The Crown of Embers(119)

Tristán rubs wearily at his temples. “Franco came after the girl,” he says. “It happened very publicly, with an arrow to the neck. We had no choice but to reveal that she was not you, that the queen still lived. As planned, Father Alentín began circulating the rumor among the priests that you were on a mission from God himself.”

“And Franco?” I ask.

“Disappeared.”

“Was he working alone or on Eduardo’s orders?”

“We don’t know.

Ximena says, “Conde Eduardo came south not long after we left Brisadulce. He began asking, in the politest way possible, of course, if you had abandoned Joya d’Arena. He claimed distress over your choice to pretend to court a southern lord, only to disappear. Without ever saying it straight out, he convinced a lot of people that the south had been dealt an insulting blow.”

All the decisions of the last few months are like a millstone about my neck. I don’t need them to explain the rest, because it all clicks together in my head until I am sick with it.

“The southern holdings were already in tumult,” I say. “They blame the arid north for draining the country’s resources. There has been talk of seceding, like the eastern holdings did.”

“Yes,” Tristán says.

“Eduardo wants a civil war.” I hide my hands under the table so no one can see how much they tremble. “He wants to be king of his own nation. It’s what he wanted all along. He tried to have me killed. When that didn’t work, he did everything he could to weaken me, especially in the eyes of the southern holdings. That’s why he was so set on me marrying a northern lord—to keep my southern alliances thin. That’s why General Luz-Manuel had Martín executed—to weaken and dispirit my guard. The two of them must be working together.” My heart pounds with certainty and dismay. “The general is the one who has ordered these fortifications, yes?”

The ensuing silence is heavy and thick.

I whisper, “What about Rosario? Is he all right?”

“We don’t know, Your Majesty,” Tristán says.

I’ll never forgive myself if something happens to the boy.

“Captain Lucio will have gotten him to safety,” Hector says. “At the first sign of trouble.”

Even as I meet his gaze and nod my thanks, I pray to God that he is right.

“So, Your Majesty, what do we do?” Tristán asks.

This is it, then. The moment I must think like the girl who led a desert rebellion and won a war for her husband. Like a queen.

I rise to my feet and begin pacing, worrying at my thumbnail with my teeth. I need allies. Resources. I must turn sentiment in my favor, at least long enough to stall the conde’s inciting efforts, long enough to prepare my own fortifications.

My pacing quickens. The first thing I’ll do is announce Conde Tristán’s nomination to the Quorum. Maybe it will bury the “insult” a little, bely Eduardo’s claim that I have abandoned the south. But that will only go so far.

Then what, Elisa? You need a demonstration of your commitment to the south. Something permanent. You need . . .

My head whips up.

I need . . .

I almost choke on grief and gladness and terror as my gaze snaps to Hector’s.

I need to marry Hector.

Inheritor of a southern holding much more powerful than Tristán’s. A war hero. The best leader I know. Before, marrying him would have been foolish, for he was already my staunchest supporter. But now that my kingdom is about to split apart, a very public alliance with him could be the thing that holds it together.

“Elisa?” he says softly. “What is it?”

I stare at him, at his precious face. I love his dark eyes, the way his hair curls slightly around his ears, his strong jaw, his beautiful lips. I know exactly what those lips feel like against mine.

I could ask him. Right now. But he might say no. Or I could command, and he would obey, but he would never forgive me.

But maybe, just maybe, I will ask and he will say yes.

How, exactly, does a queen propose? Is there an etiquette to observe? A document to sign? I look around the room in panic. Everyone gazes back, puzzled.

I hear shouting. Stomping footsteps, the ring of steel on steel.

Soldiers pour into the dining hall from all three entrances. They are dressed in the crimson and gold of Conde Eduardo’s countship.

Everyone at the table shoots to their feet, drawing their weapons, even as a strong arm wraps around my shoulders and the cold point of a dagger presses against my throat.

Eduardo’s soldiers ring the room. We are outnumbered three to one.

“Drop your weapons,” says a sibilant voice in my ear.