“Please do. We must keep it guarded from now on.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“I’ll have breakfast sent to you. Not from the barracks.”
He bows formally, but his lips twitch.
When we reach my suite, I don’t bother changing into my nightgown. Ximena helps me shuck my boots, then I loosen the ties of my pants and collapse into bed, which is made up with freshly laundered sheets, thanks to Mara. They’re still warm, and I burrow into my pillows, catching the faint scent of rosewater. Truly, my bed is the greatest place in the world.
I am drifting away when an idea startles me awake. “Hector?” I blink to fight off sleep.
“Here,” he says from the foot of my bed.
“Do we have contacts in the Wallows? I’d like to pinpoint the cave’s location from the surface, find out all we can about it.”
“I’ll look into it, Majesty.”
“And please stop calling me Majesty in private. It makes me grit my teeth.”
He nods with exaggerated solemnity. “I’d hate for you to ruin your teeth on my behalf.”
“If that happened, I’d have no choice but to follow the general’s lead and order your execution.” I make a vague gesture and say, “Off with his head!” And then my face burns with my own crass inappropriateness.
But Hector chuckles deep in his throat, and I feel it all the way down to my toes. Softly he says, “My life has ever been yours, Elisa.”
My limbs tingle and heat fills my cheeks as we stare at each other.
I snap back to myself. He’s talking about his duty. Of course his life is mine. He is Queen’s Guard, after all, sworn to jump in front of a crossbow bolt if that’s what it takes to save me.
Carefully I say, “You’re a good friend, Hector. And I’m grateful to have you at my side.”
His gaze drops to the ground, and his chest rises and falls with a breath. “Always.”
Chapter 7
IT’S late evening, and sunset glows warmly through my balcony windows. Ximena and I sit cross-legged on my bed, surrounded by faded parchment and musty scrolls—old palace architectural plans, retrieved from the monastery archive by my request. We’ve been studying them for hours.
One shows the restoration of the throne room, another the monastery addition, but none give clues about secret tunnels or underground villages. I push them away with frustration.
Something slips from one of the scrolls—a tighter coil of vellum, blackening along its tips. Curious, I break the wax seal with my thumbnail, and my fingers smear with something dark—rot or mold?—as I unroll it onto my thigh.
It’s a map of Joya d’Arena. My native county of Orovalle is unmarked—the beautiful valley that lies north of the Hinders was undiscovered when this map was drawn. Which means it is probably five hundred years old, a priceless treasure that I have now exposed to light and air. I should send it back to the archive immediately for treatment and safekeeping. But I can’t make myself look away.
The eastern holdings beyond the desert—now the country of Basajuan, ruled by my friend Cosmé—are referred to as “territories.” Only the northern and southern holdings are clearly defined. Much like my country appears now, I realize with a start. The arable land of Joya d’Arena is once again a crooked sort of hourglass—fat on the top and bottom, thin and fragile in the center where the desert and ocean push together right here at my capital.
But Joya d’Arena is not alone anymore. I have allies now, protecting my borders on two sides—my father and sister to the north, Cosmé to the east. It makes me feel a little safer.
“My sky, there’s something I must tell you,” Ximena says.
I look up at my nurse. Dust smudges her right cheek, and wisps of gray hair dangle from her usually neat bun.
She takes a deep breath, as if steeling herself. “I’ve been doing some research on the Godstone. Since you fell into a coma.”
I straighten too fast, and several scrolls topple off my bed. “Oh?”
She runs a reverent forefinger across the parchment in her lap. “You know the prophecy in Homer’s Afflatus, the one that says, ‘He could not know what awaited at the gate of the enemy, and he was led, like a pig to the slaughter, into the realm of sorcery’?”
“Father Alentín thinks I fulfilled that prophecy when I was captured by Inviernos.” I keep my tone and expression bland, afraid she’ll change her mind about talking to me. Ximena spent years cultivating my ignorance on matters pertaining to the stone I bear. She believed it was the will of God. I know how much it costs her to turn her back on this tenet of a deeply personal faith.
“I’m not so sure you did.”
I swallow hard. “Oh.” I’ve been clinging to the hope that I am done with ‘the realm of sorcery,’ that being queen will be my great service to God.
She dumps the parchment off her lap and stands. “It’s the word ‘gate’ that gave me pause,” she says as she begins pacing at the foot of my bed. “In the Lengua Classica, it’s an archaic usage that also sometimes translates to ‘path.’ As in, ‘narrow is the path that restores the soul,’ from the Scriptura Sancta.”
“Go on.”
“It’s the same word we just found etched into the tunnel below the catacombs.”
I whisper, “‘The gate that leads to life is narrow and small so that few find it.’” I wrap my arms around myself. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” I say, but my heart patters and my limbs tingle. There is something to what she’s saying. Something important.
“I made a study of that word when I was a scribe. I went through all four of the holy scriptures looking for usages. It occurs exactly ten times. Five times, it refers to the gate—or path—of the enemy. But the other five times, it refers to something positive. Like life, or restoration, or healing.” Ximena pauses and grabs one of my bedposts. We lock gazes, and she says, “What are the chances of each reference occurring exactly five times?”
I shrug. “It’s the holy number of perfection. Something will occur exactly five times if God wills it.”
“Exactly. He must will it so. Such things do not happen by chance.” She resumes pacing, and her face grows distant. “I always thought those verses were metaphorical. I thought the path that restores the soul was a way to live one’s life. The way of faith, maybe. But what if . . .” She takes a deep breath. “What if it’s a real place? What if they are both real places?”
The Godstone buzzes with affirmation, sending prickles up my spine. “Both of them, real places,” I murmur. “The gate of the enemy, and the gate that leads to life.”
“I don’t know, my sky. But I’m looking into it.”
“Father Nicandro might be able to help. He has provided quiet aid to me in the past. Also, he is fluent in the Lengua Classica, and I trust him with my life.”
She nods. “I’ll discuss it with him. I’m at the point where I need access to the restricted areas of the monastery archive anyway.”
“Ximena,” I whisper. “What if it is a real place? What if I still have to go there?”
A year ago, she would have offered meaningless platitudes—or maybe a pastry—in an attempt to brush away my fears. But now she just gazes at me, her small black eyes full of determination, maybe even excitement. I shiver.
Glass shatters. Something thumps to the ground.
Ximena rushes into the atrium. I follow as quickly as I can.
Mara is doubled over beside the bathing pool, hands clutching her stomach. Several items from the vanity lie strewn about the floor. The moist air is too thick and sweet with my freesia perfume.
“What’s wrong?” I demand. “What happened?”
“I . . . shaking out your gown . . . my . . .”
“Her scar,” Ximena says. “It split open again.”
Her scar. From when the animagi burned her. Mara threw herself into the path of Invierne’s sorcerers to allow me time to work the magic of my Godstone. She barely survived. I have hardly given a thought to her injuries since that day.
I yell for one of the guards to fetch Doctor Enzo.
Mara slips to the ground, legs stretched out. Ximena unlaces her bodice to reveal a white chemise dotted with bright blood. Then she gingerly peels the chemise from Mara’s midriff.
I can’t control the gasp that escapes me. A ropy scar, about four fingers wide, stretches across her stomach, ridged with peaks and valleys of skin where her navel ought to be. Blood wells along a line of split skin.
“It’s deep this time,” Ximena says, blotting gently with the edge of Mara’s ruined chemise. “But it’s clean and straight. Easily stitched.”
“This time?” I ask. “It happens often?”
“I’ve been forgetting,” Mara says between breaths, “to put salve on it.”
“What salve? Where?” I demand.
“Small pot on the shelf by her bed,” says Ximena, continuing to blot.
“I’ll be right back.” I hurry through the atrium to the maids’ room.
It’s much smaller than my own chamber, with one high window, four bunked beds, and a shelf next to each bed for personal items. A few simple gowns hang from pegs on the wall below the window, and beside them is a writing desk with several half-melted candles. Such a tiny place to live. I can’t imagine how crowded it will feel when I finally acquiesce to my mayordomo’s request to take on more attendants.
I spot the round clay pot on the shelf beside Mara’s bed and grab it. Even without lifting the lid, I catch the strong scent of eucalyptus.
I’m hurrying back through the atrium when I step on something sharp. I nearly drop the pot as I lurch sideways to shift the weight from my foot. The effort tears at my abdomen, but I keep my balance. I peer down at the floor to see what nearly tripped me.
It’s one of my ancient Godstones, detached from its long-dead bearer. After using it to magnify the power of my own living Godstone and defeating the animagi, I tossed it along with its used-up brothers into a jewelry box on my dressing table. Mara must have knocked it over.
I lift it up between thumb and forefinger. It’s as blue-black as a bruise and jagged from its final devastating act. But in the wash of atrium light, I catch the hint of a spark, a tiny mote of untouched perfection deep inside the shattered jewel.
I hand the pot to Ximena, set the cracked Godstone on the vanity table, and crouch to face my lady-in-waiting.
“It’s doesn’t hurt that badly,” Mara assures me. “It just caught me by surprise.”
“She’s being brave,” Ximena says. “The rip is deep, and she shouldn’t be moved until Doctor Enzo gets here. The salve will help keep the skin moist.”
Someone pounds at my door, and with an apologetic shrug to Ximena and Mara, I hurry back to the bedchamber. A guard is peering through the peephole. “It’s the mayordomo, on some urgency,” he says.
His timing could not be worse. “Show him in.” I smooth my rumpled pants, wishing I’d taken the time to bathe and change today.
The mayordomo has made a gallant attempt at elegance, with a velvet vest over a blouse with flared lace cuffs. But as always, his clothes are a size too small, and his belly strains the buttons near to popping. He dips into a courtier’s bow.
“Rise.”
“Forgive the intrusion, Your Majesty.” He eyes the manuscripts strewn across my unmade bed. “I know you said to clear your schedule, but a delegation from Queen Cosmé of Basajuan has just arrived. I’ve assigned them to the dignitaries’ suite. They expressed a strong desire to see you as soon as possible.”
A delegation from Cosmé! I hope she sent friends, dear people I have not seen since my time in the desert. “You were right to inform me. See if they require food and drink. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Ximena appears in the doorway to the atrium, Mara’s pot still clutched in her hand.
The mayordomo bows again. “Yes, Your Majesty. If you’re ready to receive guests, does that mean we may discuss your schedule? Several noblewomen have applied for the open attendant positions—a queen needs more than two ladies! And I’m afraid you’ve acquired a long list of suitors; His Grace the conde Tristán of Selvarica has been relentless in trying to schedule an audience with you. There was a riot in the merchants’ alley yesterday over the wheat shortage, so the mayor would like to discuss increasing the guard presence there and in the Wallows—”
I wave him silent. “Later. See to our guests.”
He flees without another word. I frown at his back, unease curling in my stomach. Another riot. I resolve to call him back the moment I’m finished with the delegation.
“You’ll need a quick bath and a change of clothes,” Ximena says.
“No time for a bath,” I say, heading toward her.
“You can’t dress yourself with that injury!”
I grab the pot from her hands. “I’ll apply the salve while you shake out my dress and undo the bodice.” The stuff inside is thick and brown, with the consistency of something between wax and date jelly.
Ximena squeezes my shoulder and grabs my gown from the floor where Mara dropped it.
I crouch beside Mara and dip two fingers in the pot.
“It’s not right, Elisa,” Mara protests. “You’re my queen. You shouldn’t—”
“Oh, shut up. Should I avoid the tear itself?”