The Crown of Embers(19)

“Only if you want to.”

“We could trade. A nightmare for a nightmare.”

His gaze turns inward while he considers. When he finally looks at me, I catch the barest shift of his eyes as he studies every part of my face.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. At last he says, “I think it would be best if you discussed your dreams with Ximena or Mara.”

The hurt that wells up my throat is unexpected and inexplicable. “Maybe I will,” I whisper. “Thank you for your counsel.”



During the next couple of days, I think hard about what Hector said. I try, twice, to talk to Ximena about my dreams. But the words clot in my mouth. It’s not fear so much as shame that stills my tongue. I can’t bear to be weak and frightened in front of everyone. I am queen now. I should be so much braver, so much stronger.

But then comes the night when the knife is so real, so cold and sharp against my skin for the barest instant before it is an exploding fire in my belly. Then the nightmare flashes to a different place, a different knife, a different terror. I am helpless, my limbs leaden, as the dagger pricks at Humberto’s precious throat. “You could have stopped this, Elisa,” he tells me, just before the blade whisks across his neck and Humberto’s hot blood spurts all over my crown, which is suddenly in my hands.

This time, my waking screams are cut off by vomit spewing from my mouth.

Mara and Ximena rush to help me clean up. I try to rise, and they hold me down, insisting they will have me set to rights in no time. But I thrust them back with more strength than I ought to have. Clutching the bedpost, I drag myself over the side and gain my feet.

My legs quiver with disuse, but they do not betray me. “Find Hector,” I order to no one in particular. The vomit is already a cold plaster gluing my nightgown to my skin, and my nose stings from the rotten-spice scent. “I’m going to wash,” I tell them. “And then . . . and then . . .” I have no choice. I have to face this black monster of terror before it eats me from the inside out. “And then, I must return to the catacombs. Tonight.”

I bathe quickly, with Mara’s help. Ximena plies me with a gown, but I refuse. “Pants,” I say. “And my linen blouse.” I’ll not be hampered by a skirt—it’s all I can do to remain steady as it is—and I know I’ll feel more comfortable, more capable, in my desert garb.

Hector arrives as Ximena finishes lacing my camel-hair boots, and I rise to greet him. “Sorry to rouse you,” I say. I feel guilty that I’ve decided on an excursion during the one night he allows himself to rest.

“A queen needn’t ever apologize to her guard. Where are we going?”

“The catacombs. I need to . . . to see the place again.”

“We scoured it a dozen times. We found nothing.”

Ximena weaves my hair into one long braid down my back. I have so much hair that she usually weaves two, one atop the other, but she senses my urgency. “We found nothing? Or the general?” I ask. “Forgive me if I don’t trust him to be thorough.”

Hector opens his mouth as if to say something, but changes his mind.

I wave off the question. “Also . . . there’s something else. Like a memory that’s almost there but not.”

My nurse ties the end of my braid and gives my back a gentle pat. Hector says, “Then we go. But do let me carry you if you tire.”

“Of course. Thank you.” I turn away to hide my flushing face, remembering how he carried me in our failed rush to save Martín. It would be easy to let him do it again. For a moment, I consider pretending to be weaker than I am.

But I shake it off. I’m already in danger of being thought a feeble queen, and I will not pretend weakness. Not ever, not for anyone.

I hold my head high as my entourage—Hector, Ximena, Mara, and a handful of guards—array themselves in a protective circle around me. In careful formation, we exit the suite and hurry to the ground floor.

A sentry I’ve never met before stands in Martín’s place. Anger at him boils up inside me, but I recognize the feeling as unfair and manage a nod as he bows low. Hector insists on leading us into the stairwell, and I let him. The steps are tricky, and my legs feel like date jelly, but I put a hand on Hector’s shoulder and use him as a crutch as I descend.

The yawning jaws of the Hall of Skulls seem to pulse in the flickering candle flames. Mara is rigid beside me, and I find strange comfort in the fact that someone is as frightened as I am.

But the fear dissipates as we enter Alejandro’s tomb. It’s so different than in my nightmares, crowded with my companions this time, several bearing torches. It’s bright and warm, the air still. I feel everyone’s eyes on me as I wander through the caskets, my fingers brushing the silk banners. I’m not sure what I’m hoping to find, how this excursion will help. When the toes of my boots encounter a large dark stain on the stone floor, I freeze.