Rae Carson - The Crown of Embers

Climbing yanks at my sore stomach, and I slow everyone down. The passage is so tight and steep that hanging on to Hector is more trouble than it’s worth. The sound of rushing water gets louder, and the glow brightens. Soon we don’t need the torches at all. I can’t imagine what would cause such light so deep underground.

The stairway levels off. Fernando gasps, and I’m about to ask him what he sees, but speech leaves me when I step into brightness.

The stair has ended at a high ledge overlooking the most enormous cavern I’ve ever seen. The river curves against the sheer wall opposite our ledge. The water is as smooth and clear as glass, though a constant sound like rushing wind attests to rapids nearby. To our left, the wall is riddled with smaller caves, all connected to one another by swinging ladders and scalloping rope bridges. On the floor of the cavern are several large huts, cobbled together from driftwood and shipwreck scavenge.

People are everywhere, going about their lives as if this were any ordinary place. A woman sits framed in the entrance to one of the small caves, stirring something over a cook fire. Outside the largest hut, two bearded, wind-chapped men work together repairing a fishing net. Near the river, a group of barefoot children plays a game with sticks and a leather ball.

Light streams through cracks in the ceiling. These sunlit crevices are lush with plants: broad-leafed creepers, a few ferns, and hundreds of hanging vines that don’t quite brush the tops of the huts.

“It’s a whole village,” I whisper, “right beneath our feet all this time.”

“I’ve not even heard of this place,” Hector whispers back.

But the peculiar nature of the cavern amplifies our voices, carries them to the huts below. Everyone freezes and looks up. I see my own shock mirrored in their faces.

Hector’s hand flies to his scabbard. He and Fernando step up to shield me from view. But it is too late, for someone bellows, “It’s the queen!”

I hear gasps of surprise, utensils clattering, running footsteps.

Hector whirls on me. “We need to get you out of here.”

“Not yet! They’re more afraid of us than we are of them, see?”

Fernando swings his bow over his shoulder and fits an arrow. He and Hector exchange a look, and Hector nods. The guard steps forward, draws the bow, aims toward the milieu below.

“Halt!” Hector booms. “In the name of the queen.”

The sounds of humanity fade, leaving only the wind whistling above and the water rushing below. Now that everyone has stilled, I note bandages, a sling, a splinted leg, a head wrap stained brownish red.

“We have their attention, Your Majesty,” Hector says. “Would you like to address them? Or do you wish to retreat? I recommend ret—”

“Hector, these people are wounded,” I whisper.

“They were most likely involved in the riots,” he says matter-of-factly.

They all stare up at me, half in terror, half in hope, and the sight is so familiar that my heart aches. Who would hurt these people? “They look like they’ve been to war.”

“Riots are war.”

Oh. My stomach thuds with the understanding that they were probably injured in my name. I am at war again. A nebulous, aimless kind, but a war nevertheless. These are my people. But maybe they’re my enemy too.

“Do they have weapons?” I ask. “Can they reach us from down there?”

“I see none. We have the high ground and the advantage for now.”

Maybe I should burn the place to the ground, force everyone to the surface. But the Belleza Guerra rings in my head. Always cultivate allies . When that fails, cultivate fear in your enemies.

I step forward. Hector moves aside to let me pass, but I know from the whisper of steel on steel that he has drawn his sword. Fernando’s eyes roam the crowd, ready to shift his sights in the space of an instant.

My confidence grows, which seems strange until I realize that this secret cavern reminds me of the hidden desert camp where I spent months plotting our war against Invierne. Like my desert rebels, these people are ragged but clean, wounded but proud. I probably should not allow myself this feeling of kinship.

“This is a surprise,” I say, and my voice echoes around me. I smile, hoping to put them at ease, but I see only fear reflected back. One woman reaches down and hooks a young boy with her arm, pulling him against her.

I decide honesty is the best approach. “I could send a company of soldiers to empty this place.” Eyes widen, feet shift. “It’s clear you’ve already caused some trouble, but I might be convinced to overlook that. If you’re hiding here just to avoid the tax increase or to do some honest commerce away from the guilds’ prying eyes, then I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.”

Their collective wariness does not ebb in the slightest.

I try a different tack. “Do you have a leader I can speak with? If not, you must appoint a representative right away.” I step back from the edge.

Ximena gives me a quick nod of approval, even as she bends over to pull a dagger from the inside of her boot. I watched her kill a man with a long hairpin once, in my defense. She slipped it under his jaw and into his brain with the ease of long practice and training.

A voice rings from below. “Your Majesty!”

Fernando trains his bow on an old man who has limped forward. He is weathered by wind chap, his hair thin and gray. A long piece of driftwood serves as his cane; it’s polished smooth by waves but as gnarled as the hand clutching it.

“You lead these people?” I ask.

“No, Your Majesty. Lo Chato leads us, but he is not here. I expect him to return this evening.”

The ground beneath me sways, and I grasp for Hector’s arm to steady myself.

I’ve heard the name once before. Lo Chato was the animagus who interrogated me when I was a prisoner in the enemy’s camp. Even months later I can imagine him with perfect clarity—his baby-smooth skin, Godstone-blue eyes, flowing white hair. I shudder to think of the preternatural grace of his movement, the way his sibilant voice managed to bury itself inside me. I thought I had killed him.

What are the chances of encountering the name of an old enemy only weeks after one of his brethren martyred himself in my city?

I ask the old man, “How long has this village been here?”

“Almost as long as Brisadulce itself. But we live and do business above ground too, in the Wallows. We are Your Majesty’s loyal subjects.”

“I’m glad to know it.” I have so many questions. But my legs begin to tremble, and my breath comes too hard. I need to make an exit before my weakened state is too apparent. “When Lo Chato returns, tell him I require his presence in the palace. He will not be harmed. I wish only to speak with him. I’ll leave word with my mayordomo that he is to be received at once.”

The old man inclines his head in what I presume is the only kind of bow his body will manage. “You should know that he is a private, reclusive person. He will be wary of your summons.”

“Then you must convince him. I would be very disappointed if he did not come.” I pause long enough to see understanding in the faces below. Then I bid them good day and gesture for my entourage to retreat.

“Tyrant!” someone yells at my back, and I whirl.

The people shift uncomfortably, avoiding my gaze, and I can’t tell who the heckler is. “Fernando,” I say, clenching my fists. “Fire a warning shot.”

He looses the arrow at once. It thuds into the ground at the old man’s feet. Its fletched tail vibrates with impact, as the crowd recoils.

“Do not, ” I say, “add sedition to your transgressions.”