Rae Carson - The Crown of Embers

God, yes.

“But it’s only the littlest bit of who they are together. And theirs is the only kind of love I could have with you. Anything else makes me less .” He takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “I won’t become a helpless marionette or a temporary diversion for my queen.”

Pain blooms beneath my breastbone, because I’m starting to understand.

He grabs my hands. I lower my knees and let him draw me toward him until our foreheads touch. “I understand how careful you have to be with your alliances right now. So when we get back from this, you’ll marry someone else. I will too. Maybe your sister. We might be able to arrange a tryst on occasion, and God, part of me thinks I should do anything, anything, if it means having you once in a while. But it wouldn’t be enough.” His thumbs caress my knuckles. “Don’t you see, Elisa? I love you the way a drowning man loves air. And it would destroy me to have you just a little.”

I choke on a sob, and tears leak from my eyes. It’s the cruelest of cruelties, for him to love me so deeply but refuse to have me.

He lifts his fingers toward my face and gently, so gently, wipes a tear from my cheek. He says, “I’m glad to know, though, that you think of me that way. I’ll always remember that.”

Grief threatens to strangle me. I have to push it away before I dissolve into a puddle of despair.

I blurt, “I just started taking lady’s shroud. Isn’t that silly of me?” I mean to sound cavalier, like I’m ready to laugh at myself and move on. But my face flames as soon as the words are in the air.

He grasps my hands and rises, pulling me to my feet. “You’ve been thinking about this a lot,” he says, a touch of wonder in his voice.

I nod, swallowing against further tears. “At least as much as you have.”

“Oh, I doubt that very much.” And suddenly he’s kissing me again, a deeper, longer kiss, and it’s a good thing our arms are wrapped around each other, because I don’t think I could stand on my own.

I want the moment to last forever, but of course it can’t. This time, when he pushes me away, I’m ready for it. I slide my arms from his shoulders, let them fall to my sides.

He takes a step back. We regard each other solemnly.

He says, “I won’t kiss you again.”

My vision wavers and the world tilts beneath my feet. I won’t kiss you again. Humberto said that to me once. It proved prophetic, for he died not long after.

Hector is turning his back, walking away from me. How can he, when my head still swims with his words and my skin still hums with his touch? When my heart feels as jagged as Godstone shards?

Something wells up inside me. Desperation, maybe, that I have loved and lost yet again. Or terror; people have a tendency to die after kissing me.

But no, neither of those. It’s rage.

I clench my hands into fists and yell, “Hector!”

He whips around.

“You were never, never, going to be just a diversion to me.”

He sighs, nodding. “That was unfair of me,” he says. “I’m sorr—”

“And you will kiss me again. That and more . Count on it.”

His mouth slams closed, and his eyes flare like a starving man’s.

I whirl and stride away.

MORNING brings a light shower, but the skies clear quickly, and our tents steam with the scent of wet goat hair in the rising sun. Hector scurries easily up a nearby palm, using both feet and hands for leverage. He twists off several coconuts, which he drops to the ground. Mara bores holes in them and spices them with cinnamon and honey, and we sit around our too-damp fire pits and drink coconut milk for breakfast.

A group of sailors laden with axes sets off for a grove of acacia trees to cut timber for repairs, while Hector and Belén organize others to explore the island. Hector is shoving a water skin inside his pack when he says to me, “Stay within sight of someone at all times. Don’t go anywhere alone. If you sense danger, have someone row you out to the ship. I’ll be back by nightfall.”

I nod up at him helplessly, knowing I’m going to do the exact opposite of all those things, wishing I could kiss him one last time, or at least tell him how I feel. He deserves to know.

“Hector, I . . .” I’m not sure what stills my tongue. Guilt, maybe. “Be safe,” I finish lamely.

“You too.” His gaze drops to my lips. And then he hurries away, slinging his pack over his shoulder.

I sense Storm’s impossibly tall form at my back. He whispers, “Take me with you.”

I whirl on him, glaring.

“Please.” For once, his face is devoid of mockery or smugness. “I can sense it too, you know. Not like you can, I’m sure. But it’s close. We could find it by nightfall.”

“What makes you think I’m—”

“You love your people too much, little queen,” he says. “You won’t risk them. This is your only opportunity to slip away. He always watches you, you know. Like he’s a man dying of thirst in the desert and you’re his wavering mirage that stays just out of reach.”

“Storm!” I hate hearing it from him. He makes it sound so cheap and ridiculous.

“It must be hard for you. To do what you’re planning, knowing he may never forgive you when he finds out.”

I’m torn between the desire to strangle him and gratitude that there is at least one person I needn’t deceive. “Haven’t you ever loved someone, Storm? Besides yourself, I mean.”

His head lowers with something that might be regret. “Yes. Oh, yes.”

Something about his tone makes me soften toward him. “Then maybe you do know how hard this will be.”

“Does this mean you’ll take me with you?”

“Hector doesn’t trust you.”

“But you do.”

I sigh. It’s true, mostly. And if he can sense the zafira, nothing would stop him from sneaking away without me. “Yes, you can come.” At least this way, if one of us slips and breaks an ankle, the other can go get help. “No packs,” I tell him. “Gather as much food as you can carry in your pockets. I’ll meet you upstream in a bit. Try not to let anyone see you.”

I have as much right to walk through our campsite as anyone, but it feels as though every eye is on me as I return to my tent. From my pack, I grab my water skin, which I hook through the loop in my utility belt; pouches of dried jerky and dates, which go into the pocket of my pants; and my knife, which I shove down into my boot. I grab my crown too. It’s made of Godstones, after all. Maybe it will prove useful. No place to hide it, though. Reluctantly I put it back into my pack.

I feel bulgy and obvious as I make my way to the stream.

Mara sits on the edge atop a rocky outcropping. She holds a smooth gray stone in one hand and is grinding away at a thick brown root. Something spicy-sweet pricks at my nose. She looks up at me and says, “Ginger! A whole patch of it across the stream. I’m going to dry it out and take some home with us.”

“It will be a wonderful addition to your satchel,” I say.

Something about my tone sobers her. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” I’m quick to say. “But I haven’t spent much time praying lately, so I’m going upstream a ways for privacy. I’ll keep the camp in sight.”

“I’ll come find you when lunch is ready.”

“No! I mean, I might be longer than that. I have a lot on my mind.” Truly, I am the worst liar in all of Joya d’Arena.

But she just shrugs. “In that case, I’ll save some for you.”

“Thank you.” I wish I could lean down and hug her, but I dare not arouse suspicion by making a big deal out of what should be a very small good-bye. As I turn my back, I hear the scrape-scrape of her grinding stone.