The Crown of Embers

by Rae Carson

  “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?”

  Chapter 16

  HECTOR offers an arm, and I accept gratefully. We turn at the same moment Lord Liano calls out, “Your Majesty!”

  “Keep walking,” I say under my breath.

  Hector snickers. “I take it your first dance together did not go well?”

  “I learned that the best place to spear a javelina is in the throat, just above its chest.”

  “Aahh. Well, if you ever find yourself needing to ignore him, ask him about the time he stumbled upon a mother puma in her den. He’s good for half an hour, uninterrupted.”

  “I’ll remember that. Thank you.”

  The double doors to the gardens stand open for fresh air. As we step into the night, onto the winding paver path, I breathe deep of the sweet scent of yellow night bloomers. They are like a weed, the way they twine around trellises and ferns. Unchecked, they’d choke everything around them. But we tolerate them, cultivate them even, because at night they spread their weblike petals wide, proudly showing off stamens that glow brighter than fireflies.

  “Hector, would you mind . . . that is, do you think it’s safe for me to walk alone for a bit?”

  “I think so, yes,” he says with obvious reluctance. “It’s an interior garden, and I have guards stationed around its perimeter. It’s also best for propriety’s sake that I stand guard where everyone can see me. But promise you’ll remain within yelling range?”

  “Of course.”

  He squeezes my arm and lets me go. And as I meander through the garden of tiny stars, I feel heady—from my glass of wine, from the cool breeze on my skin, from the touch and scent of the man I just left behind. A fountain tinkles nearby. Dimmed laughter and music curl around me.

  The palm beside me rustles unnaturally. I hear hurried whispers, heavy breathing.

  Surely there is no danger. Everyone was searched for weapons, and guards watch every entrance. But my mouth is dry and a slight tremor sets my fingers twitching as I check my Godstone for telltale cold. Nothing.

  I reach out, and with the tip of my finger I move the palm fronds aside.

  A man stands in a cavern of star-pricked foliage, his back to me. He is locked in a passionate embrace with someone else, someone smaller whose delicate arms ring his neck.

  I can’t help the giggle that bubbles from my mouth.

  They whirl at the sound, and their faces are pale and stark among the dark greenery. I gasp with recognition.

  It’s Conde Tristán. Encircled in his arms is the herald, Iladro.

  They stare at me, horrified. I want more than anything to run away, but shock freezes my feet.

  The conde’s features soften into resignation. Without breaking my gaze, he says, “Iladro, dear, why don’t you go calm your stomach with a glass of water?”

  The herald disengages himself, manages a panicked half bow in my direction, and flees toward the audience hall.

  We are silent for what seems like an eternity. Finally Conde Tristán says, “Your Majesty, I swear on the Scriptura Sancta that everything I have told you is true.”

  Indignation helps me find my voice. “That I am stunningly beautiful? That you intend to court me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you even like women?”

  “Not in that way, no. But one doesn’t have to be a lover of women to understand your quality.”

  I’m shaking my head. “Everything you said is a lie. Maybe not the words themselves, but your intent has been to deceive me.” And deceive me he has. I’m so naive.

  The conde lowers his head, whispering, “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. Truly.” He sighs hugely. “Iladro is the love of my life. But Conde Eduardo has been gradually annexing my land, and my countship is in desperate need—”

  “I suggest you retire for the evening.”

  The conde starts to protest but changes his mind. He nods instead. Then he slips out of the grotto and disappears.

  Suddenly I’m not just alone but lonely.
I stand there a long time, swallowing against tears, taking deep breaths to calm the fluttering humiliation in my breast. I don’t blame Tristán for wanting to help his people during hard times. But it does sting to know that a man can’t find me desirable. Maybe no one will. Maybe not ever.

  Certainly not Hector.

  I wipe under my eyes to make sure my kohl has not smeared. Then I throw my shoulders back and lift my head high. Thus collected, I return to the entrance and to my personal guard.

  He makes no effort to disguise his relief at seeing me. “I saw Conde Tristán,” he says. “He left in quite a hurry. Didn’t even notice I stood here.”

  “We . . . we quarreled.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  I can’t bear to be pitiable before him, so I wave it off. “It was nothing.”

  But he is not fooled. When I take his offered arm, his free hand settles atop mine and squeezes gently. “Go back inside and dance,” he insists.

  “What?”

  “Have a good time. Dance with as many suitors as possible. Let them flatter you outrageously.” He’s so intent, his voice urgent.

  “But none of it will be real. None of them will want me. My throne, yes. Prestige. A conquest. But not me.”

  Silence stretches between us, and I realize I could not have given him a better opening to pay me ridiculous compliments. It probably sounded like I was begging for them.

  “Elisa . . . I—”

  “You’re right. I’ll go back inside and do my queenly duty.” I force brightness into my voice. “Who knows? Maybe Lord Liano has hidden depth of character.”

  He sighs. “I hear he once chose a short spear for the hunt instead of the crossbow, just to give the javelina a fighting chance.”

  “A man of true compassion!”

  “He’d be glad to tell you about it.”

  For the rest of the evening, I play the role of queen. I down another glass of wine to dull the sharpness in my chest, fix a smile on my face, and work hard to not step on anyone’s toes. I dance with everyone who asks, and I never lack partners. I’m told that I am radiant, that I have a beautiful smile, that I am a gifted dancer. They compliment me on my choice of gown, my speedy recovery, my political savvy. They extend condolences on my recent ordeal. They offer their personal services, suggest trade policy, beg me to raise taxes further, beg me to lower taxes.