Rae Carson - The Crown of Embers

I turn away and head into the tunnel, Hector and Ximena at my back. During our return journey, I nearly trip over myself more than once, so lost am I in thought. It was a small group—maybe sixty people. Why so few? Is the secret of the village so well guarded? Have they climbed the ledge and traveled this path to reach the catacombs? Was the heckler expressing the feelings of the whole group? Maybe the whole city?

Most disturbing of all is the mysterious man called Lo Chato. He could be my assassin. And I have invited him to my threshold. But the Belleza Guerra devotes a whole chapter to the art of keeping one’s enemies close, and so long as I am cautious, I know I am doing the right thing.

By the time we reach Alejandro’s tomb, my breath comes in gasps and pain shoots through my side. I want nothing more than a mug of spiced wine and a day of sleep.

Fernando asks permission to stay behind. “I’d like to experiment with this opening a bit,” he says, gesturing toward the gaping hole we just climbed out of. “I want to see how it opens from beneath, determine how often it is used.”

“Please do. We must keep it guarded from now on.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“I’ll have breakfast sent to you. Not from the barracks.”

He bows formally, but his lips twitch.

When we reach my suite, I don’t bother changing into my nightgown. Ximena helps me shuck my boots, then I loosen the ties of my pants and collapse into bed, which is made up with freshly laundered sheets, thanks to Mara. They’re still warm, and I burrow into my pillows, catching the faint scent of rosewater. Truly, my bed is the greatest place in the world.

I am drifting away when an idea startles me awake. “Hector?” I blink to fight off sleep.

“Here,” he says from the foot of my bed.

“Do we have contacts in the Wallows? I’d like to pinpoint the cave’s location from the surface, find out all we can about it.”

“I’ll look into it, Majesty.”

“And please stop calling me Majesty in private. It makes me grit my teeth.”

He nods with exaggerated solemnity. “I’d hate for you to ruin your teeth on my behalf.”

“If that happened, I’d have no choice but to follow the general’s lead and order your execution.” I make a vague gesture and say, “Off with his head!” And then my face burns with my own crass inappropriateness.

But Hector chuckles deep in his throat, and I feel it all the way down to my toes. Softly he says, “My life has ever been yours, Elisa.”

My limbs tingle and heat fills my cheeks as we stare at each other.

I snap back to myself. He’s talking about his duty . Of course his life is mine. He is Queen’s Guard, after all, sworn to jump in front of a crossbow bolt if that’s what it takes to save me.

Carefully I say, “You’re a good friend, Hector. And I’m grateful to have you at my side.”

His gaze drops to the ground, and his chest rises and falls with a breath. “Always.”

IT’S late evening, and sunset glows warmly through my balcony windows. Ximena and I sit cross-legged on my bed, surrounded by faded parchment and musty scrolls—old palace architectural plans, retrieved from the monastery archive by my request. We’ve been studying them for hours.

One shows the restoration of the throne room, another the monastery addition, but none give clues about secret tunnels or underground villages. I push them away with frustration.

Something slips from one of the scrolls—a tighter coil of vellum, blackening along its tips. Curious, I break the wax seal with my thumbnail, and my fingers smear with something dark—rot or mold?—as I unroll it onto my thigh.

It’s a map of Joya d’Arena. My native county of Orovalle is unmarked—the beautiful valley that lies north of the Hinders was undiscovered when this map was drawn. Which means it is probably five hundred years old, a priceless treasure that I have now exposed to light and air. I should send it back to the archive immediately for treatment and safekeeping. But I can’t make myself look away.

The eastern holdings beyond the desert—now the country of Basajuan, ruled by my friend Cosmé—are referred to as “territories.” Only the northern and southern holdings are clearly defined. Much like my country appears now, I realize with a start. The arable land of Joya d’Arena is once again a crooked sort of hourglass—fat on the top and bottom, thin and fragile in the center where the desert and ocean push together right here at my capital.

But Joya d’Arena is not alone anymore. I have allies now, protecting my borders on two sides—my father and sister to the north, Cosmé to the east. It makes me feel a little safer.

“My sky, there’s something I must tell you,” Ximena says.

I look up at my nurse. Dust smudges her right cheek, and wisps of gray hair dangle from her usually neat bun.

She takes a deep breath, as if steeling herself. “I’ve been doing some research on the Godstone. Since you fell into a coma.”

I straighten too fast, and several scrolls topple off my bed. “Oh?”

She runs a reverent forefinger across the parchment in her lap. “You know the prophecy in Homer’s Afflatus, the one that says, ‘He could not know what awaited at the gate of the enemy, and he was led, like a pig to the slaughter, into the realm of sorcery’?”

“Father Alentín thinks I fulfilled that prophecy when I was captured by Inviernos.” I keep my tone and expression bland, afraid she’ll change her mind about talking to me. Ximena spent years cultivating my ignorance on matters pertaining to the stone I bear. She believed it was the will of God. I know how much it costs her to turn her back on this tenet of a deeply personal faith.

“I’m not so sure you did.”

I swallow hard. “Oh.” I’ve been clinging to the hope that I am done with ‘the realm of sorcery,’ that being queen will be my great service to God.

She dumps the parchment off her lap and stands. “It’s the word ‘gate’ that gave me pause,” she says as she begins pacing at the foot of my bed. “In the Lengua Classica, it’s an archaic usage that also sometimes translates to ‘path.’ As in, ‘narrow is the path that restores the soul,’ from the Scriptura Sancta .”

“Go on.”

“It’s the same word we just found etched into the tunnel below the catacombs.”

I whisper, “‘The gate that leads to life is narrow and small so that few find it.’” I wrap my arms around myself. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” I say, but my heart patters and my limbs tingle. There is something to what she’s saying. Something important.

“I made a study of that word when I was a scribe. I went through all four of the holy scriptures looking for usages. It occurs exactly ten times. Five times, it refers to the gate—or path—of the enemy. But the other five times, it refers to something positive. Like life, or restoration, or healing.” Ximena pauses and grabs one of my bedposts. We lock gazes, and she says, “What are the chances of each reference occurring exactly five times?”

I shrug. “It’s the holy number of perfection. Something will occur exactly five times if God wills it.”

“Exactly. He must will it so. Such things do not happen by chance.” She resumes pacing, and her face grows distant. “I always thought those verses were metaphorical. I thought the path that restores the soul was a way to live one’s life. The way of faith, maybe. But what if . . .” She takes a deep breath. “What if it’s a real place? What if they are both real places ?”

The Godstone buzzes with affirmation, sending prickles up my spine. “Both of them, real places,” I murmur. “The gate of the enemy, and the gate that leads to life.”