Rae Carson - The Crown of Embers

At my feet is a rolled-up sailcloth, a large net, a floppy wide-brimmed hat, and a wooden crate filled with fishing supplies: a dagger, bone hooks, twine, weights. We’ve commandeered a trawling boat.

I whisper, “Should we pretend to fish or something?”

“In deeper water, maybe,” Hector says. “If we’re out here for a long time.”

I’m about to ask him just how long he thinks we’ll be trapped in this boat when my nose pricks with something sharp and my neck itches, as if I’m being watched. I twist around to look at the city we leave behind. My hand flies to my mouth.

It’s in flames. Clouds of grungy smoke roll into the sky, their bottom edges glowing red-orange.

No wonder the sky was so bright. No wonder we got away so easily. My plan to create chaos worked too well. “What have I done?” I whisper. Mara turns to see what has caught my attention and lets out a little “Oh!” of dismay.

“We did what we had to do to get away,” Belén says. “It’s just a few buildings.”

Looking closer, it seems that only three, maybe four, structures are on fire. Still, I worry for the people who lived and worked there. Are they burning in the flames? Choking on smoke? Even if they did get out safely, I have destroyed their livelihoods. The King’s Inn has stood on that spot for over a century.

Is it really worth it, to destroy someone’s life to save my own? Even if I am the queen?

I turn my back to the flames and squeeze my eyes closed. Now that we are away from the shelter of the breakwall and the dock, I hear shouting, maybe screaming. What if they can’t contain the blaze?

I consider ordering Hector to turn us around, to face this thing I’ve done, to make it right. But now is not the time. I must find the way that leads to life and the zafira ; my country depends on it. I just hope that once we’ve found it, my list of wrongs to right is not too long.

We row through the bay, weaving between hulking ships. Figures move around on decks and climb through the rigging, even though it is not yet dawn. Shadowy shapes stand at the rails, gazing toward the conflagration. Surely they will turn toward us at any moment, notice that we don’t belong.

But they don’t. As we leave the bay and aim south along the shore, the sky brightens to dark indigo, still fading to deepest black along the watery horizon. Shadowy but glorious estates dot the rolling hills and cliffs above us, with vined trellises and marble statues and sandstone terraces. Soon we pass beyond even these. The waters are calm, and not a single ship goes by. We are alone, and very small.

Hector’s breathing grows labored. As the sun peeks over the hills, its light catches on the sweat of his brow and shoulders. He closes his eyes, hardens his jaw, and keeps rowing.

Belén struggles too. Sweat runs from his hairline, mixes with dried blood and dirt, coating his face in a gruesome patina of red and black. There must have been a lot of blood. Cauldrons of it, for some to remain even after his dip under the sewer grate.

I wonder when they last slept? Certainly not last night; Belén was tracking an Invierne spy, and Hector was making arrangements for an escape that came too soon.

“Hector.” I lean forward and put a hand on his wrist.

He looks up, startled, blinking sweat from his eyes.

“Rest,” I say. “Both of you. We are alone and safe for now.”

“We have to keep going,” he says. “Felix’s ship will—”

“On my order, you will rest. I need you sharp. Mara and I will row for a bit. And if a ship comes into view, we’ll rouse you.”

He lifts his shirt to wipe his eyes, and I can’t help notice his stomach, taut and tanned from the training yard. I swallow hard.

Hector rests the oar on his lap and rolls his shoulders to loosen them. “Have you rowed before?”

“No.”

“Mara?”

“Me neither,” she says.

“I refuse to row,” Storm says.

I say, “We’ll figure it out. Close your eyes so you don’t see how embarrassingly awkward we are at it.” I’m gratified to see his glimmer of a smile.

“Trade places with me,” Hector says.

We both stand, and the boat lurches. He grabs me to keep me steady, and we manage to squeeze past each other. I settle on the bench and grab the oar, saying, “There’s plenty of water in my pack. Help yourself. You should probably rinse the water skin first, though; it’s covered in sewage.”

He does exactly that while Mara and Belén trade places; then, using my pack as a pillow, he slides under the bench and closes his eyes. Belén stretches out beside him. Mara takes up her oar, and after some useless splashing and a few hard knocks against the side of the boat, we slowly push south.

As the sun rises, the surface of the water becomes so bright hot as to be blinding. How will we ever find a single ship out here? What if it takes us days? Will our drinking water last that long? Though surrounded by water, we are as alone and barren as if we traveled the deep desert.

In no time, everything burns with effort; my back, my shoulders, my wrists. My palms and fingertips are rubbed raw. Every stroke makes me gasp for breath. Mara and I switch sides so we can abuse a different set of muscles, but even that mild reprieve does not last long.

To keep my mind off the pain, I gaze at Hector. He sleeps soundly, his chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths. His features have softened, and the hair at his temples curls loosely as it dries. His mouth is slightly parted.

My lips tingle to remember his kiss. It was desperate and tender and wholly unexpected—and as easy as breathing.

Later, when we’ve found this mysterious ship of Hector’s and are safely away, when I have time to rest and worry and a quiet corner to hide in, I will coldly remember that being a queen means being strategic. And I will imagine sending off the man I love to marry my sister. I’ll rehearse it in my head, maybe. Get used to the feeling.

But not now. Now, as I row toward an uncertain destination, his kiss still throbbing on my lips, I luxuriate in watching him sleep.

STORM is the one who spots the ship. “There!” He points.

I twist and shade my face to peer through the brightness. The coast curls southeast, hiding the bulk of the ship, but I can see a long bowsprit, a beak head painted red, and what might be a foresail, hanging limply in the windless morning. I’m caught between hope and alarm.

Please, God, let it be the right ship.

I lean forward to shake Hector. He startles awake, whipping his hand to his scabbard.

“Watch your head,” I tell him, putting my hand between his forehead and the bench above. “There’s a ship, just south of us. I doubt they’ve seen us.”

He blinks sleep from his eyes and frowns at the blisters on my hand.

I pull my hand back. “Is it the right ship?”

Still frowning, he slides out from under the bench to peer southward. He is quiet a long time. “I think so,” he says, and for some reason the raw hope on his face is hard to look at. “We’ll have to get a little closer to be sure.”

I grab the floppy, wide-brimmed hat and toss it to Storm. “Put that on.”

He shoves it onto his head and hunches over. I don’t blame him for being afraid; in the close quarters of a ship, anyone would recognize him for an Invierno, even with his falsely darkened hair.

Hector and Belén take up the oars again, and we cut through the water with relative ease and speed. Mara and I exchange a scowl.

Gradually the ship comes into view. It’s a gorgeous caravela with three masts and wickedly curved lines of burnished mahogany and bright red trim. Painted sacrament roses twist along the bow, and it seems as though their petals fall, become drops of blood, before disappearing into the sea.