The Crown of Embers(15)
I demand an accounting from General Luz-Manuel for the tax increase. He insists that he couldn’t wait. His queen was not expected to survive, and can he be blamed for acting quickly when so many of Brisadulce’s unemployed citizens are desperate for the construction work the increase would provide?
Though I’m unable to find fault with his arguments, I can’t shake the phantom memory of the general looming over my unconscious body, eager for my death. Something else is taking shape beneath his placid surface of diplomatic politeness. I’m sure of it.
Prince Rosario visits often at first, sneaking out of the nursery to be with me while the guards pretend not to notice. But once the boy has assured himself that I’m no longer in danger of dying like his father, his visits grow less frequent. I don’t mind. It’s hard to have him at my bedside without the freedom to ruffle his hair or play a quick game of cards.
Word has spread like wildfire that I seek a husband—even though I’ve made no official announcement. Gifts pour in from the nobility—especially potential suitors—and there’s a disconcerting intimacy about them. “Sapphire earrings to match the blue of your Godstone,” one note reads. “Since you are a scholar of holy scripture, here is a centuries-old copy of the Belleza Guerra,” says another. So many strangers know so much about me, and they shower me with priceless gifts, just on the chance of catching my attention.
No one is sure what to do with the gifts, so Ximena shoves them into a corner of my atrium for later sorting.
I also get notes that are unnerving. A journeyman tanner blames me for not having enough hide to practice his craft and calls for my abdication. A young widow with four children begs for a job. An acolyte from the Monastery-at-Puerto Verde sends a withered black rose, saying that the Godstone’s blasphemous sorcery blackens my soul and makes a mockery of our most precious sacrament.
Several letters claim that because I allowed the eastern holdings to secede and form their own nation, I should do the same with the southern holdings. One letter boldly declares the south to be an independent nation.
General Luz-Manuel promises that each letter will be investigated for sedition and any true threat to my person will be dealt with. But even his assurances fill me with misgiving.
Every night, I dream of my assassin. In my nightmares, the catacombs are a huge black emptiness. I’m moving forward, arms outstretched against the dark, when I see a wicked glimmer. I have a flash of horrified understanding before the assassin becomes an inferno, and his flaming blade is plunging into my stomach, tearing me in half, and I scream and scream. . . .
Someone is always at my bedside when I wake. My ladies calm me with gentle words and cool, soothing hands, whispering that I’ll heal faster if I don’t try to leave the bed, that I’m safe now. But I can’t return to sleep until Ximena has read to me from the Scriptura Sancta, or Mara has plied me with a cup of spiced wine, or Hector has checked the balcony for intruders.
One afternoon I’m startled by a commotion outside. I hear shouting, the ring of steel, tromping boots.
Beside me, Ximena continues to loop and pull with her embroidery needle, but she meets my gaze with her own puzzled look.
Lord Hector bursts through the door. “Elisa! I need your help.”
“What is it?” Fear shoots through me. The last time I saw him so wide-eyed and breathless, the animagi were burning down the city gate.
“It’s an execution. I tried to stop it, but General Luz-Manuel—”
“Whose execution?” I demand. “Why?”
“Martín. General Luz-Manuel found him guilty of conspiring with Invierne to assassinate you. He sentenced him to death by beheading.” He leans over and places his hands on the foot of my bed. “Elisa, he’s one of my own men. I trained him myself. He would never harm you.”
I try to rise from the bed. “Martín would never . . . he was going to name his baby—”
Ximena pushes me back down. “You’re supposed to rest!”
I struggle against her. “Hector, help me up. Take me out there if you have to carry me yourself.” The blood pumping through my veins makes my thoughts spin faster, and I revel in the clarity of it.
I could try to stop the execution with a missive, but there might not be time to authenticate the message. And Martín would forever be known as the man who may have allowed an assassin to attack the queen—unless I declare my belief in his innocence before the entire city.
Ximena steps out of the way, her face carved in stone, as Hector reaches beneath my shoulders and knees and lifts me to his chest as if I am a small child. My boundless nightgown tangles at his knees.