“No. It’s also a disinfectant. It will sting, but . . . I’ll be fine if you want to wait—”
I hush her by touching a blob of the stuff directly to the tear. She hisses.
Her skin feels strange beneath my fingertips, so lumpy and stiff, hardly like skin at all. But it’s as warm as normal flesh and bleeds just as easily. Gently I massage the salve along the edges of the wound, pretending not to notice when it mixes with seeping blood. I refuse to let myself feel revulsion, all the while thinking, Mara is this way because of me. She did it for me.
Mara makes no sound, but her head falls back against the wall as she squeezes her eyes closed.
“Your gown is ready,” Ximena says.
I give Mara’s arm a squeeze, then rinse my hands. Ximena dresses me with quick efficiency and then directs me to the edge of my bed. I’m not quite healed enough to bend over and reach my feet, so Ximena slides my stockings on. While she works, I pull out the pin holding up my braids and unravel my hair.
Thinking of Mara sitting alone on the floor of the atrium, I say, “The mayordomo is right, isn’t he? I need more than two attendants.”
“Serving you is an easy privilege, my sky. But once in a while, when we must hurry or when something goes a little wrong, like today, then yes, it would be nice to have one more person. Maybe two.” She slips on a pair of soft leather slippers.
My world is already so crowded with guards and constant visitors. It’s been nice to have a smidge of privacy in the atrium with only my two ladies, who are dear friends besides. I cannot imagine adding a stranger to the mix. But as Ximena sweeps up a layer of my hair and pins it with a mother-of-pearl comb, I say, “I’ll speak to the mayordomo about it soon.”
She plants a kiss on my cheek. “You’ll do what is best.” She helps me to my feet.
“Will you stay here with Mara?”
“I’m sure she’ll be fine without me.”
I open my mouth to snap that it’s a command, not a question. But at the last moment, I decide on a softer tack. “It will bring me comfort to know you are with her.” And I turn away, signaling the guards to accompany me.
We step into the corridor, and they center me in a tight formation of creaking leather and swinging swords.
Lord Hector hurries up as we round the first corner. The guards shift formation so he can walk beside me. “I just heard about the delegation,” he says. “How are you feeling?”
“Healthy and hearty and eager to see old friends.” We descend a wide stairway, and I gladly take his offered arm.
“It’s strange to think of Cosmé as queen,” he says. “I still picture her in her maid’s cap.”
Thinking of my friend brings an easy smile. “And I still see her in leather boots and a desert cloak, tending to the wounded and teaching the little ones to use their slings.”
“She has always been exceedingly capable,” he says.
“Indeed.” Many times I have wished I were half so capable as Cosmé.
When we reach the dignitaries’ suite, my guards clear a path so I can knock on the door myself. An older boy answers, and I don’t recognize him until his face lights up upon seeing me. “It’s Queen Elisa,” he hollers over his shoulder.
I clasp his upper arm. “You’ve grown tall, Matteo.”
His eyes are wide as he steps aside, and we have passed beyond him when he adds hurriedly, “I’ll be fourteen next month!”
The suite is about the size of my own, with two large beds instead of one. The bathing area is partly blocked by a velvet curtain, but I see the edge of a garderobe and a large wooden tub with carrying handles.
A familiar voice says, “Hello, Elisa,” as a figure pushes the curtain aside.
My breath catches as I look into the grinning face of Father Alentín, the one-armed rebel priest who became my mentor in the desert. He wears a traditional rough-woven tunic and robe, and as usual, his empty sleeve is tucked in at the shoulder.
Alentín wraps me in a hug. “Oh, my dear girl,” he says. “It has been too long.” He embraces me with such easy spontaneity, as if I’m merely a girl instead of a queen, and I melt into it.
I let myself cling to him, inhaling the dusty cook-fire scent of his woolen robe. I have to squeeze my eyes tight and swallow hard. “It’s good to see you too,” I manage.
He murmurs, “I have been praying for you every day.”
I step back and hold him at arm’s length. “And I you! How is Cosmé?”
“Struggling with limited funds to establish a stable government and build a garrison on the Invierne border. Growling at anyone who gets in her way. Putting nobles in their places.”
“So, the usual.”
“She sends her love. Actually, she said ‘regards,’ which amounts to the same thing.”
I smile. There was a time when Cosmé held me in very low regard indeed.
Alentín’s expression turns serious. “Elisa, there is something else. Something you should know.”
“Oh?”
He turns toward the bathing area and hollers, “Come on out now.”
“What?” I say. “Who are you—”
A young man steps from behind the curtain, and my throat squeezes. He is impossibly tall and reed thin, with a sharp jaw and hooked nose that make him austerely handsome. He wears a black leather patch over one eye.
It is Belén.
The betrayer. The boy who sold me to the Invierne army. He nearly ruined everything we had fought for, in his mistaken belief that he was doing God’s will.
Softly he says, “Hello, Elisa.”
I’m not sure what to say. It aches a little to see him, because before he betrayed me, he was my friend. And once he realized his mistake, he risked his own life to warn me of the animagi’s plans.
But I can’t force warmth into my voice when I say, “Why are you here, Belén?”
He opens his mouth but changes his mind about whatever he was going to say. Instead he hangs his head.
Alentín reaches out and gives Belén’s shoulder a squeeze. “This boy is quite reformed. But he remains unpopular in Basajuan, as you can imagine. The court demands his execution, but Cosmé can’t bear to see him killed. She thought to make use of his scouting ability, sending him on forays into enemy territory. Alas, his reporting visits to the city have become increasingly challenging. There was a scuffle in the stables—”
“But why send him here? Why to me?”
“Because I asked her to,” Belén says. He dares to hold my gaze. I catch myself looking back and forth between his eye and his patch before focusing determinedly on the bridge of his nose. “The Scriptura Sancta says that making amends is a holy and cleansing fire unto the soul. And that’s what I want to do: to make amends, to pledge my life to your service.”
I stare at him.
He whispers, “Please, Elisa.”
“I’ll think about it.”
He hides his disappointment quickly. “Thank you.”
I have a sudden urge to strike out at something, or maybe someone. Cosmé should not have sent Belén to me without regard for my wishes. Alentín should have known better than to support the plan. And yet I am forced to accept Belén’s presence here, since he travels in a delegation.
I have trouble enough holding my own at court. How much worse is it to be manipulated by my allies and friends? To have them foist off their own problems on me? I glare coldly as I address them both. “From this point forward, you shall address us as Your Majesty.”
They bow. “Of course, Your Majesty,” the traitor says.
To Alentín I say, “Are you here in an official ambassadorial role?” Though I know the answer; it’s the only way to ensure Belén’s safety.
“I am,” he says, and his bearing is suddenly stiff. “Queen Cosmé wishes you to know of an incident that occurred in her public marketplace and would like your view on it. In short, an animagus appeared, demanded that you give yourself over to Invierne as a willing sacrifice, and then burned himself alive.”
I gape at him. “It was the same here!”
He nods gravely. “I was in your city not two minutes before I learned of the event.”
But I hardly hear him for the pounding in my ears. Two similar occurrences in succession speak of planning, of deadly seriousness. What is so important as to be worth two martyrs? What could they possibly want with me?
You will know the gate of your enemy.
Frowning, I say, “Belén?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Delegation or no, if I sense you are out to harm me or any of my people, I will have you imprisoned and tried for treason. If Hector does not kill you first.”
If he has a response, I do not know or care, for I spin on my heel and head toward the door. My guards fall in around me.
I pause in the threshold and say to Alentín, “Weekly services will be held tomorrow in the monastery. You and Belén and Matteo should attend.”
His eyes are wide. “Yes, Eli—Your Majesty.”
They all regard me as if I am a stranger, and a creeping emptiness worms through my chest. I am nearly returned to my suite before I recognize the feeling as loneliness.
Chapter 8
MARA is stretched out on my bed, Doctor Enzo hovering over her as he tucks in the edges of a bandage. The guards have turned politely away, as they do when I am dressing.
I grab her hand. “How do you feel?”
“Rather like I just split in half.”
Enzo snorts. “Well short of half. Although stitching scar tissue is a complicated and delicate process. I used seven stitches this time, all quite small thanks to a new needle I commissioned.”
Seven? This time? I’m about to ask about the other times when Ximena hurries in from the atrium. “I have everything set to rights. Mara made quite a mess when she fell.”
Mara squeezes my hand. “Who was it? Anyone from Father Alentín’s camp? I was so hoping—”
“Alentín himself is here.” I hush her startled exclamation. “But there is more, which I will tell you in a moment.”
Her eyes narrow, and she nods.
Doctor Enzo pulls Mara’s chemise down over the bandage and straightens. “Light work only for the girl,” he tells me. “For a week. Bandages must be changed daily, the salve applied each time. Would you like me to look at you too, since I’m here?” He stares toward my abdomen, and his fingers twitch with eagerness. “I hear you’ve been up and about against my recommendation. I predict you have continued to heal anyway. I consulted some records in the archive of previous bearers, and—”
“Later, Enzo. You are dismissed.”
He mutters disjointed grumblings as he exits the suite.
Mara struggles to sit up. I give her arm a gentle pull, and she slides from the bed onto her feet.
I relate my meeting with Alentín. Ximena’s eyes narrow at the news that another animagus burned himself alive. And when Mara learns that Belén is in the palace, she collapses back onto the bed, looking dazed.
Ximena paces. “I don’t like this,” she murmurs. “Just how many animagi must there be for Invierne to sacrifice them so easily? And Belén. He needs to be watched. Which means we must assign some of the Royal Guard to their quarters. After the lockdown, I’m not sure we can trust the palace garrison.”
“Which means,” Hector says, “using some of the men who are assigned to your own protection.”
Fernando, from his post at the door, clears his throat and says to Hector, “My lord?”
“Yes?”
“There is not one among us who would balk at a double watch.” I gape at him, realizing he must have come straight here after poking around in the catacombs. Do my guards ever rest?
But they are all nodding agreement.
“I’m glad to know it,” Hector says. “It may come to that.”
In the silence that follows, I know what everyone is thinking: Before the war, the Royal Guard was a full garrison of sixty. Now, only thirty-two remain. No, I correct myself. Thirty-one, with the loss of Martín.
Determining the right size for a Royal Guard is a delicate balance. Too many, and my court would distrust me, fearing what I could do with my own personal army. But right now I don’t have nearly enough. It makes me weak, vulnerable. And everyone knows it.
I tell my mayordomo that I’m ready to ease back into a schedule. The first thing I want to do is address the recent spate of riots, but he insists I begin by interviewing suitors, starting with Conde Tristán of Selvarica. The conde is here for next week’s Deliverance Gala and has taken to accosting the mayordomo in the halls with regular requests for an audience.
I agree to see him first thing in the morning, telling myself that everything else can wait another day, and the mayordomo wilts with relief.
So I rise early, and while Mara sleeps in, I sit on my vanity stool while Ximena sculpts my hair into an elaborate coif of loops and curls. I’m holding up my neck curls so she can work the clasp of a sapphire-drop necklace—a piece I inherited from Queen Rosaura—when she says, “You’re very nervous and fidgety this morning.”
I hadn’t noticed the fidgeting, but my stomach is indeed in knots. “Yes,” I admit. She finishes clasping the necklace, and I drop the curls. Our eyes meet in the mirror. “Oh, Ximena, the appearance of the animagus, the assassination attempt—they have weakened my position greatly.”
“Yes,” she agrees solemnly.