The Crown of Embers(56)

I hardly notice when he closes the door behind him. I’m staring at Hector’s face, at the eyelashes curling against his cheeks, his slightly open mouth, the dark stubble along his jawline.

My skin is flushed, from the still-glowing hearth, from the Godstone’s responses to my prayers, from fear. He is unlikely to survive. I crawl to his bedside and kneel there. I reach for his hand and clasp it tight. He does not stir.

A great hollow has opened in my chest where my heart and lungs ought to be, and oh, it hurts. It’s like the breath-stealing pain beneath my breastbone that comes of days walking the desert without enough to drink. It’s like a dagger to the gut. It’s like dying.

I rest my forehead on his knuckles. Please, God, help him get better. Don’t let him die. My Godstone throbs, but I know it’s not enough. How many times have I prayed for a life, only for God to turn away?

I will do anything. I’d give him my own life and health if I could. He’s a good man, the best man. He deserves to live. Please.

I imagine pouring my own life force out of my body, through our clasped hands, filling Hector, knitting his wound.

The Godstone becomes a fire. I cry out as white-hot pain zings up my spine.

After a moment the pain lessens. Something else takes its place, something like water or light or desert wind, leaching up from the ground, pouring into my Godstone. My body shivers with it until I feel like I will burst.

Hope dares to spark inside me, for I have felt this once before—when I killed the animagi with my Godstone amulet.

I don’t know where the power came from or how I’ve managed to channel it again, but my body hums with possibility, with potential, as if the power building inside me is a huge boulder about to tumble off a cliff.

God, what do I do?

Hector’s fingers twitch. I grip tighter, press my lips to the back of his hand, concentrating on the power inside me.

Live. Please live.

Nothing happens.

Think, Elisa! Last time, I quoted God’s own words from holy scripture. It became a conduit for the power of my Godstone, focusing it where I needed.

Aloud, I say, “The gate that leads to life is narrow and small so that few find it.” My Godstone lurches, and the force inside me begins a slow spin. Encouraged, I add, “For the righteous right hand of God is a healing hand; blessed is he who seeks renewal, for he shall be restored.”

Power trickles out of me, from my hand into Hector’s. My heart pounds with excitement, with hope. I wrack my mind for more.

The “Prayer of Service”! “Take my life, O God, as a consecrated offering, holy and pleasing. Make me your vessel of service . . .” The power begins to fade. “No! God, please no.”

I gaze at Hector’s face, memorizing every detail—his pale lips, the line of his jaw, the crisscross of scars on one cheek. And suddenly I have it. The perfect verse.

My heart swells with knowledge as certain as the tides. I whisper, “For love is more beautiful than rubies, sweeter than honey, finer than the king’s wine. And no one has greater love than he who gives his own life for a friend. My love is like perfume poured out—”

The floodgates open. Power rushes out of me, into Hector. He arches his back, and his eyes fly open, showing nothing but bloodshot white. Then he crashes back to the bed.

I have just enough time to notice that his breathing is easier, that color returns to his face, before my vision blurs with exhaustion and dizziness. My heart slows to a single thunderous beat every few seconds. Too slow. Am I dying? Have I given my own life for Hector’s?

A good trade, I think, as I collapse against the bed, my cheek thudding against his forearm.



I wake to a hand on my head, fingers tangling in my unraveling braid. A man’s fingers, rough and thick. They trail down my cheek, stroke my jawline, brush my lips.

I raise my head and blink to clear my eyes. Hector is awake, staring at me with a strange expression. He does not move his hand from my face but lets it linger, his thumb gently tracing my chin.

My relief is so huge it feels like I can breathe again.

“You stayed,” he says, and his voice is hoarse.

“And I’m not dead!” I say wonderingly. At the confusion on his face, I hastily add, “How do you feel?”

“Like I got punched in the back with Captain Lucio’s gauntlet. Which is odd. I should feel worse.”

“It worked!” His hand has still not left my face, and I have the urge to lean into it, kiss his fingers, maybe.

“What do you mean?”

“My Godstone. I knew it had healing properties, but I didn’t know if it would work on someone else.”

His hand drops, and he sits straight up, wincing. “You thought you were giving your life to me.”