I nod, considering.
Ximena says, “I agree. It was one thing to be followed by the servants of a pouting Quorum lord. An assassin is another thing entirely.” She looks down pityingly at the creature clinging to her.
“Hector, when is the soonest we could split off?” I ask.
“If we can make Puerto Verde, a few days south of here, I might be able to commission a ship. I know a captain who’s scheduled to be in port soon with a batch of early-harvest wine.”
Probably wine from his home in Ventierra. “Someone you trust, then?” I ask.
He nods. “With my life and honor.”
“Then we continue on to Puerto Verde and split off there. We’ll keep a close eye on Franco and his group until then and adapt as necessary.” I look around at everyone. “Unless I hear convincing counsel otherwise?”
No one has anything to add.
“Then let’s get moving.”
As Hector and I climb back into the carriage, I glance northward, along the shimmering highway. It’s strangely devoid of travelers, except for the small group following us. They are barely more than motes on the horizon. So there is no reason, I tell myself, no reason at all, to feel as if the assassin’s gaze is boring holes into my back.
Chapter 19
AFTER an evening meal of dried tilapia and dates, I sit cross-legged just inside the threshold of my tent while Ximena unpins my hair to let it down into a more comfortable sleeping braid. While she works, Hector comes over and flips out his bedroll in front of my door. He sets his pack beside it, shoving it down into the sand so that it doesn’t tip over. I watch him carefully, fascinated by the way he moves. Every motion is so strong and sure.
When he pulls off his overshirt, my heart speeds up. His bare shoulders flex as he reaches beneath one arm to unlace his breastplate, and I swallow hard against the sudden moisture in my mouth as he lifts his breastplate over his head and sets it on top of his pack. His back is broad and taut with muscle, his waist trim. His sun-darkened skin shimmers faintly, and even though our camp is dimly lit, I see his scars, several of them. Most are tiny white lines, but one is larger and jagged, running diagonally across his lower back. I have an overwhelming urge to trace its length.
Instead I place my fingertips to my own mark, just left of the Godstone. Both of us, scarred. I wonder how he got his? I want to know about it more than anything. I want him to share that part of himself with me. I want—
Ximena’s fingers grip my chin. She forces my gaze to hers and regards me sternly for a long moment. “It is a hard thing to be queen, my sky,” she says.
I blink up at her. She’s warning me. She wants him for Alodia, after all. And she’s right. It would be a smart match.
But the very thought hollows out my chest, leaving me empty and aching.
Not trusting my voice, I just nod. She kisses my forehead, then goes off to attend her fake queen.
Ignoring Hector, I crawl into my tent and lie down on my bedroll with my head at the door. I lie there a long time, listening to him breathe.
Minutes later, or maybe an hour, I raise my head and whisper, “Hector?”
“Yes?” he whispers back.
His face is so near. Just the space of a breath away. I swallow hard. “My sister. Alodia. She has . . .” Oh, God, it’s so hard to say, but I can’t bear to pretend away such a huge thing. I inhale through my nose and try again. “My sister has made inquiries about you. In regards to a potential marriage agreement.”
A long pause. Then, “Well, that would explain why she opened correspondence with me.”
“Oh!” Pain, sharp and hard, squeezes my chest. Alodia already made her move then, before writing to me.
“She’s like you, you know,” he says. “Intelligent. Beautiful. But . . .”
“And will you . . . that is, are you considering . . .” I can’t finish. I’m not sure I want to know.
He looses a shuddering breath. Then he says, “I will do whatever my queen commands.”
Of course he will.
Something overtakes me, desperation maybe, and before I know it I’m slipping my hand past the tent flap. My fingers find his wrist. It shifts, and suddenly my hand is wrapped in one of Hector’s much larger ones. Something about his gentle strength brings tears to my eyes.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him I love him. Instead I say, waveringly, “I told Alodia that you are the best man I know.”
He gives my hand a squeeze. “Thank you,” he whispers.
I fall asleep like that, my fingers woven with Hector’s. Belén does not visit me. Or if he does, he chooses not to intrude.
Two days later, the desert cedes to rolling coastal hills. The sand still stretches east as far as the eye can see, but the hills along the coast mark the beginning of the southern holdings, the most temperate part of my kingdom. As we climb, the land beside the road turns from sand to hard dirt that is dotted with dry grass and the occasional scrub tree.