The Crown of Embers(10)
Ah, so that’s it. The regency discussion was simply meant to introduce marriage as the more palatable alternative. They probably worked it out between themselves ahead of time.
“Oh, yes!” says Jada. “Someone whose counsel is widely respected. Everyone would accept your queenship with a strong prince consort at your side, even given today’s events.”
Softly Hector says, “The king has only been dead five months.”
“The queen is beyond the ceremonial mourning period,” Conde Eduardo says with a shrug. He turns to me. “I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but our nation suffered weak rule under Alejandro and Nicolao. We were coming apart at the seams even before the war. Your Majesty, I beg you to put your people first. Please choose either a regent or a strong husband, and bring the stability we so desperately need.”
“You would gain the most political advantage by choosing someone from the northern holdings,” the general adds. “The north bore the brunt of the war.”
“I’ll compile an eligibility list,” Lady Jada says. “We can look over it at our next meeting. Lord Liano of Altapalma comes to mind. And of course Conde Tristán of Selvarica, who is a southern lord but should not be discounted. Also . . .”
I can’t bear to pay attention as Jada prattles on about every lordling in the entire kingdom. I’ve known for a while that I would marry for the good of Joya d’Arena. But now, faced with the prospect, I don’t want to. I want to love someone again, the way I loved Humberto, or at the very least share a friendship, as Alejandro and I did in the end.
And I want to be queen of this great country not because someone is holding my hand, but because I can do it. Me. Elisa.
But I agree to look at Lady Jada’s list at our next meeting, because I don’t know what else to do or say. If nothing else, it buys me time to consider my options.
Our conversation moves to reconstruction. Whole villages along the desert caravan route still lie in ruins after the enemy’s march. The cost to clean and rebuild is becoming enormous. The highway through Puerto Verde is near impassable after several years of unusually bad weather. The tanners’ and weavers’ guilds are close to rioting over the shortage of hide and wool, now that the seceded country of Basajuan is no longer forced to trade sheep with the capital.
The nation is in shambles. Though we won the war, our coffers are drained, our army weakened, our people dispirited. Today’s birthday parade was supposed to inspire hope, to demonstrate the safe normalcy our lives were returning to.
My ridiculous crown grows unbearable as I ponder the centuries of rulers who came before me and sat in this same room, at this same table. Did any of them inherit a mess this big? Were any of them mere children, like me?
I can’t mask my relief when our meeting is over. I rise stiffly and thank everyone for coming; then Hector releases the bolt and opens the door. I bask in the fresher air that hits my face.
Once outside, my ladies press close. I yank off my crown and fling it at Ximena. Mara mops sweat along my hairline with a cloth and fluffs my skirt.
I say, “I need to walk.” Mostly, I need to think, away from watchful eyes and weighty problems.
They clear a path, and Hector steps up to accompany me.
I shake my head. “I need to go alone.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“I’ll just be a few minutes,” I assure him. “I’m going to the catacombs to pray. I’ll only walk where our own guards patrol. Come looking for me if I’m not back when the monastery bells ring the hour.”
He reaches up as if to grasp my arm, but then changes his mind and lowers his hand. “Be wary, my queen.”
I smile assurance, and then I’m off, away from the crowd.
The cobblestones beneath my feet are worn smooth, for Brisadulce was built almost two thousand years ago, after God scooped up our ancestors from the dying world with his righteous right hand and deposited them onto this one.
As I walk, I run a finger along the rough stone wall, taking comfort in its solidness. I imagine the palace and its ancient capital, sprawling across its peninsula of limestone, surrounded by ocean on three sides and desert on one. My new home is such a determined place, unchanging despite being hemmed in by things that pound it with deadly sandstorms and hurricanes for a season each year, and the rest of the time are merely fluid and forceful.
The city’s salvation is its underbelly. My old tutor used to tell me that long ago, before people arrived, our great sand desert was an inland sea. Something cataclysmic happened to drive all that water deep underground. Now it rushes out to meet the ocean in the caverns beneath my feet, providing plenty of fresh water for the beautiful oasis that is my capital city.