The Crown of Embers(4)

The scent of burning flesh fills the air as the remaining crowd scatters. The horses rear and plunge away, trampling everyone in their path, the carriage rattling behind.

“To the queen!” Hector yells above my head.

A wind gusts through the amphitheater, extinguishing the biggest flames and flinging bits of hair and robe into the sky. The animagus’ charred body topples off the stair and plunges to the ground, trailing smoke and sparks.

I turn to rest my forehead against Hector’s breastplate and close my eyes as the chaos around us gradually dissipates. The chill of my Godstone fades, and I breathe deep of warm desert air and of relief.

Hector says, “We must get you back to the palace.”

“Yes, of course,” I say, pulling away from him and standing tall. “Let’s go.” Maybe if I pretend hard enough, I will feel strong in truth.

My guards form a wedge of clanking armor and drawn swords. As we begin the long, steep trek home, a bit of white robe, edged with glowing cinders, flutters to the ground at my feet.





Chapter 2


I pray during the walk back, thanking God for my life and the lives of my guards, asking him to keep us safe just a little while longer. But as we approach the palace, Hector holds up a fist to halt our procession.

The portcullis is dropped and barred. Hundreds gather outside. Some yell and stomp, rattling the iron bars. Others stand quietly, carrying blankets, packs, small children. Their number swells as others trickle in from the adjoining streets and alleys.

“They think we’re being attacked,” I say, my voice catching. “They want protection within the palace walls.”

“Maybe we are,” Ximena says quietly. “Maybe it’s war all over again.”

“Back away quickly,” Hector says. “But no sudden moves.” I hear what he’s not saying—if the desperate throng discovers me, I could be mobbed.

We crowd into a narrow alley between two townhomes. Hector whips off the bright red cloak marking him as a Royal Guard and turns it inside out so the softer, paler side shows. “Put this on. That gown is much too noticeable.”

The cloak smells of Hector—oiled steel and worn leather and spiced wine. After I fasten the claps at my neck, I gesture to the others. “All of you. Turn your cloaks inside out. Ximena, can you hide my crown?” I lift it from my head, and she untangles my hair from the various pins keeping it in place.

She holds it out for a moment, considering. She slips behind me, out of sight of the guards, and when she reveals herself again, the front of her skirt is lumpy and distended. “At least it doesn’t look like a crown,” she says with an apologetic shrug.

“Now what?” I say. “If the portcullis is barred, the stables are surely closed off as well.”

“The kitchens?” a guard suggests.

“Or the receiving hall,” says another.

Hector shakes his head. “The garrison is trained to lock down all entrances during drills.”

Any member of the Royal Guard would be allowed admittance without question. There is a reason he’s not sending someone to the palace to fetch a larger escort and a windowless carriage. “You think it’s no accident,” I say, “that someone ordered the palace locked down before I was safely inside. You think the crowd may not be the greater danger.”

His gaze on me is solemn. “I’ll take no chances with you.”

“The escape tunnel!” I say. “Leading from the king’s suite to the merchants’ alley. Alejandro said only a few know of it.” I swallow against the memory of long days spent in my husband’s suite as he lay dying. I paid close attention to his every word, storing them up in my heart so I could someday pass them along to his son, Rosario.

Hector rubs at his jaw. “It’s in disrepair. I haven’t been inside since Alejandro and I were boys.”

It will have to do. “Let’s go,” I order.

We leave the shadow of the brick alley and step into sunshine. From habit, the guards fall into perfect formation.

“No, no.” I motion vaguely. “Relax. Don’t look so . . . guardlike.”

They drop formation at once, glancing at one another shamefaced. Hector drapes an arm around my shoulder as if we are out for a companionable stroll. He leans down and says, “So. Horrible heat we’ve had lately.”

I can’t help grinning, even as I note the tenseness of his shoulders, the way his eyes roam the street and his free hand wraps around the hilt of his sword. I say, “I’d prefer to discuss the latest fashion craze of jeweled stoles.”

He laughs. “No, you wouldn’t.”

We reach the merchants’ alley without incident. It’s eerily silent, the booths vacant, the cobblestone street empty of rumbling carts. It’s a national holiday. This place should be filled with shoppers, acrobats, and beggars, with coconut scones and sticky date pops and meat pies.