by Rae Carson
Hector and Ximena seat themselves on either side of me. I frown to think that I can’t even enjoy a small private dinner without their protective hedge.
I nod to Father Alentín and Belén, sitting at the other end. Lady Jada is directly across from me, and after greeting me warmly, she goes right back to gazing shamelessly at Conde Tristán sitting beside her. But the conde doesn’t notice because his gaze fixed on me the moment I entered and now does not waver.
I sigh as I reach for my glass of rose-hip wine, anticipating a long and tedious evening. If it were just Alentín and Belén, I would know exactly what to say, exactly how to be. I find that my anger with them has faded, so eager am I for the familiar.
To my relief, Conde Tristán is the one to open conversation. “Lady Ximena, how goes the late-night studying in the monastery?”
Everyone freezes. Belén becomes as dark and coiled as a storm cloud.
The conde looks around at us in alarm. “I’ve said something, haven’t I? Something wrong?”
Lady Jada says, “Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing. We just need to get to know each other.” She turns to me. “Isn’t that right, Your Majesty?”
My voice is dead flat when I say, “Your Grace, do tell me how you came to know about Ximena’s studies.”
He and his herald exchange a confused glance. The conde says, “I often walk at night, after everyone has gone to sleep. Lately I’ve been going to the monastery to pray. Last night I saw Lady Ximena with the ambassador from Basajuan.” He indicates Alentín with a lift of his chin. “I just thought . . . I know she used to be a scribe. . . . That is to say, I’ve started studying the scriptures myself lately, and I thought to chat about . . .”
I laugh the moment a good lie comes to mind. It’s a forced sound that will fool no one who knows me, but the conde’s face relaxes at once. “I didn’t mean to alarm Your Grace,” I say. “It’s just that we’ve kept it quiet intentionally. You see, not many people know that Basajuan’s monastery archive took some damage during the war. We’ve been working with them to restore what documents we can, even scribing new ones as necessary.”
He nods. “I’m glad to hear it. Small gestures will go a long way toward building goodwill with Queen Cosmé. Which is vital now that her country stands between us and Invierne.”
“Indeed.” I raise my wineglass. “To continued goodwill between Basajuan and Joya d’Arena.”
Everyone raises their glasses and echoes the sentiment with polite relief.
“Were I you, though,” the conde muses, “I would be scouring the archive for clues about the Godstone.”
I stare at him. Is he bringing up these things out of innocent coincidence? Or is there a purpose to his comments?
“Why is that?” Ximena asks, and I can’t be the only one who recognizes the dangerous edge in her voice.
“Well, the animagus, for one. The one who martyred himself. Invierne still wants that stone desperately. I must confess that I am deeply curious as to why. And I’m not the only one. The whole city is talking about it. Maybe the whole country.”
“Maybe they’re afraid of it?” Lady Jada offers. “Her Majesty destroyed several of their most powerful sorcerers with it.”
Tristán shrugs. “There have been bearers, Godstones, every hundred years for two millennia. Why go to extremes only now?”
I feel I should interject something, though I don’t know what. They’re talking about me, the most important part of my life, as if I’m not even here. There are probably exchanges like this going on all over the country.
My Godstone. Me. A dinner-table conversation. I suppose that as queen, I belong to everyone a little.
“You know what I think?” Lady Jada says.
“I would love to know,” I tell her sincerely.
She lifts her chin. “I think they want this land back.”
“Oh?”
“I would be a poor mayor’s wife if I didn’t know my history,” she says primly. “My tutor says that a few centuries after God dropped the first families onto this world, one family went mad with ambition, gobbling up land and resources through marriage and war. But the others united against them and drove them out. They fled into the wilderness, the curse of God upon them, and became the Inviernos.
“They were driven out,” she continues. “Everyone knows Brisadulce is the most beautiful city in the world. I think the Inviernos want it back.”
Her history is mostly right, but her assessment of our capital is not. Brisadulce is an isolated city, surrounded on all sides by natural disaster, forced to trade for the bulk of its supplies. It remains our capital from long tradition and history and maybe nostalgia. But the land itself is impractical, even useless. Why would the Inviernos want it when they could pursue Puerto Verde or the lush rolling hills of the southern holdings instead?
I say solemnly, “A well-conceived theory. Maybe you’re right.”
Ximena chokes on her wine.
The kitchen master enters, accompanied by wait staff carrying trays piled with shredded chicken, corn tortillas, and fresh fruit slices. My mouth waters to see honey-coconut scones, my favorite. They’re still hot from the oven; the honey glaze melts down the sides.
Lady Jada claps her hands. “Pollo pibil! It was the king’s favorite, I hear.” She points to the plate of chicken.
“It was,” Hector says. “He first encountered it in my father’s hacienda.” At my questioning look, he says, “One summer King Nicolao’s ship got caught in a storm and ran onto the reef. He and Prince Alejandro took shelter with us while the hull was repaired. It’s how we met.”
I’ve never heard this story. I wonder how many other things I don’t know about Hector.
Father Alentín says, “You must have impressed him greatly, to have been named his page. And later, to be appointed commander of the guard. You’re the youngest in history.”
Hector shrugs, looking sheepish. “It was mostly an accident.”
“What do you mean?” the priest asks.
“I had two older brothers, and we used to spar with toy swords in the courtyard. The morning Alejandro was there, one of them knocked me off my feet, and the other starting teasing me, poking at me with his sword. It was all good-natured, nothing that hadn’t happened a hundred times before. But Alejandro observed the whole thing through his bedroom window, and he came barreling into the courtyard, yelling at them to back off, that he had just named me his personal page and how dare they threaten the royal page?”
“He thought he was saving you,” I say.
Hector nods, his eyes warm with the memory. “I was only twelve years old at the time, so naturally I thought he was the most wonderful person who ever lived.”
“But eventually the two of you became friends in truth,” I say.
“Yes, quickly. He was lonely. An only child. It was good for him to have a younger boy around, someone he could easily whip in swordsmanship.” He adds haughtily, “That only lasted a couple of years, of course.”
I laugh. “Of course. He told me you were the most fearsome warrior he knew.”
“He did?” A shield drops from his face, and I see its truer expression, as if he and sorrow are steady companions.
“He did,” I say gently. “He spoke of you often while he lay in hospice. Becoming his page may have been an accident, but becoming lord-commander certainly was not. He said it was the easiest choice he ever made, even though you were so young.”
Hector swallows hard, nodding, and turns away to hide his face.
“This is fabulous,” says Lady Jada, and I jump. For a moment, it felt like Hector and I were alone. She adds, “The pollo pibil, I mean. Your kitchen master is to be commended.”
I’d love to ignore her, to press Hector for more details about his childhood, but I invited Jada for a reason, so I force myself to pay attention to her. “Thank you.” I glance around for the kitchen master, but he has already slipped away to put the finishing touches on dessert. “He makes pastries spec
ially for me now, from a recipe I brought from Orovalle.” I grab a corn tortilla and nibble on it.
“Yes, your love of pastries is well known.”
I study her face, trying to determine if she insults me on purpose, but she chews blissfully on her pollo pibil.
It is the traitor Belén who says, “Her Majesty has an even greater passion for jerboa soup.”
I almost choke on my tortilla. Jerboa soup was our daily repast when we traveled together through the deep desert. If I taste it again in this life, it will be too soon. I glance over to find his lips twitching with humor.
Jada says, “But jerboa soup is so . . . pedestrian.”
“Sometimes.” I swallow the lump of tortilla and say gravely, “Life’s simpler foods have great poetry to them, don’t you think?” I have no idea what that means, but she nods as if concurring with a profound truth.
Conde Tristán says, “The official dish of Selvarica is called the sendara de vida. It’s made of starfruit soaked in honey and lime, then roasted over peppered coals. It’s sublime. If any of you come for a visit, I’d be delighted to serve it.”
Ximena and I exchange a startled look. Her face is white.
My nurse turns toward the conde and says, carefully, “The sendara de vida. That means ‘the gate of life.’”
He nods. “Named after an old legend.”
“Oh, do tell us!” I say, with what I hope is artless enthusiasm. “I’d love to hear more about Selvarica.”
At the end of the table, Father Alentín leans forward, eyes narrowed. Beside me, Hector sets down his wineglass and places his hands casually on the table.
Conde Tristán looks around at his suddenly rapt audience, aware that once again he is on the outside of an ongoing conversation. But he proceeds gamely. “It’s wholly apocryphal, but legend says God created two gates, one that leads to the enemy and one that leads to life. The gate that leads to life, la sendara de vida, is somewhere in Selvarica, and many a nobleman’s younger son has set off in search of it, hoping to prove himself and make his fortune. No one has succeeded, of course. But many of my people believe in its existence. They say whoever finds it will find life eternal and perfect happiness.”
Silence weighs like a heavy blanket over the dining room.
Finally Alentín says in a tight voice, “Strange that I have not heard of this legend.”
The conde shrugs. “I barely knew of it growing up. But Iladro reminded me.” He indicates the overdressed herald beside him. “Right, Iladro?”
The herald reddens at our sudden scrutiny. The plume of his hat wobbles as he nods. “Yes, Your Grace,” he says in an understated tone that belies his announcing voice. “The legend remains popular in the remote island villages.” He grabs a scone from the tray and shoves it into his mouth, possibly to discourage the conde from calling on him to speak further.
“Apocryphal,” Ximena mutters to herself.
“An old manuscript or two alludes to it,” the conde says. “But that’s how we know there’s no truth to the legend, right? None of the inspired holy scriptures mentions it once.”
“Indeed,” Ximena says, but I hear the doubt—or possibly wonder—in her voice.
“What is ‘apocryphal’?” Lady Jada asks.
Hector says, “The Apocrypha is a group of documents that were put forward as being inspired by God, but were proved by scholars and priests to be merely legends. Nothing divine about them after all.”
I look at him in surprise and delight. I had no idea he knew about such things.
He regards me sidelong, his eyes dancing. “But interesting as pseudohistorical documents,” he says to Lady Jada. “They say much about the attitudes and customs of the time during which they were written.”
“What about you, Lady Jada?” I say, still smiling. “As wife of the mayor, can you tell me about any spectacular dishes—or legends—from Brisadulce your queen should know of?”
Lady Jada throws her shoulders back and opens her mouth to launch into what I am certain will be a treatise of profound triviality. “Your Majesty should instruct the kitchen master to prepare—”
She freezes at the sound of retching.
“Iladro?” says Conde Tristán.
The herald bends over the table, his body convulsing. He looks up, his eyes oozing tears. His delicate face is a blotchy purple.
Ximena launches across the table, a blur of ruffled skirts. She grabs his fork with one hand, forces open his jaw with the other.
Hector yanks me to my feet. With his free hand, he whisks a dagger from his vambrace. “Elisa, spit out any food in your mouth. Now.”
Poison. My skin goes clammy cold. “I . . . there’s nothing.”
Ximena shoves the handle of the fork down Iladro’s throat, saying, “Let yourself vomit, my lord. It may save your life.”
And he does, in great geysers of half-digested, red-tinged pollo pibil and pastry lumps, all over the table before me. Acid singes my nostrils.
“The scone!” Belén says. “He was the only person who had one.”
The kitchen master bursts into the room, yelling, “Stop! Spit out your food! The taster just—” He sees the mess on the table, and his face drains of blood. “Too late.”
“Lady Jada,” I order. “Find Doctor Enzo at once.” She launches to her feet and runs from the dining room.
“Will he—?” the conde asks in a wavery voice, stroking his herald’s arm. “Oh, Iladro, what did you—”
Hector’s arm wraps across my shoulders, pulling my back against his torso as he backs us away from the table. He still holds a dagger in his free hand, though I’ve no idea what he thinks he can do with it.
“Water!” Ximena yells to no one in particular, and a glass appears before her. She tips it down the herald’s throat. He chokes, and water spews from his mouth, but she yells something at him and he starts to gulp it down like his life depends on it, which it might. And then she makes him throw up again.
“Let’s go, Elisa,” Hector says, and he starts to drag me from the dining room.
But I resist. “No.”
“It’s not safe! We need to—”
I whirl on him. “Your sword will not protect me from poison.” To the rest, I say, “Ximena, stay with Iladro until Doctor Enzo comes. Everyone else, with me now.” I stride through the door to the kitchen, and everyone tumbles after me.
The kitchen is chaos. People rush everywhere to dump food and clean bowls and utensils. I catch the acrid scents of vomit and of burning bread. On the stone floor beside the chopping table lies a man I’ve never seen before. He is clearly dead. His eyes bulge, frozen in terror and pain. Blood-tinged vomit leaks from the corner of his mouth and puddles beside him. A girl in a maid’s frock stares at him from behind the roasting spit. Tears stream down her face. Belén and the guards move to block the entrances.
“Silence!” I yell. Quiet settles, even as eyes widen with dread. “Everyone against the wall, there.” I gesture, but they do not move fast enough. “Now!”
They scramble all over one another in their hurry to comply, but manage to line up neatly.
I pace in front of them. “Who prepared the scones?” I ask.
Silence. Then a timid voice says, “I did, Your Majesty. Felipe and I.”
I turn on the source of that voice. It’s the crying maid. “Did you poison them?”
“Oh, no, Your Majesty, I would never—”
“Where is Felipe?”
“I don’t know.” She can’t bring herself to meet my gaze, and her maid’s cap has skewed forward. It bothers me that I can’t see her expression to read it.
So I reach forward and tip up her chin with my fingers. “When did you last see him?”
She swallows hard and blinks wet eyes. “I’m not sure. Maybe . . . just before we served? He said he needed wine to . . . to soak the pears. But . . . oh, God.”
“Oh, God, what?”
“Pears weren’t on the menu. I didn’t think . . . at the time
. . . I was so busy. How could I know?” Her gaze is terrified and shaky but guileless. I find myself believing her.
Without breaking her gaze, I say, “Belén, please check the wine cellar.”
“At once, Your Majesty.”
I step back, clenching my hands into fists. This cannot go unpunished. What will happen when the city learns that poison entered my private dining room? They will see me as weak, unable to govern my own staff, much less a country. And they will be right.
I need a show of strength. Of wrath. Something memorable.
I pace, worrying my thumbnail with my teeth. I could dismiss them all, throw them out of the palace. That would certainly be memorable. But there can be no doubt that most of them—maybe all—are innocent. If had proof, I would not hesitate to have the poisoner beheaded.
I freeze in my tracks. Is this why General Luz-Manuel had Martín executed? Merely as a show of strength? Because it was politically prudent to cast the blame somewhere?
Belén appears in the stone archway leading to the cellar. “He is here,” he says, and I know from his grave expression that the news is not good.
“No one is to leave this kitchen,” I say, and receive a flurry of “Yes, Your Majesty”s in response. “Hector, Tristán, with me.”
Together we enter the cellar stair. It’s steep and cool and smells of wet wood and pitch. Alongside the stair is a smooth slope for rolling barrels.
Belén is at the bottom, standing over the body of another dead man. A boy, really. He lies on his side, his arm crooked beneath his torso in an unnatural position. Vomit soaks his shirt and puddles at the base of a wine barrel.
He clutches a scrap of leather.
Hector bends to pry it from his stiffening fingers. He spreads it open and says, “A note.”
“Read it.”
“‘Death to tyrants.’” Hector looks up. “That’s all it says.”
“Oh, God.”
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.