Rae Carson - The Crown of Embers

“Hec . . .” My mouth can hardly form words. “Hec . . . tor.”

He spins, and water laps against the sides of the tunnel as he rushes toward me. “What is it?” His whisper is frantic. “Are you . . .” His hand reaches blindly for me, connects with my cheek. “Your skin is ice.” He grabs my shoulders and pulls me against him, saying, “Belén. Do it now.”

In my peripheral vision, I catch a faint gleam as Belén clamps the blade of his dagger between his teeth, breathes deep through his nose, and then slips below the surface of the water.

I bury my face in Hector’s neck, seeking his heat. He rubs up and down along my arms. “Is it the Godstone?” he whispers.

“Can’t. Pray.”

Storm and Mara are silent in the space beside us as we wait for Belén. What if more than one person pursues us? How will Belén be able to see what to do?

Hector’s grip on me tightens, and my soaked body molds to his. Warmth sparks in the pit of my stomach, something wholly separate from the Godstone. Of their own volition, my arms snake around him, slide beneath his pack. My hands splay against his broad back, and I pull him close, closer. It would be the easiest thing in the world to press my lips to his throat, the line of his jaw. It would almost be like an accident.

A grunt. A splash.

Hector releases me and pulls fighting daggers from the vambraces at his forearms.

But the ice is fading from my blood. “It’s all right,” I say, laying a hand on his wrist. “The cold is gone.” I send out a quick prayer, just enough for a smidge of warmth and a bit of gratitude.

A moment later, Belén’s shape appears. Something dark and glittering streams across his face. “There was only one,” he says. “Not Franco, but definitely one of his men.” Beside me, Storm looses a ragged sigh. “If we are very lucky,” Belén continues, “they’ll never find the body. But only if we are very lucky. I suggest we go quickly.”

“Elisa, can you move?” Hector asks.

In answer, I push forward through the black water. Behind me, I hear Mara whisper, “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Belén says, and she breathes soft relief.

The tunnel stinks more and more, like a rotting privy or meat gone sour. Odds and ends float in the water beside us, and I try to avoid touching anything. My inner thighs chafe from the wet fabric of my pants, and my boots sink into sludge with each step. I feel like I’ll never be clean again.

The details of my companions’ faces are beginning to show when we reach an iron grate. I glimpse a shimmer of moonlight on the water beyond.

“We have to swim under,” Hector says. “There’s a hole on the bottom left. Mara?”

Looking resigned, she says, “Hand the satchel to me through the grate?”

He takes it from her, saying, “There’s room enough if you dive low.”

Mara gulps air, then sinks below the surface. She kicks hard, connecting with my shin underwater, and then nothing. I count. One, two, three, four, five, six . . .

Her head breaks the surface on the other side. “Easy,” she says, gasping. Hector pokes her satchel through the grate, and she grabs it.

Storm goes next, then Belén. Hector and I are alone. He hooks me around the waist and pulls me back, into the dark.

“Hector? What—”

“Quickly,” he whispers, and his face is very close. “This may be our last chance to speak alone for a long time.” I’m acutely aware of the pressure of his hand on the small of my back. The buzzing warmth returns to the pit of my stomach. “Last night Ximena warned me that you have a tendency to form strong attachments to people in close proximity to you.”

“People like you,” I say flatly.

“I told her you were stronger and smarter than she realized,” he says, and his gaze drops to my lips. “She wanted me to promise that I would be wary of getting too close.”

Did you? I want to ask. Did you promise?

“We argued right in front of you. It was a terrible breach, and I’m sorry.”

“Hector? Your Majesty?” comes a whispering voice.

I can’t stop staring at his lips. “Ximena’s right, you know. Do you think it weakens me? To care so much?”

“No,” he says without hesitation. “I don’t think that at all.” Our bodies are a hand’s breadth apart, separated only by a cushion of heat.

“Me neither,” I whisper. “It just hurts more.”

Suddenly, he yanks me against him and bends his head to kiss me.

I melt into him as his fingers tangle in my wet hair. My mouth opens to his, and our tongues meet for the briefest instance before he pulls away.

We stare at each other. I read dismay in his face, as if he can’t believe he did such a thing.

“Elisa?” It’s Mara’s worried voice.

Before I can think about anything else, before the pain of his regret can bloom in my own chest, I take a deep breath and sink. Water closes over my head, and I reach blindly for the grate. My fingers grasp slick algae. I leverage myself down, down . . . there! I find the gap and kick through. My pack snags on a jagged end, and I have a moment of panic and struggle, and then I’m free. I shoot to the surface.

I wipe water from my eyes and note that we are in a narrow inlet, sheltered by stone breakwalls on each side. The ocean lies just beyond. The water is as calm as a mirror, and the low moon paints a stream of light across its surface. To our right looms the dark shape of a long, high dock meant for mooring large ships. The water must drop off quickly, to accommodate their deep hulls.

Hector surfaces beside me. He shakes the water from his eyes and points toward the dock. “A boat there,” he whispers. “Tied to the pilings beneath. We must go quietly; every sound carries on a calm night such as this.”

He sets off and we follow, edging along the breakwall toward the dock. It’s getting easier to see, as though all the candles and lamps in Puerto Verde illuminate the water. Maybe they do, after the ruckus we caused. I hope Ximena is safe. And Tristán. And the girl pretending to be me.

The end of the breakwall crumbles with disrepair. As we skirt it, I stub my toes on chunks of rock or mortar or brick that have fallen into the water. I step carefully, wary of a twisted ankle.

We slip beneath the shelter of the dock. Sure enough, the plunge of the ground is precipitous; it feels like walking along the side of a very steep hill. I clutch the pilings for support, and barnacles slice at my fingertips.

We weave through the pilings into chest-deep water. At last a shape manifests in the gloom. It looks like a small fishing boat—or maybe a large rowboat—with enough benched seating for eight people.

Hector lifts Mara over the edge, and the boat tips treacherously as she topples over the bench before gaining her seat. Hector pulls me in front of him.

“Hands on the side,” he says in my ear, gripping my hips. “When I lift, push up and swing your legs over.”

He lifts; I scramble. My left knee knocks hard against the edge, but I make it in. I slide over on the bench to make room for Storm, who grumbles as Hector gives him a boost. Then Hector and Belén vault over the side.

Hector unties the thick rope holding us to the piling and coils it into the prow. He pulls one oar from the floor; Belén grabs the other. With a dip and a swish, Hector maneuvers us away. Belén follows his lead, using his oar as a pole against the pilings. Together they weave us out from under the dock and into open sea.

I take a deep breath, relieved to have gotten this far. The night is warm, and I know my chill will be gone soon, even wet as I am. Before us, the moonlit harbor is dotted with ships and smaller boats. Surely one more won’t cause a second glance?