The Crown of Embers

  But they don’t. As we leave the bay and aim south along the shore, the sky brightens to dark indigo, still fading to deepest black along the watery horizon. Shadowy but glorious estates dot the rolling hills and cliffs above us, with vined trellises and marble statues and sandstone terraces. Soon we pass beyond even these. The waters are calm, and not a single ship goes by. We are alone, and very small.

  Hector’s breathing grows labored. As the sun peeks over the hills, its light catches on the sweat of his brow and shoulders. He closes his eyes, hardens his jaw, and keeps rowing.

  Belén struggles too. Sweat runs from his hairline, mixes with dried blood and dirt, coating his face in a gruesome patina of red and black. There must have been a lot of blood. Cauldrons of it, for some to remain even after his dip under the sewer grate.

  I wonder when they last slept? Certainly not last night; Belén was tracking an Invierne spy, and Hector was making arrangements for an escape that came too soon.

  “Hector.” I lean forward and put a hand on his wrist.

  He looks up, startled, blinking sweat from his eyes.

  “Rest,” I say. “Both of you. We are alone and safe for now.”

  “We have to keep going,” he says. “Felix’s ship will—”

  “On my order, you will rest. I need you sharp. Mara and I will row for a bit. And if a ship comes into view, we’ll rouse you.”

  He lifts his shirt to wipe his eyes, and I can’t help notice his stomach, taut and tanned from the training yard. I swallow hard.

  Hector rests the oar on his lap and rolls his shoulders to loosen them. “Have you rowed before?”

  “No.”

  “Mara?”

  “Me neither,” she says.

  “I refuse to row,” Storm says.

  I say, “We’ll figure it out. Close your eyes so you don’t see how embarrassingly awkward we are at it.” I’m gratified to see his glimmer of a smile.

  “Trade places with me,” Hector says.

  We both stand, and the boat lurches. He grabs me to keep me steady, and we manage to squeeze past each other. I settle on the bench and grab the oar, saying, “There’s plenty of water in my pack. Help yourself. You should probably rinse the water skin first, though; it’s covered in sewage.”

  He does exactly that while Mara and Belén trade places; then, using my pack as a pillow, he slides under the bench and closes his eyes. Belén stretches out beside him. Mara takes up her oar, and after some useless splashing and a few hard knocks against the side of the boat, we slowly push south.

  As the sun rises, the surface of the water becomes so bright hot as to be blinding. How will we ever find a single ship out here? What if it takes us days? Will our drinking water last that long? Though surrounded by water, we are as alone and barren as if we traveled the deep desert.

  In no time, everything burns with effort; my back, my shoulders, my wrists. My palms and fingertips are rubbed raw. Every stroke makes me gasp for breath. Mara and I switch sides so we can abuse a different set of muscles, but even that mild reprieve does not last long.

  To keep my mind off the pain, I gaze at Hector. He sleeps soundly, his chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths. His features have softened, and the hair at his temples curls loosely as it dries. His mouth is slightly parted.

  My lips tingle to remember his kiss. It was desperate and tender and wholly unexpected—and as easy as breathing.

  Later, when we’ve found this mysterious ship of Hector’s and are safely away, when I have time to rest and worry and a quiet corner to hide in, I will coldly remember that being a queen means being strategic. And I will imagine sending off the man I love to marry my sister. I’ll rehearse it in my head, maybe. Get used to the feeling.

  But not now. Now, as I row toward an uncertain destination, his kiss still throbbing on my lips, I luxuriate in watching him sleep.

  Chapter 21

  STORM is the one who spots the ship. “There!” He points.

  I twist and shade my face to peer through the brightness. The coast curls southeast, hiding the bulk of the ship, but I can see a long bowsprit, a beak head painted red, and what might be a foresail, hanging limply in the windless morning. I’m caught between hope and alarm.

  Please, God, let it be the right ship.

  I lean forward to shake Hector. He startles awake, whipping his hand to his scabbard.

  “Watch your head,” I tell him, putting my hand between his forehead and the bench above. “There’s a ship, just south of us. I doubt they’ve seen us.”

  He blinks sleep from his eyes and frowns at the blisters on my hand.

  I pull my hand back. “Is it the right ship?”

  Still frowning, he slides out from under the bench to peer southward. He is quiet a long time. “I think so,” he says, and for some reason the raw hope on his face is hard to look at. “We’ll have to get a little closer to be sure.”

  I grab the floppy, wide-brimmed hat and toss it to Storm. “Put that on.”

  He shoves it onto his head and hunches over. I don’t blame him for being afraid; in the close quarters of a ship, anyone would recognize him for an Invierno, even with his falsely darkened hair.

  Hector and Belén take up the oars again, and we cut through the water with relative ease and speed. Mara and I exchange a scowl.

  Gradually the ship comes into view. It’s a gorgeous caravela with three masts and wickedly curved lines of burnished mahogany and bright red trim. Painted sacrament roses twist along the bow, and it seems as though their petals fall, become drops of blood, before disappearing into the sea.

  “That’s her,” Hector says. “The Aracely.”

  My heart thumps. I have a feeling I’m going to learn something very important about Hector. “Should we signal?” I ask.

  He throws back his head and laughs. As we all gape at him, he explains, “I had this system all worked out to signal them from afar. But with the sea so calm, all we have to do is row right alongside.”

  Storm mutters, “It’s about time something on this accursed journey proved easier than expected.”

  “The captain and the crew,” I say. “Are they to know who I am?”

  “The captain, yes,” Hector says. “We’ll speak to him first and then decide.”

  As we approach, Storm crouches lower and lower on the bench. My own misgivings swirl in my thoughts, but I’m also a little bit excited. I’ve studied about ships and seafaring, but I’ve never been on a ship before.

  Figures appear on deck as we close the distance. Two others hang fearlessly from the rigging; another watches us from the top castle above the main sail. I shudder to think of him so high up, tossed this way and that by wind and water.

  The curving bow looms over us when Hector waves his hands. “Ho, Aracely!” he calls.

  A bell rings across the water, letting the crew know they’ve been hailed, and they respond with a flurry of footsteps. More heads peek over the rails. They’re a ragged, weathered bunch, with long hair tied back, two-week beard growth, and suspicious eyes.

  “Ho, trawler!” The speaker’s voice races across the water. “We’re short on supplies and have little to trade. Best to be rowing back toward Puerto Verde.”

  “We wish to treat with Captain Felix,” Hector yells.

  Some of the heads disappear. The others exchange wary glances. A moment later, another man appears, more finely dressed than the rest in a clean linen blouse and thick black vest tight across his barrel chest. The whites of his eyes are uncannily bright next to his sun-dark skin. Beads are woven into his enormous beard; they catch the sunlight and return sparks of amethyst and aquamarine. His neck is thick and corded. He places huge hands on the rail above us; he’s missing the first two joints of his right pinky.

  He scowls deeply when he sees us. “I was afraid that would be you,” he growls in a voice black as night. He turns to the crew. “Winch them up onto the quarterdeck!”

  Hector is grinning like a little boy as he and
Belén maneuver us to the front of the ship. The crew lowers thick hemp ropes. Hector grabs one and dives neatly into the sea, which sets us to rocking wildly. A moment later, he comes up on the other side, rope in hand.

  They wrap the boat three times and tie off in a flurry of twisting knots. Hector gives the signal, and after a loud count and a “Heave!” we are sucked out of the water and left swinging in the air.

  When we are halfway up, Hector leaps from the boat to the netting hanging over the side and climbs up. Belén follows, and the lightened load allows us to be hauled up more quickly. When we are close enough to touch the gunwale, Hector is already there, looking down at me, his hand outstretched. His hand clasped in mine feels relaxed, which surprises me. With his help, I pull myself over the rail and land on the quarterdeck.

  As he reaches to help Mara and Storm, I look around. Most of the crew are busy hauling up the boat, their forearms veined and straining at the knotted ropes. But the others eye me with obvious interest. Some warily, some hungrily, as if I am a delicate cream puff with honey glaze. Instinct forces me to back away, but my rear hits the rail and I realize I’ve nowhere to go.

  “A lady!” one whispers loudly.

  “Two ladies,” says another as Mara clambers over the side.

  “I don’t see any ladies here,” the captain bellows. “And neither do you. Get back to work.”

  The crewmen on the ropes flip the boat onto the stern and tie it down through iron loops that I realize are for that exact purpose.

  The others stare unabashedly at Mara and me, even as they resume their tasks. I stare right back, trying to seem unafraid. At least they’re staring at us rather than Storm. Maybe they won’t notice his uncanny height or that his eyes shine like emeralds.

  The dark captain herds us with his vast arms. “This way. To my quarters now.” His urgent voice rumbles, like empty barrels rolled across cobblestone.

  We take the steep steps to the main deck at a near run, then twist under the quarterdeck and through double doors hung with real glass. He closes the doors behind us and swings the latch closed.

  The chamber is low ceilinged and made entirely of polished mahogany. Light pours in from portholes, two on each side. A large desk rife with paper and ink and small metal instruments I don’t begin to understand takes up most of one wall. Jutting out from the other is a huge bed covered in silk the shade of pomegranate fruit. A thick rug covers the floor, woven to show a cluster of purple grapes in a circle of green vines—the seal of Ventierra.

  The captain turns to us, and a huge smile lights his face. I gasp in recognition. I know that smile. I’ve seen another version of it many times.

  “Hector!” he says, opening his arms wide, and the commander of my Royal Guard rushes into the embrace and endures a fierce back thumping.

  The captain grabs Hector’s upper arms and pushes him back to study him while Hector grins like a little boy. “Look at you,” the captain mutters. “A Quorum lord.”

  I say, “You’re Hector’s brother.”

  His gaze whips to me, and his eyes narrow. He studies every part of me: my dirty face, my unraveling braid, my breasts, legs, and feet. Something sparks in his black eyes, as if he has learned something. My face grows hot, but I refuse to flinch.

  Softly he says, “And you are his young queen.” And he drops to one knee with more grace than a man his size ought to have. “Welcome aboard the Aracely, Your Majesty.”

  “Thank you. Please rise.”

  He stands and turns an accusing look toward Hector. “This is a very dangerous thing you ask me to do, little brother. Our hold is full and we sit low in the water. We should not be so near the coast. I trust you have a good reason?”

  Hector nods. “You may have heard that Her Majesty is on her way south to negotiate a betrothal with Selvarica?”

  “Yes, the whole country speaks of nothing else.”

  “It’s a fabrication.”

  Captain Felix raises his eyebrows.

  “We were heading south, it’s true,” Hector continues. “But we were followed by an Invierne spy, a trained assassin. Given the recent attempts on Her Majesty’s life, we thought it prudent to slip away.”

  I gape at Hector. He must trust his brother indeed to share all these details with him. Mara shifts uncomfortably in the space beside me.

  The captain steps out of Hector’s reach and crosses his arms. “You want me to take you south,” he says.

  “Yes.”

  “I can’t.” He turns to me. “I’m so sorry, Your Majesty, but I have a hold full of early harvest wine, the first decent harvest since the hurricane three years ago. I must get it to port so I can pay my men and bring home much-needed supplies.”

  At first, Hector’s face is cast in stone and unreadable. But I see the exact moment he resigns himself to his next course of action. He’s going to commandeer his own brother’s ship. He has the right, as a Quorum lord. But not even brotherly affection could survive something like that. And I can’t bear to see it happen. Not because of me.

  He opens his mouth to give the order, but I jump in. “Can you sell your cargo at Puerto Verde?”

  Hector slams his mouth closed and stares at me. I give my head what I hope is a near-imperceptible shake. Please don’t do it.

  “Yes,” the captain says. “But we’d only get half price. It’s the Orovalleños who pay top coin.”

  I smile with remembrance. “I don’t doubt it. Ventierra wine was a favorite in my father’s court. Do you mind if we sit down?”

  “Please,” he gestures with a flip of his hand. “Anywhere.”

  I plunk down on the nearest cushion and say, “It’s a long journey to Orovalle and back. You’ll overlap with hurricane season.”

  He grins with the understanding that we are about to haggle. “It’s one of the many reasons I love the life of a sailor,” he says. “Don’t you find, Your Majesty, that when you and death are bedmates, that is when you feel most alive?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  His eyes widen. He expected to put me off balance by referring to the attempts on my life.

  “I’m always in bed with death. Since the moment I left my father’s palace. I’ve nearly died more times than I can count. And I’m a bearer, which means I’m likely to die very young. So, you see”—I shrug with purposed nonchalance—“I wouldn’t know the difference.”

  His beard hides any turning of his lips, but his eyes crinkle with amusement. “What do you propose?”

  I have a hunch about him, about the person he is. What kind of man leaves the soft life of a conde’s son to embrace the open water? Sacrifices his youth to endless sun and wind, his fingers to the sea? Someone who loves open space and danger, I’d bet my Godstone crown. Someone who can’t wait to see what lies just over the horizon.

  “My honor compels me to warn you,” I say, “that our journey is dangerous and our destination uncertain.”

  Sure enough, one eyebrow raises high, and the expression is so familiar, so endearing, that it’s hard not to smile. “Oh?” he says.

  “I need a captain and crew I can trust absolutely. For it is a secret journey. Outside this room, only a small handful of people know its purpose.”

  He raises his chin and looks down at me through lidded eyes. “Seems to me that someone would pay top price for such a venture.”

  “Seems to me that the kind of discretion I need cannot be bought for any price. I hardly know where to start.”

  His eyes glow, and he’s practically salivating over what I’m about to offer. Good. “Let’s start with my lost cargo. I’ll need to be compensated for the difference in price.”

  I nod. “That’s fair.”

  “And I’ll need extra supplies.”

  “You’ll need the same supplies as if you were traveling to Orovalle,” I point out. “You’ll just be going in a different direction.”

  “I’ll need compensation for this danger you speak of, and to ensure crew loyalty.”


  “So the crew is loyal to coin but not to you?”

  “They’re loyal to me because I make good on my word to give them coin. Did you bring any to give me?”

  I hesitate.

  He glances at Hector, then throws up his hands in a show of frustration that may be a bit exaggerated.

  I’ve intrigued him, certainly, but here I am at a loss. I’d hoped to trade on royal credit. But I have no coin on hand, no horses or—

  “I have saffron,” Mara says. “Enough to line the pockets of your crew and then some.”

  I twist to face her, remembering how carefully she has preserved her satchel throughout our journey so far. “Mara, are you sure?”

  In answer, she pulls a small porcelain phial from her satchel and hands it to Felix for inspection. He feigns disinterest, but his eyes light up when he raises it to his nose.

  “I suggest you sell your cargo in Puerto Verde,” I say. “Get what you can for it. The saffron will more than make up for the rest.”

  But how do I compensate the captain for risking his ship and his crew? I purse my lips, thinking hard, while Captain Felix unstoppers the phial and examines the contents carefully.

  I get an idea. Though I don’t have money to bargain with, as queen I possess something much more valuable. I add, “And for the service of taking us where we need to go, fearlessly and loyally, I’ll write a letter to my kitchen master and stamp it with my own seal, declaring Ventierra the official Royal Vintner.”

  His mouth drops open before he can school his expression, and his breathless voice belies his nonchalant demeanor as he turns to Hector and says, “We’d have to pull out all our stores to meet demand. We’d have to sell the oldest barrels at premium prices to keep from running out. We’d have to replant the southern vineyard.”

  “Yes,” Hector says. “We would have to do all that.” But he’s staring at me, a little perplexed.

  “Do we have a bargain?” I ask. “Because if not, your men should lower our boat before we’re too far from shore.”

  The captain crouches down to take my hands in his huge ones. He pauses, noticing the burst blisters from my disastrous attempt at rowing. I’m determined not to wince. Instead, I squeeze his hand hard, and the expression on his face takes on a measure of respect.