The Crown of Embers

I wish Hector were here. I need his solid presence, his sure-burning intelligence. Then I chide myself for weakness. My personal comfort is not as important as finding answers, and Hector is best where he is.

The rotten-pepper scent of vomit precedes Doctor Enzo, and I look up even as the guards announce his arrival.

“The herald?” I demand. “How is he?”

“He’ll live.”

My breath leaves me in a whoosh of relief as I collapse onto the bed.

“He may have stomach pain the rest of his life. He vomited blood, which means the poison ate into the lining—”

I hold up a hand to forestall further details. “What kind of poison?”

“Duerma berries, I think,” he says, and I gasp. “He’ll probably sleep a day or two.”

“I poisoned an animagus with duerma berries once,” I tell him. “It was nothing like what happened to Iladro. After digesting them, the animagus toppled over, passed out.”

“You used raw berries?”

I nod.

“They’re more toxic when dried and pounded into a powder. Mashed into flour, it would be almost tasteless. I suspect the powder mixed with alcohol is incredibly corrosive.”

“We had wine with our meal.” All of us.

“That would do it.”

“That’s why it didn’t take effect on the taster as quickly. No wine.”

“Rather ingenious, isn’t it?”

I don’t appreciate his admiring tone. “Thank you, Enzo. Good work tonight, as usual.” I dismiss him with a wave of my hand.

I resume pacing. Unlike the first attempt on my life, this one was clumsy and unfocused. Ill planned. Anyone could have eaten those pastries. Everyone in the dining room could have been poisoned. There is a clue here somewhere. Think, Elisa!

Crickets begin their nightly serenade, and the sun disappears behind the distant palace wall so that only the faintest glow seeps through my balcony doors. Ximena lights the candles on my bedside table. Mara retrieves my nightgown and lays it out on the bed, then fetches a brush to start working on my hair.

But I’m not ready for our nightly routine. I’m about to assign them useless tasks, just to keep them occupied and out of my pacing range, when Hector returns. His face is grave.

“The assassin’s employer?” I ask.

“No sign. The family knew nothing.”

Disappointment is like a rock in my gut. I am desperate for answers.

“A stranger gave them gold yesterday,” he continues. “Tall, young, hair slicked back with olive oil. Said he owed Felipe a debt. They gave it up eagerly once they learned what had happened.”

My sweaty hands grip my skirt. “He was paid to do it!”

Hector nods. “The note was meant to scare you—if you survived.”

I force my hands to release the fabric, to relax. Without meeting his eye, I say, “Maybe the poison wasn’t meant for me. Maybe it was meant for someone else. The conde. Or even Alentín. He’s an ambassador now, you know.”

“Honey-coconut scones, Elisa. Distilled duerma poison, according to Enzo. It’s hard to come by in Brisadulce. You have to cross the desert to find it. Someone was making a statement.”

I rub at the headache forming at the bridge of my nose. “Someone who knew I poisoned the animagus with duerma plant.”

“You also poisoned half the Invierne army, remember?”

“Hector, if that poison was meant for me, then someone truly wants me dead. Not taken alive, like the Inviernos do.”

“That has occurred to me.”

“Which means I have more than one enemy.”

He says nothing, just presses his lips into a firm line. For the first time, I notice a shadow of stubble along his jaw. He is always clean shaven, as befits the commander of the Royal Guard. Either he hasn’t had time today, or he forgot. It makes him look darker, fiercer.

I jump when Ximena’s hand settles on my shoulder. “I wish we could get you away,” she mutters. “There are too many people in Brisadulce. Too many agendas, too many dark corners.”

I round on her. “No!”

She recoils, black eyes wide.

“I won’t run away again. You and Papá and Alodia sent me away to keep me safe, remember?” Anger I barely knew I was holding in check rises in my throat like bile. “You forced me to marry a man who didn’t love me, who hardly even acknowledged me. It didn’t work out very well, did it? He’s dead. And I’ve had more brushes with death than I can count. Running away just made . . .” I hesitate, realizing how shrill my voice is, how awful I sound. Like maybe I hate this place and this life.

She regards me with endless calm.

“I don’t regret anything,” I tell her.

“I know.”

“But I won’t run away again.”

She crosses her arms and leans against the bedpost, which creaks in response. “Would you consider running to something?”

“What do you mean?”

She glances around at the room. Besides Mara and Hector, three guards stand watch, and as usual, their faces betray nothing of the conversation they are overhearing. They are so still and silent as to be nearly—but not quite—invisible. Ximena says, “There is something to the, er, line of research I’m engaged in that might require a long outing.” She forces cheer to her face. “Maybe we can incorporate it into that tour of the country the Quorum would like you to go on.”

She’s talking about the gate. The one that “leads to life.” And she doesn’t want to discuss details in front of the guards.

Hector says, “I thought the conde’s conversation grew particularly interesting tonight at dinner, before his man took ill.”

“Indeed,” Ximena agrees.

In the silence that ensues, I know we are thinking the same thing. The words used by the conde to describe his legend were uncannily similar to the verse carved into the rock beneath my city. The gate that leads to life is narrow and small so that few find it.

I say, “Our friend in the Wallows might know something.”

Ximena nods. “He also might have insight into this latest attack.”

The thought of seeing Storm again gives me a shudder. I imagine his too-perfect face with such clarity, dread the arrogance in his sibilant voice. But I need to take him up on his offer for information as soon as possible.

With no small amount of reluctance, I say, “I’ll pay him a visit tomorrow morning.”

Hector looses an exasperated breath. “Please don’t. I don’t know the territory. I wouldn’t know how to place the guards. And the way that cavern echoes . . . there’s no way you could have a private conversation.”

I open my mouth to protest, to remind him that I refuse to be governed by fear, but I pause. Ignoring his advice has gotten me nearly killed.

“You’re about to insist, aren’t you?” he says, looking pained.

“No. I was thinking I ought to let you do your job for a change.”

He gapes at me for a split second before recovering his usual poise. “In that case, I’ll send my men to fetch him tomorrow morning.”

“Thank you. And if he doesn’t come willingly and immediately, arrest him and bring him anyway.”

He smiles. “With pleasure.”

Mara steps toward me, and her face is bright and fierce. “I didn’t understand any of that, and I don’t care.” She brandishes my brush at me. “All I know is that I am going to make breakfast for you tomorrow, and you will eat every bite.”

The next morning, after eating Mara’s goat-cheese omelet with diced scallions and red peppers, I must face the punishment I ordered. It’s a small consolation that with everyone on the green, Hector may be able to slip the Invierno into the tower unnoticed.

With my entourage of guards and ladies, I parade through the inner courtyard to the beat of a slow marching drum. A huge crowd has assembled, and they part to make way for me. I wear a gown with wine-red brocade and gold embroidery, and I regret the choice as sweat pools under my arms and between my br**sts. I hold my head high, in spite of the weight of my crown.

It’s the same place where Martín was killed, the same dais, the same large crowd. But this time, I am a willing participant.

The kitchen staff are already in place. They face inward in a circle, their hands tied above their heads to a thick pillory made from the massive trunk of a banyan tree. All twelve fit around it easily. They are n**ed from the waist up, even the maids.

I clench my jaw to keep it from trembling as I mount the dais and sit in its makeshift wooden throne. Ximena and Mara stand at either shoulder. From here, I have a perfect view of the accused and the sea of spectators beyond. Some jostle for a better look. A young boy sits on his father’s shoulders. Everyone is wide-eyed with fear, or maybe excitement.

A man approaches, carrying a long red cushion, and kneels at my feet. Is he the same man who beheaded Martín?

Like the prisoners, he’s n**ed from the waist up. A black shawl covers his head and sweeps around to shield his mouth and nose. Ridged white scars slash across his tautly muscled torso and shoulders. He holds out the cushion. On it are various flogging instruments: a rod, a willow switch, a cat-o’-nine-tails, and a leather whip coiled like a snake except for the jagged bit of steel tied to the end.

Tears prick at the back of my throat.

The executioner whispers, in a voice as scarred and used-up as his skin, “Your Majesty, you must choose the instrument of punishment.”

It takes a moment for his words to sink in, and when they do, despair settles over me like a hot heavy blanket. Of course I must.

They are arranged in order of potential damage. I don’t want these people harmed. But I also cannot choose the mildest punishment.

I say, in my best queen voice, “Use the switch.”

The scarred man faces the audience and lifts the switch high; it bends slightly under its own weight. The crowd roars approval.

And then I force myself to watch unflinchingly as, slowly and methodically, he flogs my kitchen staff. The switch slaps wetly against bare skin, sending tears stinging to my eyes. Welts rise up on their backs, and they arch away from the blows, but the pillory leaves them nowhere to go. The scarred man is very thorough, his aim precise. He varies the switch’s landing so that every part of their flesh suffers its brutality.

A few refuse to cry out, but not most, and their raw, anguished voices arrow straight into my heart. One boy, the youngest by far, weeps openly, his cheek pressed against the pillory.

I am a stone. I am ice. I feel nothing.

Only the kitchen master remains standing after the tenth lash. The others sag on their feet, held in place by the manacles at their wrists.

The scarred man returns to me and bows. The switch in his huge hand drips blood. “It is done, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you,” I choke out.

“Do you wish to address the people?” he asks.

No, of course not. I can’t wait to get away, to toss off my crown and bury my head in my pillows.

But then the small boy at the edge of the crowd, the one on his father’s shoulders, spits on the maid who prepared the scones with Felipe. A viscous wad slips down her sweaty cheek and plops onto her bared breast.

I launch to my feet and stride to the edge of the dais. The crowd hushes.

“We consider their crime of negligence to be paid in full,” I call out. “There will be no more recriminations. Anyone who seeks to do them physical harm, or harass them, or even”—I look pointedly at the little boy—“spit on them, will be dealt with severely.”

I whirl away from the crowd and move toward Ximena, whispering, “I am shaking quite a lot and could use your arm to aid my dramatic exit.” I suddenly wish Hector were here. I always feel so much safer, stronger, when he is at my side.

But she offers it at once, and together we float down the dais in what I dare hope is a show of regal righteousness. We depart the green far more quickly than we came, which is good now that I’m tasting a more acrid version of Mara’s omelet in the back of my throat.

Chapter 12

Hector returns to my suite with the unsurprising news that the Invierno was reluctant to answer my summons and had to be arrested. I take just enough time to lose my crown and change into a simpler gown before rushing out again. I’m glad for the haste—it gives me little opportunity to dwell on the flogging.

I’ve never been inside the prison tower. It’s the highest point of the palace, and I expect that from its topmost chamber, I could see everything from the great sand desert and the walls of Brisadulce, across the merchant’s circle and the Wallows, to the docks and the blue horizon beyond.

The tower is made of gray limestone, a dull and dirty contrast to the coral sandstone of its shorter brothers. It rises like a blight on the sky, and I see how impossible it would be to escape such a place. There is only one way up or down, and that is the stairway inside its walls.

It’s an odd group that accompanies me to interrogate our prisoner: a one-armed priest, an aging nurse, a Quorum lord, and, unexpectedly, a seven-year-old prince. Hector had to cancel their daily swordsmanship lesson, and little Rosario was determined to come from the moment he learned the reason.

Our group is nothing if not memorable, and I curse myself for thoughtlessness. The news that someone of vast import is being kept here will be palacewide by evening.

Before we step through the arched entryway, I bend down and grasp Rosario’s shoulder. “You’re sure you want to come, Highness? There’s an Invierno up there. He looks a lot like . . .” Like the animagi who killed your papa. “Er, like those other Inviernos we saw.”