Rae Carson: The Crown of Embers

Something scuttles over my foot, glowing Godstone blue, and I squeal.

Hector whirls, but then he says, “Just a cave scorpion. They glow when frightened. Nearly harmless.”

Nearly harmless is not harmless, and I open my mouth to point out as much, but I decide I’d rather be brave in front of him. “It startled me,” I say calmly. “Please, continue.”

He turns back around, but not before I catch the amused quirk of his lips. “Be glad it wasn’t a Death Stalker,” he says, pushing aside a thick cobweb.

“Oh?”

“They’re much larger scorpions. Very poisonous. They live in the scrub desert around Basajuan. I’m surprised you didn’t encounter them when you were leading the rebellion.”

“I wish I had encountered Death Stalkers. They would have been marvelous weapons.”

“What?” He stops short, and I nearly collide with him.

“One of the village boys kept vipers. I ordered him to toss them into an Invierno camp. He didn’t stick around to see if anyone died, but he did report a lot of screaming. Scorpions would have been even better.”

He is silent for so long that I’m worried I’ve offended him somehow. “Hector?”

“You always surprise me.” And he moves off into the darkness.

We reach a crooked stair. The bottom step has collapsed with rot.

“This winds through the walls of the palace,” Hector whispers. “We must go quietly.”

He waits until I nod, then ventures upward. The wood-reinforced earthen walls cede to stone and mortar as the steps bend and creak with our weight. I notice signs of life—footsteps, muted voices, wash water running through pipes to the sewer below.

The stair dead-ends. Hector holds up the candle, exposing a wall too smooth for stone. He runs a finger across it, which leaves a rivulet of darkness in the dust-gray surface. Something clicks. The door slides soundlessly aside, revealing a slightly brighter gloom.

“The wardrobe,” he whispers, stepping inside. “Stay here while I check the room.”

Light floods our passageway as he pushes the double doors open, but then he closes them again, leaving me alone in the dull murk. My heart twists to sense the empty space around me. My husband’s clothes used to hang here. I wonder what became of them all?

I wait the space of several heartbeats, listening hard for the sounds of a scuffle, wishing Hector had at least left me the candle.

Then he opens the doors, and I blink against the onslaught of brightness. “All clear,” he says. I take his offered hand and step into the king’s suite.

My late husband’s bedchamber is huge and decadent, with marble floors and polished mahogany furniture. Tapestries the height of two men hang from gilded crown molding. An enormous bed looms in the room’s center like a squat tower, its red silk canopy rising to a point.

I could live here if I wanted—it’s my right, as monarch. But I hate this room. It feels garish and ridiculous. And because I’ve only ever been here to hold the hand of a wasted man and ease his passing, it also feels like death.

Just ahead is a smaller door that leads to my own chambers—and home. “I checked. No one there but Mara,” Hector says when he sees me eyeing it with longing. “You’re safe for now.”

For now. We must tread strategically, he said in the tunnel. I clench my hands into fists, preparing for something, though I’m not sure what. “Let’s go then.”

We have returned ahead of Ximena and the guards. I pace in the bedchamber while Hector stands at the entrance, arms crossed, chin set.

“I have to do something,” I say. “I can’t just wait here.”

Mara, my lady-in-waiting, beckons me toward the sun-drenched atrium. “But we need to change your gown,” she says hurriedly. “It’s covered in dust. And I should repowder your face and smooth your hair and . . . and . . .”

The soft desperation in her voice makes me study her carefully. She’s as tall and slender as a palm—seventeen years old, like me. She won’t look me in the eye as she adds, “And I just had the atrium pool cleaned! Wouldn’t you like a bath?”

“Later. I have to figure out . . .” My protest dies when I see her trembling lip. I stride toward her and wrap her in a hug.

She draws in a surprised breath, then wraps her arms around me, squeezing tight.

“I’m fine, Mara,” I say into her hair. “Truly.”

“The animagus could have killed you,” she whispers.

“But he didn’t.”

She’s the first to pull away. When she straightens, her lips are pressed into a resolved line.

“Hector,” I say.

He uncrosses his arms and stands at attention, but he regards me warily.

“I can’t leave all those people out there. They’ll work themselves into a terrified mob.”

He frowns. “You want to open the gates.”

“They should know that their queen will protect them, no matter what.”

“To reverse the order of a Quorum lord, you must give the command in person.” He puts up a hand to keep me from rushing out the door. “But you need a proper escort. We should wait until Lady Ximena and the other guards return.”

“People are mobbing the gate now .”

He considers a moment, then nods reluctantly.

To Mara, I say, “Will you check on Prince Rosario?” Treading strategically means protecting my heir.

She reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Of course. Please be careful.” She doesn’t let go until I squeeze back.

Hector and I hurry into the hallway and immediately stop short. Soldiers pour from an adjoining corridor and run off ahead of us, a cacophony of clanking armor and creaking leather. They wear the plain cloaks of palace garrison—General Luz-Manuel’s men. “Hector? What—”

“I have no idea.” But he draws his sword.

Another group approaches from behind, and we step aside to let them pass. They move with such haste that they fail to notice their queen staring at them as they go by.

The soldier bringing up the rear is a little younger, a little shorter than the others. I grab him by the collar and yank him backward. He whips his sword around to defend himself, but Hector blocks him neatly. My ears ring from the clash of steel on steel, but I manage not to flinch.

The soldier’s face blanches when he recognizes me. “Your Majesty! I’m so sorry. I didn’t see . . .” He drops to his knee and bows his head. Hector does not lower his sword.

“Where are you going?” I demand.

“The main gate, Your Majesty.”

“Why?”

“We are under siege.”

Hector and I exchange a startled glance. It must be the Inviernos. How did they sneak into the city unnoticed? How could so many—

“The citizens of Brisadulce are rioting,” the soldier adds.

Oh, God. “You mean we’re defending the palace against our own people ? Tell me who gave the order to lock down the palace.”

He folds in on himself a little. “It—it was Lord-Conde Eduardo.”

“By sealed message or in person?” Hector asks, and it takes me a moment to understand: If it was a sealed message, the parchment might still exist.

“His adviser, Franco, relayed the message.”

Franco . I’ve made it a point to memorize the names and positions of every person in my court, but I don’t recognize this one.

“I require your escort to the palace gate,” I tell him as Hector nods approval. “Quickly.” I gesture for him to lead the way, preferring Hector at my back, and lift my skirts to keep pace.

The dusty yard teems with palace garrison—archers up along the palace wall, light infantry in a row, ten paces back from the gate. Spearmen stand at the portcullis, swatting at grappling hands with their spear points, barking warnings to the people on the other side. From the swelling noise, the crowd has at least tripled.