The Crown of Embers(101)

My heart sinks. “I might be able to stitch it. I watched Cosmé do it often enough. Or Belén! He’s done it lots of times. Did you bring your salve?”

She nods. “In the satchel.”

I look around frantically for it. Who knows where it ended up after the storm, or if its contents are still intact? I note my own pack, lodged between the fallen chair and a broken shelf. I give a worried thought to the figurine, hoping it didn’t break.

“Do you remember where you saw it last? I can’t . . .” Then I get another idea.

I take a deep breath against the audacity of it. Could I heal her? The way I did Hector? That was sort of an accident. Actually, everything I’ve ever done with the Godstone has been sort of an accident. But I came here, put everyone to extraordinary risk, on the chance that I could figure out how to channel its power deliberately.

“Mara, give me your hands. I’m going to try something.”

She does, her gaze trusting. I grab them, trying to ignore how cold and slick they are with her blood.

“Er . . . close your eyes and relax. Hector was unconscious when I did it to him.”

She closes them.

Think, Elisa!

When I healed Hector, I felt the power stir inside me, sucked in from the world around us through my Godstone. I try to imagine it, the sensation of something flowing, filling me up. Please, God. Help me.

The power surges into me like a flood, and I gasp, delighted. So easy this time. So natural and right.

I say, “For the righteous right hand of God is a healing hand; blessed is he who seeks renewal, for he shall be restored.”

Nothing.

Last time, it happened out of desperation and need. Out of love. Maybe love is the trick.

I focus hard, thinking about what Mara means to me. I consider her brave acceptance of the danger we share, her determination to learn everything she needs to be a good lady’s maid. I’ve watched her edge away from the shy, broken girl whose village had just been destroyed to become a cheerful, laughing person, resolved to embrace her new life.

Mara is precious to me. I love her.

I whisper, “For love is more beautiful than rubies, sweeter than honey, finer than the king’s wine. And no one has greater love than he who gives his own life for a friend.”

The power is rushing out of me even before I finish. Mara stretches out her legs, arches her back as her face contorts in agony, and I lurch forward, worried that I’ve made things worse. But then her body goes limp. After a few panting breaths, her face relaxes into an easy smile.

“I think it worked,” she says. Gently she probes her stomach with her fingertips. “It hurt, but it worked.”

My breath catches with relief. So much easier this time. Maybe it’s my proximity to the zafira. Or maybe I am finally learning to channel my stone’s power. “That’s good,” I say. “That’s very . . .” My head swims. “Just need to lie . . .” I collapse onto the bed.



I wake to a sea of faces. I blink up at them, recognizing Hector, Felix, Mara, Belén. “Stop hovering,” I growl sleepily.

They lurch away, except for Hector, who says, “Are you all right?”

His hair is mussed, his eyes huge. He seems so young all of a sudden, so unsure. It’s definitely not a good idea to wrap my arms around his neck and force him to kiss me in front of the others. “I’m fine. Tired but fine.” I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. “Mara?”

“The wound closed up perfectly,” she says, her voice breathy with wonder. “And my scar . . . it’s still there, but it’s softer. Healthier, I think.”

The relief is so powerful that my knees shake. Or maybe I’m just that fatigued.

The captain rubs at his beard and asks, “You think you could heal everyone on board? We have a broken leg, a few bad scrapes. One of my men can’t get the water out of his lungs.”

“Absolutely not,” Hector says. “You’ve seen how it exhausts her.”

“I’m not sure I could,” I admit. “I think it only works when . . . for people I . . .” For people I love. I hesitate to say it straight out, because returning his sentiment would just make it worse, in the end. “It only works for people who are very dear to me,” I finish lamely.

But hope flashes across Hector’s face, so raw and exquisite. Maybe I ought to tell him anyway. I could lie to him, tell him that our future has a happy ending.

Instead, I scoot off the bed and step away, putting distance between us. “How is Storm?” I ask, refusing to look in Hector’s direction.

“Uninjured,” Belén says. “More interestingly, I haven’t heard him complain in hours.”