Rae Carson - The Crown of Embers

The night bloomers have unfurled by the time we return to camp. Our tents float in a garden of stars, reflecting palest blue in their soft light. A breeze rustles the palm fronds above us.

After a quick meal of whitefish baked on sticks over the fire pit, I unravel the hasty braid Mara did for me after our swim. I’m beginning to loose the laces of my blouse when the import of what I’ll do tomorrow hits me. My fingers pause on the ties.

I know so little about the zafira . I have no idea what will happen or what I’ll find. I don’t even know if I’ll make it back. What if I never see him again?

I crawl from my tent and go in search of Hector.

I find him on the beach, just outside the line of palm trees. He sits on a hollowed-out log, one knee bent, the other long leg stretched out in the sand. He grips a tall stick, which he whittles with his dagger. It takes me a moment to realize he’s making a spear.

He looks up as I approach, his face unreadable.

“Do you mind company?” I ask.

With a lift of his chin, he indicates the space on the log next to him. I settle beside him, careful to avoid the end of his stick, and lean forward to rest my elbows on my knees. The sea glows with the light of a half moon. I lift my face to the breeze and listen to the gentle lap and suck of the surf and the whisk-whisk sound of Hector’s knife against the wood.

“What are you doing here, Elisa?” he asks in a weary voice.

I flinch away. “I . . . I didn’t mean to intrude. If you’d rather be al—”

“Did you come to torment me?”

“What?” Well, yes, maybe a little. “I know you’re angry at me, but I’m not sure why.”

He’s gripping his dagger too tightly, and his next stroke lops off the tip of his spear. He sighs. Dagger still in hand, he wipes his brow with his wrist. He says, “I’m not angry at you. Mostly at myself.”

“Oh?”

He opens his mouth to say something but changes his mind. Instead he whittles at his ruined stick, and I recognize the expression as the one he wears when chewing on a particularly tough problem.

Finally he says, “Honesty in all things, right?”

“Yes, please.” But I’m coiling in on myself, trying to make my heart a stone, because I have no idea what he’s going to say.

He stares out across the moon-glass bay. “It was difficult for me today,” he says, “to stand guard for you. To hear you laughing and splashing with Mara, knowing you were . . . bathing. Very . . .”

“Oh,” I breathe. “I see.”

“The most important thing I do is protect you. I would die to keep you safe.” He’s gripping his dagger so tightly his knuckles are turning white. “But you make it very difficult. Sometimes you can’t help it, of course. But sometimes you can.”

“I don’t understand.” I don’t know why, but my chest tightens with shame. “I’ve been taking your advice. I’m taking fewer risks. . . .”

He lets the dagger and spear drop into the sand and twists to straddle the log. His eyes are very close when he says, “I can’t defend against you .”

My heart is a drum in my chest.

His forefinger reaches toward me, to my cheek, gently sweeps a strand of hair behind my ear. From there his finger trails along my jawline, up to my mouth.

My lips part. My whole body buzzes.

“I told you I wouldn’t let it interfere with my work. But every time you smile at me, and especially when you look at me the way you’re looking at me right now, everything disappears.” His thumb sweeps across my bottom lip, down my chin. His voice is low and dark as he says, “When it happens, I’m not guarding you anymore. Your enemy could come up behind me, and I would never know, because all I’m thinking about is how badly I want you.”

My heart sings. I stare at his mouth. It’s beautiful, with full pale lips set off by his sun-darkened skin. I would only have to lean the tiniest bit to close the distance between us.

He starts to back away.

In desperation, I blurt, “Mara says I should take you as my lover.”

His indrawn breath is as sharp and hard as if I’ve wounded him. My face fills with heat, and I can’t bear to look at his face. I’m embarrassed at my own weakness, unable to say such an important thing straight out. I want you as my lover, I should have said. But I can’t bring the words to my lips, because if he says no, he’ll be saying no to me, instead of merely to Mara’s idea.

But he’ll have none of that. “Elisa. Are you asking?”

Panic and hope war inside me. It’s up to me, as it has always been. I can ask him or not. Asking him is terrifying. But not asking would be so much worse.

“Yes, I’m asking. Hector, I—”

With a swift motion, he cups the back of my head and presses his warm lips to mine. The pit of my stomach drops away as I open my mouth to his.

He groans, wrapping his other arm around my waist, pulling me toward him until I am almost in his lap. I arch against him; my breath comes fast as he explores my mouth. Before, his kisses were patient and sweet. But there is nothing of sweetness in him now, just heat and desperate need.

He tangles his fingers in my hair and yanks my head back, breaking our kiss. I let out a little “Oh!” of disappointment, but then he’s sliding his mouth along my jaw, to the pulse at my throat. “Elisa,” he murmurs. “I’ve wanted to do this for a long, long time.”

His words send me spiraling with dizzy gladness. I clutch at his hair—it’s even softer than I imagined—and press my lips to the top of his head. I close my eyes, wanting to memorize this perfect moment, and I breathe deeply of leather oil and fresh-washed jungle and something a little sharper, something distinctly Hector.

His lips brush my collarbone and then dip lower, toward my breasts. I slide my hands to the hem of his shirt and start to pull, desperate for more, more skin, more him .

He freezes. Then he pushes me away.

“Hector?” I gasp out, suddenly aching and bereft.

He closes his eyes tight, takes a deep breath. Opens them. They are huge and warm and . . . wet? as he whispers, “Elisa . . . I . . .”

Why did he stop? Did I do something wrong?

He tries again. “I can’t. I won’t.” He slides back, putting cold hard space between us.

I pull my knees to my chest, curl into a tight ball. This is what I’ve feared, why it was so hard to ask. I find myself shaking my head against whatever comes next.

“I need to explain,” he says.

I find a tatter of pride and say, “No, you don’t owe me an—”

“I said I need to explain.”

I rest my chin on my knee to steady myself. “All right.”

He says, “You have every possible power over me.”

“What?”

“You have the power of a dear friend, you have all the power that a beautiful woman has over a man who loves her, and most importantly, you are my sovereign. You have the power to command me in everything.”

Something about his choice of words makes me angry. “You have plenty of power over me too,” I say.

But it’s like a dam of control has burst, and he hardly hears me for needing to get out all the thoughts that have been spinning in his head.

“Have I told you about my parents?” he asks. “They’re best friends. Partners in everything.” His eyes grow distant as he talks, and his mouth curves into a sad smile. “I’ve watched them my whole life, the way they are with each other. So easy and natural. They finish each other’s sentences. They can exchange a look across the dining table and instantly know what the other is thinking.”

The gaze he turns on me is fierce, like he’s desperate for me to understand. “Neither is subject to the other; they’re more like two halves of a whole. And that intertwining of lives, of being , it’s amazing to see. Being lovers . . . it feels like it would be such a big thing, yes?”