Rae Carson - The Crown of Embers

“When will I know?” I ask in a shaky voice. “If there is . . . damage?” This conversation may be better had in private, away from the guards. Perhaps it is unwise to offer even the barest hint that the new queen is compromised.

Doctor Enzo pats my shoulder awkwardly. “The fact that you are awake and alert is a good sign.”

I am not reassured. But I am too tired to think about it a moment more. Of their own volition, my eyes drift closed.

No. I snap them open. I’ve been asleep long enough. “Doctor, send someone to fetch my mayordomo.” I need his report on the state of things immediately. Conde Eduardo and General Luz-Manuel have no doubt been ruling in my absence, and if they are willing to contest my worthiness in a face-to-face meeting, how much more will they undermine me while I am indisposed?

My mayordomo arrives within minutes. He is a decadent man prone to egregious ruffles and bright colors, but I admire his quiet dignity as my guards search him for weapons. It’s probably the first time in his tenure as ranking palace official that he’s been treated so abominably.

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” I say in a warm voice, hoping to lessen some of the sting.

He has hardly risen from his bow when he blurts, “Your Majesty, the city garrison just put down another riot. They made several arrests.”

I start to lurch to a sitting position, but the tearing at my abdomen sends me crashing back against my pillow. “ Another riot?” I say weakly. “Why?”

“There have been three in protest of the tax increase. All were quickly put down by the garrison, but each riot has been progressively larger. . . .”

My head swims. Riots? Tax increase? How could I forget about a tax increase? Maybe this is what Doctor Enzo meant by “permanent damage.”

“Remind me,” I say carefully, “about the details of this tax increase.”

“The Quorum pushed it through while you were indisposed.”

I gape at him. “Can they do that?”

“According to article 67 of the Concordancia , when the monarch is physically unable to perform his duties, the longest-sitting member of the Quorum must vote on his behalf.”

“So the general had two votes.”

“Yes.”

I clutch at my sheets until they are balled into my fists, but sharp pain darts up my forearm, so I force myself to unclench. Maybe I would have voted for a tax increase, I tell myself. Maybe it’s for the best. We’re desperate to refill the coffers for reconstruction. To rebuild our army before Invierne can mount another attack.

“And how did Hector vote?” I ask in a small voice.

“He abstained.”

I sink into my bedcovers with relief, though I’m not sure why it’s so important. “Thank you for your report,” I tell him.

He turns to go.

“Wait!”

He spins and drops into a courtier’s bow. “Your Majesty?”

“That day. When the animagus burned himself. Did you order the palace lockdown?”

“No, Your Majesty.”

“Who did?”

“It was General Luz-Manuel.”

The soldier told me it was the conde. The conde told me it was the mayordomo. What am I missing?

“Did you speak to the general in person?”

His eyebrows knit together thoughtfully. “I received word through His Grace the conde’s emissary, Lord Franco. He is a much trusted adviser. Did I do wrong?”

Franco again. I must meet this person, and soon. “No, you did well. I assume the city has been searched thoroughly?”

“No other Inviernos have been discovered, though I’m sure the mere possibility of another attack contributed to this sudden spate of riots.”

My city is splintering apart. I sense it as surely as if I still stood on the palace wall with Hector, watching it happen. “Thank you. You may go.”

Doctor Enzo insists I’m in no shape to hold appointments or even make decisions, so the mayordomo clears my schedule. But I hate being useless. I lie awake for hours each day, trying to figure out how to rule effectively from my bed. First I summon Lord Franco, the man who reportedly ordered the palace lockdown, but I’m told that he has left for Conde Eduardo’s southern holdings to oversee rebuilding projects.

I demand an accounting from General Luz-Manuel for the tax increase. He insists that he couldn’t wait. His queen was not expected to survive, and can he be blamed for acting quickly when so many of Brisadulce’s unemployed citizens are desperate for the construction work the increase would provide?

Though I’m unable to find fault with his arguments, I can’t shake the phantom memory of the general looming over my unconscious body, eager for my death. Something else is taking shape beneath his placid surface of diplomatic politeness. I’m sure of it.

Prince Rosario visits often at first, sneaking out of the nursery to be with me while the guards pretend not to notice. But once the boy has assured himself that I’m no longer in danger of dying like his father, his visits grow less frequent. I don’t mind. It’s hard to have him at my bedside without the freedom to ruffle his hair or play a quick game of cards.

Word has spread like wildfire that I seek a husband—even though I’ve made no official announcement. Gifts pour in from the nobility—especially potential suitors—and there’s a disconcerting intimacy about them. “Sapphire earrings to match the blue of your Godstone,” one note reads. “Since you are a scholar of holy scripture, here is a centuries-old copy of the Belleza Guerra, ” says another. So many strangers know so much about me, and they shower me with priceless gifts, just on the chance of catching my attention.

No one is sure what to do with the gifts, so Ximena shoves them into a corner of my atrium for later sorting.

I also get notes that are unnerving. A journeyman tanner blames me for not having enough hide to practice his craft and calls for my abdication. A young widow with four children begs for a job. An acolyte from the Monastery-at-Puerto Verde sends a withered black rose, saying that the Godstone’s blasphemous sorcery blackens my soul and makes a mockery of our most precious sacrament.

Several letters claim that because I allowed the eastern holdings to secede and form their own nation, I should do the same with the southern holdings. One letter boldly declares the south to be an independent nation.

General Luz-Manuel promises that each letter will be investigated for sedition and any true threat to my person will be dealt with. But even his assurances fill me with misgiving.

Every night, I dream of my assassin. In my nightmares, the catacombs are a huge black emptiness. I’m moving forward, arms outstretched against the dark, when I see a wicked glimmer. I have a flash of horrified understanding before the assassin becomes an inferno, and his flaming blade is plunging into my stomach, tearing me in half, and I scream and scream. . . .

Someone is always at my bedside when I wake. My ladies calm me with gentle words and cool, soothing hands, whispering that I’ll heal faster if I don’t try to leave the bed, that I’m safe now. But I can’t return to sleep until Ximena has read to me from the Scriptura Sancta , or Mara has plied me with a cup of spiced wine, or Hector has checked the balcony for intruders.

One afternoon I’m startled by a commotion outside. I hear shouting, the ring of steel, tromping boots.

Beside me, Ximena continues to loop and pull with her embroidery needle, but she meets my gaze with her own puzzled look.

Lord Hector bursts through the door. “Elisa! I need your help.”

“What is it?” Fear shoots through me. The last time I saw him so wide-eyed and breathless, the animagi were burning down the city gate.