Rae Carson - The Crown of Embers

“I don’t know, my sky. But I’m looking into it.”

“Father Nicandro might be able to help. He has provided quiet aid to me in the past. Also, he is fluent in the Lengua Classica, and I trust him with my life.”

She nods. “I’ll discuss it with him. I’m at the point where I need access to the restricted areas of the monastery archive anyway.”

“Ximena,” I whisper. “What if it is a real place? What if I still have to go there?”

A year ago, she would have offered meaningless platitudes—or maybe a pastry—in an attempt to brush away my fears. But now she just gazes at me, her small black eyes full of determination, maybe even excitement. I shiver.

Glass shatters. Something thumps to the ground.

Ximena rushes into the atrium. I follow as quickly as I can.

Mara is doubled over beside the bathing pool, hands clutching her stomach. Several items from the vanity lie strewn about the floor. The moist air is too thick and sweet with my freesia perfume.

“What’s wrong?” I demand. “What happened?”

“I . . . shaking out your gown . . . my . . .”

“Her scar,” Ximena says. “It split open again.”

Her scar. From when the animagi burned her. Mara threw herself into the path of Invierne’s sorcerers to allow me time to work the magic of my Godstone. She barely survived. I have hardly given a thought to her injuries since that day.

I yell for one of the guards to fetch Doctor Enzo.

Mara slips to the ground, legs stretched out. Ximena unlaces her bodice to reveal a white chemise dotted with bright blood. Then she gingerly peels the chemise from Mara’s midriff.

I can’t control the gasp that escapes me. A ropy scar, about four fingers wide, stretches across her stomach, ridged with peaks and valleys of skin where her navel ought to be. Blood wells along a line of split skin.

“It’s deep this time,” Ximena says, blotting gently with the edge of Mara’s ruined chemise. “But it’s clean and straight. Easily stitched.”

“This time?” I ask. “It happens often?”

“I’ve been forgetting,” Mara says between breaths, “to put salve on it.”

“What salve? Where?” I demand.

“Small pot on the shelf by her bed,” says Ximena, continuing to blot.

“I’ll be right back.” I hurry through the atrium to the maids’ room.

It’s much smaller than my own chamber, with one high window, four bunked beds, and a shelf next to each bed for personal items. A few simple gowns hang from pegs on the wall below the window, and beside them is a writing desk with several half-melted candles. Such a tiny place to live. I can’t imagine how crowded it will feel when I finally acquiesce to my mayordomo’s request to take on more attendants.

I spot the round clay pot on the shelf beside Mara’s bed and grab it. Even without lifting the lid, I catch the strong scent of eucalyptus.

I’m hurrying back through the atrium when I step on something sharp. I nearly drop the pot as I lurch sideways to shift the weight from my foot. The effort tears at my abdomen, but I keep my balance. I peer down at the floor to see what nearly tripped me.

It’s one of my ancient Godstones, detached from its long-dead bearer. After using it to magnify the power of my own living Godstone and defeating the animagi, I tossed it along with its used-up brothers into a jewelry box on my dressing table. Mara must have knocked it over.

I lift it up between thumb and forefinger. It’s as blue-black as a bruise and jagged from its final devastating act. But in the wash of atrium light, I catch the hint of a spark, a tiny mote of untouched perfection deep inside the shattered jewel.

I hand the pot to Ximena, set the cracked Godstone on the vanity table, and crouch to face my lady-in-waiting.

“It’s doesn’t hurt that badly,” Mara assures me. “It just caught me by surprise.”

“She’s being brave,” Ximena says. “The rip is deep, and she shouldn’t be moved until Doctor Enzo gets here. The salve will help keep the skin moist.”

Someone pounds at my door, and with an apologetic shrug to Ximena and Mara, I hurry back to the bedchamber. A guard is peering through the peephole. “It’s the mayordomo, on some urgency,” he says.

His timing could not be worse. “Show him in.” I smooth my rumpled pants, wishing I’d taken the time to bathe and change today.

The mayordomo has made a gallant attempt at elegance, with a velvet vest over a blouse with flared lace cuffs. But as always, his clothes are a size too small, and his belly strains the buttons near to popping. He dips into a courtier’s bow.

“Rise.”

“Forgive the intrusion, Your Majesty.” He eyes the manuscripts strewn across my unmade bed. “I know you said to clear your schedule, but a delegation from Queen Cosmé of Basajuan has just arrived. I’ve assigned them to the dignitaries’ suite. They expressed a strong desire to see you as soon as possible.”

A delegation from Cosmé! I hope she sent friends, dear people I have not seen since my time in the desert. “You were right to inform me. See if they require food and drink. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

Ximena appears in the doorway to the atrium, Mara’s pot still clutched in her hand.

The mayordomo bows again. “Yes, Your Majesty. If you’re ready to receive guests, does that mean we may discuss your schedule? Several noblewomen have applied for the open attendant positions—a queen needs more than two ladies! And I’m afraid you’ve acquired a long list of suitors; His Grace the conde Tristán of Selvarica has been relentless in trying to schedule an audience with you. There was a riot in the merchants’ alley yesterday over the wheat shortage, so the mayor would like to discuss increasing the guard presence there and in the Wallows—”

I wave him silent. “Later. See to our guests.”

He flees without another word. I frown at his back, unease curling in my stomach. Another riot . I resolve to call him back the moment I’m finished with the delegation.

“You’ll need a quick bath and a change of clothes,” Ximena says.

“No time for a bath,” I say, heading toward her.

“You can’t dress yourself with that injury!”

I grab the pot from her hands. “I’ll apply the salve while you shake out my dress and undo the bodice.” The stuff inside is thick and brown, with the consistency of something between wax and date jelly.

Ximena squeezes my shoulder and grabs my gown from the floor where Mara dropped it.

I crouch beside Mara and dip two fingers in the pot.

“It’s not right, Elisa,” Mara protests. “You’re my queen. You shouldn’t—”

“Oh, shut up. Should I avoid the tear itself?”

“No. It’s also a disinfectant. It will sting, but . . . I’ll be fine if you want to wait—”

I hush her by touching a blob of the stuff directly to the tear. She hisses.

Her skin feels strange beneath my fingertips, so lumpy and stiff, hardly like skin at all. But it’s as warm as normal flesh and bleeds just as easily. Gently I massage the salve along the edges of the wound, pretending not to notice when it mixes with seeping blood. I refuse to let myself feel revulsion, all the while thinking, Mara is this way because of me. She did it for me.

Mara makes no sound, but her head falls back against the wall as she squeezes her eyes closed.

“Your gown is ready,” Ximena says.

I give Mara’s arm a squeeze, then rinse my hands. Ximena dresses me with quick efficiency and then directs me to the edge of my bed. I’m not quite healed enough to bend over and reach my feet, so Ximena slides my stockings on. While she works, I pull out the pin holding up my braids and unravel my hair.