Rae Carson - The Crown of Embers

I pray during the walk back, thanking God for my life and the lives of my guards, asking him to keep us safe just a little while longer. But as we approach the palace, Hector holds up a fist to halt our procession.

The portcullis is dropped and barred. Hundreds gather outside. Some yell and stomp, rattling the iron bars. Others stand quietly, carrying blankets, packs, small children. Their number swells as others trickle in from the adjoining streets and alleys.

“They think we’re being attacked,” I say, my voice catching. “They want protection within the palace walls.”

“Maybe we are,” Ximena says quietly. “Maybe it’s war all over again.”

“Back away quickly,” Hector says. “But no sudden moves.” I hear what he’s not saying—if the desperate throng discovers me, I could be mobbed.

We crowd into a narrow alley between two townhomes. Hector whips off the bright red cloak marking him as a Royal Guard and turns it inside out so the softer, paler side shows. “Put this on. That gown is much too noticeable.”

The cloak smells of Hector—oiled steel and worn leather and spiced wine. After I fasten the claps at my neck, I gesture to the others. “All of you. Turn your cloaks inside out. Ximena, can you hide my crown?” I lift it from my head, and she untangles my hair from the various pins keeping it in place.

She holds it out for a moment, considering. She slips behind me, out of sight of the guards, and when she reveals herself again, the front of her skirt is lumpy and distended. “At least it doesn’t look like a crown,” she says with an apologetic shrug.

“Now what?” I say. “If the portcullis is barred, the stables are surely closed off as well.”

“The kitchens?” a guard suggests.

“Or the receiving hall,” says another.

Hector shakes his head. “The garrison is trained to lock down all entrances during drills.”

Any member of the Royal Guard would be allowed admittance without question. There is a reason he’s not sending someone to the palace to fetch a larger escort and a windowless carriage. “You think it’s no accident,” I say, “that someone ordered the palace locked down before I was safely inside. You think the crowd may not be the greater danger.”

His gaze on me is solemn. “I’ll take no chances with you.”

“The escape tunnel!” I say. “Leading from the king’s suite to the merchants’ alley. Alejandro said only a few know of it.” I swallow against the memory of long days spent in my husband’s suite as he lay dying. I paid close attention to his every word, storing them up in my heart so I could someday pass them along to his son, Rosario.

Hector rubs at his jaw. “It’s in disrepair. I haven’t been inside since Alejandro and I were boys.”

It will have to do. “Let’s go,” I order.

We leave the shadow of the brick alley and step into sunshine. From habit, the guards fall into perfect formation.

“No, no.” I motion vaguely. “Relax. Don’t look so . . . guardlike.”

They drop formation at once, glancing at one another shamefaced. Hector drapes an arm around my shoulder as if we are out for a companionable stroll. He leans down and says, “So. Horrible heat we’ve had lately.”

I can’t help grinning, even as I note the tenseness of his shoulders, the way his eyes roam the street and his free hand wraps around the hilt of his sword. I say, “I’d prefer to discuss the latest fashion craze of jeweled stoles.”

He laughs. “No, you wouldn’t.”

We reach the merchants’ alley without incident. It’s eerily silent, the booths vacant, the cobblestone street empty of rumbling carts. It’s a national holiday. This place should be filled with shoppers, acrobats, and beggars, with coconut scones and sticky date pops and meat pies.

The news must have whipped through the city with the destructive force of a sandstorm. The Inviernos are back! And they threatened the queen!

All this emptiness makes us nothing if not noticeable. My neck prickles as I glance at the surrounding buildings, expecting furtive heads to appear in windowsills. But I see no one.

Quietly I say, “Alejandro said the entrance was through a blacksmith’s home.”

“Yes. Just around the corner . . . there.” He indicates a large awning outside a two-story adobe building. The bellows beneath it is cold, and the traces dangle empty chains.

Hector’s hand on my shoulder tightens as he peers under the awning. “Ho, blacksmith!” he calls.

The door creaks open. A bald man with a sooty leather apron and forearms like corded tree trunks steps over the threshold. His eyes widen.

“Goodman Rialto!” the blacksmith exclaims, and his cheer is a little too forced. “Your cauldron is ready. A beauty, I must say. Had some extra bronze sheeting lying around, which will reduce your total cost. Please come in!”

I look up at Hector for confirmation, and he nods, almost imperceptibly. We follow the blacksmith inside.

Every space of wall is used to display his work—swords, grates, animal traps, spoons, candlesticks, gauntlets. The scent of the place is biting, like copper gone sour. A low cooking fire crackles in a clay hearth. Only a blacksmith could stand to have a fire going on a day as hot as this. After we filter in, he closes the door behind us and drops the latch.

“This way, Your Majesty,” he says, all trace of brightness evaporated. “Quickly.” He pulls up the corner of a thick rug and reveals a trapdoor. With a grunt, he heaves on the brass ring. The trapdoor swings open to show rickety wooden stairs descending into darkness.

“We’ll need light,” I say.

He grabs a candle and a brass holder from a nearby table, reaches toward the hearth to light the wick, and hands it to me. “Be wary,” he says. “The tunnel is reinforced with wooden beams. They’re very old and very dry.”

“I’ll go first,” Hector says, and the stair creaks under his weight.

I start to follow but hesitate. “Ximena, take the rest of the guards and return to the palace through the main entrance. They’ll let you in. People should be seen leaving here, just in case they saw us coming.”

She frowns. “My place is by your side.”

“I’m safe with Hector.” Before she can protest, I turn and address the blacksmith. “Your name, sir?”

“Mandrano,” he says proudly. “Formerly of His Majesty King Nicolao’s Royal Guard, now retired.”

I clasp his shoulder; it’s as hard and round as a boulder. “Thank you, Mandrano. You have done your queen a great service today.”

He bows low. I don’t wait for him to rise, and I don’t bother to see that Ximena and the guards have followed my orders. I step down quickly after Hector, holding my candle low to light my way.

His fingers reach out of the gloom, offering support, and I grab them. Just as my feet reach dry earth, the trapdoor bangs closed, making the darkness complete but for our puddle of candlelight.

I move close enough for the candle to illuminate us both. The flame casts strange shadows on his skin—blurring the scar on his cheek, softening his eyes, and rounding his features—and I am reminded how very young he is.

“Hector, who besides you and me has the authority to lock down—”

“Conde Eduardo, General Luz-Manuel, and the mayordomo.” He rattles off the list so quickly that I realize he’s been rehearsing it in his mind.

“You think someone intended to lock us out?”

Ximena would offer a kind inanity about it being an unfortunate misunderstanding. But Hector has nothing of dissembling in him. “Even after you’re safely returned, we must tread strategically,” he says.

I pass him the candle, nodding agreement. He leads the way, and I follow close enough that I can grab his sword belt if necessary. The tunnel is so tight that my shoulders brush the wood beams propping up the ceiling. I fight the urge to sneeze against the dust we kick up.