Rae Carson - The Crown of Embers

“It’s an execution. I tried to stop it, but General Luz-Manuel—”

“Whose execution?” I demand. “Why?”

“Martín. General Luz-Manuel found him guilty of conspiring with Invierne to assassinate you. He sentenced him to death by beheading.” He leans over and places his hands on the foot of my bed. “Elisa, he’s one of my own men. I trained him myself. He would never harm you.”

I try to rise from the bed. “Martín would never . . . he was going to name his baby—”

Ximena pushes me back down. “You’re supposed to rest!”

I struggle against her. “Hector, help me up. Take me out there if you have to carry me yourself.” The blood pumping through my veins makes my thoughts spin faster, and I revel in the clarity of it.

I could try to stop the execution with a missive, but there might not be time to authenticate the message. And Martín would forever be known as the man who may have allowed an assassin to attack the queen—unless I declare my belief in his innocence before the entire city.

Ximena steps out of the way, her face carved in stone, as Hector reaches beneath my shoulders and knees and lifts me to his chest as if I am a small child. My boundless nightgown tangles at his knees.

My nightgown! I can’t barrel into the courtyard dressed like this.

“Ximena, please bring my robe.” I wrap my good arm around Hector’s neck. “Hurry!”

He maneuvers me through the door and into the hallway, gesturing with a lift of his chin for the other guards to accompany us. Ximena trails behind, my robe in her hands.

“The assassin was already there when I arrived,” I say as we rush through the palace corridors and down a flight of stairs. “I have no idea how long he was lying in wait. Maybe days. He could have sneaked down during anyone’s shift.”

His brisk pace brings knife pain to my abdomen. “I know,” he says. “But the general outranks me, and when I scheduled a Quorum meeting to discuss it, he pushed up the date of the execution without telling—”

“Just get me there quickly.”

We reach the entrance to the courtyard. Framed by the archway, a crowd gathers on the green, surrounding a wooden platform. On it, the hooded executioner stands tall and bare chested. Sun glints off the huge ax blade resting at his shoulder. My own crown-seal banner snaps in the wind above him.

“Put me down.”

“Can you stand?”

“I must. Ximena, my robe.”

Hector sets me down, so gently. My legs barely support my weight, and I lean into the archway to keep my balance. The newly healed skin on my stitched stomach feels too tight, too thin. Ximena wraps the robe around my shoulders, ties it at my neck. It will have to do.

I whisper, “Catch me if I fall?” And I take a wobbly step into the sunshine.

My breath is ragged, my heart a drum in my head, as I look around for Martín. Surely the prison guards will make an entrance with him soon. But then the executioner raises the ax, and I know that beyond the wall of spectators, Martín must already be in place, his head on the block.

“No!” I shout as loud as I can, and a handful of people turn toward me, but it is not enough.

The executioner’s voice booms, “In the name of Her Majesty, Queen Lucero-Elisa de—”

“Stop!” yells Lord Hector. “By order of the queen!”

The executioner’s head comes up in surprise, but it is too late to stop the ax’s descent. It whistles downward, disappears behind the crowd, and thwacks wetly into the wooden block below.

IT takes a moment for the crowd to register what has happened. As one, they turn a stunned gaze on me and my escort.

I am as still and silent as a stone. Ximena hurriedly adjusts my robe to cover more of my nightgown, but all I can think about is how an innocent man is dead in my name, beneath the waving emblem of my reign.

A few collect themselves enough to drop to their knees. The rest of the crowd follows, like an ocean wave, until finally the wooden stage and its broken body are revealed. It has fallen to the side, and the neck is a meaty, bloody stump. I can’t see where the head rolled off to. And then I’m woozy with the understanding that I’m looking for the disembodied head of a man I considered a friend.

“Send General Luz-Manuel to my suite immediately,” I say, in as cutting a voice as I can muster. I turn, intending to depart in dramatic fashion before everyone notices the tears streaming down my face, but my legs crumble. Ximena and Hector knock heads catching me. They half drag, half support me through the archway and into the shady corridor. Hector abandons all pretense of allowing me to walk and sweeps me up.

“I think I ripped my stitches,” I say, as wet warmth blossoms beneath my bandages. I’m glad because it gives me something to think about other than the hole that seems to have opened up in my chest.

“Oh, my sky,” Ximena says. “Oh, Elisa.”

Doctor Enzo is already in my suite when we return. He glares at me.

Mara gives me an apologetic look. “I fetched him,” she says.

After Hector lays me on the bed, he turns away so Enzo can lift my nightgown and examine my bandages. I hiss with pain as he peels them back.

Enzo says, “Surely nothing was so important that you couldn’t—”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

He mumbles insincere apologies while pressing his fingertips against my abdomen. It hurts, but not terribly. “Fascinating. I must know, have you been gravely injured before?”

I once tried to cut the Godstone out of my stomach, but I don’t want to talk about that. “I broke a couple of ribs,” I say. “Ripped off a fingernail. Had a badly infected cut from the nails of an Invierno. They poison their nails, you know.”

He squeezes the skin around the stitches and mops up the resulting ooze with a dry cloth. “How long after you broke your ribs until you could walk easily?”

I have to think about it. Humberto was the one who took care of me. I sigh at the memory of him slipping duerma leaf into my soup so I would be forced to sleep instead of travel. “A day. It hurt, but I could do it.”

Enzo lifts his head to meet my gaze dead-on. “And how long until the pain went away?”

“Less than a week.”

His nose twitches with excitement. He is like a hunting hound on the scent of his prey.

He stares at my abdomen, and I realize he’s not looking at the wound, but at my Godstone. Tentatively, he reaches out with his forefinger, lets it hover above my navel.

“It’s all right. You can touch it.”

He does, reverently, drawing little circles with his forefinger against the topmost facet.

I sense the pressure of his finger, but the Godstone does not respond, just continues its usual mild pulsing. It’s odd to feel someone else touching it. No one does that. Even Ximena and Mara barely brush it when they are dressing me.

“It’s like a heartbeat,” Enzo breathes in wonder.

Hector continues to face politely away, but he reaches for his sword. He grips the pommel, ready to unsheathe at a moment’s need.

I’m growing uncomfortable. “What’s this about, Enzo?”

He yanks back his finger as if stung. “Your Majesty, I believe, that is, I think, though I can’t be sure, but it seems . . .” He takes a deep breath. “I mean to say that you heal too fast.”

I frown. Though I have the benefit of a royal education, I am the least studied in the healing arts. I have to take his word for it. “And it has something to do with the Godstone?”

“I have no other explanation for why you show no sign of infection, how you were able to stand at all after having your abdominal wall severed, or for the fact that, even after your ill-conceived outing, I will only replace two stitches.”