The Crown of Embers

by Rae Carson

  Later, when I am finally back in my suite, Ximena helps me out of my gown. “How was it?” she asks. “Did you have a good time?”

  I have run out of banalities and niceness. I have nothing to spare. “Fine,” I snap. “It was fine.”

  “Will it cheer you up to know you have a letter from home?” She pulls a tiny leather canister from her apron pocket and waves it at me. “Just delivered from the dovecote.”

  She drops it into my palm, and my heart does a little flip when I recognize the de Riqueza sunburst stamped into the leather. From Papá. Or maybe my sister. I haven’t spoken to either in over a year, except for a few brief messages like this one, via pigeon. I’m eager for news of home.

  No, I correct myself. Joya d’Arena is my home now. My time in Orovalle feels like it happened to another girl, a different Elisa.

  I open the canister, break the wax seal with a fingernail, and unroll the parchment. I’m glad to see my sister’s careful and lovely script.

  Dearest Elisa,

  Word reached me of your grave injuries. I’m glad to know you are recovering well. I pray for you every day.

  I write because Papá’s council has asked that I begin seeking a husband in earnest. They suggest I choose from among Joya d’Arena’s most influential nobility to further strengthen ties between us. Ximena has written to me about Lord-Commander Hector of the Royal Guard and has suggested I consider him. There is no opinion I trust more than yours. Please tell me: What kind of man is he? Would I do well to open negotiations with him? Your earliest reply is most appreciated.

  Papá sends his love.

  Alodia

  It feels as though someone is standing on my chest.

  “Elisa?”

  I look up from the parchment now crushed in my fist. Ximena studies me carefully while the guards exchange worried glances.

  I can’t force the proper platitudes to my lips.

  You knew this was coming, Elisa. Of course he will marry, and marry well. It is right and good that he become a prince consort. Would you rather Alodia marry someone who does not feel like family already?

  “I need parchment,” I whisper. “And quill and ink.” I can’t seem to remember where I put them.

  Fernando rushes to fetch the items from my writing desk. Ximena takes a step toward me, but I back into the atrium, shaking my head. I can’t even bear to look at her for wondering if she knew all along that I was falling in love with him.

  By the time Fernando enters with the writing implements, my fist is to my lips, as if it can tramp down the nausea roiling in my belly. Get control of yourself. I take a deep breath. Then another. I force my jaw to unclench. Then I grab the ink and parchment and set them on the vanity.

  But my fingers tremble and my script is jerky as I write.

  Dearest Alodia,

  Hector is the best man I know. You could not do better.

  Elisa

  I roll it tight and slide it inside Alodia’s canister. I hand the canister to Fernando with instructions to send it immediately.

  As he leaves, Ximena says, “Do you need to lie down for a moment? Maybe a glass of wine?”

  “I’d like to be alone, Ximena,” I say in the deadliest whisper, and she lowers her head and backs away.

  But alone is such a nebulous state when one is queen. Knowing the guards surround me, I pull the canopy closed and cry as softly as I can manage it.

  It is near morning when an idea finally dams the flood of tears.

  Chapter 17

  I scoot off the bed and throw a robe around my shoulders. Ximena is already awake, though her long gray braid is sleep mussed. She sits near the balcony, taking advantage of the morning light to work on a tapestry. She looks up at me. “Is everything all right now?”

  “I need to dress quickly. No time for a bath.”

  “We need to wash your face. With luck, people will think you had too much to drink and will not guess you spent the night crying.”

  At least she doesn’t ask me why. “Fine. Is Mara awake yet?”

  “She didn’t get back until very late.” She gathers the material in her lap and plops it into a basket near her chair.

  “Let her sleep a few more minutes, but we’ll have to wake her soon.”

  “Are you going to tell me—”

  “Soon.” I don’t even want my own Royal Guard to know what will transpire next. My idea hinges on secrecy.

  I send a guard to fetch the mayorodomo while Ximena begins sifting through my wardrobe. She holds up a riding gown; it has a split skirt and a tight black vest. I never ride, but I sometimes wear it when I need to feel strong.

  I nod approval. Ximena has read my mood well.

  I have just finished dressing, and Ximena is combing my hair in the atrium, when the mayordomo arrives. His dressing robe hangs crooked, and the left side of his head is sleep plastered into a solid wall of hair.

  “Your Majesty?” he says, out of breath. “The guard said your summons was urgent.”

  “Thank you for coming so quickly. Tell me, is Conde Tristán of Selvarica still here in the palace?” Ximena’s face in the vanity mirror shows perfect composure, but I sense increasing tension in her brushstrokes.

  “He filed a departure notice very late last night.” He shakes his head with disgust. “Who departs during Deliverance week? And on the night of the gala! It was most untoward, and I—”

  “But Tristán is still here? He hasn’t left yet?” I realize I’m wringing my skirt in my right fist. I release it and flex my fingers.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Find out. Now. If he hasn’t yet departed, tell him I require his presence immediately in my chambers.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” He executes a quick bow and hurries away on slippered feet.

  Ximena puts her hands on my shoulders and makes eye contact with me in the mirror.

  “I’ll explain soon,” I whisper. I just hope the conde has not had time to gather his entourage and flee from last night’s encounter.

  Fortunately, I do not wait long.

  When a guard escorts the conde into the atrium, Tristán drops to one knee and bows his head, refusing to meet my eyes.

  “Rise.”

  He does, and I note his traveling clothes: leather breeches, a loose blouse, a utility belt.

  “Going somewhere so soon?”

  He focuses on a point just above my head. “Yes, Your Majesty. I thought it prudent.”

  “You were going to leave without saying good-bye.”

  He looks sharply at me, really looks, not bothering to hide his confused suspicion.

  I press on. “I had thought . . . or maybe just hoped that we had found a sort of connection, you and I.”

  “Your Majesty, I . . . I’m sorry, but I thought . . . last night . . .”

  “Your Grace.” I stand from my stool and offer him my arm. “Let’s go somewhere private where we can talk.” To Ximena, I say, “Wake Mara. I need that room.”

  She hurries away. The conde and I follow at a slower pace.

  When we enter the austere attendant’s room, Mara is sitting up in bed, rubbing bleary eyes. She and Ximena start to leave, but I hold up a hand. “Stay.” I close the door behind me.

  “Keep your voices low,” I say. “My Royal Guard listens close for danger, and I do not care for them to know about this.”

  “About what, Your Majesty?” the conde says wearily, looking at the floor. “Why am I here? If you’re going to punish me, or exact some kind of revenge, please get it over with.”

  Ximena and Mara exchange a puzzled look.

  Something about his frankness pleases me. I say, “Conde, I need your help.”

  His gaze snaps to mine. “Oh?”

  “How many people know about you and Iladro?”

  “Not many. My mother. A few attendants.”

  “Good. I need a reason to . . .” I almost say “escape.” “To leave the city and go south. I also need the Quorum—no, the whole country�
�to believe I am very serious about selecting a husband.”

  His eyes flash with understanding. “You want to pretend we are betrothed.”

  “Or at least pretend to begin negotiations. Which, of course, would require that I visit Selvarica and inspect your holdings.”

  “Of course. I assume that, after an acceptable period of time, we would regretfully conclude that we are not as compatible as we had hoped?”

  “It might be a long period of time. But yes.”

  “And if I don’t agree to this? Will you expose me for the liar I am?”

  “No.”

  He stares at me.

  “I’m not interested in that. If you don’t want to help me, you are free to go.” I shrug nonchalantly. “Though if you tell anyone about this conversation, I will destroy you.”

  He cracks a relieved smile in response to my threat, which also pleases me. But then he leans against the frame of Mara’s bunk, and his eyes turn thoughtful. “You do realize that a broken betrothal would be a huge blow to my countship’s status? Everyone would assume the worst, that you found me lacking in some way.”

  “I am prepared to offer something in exchange.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Despite our incompatibility in marriage, you and I will discover a deep mutual respect and affection. I will be so taken with the good people of Selvarica, with their character, their potential to evolve into a great countship, that immediately upon returning to Brisadulce I will nominate your house to the open Quorum position.”

  He gapes at me. “I . . . I hardly know what to say.”

  “I also want two votes once you are a Quorum lord. Two separate occasions of my choosing when you must vote with me on an issue, regardless of your own feeling on the matter.”

  He begins to pace. I force myself to remain silent and still, giving him time to consider. I glance at my ladies. Mara is wide-eyed, whether from surprise or alarm I cannot tell. But Ximena wears a soft, approving smile, and when I catch her eye, she gives me a barely perceptible nod.

  At last he says, “This seat on the Quorum. It will be permanent, yes?”

  I nod. “To be passed down through your heirs. Only the military seats are not inherited.”

  “You think you can get the votes to approve my nomination?”

  “I have one vote assured. I only need one more, and I have a few ideas on how to get it.”

  “So you can’t guarantee that I will have a seat on the Quorum.”

  “I guarantee that I will try my best. Even if my nomination does not pass—which is unlikely—you will be forever marked as one who has the queen’s favor.”

  He stops pacing, runs a hand through his hair, looking suddenly sheepish. “We could marry in truth, you know,” he says. “You needn’t offer me the concession of a Quorum position. I think . . . I think we could be good friends, you and I. Marriages are built on less.”

  Softly I ask, “Could you give me another heir?”

  “Probably?”

  I stare at him.

  He sighs. “So, a fake betrothal in exchange for a Quorum nomination. And two votes if I take office.”

  “That is my bargain.”

  “Done.”

  I reach out and clasp his offered hand. He returns my smile with a delighted grin that lights up his whole face, and I think, briefly, what a tragedy it is for women everywhere that he cannot love them.

  Then I add, “This is a secret bargain, witnessed only by my two ladies. It’s fair that you be allowed two witnesses as well. Would you like me to repeat my offer in front of anyone?”

  He doesn’t even think about it. “I trust you.”

  “Then we are agreed. Would you mind postponing your departure? I would like to inform the Quorum of our imminent betrothal and give the nobility the opportunity to fawn over you.”

  He bows. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  “Please. Call me Elisa.”

  We make preparations quickly. Tristán’s people and mine will travel together in state. But there are certain precautions we must take, and Hector and Tristán spend long hours together, going over routes and formations and personnel.

  Hector alone of the Royal Guard knows our betrothal to be a pretense.

  We have a heated discussion about whether Storm the Invierno should accompany us. Ximena insists that he is too easily recognizable. But Father Alentín believes his knowledge could be useful. I point out that I would rather have him where we can keep an eye on him. When Hector promises to keep him cowled and hidden in a carriage, and Tristán vouches for the discretion of everyone in his entourage, we agree that Storm will come.

  He is only too willing. He knows the truth of it: that I go in search of the zafira.

  I cancel the Quorum meeting, the one I would have used to explain my foray into the prison tower, pleading eagerness to spend time with my potential husband. I tell Conde Eduardo that Tristán and I used the prison tower to begin negotiations, that with so many visiting the palace for Deliverance week, we both preferred privacy. It’s a weak lie, and by the narrowing of his black eyes, I know the conde does not believe me.

  But he does not press. He merely says, “It’s not too late to change your mind and do what is best for our kingdom. I’m confident you’ll come to understand that one of the northern lords would be more suitable.”

  I thank him for his counsel and assure him that I will make a considered choice.

  The night before our journey, I am grateful for the darkness and solitude. I lie awake a long time, thinking of Alejandro. Though I’ve no intention of marrying Tristán, everyone thinks I do. A tear trickles down my cheek to think how easily displaced my late husband is. His presence touches everything around me. I see him in the dark woods and jeweled tones of his chamber, in the newly commissioned portrait in the Hall of Kings, in the face of his son. But the court gives him up so easily. When I do finally marry, it feels as though even the phantom memory will be well and truly gone.

  “Elisa?” I feel the mattress dip as a tiny form crawls toward me on the bed.

  I lift the blankets to let Rosario slip underneath. He worms close, and I wrap an arm around him.

  “Does your nurse know you’re here?”

  He shrugs against me, which means she does not. I press my lips to his forehead.

  “You’re going away again,” he accuses.

  “Yes.”

  “I want to come.”

  Excuses run through my head. But I settle on the truth, as I always seem to, with him. “Bad people are trying to hurt me. So I can’t have my heir travel with me. I need you to stay here and be safe.”

  “Are they going to kill you?”

  “I hope not. I’m going to try my hardest to live.”

  “Hector will protect you.”

  I smile. “Yes, he definitely will.”

  “Will you come back?”

  “I’ll try my hardest to do that too. I promise.”

  He shifts, and his cold bare feet knock my leg, but I know better than to pull away. He says, “You always keep your promises.”

  I catch my breath. It’s something I told him long ago. Little did I know at the time how important it would be to him, a boy to whom promises had never been kept. “I do.”

  He is quiet for such a long time that I think he must be sleeping, but then he whispers, so softly that I have to strain to hear, “I don’t want to be king.”

  It’s like a dagger in my chest, because if feels like failure. Of course he doesn’t. Of course he’s terrified. I know how hard it is to be frightened for so long. I’m so sorry, Rosario.

  After a moment spent collecting myself, I say, “I think that if you decide you want to be king, you will be the greatest king in the history of Joya d’Arena. But I won’t make you. You don’t have to.” My court would have collective apoplexy if they heard me say this, but I could never force the boy.

  He sniffs. “Promise.”

  “I promise. But you have to promise me s
omething too.”

  “What?”

  “Promise me you won’t discuss this with anyone until I get back.” The last thing I need is for the country to start rumbling about an abdication. “Not a word. Also, if anything goes wrong, or if anything scares you while I’m gone, I want you to find Captain Lucio, Hector’s second-in-command, and do exactly what he says. He will help you. If you can’t find Lucio, go to Matteo. He’s with Queen Cosmé’s delegation in the dignitaries’ suite.”

  His wide eyes gleam in the dark. “I promise.”

  I don’t want to frighten him, but this is important. So I ask, “Who did I just say to find if something goes wrong?”

  “Captain Lucio or Matteo.”

  “That’s my boy.” I pull the quilt up over his small shoulders. “How about you sleep here tonight?”

  “Oh, all right,” he says, as if it wasn’t his grand plan all along.

  The entire palace sees us off—servants, resident nobles, the city garrison. Conde Tristán’s carriage leads the procession, followed by several guards on horseback, another carriage for my servants and supplies, and finally the queen’s carriage, larger and more elaborate than the others, surrounded by even more guards on foot. The royal crest streams behind on pennants, and almost-sheer curtains hang in the gilt-framed windows.

  But I am not in the queen’s carriage.

  I walk just behind it, surrounded by the conde’s servants. I wear a rough cotton skirt and a shapeless blouse, a maid’s cap pulled low on my brow. My skin is powdered to appear lighter, and my hair—my most distinctive trait—is plaited tight against my head and hidden under my cap.

  General Luz-Manuel and Conde Eduardo stand on a balcony overlooking the main gate. The general is as cold and unreadable as always, but the conde seethes blackly. His eyes are narrowed, his jaw taut, his arms crossed. It’s obvious that my last-minute excursion to Selvarica is not part of his plan, whatever it is. As we pass beneath him, under the palace portcullis, I force myself to look straight ahead lest I catch his eye.