The Crown of Embers(29)

I pause in the threshold and say to Alentín, “Weekly services will be held tomorrow in the monastery. You and Belén and Matteo should attend.”

His eyes are wide. “Yes, Eli—Your Majesty.”

They all regard me as if I am a stranger, and a creeping emptiness worms through my chest. I am nearly returned to my suite before I recognize the feeling as loneliness.





Chapter 8


MARA is stretched out on my bed, Doctor Enzo hovering over her as he tucks in the edges of a bandage. The guards have turned politely away, as they do when I am dressing.

I grab her hand. “How do you feel?”

“Rather like I just split in half.”

Enzo snorts. “Well short of half. Although stitching scar tissue is a complicated and delicate process. I used seven stitches this time, all quite small thanks to a new needle I commissioned.”

Seven? This time? I’m about to ask about the other times when Ximena hurries in from the atrium. “I have everything set to rights. Mara made quite a mess when she fell.”

Mara squeezes my hand. “Who was it? Anyone from Father Alentín’s camp? I was so hoping—”

“Alentín himself is here.” I hush her startled exclamation. “But there is more, which I will tell you in a moment.”

Her eyes narrow, and she nods.

Doctor Enzo pulls Mara’s chemise down over the bandage and straightens. “Light work only for the girl,” he tells me. “For a week. Bandages must be changed daily, the salve applied each time. Would you like me to look at you too, since I’m here?” He stares toward my abdomen, and his fingers twitch with eagerness. “I hear you’ve been up and about against my recommendation. I predict you have continued to heal anyway. I consulted some records in the archive of previous bearers, and—”

“Later, Enzo. You are dismissed.”

He mutters disjointed grumblings as he exits the suite.

Mara struggles to sit up. I give her arm a gentle pull, and she slides from the bed onto her feet.

I relate my meeting with Alentín. Ximena’s eyes narrow at the news that another animagus burned himself alive. And when Mara learns that Belén is in the palace, she collapses back onto the bed, looking dazed.

Ximena paces. “I don’t like this,” she murmurs. “Just how many animagi must there be for Invierne to sacrifice them so easily? And Belén. He needs to be watched. Which means we must assign some of the Royal Guard to their quarters. After the lockdown, I’m not sure we can trust the palace garrison.”

“Which means,” Hector says, “using some of the men who are assigned to your own protection.”

Fernando, from his post at the door, clears his throat and says to Hector, “My lord?”

“Yes?”

“There is not one among us who would balk at a double watch.” I gape at him, realizing he must have come straight here after poking around in the catacombs. Do my guards ever rest?

But they are all nodding agreement.

“I’m glad to know it,” Hector says. “It may come to that.”

In the silence that follows, I know what everyone is thinking: Before the war, the Royal Guard was a full garrison of sixty. Now, only thirty-two remain. No, I correct myself. Thirty-one, with the loss of Martín.

Determining the right size for a Royal Guard is a delicate balance. Too many, and my court would distrust me, fearing what I could do with my own personal army. But right now I don’t have nearly enough. It makes me weak, vulnerable. And everyone knows it.



I tell my mayordomo that I’m ready to ease back into a schedule. The first thing I want to do is address the recent spate of riots, but he insists I begin by interviewing suitors, starting with Conde Tristán of Selvarica. The conde is here for next week’s Deliverance Gala and has taken to accosting the mayordomo in the halls with regular requests for an audience.

I agree to see him first thing in the morning, telling myself that everything else can wait another day, and the mayordomo wilts with relief.

So I rise early, and while Mara sleeps in, I sit on my vanity stool while Ximena sculpts my hair into an elaborate coif of loops and curls. I’m holding up my neck curls so she can work the clasp of a sapphire-drop necklace—a piece I inherited from Queen Rosaura—when she says, “You’re very nervous and fidgety this morning.”

I hadn’t noticed the fidgeting, but my stomach is indeed in knots. “Yes,” I admit. She finishes clasping the necklace, and I drop the curls. Our eyes meet in the mirror. “Oh, Ximena, the appearance of the animagus, the assassination attempt—they have weakened my position greatly.”