Rae Carson - The Crown of Embers

“Search quietly,” Ximena says. “Tell me if you hear something or feel air movement.” It comes as no surprise that my guardian knows something of secret passageways. She probably knows as many ways to exit a fortress as she does to kill a man.

Mara is crawling on the floor when she says, “I feel something. A breeze maybe.”

I start forward too quickly, and pain shoots down my side. Hector is at my elbow instantly. I lean into him.

“Which direction?” Ximena asks.

“Not sure.” Mara looks up. “I felt it against my left cheek.”

One of the guards crouches beside her with a torch.

“Watch the banner,” Ximena says as the flame comes dangerously close to the casket’s silk covering.

Mara and the guard run their fingers along the cobblestones, searching for cracks.

“Try pressing on them?” the guard suggests. “In my father’s library, one of the hearthstones triggers a door.”

So they press on all the nearest stones, from every different angle. Still nothing.

I say, “Try the pedestal.” The casket resting upon it is empty, patiently awaiting a permanent resident, maybe me.

Everyone crowds around, torches held high, blocking my view. I loose an exasperated breath.

Hector whispers into my ear, “Everything all right?”

“Just frustrated. I hate being weak. And I may have dragged everyone down here in the middle of the night for noth—”

“A latch!” Ximena says. “Tucked under the base. Let me see if I can . . .”

The casket rises a finger’s breadth. Several guards jump out of the way as the pedestal and its coffin pivot soundlessly to the side. Fresh air blasts the room, and a torch winks out. The others waver but hold.

Holding Hector’s arm to steady myself, I peer over Mara’s shoulder and almost sneeze from the cool, briny air pricking my nostrils. Where the pedestal stood is a gaping hole. Stone steps, edged with green moss, spiral into darkness. The guard shifts his torch, the light glints off the green stuff, and I see that it’s actually a viscous mold.

“Ugh,” says Mara.

“Ugh,” Ximena agrees.

Hector says, “You were right, Majesty,” and I get the feeling he’s speaking for everyone else’s benefit. “You were right to trust your instincts, and you were right to trust Martín.”

His words warm me. Hector has always been my greatest ally. I catch his eye and nod slightly, hoping he understands how grateful I am to him right now.

“Well,” I say. “Let’s exonerate him by finding out where this leads.”

The guards press toward the secret stairway, eager to step into the dangerous unknown.

“Wait a moment,” I say. “Mara, return to my suite. Make excuses to any visitors. On your way, tell the sentry that I wish to be undisturbed as I pray.”

She nods with obvious relief, and Hector gestures for two guards to accompany her.

As they depart, he turns to me. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

“Doing something active is the best thing for my recovery.”

“I knew you’d say that.” The slightest smile curves his lips. “A walk in the monastery garden is something active. This is—”

“This is what I’m going to do.”

He sighs, resigned. “Times like this, I miss Alejandro. He was malleable.”

I choke back a startled laugh.

“Hold on to my shoulder. And if you change your mind—”

“Yes, let’s go .”

I glance over at Ximena, expecting her to protest, but she just stares at Hector, her face unreadable.

Fernando steps into the hole first, holding the torch aloft, and Hector follows. When my turn comes, I’m careful to land squarely on the balls of my feet to avoid slipping on the green slime. Moist air tickles my face, lifting strands of hair from my temples. We are sure to encounter water on this expedition, for the underground river is nearby, its rushing steady and monstrous, so ever-present that it is almost like silence.

The stair spirals—tight and steep. The close-in walls are covered with the slime, and I’m reluctant to touch them, even for balance. I find it’s easier to leave my hand at the crook of Hector’s shoulder and trust him to keep us both upright.

“There are scuffs in the slime,” Fernando says, and his voice echoes around us. “Someone passed this way.”

“There were no footprints in the tomb,” Hector asks.

“Did the floor look too clean, by chance?” I ask. “Who was first to investigate?”

Hector pauses on the step, and my knees bump the backs of his thighs. But he continues without answering. Maybe he doesn’t want to name the general within hearing of his men.

My wounded abdomen throbs with strain by the time the stair ends at a low tunnel. The sand floor is smoothly rippled, like a beach after the waves have retreated.

“It’s flooded at high tide,” Hector says as I’m drawing the same conclusion. “There’s the water line.” He points to the wall, where a wainscoting of barnacles reaches knee-high.

I swallow against disappointment. All trace of those who passed before will have washed away, and we are unlikely to find a clue here about my would-be assassin.

Fernando squeals, and we all jump. “Sorry,” he says, breathless. “Crab.” I’m suddenly very glad for my desert boots, which are impervious to slime and sand and scuttling creatures.

Something on the wall catches my eye—a carved rivulet in the stone. “What’s that?” I point.

Fernando lifts his torch to reveal a line of script, each letter the height of my pinky finger. My Godstone warms with recognition.

“It’s in the Lengua Classica,” Ximena says, her voice breathy with wonder. “From the Scriptura Sancta .”

I translate. “The gate that leads to life is narrow and small so that few find it.”

Ximena reaches out to trace the letters with her fingers. She was a scribe at the Monastery-at-Amalur before she became my nurse, and like me, she has a reverent interest in ancient texts and holy writings.

“Look at this loop here,” she says. “And the flip at the end of the accent mark. This style of script hasn’t been used for centuries.”

“But is it meant for those coming or going?” I muse. “Which direction ‘leads to life’?”

“Only one way to find out,” Hector says, and it warms me to hear the anticipation in his voice.

The limestone squeezes tighter until the corridor is barely wide enough for the guards’ armored shoulders. Though it’s cool and breezy, I’m too aware of the weight of rock above. So huge, so heavy. A whole city goes about its business up there. I’m becoming very nervous when Fernando announces, “Another stair.”

This one leads upward, straight instead of spiraled, and rough-hewn as if carved by a giant clumsy ax. I’m glad to note dry, mold-free steps.

“Fernando,” says Hector. “Aim your torch away.”

The guard puts the torch behind his back. Ximena does the same with hers, and it becomes apparent that a separate glow, faint but true, illuminates the stairway.

“Do you think it leads outside?” I ask.

“We’ve descended too far,” Hector says. “Unless I’ve gotten turned around, I think we’re beneath the Wallows.”

The Wallows. The most dangerous quarter of my city, where I’m not to travel even with an armed escort. The place each monarch before me has vowed to improve, with mixed—mostly poor—results. Where prostitutes and beggars and black-market merchants band together to form a society within a society, outside of my rule.

Hector turns to me, his gaze fierce. “Majesty, if I sense danger, I’ll hustle you away, against your will if necessary.”

“And if that happens, I promise to be only temporarily enraged.” It comes out more sharply than I intend, mostly out of pique that he has reverted to calling me Majesty even among friends. “Let’s go.”