by Rae Carson
With a cry of anguish, Tristán rushes forward and sends a hard kick into the boy’s flank. The body lurches; a dead arm flops hard against the ground, and something inside it cracks.
“Tristán, control yourself,” I say.
The conde whirls to face me, and for the first time, I notice the wet brownish stain on his linen blouse. “But . . . Iladro, my herald . . . he might . . . he could be . . .”
“I know. My own personal physician is attending him. We’ll do all we can.”
His shoulders shake with rage, but he nods. “Yes, Your Majesty. Thank you.”
“I’m not convinced,” Belén says in his quiet voice.
“What do you mean?”
“Did this Felipe know how to read and write? If so, is this his handwriting?”
“Belén is right,” Hector says, and the two share a look of accord. “It’s too convenient to find him with this note clutched in his hand.”
I put my thumb and forefinger to the bridge of my nose. The note is not proof—not really. But maybe I have to pretend it is.
I say, “Hector, will you learn everything you can about this boy? Maybe his family knows something.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Thank you. I need a demonstration. A show of strength. Tristán, what counsel would you offer me?”
His eyes narrow with the understanding that I’m testing him. “I suggest you have the kitchen staff flogged for negligence,” he says evenly. “I know it’s harsh, but it will do no lasting harm. You must send a clear message that you are not weak, and that you can retaliate quickly and effectively.”
I breathe deeply to steady myself. Yes, a flogging. It will be awful, but better than executions or dismissals. “Thank you, Your Grace. Why don’t you attend to your man now?”
He bows quickly and flees.
Hector studies me. “Can you?” he says gently. “I’ll give the order for you, if you like.”
I smother the instant feeling of relief. “No. I should order it myself. It’s a sign of strength, right?” Before I can change my mind, I hurry up the stairs, Hector and Belén following after.
My kitchen staff are still lined up against the wall, under the watch of my guards. Alentín sits on the edge of the hearth, praying. Lady Jada has returned from fetching Doctor Enzo. Her eyes are wide with excitement, no doubt anxious to relate these events to everyone she knows. I find I can’t bear to look at her.
I address the staff. “Felipe is dead, by his own hand. I believe he was the poisoner. I don’t know if any of you conspired with him. However, I do know that you were negligent in allowing the food to be served too soon after being tasted.”
I wait a few beats for it to sink in. Hopefully, they will fear the worst, and my punishment will seem mild by comparison.
“And so, tomorrow morning, you will be brought to the palace green.” Someone chokes out a sob. “There you will each be flogged, in sight of the entire court.” I see flashes of terror, but a few exhale relief.
I clench my hands into fists so no one can see how badly they shake. I have just ordered that innocent people be hurt, for my own political advantage. What kind of person does that? Someone like General Luz-Manuel, I guess.
A guard clears his throat. “Your Majesty, how many lashes are you ordering?”
Oh, God, lashes. I don’t know anything about that. I need to hurt, not harm. How many is too many? Too few, and the punishment lacks weight.
Hector jumps in. “I suggest ten each, Your Majesty,” he says.
I could hug him. “Yes, of course. Ten each.” I’ll have to watch it happen. Display myself at the flogging. The space between my eyes stings with threatening tears.
I must leave this room before I lose control. I take another deep breath and lift my chin to address a guard. “Hold them in the prison tower until the flogging tomorrow. Everyone else is free to go.” And with that I stride from the kitchen and into the hallway.
Hector hurries to catch up. “Please allow me to accompany you,” he says.
“Of course,” I say wearily. “I just had to get away.”
“You did well.”
I don’t feel like I did well at all.
He says, “I’ll send Doctor Enzo to you when he has a prognosis on the conde’s man.”
“Thank you.”
Moments later, we arrive at the door to my suite. He looks down at me, not bothering to hide his concern. “Will you be all right?”
“I hate myself right now,” I admit.
He reaches out as if to touch me, hesitates, lets his arm drop. He says, “I know. But I don’t. Hate you, that is.” And then he’s gone.
Chapter 11
I pace back and forth in my suite, awaiting word from Doctor Enzo. I pray as I pace, begging God to spare Iladro’s life. The Godstone suffuses me with warmth, but I know from long experience that the warmth is only an acknowledgment of my prayers, not an answer.
Mara paces right along with me, wringing her hands. “This would not have happened if I hadn’t injured myself,” she mutters. “If I had been the one cooking—”
Ximena has been calmly watching us. But now she grabs Mara’s shoulder and stops her midstride. “Injury aside, it isn’t right that the queen’s lady-in-waiting cooks for eight people. For the queen, occasionally. But you will not cook for state dinners. You’re a lady now, Mara. A noblewoman.”
I stare at my nurse. Why Ximena feels compelled to argue such a point at a time like this is beyond me.
Mara peers around her to give me a stricken look. “You could have died. The kitchen master’s taster is dead.”
“Yes,” I whisper. I hate this. My taster in Orovalle died too, when I was just a princess. Hundreds of my Malficio—my desert rebels—died because of the hope I gave them. Then Humberto. King Alejandro. The guard Martín. Will my continued existence carve a bloody path through the lives around me? Will my life’s greatest legacy be a wake of bodies?
I wish Hector were here. I need his solid presence, his sure-burning intelligence. Then I chide myself for weakness. My personal comfort is not as important as finding answers, and Hector is best where he is.
The rotten-pepper scent of vomit precedes Doctor Enzo, and I look up even as the guards announce his arrival.
“The herald?” I demand. “How is he?”
“He’ll live.”
My breath leaves me in a whoosh of relief as I collapse onto the bed.
“He may have stomach pain the rest of his life. He vomited blood, which means the poison ate into the lining—”
I hold up a hand to forestall further details. “What kind of poison?”
“Duerma berries, I think,” he says, and I gasp. “He’ll probably sleep a day or two.”
“I poisoned an animagus with duerma berries once,” I tell him. “It was nothing like what happened to Iladro. After digesting them, the animagus toppled over, passed out.”
“You used raw berries?”
I nod.
“They’re more toxic when dried and pounded into a powder. Mashed into flour, it would be almost tasteless. I suspect the powder mixed with alcohol is incredibly corrosive.”
“We had wine with our meal.” All of us.
“That would do it.”
“That’s why it didn’t take effect on the taster as quickly. No wine.”
“Rather ingenious, isn’t it?”
I don’t appreciate his admiring tone. “Thank you, Enzo. Good work tonight, as usual.” I dismiss him with a wave of my hand.
I resume pacing. Unlike the first attempt on my life, this one was clumsy and unfocused. Ill planned. Anyone could have eaten those pastries. Everyone in the dining room could have been poisoned. There is a clue here somewhere. Think, Elisa!
Crickets begin their nightly serenade, and the sun disappears behind the distant palace wall so that only the faintest glow seeps through my balcony doors. Ximena lights the candles on my bedside table. Mara retrieves my nightgown and lays it out on th
e bed, then fetches a brush to start working on my hair.
But I’m not ready for our nightly routine. I’m about to assign them useless tasks, just to keep them occupied and out of my pacing range, when Hector returns. His face is grave.
“The assassin’s employer?” I ask.
“No sign. The family knew nothing.”
Disappointment is like a rock in my gut. I am desperate for answers.
“A stranger gave them gold yesterday,” he continues. “Tall, young, hair slicked back with olive oil. Said he owed Felipe a debt. They gave it up eagerly once they learned what had happened.”
My sweaty hands grip my skirt. “He was paid to do it!”
Hector nods. “The note was meant to scare you—if you survived.”
I force my hands to release the fabric, to relax. Without meeting his eye, I say, “Maybe the poison wasn’t meant for me. Maybe it was meant for someone else. The conde. Or even Alentín. He’s an ambassador now, you know.”
“Honey-coconut scones, Elisa. Distilled duerma poison, according to Enzo. It’s hard to come by in Brisadulce. You have to cross the desert to find it. Someone was making a statement.”
I rub at the headache forming at the bridge of my nose. “Someone who knew I poisoned the animagus with duerma plant.”
“You also poisoned half the Invierne army, remember?”
“Hector, if that poison was meant for me, then someone truly wants me dead. Not taken alive, like the Inviernos do.”
“That has occurred to me.”
“Which means I have more than one enemy.”
He says nothing, just presses his lips into a firm line. For the first time, I notice a shadow of stubble along his jaw. He is always clean shaven, as befits the commander of the Royal Guard. Either he hasn’t had time today, or he forgot. It makes him look darker, fiercer.
I jump when Ximena’s hand settles on my shoulder. “I wish we could get you away,” she mutters. “There are too many people in Brisadulce. Too many agendas, too many dark corners.”
I round on her. “No!”
She recoils, black eyes wide.
“I won’t run away again. You and Papá and Alodia sent me away to keep me safe, remember?” Anger I barely knew I was holding in check rises in my throat like bile. “You forced me to marry a man who didn’t love me, who hardly even acknowledged me. It didn’t work out very well, did it? He’s dead. And I’ve had more brushes with death than I can count. Running away just made . . .” I hesitate, realizing how shrill my voice is, how awful I sound. Like maybe I hate this place and this life.
She regards me with endless calm.
“I don’t regret anything,” I tell her.
“I know.”
“But I won’t run away again.”
She crosses her arms and leans against the bedpost, which creaks in response. “Would you consider running to something?”
“What do you mean?”
She glances around at the room. Besides Mara and Hector, three guards stand watch, and as usual, their faces betray nothing of the conversation they are overhearing. They are so still and silent as to be nearly—but not quite—invisible. Ximena says, “There is something to the, er, line of research I’m engaged in that might require a long outing.” She forces cheer to her face. “Maybe we can incorporate it into that tour of the country the Quorum would like you to go on.”
She’s talking about the gate. The one that “leads to life.” And she doesn’t want to discuss details in front of the guards.
Hector says, “I thought the conde’s conversation grew particularly interesting tonight at dinner, before his man took ill.”
“Indeed,” Ximena agrees.
In the silence that ensues, I know we are thinking the same thing. The words used by the conde to describe his legend were uncannily similar to the verse carved into the rock beneath my city. The gate that leads to life is narrow and small so that few find it.
I say, “Our friend in the Wallows might know something.”
Ximena nods. “He also might have insight into this latest attack.”
The thought of seeing Storm again gives me a shudder. I imagine his too-perfect face with such clarity, dread the arrogance in his sibilant voice. But I need to take him up on his offer for information as soon as possible.
With no small amount of reluctance, I say, “I’ll pay him a visit tomorrow morning.”
Hector looses an exasperated breath. “Please don’t. I don’t know the territory. I wouldn’t know how to place the guards. And the way that cavern echoes . . . there’s no way you could have a private conversation.”
I open my mouth to protest, to remind him that I refuse to be governed by fear, but I pause. Ignoring his advice has gotten me nearly killed.
“You’re about to insist, aren’t you?” he says, looking pained.
“No. I was thinking I ought to let you do your job for a change.”
He gapes at me for a split second before recovering his usual poise. “In that case, I’ll send my men to fetch him tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you. And if he doesn’t come willingly and immediately, arrest him and bring him anyway.”
He smiles. “With pleasure.”
Mara steps toward me, and her face is bright and fierce. “I didn’t understand any of that, and I don’t care.” She brandishes my brush at me. “All I know is that I am going to make breakfast for you tomorrow, and you will eat every bite.”
The next morning, after eating Mara’s goat-cheese omelet with diced scallions and red peppers, I must face the punishment I ordered. It’s a small consolation that with everyone on the green, Hector may be able to slip the Invierno into the tower unnoticed.
With my entourage of guards and ladies, I parade through the inner courtyard to the beat of a slow marching drum. A huge crowd has assembled, and they part to make way for me. I wear a gown with wine-red brocade and gold embroidery, and I regret the choice as sweat pools under my arms and between my breasts. I hold my head high, in spite of the weight of my crown.
It’s the same place where Martín was killed, the same dais, the same large crowd. But this time, I am a willing participant.
The kitchen staff are already in place. They face inward in a circle, their hands tied above their heads to a thick pillory made from the massive trunk of a banyan tree. All twelve fit around it easily. They are naked from the waist up, even the maids.
I clench my jaw to keep it from trembling as I mount the dais and sit in its makeshift wooden throne. Ximena and Mara stand at either shoulder. From here, I have a perfect view of the accused and the sea of spectators beyond. Some jostle for a better look. A young boy sits on his father’s shoulders. Everyone is wide-eyed with fear, or maybe excitement.
A man approaches, carrying a long red cushion, and kneels at my feet. Is he the same man who beheaded Martín?
Like the prisoners, he’s naked from the waist up. A black shawl covers his head and sweeps around to shield his mouth and nose. Ridged white scars slash across his tautly muscled torso and shoulders. He holds out the cushion. On it are various flogging instruments: a rod, a willow switch, a cat-o’-nine-tails, and a leather whip coiled like a snake except for the jagged bit of steel tied to the end.
Tears prick at the back of my throat.
The executioner whispers, in a voice as scarred and used-up as his skin, “Your Majesty, you must choose the instrument of punishment.”
It takes a moment for his words to sink in, and when they do, despair settles over me like a hot heavy blanket. Of course I must.
They are arranged in order of potential damage. I don’t want these people harmed. But I also cannot choose the mildest punishment.
I say, in my best queen voice, “Use the switch.”
The scarred man faces the audience and lifts the switch high; it bends slightly under its own weight. The crowd roars approval.
And then I force myself to watch unflinchingly as, slowly and methodically, he flogs my kitchen
staff. The switch slaps wetly against bare skin, sending tears stinging to my eyes. Welts rise up on their backs, and they arch away from the blows, but the pillory leaves them nowhere to go. The scarred man is very thorough, his aim precise. He varies the switch’s landing so that every part of their flesh suffers its brutality.
A few refuse to cry out, but not most, and their raw, anguished voices arrow straight into my heart. One boy, the youngest by far, weeps openly, his cheek pressed against the pillory.
I am a stone. I am ice. I feel nothing.
Only the kitchen master remains standing after the tenth lash. The others sag on their feet, held in place by the manacles at their wrists.
The scarred man returns to me and bows. The switch in his huge hand drips blood. “It is done, Your Majesty.”
“Thank you,” I choke out.
“Do you wish to address the people?” he asks.
No, of course not. I can’t wait to get away, to toss off my crown and bury my head in my pillows.
But then the small boy at the edge of the crowd, the one on his father’s shoulders, spits on the maid who prepared the scones with Felipe. A viscous wad slips down her sweaty cheek and plops onto her bared breast.
I launch to my feet and stride to the edge of the dais. The crowd hushes.
“We consider their crime of negligence to be paid in full,” I call out. “There will be no more recriminations. Anyone who seeks to do them physical harm, or harass them, or even”—I look pointedly at the little boy—“spit on them, will be dealt with severely.”
I whirl away from the crowd and move toward Ximena, whispering, “I am shaking quite a lot and could use your arm to aid my dramatic exit.” I suddenly wish Hector were here. I always feel so much safer, stronger, when he is at my side.
But she offers it at once, and together we float down the dais in what I dare hope is a show of regal righteousness. We depart the green far more quickly than we came, which is good now that I’m tasting a more acrid version of Mara’s omelet in the back of my throat.
Chapter 12
Hector returns to my suite with the unsurprising news that the Invierno was reluctant to answer my summons and had to be arrested. I take just enough time to lose my crown and change into a simpler gown before rushing out again. I’m glad for the haste—it gives me little opportunity to dwell on the flogging.
