The next evening, escorted by Hector and several guards, I am hurrying toward my office for appointments with a few more suitors when Conde Eduardo intercepts us.
“May I walk with you, Your Majesty?” he asks.
Ugh. “Please.” Hector moves aside to give him room. I hope the conde is not planning to intrude on my meetings again.
Eduardo is formally dressed as always, with gold epaulets that mark him as both a high conde and a Quorum lord. My nose stings at the sharp mix of tallow and palm oil, which means his close-cropped black beard has suffered a recent repair.
“I hear you visited the prison tower yesterday,” he says.
“Hmm,” I say noncommittally.
“And that the young prince accompanied you.”
Once again, I curse myself for thoughtlessness. I should not have sent Storm to the tower, no matter how much I wanted to put him in his place. Now I must give an account or raise further suspicions. And I must say something that satisfies Eduardo enough that he won’t pursue little Rosario with his questions.
In response to my silence, he adds, “The prison guards say it was a man. Tall, cowled. He only stayed for a few hours before being escorted away by the Royal Guard.”
“Yes, that’s an accurate description.” My mind races. What to tell him? The truth will only lead to more questions about where the Invierno came from and what I want with him. I’m not ready to reveal the cavern beneath the Wallows or the fact that I’m using Storm to learn more about the Godstone.
Which leads me to the disconcerting realization that I do not trust Conde Eduardo, that my distrust goes well beyond that of mere political machinations. He is my own Quorum lord, a man who was a great ally during our war with Invierne. But my every instinct screams caution.
“Your Majesty—”
“Eduardo, obviously there are things we must discuss, but I’m afraid a quick jaunt through the hallway will not do justice to all I have to tell you.” I give him my winningest smile. “Do you think we could call a special Quorum meeting soon? Maybe two days hence?”
He frowns. “That’s the day of the Deliverance Gala.”
I feign surprised disappointment. “Of course. Thank you for reminding me. And everyone will be exhausted from the festivities the day after. So perhaps four days from now?”
I’ve trapped him neatly. He can’t push without seeming desperate or impolitic. Still frowning, he nods and says, “I’ll let everyone know and make arrangements.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“One last thing before I leave you to your errands.”
“Oh?” What now? I slow down, realizing I had unconsciously increased my pace as if to get away.
“Lord Liano has expressed a strong desire to see you again. I would take it as a personal favor if you would grant him a dance or two at the gala.”
I school my features into perfect pleasantness and say, “I would be happy to.”
He bows. “Until the gala, Your Majesty.”
I incline my head, and he strides away.
All my breath leaves me. I hadn’t known I was holding it.
“That was well done,” Hector whispers once we are a safe distance away.
Strange how I can brush off Ximena’s praise as the ravings of a madly affectionate nurse, but kind words from Hector feel like drops of water in the desert. “Thank you. But Hector, four days. That’s how long we have to come up with something plausible.”
“We’ll do it. Somehow.”
“You and I should meet with—” My Godstone turns to ice.
“Elisa?”
“Hector! Something—”
He whirls with lightning speed, placing himself in my path, as an arrow meant for me impales the back of his shoulder.
He gasps. The blood drains from his face.
Heedless of the shaft sticking from his flesh, he grabs me, pushes me against the wall. “To the queen!” he yells, and my guards hem me in on all sides in a smooth maneuver that comes only from long practice.
Hector turns to face whatever is coming, sword drawn, and now I see that the arrow is lower than I thought. Below his shoulder blade. In his ribs. Bright blood spreads across his tunic. Oh, God.
An arrow whistles down the corridor and clatters harmlessly against a forearm shield. Another thunks into a guard’s calf muscle. He cries out but does not break formation.
More arrows spear down the corridor from the opposite direction. We are trapped.
“Should I pursue?” a guard asks. “See if I can break through?”
“No!” Hector says. “They’re trying to lure us into doing exactly that. Stay tight. They may not attack openly.”
So we wait. Hector’s back is to me, and I am lodged between him and the wall. Sweat breaks out at the nape of his neck. His skin is as white as an Invierno’s.