The Crown of Embers

“Mara, you first,” he says, and as she descends my heart is in my throat, for he has ordered her to go first in case danger lies in wait at the bottom.

After a moment comes her clear whisper: “No one here but Storm!”

Hector nudges me down and follows after, closing the trapdoor over our heads. We are left in utter darkness. I step carefully, feeling with my toes for the edge of each step.

I hear the strike of flint and steel, and brightness sears my vision. It dies, then light flares again, softer and surer. Storm stands at the bottom of the stair holding a torch aloft, Mara beside him. His cowled head nearly brushes the ceiling.

He scowls. “You made me cut and dye my hair.”

Surely he understands that we face greater problems? “I thought it would greatly improve your looks,” I snap.

“Shorn hair is a sign of shame. You humiliate me greatly.”

“I’ll light a candle tonight in honor of your dead tresses.”

His frown deepens. “Where is Belén?”

“Causing chaos. We wait for him.”

It seems that we wait forever, and the space grows tight and hot. Food stores surround us—a few wine barrels, hundreds of tightly sealed ceramic jars, slabs of raw meat hanging from ceiling hooks. Opposite the stair is a low, dark hole in the wall, a trash chute, I presume, that leads to the sewer and the sea.

“Hector, has the ship you were expecting made port yet?”

“No. But her colors were seen yesterday evening. As soon as the wind picks up, she’ll be here.”

“So we row out there and hope for the best?” It seems like too tenuous a plan to me. One of the hardest things about being queen is determining when to trust someone to take care of things for you and when to take charge yourself. I have trusted Hector and Tristán to handle all the arrangements and contingencies for this journey. They are good men, natural leaders. I hope they have thought of everything.

“I can signal them from a distance,” he says cryptically. “We’ll head out to sea and keep going until we intercept them. It will be fine so long as the waters are calm.”

I study his face. “You must know this ship and crew very well. To be able to exchange signals. To know their exact route.”

“Yes.” This time I’m looking for it, so I catch the twitch in his jaw that tells me he is being taciturn in order to keep from feeling something too much.

The trapdoor above us groans open.

“Snuff the torch!” Hector says.

The cellar goes black. Hector fills the space before me, backs me up with the press of his body. “Back,” he whispers in my ear. “Behind the stair.” I catch a glint of light along his sword edge, held at the ready.

I hear no footsteps, not even a breath of movement, but the trapdoor shuts with a soft clunk, and Belén says, “The inn is in an uproar, but I haven’t been able to find Franco. We must assume he will follow.”

Storm relights his torch. “He may be able to sense Her Majesty’s Godstone,” he says.

A panicked prayer flies unbidden to my lips, and as my belly warms in response, I realize that praying is the last thing I should do. I slam my mouth closed.

Activity has always made the Godstone easier for others to sense. Prayer comes so naturally to me, and I will need to focus hard to keep from doing it.

Hector gestures toward the barrels along the wall. “Belén, roll them in front of the trash chute while I get everyone down into the sewer. It might buy us a few seconds.”

“Trash chute?” Mara asks quaveringly.

“You first, my lady,” he says. “You’ll slide a bit, then drop into the water. It’s about waist deep. If you go under, don’t panic. You’ll be able to stand up. Now go!”

She closes her eyes a moment, then, holding her precious spice satchel above her head, she slides neatly inside, feet first.

Belén rolls a barrel up to obscure the view of the entrance to the chute as Hector takes the torch from Storm. “Now you. Go!”

Storm growls, low and deep, but he follows Mara’s lead and plunges into the hole. His disappearance is quickly followed by a distant, echoing splash.

“Elisa? Your turn.”

Oh, God.

The Godstone leaps, and I curse myself for stupidity. I dangle my legs into the hole. It reeks of dead fish and rotting vegetables. I place my hands beneath my thighs and push off.

I slide, but not quickly. My pants catch in muck, slowing me down. I reach out for the walls of the tight tunnel to push myself forward. My fingertips sink into sludge. I refuse to think about what I am touching.

I slither a bit farther, and suddenly I’m surrounded by air, and falling. I’ve no time to be surprised before my heels hit the water, then my rear. My feet hit bottom but slip out from under me, and ice-cold water closes over my head. I gather my feet and shoot to the surface, sputtering. “Mara?” I call.

“Here.”

I wade toward her voice, wiping water from my eyes and nose. The surface reaches just past my Godstone. It’s cold, but not as bad as I feared. Wading is going to be difficult in my boots and thick desert garb. I hope we reach a boat soon.

A splash behind me brings light with it. Another splash sounds quickly after.

“All here and uninjured?” Hector asks. He looks everyone over quickly.

“My cloak is ruined,” Storm says. His cowl has fallen back, and in the torchlight, I finally glimpse his new hair. It’s cropped close and inky black. It makes his cheeks appear even more gaunt, like a feral cat’s.

“You’ll live,” I tell him. “And when we get back to—” I gasp as my Godstone becomes ice.

“We must go!” I whisper. “Now. He is very near.”

“Belén, guard the queen’s back,” Hector says, grabbing the torch from him and starting down the sewer tunnel at an impossible pace. There is a slight hiss as he dunks the torch in the water. The tunnel goes black.

Pushing through waist-deep water at a near run while fully clothed and booted is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. It’s as hard as wading through sand, as hard as climbing cliffs. My lungs burn with effort and my limbs become leaden with cold, for the Godstone continues to pulse icy warnings through my veins. But I don’t dare pray myself warm. I imagine Franco searching the cellar above, hoping to feel the tickle of warmth that tells him the Godstone is near.

I take comfort in the fact that if Franco is following us, it means he is not following Ximena. Maybe they’ll get away. Maybe they’ll be safe. I hope the entire city has descended upon the inn by now.

The arching ceiling of the tunnel begins to appear, dark and blurred as a ghost; we must be approaching the exit to the bay and open sky. But I don’t know how I’ll make it that far. My teeth chatter and my lips have gone numb. My limbs move too slowly. Hector’s form grows distant.

“Hec . . .” My mouth can hardly form words. “Hec . . . tor.”

He spins, and water laps against the sides of the tunnel as he rushes toward me. “What is it?” His whisper is frantic. “Are you . . .” His hand reaches blindly for me, connects with my cheek. “Your skin is ice.” He grabs my shoulders and pulls me against him, saying, “Belén. Do it now.”

In my peripheral vision, I catch a faint gleam as Belén clamps the blade of his dagger between his teeth, breathes deep through his nose, and then slips below the surface of the water.

I bury my face in Hector’s neck, seeking his heat. He rubs up and down along my arms. “Is it the Godstone?” he whispers.

“Can’t. Pray.”

Storm and Mara are silent in the space beside us as we wait for Belén. What if more than one person pursues us? How will Belén be able to see what to do?

Hector’s grip on me tightens, and my soaked body molds to his. Warmth sparks in the pit of my stomach, something wholly separate from the Godstone. Of their own volition, my arms snake around him, slide beneath his pack. My hands splay against his broad back, and I pull him close, closer. It would be the easiest thing in the world to press my lips to his throat, the line of his jaw. It would almost be like an accident.

A grunt. A splash.

Hector releases me and pulls fighting daggers from the vambraces at his forearms.

But the ice is fading from my blood. “It’s all right,” I say, laying a hand on his wrist. “The cold is gone.” I send out a quick prayer, just enough for a smidge of warmth and a bit of gratitude.

A moment later, Belén’s shape appears. Something dark and glittering streams across his face. “There was only one,” he says. “Not Franco, but definitely one of his men.” Beside me, Storm looses a ragged sigh. “If we are very lucky,” Belén continues, “they’ll never find the body. But only if we are very lucky. I suggest we go quickly.”

“Elisa, can you move?” Hector asks.

In answer, I push forward through the black water. Behind me, I hear Mara whisper, “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Belén says, and she breathes soft relief.

The tunnel stinks more and more, like a rotting privy or meat gone sour. Odds and ends float in the water beside us, and I try to avoid touching anything. My inner thighs chafe from the wet fabric of my pants, and my boots sink into sludge with each step. I feel like I’ll never be clean again.

The details of my companions’ faces are beginning to show when we reach an iron grate. I glimpse a shimmer of moonlight on the water beyond.

“We have to swim under,” Hector says. “There’s a hole on the bottom left. Mara?”

Looking resigned, she says, “Hand the satchel to me through the grate?”

He takes it from her, saying, “There’s room enough if you dive low.”

Mara gulps air, then sinks below the surface. She kicks hard, connecting with my shin underwater, and then nothing. I count. One, two, three, four, five, six . . .

Her head breaks the surface on the other side. “Easy,” she says, gasping. Hector pokes her satchel through the grate, and she grabs it.

Storm goes next, then Belén. Hector and I are alone. He hooks me around the waist and pulls me back, into the dark.

“Hector? What—”

“Quickly,” he whispers, and his face is very close. “This may be our last chance to speak alone for a long time.” I’m acutely aware of the pressure of his hand on the small of my back. The buzzing warmth returns to the pit of my stomach. “Last night Ximena warned me that you have a tendency to form strong attachments to people in close proximity to you.”

“People like you,” I say flatly.

“I told her you were stronger and smarter than she realized,” he says, and his gaze drops to my lips. “She wanted me to promise that I would be wary of getting too close.”

Did you? I want to ask. Did you promise?

“We argued right in front of you. It was a terrible breach, and I’m sorry.”

“Hector? Your Majesty?” comes a whispering voice.

I can’t stop staring at his lips. “Ximena’s right, you know. Do you think it weakens me? To care so much?”

“No,” he says without hesitation. “I don’t think that at all.” Our bodies are a hand’s breadth apart, separated only by a cushion of heat.

“Me neither,” I whisper. “It just hurts more.”

Suddenly, he yanks me against him and bends his head to kiss me.

I melt into him as his fingers tangle in my wet hair. My mouth opens to his, and our tongues meet for the briefest instance before he pulls away.

We stare at each other. I read dismay in his face, as if he can’t believe he did such a thing.

“Elisa?” It’s Mara’s worried voice.

Before I can think about anything else, before the pain of his regret can bloom in my own chest, I take a deep breath and sink. Water closes over my head, and I reach blindly for the grate. My fingers grasp slick algae. I leverage myself down, down . . . there! I find the gap and kick through. My pack snags on a jagged end, and I have a moment of panic and struggle, and then I’m free. I shoot to the surface.

I wipe water from my eyes and note that we are in a narrow inlet, sheltered by stone breakwalls on each side. The ocean lies just beyond. The water is as calm as a mirror, and the low moon paints a stream of light across its surface. To our right looms the dark shape of a long, high dock meant for mooring large ships. The water must drop off quickly, to accommodate their deep hulls.

Hector surfaces beside me. He shakes the water from his eyes and points toward the dock. “A boat there,” he whispers. “Tied to the pilings beneath. We must go quietly; every sound carries on a calm night such as this.”

He sets off and we follow, edging along the breakwall toward the dock. It’s getting easier to see, as though all the candles and lamps in Puerto Verde illuminate the water. Maybe they do, after the ruckus we caused. I hope Ximena is safe. And Tristán. And the girl pretending to be me.

The end of the breakwall crumbles with disrepair. As we skirt it, I stub my toes on chunks of rock or mortar or brick that have fallen into the water. I step carefully, wary of a twisted ankle.

We slip beneath the shelter of the dock. Sure enough, the plunge of the ground is precipitous; it feels like walking along the side of a very steep hill. I clutch the pilings for support, and barnacles slice at my fingertips.

We weave through the pilings into chest-deep water. At last a shape manifests in the gloom. It looks like a small fishing boat—or maybe a large rowboat—with enough benched seating for eight people.

Hector lifts Mara over the edge, and the boat tips treacherously as she topples over the bench before gaining her seat. Hector pulls me in front of him.