Rae Carson - The Crown of Embers

“Thank you.”

When she places the crown on my head, it feels like a millstone. I fantasize about commissioning a new one, something delicate and feminine and light. But my coffers are drained, and a new crown would be an insulting extravagance when I can’t even afford to hire and train more Royal Guards.

She pushes hairpins through the loops in the lining, but it doesn’t matter—the crown lists to the right until the heavy edge presses against the top of my ear.

“I feel like I’ve grown an extra brow,” I say, wrinkling my forehead experimentally. Sure enough, the crown slips even farther, and the cartilage of my ear starts to fold over. Ximena does some rearranging until the crown wobbles but stays put. No sudden head movements, I tell myself as she pronounces me ready to receive suitors.

I’ve hardly used my office since Alejandro’s death. It’s a bright room, with wood-paneled walls and two long windows whose deep ledges are lush with potted ferns. But I’m not yet at home here. Sitting at the desk, I feel like an imposter, like I’m playing at ruling. Still, it’s better than my vast, echoing audience hall with its backache-inducing throne.

Hector takes his position at my right shoulder, Conde Eduardo at my left. Guards stand sentry at the windows and doorway. My secretary sits in a corner at a small desk, his quill poised to take notes. I can only see the top of his head because a small tower of documents sits at the edge of his desk, blocking my view. I’m supposed to review and sign them all. I force myself to ignore the stack; I can’t think about it now.

My heart pounds with nervousness as we wait. How does a queen handle a suitor? When I was a princess of Orovalle, I was overweight and solitary, with an unnatural attraction to musty scrolls. Anyone who wished to court me did so behind the scenes, in negotiation with my father.

As queen, I must do my own negotiating. Everyone will want something—a new title, better trading opportunities, or maybe just power. Though they’ll pretend otherwise, none will want me .

I don’t know how I’ll bear the polite dance of flirtation and innuendo that always precedes these agreements. Or even how to navigate the maze that is a royal marriage treaty. I certainly don’t want to make any missteps that would cause Eduardo to feel he must jump in and help.

“He arrives,” says a guard.

I straighten in my chair, trying to look regal.

A barrel-shaped man with thinning hair enters. His eyes are wide, his expression serious. Droplets of sweat collect on his protruding upper lip. He bows low.

“Your Majesty,” says Conde Eduardo at my ear. “May I present Lord Liano of Altapalma?”

I look up at him sharply. I was expecting Conde Tristán.

“I took the liberty of making some slight changes to your receiving schedule so we could accommodate my good friend here,” Eduardo explains. “I know how eager you are to make the acquaintance of some of the northern lords.”

I’m not sure whether to protest or pretend gratitude. Is it a common practice here in Joya for everyone else to manage the monarch’s schedule?

I force blandness to my face and say, “Welcome, Lord Liano. Thank you for coming.”

He rises from his bow but says nothing. Am I supposed to direct our conversation?

“Lord Liano is heir to the countship of Altapalma until his older brother produces a son.” Eduardo jumps in. “He’s a devout observer of the holy sacraments and an accomplished hunter.”

“Wild javelinas,” Liano blurts out. “I’ve won the annual tournament three years in a row.”

I can’t stop staring at his wet upper lip. “Oh. That’s . . . impressive,” I manage.

His whole body shifts forward with eagerness. “And I tan javelina hides! My hides are soft enough to make riding garb for even the finest ladies. I make all my own hunting weapons. And . . .” He draws himself to full height. “I am Grand Master of the Society for the Advocacy of Javelinas as Livestock.”

“So accomplished,” I murmur, more than a little stunned. I could not marry this man. Not ever. Not even to save my country. I’d rather abdicate.

Someone pounds on the door, and Lord Liano jumps.

A guard answers. After a muted conversation, he says, “Pardon me, Lord-Conde Eduardo, but Your Grace is summoned on a very urgent matter. Something about a letter from home?”

Eduardo’s face blanches. He makes quick apologies and hurries out the door. I suddenly breathe easier. Thank you, Ximena.

I turn back to Lord Liano. “I am forced to cut our appointment short, my lord. I’m afraid my dear friend the conde was overly eager in scheduling you, as I have another appointment in moments.”

His expression turns tragic, like that of a child who just had his favorite sweet taken away, and I hastily add, “But I’d love to discuss . . . javelina hunting further at some point. Are you in town awhile for the Deliverance Gala?”

He bows. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

“Then I look forward to seeing you.”

Once he is gone, I turn to Hector, who is trying very hard not to laugh.

“I can’t, Hector. Not him.”

“You can do better,” he agrees.

Another knock, another murmured conversation, and my guard swings the door wide to receive Conde Tristán.

A small, foppish man with puffed sleeves and a plumed hat sweeps in and bows with a flourish. I am about to greet him, but he intones, “I present to you His Grace Conde Tristán, master equestrian, fighting man, and the pride of Selvarica.”

Ah, just a herald then.

He steps aside as a second man strides through the door. He’s of average height and lanky, and he moves with a dancer’s purposed grace. His features are a touch too delicate for true handsomeness, the black hair gently curling at his nape a little too beautiful, but his eyes shine with warmth and intelligence. He looks younger than I imagined. I’m surprised to find myself returning his shy smile with one of my own.

He bows, straightens, stares.

“Um, hello,” I say lamely. “Welcome.”

“Thank you. Er, Your Majesty. It is . . . You are . . .” He shakes his head ruefully. “I’m sorry. I’m usually more articulate than this. It’s just that you are so much more beautiful than I remember.”

My eyes narrow as I try to discern his level of sincerity. In my peripheral vision, I notice Hector shift on his feet and cross his arms over his chest.

I decide to be frank. “Don’t be ridiculous, Your Grace. You and I both know my court has pronounced me unlovely.”

He decides to be frank right back. “True. Gossip has you pegged as portly, prone to uncouth wardrobe choices, and alarmingly blunt.” His smile reveals straight white teeth. “I concur that you are blunt.”

“I assure you they are correct about my fashion sense too. Were it not for my devoted attendants, I would be dressed in sand chaps and a goat-hair tunic.”

“I’m certain you would be stunning in them.”

I wait for him to make placating noises about the gossip regarding my reputed corpulence, and I’m a little disappointed, a little relieved, when he does not.

I’m not sure what to say next. From the corner comes the scrape-scrape of quill against parchment as the secretary feverishly records our meeting. I imagine him writing: . . . goat-hair tunic.

My head is now pounding from the relentless weight of my crown. Frustration boils over, and I say, “Conde Tristán, why are you here?”

He has the grace to seem flustered. He says, “I was hoping we could get to know each other. It is no secret that my people would benefit greatly if I were to . . . ally myself . . . with Your Majesty. But there is no hurry. I simply propose that we meet once in a while and see if we enjoy each other’s company.”