“Watch me.”
He grins.
We spend several more minutes stomping, with each foot, and then he teaches me to dislocate someone’s kneecap. By the time Ximena calls a halt, my heels ache, the muscles in my calves and shins tremble, and the scar on my abdomen stings with overstretching.
I’m surprised to realize I enjoyed myself. I rotate my ankles experimentally, relishing the burn. I feel strong in spite of my fatigue. Powerful, even. And Hector has always been easy to be with, since that day more than a year ago when he took a lonely princess on a tour of the palace to help her feel at home. I hope we have our next lesson soon.
Chapter 10
I’VE neglected Father Alentín and Queen Cosmé’s delegation long enough to give offense. It’s especially insulting given that he now quietly aids Ximena in researching the Godstone. So I decide to host a small dinner in my private dining room, hoping to relax in the company of friends, share stories, rediscover the ease of having close companions.
But the mayordomo insists I also invite Conde Tristán and his foppish attaché, along with Lady Jada, whose Quorum vote I may need if we do not find a permanent replacement soon. He’s right—it’s the strategic thing to do. But my anticipation is replaced by dread. I had so hoped to indulge in an evening of not being queen.
By design, I am the last to arrive, for I can’t stomach the idea of making idle chatter while waiting to be served. As is tradition in Joya d’Arena, the table is low and surrounded by huge sitting cushions. Not for the first time, I consider drawing up a royal edict demanding the use of proper tables and chairs.
Hector and Ximena seat themselves on either side of me. I frown to think that I can’t even enjoy a small private dinner without their protective hedge.
I nod to Father Alentín and Belén, sitting at the other end. Lady Jada is directly across from me, and after greeting me warmly, she goes right back to gazing shamelessly at Conde Tristán sitting beside her. But the conde doesn’t notice because his gaze fixed on me the moment I entered and now does not waver.
I sigh as I reach for my glass of rose-hip wine, anticipating a long and tedious evening. If it were just Alentín and Belén, I would know exactly what to say, exactly how to be. I find that my anger with them has faded, so eager am I for the familiar.
To my relief, Conde Tristán is the one to open conversation. “Lady Ximena, how goes the late-night studying in the monastery?”
Everyone freezes. Belén becomes as dark and coiled as a storm cloud.
The conde looks around at us in alarm. “I’ve said something, haven’t I? Something wrong?”
Lady Jada says, “Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing. We just need to get to know each other.” She turns to me. “Isn’t that right, Your Majesty?”
My voice is dead flat when I say, “Your Grace, do tell me how you came to know about Ximena’s studies.”
He and his herald exchange a confused glance. The conde says, “I often walk at night, after everyone has gone to sleep. Lately I’ve been going to the monastery to pray. Last night I saw Lady Ximena with the ambassador from Basajuan.” He indicates Alentín with a lift of his chin. “I just thought . . . I know she used to be a scribe. . . . That is to say, I’ve started studying the scriptures myself lately, and I thought to chat about . . .”
I laugh the moment a good lie comes to mind. It’s a forced sound that will fool no one who knows me, but the conde’s face relaxes at once. “I didn’t mean to alarm Your Grace,” I say. “It’s just that we’ve kept it quiet intentionally. You see, not many people know that Basajuan’s monastery archive took some damage during the war. We’ve been working with them to restore what documents we can, even scribing new ones as necessary.”
He nods. “I’m glad to hear it. Small gestures will go a long way toward building goodwill with Queen Cosmé. Which is vital now that her country stands between us and Invierne.”
“Indeed.” I raise my wineglass. “To continued goodwill between Basajuan and Joya d’Arena.”
Everyone raises their glasses and echoes the sentiment with polite relief.
“Were I you, though,” the conde muses, “I would be scouring the archive for clues about the Godstone.”
I stare at him. Is he bringing up these things out of innocent coincidence? Or is there a purpose to his comments?
“Why is that?” Ximena asks, and I can’t be the only one who recognizes the dangerous edge in her voice.
“Well, the animagus, for one. The one who martyred himself. Invierne still wants that stone desperately. I must confess that I am deeply curious as to why. And I’m not the only one. The whole city is talking about it. Maybe the whole country.”