The Crown of Embers

by Rae Carson

  His brisk pace brings knife pain to my abdomen. “I know,” he says. “But the general outranks me, and when I scheduled a Quorum meeting to discuss it, he pushed up the date of the execution without telling—”

  “Just get me there quickly.”

  We reach the entrance to the courtyard. Framed by the archway, a crowd gathers on the green, surrounding a wooden platform. On it, the hooded executioner stands tall and bare chested. Sun glints off the huge ax blade resting at his shoulder. My own crown-seal banner snaps in the wind above him.

  “Put me down.”

  “Can you stand?”

  “I must. Ximena, my robe.”

  Hector sets me down, so gently. My legs barely support my weight, and I lean into the archway to keep my balance. The newly healed skin on my stitched stomach feels too tight, too thin. Ximena wraps the robe around my shoulders, ties it at my neck. It will have to do.

  I whisper, “Catch me if I fall?” And I take a wobbly step into the sunshine.

  My breath is ragged, my heart a drum in my head, as I look around for Martín. Surely the prison guards will make an entrance with him soon. But then the executioner raises the ax, and I know that beyond the wall of spectators, Martín must already be in place, his head on the block.

  “No!” I shout as loud as I can, and a handful of people turn toward me, but it is not enough.

  The executioner’s voice booms, “In the name of Her Majesty, Queen Lucero-Elisa de—”

  “Stop!” yells Lord Hector. “By order of the queen!”

  The executioner’s head comes up in surprise, but it is too late to stop the ax’s descent. It whistles downward, disappears behind the crowd, and thwacks wetly into the wooden block below.

  Chapter 5

  IT takes a moment for the crowd to register what has happened. As one, they turn a stunned gaze on me and my escort.

  I am as still and silent as a stone. Ximena hurriedly adjusts my robe to cover more of my nightgown, but all I can think about is how an innocent man is dead in my name, beneath the waving emblem of my reign.

  A few collect themselves enough to drop to their knees. The rest of the crowd follows, like an ocean wave, until finally the wooden stage and its broken body are revealed. It has fallen to the side, and the neck is a meaty, bloody stump. I can’t see where the head rolled off to. And then I’m woozy with the understanding that I’m looking for the disembodied head of a man I considered a friend.

  “Send General Luz-Manuel to my suite immediately,” I say, in as cutting a voice as I can muster. I turn, intending to depart in dramatic fashion before everyone notices the tears streaming down my face, but my legs crumble. Ximena and Hector knock heads catching me. They half drag, half support me through the archway and into the shady corridor. Hector abandons all pretense of allowing me to walk and sweeps me up.

  “I think I ripped my stitches,” I say, as wet warmth blossoms beneath my bandages. I’m glad because it gives me something to think about other than the hole that seems to have opened up in my chest.

  “Oh, my sky,” Ximena says. “Oh, Elisa.”

  Doctor Enzo is already in my suite when we return. He glares at me.

  Mara gives me an apologetic look. “I fetched him,” she says.

  After Hector lays me on the bed, he turns away so Enzo can lift my nightgown and examine my bandages. I hiss with pain as he peels them back.

  Enzo says, “Surely nothing was so important that you couldn’t—”

  “I don’t want to hear it.”

  He mumbles insincere apologies while pressing his fingertips against my abdomen. It hurts, but not terribly. “Fascinating. I must know, have you been gravely injured before?”

  I once tried to cut the Godstone out of my stomach, but I don’t want to talk about that. “I broke a couple of ribs,” I say. “Ripped off a fingernail. Had a badly infected cut from the nails of an Invierno. They poison their nails, you know.”

  He squeezes the skin around the stitches and mops up the resulting ooze with a dry cloth. “How long after you broke your ribs until you could walk easily?”

  I have to think about it. Humberto was the one who took care of me. I sigh at the memory of him slipping duerma leaf into my soup so I would be forced to sleep instead of travel. “A day. It hurt, but I could do it.”

  Enzo lifts his head to meet my gaze dead-on. “And how long until the pain went away?”

  “Less than a week.”

  His nose twitches with excitement. He is like a hunting hound on the scent of his prey.

  He stares at my abdomen, and I realize he’s not looking at the wound, but at my Godstone. Tentatively, he reaches out with his forefinger, lets it hover above my navel.

  “It’s all right. You can touch it.”

  He does, reverently, drawing little circles with his forefinger against the topmost facet.

  I sense the pressure of his finger, but the Godstone does not respond, just continues its usual mild pulsing. It’s odd to feel someone else touching it. No one does that. Even Ximena and Mara barely brush it when they are dressing me.

  “It’s like a heartbeat,” Enzo breathes in wonder.

  Hector continues to face politely away, but he reaches for his sword. He grips the pommel, ready to unsheathe at a moment’s need.

  I’m growing uncomfortable. “What’s this about, Enzo?”

  He yanks back his finger as if stung. “Your Majesty, I believe, that is, I think, though I can’t be sure, but it seems . . .” He takes a deep breath. “I mean to say that you heal too fast.”

  I frown. Though I have the benefit of a royal education, I am the least studied in the healing arts. I have to take his word for it. “And it has something to do with the Godstone?”

  “I have no other explanation for why you show no sign of infection, how you were able to stand at all after having your abdominal wall severed, or for the fact that, even after your ill-conceived outing, I will only replace two stitches.”

  I’ll have to think about it more later, when the blessed darkness of nighttime feels something like privacy. I grit my teeth against the pain as he stitches me up. Then Ximena ushers him out and pulls the covers up to my shoulders just in time to receive General Luz-Manuel.

  “Your Majesty.” He bows low but rises before I release him.

  I inhale through my nose and tell myself to relax. The general is so slender and stooped, his hair thinning at the top, and once again I marvel that this insubstantial person commands my entire army. “General,” I say in a cold voice. “I am displeased at the execution of someone I believed a loyal subject and ally.” Displeased is an understatement, but I’m leery of being too forceful until I hear what he has to say.

  “Indeed, Your Majesty, this has been unpleasant and disappointing for all of us.”

  I stare at him. Is he being deliberately obtuse? Careful, Elisa. He is cleverer than he appears.

  “Forgive me for misspeaking, Lord-General. I did not mean to remark on the general unpleasantness so much as my specific disappointment with your decision to execute this man.”

  His gaze holds such concern. “You’ve been through so much, Your Majesty. First the animagus, and now this. It must be overwhelming. But I can assure you that the matter was thoroughly looked into.”

  “Not that thoroughly.”

  “My queen, we investigated every—”

  “You never bothered to get details from the one witness to this crime.”

  He looks charmingly confused.

  “You do realize, don’t you, that I was present during the assassination attempt?” I snap.

  Ximena gives me a warning look. Mocking the general may not be my best strategy, especially in front of the guards, who I am certain are intent on every word in spite of their carefully bland faces.

  I force softness into my voice. “I don’t mean to be curt, Lord-General, but I’m exhausted and deeply saddened. What’s done is done, but do promise me that no one else will be punished in connection wit
h the attempt on my life without my knowledge and consent. I’m sure you understand my wish to be personally involved?”

  “Of course, Your Majesty,” he says, bowing his head. “Anything to put your mind at rest and aid in your recovery.”

  I clench my jaw. He won’t do as I ask because my input is valuable, or even because I am his queen. He’ll only agree to consult me because it will make me feel better?

  The general turns to go.

  “Wait.”

  He whirls, and it’s possible I imagine his flitting look of impatience.

  God, what do I say to this man? How can I convey that I am the sovereign and he is not? That even though I come from a foreign land, these are my people?

  The Godstone leaps in response to my prayer, and an answer floats to me gently on the afternoon breeze.

  Sorrow comes easily to my voice when I say, “I lost so many people I loved in the war with Invierne. We all did. But the only reason we survive to mourn is because our army fought bravely and selflessly. And no one fought harder than my own Royal Guard, who held off the invaders at tremendous cost so I could have time to work the Godstone’s magic.” I hope he hears what I’m not saying: Yes, General, we won the day because of me, remember? “I’ll not see them doubted or disrespected. In fact, I’ll defend each one of them with my dying breath if I must, as they defended me. Am I clear?”

  He stares at me as if deciding whether to protest further. But I know I’ve said the right thing because Hector and the guards stand a little straighter, and their eyes glow with pride. I hope they take this back to the barracks, the sure knowledge that their queen would die for them.

  Finally the general bows, a little lower this time, and excuses himself.

  The moment the door closes behind him, all the fight melts from my body. I cannot fathom why the general would do such a thing. Was he trying to discredit me on purpose? Is this his way of taking power for himself while I am unwell? Was he looking for a scapegoat to assuage the fear of palace residents? Or did he genuinely think Martín deserved to die? A single tear slides from the corner of my left eye. Oh, Martín, I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you.

  I am about to close my eyes and meet oblivion when Hector says, “My queen?”

  I force myself to raise my head and meet his eye.

  “I would like to inquire about Martín’s wife and family. Make sure they are provided for.” Emotion tinges his voice, and his face is gaunt with weariness.

  Very few members of the Royal Guard are as young as their commander, were selected and trained by him the way Martín was. I’ve no doubt that Hector grieves deeply for him.

  “Thank you. I would take it as a personal favor.”

  “I’ll return as soon as I’m able,” he says.

  “Take your time. You deserve a respite from being at my side. Oh, speaking of being at my side . . . please tell me, did General Luz-Manuel visit when I was . . . indisposed?”

  “Many times. He brought prayer candles and held vigil for hours.”

  I don’t believe for a moment that the general wished for my recovery.

  “I never left him alone with you,” Hector adds softly, his face unreadable. “Not once.”

  I’m not sure what to say, so I just nod gratefully.

  Tonight my dream changes. This time I carry a torch, and its warmth and light wrap around me. I think that I am safe.

  The breeze is gentle at first, lifting strands of my hair, bringing a hint of brine. But the wind grows stronger; the gust becomes a gale. The torch dies, plunging me into darkness. The Godstone turns to ice.

  I sob from sudden terror, knowing what comes next, waiting for it. The blade glimmers hot and cruel as it strikes. . . .

  My own scream wakes me.

  “Elisa?”

  I grasp blindly for Hector. He clasps my hand in both of his, trying to squeeze the panic from my body by the force of his grip.

  Gradually the pounding in my chest softens, my breathing slows. The high slant of sun through my balcony’s glass doors indicates that I slept well into the morning.

  When I can manage it, I say, “Did you find Martín’s family?” I need to talk about something real and solid to shake the dream from my head.

  “The Guard took up a collection. I delivered it this evening. In spite of everything, she was . . .” He swallows hard, then says with a touch of wonder, “She was grateful.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t save him for you.”

  “Thank you for trying.”

  He gives my hand one last squeeze before letting it go. I snake it under my blankets, feeling vaguely disappointed. He has been stiff and uneasy with me since my brush with death. Ximena or Mara would have held my hand as long as I needed.

  He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, as if putting a wall between us. “It’s very common for soldiers to experience nightmares after combat,” he says. “Especially if they were injured.”

  My chest lurches just to think about it. “Oh?”

  “And sometimes it helps to talk about them.”

  “Do you have nightmares?”

  “Yes.” His voice is hardly more than a whisper.

  “And do you talk about them?”

  He turns his head to avoid me. “No.”

  I study his profile. He usually looks so regal, even with the crisscross of scars on his left cheek. But the light pouring in from my balcony softens his features and makes him seem almost boyish. I say, “But you’d like me to talk about mine.”

  “Only if you want to.”

  “We could trade. A nightmare for a nightmare.”

  His gaze turns inward while he considers. When he finally looks at me, I catch the barest shift of his eyes as he studies every part of my face.

  He opens his mouth. Closes it. At last he says, “I think it would be best if you discussed your dreams with Ximena or Mara.”

  The hurt that wells up my throat is unexpected and inexplicable. “Maybe I will,” I whisper. “Thank you for your counsel.”

  During the next couple of days, I think hard about what Hector said. I try, twice, to talk to Ximena about my dreams. But the words clot in my mouth. It’s not fear so much as shame that stills my tongue. I can’t bear to be weak and frightened in front of everyone. I am queen now. I should be so much braver, so much stronger.

  But then comes the night when the knife is so real, so cold and sharp against my skin for the barest instant before it is an exploding fire in my belly. Then the nightmare flashes to a different place, a different knife, a different terror. I am helpless, my limbs leaden, as the dagger pricks at Humberto’s precious throat. “You could have stopped this, Elisa,” he tells me, just before the blade whisks across his neck and Humberto’s hot blood spurts all over my crown, which is suddenly in my hands.

  This time, my waking screams are cut off by vomit spewing from my mouth.

  Mara and Ximena rush to help me clean up. I try to rise, and they hold me down, insisting they will have me set to rights in no time. But I thrust them back with more strength than I ought to have. Clutching the bedpost, I drag myself over the side and gain my feet.

  My legs quiver with disuse, but they do not betray me. “Find Hector,” I order to no one in particular. The vomit is already a cold plaster gluing my nightgown to my skin, and my nose stings from the rotten-spice scent. “I’m going to wash,” I tell them. “And then . . . and then . . .” I have no choice. I have to face this black monster of terror before it eats me from the inside out. “And then, I must return to the catacombs. Tonight.”

  I bathe quickly, with Mara’s help. Ximena plies me with a gown, but I refuse. “Pants,” I say. “And my linen blouse.” I’ll not be hampered by a skirt—it’s all I can do to remain steady as it is—and I know I’ll feel more comfortable, more capable, in my desert garb.

  Hector arrives as Ximena finishes lacing my camel-hair boots, and I rise to greet him. “Sorry to rouse you,” I say. I feel guilty that I’ve decided on an excursion
during the one night he allows himself to rest.

  “A queen needn’t ever apologize to her guard. Where are we going?”

  “The catacombs. I need to . . . to see the place again.”

  “We scoured it a dozen times. We found nothing.”

  Ximena weaves my hair into one long braid down my back. I have so much hair that she usually weaves two, one atop the other, but she senses my urgency. “We found nothing? Or the general?” I ask. “Forgive me if I don’t trust him to be thorough.”

  Hector opens his mouth as if to say something, but changes his mind.

  I wave off the question. “Also . . . there’s something else. Like a memory that’s almost there but not.”

  My nurse ties the end of my braid and gives my back a gentle pat. Hector says, “Then we go. But do let me carry you if you tire.”

  “Of course. Thank you.” I turn away to hide my flushing face, remembering how he carried me in our failed rush to save Martín. It would be easy to let him do it again. For a moment, I consider pretending to be weaker than I am.

  But I shake it off. I’m already in danger of being thought a feeble queen, and I will not pretend weakness. Not ever, not for anyone.

  I hold my head high as my entourage—Hector, Ximena, Mara, and a handful of guards—array themselves in a protective circle around me. In careful formation, we exit the suite and hurry to the ground floor.

  A sentry I’ve never met before stands in Martín’s place. Anger at him boils up inside me, but I recognize the feeling as unfair and manage a nod as he bows low. Hector insists on leading us into the stairwell, and I let him. The steps are tricky, and my legs feel like date jelly, but I put a hand on Hector’s shoulder and use him as a crutch as I descend.

  The yawning jaws of the Hall of Skulls seem to pulse in the flickering candle flames. Mara is rigid beside me, and I find strange comfort in the fact that someone is as frightened as I am.

  But the fear dissipates as we enter Alejandro’s tomb. It’s so different than in my nightmares, crowded with my companions this time, several bearing torches. It’s bright and warm, the air still. I feel everyone’s eyes on me as I wander through the caskets, my fingers brushing the silk banners. I’m not sure what I’m hoping to find, how this excursion will help. When the toes of my boots encounter a large dark stain on the stone floor, I freeze.