The Crown of Embers(91)

“When my father heard,” he continues, oblivious to my flushing face, “he journeyed to Brisadulce to rescue me from what he was certain were monumentally bad decisions.” His smile breaks wide. “So when I heard my father was in town, I rushed Aracely to the nearest priest and married her.”

“You named the ship after her!”

He nods. “Well, yes. When you tell your wife you’re going to be gone sailing for several months, and by the way, have fun with our screaming newborn, it helps to make a grand gesture.”

I chuckle. “You are a wise man.”

“Funny, I tell my wife that exact thing all the time!”

“What does this have to do with Hector?”

He sobers. “When I married Aracely, my father gave up trying to groom me to be a conde and turned instead to his next son, my brother Ronin.” Pain flashes across his features, so aching and fresh that I almost recoil. Softly he says, “Ronin died in the war with Invierne. On the day you defeated their sorcerers. He went with Conde Eduardo to defend the southern front and was cut down with an arrow to the chest.”

“Oh.” Hector lost a brother in the war. Barely seven months ago. And I never knew. Why didn’t he tell me? “I’m so sorry,” I choke out.

“So that left Hector,” he said. “To inherit Ventierra.”

I gape at him.

Felix says, “My parents wrote to him, begging him to come home. I wrote to him. His king was dead, after all, and Hector has always been the best of us. Born to lead, to rule. He wrote back. Said he would come home as soon as possible. That he missed Ventierra more than words could say, that he would resign his position as commander of the Royal Guard and give up his seat on the Quorum. But something happened.”

It feels like someone is standing on my shoulders, and I’m frozen with the weight of it.

I happened. I changed his mind. I remember the day well. He came into my office and laid a letter of resignation on my desk. I asked him to reconsider, to become my own personal guard.

“I had no idea,” I whisper. “None at all.” And more recently, after visiting Storm in the tower, he asked me to dismiss him. He thought he had failed me. But maybe, just maybe, he also wanted desperately to go home.

“He gave up a countship for you, Majesty. And the home he loves. I’ve always wondered why. But now I understand.”

I open my mouth to protest but change my mind.

Is it possible? Could Hector love me as much as I love him? Is it cruel of me to wish that he would, when there is no chance for us? Something made him kiss me in the sewer tunnel, at a time when we should have been fleeing.

After too long a silence, I say, “Hector is naturally loyal, with a strong sense of duty. He’ll stay in whatever position he feels will be in best service to his country.” Would he, though? If I gave him the choice, would he stay with me?

“You know him well,” he says.

“No one knows Hector well.”

He says something else, but I don’t hear because my Godstone leaps. I gasp.

“Your Majesty?”

“I’m not sure . . .” The stone tingles, and then I feel the slightest brush across my belly, like butterfly wings. “My Godstone! It . . .” The butterfly wings coalesce into something more solid, poking, prodding, and like ghost fingers, they reach painlessly into my stomach, wrap around my Godstone, and pull. “Oh,” I breathe. “Oh, my.”

“Should I fetch Hector?”

“No. It’s all right.” The sensation eases, but it’s still there, tugging gently. Tugging in a very specific direction. “I think I’ve found it. The way.” I turn to him. “I know which way to go.”

He gives me a skeptical look. I don’t blame him. It seems ridiculous. Maybe I’ve imagined it.

But I close my eyes, let the tugging sensation guide me. It’s faint but sure. I pivot slightly to my right, lining up my toes with the exact direction. I raise my arm and point into the endless watery horizon.

“That way.”

He shakes his head, resigned. “Of course it’s that way. Right into the wind.” He turns toward his crew, cupping his hands to his mouth. “Beat to windward!”

I return to quarters, knowing it’s best to keep out of the way as they work to adjust our course. The Aracely is a warren of ropes and hooks and beams and swinging things, but I seem to have an instinct for it all, and I navigate it with ease. And so much glorious wood! Always kept in polish. Never have I seen so much wood in one place, for it is hard to come by in my desert.

Mara is alone, sitting on the huge bed, her satchel opened and spread out before her. She looks up when I enter.