The Crown of Embers

Silence weighs like a heavy blanket over the dining room.

Finally Alentín says in a tight voice, “Strange that I have not heard of this legend.”

The conde shrugs. “I barely knew of it growing up. But Iladro reminded me.” He indicates the overdressed herald beside him. “Right, Iladro?”

The herald reddens at our sudden scrutiny. The plume of his hat wobbles as he nods. “Yes, Your Grace,” he says in an understated tone that belies his announcing voice. “The legend remains popular in the remote island villages.” He grabs a scone from the tray and shoves it into his mouth, possibly to discourage the conde from calling on him to speak further.

“Apocryphal,” Ximena mutters to herself.

“An old manuscript or two alludes to it,” the conde says. “But that’s how we know there’s no truth to the legend, right? None of the inspired holy scriptures mentions it once.”

“Indeed,” Ximena says, but I hear the doubt—or possibly wonder—in her voice.

“What is ‘apocryphal’?” Lady Jada asks.

Hector says, “The Apocrypha is a group of documents that were put forward as being inspired by God, but were proved by scholars and priests to be merely legends. Nothing divine about them after all.”

I look at him in surprise and delight. I had no idea he knew about such things.

He regards me sidelong, his eyes dancing. “But interesting as pseudohistorical documents,” he says to Lady Jada. “They say much about the attitudes and customs of the time during which they were written.”

“What about you, Lady Jada?” I say, still smiling. “As wife of the mayor, can you tell me about any spectacular dishes—or legends—from Brisadulce your queen should know of?”

Lady Jada throws her shoulders back and opens her mouth to launch into what I am certain will be a treatise of profound triviality. “Your Majesty should instruct the kitchen master to prepare—”

She freezes at the sound of retching.

“Iladro?” says Conde Tristán.

The herald bends over the table, his body convulsing. He looks up, his eyes oozing tears. His delicate face is a blotchy purple.

Ximena launches across the table, a blur of ruffled skirts. She grabs his fork with one hand, forces open his jaw with the other.

Hector yanks me to my feet. With his free hand, he whisks a dagger from his vambrace. “Elisa, spit out any food in your mouth. Now.”

Poison. My skin goes clammy cold. “I . . . there’s nothing.”

Ximena shoves the handle of the fork down Iladro’s throat, saying, “Let yourself vomit, my lord. It may save your life.”

And he does, in great geysers of half-digested, red-tinged pollo pibil and pastry lumps, all over the table before me. Acid singes my nostrils.

“The scone!” Belén says. “He was the only person who had one.”

The kitchen master bursts into the room, yelling, “Stop! Spit out your food! The taster just—” He sees the mess on the table, and his face drains of blood. “Too late.”

“Lady Jada,” I order. “Find Doctor Enzo at once.” She launches to her feet and runs from the dining room.

“Will he—?” the conde asks in a wavery voice, stroking his herald’s arm. “Oh, Iladro, what did you—”

Hector’s arm wraps across my shoulders, pulling my back against his torso as he backs us away from the table. He still holds a dagger in his free hand, though I’ve no idea what he thinks he can do with it.

“Water!” Ximena yells to no one in particular, and a glass appears before her. She tips it down the herald’s throat. He chokes, and water spews from his mouth, but she yells something at him and he starts to gulp it down like his life depends on it, which it might. And then she makes him throw up again.

“Let’s go, Elisa,” Hector says, and he starts to drag me from the dining room.

But I resist. “No.”

“It’s not safe! We need to—”

I whirl on him. “Your sword will not protect me from poison.” To the rest, I say, “Ximena, stay with Iladro until Doctor Enzo comes. Everyone else, with me now.” I stride through the door to the kitchen, and everyone tumbles after me.

The kitchen is chaos. People rush everywhere to dump food and clean bowls and utensils. I catch the acrid scents of vomit and of burning bread. On the stone floor beside the chopping table lies a man I’ve never seen before. He is clearly dead. His eyes bulge, frozen in terror and pain. Blood-tinged vomit leaks from the corner of his mouth and puddles beside him. A girl in a maid’s frock stares at him from behind the roasting spit. Tears stream down her face. Belén and the guards move to block the entrances.

“Silence!” I yell. Quiet settles, even as eyes widen with dread. “Everyone against the wall, there.” I gesture, but they do not move fast enough. “Now!”

They scramble all over one another in their hurry to comply, but manage to line up neatly.

I pace in front of them. “Who prepared the scones?” I ask.

Silence. Then a timid voice says, “I did, Your Majesty. Felipe and I.”

I turn on the source of that voice. It’s the crying maid. “Did you poison them?”

“Oh, no, Your Majesty, I would never—”

“Where is Felipe?”

“I don’t know.” She can’t bring herself to meet my gaze, and her maid’s cap has skewed forward. It bothers me that I can’t see her expression to read it.

So I reach forward and tip up her chin with my fingers. “When did you last see him?”

She swallows hard and blinks wet eyes. “I’m not sure. Maybe . . . just before we served? He said he needed wine to . . . to soak the pears. But . . . oh, God.”

“Oh, God, what?”

“Pears weren’t on the menu. I didn’t think . . . at the time . . . I was so busy. How could I know?” Her gaze is terrified and shaky but guileless. I find myself believing her.

Without breaking her gaze, I say, “Belén, please check the wine cellar.”

“At once, Your Majesty.”

I step back, clenching my hands into fists. This cannot go unpunished. What will happen when the city learns that poison entered my private dining room? They will see me as weak, unable to govern my own staff, much less a country. And they will be right.

I need a show of strength. Of wrath. Something memorable.

I pace, worrying my thumbnail with my teeth. I could dismiss them all, throw them out of the palace. That would certainly be memorable. But there can be no doubt that most of them—maybe all—are innocent. If had proof, I would not hesitate to have the poisoner beheaded.

I freeze in my tracks. Is this why General Luz-Manuel had Martín executed? Merely as a show of strength? Because it was politically prudent to cast the blame somewhere?

Belén appears in the stone archway leading to the cellar. “He is here,” he says, and I know from his grave expression that the news is not good.

“No one is to leave this kitchen,” I say, and receive a flurry of “Yes, Your Majesty”s in response. “Hector, Tristán, with me.”

Together we enter the cellar stair. It’s steep and cool and smells of wet wood and pitch. Alongside the stair is a smooth slope for rolling barrels.

Belén is at the bottom, standing over the body of another dead man. A boy, really. He lies on his side, his arm crooked beneath his torso in an unnatural position. Vomit soaks his shirt and puddles at the base of a wine barrel.

He clutches a scrap of leather.

Hector bends to pry it from his stiffening fingers. He spreads it open and says, “A note.”

“Read it.”

“‘Death to tyrants.’” Hector looks up. “That’s all it says.”

“Oh, God.”

With a cry of anguish, Tristán rushes forward and sends a hard kick into the boy’s flank. The body lurches; a dead arm flops hard against the ground, and something inside it cracks.

“Tristán, control yourself,” I say.

The conde whirls to face me, and for the first time, I notice the wet brownish stain on his linen blouse. “But . . . Iladro, my herald . . . he might . . . he could be . . .”

“I know. My own personal physician is attending him. We’ll do all we can.”

His shoulders shake with rage, but he nods. “Yes, Your Majesty. Thank you.”

“I’m not convinced,” Belén says in his quiet voice.

“What do you mean?”

“Did this Felipe know how to read and write? If so, is this his handwriting?”

“Belén is right,” Hector says, and the two share a look of accord. “It’s too convenient to find him with this note clutched in his hand.”

I put my thumb and forefinger to the bridge of my nose. The note is not proof—not really. But maybe I have to pretend it is.

I say, “Hector, will you learn everything you can about this boy? Maybe his family knows something.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Thank you. I need a demonstration. A show of strength. Tristán, what counsel would you offer me?”

His eyes narrow with the understanding that I’m testing him. “I suggest you have the kitchen staff flogged for negligence,” he says evenly. “I know it’s harsh, but it will do no lasting harm. You must send a clear message that you are not weak, and that you can retaliate quickly and effectively.”

I breathe deeply to steady myself. Yes, a flogging. It will be awful, but better than executions or dismissals. “Thank you, Your Grace. Why don’t you attend to your man now?”

He bows quickly and flees.

Hector studies me. “Can you?” he says gently. “I’ll give the order for you, if you like.”

I smother the instant feeling of relief. “No. I should order it myself. It’s a sign of strength, right?” Before I can change my mind, I hurry up the stairs, Hector and Belén following after.

My kitchen staff are still lined up against the wall, under the watch of my guards. Alentín sits on the edge of the hearth, praying. Lady Jada has returned from fetching Doctor Enzo. Her eyes are wide with excitement, no doubt anxious to relate these events to everyone she knows. I find I can’t bear to look at her.

I address the staff. “Felipe is dead, by his own hand. I believe he was the poisoner. I don’t know if any of you conspired with him. However, I do know that you were negligent in allowing the food to be served too soon after being tasted.”

I wait a few beats for it to sink in. Hopefully, they will fear the worst, and my punishment will seem mild by comparison.

“And so, tomorrow morning, you will be brought to the palace green.” Someone chokes out a sob. “There you will each be flogged, in sight of the entire court.” I see flashes of terror, but a few exhale relief.

I clench my hands into fists so no one can see how badly they shake. I have just ordered that innocent people be hurt, for my own political advantage. What kind of person does that? Someone like General Luz-Manuel, I guess.

A guard clears his throat. “Your Majesty, how many lashes are you ordering?”

Oh, God, lashes. I don’t know anything about that. I need to hurt, not harm. How many is too many? Too few, and the punishment lacks weight.

Hector jumps in. “I suggest ten each, Your Majesty,” he says.

I could hug him. “Yes, of course. Ten each.” I’ll have to watch it happen. Display myself at the flogging. The space between my eyes stings with threatening tears.

I must leave this room before I lose control. I take another deep breath and lift my chin to address a guard. “Hold them in the prison tower until the flogging tomorrow. Everyone else is free to go.” And with that I stride from the kitchen and into the hallway.

Hector hurries to catch up. “Please allow me to accompany you,” he says.

“Of course,” I say wearily. “I just had to get away.”

“You did well.”

I don’t feel like I did well at all.

He says, “I’ll send Doctor Enzo to you when he has a prognosis on the conde’s man.”

“Thank you.”

Moments later, we arrive at the door to my suite. He looks down at me, not bothering to hide his concern. “Will you be all right?”

“I hate myself right now,” I admit.

He reaches out as if to touch me, hesitates, lets his arm drop. He says, “I know. But I don’t. Hate you, that is.” And then he’s gone.

Chapter 11

I pace back and forth in my suite, awaiting word from Doctor Enzo. I pray as I pace, begging God to spare Iladro’s life. The Godstone suffuses me with warmth, but I know from long experience that the warmth is only an acknowledgment of my prayers, not an answer.

Mara paces right along with me, wringing her hands. “This would not have happened if I hadn’t injured myself,” she mutters. “If I had been the one cooking—”

Ximena has been calmly watching us. But now she grabs Mara’s shoulder and stops her midstride. “Injury aside, it isn’t right that the queen’s lady-in-waiting cooks for eight people. For the queen, occasionally. But you will not cook for state dinners. You’re a lady now, Mara. A noblewoman.”

I stare at my nurse. Why Ximena feels compelled to argue such a point at a time like this is beyond me.

Mara peers around her to give me a stricken look. “You could have died. The kitchen master’s taster is dead.”

“Yes,” I whisper. I hate this. My taster in Orovalle died too, when I was just a princess. Hundreds of my Malficio—my desert rebels—died because of the hope I gave them. Then Humberto. King Alejandro. The guard Martín. Will my continued existence carve a bloody path through the lives around me? Will my life’s greatest legacy be a wake of bodies?