The Crown of Embers(21)

The casket rises a finger’s breadth. Several guards jump out of the way as the pedestal and its coffin pivot soundlessly to the side. Fresh air blasts the room, and a torch winks out. The others waver but hold.

Holding Hector’s arm to steady myself, I peer over Mara’s shoulder and almost sneeze from the cool, briny air pricking my nostrils. Where the pedestal stood is a gaping hole. Stone steps, edged with green moss, spiral into darkness. The guard shifts his torch, the light glints off the green stuff, and I see that it’s actually a viscous mold.

“Ugh,” says Mara.

“Ugh,” Ximena agrees.

Hector says, “You were right, Majesty,” and I get the feeling he’s speaking for everyone else’s benefit. “You were right to trust your instincts, and you were right to trust Martín.”

His words warm me. Hector has always been my greatest ally. I catch his eye and nod slightly, hoping he understands how grateful I am to him right now.

“Well,” I say. “Let’s exonerate him by finding out where this leads.”

The guards press toward the secret stairway, eager to step into the dangerous unknown.

“Wait a moment,” I say. “Mara, return to my suite. Make excuses to any visitors. On your way, tell the sentry that I wish to be undisturbed as I pray.”

She nods with obvious relief, and Hector gestures for two guards to accompany her.

As they depart, he turns to me. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

“Doing something active is the best thing for my recovery.”

“I knew you’d say that.” The slightest smile curves his lips. “A walk in the monastery garden is something active. This is—”

“This is what I’m going to do.”

He sighs, resigned. “Times like this, I miss Alejandro. He was malleable.”

I choke back a startled laugh.

“Hold on to my shoulder. And if you change your mind—”

“Yes, let’s go.”

I glance over at Ximena, expecting her to protest, but she just stares at Hector, her face unreadable.

Fernando steps into the hole first, holding the torch aloft, and Hector follows. When my turn comes, I’m careful to land squarely on the balls of my feet to avoid slipping on the green slime. Moist air tickles my face, lifting strands of hair from my temples. We are sure to encounter water on this expedition, for the underground river is nearby, its rushing steady and monstrous, so ever-present that it is almost like silence.

The stair spirals—tight and steep. The close-in walls are covered with the slime, and I’m reluctant to touch them, even for balance. I find it’s easier to leave my hand at the crook of Hector’s shoulder and trust him to keep us both upright.

“There are scuffs in the slime,” Fernando says, and his voice echoes around us. “Someone passed this way.”

“There were no footprints in the tomb,” Hector asks.

“Did the floor look too clean, by chance?” I ask. “Who was first to investigate?”

Hector pauses on the step, and my knees bump the backs of his thighs. But he continues without answering. Maybe he doesn’t want to name the general within hearing of his men.

My wounded abdomen throbs with strain by the time the stair ends at a low tunnel. The sand floor is smoothly rippled, like a beach after the waves have retreated.

“It’s flooded at high tide,” Hector says as I’m drawing the same conclusion. “There’s the water line.” He points to the wall, where a wainscoting of barnacles reaches knee-high.

I swallow against disappointment. All trace of those who passed before will have washed away, and we are unlikely to find a clue here about my would-be assassin.

Fernando squeals, and we all jump. “Sorry,” he says, breathless. “Crab.” I’m suddenly very glad for my desert boots, which are impervious to slime and sand and scuttling creatures.

Something on the wall catches my eye—a carved rivulet in the stone. “What’s that?” I point.

Fernando lifts his torch to reveal a line of script, each letter the height of my pinky finger. My Godstone warms with recognition.

“It’s in the Lengua Classica,” Ximena says, her voice breathy with wonder. “From the Scriptura Sancta.”

I translate. “The gate that leads to life is narrow and small so that few find it.”

Ximena reaches out to trace the letters with her fingers. She was a scribe at the Monastery-at-Amalur before she became my nurse, and like me, she has a reverent interest in ancient texts and holy writings.

“Look at this loop here,” she says. “And the flip at the end of the accent mark. This style of script hasn’t been used for centuries.”