But the animagus turns the fire on himself.
He screams, “It is God’s will!” He raises his arms to the sky, and his lips move as if in prayer while the conflagration melts his skin, blackens his hair, turns him into a living torch for the whole city to see.
The scent of burning flesh fills the air as the remaining crowd scatters. The horses rear and plunge away, trampling everyone in their path, the carriage rattling behind.
“To the queen!” Hector yells above my head.
A wind gusts through the amphitheater, extinguishing the biggest flames and flinging bits of hair and robe into the sky. The animagus’ charred body topples off the stair and plunges to the ground, trailing smoke and sparks.
I turn to rest my forehead against Hector’s breastplate and close my eyes as the chaos around us gradually dissipates. The chill of my Godstone fades, and I breathe deep of warm desert air and of relief.
Hector says, “We must get you back to the palace.”
“Yes, of course,” I say, pulling away from him and standing tall. “Let’s go.” Maybe if I pretend hard enough, I will feel strong in truth.
My guards form a wedge of clanking armor and drawn swords. As we begin the long, steep trek home, a bit of white robe, edged with glowing cinders, flutters to the ground at my feet.
Chapter 2
I pray during the walk back, thanking God for my life and the lives of my guards, asking him to keep us safe just a little while longer. But as we approach the palace, Hector holds up a fist to halt our procession.
The portcullis is dropped and barred. Hundreds gather outside. Some yell and stomp, rattling the iron bars. Others stand quietly, carrying blankets, packs, small children. Their number swells as others trickle in from the adjoining streets and alleys.
“They think we’re being attacked,” I say, my voice catching. “They want protection within the palace walls.”
“Maybe we are,” Ximena says quietly. “Maybe it’s war all over again.”
“Back away quickly,” Hector says. “But no sudden moves.” I hear what he’s not saying—if the desperate throng discovers me, I could be mobbed.
We crowd into a narrow alley between two townhomes. Hector whips off the bright red cloak marking him as a Royal Guard and turns it inside out so the softer, paler side shows. “Put this on. That gown is much too noticeable.”
The cloak smells of Hector—oiled steel and worn leather and spiced wine. After I fasten the claps at my neck, I gesture to the others. “All of you. Turn your cloaks inside out. Ximena, can you hide my crown?” I lift it from my head, and she untangles my hair from the various pins keeping it in place.
She holds it out for a moment, considering. She slips behind me, out of sight of the guards, and when she reveals herself again, the front of her skirt is lumpy and distended. “At least it doesn’t look like a crown,” she says with an apologetic shrug.
“Now what?” I say. “If the portcullis is barred, the stables are surely closed off as well.”
“The kitchens?” a guard suggests.
“Or the receiving hall,” says another.
Hector shakes his head. “The garrison is trained to lock down all entrances during drills.”
Any member of the Royal Guard would be allowed admittance without question. There is a reason he’s not sending someone to the palace to fetch a larger escort and a windowless carriage. “You think it’s no accident,” I say, “that someone ordered the palace locked down before I was safely inside. You think the crowd may not be the greater danger.”
His gaze on me is solemn. “I’ll take no chances with you.”
“The escape tunnel!” I say. “Leading from the king’s suite to the merchants’ alley. Alejandro said only a few know of it.” I swallow against the memory of long days spent in my husband’s suite as he lay dying. I paid close attention to his every word, storing them up in my heart so I could someday pass them along to his son, Rosario.
Hector rubs at his jaw. “It’s in disrepair. I haven’t been inside since Alejandro and I were boys.”
It will have to do. “Let’s go,” I order.
We leave the shadow of the brick alley and step into sunshine. From habit, the guards fall into perfect formation.
“No, no.” I motion vaguely. “Relax. Don’t look so . . . guardlike.”
They drop formation at once, glancing at one another shamefaced. Hector drapes an arm around my shoulder as if we are out for a companionable stroll. He leans down and says, “So. Horrible heat we’ve had lately.”
I can’t help grinning, even as I note the tenseness of his shoulders, the way his eyes roam the street and his free hand wraps around the hilt of his sword. I say, “I’d prefer to discuss the latest fashion craze of jeweled stoles.”
He laughs. “No, you wouldn’t.”
We reach the merchants’ alley without incident. It’s eerily silent, the booths vacant, the cobblestone street empty of rumbling carts. It’s a national holiday. This place should be filled with shoppers, acrobats, and beggars, with coconut scones and sticky date pops and meat pies.
The news must have whipped through the city with the destructive force of a sandstorm. The Inviernos are back! And they threatened the queen!
All this emptiness makes us nothing if not noticeable. My neck prickles as I glance at the surrounding buildings, expecting furtive heads to appear in windowsills. But I see no one.
Quietly I say, “Alejandro said the entrance was through a blacksmith’s home.”
“Yes. Just around the corner . . . there.” He indicates a large awning outside a two-story adobe building. The bellows beneath it is cold, and the traces dangle empty chains.
Hector’s hand on my shoulder tightens as he peers under the awning. “Ho, blacksmith!” he calls.
The door creaks open. A bald man with a sooty leather apron and forearms like corded tree trunks steps over the threshold. His eyes widen.
“Goodman Rialto!” the blacksmith exclaims, and his cheer is a little too forced. “Your cauldron is ready. A beauty, I must say. Had some extra bronze sheeting lying around, which will reduce your total cost. Please come in!”
I look up at Hector for confirmation, and he nods, almost imperceptibly. We follow the blacksmith inside.
Every space of wall is used to display his work—swords, grates, animal traps, spoons, candlesticks, gauntlets. The scent of the place is biting, like copper gone sour. A low cooking fire crackles in a clay hearth. Only a blacksmith could stand to have a fire going on a day as hot as this. After we filter in, he closes the door behind us and drops the latch.
“This way, Your Majesty,” he says, all trace of brightness evaporated. “Quickly.” He pulls up the corner of a thick rug and reveals a trapdoor. With a grunt, he heaves on the brass ring. The trapdoor swings open to show rickety wooden stairs descending into darkness.
“We’ll need light,” I say.
He grabs a candle and a brass holder from a nearby table, reaches toward the hearth to light the wick, and hands it to me. “Be wary,” he says. “The tunnel is reinforced with wooden beams. They’re very old and very dry.”
“I’ll go first,” Hector says, and the stair creaks under his weight.
I start to follow but hesitate. “Ximena, take the rest of the guards and return to the palace through the main entrance. They’ll let you in. People should be seen leaving here, just in case they saw us coming.”
She frowns. “My place is by your side.”
“I’m safe with Hector.” Before she can protest, I turn and address the blacksmith. “Your name, sir?”
“Mandrano,” he says proudly. “Formerly of His Majesty King Nicolao’s Royal Guard, now retired.”
I clasp his shoulder; it’s as hard and round as a boulder. “Thank you, Mandrano. You have done your queen a great service today.”
He bows low. I don’t wait for him to rise, and I don’t bother to see that Ximena and the guards have followed my orders. I step down quickly after Hector, holding my candle low to light my way.
His fingers reach out of the gloom, offering support, and I grab them. Just as my feet reach dry earth, the trapdoor bangs closed, making the darkness complete but for our puddle of candlelight.
I move close enough for the candle to illuminate us both. The flame casts strange shadows on his skin—blurring the scar on his cheek, softening his eyes, and rounding his features—and I am reminded how very young he is.
“Hector, who besides you and me has the authority to lock down—”
“Conde Eduardo, General Luz-Manuel, and the mayordomo.” He rattles off the list so quickly that I realize he’s been rehearsing it in his mind.
“You think someone intended to lock us out?”
Ximena would offer a kind inanity about it being an unfortunate misunderstanding. But Hector has nothing of dissembling in him. “Even after you’re safely returned, we must tread strategically,” he says.
I pass him the candle, nodding agreement. He leads the way, and I follow close enough that I can grab his sword belt if necessary. The tunnel is so tight that my shoulders brush the wood beams propping up the ceiling. I fight the urge to sneeze against the dust we kick up.
Something scuttles over my foot, glowing Godstone blue, and I squeal.
Hector whirls, but then he says, “Just a cave scorpion. They glow when frightened. Nearly harmless.”
Nearly harmless is not harmless, and I open my mouth to point out as much, but I decide I’d rather be brave in front of him. “It startled me,” I say calmly. “Please, continue.”
He turns back around, but not before I catch the amused quirk of his lips. “Be glad it wasn’t a Death Stalker,” he says, pushing aside a thick cobweb.
“Oh?”
“They’re much larger scorpions. Very poisonous. They live in the scrub desert around Basajuan. I’m surprised you didn’t encounter them when you were leading the rebellion.”
“I wish I had encountered Death Stalkers. They would have been marvelous weapons.”
“What?” He stops short, and I nearly collide with him.
“One of the village boys kept vipers. I ordered him to toss them into an Invierno camp. He didn’t stick around to see if anyone died, but he did report a lot of screaming. Scorpions would have been even better.”
He is silent for so long that I’m worried I’ve offended him somehow. “Hector?”
“You always surprise me.” And he moves off into the darkness.
We reach a crooked stair. The bottom step has collapsed with rot.
“This winds through the walls of the palace,” Hector whispers. “We must go quietly.”
He waits until I nod, then ventures upward. The wood-reinforced earthen walls cede to stone and mortar as the steps bend and creak with our weight. I notice signs of life—footsteps, muted voices, wash water running through pipes to the sewer below.
The stair dead-ends. Hector holds up the candle, exposing a wall too smooth for stone. He runs a finger across it, which leaves a rivulet of darkness in the dust-gray surface. Something clicks. The door slides soundlessly aside, revealing a slightly brighter gloom.
“The wardrobe,” he whispers, stepping inside. “Stay here while I check the room.”
Light floods our passageway as he pushes the double doors open, but then he closes them again, leaving me alone in the dull murk. My heart twists to sense the empty space around me. My husband’s clothes used to hang here. I wonder what became of them all?
I wait the space of several heartbeats, listening hard for the sounds of a scuffle, wishing Hector had at least left me the candle.
Then he opens the doors, and I blink against the onslaught of brightness. “All clear,” he says. I take his offered hand and step into the king’s suite.
My late husband’s bedchamber is huge and decadent, with marble floors and polished mahogany furniture. Tapestries the height of two men hang from gilded crown molding. An enormous bed looms in the room’s center like a squat tower, its red silk canopy rising to a point.
I could live here if I wanted—it’s my right, as monarch. But I hate this room. It feels garish and ridiculous. And because I’ve only ever been here to hold the hand of a wasted man and ease his passing, it also feels like death.
Just ahead is a smaller door that leads to my own chambers—and home. “I checked. No one there but Mara,” Hector says when he sees me eyeing it with longing. “You’re safe for now.”
For now. We must tread strategically, he said in the tunnel. I clench my hands into fists, preparing for something, though I’m not sure what. “Let’s go then.”
We have returned ahead of Ximena and the guards. I pace in the bedchamber while Hector stands at the entrance, arms crossed, chin set.
“I have to do something,” I say. “I can’t just wait here.”
Mara, my lady-in-waiting, beckons me toward the sun-drenched atrium. “But we need to change your gown,” she says hurriedly. “It’s covered in dust. And I should repowder your face and smooth your hair and . . . and . . .”
The soft desperation in her voice makes me study her carefully. She’s as tall and slender as a palm—seventeen years old, like me. She won’t look me in the eye as she adds, “And I just had the atrium pool cleaned! Wouldn’t you like a bath?”
“Later. I have to figure out . . .” My protest dies when I see her trembling lip. I stride toward her and wrap her in a hug.
She draws in a surprised breath, then wraps her arms around me, squeezing tight.