being taciturn in order to keep from feeling something too much.

The trapdoor above us groans open.

“Snuff the torch!” Hector says.

The cellar goes black. Hector fills the space before me, backs me up with the press of his body. “Back,” he whispers in my ear. “Behind the stair.” I catch a glint of light along his sword edge, held at the ready.

I hear no footsteps, not even a breath of movement, but the trapdoor shuts with a soft
clunk,
and Belén says, “The inn is in an uproar, but I haven’t been able to find Franco. We must assume he will follow.”

Storm relights his torch. “He may be able to sense Her Majesty’s Godstone,” he says.

A panicked prayer flies unbidden to my lips, and as my belly warms in response, I realize that praying is the last thing I should do. I slam my mouth closed.

Activity has always made the Godstone easier for others to sense. Prayer comes so naturally to me, and I will need to focus hard to keep from doing it.

Hector gestures toward the barrels along the wall. “Belén, roll them in front of the trash chute while I get everyone down into the sewer. It might buy us a few seconds.”

“Trash chute?” Mara asks quaveringly.

“You first, my lady,” he says. “You’ll slide a bit, then drop into the water. It’s about waist deep. If you go under, don’t panic. You’ll be able to stand up. Now go!”

She closes her eyes a moment, then, holding her precious spice satchel above her head, she slides neatly inside, feet first.

Belén rolls a barrel up to obscure the view of the entrance to the chute as Hector takes the torch from Storm. “Now you. Go!”

Storm growls, low and deep, but he follows Mara’s lead and plunges into the hole. His disappearance is quickly followed by a distant, echoing splash.

“Elisa? Your turn.”

Oh, God.

The Godstone leaps, and I curse myself for stupidity. I dangle my legs into the hole. It reeks of dead fish and rotting vegetables. I place my hands beneath my thighs and push off.

I slide, but not quickly. My pants catch in muck, slowing me down. I reach out for the walls of the tight tunnel to push myself forward. My fingertips sink into sludge. I refuse to think about what I am touching.

I slither a bit farther, and suddenly I’m surrounded by air, and falling. I’ve no time to be surprised before my heels hit the water, then my rear. My feet hit bottom but slip out from under me, and ice-cold water closes over my head. I gather my feet and shoot to the surface, sputtering. “Mara?” I call.

“Here.”

I wade toward her voice, wiping water from my eyes and nose. The surface reaches just past my Godstone. It’s cold, but not as bad as I feared. Wading is going to be difficult in my boots and thick desert garb. I hope we reach a boat soon.

A splash behind me brings light with it. Another splash sounds quickly after.

“All here and uninjured?” Hector asks. He looks everyone over quickly.

“My cloak is ruined,” Storm says. His cowl has fallen back, and in the torchlight, I finally glimpse his new hair. It’s cropped close and inky black. It makes his cheeks appear even more gaunt, like a feral cat’s.

“You’ll live,” I tell him. “And when we get back to—” I gasp as my Godstone becomes ice.

“We must go!” I whisper. “Now. He is very near.”

“Belén, guard the queen’s back,” Hector says, grabbing the torch from him and starting down the sewer tunnel at an impossible pace. There is a slight hiss as he dunks the torch in the water. The tunnel goes black.

Pushing through waist-deep water at a near run while fully clothed and booted is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. It’s as hard as wading through sand, as hard as climbing cliffs. My lungs burn with effort and my limbs become leaden with cold, for the Godstone continues to pulse icy warnings through my veins. But I don’t dare pray myself warm. I imagine Franco searching the cellar above, hoping to feel the tickle of warmth that tells him the Godstone is near.

I take comfort in the fact that if Franco is following us, it means he is not following Ximena. Maybe they’ll get away. Maybe they’ll be safe. I hope the entire city has descended upon the inn by now.

The arching ceiling of the tunnel begins to appear, dark and blurred as a ghost; we must be approaching the exit to the bay and open sky. But I don’t know how I’ll make it that far. My teeth chatter and my lips have gone numb. My limbs move too slowly. Hector’s form grows distant.

“Hec . . .” My mouth can hardly form words. “Hec . . . tor.”

He spins, and water laps against the sides of the tunnel as he rushes toward me. “What is it?” His whisper is frantic. “Are you . . .” His hand reaches blindly for me, connects with my cheek. “Your skin is ice.” He grabs my shoulders and pulls me against him, saying, “Belén. Do it now.”

In my peripheral vision, I catch a faint gleam as Belén clamps the blade of his dagger between his teeth, breathes deep through his nose, and then slips below the surface of the water.

I bury my face in Hector’s neck, seeking his heat. He rubs up and down along my arms. “Is it the Godstone?” he whispers.

“Can’t. Pray.”

Storm and Mara are silent in the space beside us as we wait for Belén. What if more than one person pursues us? How will Belén be able to see what to do?

Hector’s grip on me tightens, and my soaked body molds to his. Warmth sparks in the pit of my stomach, something wholly separate from the Godstone. Of their own volition, my arms snake around him, slide beneath his pack. My hands splay against his broad back, and I pull him close, closer. It would be the easiest thing in the world to press my lips to his throat, the line of his jaw. It would almost be like an accident.

A grunt. A splash.

Hector releases me and pulls fighting daggers from the vambraces at his forearms.

But the ice is fading from my blood. “It’s all right,” I say, laying a hand on his wrist. “The cold is gone.” I send out a quick prayer, just enough for a smidge of warmth and a bit of gratitude.

A moment later, Belén’s shape appears. Something dark and glittering streams across his face. “There was only one,” he says. “Not Franco, but definitely one of his men.” Beside me, Storm looses a ragged sigh. “If we are very lucky,” Belén continues, “they’ll never find the body. But only if we are very lucky. I suggest we go quickly.”

“Elisa, can you move?” Hector asks.

In answer, I push forward through the black water. Behind me, I hear Mara whisper, “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Belén says, and she breathes soft relief.

The tunnel stinks more and more, like a rotting privy or meat gone sour. Odds and ends float in the water beside us, and I try to avoid touching anything. My inner thighs chafe from the wet fabric of my pants, and my boots sink into sludge with each step. I feel like I’ll never be clean again.

The details of my companions’ faces are beginning to show when we reach an iron grate. I glimpse a shimmer of moonlight on the water beyond.

“We have to swim under,” Hector says. “There’s a hole on the bottom left. Mara?”

Looking resigned, she says, “Hand the satchel to me through the grate?”

He takes it from her, saying, “There’s room enough if you dive low.”

Mara gulps air, then sinks below the surface. She kicks hard, connecting with my shin underwater, and then nothing. I count.
One, two, three, four, five, six . . .

Her head breaks the surface on the other side. “Easy,” she says, gasping. Hector pokes her satchel through the grate, and she grabs it.

Storm goes next, then Belén. Hector and I are alone. He hooks me around the waist and pulls me back, into the dark.

“Hector? What—”

“Quickly,” he whispers, and his face is very close. “This may be our last chance to speak alone for a long time.” I’m acutely aware of the pressure of his hand on the small of my back. The buzzing warmth returns to the pit of my stomach. “Last night Ximena warned me that you have a tendency to form strong attachments to people in close proximity to you.”

“People like you,” I say flatly.

“I told her you were stronger and smarter than she realized,” he says, and his gaze drops to my lips. “She wanted me to promise that I would be wary of getting too close.”

Did you?
I want to ask.
Did you promise?

“We argued right in front of you. It was a terrible breach, and I’m sorry.”

“Hector? Your Majesty?” comes a whispering voice.

I can’t stop staring at his lips. “Ximena’s right, you know. Do you think it weakens me? To care so much?”