The Crown of Embers(12)

Wind whips through the tomb. My torch winks out, leaving me in darkness.

Instinctively, I pray hard and fast, begging God to protect me from whatever lies ahead. The Godstone responds by easing warmth into my abdomen, just enough for my breath to come easier, to let me think.

I consider a strategic scream. But screaming would give away my exact location to whatever lies in ambush.

I need a weapon. I search frantically for something, anything. A silk banner flutters in the breeze. I grab the tassels and whisk the banner from its casket. Dust puffs into the air, and my chest lurches with the need to cough. The banner is long, nearly twice my height. Praying warmth into my limbs, I fold it in half, then once more.

I have no idea what to do with it. Venturing from the crypt armed with a silk banner is a ridiculous idea. And during my time in the desert, I learned it is stupid to fight when you can run and hide.

Two of the caskets are empty, awaiting their permanent residents. I have a sudden urge to crawl inside one, cross my arms over my chest, and close my eyes to the world. Instead, I creep behind the nearest and squat down so I can’t be seen from the doorway. I only need to be invisible long enough for Hector to come looking for me.

A shape moves in the dark.

My stomach drops into my toes. Someone is here, has been in the crypt the whole time.

I lurch away, but I am too cold, too slow.

Light winks against a steel edge. I raise my banner against the wicked glimmer.

Something rams the silk, slides off, ricochets against my forearm. My skin parts; pain sluices up to my shoulder.

I drop the banner, scurry backward in a crab crawl, but I collide with a pedestal. The blade plunges again.

I scream as it glances off my Godstone, slips into my stomach as if I am made of butter.

The pain is like nothing I’ve experienced. I know I will burst from it.

Warmth glides across my belly, down my thighs. The blade is ripped from my body, and I crumple to the stone. My cheek splats into a pool of my own blood.

My last thought is of Alejandro, and how surprised he’ll be to see me.





Chapter 4


I awaken as if into a dream—a dream of light and heat and pain.

I should open my eyes, but I can’t seem to find them in my head. I ought to cry out, but I’m too distant from my flesh to figure out how. I’m lost in the desert of my own mind, in a wilderness of sand and light.

. . . dead soon, I imagine the general’s voice saying, distantly, as if from another world. . . . the priest . . . final sacrament. He wants me to die. I know it with surety, even from this bright, lost place.

But I refuse.

And later, maybe much later: Elisa? . . . Hector. . . hand moved! Rosario’s high voice this time—someone who very much wants me to live. I focus hard on his words, cling to them as to a lifeline.

Warmth. Pressure. My hand! Someone squeezes it.

I make my hand my whole world. Hand hand hand hand. I push through the sand and light and heat, and with every bit of strength I have in me, I squeeze back.



My next awakening is more real, my perception sharper, my pain so much more exquisite. My eyes are crusted closed, and I give up trying to open them.

My head is heavy and huge, like it has swollen to twice its normal size. The worst pain, though, is in my abdomen, just left of the Godstone.

I remember, and my breath comes in short gasps. The darkness, the gleaming steel edge, the dagger plummeting . . .

No. All this pain means that I am alive. I will think about that instead.

Even with my eyes closed, I know I’m in my bed. A cool night breeze caresses my fevered skin, bringing a sweet concoction of freesia and hibiscus. My balcony curtains whisper as they move; my bathing pool gurgles with a fresh infusion of water.

Someone found me, brought me here. Someone saved my life.

I sense movement against my shoulder. My stomach muscles clench involuntarily, which sends a wave of pain all the way to my breastbone. I force myself to relax, to breathe.

Then I turn my head to discover what rests at my shoulder. I get a noseful of soft, freshly washed hair, a blast of warm, sleeping breath.

I’d recognize his scent anywhere. It’s Rosario, my little prince. I wonder if he’s here by design or if he slipped his nurse again.

It makes my head swim to lift my neck, but I do it anyway, just enough for my lips to find his forehead. He snuggles closer, which helps me focus. I’m awake a long time. In pain. Glad to be alive.



When I stir again, my eyes open easily. I start to sit up but abandon the effort. Pain aside, my stomach muscles simply do not cooperate. What if the assassin’s dagger broke something inside me?

Rosario is gone, but I am surrounded by guards. One stands at the foot of my bed, two at my balcony, two at the entry door, one at the opening to my atrium.