The Crown of Embers

Chapter 15

BUT I don’t have time to think about it, for the day of the Deliverance Gala dawns hot and bright and busy. Everyone hurries through preparations sheened with a layer of sweat. I spend the morning approving last-minute changes to the menu and guest lists and practicing the blessing I will recite at the ball. That afternoon, I tell Mara and Ximena about healing Hector, though I leave out the most pertinent detail. Ximena is beside herself with excitement that I have found a way to tap into the Godstone’s power.

“God has a great destiny for you, my sky,” she says, her eyes shining.

If she realizes I’m keeping something to myself, she does not press. Still, I’m relieved when it’s finally time to dress for the gala, for it means I’ll have something to do besides avoid her zealous gaze.

I can’t stop thinking about Hector. I can’t wait to see him again, for Doctor Enzo has declared him well enough to escort me tonight.

Because of the attempts on my life, my own personal guard will be on my arm, soldiers will be stationed at every entrance and crossbowmen in the high cupolas overlooking the audience hall, and every guest will be thoroughly searched for weapons.Still Ximena insists on one further precaution.

She holds up a corset of leather nearly as stiff as rawhide. “I had it specially made,” she says with a pleased look. She knocks it with a fist, and I wince at the hollow sound. “It should repulse a dagger, or at least minimize damage. And it’s fitted, just flexible enough to wear under a gown.”

I gaze at it in despair, already feeling suffocated. “All right,” I say, resigned. When she fits it around me and begins to lace it, I try to convince myself it’s not much worse than my regular corset with its thick stays.

Mara looks on with amused interest. “It looks like Hector’s informal armor,” she says. “Except with space for breasts.”

“Funny,” I say with a glare. But my glare dies when I see my reflection. I hardly recognize the girl looking back at me. She seems so strong in her corset armor. I throw my shoulders back and hold my head high.

My gown—made of aquamarine satin—slides over it with surprising ease. It’s a bolder color than I usually prefer, but I like the way my skin glows next to it, the contrast of my dark skin and black hair. The gown is sleeveless but has two impossibly long chiffon ties that form a halter behind my neck and float down my back, all the way to the floor.

Ximena sweeps my hair up, leaving a few curls to trail down my neck. Mara lines my eyes with kohl and adds a little sweep at the corners, which enhances their cat shape and makes them look huge. She steps back, grinning smugly, and says, “I’ve been practicing on the laundress.”

Tears fill Ximena’s eyes. “You look like a queen, my sky.”

Mara says, “You look like the most eligible marriage prospect in the country.”

The face staring back is strange. More chiseled, less pudgy than it used to be. And the eyes—so dark and dramatic and large! They are the eyes of someone who has seen and lost much.

Softly I say, “I look like a widow.”

They shift a bit closer, as if forming a protective hedge, and Mara settles an arm across my shoulder. I’m grateful for their sympathy, their understanding.

Mara squeezes my shoulder. “You’ll find love again,” she says.

I catch my breath. But I already have. And I don’t know that it matters. Carefully I say, “Love is not for me. I’ll marry for the good of my kingdom.” But my words seem too hard and sharp. “Probably a northern lord,” I continue, forcing nonchalance into my voice. “Approved by the Quorum.”

Ximena regards me thoughtfully—she knows me too well. But she doesn’t press the matter, just arranges the ties of my dress to drape more fluidly and says, “You’re ready to go as soon as Hector gets here.”

My heart does a little flip at the sound of his name, but I ignore it, saying, “First I have something for you.” I gesture for them to follow me into my bedchamber. I reach into my nightstand to retrieve the gifts I’ve hidden there and hand each of them a packet wrapped in supple leather.

Mara beams as she opens hers but then gasps with astonishment. “A spice satchel. With marjoram, cinnamon—oh, Elisa. Saffron! How did you procure saffron?”

I’m so glad to have surprised her. “There are advantages to being queen. Now you, Ximena.”

My nurse peels back the leather wrapping to reveal a bound book with a painted cover and gilded pages. “The Common Man’s Guide to Service,” she breathes. “It must be two hundred years old.”

“Look at the pages.”

She opens it. “Oh, my sky.”

I laugh, delighted with her reaction. “They’re illuminated!”

Ximena runs a finger across the elaborate lettering, caresses the border painted in shimmering sacrament roses. Tears fill her eyes. “I’ve never owned something so valuable.”

It takes so little to please my ladies, and my heart fills to see the happiness shining in their faces. I reach my arms out, and then the three of us are elbowing one another in an awkward hug. “Happy Deliverance Day,” I whisper, and they respond in kind.

Someone’s throat clears, and we separate. Mara moves from my field of vision to reveal Hector standing in the doorway.

My mouth goes dry.

For the first time since I have known him, he is dressed as a Quorum lord. He still wears the red cloak of the Royal Guard, but instead of combing back his black hair, he has let it curl naturally at his forehead, at the nape of his neck. In lieu of a breastplate and thigh guards, he wears a loose white blouse tucked into tight black breeches. A sword belt slings across narrow hips, but it’s a smaller gentleman’s sword. Without the bulk of his armor, I see how very broad his shoulders are, how tanned the skin of his neck and collarbone is.

He looks vulnerable. Exposed.

And yet he looks stronger than I’ve ever seen him. He’s not beautiful like Alejandro, for there is nothing of delicacy about Hector. And he is not wild and unpolished like Humberto. Hector’s jaw is too smooth and solid, his eyebrows too full and well shaped, his neck and shoulders hard with sculpted muscle. Everything about him speaks of elegant power.

I realize the silence has stretched forever. How long have I stood here gaping?

His pupils are huge, his gaze on me steady. He has watched me study him, and more than anything, I wish I could read his thoughts.

I find my voice at last. “Happy Deliverance Day.”

“You are beautiful,” he says simply.

Warmth floods my neck, and I swallow hard. “Thank you. You look very nice too.”

“I brought something for you.”

“Oh?” For the first time, I notice the package in his hand. It’s box shaped, large enough that I will need two hands to hold it. “You didn’t have to get me anything.” Earlier, I had a page deliver a silver brooch for his cloak—the same gift I gave all my guards. I didn’t know what else to do. There is still so much I don’t know about him—about his childhood, his interests—and I couldn’t think of a gift that felt personal enough for someone so important to me. Staring at the box in his hand, I wish I’d given it more effort.

“It’s from all of us,” he says. “The Royal Guard, Ximena, and Mara.”

I whip my head around to stare at my ladies. Mara grins like a child about to eat naming-day pie. “Go ahead,” Ximena says. “Open it.”

Hector hands the box to me, and our fingers brush as I take it. I pull at the twine until it unravels, then peel away the decorative wrapping to reveal a hinged jewelry box of polished mahogany. The de Vega seal is burn etched onto the cover. My heart is in my throat as I tip the lid back.

Inside, resting on blue velvet, is a crown made of white gold with swirls and loops as intricate as lace. It’s dainty enough to be light on my head, and yet so much more substantial than the tiaras I wore as a princess. Indeed, it is fit for a queen.

But what makes me draw breath sharply, what fills my eyes with tears, are the shattered Godstones set into the gold. They range from dark blue to black; some are no more than shards. In the center is the largest, the one Godstone that survived mostly intact, though a large spiderweb crack bursts across its surface just left of center.

Whoever designed the crown was inspired by the broken jewels and carried the theme through the whorls and spikes of gold. Though delicate, the overall impression is one of bold strength and jagged shimmering.

It’s the crown of a warrior. Of someone who has faced destruction.

Because I am frozen in place, Ximena lifts it from the box and settles it on my head. It feels perfect. I step into the atrium to view my reflection in the vanity mirror. Tiny motes of untouched sapphire spark under the skylight.

“No one,” I breathe, “in the history of all the world has worn a crown such as this.”

“No one else could,” Hector says over my shoulder. Our eyes meet in the mirror. I’m the first to look away.

“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you all. But how—”

“All those gifts from your suitors,” Ximena says. “When you were convalescing. We sold several items, melted the jewelry down. It was Hector’s idea. Mara helped the jeweler design it. Each of the guards chipped in a few coins.”

“It’s amazing,” I say. “It’s magnificent.”

“Go show it off, my sky,” Ximena says with a soft smile.

I find I’m eager to do so. I look to Hector, and he holds out his arm.

The audience hall is transformed for the Deliverance Gala. Rose garlands swoop from crystal chandeliers, filling the hall with their heady scent. The casement of each high window holds a lighted candelabra, so that the room seems surrounded by stars. Low tables line the walls. They are covered with silk cloth and brimming with appetizers and drink served in silver dishes, all surrounded by sitting cushions for easy chatting.

Musicians play vihuelas and dulciáns from a wooden stage near the entry, and hundreds of people mill about, smiling and laughing, dressed in their yearly best. More trickle in through the entrance after being thoroughly searched for weapons, but even this does not damper the mood. They’re as bright as a flower garden in their Deliverance colors—coral hibiscus and yellow night bloomers and sky-blue vine snaps. Women wear their hair up in jeweled nets; men wear long stoles trimmed in gold embroidery. It’s a night for shimmering, for catching the light just so.

No one dances yet. It’s up to me to begin the festivities.

The moment I enter, the hall goes silent. Hector pauses in the threshold, giving them a chance to size up their queen. I hold lightly to his arm, and he reaches with his other hand and gives mine a quick squeeze.

Everyone bows, but their collective gaze fixes on my new crown. I give them a defiant smile in return and wait the space of a few beats for them to fully understand what they see.

I gesture for everyone to rise, and Hector and I resume our procession. The crowd breaks into a flurry of low-voiced conversations. I catch the words “Godstone” and “sorcery.” I hold my smile easily, knowing the crown has had its intended effect.

At the end of the hall, my throne dais has been rolled away to reveal the massive Hand of God, a masterwork of marble sculpture we gaze upon only once each year. My Godstone leaps in rapturous response. I calm it with my fingertips, mumbling, “Stop that.”

The man who carved the hand, Lutián of the Rocks, spent his whole short life working on it. They say he was overcome with God’s spirit, that he carved with fevered frenzy, stopping only for occasional food and drink and sleep. When he finished at the age of twenty-one, he pronounced it good and promptly collapsed of a burst heart. He bore a living Godstone, like me, and carving this giant hand was his great service.

With Hector’s help, I climb the steps leading to God’s cupped fingers. I step across them carefully, for they are as rounded and ridged as real fingers. I spread the skirt of my aquamarine gown around me, and lower myself so that I sit cross-legged in the giant palm.

The crowd hushes in expectation.

I close my eyes, lift my hands to the sky, and intone the Deliverance blessing.

In you our ancestors put their trust,

they cried out and you delivered them.

Yea, from the dying world they were saved;

in you they trusted and were not put to shame.

Bless us, O God, as we remember your hand;

your righteous right hand endures forever.

“Selah!” the crowd thunders.

The musicians resume, dancers float onto the center floor, and the Deliverance Gala has officially begun.

From below, Hector gestures for me to come down. Normally, the monarch would sit in the Hand of God for several dances, absorbing luck and blessing. But it is too dangerous for me to be exposed for so long.

Holding tight to his hand for support, I navigate the steps, mindful of my full skirt. My foot has barely reached the floor when I am accosted by my first partner.

“May I have this dance, Your Majesty?” asks Prince Rosario. He bows with the ease of long practice, his small fingers outstretched in gentlemanly supplication.

“Of course!” I say with genuine enthusiasm, taking the offered hand.

His head does not even reach my chest, and I’m tempted to lead him, but he seems determined to do the job credibly, so I let him.

“Did your nurse put you up to this?” I ask.

He peers up at me from beneath thick lashes—his cinnamon eyes are so like his father’s—and says, “No, but Carilla wants to dance with me.” With a quick tip of his chin, he indicates a young girl with wild curls and satin ruffles standing at the edge of the crowd, no more than nine years old. Rosario wrinkles his nose. “She tries to kiss me. It’s awful.”

I laugh. “So you told her you had to dance with me instead.”

He nods solemnly. “Even though you are a terrible dancer. Dancing with you is better than dancing with Carilla.”

With equal solemnity, I say, “Excellent decision. You will be a wise king one day.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “Wiser than Papá. Everyone says so.”

My heart breaks for him a little. “We should drift across the hall so that you are far away from Carilla when the song ends.”

He brightens. “Good idea!”

As we dance, I ask him about his studies, which he loathes, and his swordsmanship lessons with Hector, which he loves. By the time our dance ends, we are laughing together over his favorite pony, who can nose his way to a syrupy date even through three layers of clothing. I don’t step on Rosario’s feet even once.

When we separate, he bows. “I thank you for the dance, Your Majesty,” he intones.

“It was a pleasure, Your Highness,” I respond. Several people around us applaud lightly, as if we have put on a bit of theater. And I suppose we have. I hope it has cheered them to see their queen and her heir having a good time together.

A hand grasps my elbow. I look up into Hector’s worried face. He whispers, “Please. Do not drift through the crowd while dancing. Stay close to the edge, where I can see you.”

The music changes to a slow, rhythmic bolero.

“I didn’t realize . . . I’m sorry.” He is very close, and my heart starts to pound. I remember our last lesson, the way his hands stroked up my bare forearm, showing me proper form, guiding my movements. The way the world dropped away as we moved effortlessly together, lost in the drill that was more like a dance.

I whisper, “Dance with me.”

He pauses, as if considering. Then, “Yes, Your Majesty.” And my heart sinks to think that dancing with me may be yet another duty for him. But then I can’t think of anything at all, for his hand has slipped around my waist to pull me toward him. Holding my gaze, his left hand slides gently down my forearm to my fingers. He entwines them with his own and spins me into the center of the floor.

We are not close enough as we dance. I imagine myself pressed against him, my face buried in his neck. But this particular dance demands a certain choreographed distance, and we comply. I focus instead on the hand at the small of my back. The leather of my hidden corset protects me from daggers, but it protects me from Hector’s touch too, and I find myself hating it. I can feel the pressure of his hand but no more. I want to feel his fingers, his warmth. I want to feel everything.

“How is your injury?” I ask, to distract myself.

“I have forgotten to notice it.”

I have no idea how to respond. After a moment of my stunned silence, he says, “Of all your suitors, has any one caught your particular attention yet?”

His question startles me. It feels out of place. Forced.

I consider making a joke but abandon the idea. Instead I say, “I haven’t encountered many yet, but Conde Tristán seems nice. He’s intelligent and charming. And . . . and I think he likes me, too.”

“You think he could be a good friend, then?”

“Maybe. I don’t . . .” I don’t love him. “I don’t know that the Quorum will approve. He’s southern, after all. But I think he’s a good man.”

I hear him sigh, and his arm squeezes my waist, pulling me a little closer. He says, “I’m glad. You could do much worse. And I’ll always be grateful to him for coming to our aid.”

I nod agreement, trying to keep the disappointment from my face. It’s wrong of me, I know, but I don’t want Hector to be glad about a potential suitor.

The dance floor is full now, and Hector is careful to keep us from brushing against anyone else. He leans down and whispers, “I’m not sure it’s proper for a queen to dance with her guard.”

My heart sinks a little more. Always the dutiful commander. I lift my head to whisper back at him, and my lips accidentally brush his jaw when I say, “I don’t care.”

“May I cut in, Your Majesty?”

I turn toward the intruder, angry.

It’s Conde Tristán. He is so wide-eyed with nervousness that I soften at once.

Hector says, “Of course, Your Grace. Her Majesty and I were just discussing some of the finer points of security, but our conversation is finished.” He spins me toward the conde, and I catch one last glimpse of his unreadable face before Tristán traps me in his arms and Hector drifts back into shadow.

The bolero is picking up speed now. “I can’t imagine that anyone would risk God’s wrath by trying to harm you during his own holiday,” the conde says.

I don’t care to discuss my safety anymore. “How is Iladro?”

He brightens. “Much better, thank you. He can only eat small portions, and he remains weak, but he’s better every day. I pray for a full recovery. If God can heal Lord Hector so thoroughly, surely he has some mercy to spare for my herald.”

“You are very devout then?” I crane my neck, looking for Hector, but I can’t find him. I know he watches me, though. I can feel it.

“Only in recent years. Since my father’s death, I’ve taken great comfort in weekly services, most especially the holy sacrament of pain. The slight discomfort of a thorn prick is very meditative and calming. It helps me exist in the present moment, helps me forget the stresses of ruling a countship.”

He could not have answered more perfectly if I had coached him myself, and I stare at him in suspicion.

“Does Selvarica have its own monastery?”

“No. But it would be my life’s greatest legacy to establish a Monastery-at-Selvarica. I’ve been working on it. So far, we’ve been unable to attract a head priest to our tiny countship.”

“Why not?”

“Honestly, I can’t imagine. We’re remote, I suppose. But Selvarica is the most beautiful place in the world. A lush green island, surrounded by sea the color of blue quartz. Never too warm, never too cold. The mountain peaks trap enough rainclouds to provide water year-round. Waterfalls tumble from verdant cliffs into icy pools. Flowers grow everywhere. Truly, Selvarica is God’s own garden.”

“It sounds lovely.”

His voice grows husky. “I would love to show it to you someday.”

I return his intent gaze without flinching. We are the same height, which is a nice change. Hector and Mara and Ximena are all unusually tall, and it seems as though I’m always craning my neck.

I say, “I may pay a state visit. The Quorum has suggested I tour the country after hurricane season. They would like to make a very big deal of it. Lots of fanfare.”

He laughs. “You sound as though you despise the idea.”

I grin. “I’ve considered making unreasonable demands. Just to punish them for the thought. Like refusing to ride in a mere carriage. Only a litter will do!”

“And trumpets. A queen should be heralded for the entirety of her journey.”

“And chilled fruit, which would be near impossible to provide during a long journey. Imagine the fit I could have.”

“Also, a change of clothes every two hours. A queen should stay fresh at all times.”

The song ends, and I’m surprised to realize that I enjoyed our dance.

Conde Tristán raises my fingers to his lips and kisses them. “Thank you, Your Majesty.” Before dropping my hand, his gaze turns mischievous. “You are not as terrible a dancer as your reputation indicates.”

I laugh. “Just a little bit terrible, then.”

He has a wonderful smile, with eyes that shine. “A little bit,” he agrees. “But you forgot to step on my feet.” With that, he whirls away and disappears into the crowd.

I look around for Hector again and spot him near a drink table. He chats easily with a young woman I don’t recognize. She wears a soft green gown, and her clear skin sparkles with metallic powder. A long black lock drapes from the mound of luxuriant hair piled on her head, across her bare shoulder.

I stare at her with dejection. I’ll never be so lovely.

Lord Liano claims me next. He is oafish and wide gazed, his sweaty lip as protuberant as ever, which makes him appear stunningly stupid. I listen with heroic patience as he regales me with the tale of an epic hunt for wild javelinas, which he lovingly describes as piglike creatures that roam the scrub desert of his brother’s countship. When he attempts to mimic the chattering noise that javelinas make by rubbing their tusks together, I am forced to conclude that, indeed, sometimes the impression of a man’s look and bearing holds true.

I hope Conde Tristán will claim me next—he asked me for two dances, after all—but Conde Eduardo finds me first. He is rough and jerky, and his hand on mine is too tight, his beard oil too pungent. I plaster a game smile on my face, but it wavers when I notice Hector dancing beside us, the lovely green-gowned creature in his arms. They seem to have an easy conversation interspersed with much laughing, though he looks over her head occasionally to check on me, always the devoted guard. I can’t mask my relief when the song ends.

After thanking Eduardo, I catch Hector’s eye and gesture toward the nearest refreshment table to let him know where I’m headed. Though it lies only a few steps away, I decline three offers to dance during the short journey, saying that I’m still healing from my ordeal and need to pace myself, but thank you so very much for the invitation.

A servant offers a glass of chilled wine, and I accept with grateful despair, knowing that a new taster now risks his life for me. Everything at the gala has been thoroughly tasted, hours earlier, and then again right before bringing it out.

As I sip, I glimpse Mara between dancing pairs. She twirls, laughing, and I smile to see her having such a good time. She is beautiful in a light yellow gown that sweeps into a slight train behind her. It’s the plainest gown in the hall, without a stitch of embroidery or even a tiny pearl. But the simplicity suits her well, and the women around her seem gaudy by comparison.

“Mara seems to be enjoying herself,” says Hector in my ear, and I hope he doesn’t notice my tiny jump.

“She deserves to have a good time. As do you.” I gesture toward the floor. “You should dance. Have fun. If your injury allows it, I mean.” I can’t deny him a little celebration. He works so tirelessly on my behalf.

He starts to protest, but I cut him off. “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll protect you from harm. I stand ready to jump to your defense.”

He laughs, and I love the sound. “I’m very content to enjoy the festivities from here,” he says. “Is that Belén dancing with Mara?”

I crane my neck just as the pair shifts, revealing the face of her partner. Even from a distance, there can be no mistaking the patch over his eye. “Yes, that’s him.” I have a sudden urge to march over there and throw my wine in his face for what he did to my friend years ago.

“Well, they seem to be familiar,” Hector says. “They’re easy with each other.”

His words check me. Hector is right. Mara chatters, and Belén laughs in response. Then the two glide behind a wall of dancers, obscuring my view.

“They are very old friends,” I tell him. I suppose that if Mara can forgive Belén so thoroughly, maybe I can too.

I catch a movement in the corner of my eye and turn to see Lord Liano bearing down on me, his purposed stride a stark contrast to his vacuous gaze. Again I look around for Tristán, hoping he can save me from another disastrous turn with Liano, but he is nowhere to be found. “Oh, God,” I mutter.

“What is it?” Hector asks.

“Please walk with me. I need some air. The gardens, maybe?”