by Rae Carson
Two days later, the desert cedes to rolling coastal hills. The sand still stretches east as far as the eye can see, but the hills along the coast mark the beginning of the southern holdings, the most temperate part of my kingdom. As we climb, the land beside the road turns from sand to hard dirt that is dotted with dry grass and the occasional scrub tree.
A day after that, we reach Puerto Verde. We crest a hill and there it is, laid out before us, a deep crescent bay the color of turquoise, carved into cliffs that protect the port from heavy surf. Cargo ships dot the water; I stop counting at twenty. There are even more small boats; dinghies and fishing vessels predominate, with a handful of flat pleasure barges.
A medium-size city hugs the cliffs, spills into the water on stilted buildings and docks. It seems that docks are everywhere, sending crooked fingers well into the bay. It’s such a boisterous place, and from this distance, it takes a few moments for me to make sense of the bustle. Traders haggle and yell. Sailors load and unload ships. Clerks catalog piles of items. Everyone is busy, fast moving, loud. It’s so different from the easy rhythm of Brisadulce.
My people, I think. I rule this city as surely as any other, and yet this will be my first time setting foot in it.
The road zags down the cliffs, and we hug the walls tight as we travel. I’ve never been afraid of heights, but I still can’t bring myself to peer out the carriage window and over the edge to the bay far below. I gaze out the opposite window instead, and I catch glimpses of wooden platforms jutting out over our heads, of elaborate pulleys and winches used to haul cargo up the cliff face.
By the time we reach the bottom, word has gone out that the queen’s carriage approaches, and the city goes still with reverent silence. We made no secret of our journey. Wasn’t that the whole point of this excursion? To be openly courted by Conde Tristán? To explore a remote part of my kingdom in search of the zafira without raising unwanted questions? But my teeth clench and my neck and shoulders ache with strain. Everyone stares as we pass.
We reach an inn called the Sailor’s Knot. A small crowd gathers on the porch to greet us—the inn staff, no doubt. I see smiles and nervous shifting and a few flags hastily embroidered with my royal crest. Our official itinerary declares a two-day recess here.
But our official itinerary, like my decoy queen, is meant to throw off potential ambushes. I’m glad. The place looks creaky, with a porch made of poorly joined driftwood and sandstone walls that drip random stains. As we pass by, though, I twinge with self-reproach, for the faces in the crowd deflate, then gaze after us with confusion and disappointment.
A block farther, we turn a corner and arrive at our actual destination, the King’s Inn. Conde Tristán chose it specifically because its high third-story provides a good view of the surrounding buildings, and because its location one block from the main street makes the entrances less visible.
Our caravan noses into an alley that leads to a wide, dark stable. Hector and I jump from the carriage—Storm will stay inside until nightfall—and my guard moves quickly to establish a perimeter at our rear while Tristán’s men unhitch the horses and begin unloading. When decoy Elisa steps from the queen’s carriage, a cry of greeting goes up, from the few stubborn souls have followed us here. “Queen Elisa!” a voice calls. “Your Majesty!” yells another. Someone jostles my guard for a better view, but my men hold firm.
Decoy Elisa doesn’t react, except to clutch her veil close to her throat. Led by Belén and Alentín, my ladies hustle her through the stables and into the back entrance of the inn.
I sling my pack over my shoulder, then grab a trunk from the queen’s carriage, just like a real maid. I follow my decoy into the inn, feeling darkly wrong about leaving my people outside, ignored and unacknowledged. “I’ll make it up to you,” I whisper. Someday, I’ll come back when I can be me.
The innkeeper, a gnarled man with a bald patch and a nervous smile, falls all over himself to accommodate us, arranging for hot baths and meals in our rooms. Decoy Elisa smiles vaguely at him and manages a few thank yous. When he finally leaves, she lies down for a nap, and I have my first bath in days.
“I do love baths,” I say with a luxuriant sigh.
Mara laughs. “I know. Though truly, Elisa, you hardly need pampering out here. You seem perfectly happy to tramp about the desert in your nomad clothes, sweaty and dusty and sun darkened.”
My smile dies on my face before fully formed. “I would be, if I weren’t terrified for my life and the lives of those around me.”
She doesn’t say anything to that, just grabs my hand and squeezes.
Ximena approaches armed with a brush and several hairpins, but I put up a hand to ward her off. “Can we leave my hair down, please? Just for tonight? It’s been tightly plaited the last few days, and my head aches from it.”
She frowns and puts the hairpins and brush away with obvious reluctance. I stare at my nurse while Mara towels my hair dry and finger brushes it. Ximena has always been unperturbedly calm and stoic—I suppose she and Hector have that in common. But lately she seems downright surly.
Awhile later, my hair has dried in waves down to my waist, and I am dressed in a clean linen tunic belted over soft leather pants when the rest of our group files quietly into my suite. Two guards will remain outside to watch the door, but everyone else squeezes inside and finds a spot on the rugs or the beds to sit.
Hector is the last to arrive, and when he sees me, he freezes, then moves quickly to an empty space at the foot of decoy Elisa’s bed, where he plunks down and stretches out his long legs.
Mara leans over and whispers in my ear, “I know you’re charmingly naive when it comes to matters of the heart, but you just stopped him in his tracks.”
I bring my knees to my chest, reach down to finger the hem of my pants. I whisper back, “I was about to tell myself I had imagined it.”
She rolls her eyes at me.
Tristán moves to the center of the room to address everyone. “We’re scheduled to be in town for two days,” he says. “I’ll meet officially with Puerto Verde’s mayor tomorrow. The dowager queen, Rosario’s grandmother, is also in residence here, on an estate in the hills, but reportedly in failing health and unable to offer us hospitality. I’ll make an attempt to see her, for appearances’ sake. Her Majesty Queen Elisa has unfortunately taken ill from a bad batch of oysters and will be unable to make any appointments.”
Everyone titters with amusement.
“But we need to be prepared for contingencies, which means lengthening our stay, or even cutting it short. I expect everyone to be alert at all times for changes in plan. Understood?”
I find myself nodding along with everyone else. Tristán has such a nice presence about him. Commanding, intelligent, worthy of my trust.
“Hector?” Tristán cedes the floor to the commander of my guard and sits down beside Iladro, who gazes at him with unabashed admiration. Now that I know they’re lovers, it’s so painfully obvious to me that I wonder how I didn’t notice before.
Hector stands, saying, “I’ve confirmed that a ship is scheduled to dock here this week. It could be tomorrow or a week from now, depending on weather. The ship is well known to me, and I trust its captain and crew to protect the queen with their lives. So I suggest we wait for it before splitting off. Alternately, we could hire a different ship, or even a caravan.”
As one, everyone turns to me for the ultimate decision. I say, “Belén, can you scout again tonight? I’d like to know if our new friends have followed us into the city and whether they take lodgings nearby.”
“I can,” he says.
“Then we will wait for Hector’s ship, unless Franco makes a move.”
“Or if he disappears entirely,” Hector adds.
I nod. “If he is able to slip Belén’s careful eye, I will consider that making a move.”
“My offer to kill him stands,” Belén says. “Just say the word.”
“Thank you,” I say, and it gives me a strange, twisty feeling
to know I’m grateful for someone’s willingness to kill for me. “But focusing Conde Eduaro’s efforts in the wrong direction is too good an opportunity to pass up.”
Tristán says, “Majesty, have you decided who goes with you when we split off?”
I take a deep breath. I have been dreading this moment. “Tristán, you and Iladro will of course continue with the caravan.”
He bows his head. “Of course.”
I need people who are used to rough travel, people I trust with my life. “There will be five of us, the holy number of perfection,” I say. “Mara, you will come with me. And Belén. I confess I’m not sure what to do about you, Father Alentín. I’d like to have a priest with me as we track down the zafira. Your knowledge, your ability to sense the Godstone, could be crucial. But as Cosmé’s ambassador, your absence would be noted.”
The priest nods wearily, rubbing at his stumped shoulder as if aching with phantom pain. “I want to help you find the zafira more than anything,” he says. “But I’m an old man now. And Her Majesty Queen Cosmé will be disappointed if I do not travel in state with false you and your soon-to-be betrothed. My ultimate loyalty must be to Basajuan now, you see.”
I manage a sad smile. This is it, then, for us. Truly, he will never again be my priest. “Then I insist you go with the caravan,” I tell him.
“I will pray for you every day,” he says softly.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Thank you.”
“What about Storm?” Ximena asks.
“His knowledge may be useful. And he’ll behave, so long as he’s on the track of the zafira. He comes with me.”
Ximena’s eyes narrow. “He is nothing if not noticeable.”
I nod. “I’ll order him to cut and dye his hair tonight. That should help him pass cursory glances, at least.” It will also give him something harmless to focus his fury on. I smile just thinking about it.
“I will go with you, of course,” she says. “As your guardian—”
“No.” There. I’ve said it.
Her black eyes fly wide. Not with surprise, I note carefully, but frustration and anger. She knew it was coming as much as I did.
“You are the queen’s most visible attendant,” I explain. “Mara has been my lady-in-waiting for less than a year. But you’ve been with me my whole life, and everyone knows it. You must be seen with my decoy.”
“I have to go with you,” she whispers. “Always. It is my duty. I was ordained for it by the Monastery-at-Amalur. Elisa, it is God’s will.”
And that is exactly the wrong thing to say to me, because anger boils up in my throat, so thick I almost choke on it. “You will attend my decoy as if she were me.” I enunciate each word, my voice sharp and hard. “You will protect her with your life.”
Her chest rises as she draws breath to argue further, but Tristán wisely interjects. “So, you, Mara, Belén, and Storm. Lord Commander Hector too, I presume?”
“Yes. Hector. He’s the one with the plan.” I meet Hector’s eye and note the slightest softening of his features. “The five of us.”
Hector says, “We’ll slip away at dusk disguised as highway traders. A small wagon waits for us in the stables, packed with a few odds and ends. We’ll take it to the docks, ostensibly to trade with one of the ships there, but of course, we will never disembark. If something goes wrong, I have an alternate escape prepared through the sewer beneath the inn.”
“Ugh,” Mara says.
“We’ll hope it doesn’t come to that,” Hector says. “And a few weeks from now, we’ll rendezvous in Selvarica after finding the zafira.”
“That’s it, then,” I say. “Everyone get a good night’s sleep. Except Belén.”
Belén’s answering grin is as quick and bright as lightning. He is the first to slip out the door. Everyone else follows at a more leisurely pace.
I overhear Ximena saying, “Hector, a word with you, please?”
His face is expressionless as he follows her to a dark corner of my suite. She speaks softly to him, but her gaze is intent, her fists clenched at her sides.
Mara whispers, “You made the right decision.”
“Yes.” But I press my fingertips to the Godstone and pray. Oh, God, did I make the right decision? Ximena is the closest thing I’ve ever had to a mother. She has always wanted what is best for me. It feels strange to have pushed her away, like pushing away an extra limb or a small part of my soul.
It also feels a little bit like freedom.
“What do you think she’s telling him?” I ask.
Mara covers her mouth to mute soft laughter, and I look at her, startled. “I’d bet all the saffron in my spice satchel,” she says, “that she’s threatening to hang him upside down by his toes if he ever takes your clothes off.”
“Oh!” Mara talks about these matters with such casual ease, and I’m not sure I’m ready to hear it. Still, I study Hector’s reaction very, very carefully. He has drawn himself to full height, chin raised, eyes hard.
“You could order her to tell you,” Mara suggests.
“She would lie if she thought it necessary.” As the words leave my mouth, their truth hits me full force. She has not always wanted what is best for me. She has always wanted what she thinks is best for me. And she has never hesitated to work around me or anyone else to accomplish it.
Hector is shaking his head. Ximena sticks a finger in his chest and hisses something at him. His eyes narrow, and he spits something in response. Then he turns his back on her, sweeps past Mara and me, and exits the chamber.
Ximena’s cheeks are flushed, and her breath comes fast. I’ve never seen her so angry, so lacking composure.
A year ago, this would have terrified me. I stand and approach her.
Her gaze on me turns soft with longing, and I wish there was a way to convince her that separating myself from her doesn’t mean I love her less. I give her the only peace offering I know. “Ximena, I’m ready for you to braid my hair now, if you don’t mind.”
She nods, swallowing. “Yes, my sky.”
I wake to someone jostling my shoulder. My eyes fly open. A forefinger presses against my lips, and I hear, “Shh, Elisa.”
“Belén?”
“Franco is coming here,” he whispers. “Now.”
Oh, God.
“The others accompany him, but at a distance,” he adds. “He’ll slip inside the inn, and his companions will block the entrances to prevent escape. Majesty, it’s a siege.”
I fling the covers away and sit up. “Where is Storm?”
“He came in not long after our meeting.”
“And how long until sunrise?”
“About three hours.”
My heart thumps in my chest. This is it. We have to make it happen now, or never. I glance at decoy Elisa, sleeping in the narrow bed against the opposite wall. She could die tonight. I could die tonight. Please, God, keep us all safe. The Godstone responds to my wispy prayer by sending dry heat up my spine. At least it has not yet gone cold. “Get Hector. I’ll wake the ladies.”
“Stay away from the windows.” And then he’s gone, as quickly and easily as a breeze.
I shake Ximena awake first and explain. She dives into her pack and pulls out a gleaming stiletto. I gulp back a wave of nausea. A stiletto is useless for cutting; its only purpose is to stab, hard and deep, even through armor. She grips the hilt with the ease of long familiarity.
“Wake Mara,” she says. “And get into the corner beside the dresser.”
“The girl?” I indicate decoy Elisa, who is softly snoring.
“Let her sleep.” Let her be a target, she means.
“How . . . will you be able . . .”
“Rope ladder out the window, but we have to draw them toward this room first, and you must be gone by then.”
I’m shaking Mara awake when the doorknob twists. Ximena strides unerringly toward the door, elbow bent to plunge her stiletto. But it is only Hector, followed close behind by Tristán.
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Hector says, “Storm and Belén will meet us in the cellar. Do you have your things?”
“At the door beside you.” I indicate Mara’s and my packs propped against the wall. They are always ready to go, a habit from our time as desert rebels.
Tristán pushes past Hector and heads toward my sleeping decoy. To my shock, he crawls into bed with her. She startles awake, but he shushes her, drapes an arm around her shoulders, says, “I’m here to protect you, my lady.”
But I realize the truth of it: They’ve brought an extra warrior to protect her, yes, and who would be surprised to learn that the queen’s betrothed is sneaking into her bed?
“Tristán,” I say. “Thank you. And please be careful. Eduardo opposes our match; I’m sure of it. If he can’t kill me, he may go after you.” And with those words, I fully embrace the staggering possibility that I am at war with my own Quorum lord.
“Just find the zafira,” Tristán responds. “Joya d’Arena needs it.”
Ximena hugs me close. “Be safe, my sky. Be wise. Remember God’s words from the Common Man’s Guide to Service: ‘Blessed is he who puts the sake of others before his own desires.’”
Even now she can’t help but warn me away from Hector. I pitch my voice low so that only she can hear. “I know you want him for Alodia.”
Ximena goes rigid in my arms. “It’s a good match,” she whispers back.
“Elisa!” Hector hisses from the doorway. “We must go now!”
“Yes. A good match. Ximena, be well.” I push her away. “Protect the girl.”
Then Mara and I grab our packs and hurry out the door.
Chapter 20
WE are met outside by four of my Royal Guard. “Go with God, Your Majesty,” one says, and I barely have a chance to nod before Hector is hustling me down the corridor.
“Wait.” I freeze in my tracks.
“Elisa, we must go!”
But it’s not right. Too much depends on sleight of hand, on stealth, on chance.
I turn back up the corridor toward the guards. “You!” I say to the one who addressed me. “Find the mayor of Puerto Verde. Rouse him from sleep. Tell him his queen demands his presence right now. Tell him to bring his entire household. Tell him I expect him here within minutes.”