The Crown of Embers(118)

He does all this while managing to never touch me.

And though he says nothing, I’m certain he has decided to leave my service and go home to Ventierra. There’s a desperate focus to his teaching, as if he’s shoring me up with as much knowledge as possible before we part ways.

I dread leaving this place, for it means returning to all the problems I left behind, problems that have inevitably worsened. Our ruse has certainly been discovered by now. I hope decoy Elisa has survived and that Ximena is well. I worry for Rosario and his safety. And I cannot doubt that Conde Eduardo has maneuvered in my absence, that he has found a way to turn the situation to his advantage.

Too soon, Captain Felix declares us prepped and ready, and we weigh anchor and set sail for our rendezvous point in Selvarica. I stand on the quarterdeck, the wind whipping hair into my eyes, watching the island grow small. From this vantage, I can see that one of the mountains is shorter now, with a jagged peak, its zenith a crumbling ruin in the valley I destroyed.

During the voyage, we try to remove the manacles from Storm’s ankles. But the blacksmith cannot forge them open, the cooper cannot pry them open, and though I can make them glow warmly, I cannot force them open by magic. Storm grumbles at our efforts and finally snaps at us to leave well enough alone. “To all my other failures, I must add my failure as gatekeeper to the zafira.” He sighs dramatically.

“I don’t believe you mind so much,” I point out.

He cracks a rare grin. “Truly, I do not.” He pulls himself up to full height. “In fact, I will wear these chains proudly. However, I require salve and a bit of cloth to use as cushioning around my ankles. Silk, of course.”

“I think it’s an improvement,” I tell him. “I’ll never again worry about you sneaking up on me.”

“I hate you.”

I reach up to squeeze his shoulder. “I know.”

The wind holds, and it takes less than two weeks to make port in Selvarica. The land is as Tristán described it: lush and green and gorgeous, not unlike the island we come from.

As soon as we dock, we are greeted by a large complement of solemn-looking soldiers in full armor.

“What’s going on?” I demand.

“Conde Tristán sent us to escort you, Your Majesty,” says one. “This way, please. Quickly.”

Hector and Belén flank me as we hurry down the dock. Mara and Storm, who is cowled once again, follow behind, and Storm’s clattering steps cause dockworkers and fishermen to pause and stare. We reach a waiting carriage, and a soldier assures us our belongings will be collected and sent to us. Then he smacks the horse’s flank and waves the driver off.

A group of soldiers jogs alongside as we travel up a steep drive. I peer out the window and notice fortifications along the road. Temporary walls with arrow slits. A blockade on the side that could be moved quickly to block traffic.

“Tristán is preparing for war,” I say to no one in particular, and my heart thuds. I thought I was done with war. Forever done.

“I see Conde Eduardo’s colors too,” Hector says in a grave voice. “Tristán may no longer be in command of his own garrison.”

We reach a carriage house, where we are quickly unloaded and ushered through a servants’ wing, across an inner courtyard with marble fountains and tiled pathways and hanging plants, and into a long dining hall with an enormous low table, much like the one in my own council chamber where the Quorum meets.

A handful of people already sit on cushions around the table, and they look up when we enter. I am so very glad to see Tristán, Iladro, a few of my own Royal Guard, and . . . my eyes sweep the room looking for her. There! Ximena leaps to her feet and barrels toward me, arms outstretched for an embrace. I fall into the hug easily and gratefully.

She pushes me back to arm’s length, and her eyes are wet with tears when she says, “I’m so glad you’re safe and well, my sky.”

A puckered redness slashes across her cheekbone—a clumsily stitched wound that will leave a large scar. I point to my own cheek. “Ximena, what happened?”

“Later.” She guides me by the shoulders toward the table.

“And the girl?”

“Dead.” She sighs. “I’m sorry.”

I swallow hard against the sudden knot in my throat. Another innocent person added to my wake of bodies. I’m torn between writhing guilt, and gladness that Ximena survived.

Hector and his men greet one another in a fierce demonstration of backslapping. Then Hector and Tristán clasp forearms while Mara and Ximena embrace. Finally we all settle onto our cushions.

I lean forward, elbows on the table. “Tell me at once what is going on.”