The Crown of Embers (29 page)

My lips part. My whole body buzzes.

“I told you I wouldn’t let it interfere with my work. But every time you smile at me, and especially when you look at me the way you’re looking at me right now, everything disappears.” His thumb sweeps across my bottom lip, down my chin. His voice is low and dark as he says, “When it happens, I’m not guarding you anymore. Your enemy could come up behind me, and I would never know, because all I’m thinking about is how badly I want you.”

My heart sings. I stare at his mouth. It’s beautiful, with full pale lips set off by his sun-darkened skin. I would only have to lean the tiniest bit to close the distance between us.

He starts to back away.

In desperation, I blurt, “Mara says I should take you as my lover.”

His indrawn breath is as sharp and hard as if I’ve wounded him. My face fills with heat, and I can’t bear to look at his face. I’m embarrassed at my own weakness, unable to say such an important thing straight out.
I want you as my lover,
I should have said. But I can’t bring the words to my lips, because if he says no, he’ll be saying no to me, instead of merely to Mara’s idea.

But he’ll have none of that. “Elisa. Are you asking?”

Panic and hope war inside me. It’s up to me, as it has always been. I can ask him or not. Asking him is terrifying. But not asking would be so much worse.

“Yes, I’m asking. Hector, I—”

With a swift motion, he cups the back of my head and presses his warm lips to mine. The pit of my stomach drops away as I open my mouth to his.

He groans, wrapping his other arm around my waist, pulling me toward him until I am almost in his lap. I arch against him; my breath comes fast as he explores my mouth. Before, his kisses were patient and sweet. But there is nothing of sweetness in him now, just heat and desperate need.

He tangles his fingers in my hair and yanks my head back, breaking our kiss. I let out a little “Oh!” of disappointment, but then he’s sliding his mouth along my jaw, to the pulse at my throat. “Elisa,” he murmurs. “I’ve wanted to do this for a long, long time.”

His words send me spiraling with dizzy gladness. I clutch at his hair—it’s even softer than I imagined—and press my lips to the top of his head. I close my eyes, wanting to memorize this perfect moment, and I breathe deeply of leather oil and fresh-washed jungle and something a little sharper, something distinctly Hector.

His lips brush my collarbone and then dip lower, toward my breasts. I slide my hands to the hem of his shirt and start to pull, desperate for more, more skin, more
him
.

He freezes. Then he pushes me away.

“Hector?” I gasp out, suddenly aching and bereft.

He closes his eyes tight, takes a deep breath. Opens them. They are huge and warm and . . . wet? as he whispers, “Elisa . . . I . . .”

Why did he stop? Did I do something wrong?

He tries again. “I can’t. I won’t.” He slides back, putting cold hard space between us.

I pull my knees to my chest, curl into a tight ball. This is what I’ve feared, why it was so hard to ask. I find myself shaking my head against whatever comes next.

“I need to explain,” he says.

I find a tatter of pride and say, “No, you don’t owe me an—”

“I said I need to explain.”

I rest my chin on my knee to steady myself. “All right.”

He says, “You have every possible power over me.”

“What?”

“You have the power of a dear friend, you have all the power that a beautiful woman has over a man who loves her, and most importantly, you are my sovereign. You have the power to command me in everything.”

Something about his choice of words makes me angry. “You have plenty of power over me too,” I say.

But it’s like a dam of control has burst, and he hardly hears me for needing to get out all the thoughts that have been spinning in his head.

“Have I told you about my parents?” he asks. “They’re best friends. Partners in everything.” His eyes grow distant as he talks, and his mouth curves into a sad smile. “I’ve watched them my whole life, the way they are with each other. So easy and natural. They finish each other’s sentences. They can exchange a look across the dining table and instantly know what the other is thinking.”

The gaze he turns on me is fierce, like he’s desperate for me to understand. “Neither is subject to the other; they’re more like two halves of a whole. And that intertwining of lives, of
being
, it’s amazing to see. Being lovers . . . it feels like it would be such a big thing, yes?”

God, yes.

“But it’s only the littlest bit of who they are together. And theirs is the only kind of love I could have with you. Anything else makes me
less
.” He takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “I won’t become a helpless marionette or a temporary diversion for my queen.”

Pain blooms beneath my breastbone, because I’m starting to understand.

He grabs my hands. I lower my knees and let him draw me toward him until our foreheads touch. “I understand how careful you have to be with your alliances right now. So when we get back from this, you’ll marry someone else. I will too. Maybe your sister. We might be able to arrange a tryst on occasion, and God, part of me thinks I should do anything,
anything,
if it means having you once in a while. But it wouldn’t be enough.” His thumbs caress my knuckles. “Don’t you see, Elisa? I love you the way a drowning man loves air. And it would destroy me to have you just a little.”

I choke on a sob, and tears leak from my eyes. It’s the cruelest of cruelties, for him to love me so deeply but refuse to have me.

He lifts his fingers toward my face and gently, so gently, wipes a tear from my cheek. He says, “I’m glad to know, though, that you think of me that way. I’ll always remember that.”

Grief threatens to strangle me. I have to push it away before I dissolve into a puddle of despair.

I blurt, “I just started taking lady’s shroud. Isn’t that silly of me?” I mean to sound cavalier, like I’m ready to laugh at myself and move on. But my face flames as soon as the words are in the air.

He grasps my hands and rises, pulling me to my feet. “You’ve been thinking about this a lot,” he says, a touch of wonder in his voice.

I nod, swallowing against further tears. “At least as much as you have.”

“Oh, I doubt that very much.” And suddenly he’s kissing me again, a deeper, longer kiss, and it’s a good thing our arms are wrapped around each other, because I don’t think I could stand on my own.

I want the moment to last forever, but of course it can’t. This time, when he pushes me away, I’m ready for it. I slide my arms from his shoulders, let them fall to my sides.

He takes a step back. We regard each other solemnly.

He says, “I won’t kiss you again.”

My vision wavers and the world tilts beneath my feet.
I won’t kiss you again.
Humberto said that to me once. It proved prophetic, for he died not long after.

Hector is turning his back, walking away from me. How can he, when my head still swims with his words and my skin still hums with his touch? When my heart feels as jagged as Godstone shards?

Something wells up inside me. Desperation, maybe, that I have loved and lost yet again. Or terror; people have a tendency to die after kissing me.

But no, neither of those. It’s rage.

I clench my hands into fists and yell, “Hector!”

He whips around.

“You were never,
never,
going to be just a diversion to me.”

He sighs, nodding. “That was unfair of me,” he says. “I’m sorr—”

“And you
will
kiss me again. That and
more
. Count on it.”

His mouth slams closed, and his eyes flare like a starving man’s.

I whirl and stride away.

Chapter 27

M
ORNING
brings a light shower, but the skies clear quickly, and our tents steam with the scent of wet goat hair in the rising sun. Hector scurries easily up a nearby palm, using both feet and hands for leverage. He twists off several coconuts, which he drops to the ground. Mara bores holes in them and spices them with cinnamon and honey, and we sit around our too-damp fire pits and drink coconut milk for breakfast.

A group of sailors laden with axes sets off for a grove of acacia trees to cut timber for repairs, while Hector and Belén organize others to explore the island. Hector is shoving a water skin inside his pack when he says to me, “Stay within sight of someone at all times. Don’t go anywhere alone. If you sense danger, have someone row you out to the ship. I’ll be back by nightfall.”

I nod up at him helplessly, knowing I’m going to do the exact opposite of all those things, wishing I could kiss him one last time, or at least tell him how I feel. He deserves to know.

“Hector, I . . .” I’m not sure what stills my tongue. Guilt, maybe. “Be safe,” I finish lamely.

“You too.” His gaze drops to my lips. And then he hurries away, slinging his pack over his shoulder.

I sense Storm’s impossibly tall form at my back. He whispers, “Take me with you.”

I whirl on him, glaring.

“Please.” For once, his face is devoid of mockery or smugness. “I can sense it too, you know. Not like you can, I’m sure. But it’s close. We could find it by nightfall.”

“What makes you think I’m—”

“You love your people too much, little queen,” he says. “You won’t risk them. This is your only opportunity to slip away. He always watches you, you know. Like he’s a man dying of thirst in the desert and you’re his wavering mirage that stays just out of reach.”

“Storm!” I hate hearing it from him. He makes it sound so cheap and ridiculous.

“It must be hard for you. To do what you’re planning, knowing he may never forgive you when he finds out.”

I’m torn between the desire to strangle him and gratitude that there is at least one person I needn’t deceive. “Haven’t you ever loved someone, Storm? Besides yourself, I mean.”

His head lowers with something that might be regret. “Yes. Oh, yes.”

Something about his tone makes me soften toward him. “Then maybe you do know how hard this will be.”

“Does this mean you’ll take me with you?”

“Hector doesn’t trust you.”

“But you do.”

I sigh. It’s true, mostly. And if he can sense the
zafira,
nothing would stop him from sneaking away without me. “Yes, you can come.” At least this way, if one of us slips and breaks an ankle, the other can go get help. “No packs,” I tell him. “Gather as much food as you can carry in your pockets. I’ll meet you upstream in a bit. Try not to let anyone see you.”

I have as much right to walk through our campsite as anyone, but it feels as though every eye is on me as I return to my tent. From my pack, I grab my water skin, which I hook through the loop in my utility belt; pouches of dried jerky and dates, which go into the pocket of my pants; and my knife, which I shove down into my boot. I grab my crown too. It’s made of Godstones, after all. Maybe it will prove useful. No place to hide it, though. Reluctantly I put it back into my pack.

I feel bulgy and obvious as I make my way to the stream.

Mara sits on the edge atop a rocky outcropping. She holds a smooth gray stone in one hand and is grinding away at a thick brown root. Something spicy-sweet pricks at my nose. She looks up at me and says, “Ginger! A whole patch of it across the stream. I’m going to dry it out and take some home with us.”

“It will be a wonderful addition to your satchel,” I say.

Something about my tone sobers her. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” I’m quick to say. “But I haven’t spent much time praying lately, so I’m going upstream a ways for privacy. I’ll keep the camp in sight.”

“I’ll come find you when lunch is ready.”

“No! I mean, I might be longer than that. I have a lot on my mind.” Truly, I am the worst liar in all of Joya d’Arena.

But she just shrugs. “In that case, I’ll save some for you.”

“Thank you.” I wish I could lean down and hug her, but I dare not arouse suspicion by making a big deal out of what should be a very small good-bye. As I turn my back, I hear the
scrape-scrape
of her grinding stone.

I’m barely out of sight of the camp when Storm melts from the trees to join me. Wordlessly we clamber upstream, and we navigate the jungle trash with agonizing slowness because of our need for stealth. Eventually we pass the pool where Mara and I bathed, and the terrain grows rocky and steep until we are scrambling over moss-covered boulders, using palm trees for leverage that have found stubborn rootholds in deep crevices and patches of mud.

The
zafira
calls to me; I feel it as surely as a lasso around the waist, pulling tighter and more agonizingly with every step. I pray as I walk, and soothing warmth spreads through my abdomen to take the edge off the pain.

The stream dead-ends at a small lake shadowed at the base of one of the mountains. A waterfall rushes down the side of the mountain and crashes into the lake, a faint rainbow shimmering in its white spray. I look up, up, up—but the source of the waterfall is hidden in the clouds.

I stare at the cliffs ahead of us, dismayed, for there is nowhere to go. Yet the
zafira
continues to tug at me.

“Another test,” Storm says.

“I’ve climbed cliffs before, but those are impossible. Too slick and steep. Too high.”

“Don’t be stupid,” he says.

I open my mouth to insult him right back, but hesitate. He’s right. I need to think differently.

I take a deep breath and focus hard on the tug. It leads straight across the lake to the cliffs. The base is blurred by mist. Just maybe, a ledge lurks behind the water fog. Or boulders. Something we can use to get a better look.

“We need to go around the lake,” I say. “Get to the other side.”

“Yes,” he says, his eyes distant. “I think so too.” Surrounded by jungle foliage, his eyes are greener than ever, like the sun shining through emeralds. I shudder as I turn to lead the way.

The boulders edging the lake are black and porous and sharp, and as I use my hands to climb, the soft pads of my fingers are scraped raw. Movement catches my eye. I peer into the crystal water—it’s deep and shadowy, but something swims down there, something large.

I lean closer. It darts away and disappears beneath an underwater overhang. I stare at the spot it vacated, puzzled, as the silt it churned up diffuses to the bottom. The creature was larger than a tuna, but I could have sworn I saw stubby legs and a long, whipping tail. Maybe I imagined it.

“Something wrong?” Storm asks.

“This is a very strange place,” I say as I continue on. But I keep a close eye on the water’s edge.

Mist from the waterfall settles in my hair, on my clothes, on my skin. As we approach, the mist turns to spray, then stinging needles of water, and the air is so drenched that I can’t see but a few hand spans in front of me. The waterfall booms around us, whipping up a fierce wind. I’m careful to place my hands and feet just so on the slippery rocks, testing each step, each handhold, before taking another.

And finally we can go no farther. We stand on a slight lip between the cliff and the lake, the waterfall before us. There are not enough handholds. No way to climb. Storm yells something, but his voice is whisked away by the merciless water.

Think, Elisa.

I gaze at the cliff face, blinking through water. It’s black with wetness, save for a few mossy outcroppings. Stubborn ferns curl out of rocky grooves, straining for sunshine. Vines, choking in parasitic night bloomers, drip down the side and swish back and forth in the water-churned wind, brushing the surface of the lake.

The vines. I peer closer. A darkness lies behind them—something darker than wet rock. I push the vines aside.

It’s a cave, or maybe a tunnel, curving behind the waterfall into utter blackness. The tugging at my Godstone leaves no doubt that we must go inside.

I curse myself for not bringing my tinderbox, but then I realize that in this wetness, nothing would catch fire anyway. We’ll have to feel our way along in the dark and trust my stone to guide us. It’s a test, after all. It’s supposed to be difficult.

But no, we
do
have a source of light. I grab a handful of vines and yank hard until they pull free. I wrap them several times around my forearm. Storm understands instantly and does the same. Then we step into the cave.

The noise of the waterfall becomes echoing and hollow and so, so much louder. A few more steps take us behind a wall of white water. Soft daylight barely penetrates, giving the fall a crystal sheen, and I’m suddenly thinking of Hector, wishing he was here to see something so beautiful.

I clench my jaw and turn away from the waterfall, into the tunnel. The light grows dimmer as we walk. The tunnel is just high enough for me to stand upright, which means Storm has to stoop. Gradually, though, the night bloomers wrapped around my arms unfurl and begin to glow, faintly at first but with increasing determination, until we can see several paces in every direction.

The tunnel is obviously unnatural. The walls are too perfect, too polished, the floor too even. It slopes slightly upward, and rivulets of water trickle past us to empty into the lake.

Our path curves to the left. We round the corner, and the light from our vines catches on a bit of unevenness in the wall. My heart hammers with a sense of familiarity.

Lichen grows over the unevenness, fanning out in rings of yellow and brown. I reach up with my fingers and scrape it away to reveal script carved into the wall. The Lengua Classica. An ancient style of writing.
The gate that leads to life is narrow and small so that few find it.

“It’s the same,” I say to Storm, and my voice echoes. “The same as the tunnel leading to your cavern in the Wallows.”

“Yes,” he says. “That holy passage has long been associated with the
zafira
. I used to climb up to the tunnel and look at it. I would sit there for hours, hoping God would reveal something to me.”

I look at him sharply. He just admitted that he climbed up into the tunnel.

He returns my gaze, his eyes wide with wonder, and I notice, unaccountably, how the roots of his falsely dark hair shimmer gold in the soft light. “Yes, I know the tunnel leads up to the catacombs,” he says. “But no, I’m not the one who tried to kill you that day. Truly, I am Your Majesty’s loyal subject.”

“Do you know who did?”

“No.”

“But you’ve been pursuing the
zafira
for a long time. Even in your exile, you thought about it.”

“Yes.”

Something clicks into place. “Is this your redemption, Storm? Do you hope that by finding the
zafira,
you can be reconciled to your people? Hailed as a hero? Your death sentence commuted?”

He turns away. “I don’t know,” he whispers. “Maybe.”

“And would you betray me for the same purpose? If you handed over the only living Godstone, would you receive a hero’s welcome?”

He shoves me aside and continues down the tunnel. But I understand him a little now, and I’ve observed he avoids answering to keep from telling a lie.

Chilled—and maybe a little relieved to finally know for sure—I hurry after him.

Our path grows steep, steep, steeper. The smooth floor gives way to perfectly sculpted steps and sudden switchbacks. My thighs burn, my heart pounds, and my breath comes fast as we climb ever upward. It’s drier now, and creatures scuttle away at irregular intervals as we approach. I imagine crabs. Or cave scorpions. Or maybe rats with nails long enough to scrape the stone. Whatever they are, they disappear before the arc of our fading light can reach them.

It seems that hours pass, or days. I find myself stepping in time to my heartbeat, which is huge in my chest and throat. My lungs burn, and the tug on my Godstone has become a fire in my belly. Surely we are near the top of the spire by now. Surely we are at the top of the world.

We round another switchback to find the vaguest hint of light. As one, we hurry forward, desperate to lose these walls. The light strengthens. One more corner, and light explodes full in our faces. I blink and raise my forearm against it.

The night bloomers snap closed. Gradually my eyes adjust, and I lower my arm.

We look out over a high mountain valley, green and gently rolling, hemmed in by summits that catch the clouds. They are the same mountains I saw from the ship, I’m sure of it. But now I view them from the other side, and from so much higher up.

Exactly five narrow peaks jut into the sky—the holy number of perfection. One is a little shorter and squatter than the others, like a thumb, and with a start I realize that from a certain angle, I could almost imagine I’m staring at God’s righteous right hand, and the streams cutting through the valley are the creases of his cupped palm.

It’s a huger, greener version of Lutián’s Hand of God sculpture in Brisadulce.