Rae Carson - The Crown of Embers

“The wound closed up perfectly,” she says, her voice breathy with wonder. “And my scar . . . it’s still there, but it’s softer. Healthier, I think.”

The relief is so powerful that my knees shake. Or maybe I’m just that fatigued.

The captain rubs at his beard and asks, “You think you could heal everyone on board? We have a broken leg, a few bad scrapes. One of my men can’t get the water out of his lungs.”

“Absolutely not,” Hector says. “You’ve seen how it exhausts her.”

“I’m not sure I could,” I admit. “I think it only works when . . . for people I . . .” For people I love. I hesitate to say it straight out, because returning his sentiment would just make it worse, in the end. “It only works for people who are very dear to me,” I finish lamely.

But hope flashes across Hector’s face, so raw and exquisite. Maybe I ought to tell him anyway. I could lie to him, tell him that our future has a happy ending.

Instead, I scoot off the bed and step away, putting distance between us. “How is Storm?” I ask, refusing to look in Hector’s direction.

“Uninjured,” Belén says. “More interestingly, I haven’t heard him complain in hours.”

Hours. “How long was I—”

“Hours,” Mara confirms. “We were very worried. We’re almost to the island.”

I rush out the double doors and take the steps to the beakhead two at a time.

The view makes my hands fly to my mouth in awe.

We approach a crescent harbor of aquamarine water, ringed with crystal-white sand. Beyond the sand is a forest of coconut palms, whipping in the breeze. And beyond them are impossibly steep mountains, or towers, or maybe the fingers of God, jutting into the sky, trapping clouds with their fingertips. They seem verdant and alive, smothered in green, veined by shimmering waterfalls. White birds with pointed wings dive and soar among them, giving scale to their vastness.

The tug at my navel is stronger than ever. I press my fingers to the Godstone, as if to keep it from leaping out of my body and into the sea.

“I’ve never seen this place before,” says a voice beside me, and I jump. It’s Felix. He rests his forearms on the rail. “No one has. It’s not on any of my charts. My best guess is that we are somewhere south and slightly west of Selvarica, but I’m not sure I could navigate here a second time.”

“Perhaps,” I say, “the only way to get here is through a sorcerous hurricane.”

“Perhaps. I just hope we don’t have the same trouble when we leave.”

I look down at the water, so clear and beautiful. Silvery fish dart away from the ship as we sail forward, and patches of dark green plants wave with the current. They seem to be just below the surface, but our draft is deep, so I know it is only an illusion.

“How is the Aracely ?” I ask. “Can we repair her?”

“We’re not taking on any more water, so the bilge will empty soon enough. I’ll send divers down to inspect the hull when we anchor to be sure. The bowsprit is lost. We’ve only the main sail left. I’ve a small spare in the hold we could unroll and use as a mizzen. Looks like there’s timber to be found on the island, enough to patch the port side. It will take a couple of weeks, but I expect we’ll limp away from this place just fine, so long as the weather holds. Another storm and we’re done for, so pray for sunshine.”

A couple of weeks. That’s far too long. Ximena and Tristán can’t keep up a pretense with decoy Elisa forever. Our ruse is sure to be discovered, and a queen can only go missing for so long before everything degenerates into chaos, before ambitious condes—like Eduardo—begin wrestling for power in the wake of my disappearance.

“Our biggest problem,” Felix says, “is supplies. Looks like we’ll have plenty of fresh water, but we lost an entire barrel of salted pork, and one of the grain bins is soaked. We’ll have to forage and fish, not just for our stay here, but for the return journey.”

I’m about to ask after his wounded crewmen when Hector saunters up and leans against the railing. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he says.

I nod, gazing at a sparkling stream pouring from the jungle and into the sea. From here it looks like a silver ribbon winding through green velvet. “All that water! The place looks alive . It’s unnatural.”

He laughs. “You’ve been in the desert too long.”

I grin up at him. “I look at those waterfalls and see the wealth of a thousand nations.”

“Maybe that’s exactly what they are. Do you sense anything? Is it still guiding you?” He glances toward my navel, and my stomach does a little flip to remember his hands on my skin.

“It’s very strong now,” I tell him. “And when I healed Mara, it was a lot easier. The power was right there when I called it, even though . . . even though . . . I . . .”

He studies me, letting me struggle for words. Then, “Even though the need was not as great?” he offers softly. “She wasn’t injured as badly.”

I nod.

A crewman’s head appears at the stair. “Captain!” he calls. “Eight and a half fathoms at last sounding.”

“Drop anchor!” Felix booms.

“Ready to go ashore?” Hector asks.

I stare at the island; it’s so wild and foreign and foreboding. “Ready,” I lie.

I hurry back to the captain’s quarters to grab my pack. I peek inside and find, to my immense relief, that my bottle of lady’s shroud is intact. Mara holds up her satchel and nods, which I take to mean that hers survived too.

The Aracely ’s dinghy was lost to the hurricane, but by some miracle our trawler stayed tied down on the quarterdeck. I’m eager to get to shore, but Hector insists on letting another group go first. “Let them scout around, make sure it’s safe,” he says, and I agree reluctantly.

I pace back and forth across the deck as a group of eight men with supplies rows toward the beach. Once they are close enough, they jump out and pull the boat onto shore, unload, and then disappear into the jungle. It seems like forever passes before they reemerge, waving with a signal that all is well. Finally two men push off and hop back into the boat, leaving the rest behind to start setting up a camp.

Mara, Belén, Storm, Hector, and I are in the second group to ferry over. As we settle in the boat, the tug on my Godstone is so insistent as to be nearly painful. To distract myself from the discomfort, I trail my fingers in the warm, clear water as we skim the bay. The fish astound me. I see brightest gold, flashes of red, even Godstone blue. I’m tempted to dive in for a swim.

Once we reach the shallows, I jump from the boat and splash through water, heedless of soaking my clothes. We drag the boat onto the sand, and I’m surprised when my legs waver, as if the land leaps and rolls like an ocean.

Hector notices my teetering and grins. “You’ll adjust to solid ground soon enough.”

The sailors who disembarked before us have begun setting up a haphazard camp. They’ve already lined a fire pit and erected one tent—but they’re doing it all wrong. I suppose that, as seamen, they’ve had few opportunities to organize encampments on land. On the other hand, I’ve had plenty.

“You there,” I call. “Haul the supplies farther into the trees. We need shelter from wind and surf. And you, would you move the fire pit, please? Find a spot where sparks won’t catch on dried palm fronds overhead.” I tap my fingers to my lips. If we’re to be here for weeks, then we need a latrine pit, far away from our water source. “Belén, do you see a good spot for digging a—”

“Latrine? Against the cliff face, there,” he says, pointing. “It’s downwind and far enough from the stream.”