“Maybe they’re afraid of it?” Lady Jada offers. “Her Majesty destroyed several of their most powerful sorcerers with it.”
Tristán shrugs. “There have been bearers, Godstones, every hundred years for two millennia. Why go to extremes only now?”
I feel I should interject something, though I don’t know what. They’re talking about me, the most important part of my life, as if I’m not even here. There are probably exchanges like this going on all over the country.
My Godstone. Me. A dinner-table conversation. I suppose that as queen, I belong to everyone a little.
“You know what I think?” Lady Jada says.
“I would love to know,” I tell her sincerely.
She lifts her chin. “I think they want this land back.”
“Oh?”
“I would be a poor mayor’s wife if I didn’t know my history,” she says primly. “My tutor says that a few centuries after God dropped the first families onto this world, one family went mad with ambition, gobbling up land and resources through marriage and war. But the others united against them and drove them out. They fled into the wilderness, the curse of God upon them, and became the Inviernos.
“They were driven out,” she continues. “Everyone knows Brisadulce is the most beautiful city in the world. I think the Inviernos want it back.”
Her history is mostly right, but her assessment of our capital is not. Brisadulce is an isolated city, surrounded on all sides by natural disaster, forced to trade for the bulk of its supplies. It remains our capital from long tradition and history and maybe nostalgia. But the land itself is impractical, even useless. Why would the Inviernos want it when they could pursue Puerto Verde or the lush rolling hills of the southern holdings instead?
I say solemnly, “A well-conceived theory. Maybe you’re right.”
Ximena chokes on her wine.
The kitchen master enters, accompanied by wait staff carrying trays piled with shredded chicken, corn tortillas, and fresh fruit slices. My mouth waters to see honey-coconut scones, my favorite. They’re still hot from the oven; the honey glaze melts down the sides.
Lady Jada claps her hands. “Pollo pibil! It was the king’s favorite, I hear.” She points to the plate of chicken.
“It was,” Hector says. “He first encountered it in my father’s hacienda.” At my questioning look, he says, “One summer King Nicolao’s ship got caught in a storm and ran onto the reef. He and Prince Alejandro took shelter with us while the hull was repaired. It’s how we met.”
I’ve never heard this story. I wonder how many other things I don’t know about Hector.
Father Alentín says, “You must have impressed him greatly, to have been named his page. And later, to be appointed commander of the guard. You’re the youngest in history.”
Hector shrugs, looking sheepish. “It was mostly an accident.”
“What do you mean?” the priest asks.
“I had two older brothers, and we used to spar with toy swords in the courtyard. The morning Alejandro was there, one of them knocked me off my feet, and the other starting teasing me, poking at me with his sword. It was all good-natured, nothing that hadn’t happened a hundred times before. But Alejandro observed the whole thing through his bedroom window, and he came barreling into the courtyard, yelling at them to back off, that he had just named me his personal page and how dare they threaten the royal page?”
“He thought he was saving you,” I say.
Hector nods, his eyes warm with the memory. “I was only twelve years old at the time, so naturally I thought he was the most wonderful person who ever lived.”
“But eventually the two of you became friends in truth,” I say.
“Yes, quickly. He was lonely. An only child. It was good for him to have a younger boy around, someone he could easily whip in swordsmanship.” He adds haughtily, “That only lasted a couple of years, of course.”
I laugh. “Of course. He told me you were the most fearsome warrior he knew.”
“He did?” A shield drops from his face, and I see its truer expression, as if he and sorrow are steady companions.
“He did,” I say gently. “He spoke of you often while he lay in hospice. Becoming his page may have been an accident, but becoming lord-commander certainly was not. He said it was the easiest choice he ever made, even though you were so young.”
Hector swallows hard, nodding, and turns away to hide his face.
“This is fabulous,” says Lady Jada, and I jump. For a moment, it felt like Hector and I were alone. She adds, “The pollo pibil, I mean. Your kitchen master is to be commended.”