The Crown of Embers
Page 23He starts to protest, but I cut him off. “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll protect you from harm. I stand ready to jump to your defense.”
He laughs, and I love the sound. “I’m very content to enjoy the festivities from here,” he says. “Is that Belén dancing with Mara?”
I crane my neck just as the pair shifts, revealing the face of her partner. Even from a distance, there can be no mistaking the patch over his eye. “Yes, that’s him.” I have a sudden urge to march over there and throw my wine in his face for what he did to my friend years ago.
“Well, they seem to be familiar,” Hector says. “They’re easy with each other.”
His words check me. Hector is right. Mara chatters, and Belén laughs in response. Then the two glide behind a wall of dancers, obscuring my view.
“They are very old friends,” I tell him. I suppose that if Mara can forgive Belén so thoroughly, maybe I can too.
I catch a movement in the corner of my eye and turn to see Lord Liano bearing down on me, his purposed stride a stark contrast to his vacuous gaze. Again I look around for Tristán, hoping he can save me from another disastrous turn with Liano, but he is nowhere to be found. “Oh, God,” I mutter.
“What is it?” Hector asks.
“Please walk with me. I need some air. The gardens, maybe?”
Chapter 16
HECTOR offers an arm, and I accept gratefully. We turn at the same moment Lord Liano calls out, “Your Majesty!”
“Keep walking,” I say under my breath.
Hector snickers. “I take it your first dance together did not go well?”
“I learned that the best place to spear a javelina is in the throat, just above its chest.”
“Aahh. Well, if you ever find yourself needing to ignore him, ask him about the time he stumbled upon a mother puma in her den. He’s good for half an hour, uninterrupted.”
“I’ll remember that. Thank you.”
The double doors to the gardens stand open for fresh air. As we step into the night, onto the winding paver path, I breathe deep of the sweet scent of yellow night bloomers. They are like a weed, the way they twine around trellises and ferns. Unchecked, they’d choke everything around them. But we tolerate them, cultivate them even, because at night they spread their weblike petals wide, proudly showing off stamens that glow brighter than fireflies.
“Hector, would you mind . . . that is, do you think it’s safe for me to walk alone for a bit?”
“I think so, yes,” he says with obvious reluctance. “It’s an interior garden, and I have guards stationed around its perimeter. It’s also best for propriety’s sake that I stand guard where everyone can see me. But promise you’ll remain within yelling range?”
“Of course.”
He squeezes my arm and lets me go. And as I meander through the garden of tiny stars, I feel heady—from my glass of wine, from the cool breeze on my skin, from the touch and scent of the man I just left behind. A fountain tinkles nearby. Dimmed laughter and music curl around me.
The palm beside me rustles unnaturally. I hear hurried whispers, heavy breathing.
Surely there is no danger. Everyone was searched for weapons, and guards watch every entrance. But my mouth is dry and a slight tremor sets my fingers twitching as I check my Godstone for telltale cold. Nothing.
I reach out, and with the tip of my finger I move the palm fronds aside.
A man stands in a cavern of star-pricked foliage, his back to me. He is locked in a passionate embrace with someone else, someone smaller whose delicate arms ring his neck.
I can’t help the giggle that bubbles from my mouth.
They whirl at the sound, and their faces are pale and stark among the dark greenery. I gasp with recognition.
They stare at me, horrified. I want more than anything to run away, but shock freezes my feet.
The conde’s features soften into resignation. Without breaking my gaze, he says, “Iladro, dear, why don’t you go calm your stomach with a glass of water?”
The herald disengages himself, manages a panicked half bow in my direction, and flees toward the audience hall.
We are silent for what seems like an eternity. Finally Conde Tristán says, “Your Majesty, I swear on the Scriptura Sancta that everything I have told you is true.”
Indignation helps me find my voice. “That I am stunningly beautiful? That you intend to court me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you even like women?”
“Not in that way, no. But one doesn’t have to be a lover of women to understand your quality.”
I’m shaking my head. “Everything you said is a lie. Maybe not the words themselves, but your intent has been to deceive me.” And deceive me he has. I’m so naive.
The conde lowers his head, whispering, “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. Truly.” He sighs hugely. “Iladro is the love of my life. But Conde Eduardo has been gradually annexing my land, and my countship is in desperate need—”
“I suggest you retire for the evening.”
The conde starts to protest but changes his mind. He nods instead. Then he slips out of the grotto and disappears.
Suddenly I’m not just alone but lonely. I stand there a long time, swallowing against tears, taking deep breaths to calm the fluttering humiliation in my breast. I don’t blame Tristán for wanting to help his people during hard times. But it does sting to know that a man can’t find me desirable. Maybe no one will. Maybe not ever.
Certainly not Hector.
I wipe under my eyes to make sure my kohl has not smeared. Then I throw my shoulders back and lift my head high. Thus collected, I return to the entrance and to my personal guard.
He makes no effort to disguise his relief at seeing me. “I saw Conde Tristán,” he says. “He left in quite a hurry. Didn’t even notice I stood here.”
“We . . . we quarreled.”
“I’m so sorry.”
I can’t bear to be pitiable before him, so I wave it off. “It was nothing.”
But he is not fooled. When I take his offered arm, his free hand settles atop mine and squeezes gently. “Go back inside and dance,” he insists.
“What?”
“Have a good time. Dance with as many suitors as possible. Let them flatter you outrageously.” He’s so intent, his voice urgent.
“But none of it will be real. None of them will want me. My throne, yes. Prestige. A conquest. But not me.”
Silence stretches between us, and I realize I could not have given him a better opening to pay me ridiculous compliments. It probably sounded like I was begging for them.
“Elisa . . . I—”
“You’re right. I’ll go back inside and do my queenly duty.” I force brightness into my voice. “Who knows? Maybe Lord Liano has hidden depth of character.”
“A man of true compassion!”
“He’d be glad to tell you about it.”
For the rest of the evening, I play the role of queen. I down another glass of wine to dull the sharpness in my chest, fix a smile on my face, and work hard to not step on anyone’s toes. I dance with everyone who asks, and I never lack partners. I’m told that I am radiant, that I have a beautiful smile, that I am a gifted dancer. They compliment me on my choice of gown, my speedy recovery, my political savvy. They extend condolences on my recent ordeal. They offer their personal services, suggest trade policy, beg me to raise taxes further, beg me to lower taxes.
Later, when I am finally back in my suite, Ximena helps me out of my gown. “How was it?” she asks. “Did you have a good time?”
I have run out of banalities and niceness. I have nothing to spare. “Fine,” I snap. “It was fine.”
“Will it cheer you up to know you have a letter from home?” She pulls a tiny leather canister from her apron pocket and waves it at me. “Just delivered from the dovecote.”
She drops it into my palm, and my heart does a little flip when I recognize the de Riqueza sunburst stamped into the leather. From Papá. Or maybe my sister. I haven’t spoken to either in over a year, except for a few brief messages like this one, via pigeon. I’m eager for news of home.
No, I correct myself. Joya d’Arena is my home now. My time in Orovalle feels like it happened to another girl, a different Elisa.
I open the canister, break the wax seal with a fingernail, and unroll the parchment. I’m glad to see my sister’s careful and lovely script.
Dearest Elisa,
Word reached me of your grave injuries. I’m glad to know you are recovering well. I pray for you every day.
I write because Papá’s council has asked that I begin seeking a husband in earnest. They suggest I choose from among Joya d’Arena’s most influential nobility to further strengthen ties between us. Ximena has written to me about Lord-Commander Hector of the Royal Guard and has suggested I consider him. There is no opinion I trust more than yours. Please tell me: What kind of man is he? Would I do well to open negotiations with him? Your earliest reply is most appreciated.
Papá sends his love.
Alodia
It feels as though someone is standing on my chest.
“Elisa?”
I look up from the parchment now crushed in my fist. Ximena studies me carefully while the guards exchange worried glances.
I can’t force the proper platitudes to my lips.
You knew this was coming, Elisa. Of course he will marry, and marry well. It is right and good that he become a prince consort. Would you rather Alodia marry someone who does not feel like family already?
“I need parchment,” I whisper. “And quill and ink.” I can’t seem to remember where I put them.
Fernando rushes to fetch the items from my writing desk. Ximena takes a step toward me, but I back into the atrium, shaking my head. I can’t even bear to look at her for wondering if she knew all along that I was falling in love with him.
By the time Fernando enters with the writing implements, my fist is to my lips, as if it can tramp down the nausea roiling in my belly. Get control of yourself. I take a deep breath. Then another. I force my jaw to unclench. Then I grab the ink and parchment and set them on the vanity.
But my fingers tremble and my script is jerky as I write.
Dearest Alodia,
Hector is the best man I know. You could not do better.
Elisa
As he leaves, Ximena says, “Do you need to lie down for a moment? Maybe a glass of wine?”
“I’d like to be alone, Ximena,” I say in the deadliest whisper, and she lowers her head and backs away.
But alone is such a nebulous state when one is queen. Knowing the guards surround me, I pull the canopy closed and cry as softly as I can manage it.
It is near morning when an idea finally dams the flood of tears.
Chapter 17
I scoot off the bed and throw a robe around my shoulders. Ximena is already awake, though her long gray braid is sleep mussed. She sits near the balcony, taking advantage of the morning light to work on a tapestry. She looks up at me. “Is everything all right now?”
“I need to dress quickly. No time for a bath.”
“We need to wash your face. With luck, people will think you had too much to drink and will not guess you spent the night crying.”
At least she doesn’t ask me why. “Fine. Is Mara awake yet?”
“She didn’t get back until very late.” She gathers the material in her lap and plops it into a basket near her chair.
“Let her sleep a few more minutes, but we’ll have to wake her soon.”
“Are you going to tell me—”
“Soon.” I don’t even want my own Royal Guard to know what will transpire next. My idea hinges on secrecy.
I send a guard to fetch the mayorodomo while Ximena begins sifting through my wardrobe. She holds up a riding gown; it has a split skirt and a tight black vest. I never ride, but I sometimes wear it when I need to feel strong.
I nod approval. Ximena has read my mood well.
I have just finished dressing, and Ximena is combing my hair in the atrium, when the mayordomo arrives. His dressing robe hangs crooked, and the left side of his head is sleep plastered into a solid wall of hair.
“Your Majesty?” he says, out of breath. “The guard said your summons was urgent.”
“Thank you for coming so quickly. Tell me, is Conde Tristán of Selvarica still here in the palace?” Ximena’s face in the vanity mirror shows perfect composure, but I sense increasing tension in her brushstrokes.
“He filed a departure notice very late last night.” He shakes his head with disgust. “Who departs during Deliverance week? And on the night of the gala! It was most untoward, and I—”
“But Tristán is still here? He hasn’t left yet?” I realize I’m wringing my skirt in my right fist. I release it and flex my fingers.
“I don’t know.”
“Find out. Now. If he hasn’t yet departed, tell him I require his presence immediately in my chambers.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” He executes a quick bow and hurries away on slippered feet.
Ximena puts her hands on my shoulders and makes eye contact with me in the mirror.
“I’ll explain soon,” I whisper. I just hope the conde has not had time to gather his entourage and flee from last night’s encounter.