by Rae Carson
“We trapped you,” she spits. “You were captive in the bearer’s pit.”
“Yes. I was.”
When no explanation is forthcoming, she says, “There will be no audience. Kill us now. Without a power source, we’re dead anyway.”
I shrug. “Eventually. You’ll sicken and die over many generations. But it’s not necessary. You see, I can take you to the gate that leads to life.”
Her eyes widen. “All you Joyans—”
“Are filthy liars, yes, yes.” I wave a hand dismissively. “Please, put aside a few thousand years of mindless hatred toward me and my people and think for just a moment. How else did I acquire so much power? Why does the zafira come to me so easily? Why am I the only bearer in your history to escape from your pit?”
She hesitates.
“You saw the Eyes of God explode, did you not? You know what I’m capable of.”
She reaches up to clutch the amulet hanging from her neck. “You’ve been there,” she accuses. “You’ve tasted the zafira directly. There is no other explanation for such power.”
“And I’m willing to show it to you.”
Her eyes narrow. “Why? Why would you do this?”
“Because I am your champion.”
Her eyes flicker, and someone behind her gasps. I hand her the parchment, hoping I haven’t smeared it. “I am a bearer and a quee—”
“Empress,” Hector whispers in my ear.
Oh, God. I start over. “I am a bearer and . . . an empress. Twice chosen by God.” I hate that I’m parroting the zealous words Ximena once spoke to me, but Inviernos respect egregious demonstrations of arrogance. “As you can see from that document, three nations are now united under my rule—against you. Your armies cannot withstand the combined might of the Joyan Empire. And your magic cannot stand against mine. So I suggest you reconsider your willingness to hold audience.”
She cocks her head at me, like a cat eyeing potential prey. “I must consult with the other Deciregi.”
“Please.” I wave her off, and she turns to the others. They huddle like hens, whispering to one another.
Hector bends his head and whispers, “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“But that barrier . . . and your father . . .”
“I said I’m fine,” I snap. Sympathy is the last thing I need right now, and I don’t dare look at his face. If I read the understanding there, the love, I’m likely to fall apart. But I reach back for his hand and give it a squeeze. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Thank you.”
The Deciregus turns back around. The others take up formation behind her, only six of them now, and one badly injured. A breeze kicks up, whipping their cloaks around their legs and flinging ash into our faces. “We agree to hold audience,” she says, and anger practically drips from her voice. “But I assume this means placing us under house arrest while we have discussions? In that case, only two will stay. We cannot risk losing more of us. The others will return to Invierne.”
“Agreed.” I was going to suggest it anyway. Two will be much easier for us to keep an eye on.
Without another word, one of the Deciregi steps forward. He is short for an Invierno, not even Hector’s height, and his snow-white hair is tied back in a single braid that reaches almost to his knees. The others peel off and begin walking away. There are no farewells, not even a glance backward.
“Come,” I say. “I’ll introduce you to the queens of Basajuan and Orovalle.”
We sit at the table in the audience hall. Everyone is straight-backed in their chairs, eyes hard and angry, voices sharp. No one wants the Inviernos within the palace walls, but I personally vouch for their good behavior. Alodia demands that the sorcerers be placed in the prison tower under heavy guard, but I refuse. Cosmé demands reparations for the destruction wrought by Inviernos to Basajuan and its surrounding villages. “Years of destruction,” she says. “Centuries.” But I refuse her too.
For my plan to work, enemies must treat one another as neighbors. And it has to start somewhere.
Beneath the table, Hector sneaks his hand over and grasps mine. I twine my fingers with his.
Our discussion is not going anywhere today. We are too fresh from battle, too exhausted, too frightened. We need time to cool off. To rest. And dear God, I need time to bathe.
I release Hector’s hand and rise to my feet. “Let’s convene an official parliament tomorrow,” I say. “Cosmé, would you mind offering us hospitality for the night?”
“We prepared a whole wing for you when we got your letter, thinking you’d come in state.” Her smile is too bright for the circumstances. “There’s so much room, we’ll just send the Inviernos along with you.”
“Of course.”
“And guards. Lot of guards. For your own protection in these trying times.”
I sigh.
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34
THERE are enough rooms for us each to have our own, and at my request, the mayordomo orders baths for everyone. Red is delighted to have a room and bath service of her own, just like a real lady, she says.
The mayordomo ushers us down the hallway. We peel off one by one—first the Inviernos, then Belén, then Red.
Mara sidles up to me. “Are you sure you don’t need me tonight?” she whispers.
“Go with Belén,” I whisper back.
Her answering grin is shy but wide. She wraps me in a quick hug. “See you in the morning,” she says, and then she dashes back down the hall.
“Here we are, Your Majesty,” says the mayordomo, indicating a door. “There are fresh linens and hot bathwater inside. Pull the blue cord by the bed if you need anything.” He opens the door to a small but lovely suite decorated in ivory and royal blue. “Her Majesty said to put the Lord-Commander in the room next to yours, that you might require his counsel as you prepare for tomorrow’s parliament. A door adjoins your suites.”
“Oh,” I manage, glancing up at Hector’s suddenly rigid face. “Thank you.” Cosmé misses nothing.
I turn to say good-night to Hector, but as we stare at each other, speech leaves me. Everything that comes to mind seems so formal, so cold, when all I want to do is wrap my arms around his neck and hold him close, tell him how much I appreciate his steady presence, his enduring encouragement, his sure-burning intelligence. Maybe I should just invite him inside, but with everything that has happened today, I’m not sure it’s the right time.
The mayordomo clears his throat. We’ve stood here too long. Hector’s gaze on me is open and patient, as though he’s waiting for something. I don’t know what else to do, so I stretch up on my tiptoes and give him a light kiss on the cheek. “Good night, Hector,” I say, and I step inside my room.
The door doesn’t slam shut behind me, but I feel like it does, the bang too loud and too echoing, leaving me too alone. I should think about tomorrow’s parliament and prepare my arguments. I should go over everything I observed today and build my strategy around it.
But all I can do is stare helplessly at the other door to my right, the one that joins Hector’s suite to mine, thinking about the slight prick of stubble against my lips when I kissed him, the scents of oiled armor and aloe that always tickle my nose whenever he is near.
“When we reach Basajuan,” he said, “maybe I can get you to myself for a while.”
I should knock on the door. This is it. As good a time as any. We might not have another opportunity to be alone for weeks. I raise my fist.
I let my hand drop. Maybe he needs some time to himself. He’s probably as exhausted as I am. Maybe he wants to bathe. Or sleep.
Maybe he’s changed his mind.
I’ve just endured another battle. I killed again. I saw friends and family today I haven’t seen in more than a year. I learned that my father has died. It’s ridiculous that all I can think abo
ut is whether or not Hector wants me as much as I want him.
I whirl away from the door, recognizing my own foolishness, my own weakness.
The scent of jasmine draws me toward the tiled bathing area. It’s much smaller than my bathing atrium at home, and the tub is a round wooden creature with iron joints that are worn from so many rustings and polishings. But it brims with steaming water and floating rose petals. Two plush towels lie folded beside it, and hanging on a peg nearby is a lovely white dressing gown trimmed in lace.
I will bathe first, I decide, and then I will screw up my courage to knock on the door.
I shuck my boots, pants, and blouse, and step inside. The water is glorious—fragrant and soothing hot. I sink neck deep and scrub days of travel from my skin, from under my fingernails, from my calloused feet. I admire the shape of my legs. Days on the trail have rounded my calves, brought tautness to my thighs. I’ll never be elegant and willowy like Cosmé or Alodia, but I’m healthy and strong. I’m glad for what I’ve become.
I lather my hair and scrub my scalp, then duck underwater to remove the excess soap. Water sluices off me as I get to my feet. I douse myself with the rinse bucket, then towel down. The cotton weave of my dressing gown is so fine that it feels lovely against my skin. Like silk. Like a lover’s touch. Or so I imagine.
I sit on the edge of the bed and start working a comb through my hair. My hair is always horribly tangled after a bath. The trick is to get it combed out before it dries enough for the waves to set in, which make combing even more difficult.
Even after my hair is tangle free, I continue combing. Finally I fold my dirty clothes into a neat pile so I can either have them laundered or stashed in my pack in a hurry.
I look around for something else to do. Then I plunk back onto the bed, my face falling into my hands. I’m wasting time with my barely acknowledged hope that Hector will be the one to knock.
Yes, our love is a mutual thing, a thing between equals, but we can’t escape the fact that I am his queen. It is up to me whether or not we see each other this night. I must decide.
I walk to the door. I take a deep breath. I knock.
It swings open so fast I recoil a few steps.
Hector’s hair is damp and curling from a recent bath. He wears a fresh pair of pants and a white gentleman’s blouse, untucked. His feet are bare.
Neither of us moves.
“Good evening,” I say, then curse myself for stupidity.
But he answers in kind. “Good evening.” He runs a hand through his hair and says, “I wasn’t sure . . . that is, I thought with the battle today, and learning about your father, and—”
I blurt, “Are you going to come inside or not?”
His face breaks into a wide grin, and he steps inside, shuts the door behind him, and pulls me into his arms.
We fit together so beautifully, and without my bodice, without his armor, I can feel him at last, and I am dizzy with it.
“I’m a little nervous,” he admits.
“Me too,” I whisper. “We’ll probably be awkward and ridiculous.”
He reaches for the ties of my nightgown, and I marvel how the slightest touch of his fingertips on my neck can make me shiver so. “Probably. But you and I”—he brushes the collar of the gown aside—“are students of knowledge. We believe in careful practice to attain perfection.”
“Yes, practice,” I breathe as he leans down to kiss the collarbone he just bared. “I am a very good student,” I manage.
He slips my dressing gown off the other shoulder. It drops to the ground, and I am naked before him.
“I never peeked, you know,” he says. “I always turned my back.”
“I know.”
But he’s looking now, and looking thoroughly, as I tell my worries and my nervousness to go bury themselves in a snowdrift. His gaze roves the entire length of my body, and it’s almost a palpable thing, this caressing with the eyes. I grab his hands and back toward the bed, my skin flushed everywhere, with desire, with fear, maybe a little shame at being so exposed. But the urge to cover myself drains away when he says breathlessly, “You are even more beautiful than I imagined.”
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.
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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 tiny 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 and pulls me into his arms. “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.”