Rae Carson - The Crown of Embers

I’ve never heard this story. I wonder how many other things I don’t know about Hector.

Father Alentín says, “You must have impressed him greatly, to have been named his page. And later, to be appointed commander of the guard. You’re the youngest in history.”

Hector shrugs, looking sheepish. “It was mostly an accident.”

“What do you mean?” the priest asks.

“I had two older brothers, and we used to spar with toy swords in the courtyard. The morning Alejandro was there, one of them knocked me off my feet, and the other starting teasing me, poking at me with his sword. It was all good-natured, nothing that hadn’t happened a hundred times before. But Alejandro observed the whole thing through his bedroom window, and he came barreling into the courtyard, yelling at them to back off, that he had just named me his personal page and how dare they threaten the royal page ?”

“He thought he was saving you,” I say.

Hector nods, his eyes warm with the memory. “I was only twelve years old at the time, so naturally I thought he was the most wonderful person who ever lived.”

“But eventually the two of you became friends in truth,” I say.

“Yes, quickly. He was lonely. An only child. It was good for him to have a younger boy around, someone he could easily whip in swordsmanship.” He adds haughtily, “That only lasted a couple of years, of course.”

I laugh. “Of course. He told me you were the most fearsome warrior he knew.”

“He did?” A shield drops from his face, and I see its truer expression, as if he and sorrow are steady companions.

“He did,” I say gently. “He spoke of you often while he lay in hospice. Becoming his page may have been an accident, but becoming lord-commander certainly was not. He said it was the easiest choice he ever made, even though you were so young.”

Hector swallows hard, nodding, and turns away to hide his face.

“This is fabulous,” says Lady Jada, and I jump. For a moment, it felt like Hector and I were alone. She adds, “The pollo pibil, I mean. Your kitchen master is to be commended.”

I’d love to ignore her, to press Hector for more details about his childhood, but I invited Jada for a reason, so I force myself to pay attention to her. “Thank you.” I glance around for the kitchen master, but he has already slipped away to put the finishing touches on dessert. “He makes pastries specially for me now, from a recipe I brought from Orovalle.” I grab a corn tortilla and nibble on it.

“Yes, your love of pastries is well known.”

I study her face, trying to determine if she insults me on purpose, but she chews blissfully on her pollo pibil.

It is the traitor Belén who says, “Her Majesty has an even greater passion for jerboa soup.”

I almost choke on my tortilla. Jerboa soup was our daily repast when we traveled together through the deep desert. If I taste it again in this life, it will be too soon. I glance over to find his lips twitching with humor.

Jada says, “But jerboa soup is so . . . pedestrian.”

“Sometimes.” I swallow the lump of tortilla and say gravely, “Life’s simpler foods have great poetry to them, don’t you think?” I have no idea what that means, but she nods as if concurring with a profound truth.

Conde Tristán says, “The official dish of Selvarica is called the sendara de vida. It’s made of starfruit soaked in honey and lime, then roasted over peppered coals. It’s sublime. If any of you come for a visit, I’d be delighted to serve it.”

Ximena and I exchange a startled look. Her face is white.

My nurse turns toward the conde and says, carefully, “The sendara de vida . That means ‘the gate of life.’”

He nods. “Named after an old legend.”

“Oh, do tell us!” I say, with what I hope is artless enthusiasm. “I’d love to hear more about Selvarica.”

At the end of the table, Father Alentín leans forward, eyes narrowed. Beside me, Hector sets down his wineglass and places his hands casually on the table.

Conde Tristán looks around at his suddenly rapt audience, aware that once again he is on the outside of an ongoing conversation. But he proceeds gamely. “It’s wholly apocryphal, but legend says God created two gates, one that leads to the enemy and one that leads to life. The gate that leads to life, la sendara de vida, is somewhere in Selvarica, and many a nobleman’s younger son has set off in search of it, hoping to prove himself and make his fortune. No one has succeeded, of course. But many of my people believe in its existence. They say whoever finds it will find life eternal and perfect happiness.”

Silence weighs like a heavy blanket over the dining room.

Finally Alentín says in a tight voice, “Strange that I have not heard of this legend.”

The conde shrugs. “I barely knew of it growing up. But Iladro reminded me.” He indicates the overdressed herald beside him. “Right, Iladro?”

The herald reddens at our sudden scrutiny. The plume of his hat wobbles as he nods. “Yes, Your Grace,” he says in an understated tone that belies his announcing voice. “The legend remains popular in the remote island villages.” He grabs a scone from the tray and shoves it into his mouth, possibly to discourage the conde from calling on him to speak further.

“Apocryphal,” Ximena mutters to herself.

“An old manuscript or two alludes to it,” the conde says. “But that’s how we know there’s no truth to the legend, right? None of the inspired holy scriptures mentions it once.”

“Indeed,” Ximena says, but I hear the doubt—or possibly wonder—in her voice.

“What is ‘apocryphal’?” Lady Jada asks.

Hector says, “The Apocrypha is a group of documents that were put forward as being inspired by God, but were proved by scholars and priests to be merely legends. Nothing divine about them after all.”

I look at him in surprise and delight. I had no idea he knew about such things.

He regards me sidelong, his eyes dancing. “But interesting as pseudohistorical documents,” he says to Lady Jada. “They say much about the attitudes and customs of the time during which they were written.”

“What about you, Lady Jada?” I say, still smiling. “As wife of the mayor, can you tell me about any spectacular dishes—or legends—from Brisadulce your queen should know of?”

Lady Jada throws her shoulders back and opens her mouth to launch into what I am certain will be a treatise of profound triviality. “Your Majesty should instruct the kitchen master to prepare—”

She freezes at the sound of retching.

“Iladro?” says Conde Tristán.

The herald bends over the table, his body convulsing. He looks up, his eyes oozing tears. His delicate face is a blotchy purple.

Ximena launches across the table, a blur of ruffled skirts. She grabs his fork with one hand, forces open his jaw with the other.

Hector yanks me to my feet. With his free hand, he whisks a dagger from his vambrace. “Elisa, spit out any food in your mouth. Now.”

Poison . My skin goes clammy cold . “I . . . there’s nothing.”

Ximena shoves the handle of the fork down Iladro’s throat, saying, “Let yourself vomit, my lord. It may save your life.”

And he does, in great geysers of half-digested, red-tinged pollo pibil and pastry lumps, all over the table before me. Acid singes my nostrils.

“The scone!” Belén says. “He was the only person who had one.”

The kitchen master bursts into the room, yelling, “Stop! Spit out your food! The taster just—” He sees the mess on the table, and his face drains of blood. “Too late.”

“Lady Jada,” I order. “Find Doctor Enzo at once.” She launches to her feet and runs from the dining room.