The Crown of Embers(86)

He looks up, startled, blinking sweat from his eyes.

“Rest,” I say. “Both of you. We are alone and safe for now.”

“We have to keep going,” he says. “Felix’s ship will—”

“On my order, you will rest. I need you sharp. Mara and I will row for a bit. And if a ship comes into view, we’ll rouse you.”

He lifts his shirt to wipe his eyes, and I can’t help notice his stomach, taut and tanned from the training yard. I swallow hard.

Hector rests the oar on his lap and rolls his shoulders to loosen them. “Have you rowed before?”

“No.”

“Mara?”

“Me neither,” she says.

“I refuse to row,” Storm says.

I say, “We’ll figure it out. Close your eyes so you don’t see how embarrassingly awkward we are at it.” I’m gratified to see his glimmer of a smile.

“Trade places with me,” Hector says.

We both stand, and the boat lurches. He grabs me to keep me steady, and we manage to squeeze past each other. I settle on the bench and grab the oar, saying, “There’s plenty of water in my pack. Help yourself. You should probably rinse the water skin first, though; it’s covered in sewage.”

He does exactly that while Mara and Belén trade places; then, using my pack as a pillow, he slides under the bench and closes his eyes. Belén stretches out beside him. Mara takes up her oar, and after some useless splashing and a few hard knocks against the side of the boat, we slowly push south.

As the sun rises, the surface of the water becomes so bright hot as to be blinding. How will we ever find a single ship out here? What if it takes us days? Will our drinking water last that long? Though surrounded by water, we are as alone and barren as if we traveled the deep desert.

In no time, everything burns with effort; my back, my shoulders, my wrists. My palms and fingertips are rubbed raw. Every stroke makes me gasp for breath. Mara and I switch sides so we can abuse a different set of muscles, but even that mild reprieve does not last long.

To keep my mind off the pain, I gaze at Hector. He sleeps soundly, his chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths. His features have softened, and the hair at his temples curls loosely as it dries. His mouth is slightly parted.

My lips tingle to remember his kiss. It was desperate and tender and wholly unexpected—and as easy as breathing.

Later, when we’ve found this mysterious ship of Hector’s and are safely away, when I have time to rest and worry and a quiet corner to hide in, I will coldly remember that being a queen means being strategic. And I will imagine sending off the man I love to marry my sister. I’ll rehearse it in my head, maybe. Get used to the feeling.

But not now. Now, as I row toward an uncertain destination, his kiss still throbbing on my lips, I luxuriate in watching him sleep.





Chapter 21


STORM is the one who spots the ship. “There!” He points.

I twist and shade my face to peer through the brightness. The coast curls southeast, hiding the bulk of the ship, but I can see a long bowsprit, a beak head painted red, and what might be a foresail, hanging limply in the windless morning. I’m caught between hope and alarm.

Please, God, let it be the right ship.

I lean forward to shake Hector. He startles awake, whipping his hand to his scabbard.

“Watch your head,” I tell him, putting my hand between his forehead and the bench above. “There’s a ship, just south of us. I doubt they’ve seen us.”

He blinks sleep from his eyes and frowns at the blisters on my hand.

I pull my hand back. “Is it the right ship?”

Still frowning, he slides out from under the bench to peer southward. He is quiet a long time. “I think so,” he says, and for some reason the raw hope on his face is hard to look at. “We’ll have to get a little closer to be sure.”

I grab the floppy, wide-brimmed hat and toss it to Storm. “Put that on.”

He shoves it onto his head and hunches over. I don’t blame him for being afraid; in the close quarters of a ship, anyone would recognize him for an Invierno, even with his falsely darkened hair.

Hector and Belén take up the oars again, and we cut through the water with relative ease and speed. Mara and I exchange a scowl.

Gradually the ship comes into view. It’s a gorgeous caravela with three masts and wickedly curved lines of burnished mahogany and bright red trim. Painted sacrament roses twist along the bow, and it seems as though their petals fall, become drops of blood, before disappearing into the sea.

“That’s her,” Hector says. “The Aracely.”

My heart thumps. I have a feeling I’m going to learn something very important about Hector. “Should we signal?” I ask.