by Carson Rae
I lie back, and he bends over—toward the Godstone. He studies it carefully. Then he lowers his head as if to kiss it, and my heart breaks a little. Because even though everything in my life is about the Godstone, always the Godstone, I want this to be a magical exception. I want this to be just about me. Heartsick, I lift my hands to push his head away.
But his lips brush my skin, and I gasp. I’ve misread him.
It’s not the Godstone that had captured his attention; he doesn’t even seem to know it’s there. Instead, he’s kissing the scar I received from an assassin’s dagger, all along its near-deadly length. Tears prick at my eyes.
“This,” he says, “won’t happen again.” He straightens to pull off his shirt and toss it aside. I swallow hard. He is strong and dark and so beautiful my chest aches.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“I’ll keep this one.”
“Well,” I say, unable to tear my gaze away from him. “If a scar makes you kiss me like that, I might hire some mercenaries to give me a few more.”
“No need to go to such lengths,” he says with a half smile. He puts a hand to either side of my head, then he dips to kiss me hard. I wrap my arms around him and pull him tight against me, not wanting even a whisper of air between us.
Hector sighs into my neck. He says, “I love you, Elisa.”
We are awkward and ridiculous, with knees and elbows and bedsheets in all the wrong places, and even some laughter. But after a while, the awkwardness is subsumed with warmth and light and the tenderest moments I’ve ever known. It’s not perfection yet, but it’s perfect.
35
IT is not quite morning. The air is cool but not cold, for winter is gentler here in Basajuan. The open windows of my suite face eastward. A breeze flirts with the wispy ivory curtains, flashing views of jagged mountains that are black in relief against the bright edge of dawn.
Strange to think that I just came out of those mountains. They look so huge and foreboding, yet my companions and I conquered them thoroughly.
Hector stirs beside me but does not wake. I don’t know how he’s managed it, but the top sheet is twisted inextricably around his leg. He has shifted toward the middle, arms flung wide, and I think, We are going to need a bigger bed.
I study everything about him, memorizing each detail—the tiny freckle at the crease of one eye, the morning stubble that contrasts so beautifully with his pale lips, the puckered scar running across his lower back. I want to know the stories behind every one of his scars.
I can’t help myself; I reach out and gently trace it.
His eyes flutter open. “Good morning,” he says sleepily.
In answer, I kiss him hard. His arms snake around me and he pulls me against him. “I guess this means you have no regrets?” he says, and his hands start exploring my body in very interesting ways.
“None. I’m so glad it was you,” I say. “And not—and not . . .”
“Alejandro.”
“Yes.”
He releases me in order to lift a lock of my hair, which he studies intently. “I admit,” he says, rubbing the hair between thumb and forefinger, “there were times I wanted to punch him.”
“Oh?” Never, ever have I heard him say such a thing. “Why?”
Hector’s eyes grow distant. “The way he treated you. He had the greatest prize of all, and he didn’t realize it until it was too late.” He leans forward and kisses me soundly, then says, “Can’t seem to help myself anymore.”
I put a forefinger to his lips to forestall yet another kiss, even though I’m smiling. “Wait. Just how long, exactly, have you been in love with me?”
He winces. “It’s highly inappropriate.”
My eyes widen. “Hector! Tell me!”
He flops onto his back to stare up at the canopy. “Remember the day I found you here in Basajuan?”
That long ago? “Yes. You saved me from Conde Treviño.”
He snorts. “Hardly. As I recall, I walked into his office to find that you had pinned him to his desk, holding his own daggers to his throat.”
I grab his hand and bring his fingers to my lips. Never in my life have I been so glad to see someone as I was to see Hector that day. “A few reinforcements would have had me dead in moments. If you hadn’t walked in when you did . . .”
“Afterward, one of my men said, ‘I’m so glad you recognized the princess. I was about to put a sword through her, for raising a blade to a nobleman of the realm.’ And I had to ask myself—how did I know it was Elisa?”
I don’t remember any of Hector’s men being there. Just him.
He turns onto his side to face me. “You had changed so much,” he murmurs into my hair. “You were wearing the clothes of a desert warrior, holding weapons. Your back was turned. But I knew it was you. Instantly. I had memorized everything about you. The way you stood, the way you moved, the sound of your voice, the sheen of your hair. . . .”
I blink against threatening tears. Hector loved me even then. Before I found my own way. Before I did or became anything.
“Your turn,” he says. “When did you know?”
“When I healed you. The thought of you dying . . . it was awful.”
His smile is as bright as the sun, and I marvel that I have such power over this man, that a mere declaration of love can affect him so.
“Hector, going back to Brisadulce might be the scariest thing we’ve faced together. I mean, it’s civil war there. And a civil war is a particularly awful sort of war, with friends and family fighting against one another, killing one another.”
He nods. “I’m sure General Luz-Manuel has control of the palace and the city. We’ll have to lay siege to our own home. But we can’t just wade in, flinging magic and swords at everyone. We can’t destroy our own city, murder our own people.” One of the reasons I love Hector so much is that he is never patronizing. “We will have to be fast, efficient, and perfectly timed to pull it off.”
Exactly what I’ve been thinking. Bludgeoning my way back into power at the expense of my people would do irreparable damage. But my signed treaty with Cosmé and Alodia will create sentiment in my favor. If I’m lucky, all I have to do to diffuse the war is remove a few key individuals.
Until recently, I have always chosen precision over power, stealth over frontal assault. It’s a precarious way of doing battle, even though there are times when it’s the only option. But in my own home, surrounded by my own people, it will be more dangerous than ever. “If it doesn’t work,” I say. “If we fail, and we have a chance to get away, would you consider . . . that is, would you be willing to . . . flee? With me?”
He reaches up to tuck my hair behind my ear. “I’m never leaving you again.”
I lean over and kiss him deeply. He pulls me close and returns my kiss, rougher this time, demanding, and I love it. I will never have enough of him.
Someone pounds on the door.
Hector swears, and I stifle a giggle.
I grab my dressing robe and move to answer the door, but Hector jumps out of bed and intercepts me, grabbing my forearm. “Let me,” he says. He tugs on his pants, pulls my dagger from my pack, and holds it just out of sight as he cracks open the door.
It’s Cosmé’s mayordomo. Hector lowers the knife.
He is young for the position, with a roundness to cheek and chin and a slender frame that promises further growth. But then almost everyone in Cosmé’s court is young. Basajuan lost an entire generation in the last war with Invierne. “Apologies, Your Majesty,” he says. “But the Inviernos are up and awake and making demands, and I have no idea what to do with them. Her Majesty Queen Cosmé said you had claimed responsibility.”
I grimace, knowing our guests are probably being as arrogant and difficult as possible. “I’ll take care of it,” I tell him, and he abases himself with such relieved gratitude that it’s hard not to smile.
After the door closes I grab Hector’s hands. Someday soon—I hope—I will
have days and days alone with him. I’ll make it an imperial edict, maybe. Threaten beheading if anyone bothers us.
But not today.
“Let’s get dressed and go put some self-important Deciregi in their places, shall we?”
After I tell the Deciregi to shut up and eat the “inedible pig slop” the palace kitchen so painstakingly prepared, and assure them that no, their bathwater is not poisoned, and yes, it is a regular practice here for servants to enter quarters unasked to get a fire going in the early morning, we all convene in the audience hall to discuss terms. Everyone is there: all my companions, Alodia and her advisers, Cosmé and her council, the two Deciregi.
I reveal that the zafira lies beneath a mountain of rubble. But I confer total mining and exploring rights on Isla Oscura to the nation of Invierne.
The Deciregi fear—and rightly so—that Joya’s citizens will not allow them to travel safely. I promise an edict declaring harsh penalties for any kind of harassment.
I have two stipulations: one, that Invierne must agree to an immediate and total cessation of hostilities. Any hostile act will be met with severe reprisal and the rescinding of all mining rights. And two, that Invierne may never purchase or build its own ships. They must pay Joyan or Orovalleño captains for passage and cargo transport. If there is even a hint that they are building a navy, I will blast their ships out of the water with the fire of my Godstone—and rescind all mining rights.
Cosmé continues to demand reparations, and I don’t blame her. Her territory has always suffered the brunt of our conflict. I try to talk her down from it, but her black eyes flash at me, with a desperate, grief-stricken rage that reminds me how much she has lost. Parents, friends, a dear brother.
After a while, something sly flits across the Invierno woman’s face, and she suddenly capitulates, saying, “We’ll do it. In reparation, we’ll pay the first two years’ tithes to the Joyan Empire on behalf of Basajuan and Orovalle.”
Cosmé gasps. Alodia is too composed to react much, but I know her well enough to recognize the interest sparking in her eyes.
There’s a catch. I know there is. “With what currency will you pay?” I ask.
“Glass,” she says. “We have the finest glassmakers in all the world, and I’d love to introduce your people to it. Also, we had a surplus of maize this harvest. It’s going to rot in the bins when the weather warms, so we might as well send it along. We’ll throw in a few tapestry samples too.”
I can’t help my smile of triumph. I don’t imagine there’s a huge market for glass baubles in my country—at least not until my people have extra coin for luxuries—but if she thinks she’s trapping me into opening a trade opportunity for Invierne, then she truly considers peace as a long-term solution.
One of Alodia’s advisers, a man I recognize as one who rules a remote territory along her border, bends forward and whispers something in her ear. She nods.
“Conde Paxón is good to remind me,” Alodia says to us. She places her elbows on the table and leans forward. “The Inviernos must agree to stop supplying the Perditos with food and weapons. In fact, they must sever the alliance completely.”
Cosmé mutters agreement. The Perditos have been harassing the southern border of Orovalle for years, ever since Joya’s prisons overflowed and their inmates were dumped into the jungle-choked Hinder Mountains between our countries. Once Invierne began supporting them, they banded together and became very powerful, making trade by land nearly impossible.
“Agreed,” the Deciregus says. “They will be as dead to us.”
That’s a more dramatic statement than we required, but our secretary adds it to the formal accord.
“One last thing,” I say. Everyone regards me expectantly as I take a deep breath. This will be the hardest part. It might also be the most important. “The Deciregus of Crooked Sequoia House has agreed to a marriage alliance between a son of his house and a titled person of my choosing, to further cement goodwill between us.”
Cosmé’s face blanches. “Out of the question!” says one of Cosmé’s advisers, a pudgy man with a thick beard that manages to defy the obvious, oily attempt at grooming. “We will not mingle, we will not breed, with those animals.”
“We already have.”
Everyone stares at me.
“Come here, Red,” I say gently, and she pads over, her golden eyes regarding me with perfect trust. I stand and drape an arm down across her slight shoulders. “This is Red Sparkle Stone, my handmaiden. She is diligent and loyal, intelligent and warmhearted.” I look down to find her beaming as bright as the stone she named herself for. She doesn’t realize I’ve just made her a national symbol. Poor child. I’ll have to make it up to her. “Red is one of my most trusted companions. She is also half Invierno.”
“A mule!” says the adviser. “Surely you don’t propose that one of our esteemed titled persons produce a mule. Of all the insulting—”
“You have Invierno blood inside you,” I tell him. “We all do.”
I might as well have told everyone in the room that camels can fly, for the way they gape at me.
“It’s true, isn’t it, Storm?” I say.
“Of course. Your ancestors, the First Families as you call them, used their strange machines to mix some of our blood with yours so that they could survive better on this world. And they mixed some of yours with ours, to limit our power and make us easier to control. We believe they intended for our two races to meld and become one.”
“But something went wrong.”
He nods. “Records in our archive indicate there was a schism. One of the Families disagreed with the others. They sabotaged the machines and fled east with the remaining Inviernos. They taught us the ways of God. They saved us from the others. If your ancestors had completed their work, we would have been able to interbreed easily and produce fertile children. And all Joyans would be like you today—bearing a living Godstone.”
Which means some of us might be a little more Invierno than others. Like me, who can bear a living Godstone. Like Alodia, who—if she were a little taller, a little fairer—could be the sister of this foreign woman we are negotiating with.
This is why God could raise me up as a champion for the Inviernos. Because I am one.
“We have struggled along for millennia,” Storm adds. “Growing weaker and more desperate, because of what your people did to ours.”
“I don’t believe it,” says the adviser.
But Alodia does, and she grasps the extent of my plan before anyone else, because her eyes turn as feral and angry as a cornered cat’s. “Are you the sacrificial offering?” she says to Storm in the most scathing tone possible. “The princeling who must wed the enemy?”
Most people flinch away from my sister’s crushing condescension, but not Storm. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he says calmly. “And a most willing one.”
Cosmé is looking back and forth between them. She bursts out laughing. “You want him to marry Alodia!” she says to me. “She deserves it.” And at Alodia’s withering glare she adds, “Well, you do. You married her off to that spineless imbecile of a king and then didn’t bother aiding her when she had to work around him to save the world.” One of her advisers whispers in her ear, and Cosmé says, “I can say whatever I want about him. He’d dead.”
Alodia has the grace to look ashamed. “Is it true, Elisa? Is this your revenge?”
“No.” Now that I have Hector, I’ll never deny someone I care about the same opportunity at love. “You don’t have to. I won’t make you.”
She doesn’t bother to disguise her puzzlement, and it saddens me that she still doubts me so much, that her default assumption is always that I’m seeking to hurt her—as if we are still children together in the nursery. How long will it take to convince her otherwise? The Inviernos are in a similar position, I suppose. One horrendous act thousands of years ago, and they have assumed ill intent ever since.
Peace is such hard work. Harder than war. It takes way
more effort to forgive than to kill.
“It’s an opportunity, Alodia,” I say. “Storm will be a Deciregus someday. The equivalent of a king. Surely you want an alliance with such a man?”
“Impossible!” interjects the Invierno woman, and her oily black eyes shimmer. “He is outcast. Anathema. He—”
“His father reinstated him and consented to this union,” I say. “And Storm has been claimed by the zafira, which means he is probably more powerful than even you.”
Alodia is shaking her head. “How can you ask such a thing of me? It would consign the royal line of Orovalle to extinction.”
Not extinction. Hector’s and my grandchildren would be eligible for her throne. But now might not be the best time to say so. “You could appoint an heir,” I say. “You’d have time to prepare. To groom exactly the right person. I understand how difficult it will be for your people to accept, and no, I won’t require it of you. I ask only that you consider it. Think of it, Alodia. A God-ordained alliance with a prince of Invierne. No one in history has achieved so much.”
She blinks at me. She’s a smart woman. She knows how to make the hard decision.
She straightens, clasping her hands in her lap, and then she says, “In that case, Prince Storm, I invite you to visit my palace in Amalur as soon as it is convenient for you. We should . . . see if we can learn to bear each other’s company.”
“I accept,” he says, with a slight lowering of his head. Just enough deference, I note, to show respect without appearing cowed.
We adjourn for the day, agreeing to hammer out the finer details of our accord tomorrow. Cosmé offers to take the Deciregi on a tour of the palace and its grounds. They decline, because why would they want to do that? Cosmé takes a calming breath and patiently explains that it is a customary honor extended to visiting dignitaries. They exchange glances, shrug, and grudgingly agree. I smile after them as they depart, proud of my friend for trying.