The Girl of Fire and Thorns Complete Collection (75 page)

“You think someone
intended
to lock us out?”

Ximena would offer a kind inanity about it being an unfortunate misunderstanding. But Hector has nothing of dissembling in him. “Even after you’re safely returned, we must tread strategically,” he says.

I pass him the candle, nodding agreement. He leads the way, and I follow close enough that I can grab his sword belt if necessary. The tunnel is so tight that my shoulders brush the wood beams propping up the ceiling. I fight the urge to sneeze against the dust we kick up.

Something scuttles over my foot, glowing Godstone blue, and I squeal.

Hector whirls, but then he says, “Just a cave scorpion. They glow when frightened. Nearly harmless.”

Nearly
harmless is not harmless, and I open my mouth to point out as much, but I decide I’d rather be brave in front of him. “It startled me,” I say calmly. “Please, continue.”

He turns back around, but not before I catch the amused quirk of his lips. “Be glad it wasn’t a Death Stalker,” he says, pushing aside a thick cobweb.

“Oh?”

“They’re much larger scorpions. Very poisonous. They live in the scrub desert around Basajuan. I’m surprised you didn’t encounter them when you were leading the rebellion.”

“I wish I
had
encountered Death Stalkers. They would have been marvelous weapons.”

“What?” He stops short, and I nearly collide with him.

“One of the village boys kept vipers. I ordered him to toss them into an Invierno camp. He didn’t stick around to see if anyone died, but he did report a lot of screaming. Scorpions would have been even better.”

He is silent for so long that I’m worried I’ve offended him somehow. “Hector?”

“You always surprise me.” And he moves off into the darkness.

We reach a crooked stair. The bottom step has collapsed with rot.

“This winds through the walls of the palace,” Hector whispers. “We must go quietly.”

He waits until I nod, then ventures upward. The wood-reinforced earthen walls cede to stone and mortar as the steps bend and creak with our weight. I notice signs of life—footsteps, muted voices, wash water running through pipes to the sewer below.

The stair dead-ends. Hector holds up the candle, exposing a wall too smooth for stone. He runs a finger across it, which leaves a rivulet of darkness in the dust-gray surface. Something clicks. The door slides soundlessly aside, revealing a slightly brighter gloom.

“The wardrobe,” he whispers, stepping inside. “Stay here while I check the room.”

Light floods our passageway as he pushes the double doors open, but then he closes them again, leaving me alone in the dull murk. My heart twists to sense the empty space around me. My husband’s clothes used to hang here. I wonder what became of them all?

I wait the space of several heartbeats, listening hard for the sounds of a scuffle, wishing Hector had at least left me the candle.

Then he opens the doors, and I blink against the onslaught of brightness. “All clear,” he says. I take his offered hand and step into the king’s suite.

My late husband’s bedchamber is huge and decadent, with marble floors and polished mahogany furniture. Tapestries the height of two men hang from gilded crown molding. An enormous bed looms in the room’s center like a squat tower, its red silk canopy rising to a point.

I could live here if I wanted—it’s my right, as monarch. But I hate this room. It feels garish and ridiculous. And because I’ve only ever been here to hold the hand of a wasted man and ease his passing, it also feels like death.

Just ahead is a smaller door that leads to my own chambers—and home. “I checked. No one there but Mara,” Hector says when he sees me eyeing it with longing. “You’re safe for now.”

For now.
We must tread strategically,
he said in the tunnel. I clench my hands into fists, preparing for something, though I’m not sure what. “Let’s go then.”

We have returned ahead of Ximena and the guards. I pace in the bedchamber while Hector stands at the entrance, arms crossed, chin set.

“I have to
do
something,” I say. “I can’t just wait here.”

Mara, my lady-in-waiting, beckons me toward the sun-drenched atrium. “But we need to change your gown,” she says hurriedly. “It’s covered in dust. And I should repowder your face and smooth your hair and . . . and . . .”

The soft desperation in her voice makes me study her carefully. She’s as tall and slender as a palm—seventeen years old, like me. She won’t look me in the eye as she adds, “And I just had the atrium pool cleaned! Wouldn’t you like a bath?”

“Later. I have to figure out . . .” My protest dies when I see her trembling lip. I stride toward her and wrap her in a hug.

She draws in a surprised breath, then wraps her arms around me, squeezing tight.

“I’m fine, Mara,” I say into her hair. “Truly.”

“The animagus could have killed you,” she whispers.

“But he didn’t.”

She’s the first to pull away. When she straightens, her lips are pressed into a resolved line.

“Hector,” I say.

He uncrosses his arms and stands at attention, but he regards me warily.

“I can’t leave all those people out there. They’ll work themselves into a terrified mob.”

He frowns. “You want to open the gates.”

“They should know that their queen will protect them, no matter what.”

“To reverse the order of a Quorum lord, you must give the command in person.” He puts up a hand to keep me from rushing out the door. “But you need a proper escort. We should wait until Lady Ximena and the other guards return.”

“People are mobbing the gate
now
.”

He considers a moment, then nods reluctantly.

To Mara, I say, “Will you check on Prince Rosario?” Treading strategically means protecting my heir.

She reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Of course. Please be careful.” She doesn’t let go until I squeeze back.

Hector and I hurry into the hallway and immediately stop short. Soldiers pour from an adjoining corridor and run off ahead of us, a cacophony of clanking armor and creaking leather. They wear the plain cloaks of palace garrison—General Luz-Manuel’s men. “Hector? What—”

“I have no idea.” But he draws his sword.

Another group approaches from behind, and we step aside to let them pass. They move with such haste that they fail to notice their queen staring at them as they go by.

The soldier bringing up the rear is a little younger, a little shorter than the others. I grab him by the collar and yank him backward. He whips his sword around to defend himself, but Hector blocks him neatly. My ears ring from the clash of steel on steel, but I manage not to flinch.

The soldier’s face blanches when he recognizes me. “Your Majesty! I’m so sorry. I didn’t see . . .” He drops to his knee and bows his head. Hector does not lower his sword.

“Where are you going?” I demand.

“The main gate, Your Majesty.”

“Why?”

“We are under siege.”

Hector and I exchange a startled glance. It must be the Inviernos. How did they sneak into the city unnoticed? How could so many—

“The citizens of Brisadulce are rioting,” the soldier adds.

Oh, God.
“You mean we’re defending the palace against
our own people
? Tell me who gave the order to lock down the palace.”

He folds in on himself a little. “It—it was Lord-Conde Eduardo.”

“By sealed message or in person?” Hector asks, and it takes me a moment to understand: If it was a sealed message, the parchment might still exist.

“His adviser, Franco, relayed the message.”

Franco
. I’ve made it a point to memorize the names and positions of every person in my court, but I don’t recognize this one.

“I require your escort to the palace gate,” I tell him as Hector nods approval. “Quickly.” I gesture for him to lead the way, preferring Hector at my back, and lift my skirts to keep pace.

The dusty yard teems with palace garrison—archers up along the palace wall, light infantry in a row, ten paces back from the gate. Spearmen stand at the portcullis, swatting at grappling hands with their spear points, barking warnings to the people on the other side. From the swelling noise, the crowd has at least tripled.

“Thank you,” I tell the young soldier. “You may join your company.” He bows and flees.

Hector points to the wall above the gate, to a space between crenellations. “It’s Conde Eduardo.”

Sure enough, a figure stands tall, hands on hips, observing the crowd beyond.

“Let’s go.”

Hector bellows, “Make way for the queen!”

Soldiers scurry out of the way as we rush forward and take the stairs to the top of the wall two at a time.

The conde’s eyes widen slightly as I approach, but a blanket of composure drops across his features quickly. He’s an almost-handsome man with broad shoulders, sharp eyes, and a black close-cropped beard that cedes to gray along his temples. “You shouldn’t be here, Your Majesty,” he says. “It isn’t safe for you.”

“Did you order the palace lockdown?” I ask, breathless from the quick climb.

“No. The mayordomo did.”

I peer into the conde’s face, trying to read any deception or nervousness there, but he is as preternaturally calm as always.

“I want the gate opened,” I tell him.

“I’m not sure that’s a good—”

“They’re
our
people. Not our enemies.”

“They’re panicked. Panicked people do horrible things.”

“Like dropping the gate against those we’re supposed to protect?”

His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath. He leans forward, eyes narrowed, and I resist the urge to flinch away.
Do not back down, Elisa.
Below, the mob has quieted. They have no doubt spotted me. They’re waiting to see what I’ll do.

Finally the conde straightens. “As Your Majesty wishes,” he says.

I lift my chin to address the command toward the crowd. “The citizens of Brisadulce are most welcome. Raise the gate!”

The cry echoes throughout the yard. Gears shriek as the portcullis grinds upward. The garrison soldiers make way as the people of my city rush into the yard. But the initial panic blows itself out quickly, and after a moment, everyone filters through with orderly haste. My shoulders sag with relief. Until this moment, I was only
mostly
sure of my decision.

If the conde has a reaction to the quieting crowd, he does not show it, “There is much to discuss regarding today’s events,” he says.

“Indeed,” I agree with equal calm. “I’m calling an emergency meeting of the Quorum.”

He bows from the waist, then turns on his heel and strides away along the wall.

I watch him go, wondering about the flicker on his face when he first saw me, at his hesitation to follow my orders. Then I turn my back on him and the crowd gathering in the courtyard to look out over my city. I need to feel wide-open space, cleaner air.

I sense Hector beside me. He leans his elbows onto the wall so that our shoulders almost touch, and he says, “This is your first major crisis as sole monarch. You are weathering it well.”

“Thank you.” But I clutch the wall’s edge with misgiving. I gaze out across the flat rooftops of Brisadulce. They hug the downslope like massive adobe stairs, lush with garden plants and trellises. Beyond them, the ocean horizon stretches and curves, as though someone has thumb-smeared the bottom of the sky with indigo paint. “Hector, you know how when clouds roll across the sky, everyone turns an eye toward the docks to see if the water will leap over them and flood the streets? To see if the coming storm is actually a hurricane?”

“Yes.”

“I fear that’s what this is. Merely the heralding surge.”

Chapter 3

I
hate Quorum meetings.

Calling one is the right thing to do; we must deal with this incident decisively. But the lord-general and the lord-conde have been in power for decades. I’m the upstart—a seventeen-year-old queen reigning by royal decree rather than inheritance. On a good day, they talk over me as if I’m not there. On a bad one, I feel like a pesky sand chigger in danger of a swift swatting.

I’m the last to arrive. My entourage of ladies and guards stops at the threshold, for only Quorum members are allowed inside. Mara forces an encouraging smile as I swing the huge double doors shut and slide the bolt home to lock us in.

The Quorum chamber is low ceilinged and windowless, like a tomb. Candles flicker from sconces set in dusty mortar between gray stones. A squat oak table fills the center, surrounded by red cushions. The air is thick with unyielding silence, and I feel as though the ghosts of weighty decisions and secret councils press in around me, telling me to hush.

Hector is already seated on his cushion, looking stern. We always arrive separately, for it would be gauche to flaunt our close association. He lifts his chin in cold greeting, giving no hint that there is any warmth between us.

General Luz-Manuel, commander of my army, rises to welcome me, but his smile does not reach his eyes. He’s a small, hunched man, unimposing enough that his rise to military prominence seems puzzling. Because of this, I know better than to underestimate him.

“You were right to call this meeting, Your Majesty,” he says.

Beside him sits Lady Jada, who clasps her hands together and smiles as if in raptures. “Oh, Your Majesty, I’m so delighted the lord-general invited me again!”

I blink at her, marveling at her seeming unawareness of the moment’s gravity. Jada is wife to Brisadulce’s mayor and a temporary addition to the Quorum. We have been minus a member since I allowed the eastern holdings to secede, but we dare not meet with fewer than five, the holy number of perfection. Lady Jada is neither clever nor interesting, and therefore an unintimidating choice until we decide on a permanent replacement.

“I’m delighted you accepted,” I tell her sincerely.

Conde Eduardo bows his head in greeting, then calls the meeting to order by quoting God’s own words from the
Scriptura Sancta
: “Wherever five are gathered, there am I in their midst.”