The Crown of Embers fat-2

by Rae Carson

  I imagine that they fled—from expectations, from terror, from the constant barrage of others deciding the best way to accomplish God’s will. Or maybe they died young, suddenly and unexpectedly, as most bearers seem to do. It’s something I came to terms with when I lived in the desert—that I would likely die young in service to God.

  I say, “Why do you think we should take the boy’s message seriously?”

  “Lucero knew things,” Nicandro says. “Things an illiterate boy from a remote village could never know. I won’t go into detail, but it was enough to give me pause. Enough to keep me reading eagerly. And then I reached this right here.” He scrolls down with his finger until he finds the pertinent passage. “Go ahead, Your Majesty. Read it.”

  I lean forward, tingling with anticipation, with the possibility of discovery. “‘The gate that leads to life is narrow and small so that few find it.’” I look up, puzzled. “Nothing new here. It says the same in the Scriptura Sancta.”

  “Keep reading,” Ximena says.

  “‘The champion alone shall traverse it and find the zafira, for this wellspring of his power shall beckon him. And all the power of this world shall come into him and he shall have life eternal in accordance with God’s will. None shall stand against him, and his enemies shall crumble, verily a thousand shall fall before his might.’”

  All the power of this world. My Godstone thrums in recognition, sending shivers of warmth up my spine.

  “The zafira,” Ximena says.

  “Just like the Invierno said,” Alentín points out.

  “How would an uneducated village boy know that word?” Nicandro asks, his voice soft with awe. “It hasn’t been in use since the first families came to this world. It’s older even than the Lengua Classica.”

  Darkness edges my vision, whether from dread or excitement or residual exhaustion from healing Hector I can’t tell. I ask, “What, exactly, is the zafira?”

  Alentín says, “The Afflatus says that magic crawls beneath the skin of this world and that once in every four generations, God raises up a champion to bear his mark and fight magic with magic.” I love the way his voice falls into rhythm whenever he quotes scripture. It takes me right back to our desert cavern and our lessons together while sitting on gritty shale and drawing letters in the dust.

  After a pause, he adds, “Scripture supports the Invierno’s claim that the zafira is the magic of the world.”

  I narrow my eyes, thinking hard. “The animagi can call the magic to them from anywhere. All they have to do is feed the earth a bit of blood. But Storm made the zafira sound like a specific place.”

  He nods. “Storm also made it sound as though calling this magic takes no small effort. But Lucero’s Blasphemy describes a crack in the world, where the wellspring of power bubbles to the surface. I think it refers to a place where the world’s magic is more accessible, or maybe more concentrated.”

  They all regard me with expectation as I mull their words.

  I say, “The champion alone shall find the zafira . . .” And as soon as the words leave my mouth, I know I want to. More than anything.

  But how would I manage such a thing? A queen does not have the luxury of leaving everything behind in pursuit of a nebulous quest.

  “You are the champion,” Nicandro says. “It goes on to say that your determination will be tested. That you must prove your worth. But it also says that he who bears God’s own stone shall pass through the gate.” He shrugs, sighing. “Frankly, I think it sounds dangerous.”

  Prophecy is a tricky thing, I have learned, full of edges and secret meanings and mischief. Prophecy can feel like the betrayal of a dear friend, the disappointment of a lifetime, the hope of a nation.

  “This could be it, Elisa,” Ximena says, and her black eyes spark with something fierce. “What you need to rule. To finally grasp the destiny I know God has prepared for you.”

  I’m not sure why, but her words make me uncomfortable—even though she’s a little bit right. With that kind of power, I would be able to discourage the machinations of the Quorum. Keep my enemies at bay. Make my kingdom whole again.

  “And Elisa . . .” Nicandro’s voice is dark with gravity. “It’s best that you tell no one about the Blasphemy. It’s a forbidden text, after all.”

  “And yet you had a copy lying around in the monastery.”

  He shifts on his stool. “Er . . . no. Father Alentín did.”

  A laugh bubbles in my throat, and Alentín flashes me a mischievous grin. This is the man who stole the oldest known copy of Homer’s Afflatus when he fled the Monastery-at-Basajuan. Of course he has a copy of the forbidden Blasphemy.

  “We should begin making arrangements, my sky,” Ximena says. “We could leave—”

  I hold up a hand to cut her off. It’s crusted with Hector’s dried blood. I say, “I’ll think about it.”

  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 protecti
ve 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 d
ais 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.