Rae Carson - The Crown of Embers

As I walk, I run a finger along the rough stone wall, taking comfort in its solidness. I imagine the palace and its ancient capital, sprawling across its peninsula of limestone, surrounded by ocean on three sides and desert on one. My new home is such a determined place, unchanging despite being hemmed in by things that pound it with deadly sandstorms and hurricanes for a season each year, and the rest of the time are merely fluid and forceful.

The city’s salvation is its underbelly. My old tutor used to tell me that long ago, before people arrived, our great sand desert was an inland sea. Something cataclysmic happened to drive all that water deep underground. Now it rushes out to meet the ocean in the caverns beneath my feet, providing plenty of fresh water for the beautiful oasis that is my capital city.

The catacombs, which were built to take advantage of the natural water-formed caverns, are my favorite place to find solitude.

The guard at the entrance is not surprised to see me. He greets me with a bow and a smile. “Glad to see you back safely, Your Majesty,” he says. “I heard what happened.”

“Thank you, Martín.” But I don’t want to talk about that. “How is your wife?”

He is one of the youngest among the Royal Guard, and it’s hard to believe that someone barely older than me could be married and expecting a child already. “Approaching her ninth month of pregnancy. And cursing the desert heat every day.” He lifts a torch from a wall sconce and hands it over. Martín’s grin turns sheepish. “If it’s a girl, she wants to name her Elisa.”

I nearly drop the torch. “Oh. Well . . . er, I would be honored, of course. Either way, you must promise to introduce the child to me when it comes.”

He knocks his chest with the flat of his fist—the gesture of a true oath. “I swear it, Your Majesty.”

It’s a strange thing to be a queen, to have one’s every word given such import. I am a bit discomfited as I hold the torch high and descend the cool, tight stair. My gown drags on the steps behind me, but I don’t care. I pray as I go, asking God’s blessing for Martín’s baby-who-might-be-Elisa, that she grow up to be charming and slender and beautiful.

An orange glow suffuses my path ahead. I duck through a low archway and enter the vast Hall of Skulls.

It’s a cathedral of bones. Skulls layer like bricks, reach toward an arched ceiling so high as to be lost in shadow. A row of larger skulls juts out at the wall’s midline, their gaping jaws plastered open and inset with glowing votive candles. Curving rib bones frame dark openings at regular intervals along the wall.

I am weary of death. When I close my eyes, I see blood leaching into the sand, flesh melting like wax beneath an animagus’ fire, gangrenous wounds, lifeless eyes. But these beautiful skulls are free of their rotting flesh, preserved and smiling. I love this reminder that death is an important foundation of my great city, that something of the dead can remain forever.

I pass through the third entrance on the right and enter the tomb of King Alejandro de Vega. His chamber still smells of roses and incense. I sconce my torch in a brass holder and wait as my eyes adjust to the dim light. In the echoing distance, the underground river pounds through the caverns. It’s near enough to stir the moist air, and my torch wavers.

Five stone caskets rest on giant pedestals, but the meager torchlight illuminates only the nearest three. One holds the remains of Alejandro’s father. The second contains my husband’s first wife, who died giving birth to our little prince, Rosario.

In the third is my husband.

A silk banner covers the casket, and I trace its smooth length with my forefinger. Banners cover the other caskets too, but they are tattered with time, or maybe with the moisture that pricks at my nostrils.

“Hello, Alejandro.” My whisper echoes around me.

Talking to a dead man is likely foolish. Do those who cross the barrier into the next life see or hear what happens to those stuck in this one? The Scriptura Sancta is unclear on the point. But I talk to him anyway, because even foolish comfort is something.

“I watched a man set himself on fire today. I thought of you, the way they burned you.” I place my palm against the casket, and for a crazy moment, I imagine Alejandro’s heartbeat thrumming beneath the stone. I wrench my hand away.

“The Quorum wants me to remarry, and I think I must do as they ask. Our marriage was a jest, I know. Still, we started to become friends in the end. You even said we could have loved each other, given time. Or were those words simply your final kindness to me?”

I came close to death myself today; I embrace it fully, let the truth of it wash over me. The animagus could have turned his fire on me . I would have died young, like most of the bearers before me.

And once the idea has settled into my bones, I’m suddenly eager to say to Alejandro what I never could when he was alive.

“You were a good man but an awful king. Indecisive, frightened, unwise.” I swallow hard against the still-unfamiliar sensation of missing him. “Oh, but now I wonder if I judged you too harshly. I must tell you, because I must tell someone, that I am . . . anxious. About being queen. I’m not sure I’m doing a good job of it so far. Ximena tells me I’m the only monarch in history who is also a bearer. But I’m only six . . . seventeen. What if I’m even worse than you were? Maybe—”

The Godstone freezes. I gasp as icy shards shoot through my blood, numbing my fingers and toes. I spin, seeking the source of danger.

Wind whips through the tomb. My torch winks out, leaving me in darkness.

Instinctively, I pray hard and fast, begging God to protect me from whatever lies ahead. The Godstone responds by easing warmth into my abdomen, just enough for my breath to come easier, to let me think .

I consider a strategic scream. But screaming would give away my exact location to whatever lies in ambush.

I need a weapon. I search frantically for something, anything. A silk banner flutters in the breeze. I grab the tassels and whisk the banner from its casket. Dust puffs into the air, and my chest lurches with the need to cough. The banner is long, nearly twice my height. Praying warmth into my limbs, I fold it in half, then once more.

I have no idea what to do with it. Venturing from the crypt armed with a silk banner is a ridiculous idea. And during my time in the desert, I learned it is stupid to fight when you can run and hide.

Two of the caskets are empty, awaiting their permanent residents. I have a sudden urge to crawl inside one, cross my arms over my chest, and close my eyes to the world. Instead, I creep behind the nearest and squat down so I can’t be seen from the doorway. I only need to be invisible long enough for Hector to come looking for me.

A shape moves in the dark.

My stomach drops into my toes. Someone is here, has been in the crypt the whole time.

I lurch away, but I am too cold, too slow.

Light winks against a steel edge. I raise my banner against the wicked glimmer.

Something rams the silk, slides off, ricochets against my forearm. My skin parts; pain sluices up to my shoulder.

I drop the banner, scurry backward in a crab crawl, but I collide with a pedestal. The blade plunges again.

I scream as it glances off my Godstone, slips into my stomach as if I am made of butter.

The pain is like nothing I’ve experienced. I know I will burst from it.

Warmth glides across my belly, down my thighs. The blade is ripped from my body, and I crumple to the stone. My cheek splats into a pool of my own blood.

My last thought is of Alejandro, and how surprised he’ll be to see me.