Rae Carson - The Crown of Embers

I awaken as if into a dream—a dream of light and heat and pain.

I should open my eyes, but I can’t seem to find them in my head. I ought to cry out, but I’m too distant from my flesh to figure out how. I’m lost in the desert of my own mind, in a wilderness of sand and light.

. . . dead soon , I imagine the general’s voice saying, distantly, as if from another world. . . . the priest . . . final sacrament. He wants me to die. I know it with surety, even from this bright, lost place.

But I refuse.

And later, maybe much later: Elisa? . . . Hector. . . hand moved! Rosario’s high voice this time—someone who very much wants me to live. I focus hard on his words, cling to them as to a lifeline.

Warmth. Pressure. My hand! Someone squeezes it.

I make my hand my whole world. Hand hand hand hand . I push through the sand and light and heat, and with every bit of strength I have in me, I squeeze back.

My next awakening is more real, my perception sharper, my pain so much more exquisite. My eyes are crusted closed, and I give up trying to open them.

My head is heavy and huge, like it has swollen to twice its normal size. The worst pain, though, is in my abdomen, just left of the Godstone.

I remember, and my breath comes in short gasps. The darkness, the gleaming steel edge, the dagger plummeting . . .

No. All this pain means that I am alive . I will think about that instead.

Even with my eyes closed, I know I’m in my bed. A cool night breeze caresses my fevered skin, bringing a sweet concoction of freesia and hibiscus. My balcony curtains whisper as they move; my bathing pool gurgles with a fresh infusion of water.

Someone found me, brought me here. Someone saved my life.

I sense movement against my shoulder. My stomach muscles clench involuntarily, which sends a wave of pain all the way to my breastbone. I force myself to relax, to breathe.

Then I turn my head to discover what rests at my shoulder. I get a noseful of soft, freshly washed hair, a blast of warm, sleeping breath.

I’d recognize his scent anywhere. It’s Rosario, my little prince. I wonder if he’s here by design or if he slipped his nurse again.

It makes my head swim to lift my neck, but I do it anyway, just enough for my lips to find his forehead. He snuggles closer, which helps me focus. I’m awake a long time. In pain. Glad to be alive.

When I stir again, my eyes open easily. I start to sit up but abandon the effort. Pain aside, my stomach muscles simply do not cooperate. What if the assassin’s dagger broke something inside me?

Rosario is gone, but I am surrounded by guards. One stands at the foot of my bed, two at my balcony, two at the entry door, one at the opening to my atrium.

I take a deep breath. “Morning,” I say with enormous effort. My voice is that of a stranger, all cracked and dry.

They snap to attention.

One steps forward. My vision wavers with heat and dizziness, but I recognize Lord Hector by the broad set of his shoulders.

He whispers, “Elisa?”

Questions tumble in my mind, competing for attention. Who rescued me? Did they find the assassin? How badly am I hurt? Where are Mara and Ximena? Did I imagine Rosario cuddled beside me in the dead of night?

Bringing all this to my lips is impossible. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

“Your Majesty?” he says. “Are you able to tell me how you feel?”

My bedroom is taut with silence as everyone awaits my response. They need me to respond. They’re afraid I can’t.

So I try again. “Sandstorm,” I manage.

It’s not coming out right. The guards exchange worried glances.

I take an excruciating breath. “Sandstorm,” I repeat. “Like I’ve been lost. And flayed alive.”

Lord Hector wilts with relief. “You look it too.”

The others gasp at his audacity, but I laugh. It sounds like a wheeze.

Hector turns to one of the guards. “Get word to General Luz-Manuel and Conde Eduardo at once . Tell them Her Majesty is awake and of sound mind.”

Hearing his name, I’m tickled by a darkly distant memory of the general sitting my deathwatch. Or did I imagine it?

“I’ll fetch Ximena and Mara,” Hector says. “I forced them to eat and rest.”

“Thank you.” Already my vision clouds, and I want more than anything to close my eyes. “Wait! How long was I—”

“Three days.”

It’s like a punch to my already-aching gut. “And the assassin?” Words, at least, are coming more easily.

“Disappeared. We’ve searched everywhere.”

I feared as much. Why else would I require so many sentries? “Was Invierne behind it? Was it related to the animagus’ threat?”

“The other Quorum members think so. The people think so. Conde Eduardo posted notices throughout the city advising that no one go anywhere alone. Several districts have requested a stronger guard presence.”

My mouth opens to ask if anyone has suggested giving me over to Invierne, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I say, “Did you find me down there? Are you the person who saved my life?”

He freezes, and I wish my vision were clearer, for I would dearly love to read his face.

“I’ll send your ladies,” he says, and he strides away before I can respond.

I’m drifting in almost-sleep when Nurse Ximena and Lady Mara bustle inside, followed by a lanky man I recognize as the royal physician. Hector does not accompany them.

Ximena showers my face with kisses. “Oh, my sky,” she says. “We thought . . . we were worried that . . . it’s good to see you awake.”

Mara fluffs my pillows. She doesn’t meet my gaze, but I notice a tear in the corner of her eye, which she quickly scrapes away. “You remember Doctor Enzo?” she says.

“Of course. He took wonderful care of the king . . .” I almost say, as he lay dying . “After he was injured.”

The ladies step aside, and Doctor Enzo leans forward to peer at me. He has a beakish nose and a razor-thin mustache that twitches with excitement as he absorbs information about my look and bearing. “I’m surprised to see you awake so soon. Your vision must be disastrous. Can you see at all?” Doctor Enzo was never one for niceties.

“It seems to be getting better.”

“Nauseated?”

“Mostly dizzy. Doctor, please tell me—”

“Right here.” He makes a stabbing gesture left of the Godstone. My stomach clenches painfully in response. “Fortunately, the assassin missed. The knife slid in sideways. Didn’t hit the important bits. There’s a muscle here”—with his forefinger, he indicates an imaginary line alongside my navel—“that was nearly severed. If you remain very still for a couple of weeks, it may heal properly. As it is, you’ll have a tremendous scar. May I document your recovery? It’s such a devastating and fascinating injury.”

“He didn’t miss,” I whisper.

“What was that?”

“The assassin didn’t miss. The blade was deflected by my Godstone.”

Someone gasps. The guards exchange looks of wonder, and I almost laugh. No sorcery was involved in the Godstone’s interference, nothing divine. It was random luck.

“There’s a slice across your forearm also,” Doctor Enzo continues. “Bled a good bit, but stitched up beautifully. Some of my finest work. In a few years, you’ll have only a faint scar.”

“Why am I so dizzy?”

“You hit the back of your head. Your skull is intact, but your face swelled magnificently. You may have permanent damage.”

I’m as taken aback by his emotionless delivery as the words themselves: Permanent damage . My heart squeezes at the thought. I am not beautiful. I am not a devotee of court politics. I’m not particularly queenly in bearing. What I am is well-studied and intelligent. My mind is my single advantage, the one thing I’ve allowed myself to take pride in. Any kind of damage is unacceptable.