by Rae Carson
“She has always been exceedingly capable,” he says.
“Indeed.” Many times I have wished I were half so capable as Cosmé.
When we reach the dignitaries’ suite, my guards clear a path so I can knock on the door myself. An older boy answers, and I don’t recognize him until his face lights up upon seeing me. “It’s Queen Elisa,” he hollers over his shoulder.
I clasp his upper arm. “You’ve grown tall, Matteo.”
His eyes are wide as he steps aside, and we have passed beyond him when he adds hurriedly, “I’ll be fourteen next month!”
The suite is about the size of my own, with two large beds instead of one. The bathing area is partly blocked by a velvet curtain, but I see the edge of a garderobe and a large wooden tub with carrying handles.
A familiar voice says, “Hello, Elisa,” as a figure pushes the curtain aside.
My breath catches as I look into the grinning face of Father Alentín, the one-armed rebel priest who became my mentor in the desert. He wears a traditional rough-woven tunic and robe, and as usual, his empty sleeve is tucked in at the shoulder.
Alentín wraps me in a hug. “Oh, my dear girl,” he says. “It has been too long.” He embraces me with such easy spontaneity, as if I’m merely a girl instead of a queen, and I melt into it.
I let myself cling to him, inhaling the dusty cook-fire scent of his woolen robe. I have to squeeze my eyes tight and swallow hard. “It’s good to see you too,” I manage.
He murmurs, “I have been praying for you every day.”
I step back and hold him at arm’s length. “And I you! How is Cosmé?”
“Struggling with limited funds to establish a stable government and build a garrison on the Invierne border. Growling at anyone who gets in her way. Putting nobles in their places.”
“So, the usual.”
“She sends her love. Actually, she said ‘regards,’ which amounts to the same thing.”
I smile. There was a time when Cosmé held me in very low regard indeed.
Alentín’s expression turns serious. “Elisa, there is something else. Something you should know.”
“Oh?”
He turns toward the bathing area and hollers, “Come on out now.”
“What?” I say. “Who are you—”
A young man steps from behind the curtain, and my throat squeezes. He is impossibly tall and reed thin, with a sharp jaw and hooked nose that make him austerely handsome. He wears a black leather patch over one eye.
It is Belén.
The betrayer. The boy who sold me to the Invierne army. He nearly ruined everything we had fought for, in his mistaken belief that he was doing God’s will.
Softly he says, “Hello, Elisa.”
I’m not sure what to say. It aches a little to see him, because before he betrayed me, he was my friend. And once he realized his mistake, he risked his own life to warn me of the animagi’s plans.
But I can’t force warmth into my voice when I say, “Why are you here, Belén?”
He opens his mouth but changes his mind about whatever he was going to say. Instead he hangs his head.
Alentín reaches out and gives Belén’s shoulder a squeeze. “This boy is quite reformed. But he remains unpopular in Basajuan, as you can imagine. The court demands his execution, but Cosmé can’t bear to see him killed. She thought to make use of his scouting ability, sending him on forays into enemy territory. Alas, his reporting visits to the city have become increasingly challenging. There was a scuffle in the stables—”
“But why send him here? Why to me?”
“Because I asked her to,” Belén says. He dares to hold my gaze. I catch myself looking back and forth between his eye and his patch before focusing determinedly on the bridge of his nose. “The Scriptura Sancta says that making amends is a holy and cleansing fire unto the soul. And that’s what I want to do: to make amends, to pledge my life to your service.”
I stare at him.
He whispers, “Please, Elisa.”
“I’ll think about it.”
He hides his disappointment quickly. “Thank you.”
I have a sudden urge to strike out at something, or maybe someone. Cosmé should not have sent Belén to me without regard for my wishes. Alentín should have known better than to support the plan. And yet I am forced to accept Belén’s presence here, since he travels in a delegation.
I have trouble enough holding my own at court. How much worse is it to be manipulated by my allies and friends? To have them foist off their own problems on me? I glare coldly as I address them both. “From this point forward, you shall address us as Your Majesty.”
They bow. “Of course, Your Majesty,” the traitor says.
To Alentín I say, “Are you here in an official ambassadorial role?” Though I know the answer; it’s the only way to ensure Belén’s safety.
“I am,” he says, and his bearing is suddenly stiff. “Queen Cosmé wishes you to know of an incident that occurred in her public marketplace and would like your view on it. In short, an animagus appeared, demanded that you give yourself over to Invierne as a willing sacrifice, and then burned himself alive.”
I gape at him. “It was the same here!”
He nods gravely. “I was in your city not two minutes before I learned of the event.”
But I hardly hear him for the pounding in my ears. Two similar occurrences in succession speak of planning, of deadly seriousness. What is so important as to be worth two martyrs? What could they possibly want with me?
You will know the gate of your enemy.
Frowning, I say, “Belén?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Delegation or no, if I sense you are out to harm me or any of my people, I will have you imprisoned and tried for treason. If Hector does not kill you first.”
If he has a response, I do not know or care, for I spin on my heel and head toward the door. My guards fall in around me.
I pause in the threshold and say to Alentín, “Weekly services will be held tomorrow in the monastery. You and Belén and Matteo should attend.”
His eyes are wide. “Yes, Eli—Your Majesty.”
They all regard me as if I am a stranger, and a creeping emptiness worms through my chest. I am nearly returned to my suite before I recognize the feeling as loneliness.
Chapter 8
MARA is stretched out on my bed, Doctor Enzo hovering over her as he tucks in the edges of a bandage. The guards have turned politely away, as they do when I am dressing.
I grab her hand. “How do you feel?”
“Rather like I just split in half.”
Enzo snorts. “Well short of half. Although stitching scar tissue is a complicated and delicate process. I used seven stitches this time, all quite small thanks to a new needle I commissioned.”
Seven? This time? I’m about to ask about the other times when Ximena hurries in from the atrium. “I have everything set to rights. Mara made quite a mess when she fell.”
Mara squeezes my hand. “Who was it? Anyone from Father Alentín’s camp? I was so hoping—”
“Alentín himself is here.” I hush her startled exclamation. “But there is more, which I will tell you in a moment.”
Her eyes narrow, and she nods.
Doctor Enzo pulls Mara’s chemise down over the bandage and straightens. “Light work only for the girl,” he tells me. “For a week. Bandages must be changed daily, the salve applied each time. Would you like me to look at you too, since I’m here?” He stares toward my abdomen, and his fingers twitch with eagerness. “I hear you’ve been up and about against my recommendation. I predict you have continued to heal anyway. I consulted some records in the archive of previous bearers, and—”
“Later, Enzo. You are dismissed.”
He mutters disjointed grumblings as he exits the suite.
Mara struggles to sit up. I give her arm a gentle pull, and she slides from the bed onto her feet.
I relate my meeting
with Alentín. Ximena’s eyes narrow at the news that another animagus burned himself alive. And when Mara learns that Belén is in the palace, she collapses back onto the bed, looking dazed.
Ximena paces. “I don’t like this,” she murmurs. “Just how many animagi must there be for Invierne to sacrifice them so easily? And Belén. He needs to be watched. Which means we must assign some of the Royal Guard to their quarters. After the lockdown, I’m not sure we can trust the palace garrison.”
“Which means,” Hector says, “using some of the men who are assigned to your own protection.”
Fernando, from his post at the door, clears his throat and says to Hector, “My lord?”
“Yes?”
“There is not one among us who would balk at a double watch.” I gape at him, realizing he must have come straight here after poking around in the catacombs. Do my guards ever rest?
But they are all nodding agreement.
“I’m glad to know it,” Hector says. “It may come to that.”
In the silence that follows, I know what everyone is thinking: Before the war, the Royal Guard was a full garrison of sixty. Now, only thirty-two remain. No, I correct myself. Thirty-one, with the loss of Martín.
Determining the right size for a Royal Guard is a delicate balance. Too many, and my court would distrust me, fearing what I could do with my own personal army. But right now I don’t have nearly enough. It makes me weak, vulnerable. And everyone knows it.
I tell my mayordomo that I’m ready to ease back into a schedule. The first thing I want to do is address the recent spate of riots, but he insists I begin by interviewing suitors, starting with Conde Tristán of Selvarica. The conde is here for next week’s Deliverance Gala and has taken to accosting the mayordomo in the halls with regular requests for an audience.
I agree to see him first thing in the morning, telling myself that everything else can wait another day, and the mayordomo wilts with relief.
So I rise early, and while Mara sleeps in, I sit on my vanity stool while Ximena sculpts my hair into an elaborate coif of loops and curls. I’m holding up my neck curls so she can work the clasp of a sapphire-drop necklace—a piece I inherited from Queen Rosaura—when she says, “You’re very nervous and fidgety this morning.”
I hadn’t noticed the fidgeting, but my stomach is indeed in knots. “Yes,” I admit. She finishes clasping the necklace, and I drop the curls. Our eyes meet in the mirror. “Oh, Ximena, the appearance of the animagus, the assassination attempt—they have weakened my position greatly.”
“Yes,” she agrees solemnly.
“The way I see it, I have two bargaining chips right now: the vacant spot on the Quorum, which every noble house in the country is vying for, and my own marriage. My country is splintering apart. I must acquire strong allies with my choices. I can’t make the wrong decisions!”
“Three bargaining chips,” she says.
“Three? What do you mean?”
She gazes at me a moment, her eyes full of sympathy. “Hector, as second-highest ranking officer in the kingdom, has an automatic Quorum seat. He is young and handsome. He has the friendship of the queen. He is of modest but noble birth. He is, in short, the most eligible bachelor in your kingdom. You could marry him off to tremendous advantage.”
“Oh.” I blink at her, vaguely stunned. “Yes, of course.” Why has this never occurred to me?
A knock sounds at the door to my bedroom, and moments later, a guard announces the presence of Lord-Conde Eduardo.
I fix a smile on my face as he enters the atrium. At least it’s not the general.
“Ah, Your Majesty, I’m delighted to see you looking so well!”
My nose twitches against his sharp myrrh musk as I take his outstretched hands and kiss his cheek. “It feels good to get back to a regular schedule,” I say.
“Yes, I heard you would begin interviewing suitors today. I cleared my schedule so I could come and offer my support to you during your meetings.”
My grin is so hard and stiff that my teeth ache. “Oh, you shouldn’t have, Your Grace. I hate to think I’m keeping you from important matters.”
He waves off my protest. “Our kingdom is desperate for stability. This might be the most important decision you make during your entire reign. Of course I will be there for you.” He grasps my shoulder and squeezes tight, looking like a concerned father with his furrowed brow.
But every instinct screams against allowing him to accompany me. Think, Elisa!
I duck my head respectfully. “In that case, I am grateful for your presence and your counsel.” He brightens visibly. “But I have a few more private preparations to make. Will you meet me in my office?”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” His eyes sweep over me, taking note of my gown, my hair, my necklace. “You’ll wear your crown, won’t you?”
“I wasn’t planning—”
“It’s important you go into these interviews appropriately accessorized by the symbols of your office, don’t you think?”
I groan inwardly, thinking of the headache I’ll have by the time we break for the noon meal. “Of course you’re right, Your Grace.”
He smiles indulgently. “I’ll see you soon.” He bows and exits my bedchamber.
As soon as the door closes at his back, I say to no one in particular, “I want Conde Eduardo out of my office as soon as possible.”
“I’ll take care of it, my sky,” Ximena says, and her soft voice has such a weight of authority that I have no doubt she can do as she promises. “I need some time—you’ll have to suffer his company at first. But I’ll have him away as soon as possible.”
“Thank you.”
When she places the crown on my head, it feels like a millstone. I fantasize about commissioning a new one, something delicate and feminine and light. But my coffers are drained, and a new crown would be an insulting extravagance when I can’t even afford to hire and train more Royal Guards.
She pushes hairpins through the loops in the lining, but it doesn’t matter—the crown lists to the right until the heavy edge presses against the top of my ear.
“I feel like I’ve grown an extra brow,” I say, wrinkling my forehead experimentally. Sure enough, the crown slips even farther, and the cartilage of my ear starts to fold over. Ximena does some rearranging until the crown wobbles but stays put. No sudden head movements, I tell myself as she pronounces me ready to receive suitors.
I’ve hardly used my office since Alejandro’s death. It’s a bright room, with wood-paneled walls and two long windows whose deep ledges are lush with potted ferns. But I’m not yet at home here. Sitting at the desk, I feel like an imposter, like I’m playing at ruling. Still, it’s better than my vast, echoing audience hall with its backache-inducing throne.
Hector takes his position at my right shoulder, Conde Eduardo at my left. Guards stand sentry at the windows and doorway. My secretary sits in a corner at a small desk, his quill poised to take notes. I can only see the top of his head because a small tower of documents sits at the edge of his desk, blocking my view. I’m supposed to review and sign them all. I force myself to ignore the stack; I can’t think about it now.
My heart pounds with nervousness as we wait. How does a queen handle a suitor? When I was a princess of Orovalle, I was overweight and solitary, with an unnatural attraction to musty scrolls. Anyone who wished to court me did so behind the scenes, in negotiation with my father.
As queen, I must do my own negotiating. Everyone will want something—a new title, better trading opportunities, or maybe just power. Though they’ll pretend otherwise, none will want me.
I don’t know how I’ll bear the polite dance of flirtation and innuendo that always precedes these agreements. Or even how to navigate the maze that is a royal marriage treaty. I certainly don’t want to make any missteps that would cause Eduardo to feel he must jump in and help.
“He arrives,” says a guard.
I straighten in my chair, trying to look regal.<
br />
A barrel-shaped man with thinning hair enters. His eyes are wide, his expression serious. Droplets of sweat collect on his protruding upper lip. He bows low.
“Your Majesty,” says Conde Eduardo at my ear. “May I present Lord Liano of Altapalma?”
I look up at him sharply. I was expecting Conde Tristán.
“I took the liberty of making some slight changes to your receiving schedule so we could accommodate my good friend here,” Eduardo explains. “I know how eager you are to make the acquaintance of some of the northern lords.”
I’m not sure whether to protest or pretend gratitude. Is it a common practice here in Joya for everyone else to manage the monarch’s schedule?
I force blandness to my face and say, “Welcome, Lord Liano. Thank you for coming.”
He rises from his bow but says nothing. Am I supposed to direct our conversation?
“Lord Liano is heir to the countship of Altapalma until his older brother produces a son.” Eduardo jumps in. “He’s a devout observer of the holy sacraments and an accomplished hunter.”
“Wild javelinas,” Liano blurts out. “I’ve won the annual tournament three years in a row.”
I can’t stop staring at his wet upper lip. “Oh. That’s . . . impressive,” I manage.
His whole body shifts forward with eagerness. “And I tan javelina hides! My hides are soft enough to make riding garb for even the finest ladies. I make all my own hunting weapons. And . . .” He draws himself to full height. “I am Grand Master of the Society for the Advocacy of Javelinas as Livestock.”
“So accomplished,” I murmur, more than a little stunned. I could not marry this man. Not ever. Not even to save my country. I’d rather abdicate.
Someone pounds on the door, and Lord Liano jumps.
A guard answers. After a muted conversation, he says, “Pardon me, Lord-Conde Eduardo, but Your Grace is summoned on a very urgent matter. Something about a letter from home?”
Eduardo’s face blanches. He makes quick apologies and hurries out the door. I suddenly breathe easier. Thank you, Ximena.
