The Crown of Embers

  “Now what?” I say. “If the portcullis is barred, the stables are surely closed off as well.”

  “The kitchens?” a guard suggests.

  “Or the receiving hall,” says another.

  Hector shakes his head. “The garrison is trained to lock down all entrances during drills.”

  Any member of the Royal Guard would be allowed admittance without question. There is a reason he’s not sending someone to the palace to fetch a larger escort and a windowless carriage. “You think it’s no accident,” I say, “that someone ordered the palace locked down before I was safely inside. You think the crowd may not be the greater danger.”

  His gaze on me is solemn. “I’ll take no chances with you.”

  “The escape tunnel!” I say. “Leading from the king’s suite to the merchants’ alley. Alejandro said only a few know of it.” I swallow against the memory of long days spent in my husband’s suite as he lay dying. I paid close attention to his every word, storing them up in my heart so I could someday pass them along to his son, Rosario.

  Hector rubs at his jaw. “It’s in disrepair. I haven’t been inside since Alejandro and I were boys.”

  It will have to do. “Let’s go,” I order.

  We leave the shadow of the brick alley and step into sunshine. From habit, the guards fall into perfect formation.

  “No, no.” I motion vaguely. “Relax. Don’t look so . . . guardlike.”

  They drop formation at once, glancing at one another shamefaced. Hector drapes an arm around my shoulder as if we are out for a companionable stroll. He leans down and says, “So. Horrible heat we’ve had lately.”

  I can’t help grinning, even as I note the tenseness of his shoulders, the way his eyes roam the street and his free hand wraps around the hilt of his sword. I say, “I’d prefer to discuss the latest fashion craze of jeweled stoles.”

  He laughs. “No, you wouldn’t.”

  We reach the merchants’ alley without incident. It’s eerily silent, the booths vacant, the cobblestone street empty of rumbling carts. It’s a national holiday. This place should be filled with shoppers, acrobats, and beggars, with coconut scones and sticky date pops and meat pies.

  The news must have whipped through the city with the destructive force of a sandstorm. The Inviernos are back! And they threatened the queen!

  All this emptiness makes us nothing if not noticeable. My neck prickles as I glance at the surrounding buildings, expecting furtive heads to appear in windowsills. But I see no one.

  Quietly I say, “Alejandro said the entrance was through a blacksmith’s home.”

  “Yes. Just around the corner . . . there.” He indicates a large awning outside a two-story adobe building. The bellows beneath it is cold, and the traces dangle empty chains.

  Hector’s hand on my shoulder tightens as he peers under the awning. “Ho, blacksmith!” he calls.

  The door creaks open. A bald man with a sooty leather apron and forearms like corded tree trunks steps over the threshold. His eyes widen.

  “Goodman Rialto!” the blacksmith exclaims, and his cheer is a little too forced. “Your cauldron is ready. A beauty, I must say. Had some extra bronze sheeting lying around, which will reduce your total cost. Please come in!”

  I look up at Hector for confirmation, and he nods, almost imperceptibly. We follow the blacksmith inside.

  Every space of wall is used to display his work—swords, grates, animal traps, spoons, candlesticks, gauntlets. The scent of the place is biting, like copper gone sour. A low cooking fire crackles in a clay hearth. Only a blacksmith could stand to have a fire going on a day as hot as this. After we filter in, he closes the door behind us and drops the latch.

  “This way, Your Majesty,” he says, all trace of brightness evaporated. “Quickly.” He pulls up the corner of a thick rug and reveals a trapdoor. With a grunt, he heaves on the brass ring. The trapdoor swings open to show rickety wooden stairs descending into darkness.

  “We’ll need light,” I say.

  He grabs a candle and a brass holder from a nearby table, reaches toward the hearth to light the wick, and hands it to me. “Be wary,” he says. “The tunnel is reinforced with wooden beams. They’re very old and very dry.”

  “I’ll go first,” Hector says, and the stair creaks under his weight.

  I start to follow but hesitate. “Ximena, take the rest of the guards and return to the palace through the main entrance. They’ll let you in. People should be seen leaving here, just in case they saw us coming.”

  She frowns. “My place is by your side.”

  “I’m safe with Hector.” Before she can protest, I turn and address the blacksmith. “Your name, sir?”

  “Mandrano,” he says proudly. “Formerly of His Majesty King Nicolao’s Royal Guard, now retired.”

  I clasp his shoulder; it’s as hard and round as a boulder. “Thank you, Mandrano. You have done your queen a great service today.”

  He bows low. I don’t wait for him to rise, and I don’t bother to see that Ximena and the guards have followed my orders. I step down quickly after Hector, holding my candle low to light my way.

  His fingers reach out of the gloom, offering support, and I grab them. Just as my feet reach dry earth, the trapdoor bangs closed, making the darkness complete but for our puddle of candlelight.

  I move close enough for the candle to illuminate us both. The flame casts strange shadows on his skin—blurring the scar on his cheek, softening his eyes, and rounding his features—and I am reminded how very young he is.

  “Hector, who besides you and me has the authority to lock down—”

  “Conde Eduardo, General Luz-Manuel, and the mayordomo.” He rattles off the list so quickly that I realize he’s been rehearsing it in his mind.

  “You think someone intended to lock us out?”

  Ximena would offer a kind inanity about it being an unfortunate misunderstanding. But Hector has nothing of dissembling in him. “Even after you’re safely returned, we must tread strategically,” he says.

  I pass him the candle, nodding agreement. He leads the way, and I follow close enough that I can grab his sword belt if necessary. The tunnel is so tight that my shoulders brush the wood beams propping up the ceiling. I fight the urge to sneeze against the dust we kick up.

  Something scuttles over my foot, glowing Godstone blue, and I squeal.

  Hector whirls, but then he says, “Just a cave scorpion. They glow when frightened. Nearly harmless.”

  Nearly harmless is not harmless, and I open my mouth to point out as much, but I decide I’d rather be brave in front of him. “It startled me,” I say calmly. “Please, continue.”

  He turns back around, but not before I catch the amused quirk of his lips. “Be glad it wasn’t a Death Stalker,” he says, pushing aside a thick cobweb.

  “Oh?”

  “They’re much larger scorpions. Very poisonous. They live in the scrub desert around Basajuan. I’m surprised you didn’t encounter them when you were leading the rebellion.”

  “I wish I had encountered Death Stalkers. They would have been marvelous weapons.”

  “What?” He stops short, and I nearly collide with him.

  “One of the village boys kept vipers. I ordered him to toss them into an Invierno camp. He didn’t stick around to see if anyone died, but he did report a lot of screaming. Scorpions would have been even better.”

  He is silent for so long that I’m worried I’ve offended him somehow. “Hector?”

  “You always surprise me.” And he moves off into the darkness.

  We reach a crooked stair. The bottom step has collapsed with rot.

  “This winds through the walls of the palace,” Hector whispers. “We must go quietly.”

  He waits until I nod, then ventures upward. The wood-reinforced earthen walls cede to stone and mortar as the steps bend and creak with our weight. I notice signs of life—footsteps, muted voices, wash water running through pipes to the sewer below.
br />   The stair dead-ends. Hector holds up the candle, exposing a wall too smooth for stone. He runs a finger across it, which leaves a rivulet of darkness in the dust-gray surface. Something clicks. The door slides soundlessly aside, revealing a slightly brighter gloom.

  “The wardrobe,” he whispers, stepping inside. “Stay here while I check the room.”

  Light floods our passageway as he pushes the double doors open, but then he closes them again, leaving me alone in the dull murk. My heart twists to sense the empty space around me. My husband’s clothes used to hang here. I wonder what became of them all?

  I wait the space of several heartbeats, listening hard for the sounds of a scuffle, wishing Hector had at least left me the candle.

  Then he opens the doors, and I blink against the onslaught of brightness. “All clear,” he says. I take his offered hand and step into the king’s suite.

  My late husband’s bedchamber is huge and decadent, with marble floors and polished mahogany furniture. Tapestries the height of two men hang from gilded crown molding. An enormous bed looms in the room’s center like a squat tower, its red silk canopy rising to a point.

  I could live here if I wanted—it’s my right, as monarch. But I hate this room. It feels garish and ridiculous. And because I’ve only ever been here to hold the hand of a wasted man and ease his passing, it also feels like death.

  Just ahead is a smaller door that leads to my own chambers—and home. “I checked. No one there but Mara,” Hector says when he sees me eyeing it with longing. “You’re safe for now.”

  For now. We must tread strategically, he said in the tunnel. I clench my hands into fists, preparing for something, though I’m not sure what. “Let’s go then.”

  We have returned ahead of Ximena and the guards. I pace in the bedchamber while Hector stands at the entrance, arms crossed, chin set.

  “I have to do something,” I say. “I can’t just wait here.”

  Mara, my lady-in-waiting, beckons me toward the sun-drenched atrium. “But we need to change your gown,” she says hurriedly. “It’s covered in dust. And I should repowder your face and smooth your hair and . . . and . . .”

  The soft desperation in her voice makes me study her carefully. She’s as tall and slender as a palm—seventeen years old, like me. She won’t look me in the eye as she adds, “And I just had the atrium pool cleaned! Wouldn’t you like a bath?”

  “Later. I have to figure out . . .” My protest dies when I see her trembling lip. I stride toward her and wrap her in a hug.

  She draws in a surprised breath, then wraps her arms around me, squeezing tight.

  “I’m fine, Mara,” I say into her hair. “Truly.”

  “The animagus could have killed you,” she whispers.

  “But he didn’t.”

  She’s the first to pull away. When she straightens, her lips are pressed into a resolved line.

  “Hector,” I say.

  He uncrosses his arms and stands at attention, but he regards me warily.

  “I can’t leave all those people out there. They’ll work themselves into a terrified mob.”

  He frowns. “You want to open the gates.”

  “They should know that their queen will protect them, no matter what.”

  “To reverse the order of a Quorum lord, you must give the command in person.” He puts up a hand to keep me from rushing out the door. “But you need a proper escort. We should wait until Lady Ximena and the other guards return.”

  “People are mobbing the gate now.”

  He considers a moment, then nods reluctantly.

  To Mara, I say, “Will you check on Prince Rosario?” Treading strategically means protecting my heir.

  She reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Of course. Please be careful.” She doesn’t let go until I squeeze back.

  Hector and I hurry into the hallway and immediately stop short. Soldiers pour from an adjoining corridor and run off ahead of us, a cacophony of clanking armor and creaking leather. They wear the plain cloaks of palace garrison—General Luz-Manuel’s men. “Hector? What—”

  “I have no idea.” But he draws his sword.

  Another group approaches from behind, and we step aside to let them pass. They move with such haste that they fail to notice their queen staring at them as they go by.

  The soldier bringing up the rear is a little younger, a little shorter than the others. I grab him by the collar and yank him backward. He whips his sword around to defend himself, but Hector blocks him neatly. My ears ring from the clash of steel on steel, but I manage not to flinch.

  The soldier’s face blanches when he recognizes me. “Your Majesty! I’m so sorry. I didn’t see . . .” He drops to his knee and bows his head. Hector does not lower his sword.

  “Where are you going?” I demand.

  “The main gate, Your Majesty.”

  “Why?”

  “We are under siege.”

  Hector and I exchange a startled glance. It must be the Inviernos. How did they sneak into the city unnoticed? How could so many—

  “The citizens of Brisadulce are rioting,” the soldier adds.

  Oh, God. “You mean we’re defending the palace against our own people? Tell me who gave the order to lock down the palace.”

  He folds in on himself a little. “It—it was Lord-Conde Eduardo.”

  “By sealed message or in person?” Hector asks, and it takes me a moment to understand: If it was a sealed message, the parchment might still exist.

  “His adviser, Franco, relayed the message.”

  Franco. I’ve made it a point to memorize the names and positions of every person in my court, but I don’t recognize this one.

  “I require your escort to the palace gate,” I tell him as Hector nods approval. “Quickly.” I gesture for him to lead the way, preferring Hector at my back, and lift my skirts to keep pace.

  The dusty yard teems with palace garrison—archers up along the palace wall, light infantry in a row, ten paces back from the gate. Spearmen stand at the portcullis, swatting at grappling hands with their spear points, barking warnings to the people on the other side. From the swelling noise, the crowd has at least tripled.

  “Thank you,” I tell the young soldier. “You may join your company.” He bows and flees.

  Hector points to the wall above the gate, to a space between crenellations. “It’s Conde Eduardo.”

  Sure enough, a figure stands tall, hands on hips, observing the crowd beyond.

  “Let’s go.”

  Hector bellows, “Make way for the queen!”

  Soldiers scurry out of the way as we rush forward and take the stairs to the top of the wall two at a time.

  The conde’s eyes widen slightly as I approach, but a blanket of composure drops across his features quickly. He’s an almost-handsome man with broad shoulders, sharp eyes, and a black close-cropped beard that cedes to gray along his temples. “You shouldn’t be here, Your Majesty,” he says. “It isn’t safe for you.”

  “Did you order the palace lockdown?” I ask, breathless from the quick climb.

  “No. The mayordomo did.”

  I peer into the conde’s face, trying to read any deception or nervousness there, but he is as preternaturally calm as always.

  “I want the gate opened,” I tell him.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good—”

  “They’re our people. Not our enemies.”

  “They’re panicked. Panicked people do horrible things.”

  “Like dropping the gate against those we’re supposed to protect?”

  His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath. He leans forward, eyes narrowed, and I resist the urge to flinch away. Do not back down, Elisa. Below, the mob has quieted. They have no doubt spotted me. They’re waiting to see what I’ll do.

  Finally the conde straightens. “As Your Majesty wishes,” he says.

  I lift my chin to address the command toward the crowd. “The citizens of Brisadulce are m
ost welcome. Raise the gate!”

  The cry echoes throughout the yard. Gears shriek as the portcullis grinds upward. The garrison soldiers make way as the people of my city rush into the yard. But the initial panic blows itself out quickly, and after a moment, everyone filters through with orderly haste. My shoulders sag with relief. Until this moment, I was only mostly sure of my decision.

  If the conde has a reaction to the quieting crowd, he does not show it, “There is much to discuss regarding today’s events,” he says.

  “Indeed,” I agree with equal calm. “I’m calling an emergency meeting of the Quorum.”

  He bows from the waist, then turns on his heel and strides away along the wall.

  I watch him go, wondering about the flicker on his face when he first saw me, at his hesitation to follow my orders. Then I turn my back on him and the crowd gathering in the courtyard to look out over my city. I need to feel wide-open space, cleaner air.

  I sense Hector beside me. He leans his elbows onto the wall so that our shoulders almost touch, and he says, “This is your first major crisis as sole monarch. You are weathering it well.”

  “Thank you.” But I clutch the wall’s edge with misgiving. I gaze out across the flat rooftops of Brisadulce. They hug the downslope like massive adobe stairs, lush with garden plants and trellises. Beyond them, the ocean horizon stretches and curves, as though someone has thumb-smeared the bottom of the sky with indigo paint. “Hector, you know how when clouds roll across the sky, everyone turns an eye toward the docks to see if the water will leap over them and flood the streets? To see if the coming storm is actually a hurricane?”

  “Yes.”

  “I fear that’s what this is. Merely the heralding surge.”

  Chapter 3

  I hate Quorum meetings.

  Calling one is the right thing to do; we must deal with this incident decisively. But the lord-general and the lord-conde have been in power for decades. I’m the upstart—a seventeen-year-old queen reigning by royal decree rather than inheritance. On a good day, they talk over me as if I’m not there. On a bad one, I feel like a pesky sand chigger in danger of a swift swatting.

  I’m the last to arrive. My entourage of ladies and guards stops at the threshold, for only Quorum members are allowed inside. Mara forces an encouraging smile as I swing the huge double doors shut and slide the bolt home to lock us in.