Rae Carson - The Crown of Embers

“That’s it for now? No requests, no favors?”

“Well, there is one thing.”

Of course there is. “What?”

“At the upcoming Deliverance Gala, would you be so kind as to honor me with two dances?”

Oh, God, I will have to dance. It hadn’t occurred to me. I’m a terrible dancer.

The horror on my face must be apparent, for Conde Tristán takes a step backward, eyes wide with alarm. “I apologize, Your Majesty. Perhaps I am too forward—”

“Yes, you may have two dances. But it is my plan to test your devotion by stepping on your feet.”

His eyes crinkle with genuine mirth. “I shall look forward to it. You may find, though, that I am not so easy to step on.”

I force myself to resist his smile, even as I admit to myself that I like him a little. I gesture to one of the guards and say, “Please escort the conde and his . . .” Herald? Assistant? “. . . and his man back to their rooms and make sure they have everything they need.”

If the conde is discouraged by the dismissal, he doesn’t show it. “Until the festival, Your Majesty.” He executes a polished bow. His attendant does the same, and they leave with the guard.

After the door shuts, Hector says, “He thought you were joking about stepping on his feet,” and we exchange a quick smile.

The secretary scribbles last-minute notations about the meeting. Will he record every single word spoken in this room?

“Mr. Secretary,” I say.

He looks up, mid–pen stroke. A smudge of ink mars the tip of his nose. “Your Majesty?”

“I’m thirsty. Fetch me a glass of water, please?”

He frowns with the understanding that I’m getting rid of him but schools his expression quickly. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Once he’s gone, I lean back in my chair and look up at Hector. “What did you think of the conde? An improvement on Liano, at least, yes?” I rub at my temples. The weight of this stupid crown is making it hard to think.

Hector’s gaze turns inward as he ponders. I have always liked this about him, the way he mulls ideas over in his head. He never feels obliged to speak until he has exactly the right words.

He says, “Conde Tristán is at the top of Lady Jada’s list, but I think it has more to do with his general popularity and charm than it does his suitability. Selvarica is a small southern holding, consisting mostly of islands. It’s difficult to access, not heavily populated. I’m not sure what the conde feels he can offer the throne. I think you can do better. And Eduardo and Luz-Manuel have both expressed a preference that you choose someone from the north.”

He says it all without emotion, as if quoting an academic text. I look down at my lap. “But what of him ?” I say softly. “What kind of man is he, do you think?”

Seconds pass. I feel his eyes on me, but I can’t bring myself to meet his gaze, so I focus hard on the hands resting atop my skirt. My dark skin lies in sharp contrast to the blue of my gown. My right thumbnail is uneven from my habit of biting it. I should have Mara file it for me.

At last he says, “He inherited young, when his father died in a riding accident. By reputation, he is intelligent and charming. The ladies of the court consider him quite dashing. That’s all I know.”

His voice is so tight that I look up to try to read his face. It’s hard and determined. We stare at each other for a long moment.

I need to fill the silence, to explain, so I say, “I know I’ll marry for the benefit of Joya d’Arena, and my own feelings will not be a consideration. So it’s silly to hope . . . but I can’t help it. . . . That is, I hope I marry a good man. Like Alejandro. I know he didn’t love me, but he was my friend.” The sigh that escapes is almost like a sob.

His eyes flash with something—pity, maybe—and he reaches down, grabs my hand. His thumb sweeps across my knuckles as he says in a gruff whisper, “I can’t imagine there is a man in all of Joya who is good enough for our queen. But if such a man exists, we will find him. I swear it.”

I swallow hard. “Thank you.”

The mayordomo rushes unannounced through the doorway. Hector drops my hand and lurches to attention.

“Your Majesty!” the mayordomo pants. “He’s here. Lo Chato from the Wallows. Do you still wish to grant immediate audience? You’re scheduled to see Lady Jada next. I could ask her to wait.”

My startled reaction has dislodged my crown, and it slips down my brow. I pull it off, wincing when strands of hair are yanked out by the roots. “Did Lo Chato come alone?” Even saying the name gives me a shiver.

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

I set the crown on the edge of my desk. I hate that I am not big enough, not strong enough, to wear it. “Then send him in,” I whisper.

He bows and exits the office.

“Be ready,” Hector says to the guards, and hands move to scabbards; eyes shift toward the door. With a metallic whisk, Hector draws his gauntlet daggers. A smart choice, since his position between my desk and the wall gives him little range of motion for a sword.

The mayordomo enters and says in a clipped, formal voice, “Your Majesty, I present Lo Chato of the Wallows.”

A figure glides into the room. He is impossibly tall, and he wears a long black cloak with a deep cowl that shadows his face. He drops to one knee, bows his head, and waits silently.

“Rise,” I say, hoping he doesn’t notice the tremor in my voice. I place a fingertip to the Godstone, hoping for a tickle of warmth, or even a chill—anything to indicate whether the person before me is friend or foe. But I feel nothing.

The cowled man straightens.

“Remove your hood.”

He raises his hands, and I already know, even as he slides the hood back from his head—by the pale peach of his hands, the preternatural grace of his movement—what will be revealed.

Eyes as green as moss, a face so sharply delicate as to be catlike, waist-long hair the syrupy gold of honey.

It takes only a split second for my guards to ring him with swords. Hector steps in front of me, daggers in defensive position.

The man before me carries himself like an animagus. My forearm throbs with the phantom memory of a sorcerer’s claws lashing into my skin, and I stare at his hands, expecting to see clawlike points embedded in his nails.

His nails are cracked and encrusted with dirt, but they are free of barbs. And unlike the uncannily perfect animagi I encountered, he has faint lines across his forehead; a patch of dry, peeling skin across his nose; and weary, bloodshot eyes. Not blue, those eyes. And his hair is not white.

Not a sorcerer, then. I breathe deeply through my nose, savoring this feeling of relief.

Still, an Invierno has been secretly living in my city, leading a group of my own people.

The mayordomo stands just out of range of the guards’ swords, gaping at the creature he escorted in. I say with a steadiness that surprises me, “The secretary will return soon from an errand. Please head him off. And tell no one, not even Lady Jada, the nature of my current appointment.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” He departs gratefully.

I gesture to one of the guards to close and bar the door.

The Invierno regards me calmly.

I’m not sure how to proceed, so I say, “Thank you for coming.”

“Your Majesty commanded it, and I obeyed.” He speaks perfect Plebeya, without even a trace of the clipped impatience I’ve heard from animagi.

“Why would an Invierno feel compelled to obey me?”

“I am Your Majesty’s loyal subject.”

Not likely. “Is Lo Chato your name?”

“A title.”

“Do many Inviernos carry the title of ‘Lo Chato’?” I ask, too tentatively.