The Crown of Embers (21 page)

“So it
would
be sufficient distraction. They would abandon us for a while to chase after you.”

He opens his mouth, closes it. I see the exact instant he recognizes that I’ve trapped him on purpose.

“This Franco. He must be very capable for you to be so frightened of him.”

Fury rolls off him in waves. He says, “Your Majesty, he is a trained assassin.”

I gasp. An Invierne assassin in my own palace all this time. In the employ of a Quorum lord. I never even suspected. What if he’s the one responsible for the attempts on my life? If so, he will surely try again.

I say to Storm, “I suppose you ought to stay hidden in the carriage. Like a frightened rabbit.”

He scowls.

“Don’t worry,” I add. “I’m sure I can find someone to keep you company.”

“I’d rather be alone.”

I turn my lips into what I hope is a decent approximation of his own smug grin. “I know.”

“You would do well to hide, too,” he says. “Franco is cunning and skilled. He is to murder what an animagus is to magic.”

“Oh.” I let my face fall into my hands, not caring that Storm will see and be amused. “Hector, we have to tell everyone about this.”

He reaches over and gives my knee a squeeze. “Yes,” he murmurs, and I close my eyes to savor the sensation.

When we break for the noon meal, I tell everyone else what I learned from Storm. No one is more surprised and terrified than decoy Elisa, who clings to Ximena’s arm with a white-knuckled grip. Her veil blurs her eyes and nose, and I’m relieved that I can’t see the fear sparking there, even more relieved that we cannot make eye contact. Because I’m terrified for her, too.

“I can take care of him,” Belén says. “Tonight. I’ll slip into his camp and put a dagger to his throat.”

“Storm said Franco is specially trained,” I remind him. “He might be your match.”

“I can take care of him,” Belén repeats.

I know what Belén can do. Cosmé once told me the story of how she watched from a ridge as he snuck into an Invierno scout camp, slit the throats of three of their warriors, and disappeared like fog. Should I send an assassin to kill an assassin? I know so little about Invierne. Is this Franco an anomaly of their world? Or does he come from a long tradition of elite selection and training, like my own Royal Guard? I must ask Storm about it before deciding.

Tristán says, “I’d like to change my vote.”

“Vote? What do you mean?” I ask.

“I think our company should split up,” he says. “At the next port, you and a few others should go off in search of the
zafira
without the rest of us. We’ll try to draw the assassin away. It’s an opportunity you shouldn’t pass up. They’ll eventually figure out what happened, but you could buy yourself days, even weeks, of safety.”

I nod, considering.

Ximena says, “I agree. It was one thing to be followed by the servants of a pouting Quorum lord. An assassin is another thing entirely.” She looks down pityingly at the creature clinging to her.

“Hector, when is the soonest we could split off?” I ask.

“If we can make Puerto Verde, a few days south of here, I might be able to commission a ship. I know a captain who’s scheduled to be in port soon with a batch of early-harvest wine.”

Probably wine from his home in Ventierra. “Someone you trust, then?” I ask.

He nods. “With my life and honor.”

“Then we continue on to Puerto Verde and split off there. We’ll keep a close eye on Franco and his group until then and adapt as necessary.” I look around at everyone. “Unless I hear convincing counsel otherwise?”

No one has anything to add.

“Then let’s get moving.”

As Hector and I climb back into the carriage, I glance northward, along the shimmering highway. It’s strangely devoid of travelers, except for the small group following us. They are barely more than motes on the horizon. So there is no reason, I tell myself, no reason at all, to feel as if the assassin’s gaze is boring holes into my back.

Chapter 19

A
FTER
an evening meal of dried tilapia and dates, I sit cross-legged just inside the threshold of my tent while Ximena unpins my hair to let it down into a more comfortable sleeping braid. While she works, Hector comes over and flips out his bedroll in front of my door. He sets his pack beside it, shoving it down into the sand so that it doesn’t tip over. I watch him carefully, fascinated by the way he moves. Every motion is so strong and sure.

When he pulls off his overshirt, my heart speeds up. His bare shoulders flex as he reaches beneath one arm to unlace his breastplate, and I swallow hard against the sudden moisture in my mouth as he lifts his breastplate over his head and sets it on top of his pack. His back is broad and taut with muscle, his waist trim. His sun-darkened skin shimmers faintly, and even though our camp is dimly lit, I see his scars, several of them. Most are tiny white lines, but one is larger and jagged, running diagonally across his lower back. I have an overwhelming urge to trace its length.

Instead I place my fingertips to my own mark, just left of the Godstone. Both of us, scarred. I wonder how he got his? I want to know about it more than anything. I want him to share that part of himself with me. I want—

Ximena’s fingers grip my chin. She forces my gaze to hers and regards me sternly for a long moment. “It is a hard thing to be queen, my sky,” she says.

I blink up at her. She’s warning me. She wants him for Alodia, after all. And she’s right. It would be a smart match.

But the very thought hollows out my chest, leaving me empty and aching.

Not trusting my voice, I just nod. She kisses my forehead, then goes off to attend her fake queen.

Ignoring Hector, I crawl into my tent and lie down on my bedroll with my head at the door. I lie there a long time, listening to him breathe.

Minutes later, or maybe an hour, I raise my head and whisper, “Hector?”

“Yes?” he whispers back.

His face is so near. Just the space of a breath away. I swallow hard. “My sister. Alodia. She has . . .” Oh, God, it’s so hard to say, but I can’t bear to pretend away such a huge thing. I inhale through my nose and try again. “My sister has made inquiries about you. In regards to a potential marriage agreement.”

A long pause. Then, “Well, that would explain why she opened correspondence with me.”

“Oh!” Pain, sharp and hard, squeezes my chest. Alodia already made her move then, before writing to me.

“She’s like you, you know,” he says. “Intelligent. Beautiful. But . . .”

“And will you . . . that is, are you considering . . .” I can’t finish. I’m not sure I want to know.

He looses a shuddering breath. Then he says, “I will do whatever my queen commands.”

Of course he will.

Something overtakes me, desperation maybe, and before I know it I’m slipping my hand past the tent flap. My fingers find his wrist. It shifts, and suddenly my hand is wrapped in one of Hector’s much larger ones. Something about his gentle strength brings tears to my eyes.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him I love him. Instead I say, waveringly, “I told Alodia that you are the best man I know.”

He gives my hand a squeeze. “Thank you,” he whispers.

I fall asleep like that, my fingers woven with Hector’s. Belén does not visit me. Or if he does, he chooses not to intrude.

Two days later, the desert cedes to rolling coastal hills. The sand still stretches east as far as the eye can see, but the hills along the coast mark the beginning of the southern holdings, the most temperate part of my kingdom. As we climb, the land beside the road turns from sand to hard dirt that is dotted with dry grass and the occasional scrub tree.

A day after that, we reach Puerto Verde. We crest a hill and there it is, laid out before us, a deep crescent bay the color of turquoise, carved into cliffs that protect the port from heavy surf. Cargo ships dot the water; I stop counting at twenty. There are even more small boats; dinghies and fishing vessels predominate, with a handful of flat pleasure barges.

A medium-size city hugs the cliffs, spills into the water on stilted buildings and docks. It seems that docks are everywhere, sending crooked fingers well into the bay. It’s such a boisterous place, and from this distance, it takes a few moments for me to make sense of the bustle. Traders haggle and yell. Sailors load and unload ships. Clerks catalog piles of items. Everyone is busy, fast moving, loud. It’s so different from the easy rhythm of Brisadulce.

My people,
I think. I rule this city as surely as any other, and yet this will be my first time setting foot in it.

The road zags down the cliffs, and we hug the walls tight as we travel. I’ve never been afraid of heights, but I still can’t bring myself to peer out the carriage window and over the edge to the bay far below. I gaze out the opposite window instead, and I catch glimpses of wooden platforms jutting out over our heads, of elaborate pulleys and winches used to haul cargo up the cliff face.

By the time we reach the bottom, word has gone out that the queen’s carriage approaches, and the city goes still with reverent silence. We made no secret of our journey. Wasn’t that the whole point of this excursion? To be openly courted by Conde Tristán? To explore a remote part of my kingdom in search of the
zafira
without raising unwanted questions? But my teeth clench and my neck and shoulders ache with strain. Everyone stares as we pass.

We reach an inn called the Sailor’s Knot. A small crowd gathers on the porch to greet us—the inn staff, no doubt. I see smiles and nervous shifting and a few flags hastily embroidered with my royal crest. Our official itinerary declares a two-day recess here.

But our official itinerary, like my decoy queen, is meant to throw off potential ambushes. I’m glad. The place looks creaky, with a porch made of poorly joined driftwood and sandstone walls that drip random stains. As we pass by, though, I twinge with self-reproach, for the faces in the crowd deflate, then gaze after us with confusion and disappointment.

A block farther, we turn a corner and arrive at our actual destination, the King’s Inn. Conde Tristán chose it specifically because its high third-story provides a good view of the surrounding buildings, and because its location one block from the main street makes the entrances less visible.

Our caravan noses into an alley that leads to a wide, dark stable. Hector and I jump from the carriage—Storm will stay inside until nightfall—and my guard moves quickly to establish a perimeter at our rear while Tristán’s men unhitch the horses and begin unloading. When decoy Elisa steps from the queen’s carriage, a cry of greeting goes up, from the few stubborn souls have followed us here. “Queen Elisa!” a voice calls. “Your Majesty!” yells another. Someone jostles my guard for a better view, but my men hold firm.

Decoy Elisa doesn’t react, except to clutch her veil close to her throat. Led by Belén and Alentín, my ladies hustle her through the stables and into the back entrance of the inn.

I sling my pack over my shoulder, then grab a trunk from the queen’s carriage, just like a real maid. I follow my decoy into the inn, feeling darkly wrong about leaving my people outside, ignored and unacknowledged. “I’ll make it up to you,” I whisper. Someday, I’ll come back when I can be
me
.

The innkeeper, a gnarled man with a bald patch and a nervous smile, falls all over himself to accommodate us, arranging for hot baths and meals in our rooms. Decoy Elisa smiles vaguely at him and manages a few thank yous. When he finally leaves, she lies down for a nap, and I have my first bath in days.

“I do love baths,” I say with a luxuriant sigh.

Mara laughs. “I know. Though truly, Elisa, you hardly need pampering out here. You seem perfectly happy to tramp about the desert in your nomad clothes, sweaty and dusty and sun darkened.”

My smile dies on my face before fully formed. “I would be, if I weren’t terrified for my life and the lives of those around me.”

She doesn’t say anything to that, just grabs my hand and squeezes.

Ximena approaches armed with a brush and several hairpins, but I put up a hand to ward her off. “Can we leave my hair down, please? Just for tonight? It’s been tightly plaited the last few days, and my head
aches
from it.”

She frowns and puts the hairpins and brush away with obvious reluctance. I stare at my nurse while Mara towels my hair dry and finger brushes it. Ximena has always been unperturbedly calm and stoic—I suppose she and Hector have that in common. But lately she seems downright surly.

Awhile later, my hair has dried in waves down to my waist, and I am dressed in a clean linen tunic belted over soft leather pants when the rest of our group files quietly into my suite. Two guards will remain outside to watch the door, but everyone else squeezes inside and finds a spot on the rugs or the beds to sit.

Hector is the last to arrive, and when he sees me, he freezes, then moves quickly to an empty space at the foot of decoy Elisa’s bed, where he plunks down and stretches out his long legs.

Mara leans over and whispers in my ear, “I know you’re charmingly naive when it comes to matters of the heart, but you just stopped him in his tracks.”

I bring my knees to my chest, reach down to finger the hem of my pants. I whisper back, “I was about to tell myself I had imagined it.”

She rolls her eyes at me.

Tristán moves to the center of the room to address everyone. “We’re scheduled to be in town for two days,” he says. “I’ll meet officially with Puerto Verde’s mayor tomorrow. The dowager queen, Rosario’s grandmother, is also in residence here, on an estate in the hills, but reportedly in failing health and unable to offer us hospitality. I’ll make an attempt to see her, for appearances’ sake. Her Majesty Queen Elisa has unfortunately taken ill from a bad batch of oysters and will be unable to make any appointments.”

Everyone titters with amusement.

“But we need to be prepared for contingencies, which means lengthening our stay, or even cutting it short. I expect everyone to be alert at all times for changes in plan. Understood?”

I find myself nodding along with everyone else. Tristán has such a nice presence about him. Commanding, intelligent, worthy of my trust.

“Hector?” Tristán cedes the floor to the commander of my guard and sits down beside Iladro, who gazes at him with unabashed admiration. Now that I know they’re lovers, it’s so painfully obvious to me that I wonder how I didn’t notice before.

Hector stands, saying, “I’ve confirmed that a ship is scheduled to dock here this week. It could be tomorrow or a week from now, depending on weather. The ship is well known to me, and I trust its captain and crew to protect the queen with their lives. So I suggest we wait for it before splitting off. Alternately, we could hire a different ship, or even a caravan.”

As one, everyone turns to me for the ultimate decision. I say, “Belén, can you scout again tonight? I’d like to know if our new friends have followed us into the city and whether they take lodgings nearby.”

“I can,” he says.

“Then we will wait for Hector’s ship, unless Franco makes a move.”

“Or if he disappears entirely,” Hector adds.

I nod. “If he is able to slip Belén’s careful eye, I will consider that making a move.”

“My offer to kill him stands,” Belén says. “Just say the word.”

“Thank you,” I say, and it gives me a strange, twisty feeling to know I’m grateful for someone’s willingness to kill for me. “But focusing Conde Eduaro’s efforts in the wrong direction is too good an opportunity to pass up.”

Tristán says, “Majesty, have you decided who goes with you when we split off?”

I take a deep breath. I have been dreading this moment. “Tristán, you and Iladro will of course continue with the caravan.”

He bows his head. “Of course.”

I need people who are used to rough travel, people I trust with my life. “There will be five of us, the holy number of perfection,” I say. “Mara, you will come with me. And Belén. I confess I’m not sure what to do about you, Father Alentín. I’d like to have a priest with me as we track down the
zafira
. Your knowledge, your ability to sense the Godstone, could be crucial. But as Cosmé’s ambassador, your absence would be noted.”

The priest nods wearily, rubbing at his stumped shoulder as if aching with phantom pain. “I want to help you find the
zafira
more than anything,” he says. “But I’m an old man now. And Her Majesty Queen Cosmé will be disappointed if I do not travel in state with false you and your soon-to-be betrothed. My ultimate loyalty must be to Basajuan now, you see.”

I manage a sad smile. This is it, then, for us. Truly, he will never again be
my
priest. “Then I insist you go with the caravan,” I tell him.

“I will pray for you every day,” he says softly.

I swallow the lump in my throat. “Thank you.”

“What about Storm?” Ximena asks.

“His knowledge may be useful. And he’ll behave, so long as he’s on the track of the
zafira
. He comes with me.”

Ximena’s eyes narrow. “He is nothing if not noticeable.”

I nod. “I’ll order him to cut and dye his hair tonight. That should help him pass cursory glances, at least.” It will also give him something harmless to focus his fury on. I smile just thinking about it.