The Crown of Embers(37)

“Alejandro’s suite?” he suggests. “It’s quite large, especially if we moved the bed to the side.”

“Good idea.” I grin in anticipation.

His lips twitch as he fights very hard to not grin right back.



The next day, the guards rearrange everything in the king’s suite to open up space, shoving the absurd tower bed against the wall. Several rugs cover the floor in an array of sunset colors and textures. The guards start to remove these, too, but Hector stops them.

“You’re mostly likely to be assaulted in the palace,” he says. “So we’ll practice with the rugs underfoot at first. And it’s not just assassins I’m worried about—a queen can just as easily be killed by a mob. So we’re going to focus on close-quarters encounters.”

Hector dismisses all the guards except for Fernando, telling them to take up their regular posts in my own rooms. He orders Fernando to guard the door outside the king’s suite.

I’ve given Mara the hour off, but Ximena settles on the bed to watch. Hector eyes her warily but says nothing. I sense the tension between them, but it is right that Ximena be here.

Hector and I face each other. Nervousness patters in my chest. I know it’s silly, but I’m afraid of looking like a fool in front of him.

He says, “If I were an enemy, and I started bearing down on you like this”—he draws his sword, stretches the tip toward me, takes a single step in my direction—“what would you do?”

Possibilities race through my head. Should I look for a weapon? Dodge and come up behind his guard? Trip him? Insult his mother?

I decide to be honest. “I would run,” I admit. “As fast as I could.”

“Good! That’s the right decision. Escaping should always be your first resort. Everything I teach you is a contingency, to be used only if your first resort fails. Clear?”

“Clear.” I glance over at Ximena to find her nodding approval.

“So, to start, I’d like you to get accustomed to holding a knife.” From a utility belt at his waist, he pulls a short, light dagger. It’s plain, with a wooden handle, but the blade shimmers from constant polishing and sharpening.

The blade.

My mouth goes dry.

He flips it in the air so that the blade is pinched between his thumb and forefinger and holds it out to me, handle first. “Go ahead,” he says. “Take it.”

I wipe my hand on my breeches. Slowly, heart pounding, I grasp the handle. It feels cold in my palm.

“You should have a knife on you at all times,” he says. “We may have to adjust your wardrobe to accommodate one. If you keep it hidden, you’ll have the advantage of surprise in a close-quarters encounter.”

I stare at the thing in my hand.

“I’ll teach you where to stab someone to inflict maximum damage,” he says.

I stabbed someone before. I hated it. So intimate, so destructive. Afterward, there was blood everywhere.

“You’ll notice that the edge is slightly serrated.” He points to a couple of indentions near the tip. “That way, the blade does damage when you withdraw it as well.”

The dagger that slid across Humberto’s throat had a serrated edge. I remember it as if a painter had captured the moment and stretched out the canvas before my eyes. I wonder if the blade that plunged into my own body was serrated. Is that why I required so many stitches? It certainly went in easily enough.

My stomach roils with nausea. I swallow hard against it even as my cheeks go clammy cold.

“And since you are not a large person, I’ll teach you how to get maximum leverage and force for stabbing. There are a few tricks—”

I drop the knife. It bounces off a rug, clatters to the stone floor. I wipe my hand on my pants again, as if I can wipe away the sensation memory.

“Elisa? What—”

“I can’t,” I whisper, looking everywhere but at him. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t understand. This was your idea. And a good one. You should learn—”

“I’m not sure I can use a knife.” I stare at it on the floor. Maybe I could work up to it again. I just won’t think about it plunging into my own stomach. I can do it. I can be strong.

“It’s the best way to defend yourself,” he insists.

I’m about to tell him I’ll give it another try when Ximena says, “It’s really not.”

He turns on her, brow furrowed.

Ximena scoots off the bed and lands heavily on her feet. She lumbers toward us, and I marvel that this large older woman is capable of protecting me. I’m eager to see what she’ll do.

She bends over to pick up the dagger and hands it to Hector, hilt first. “Attack me,” she says calmly.