The Girl of Fire and Thorns Complete Collection (93 page)

Mara beams as she opens hers but then gasps with astonishment. “A spice satchel. With marjoram, cinnamon—oh, Elisa. Saffron! How did you procure saffron?”

I’m so glad to have surprised her. “There are advantages to being queen. Now you, Ximena.”

My nurse peels back the leather wrapping to reveal a bound book with a painted cover and gilded pages.
“The Common Man’s Guide to Service,”
she breathes. “It must be two hundred years old.”

“Look at the pages.”

She opens it. “Oh, my sky.”

I laugh, delighted with her reaction. “They’re illuminated!”

Ximena runs a finger across the elaborate lettering, caresses the border painted in shimmering sacrament roses. Tears fill her eyes. “I’ve never owned something so valuable.”

It takes so little to please my ladies, and my heart fills to see the happiness shining in their faces. I reach my arms out, and then the three of us are elbowing one another in an awkward hug. “Happy Deliverance Day,” I whisper, and they respond in kind.

Someone’s throat clears, and we separate. Mara moves from my field of vision to reveal Hector standing in the doorway.

My mouth goes dry.

For the first time since I have known him, he is dressed as a Quorum lord. He still wears the red cloak of the Royal Guard, but instead of combing back his black hair, he has let it curl naturally at his forehead, at the nape of his neck. In lieu of a breastplate and thigh guards, he wears a loose white blouse tucked into tight black breeches. A sword belt slings across narrow hips, but it’s a smaller gentleman’s sword. Without the bulk of his armor, I see how very broad his shoulders are, how tanned the skin of his neck and collarbone is.

He looks vulnerable. Exposed.

And yet he looks stronger than I’ve ever seen him. He’s not beautiful like Alejandro, for there is nothing of delicacy about Hector. And he is not wild and unpolished like Humberto. Hector’s jaw is too smooth and solid, his eyebrows too full and well shaped, his neck and shoulders hard with sculpted muscle. Everything about him speaks of elegant power.

I realize the silence has stretched forever. How long have I stood here gaping?

His pupils are huge, his gaze on me steady. He has watched me study him, and more than anything, I wish I could read his thoughts.

I find my voice at last. “Happy Deliverance Day.”

“You are beautiful,” he says simply.

Warmth floods my neck, and I swallow hard. “Thank you. You look very nice too.”

“I brought something for you.”

“Oh?” For the first time, I notice the package in his hand. It’s box shaped, large enough that I will need two hands to hold it. “You didn’t have to get me anything.” Earlier, I had a page deliver a silver brooch for his cloak—the same gift I gave all my guards. I didn’t know what else to do. There is still so much I don’t know about him—about his childhood, his interests—and I couldn’t think of a gift that felt personal enough for someone so important to me. Staring at the box in his hand, I wish I’d given it more effort.

“It’s from all of us,” he says. “The Royal Guard, Ximena, and Mara.”

I whip my head around to stare at my ladies. Mara grins like a child about to eat naming-day pie. “Go ahead,” Ximena says. “Open it.”

Hector hands the box to me, and our fingers brush as I take it. I pull at the twine until it unravels, then peel away the decorative wrapping to reveal a hinged jewelry box of polished mahogany. The de Vega seal is burn etched onto the cover. My heart is in my throat as I tip the lid back.

Inside, resting on blue velvet, is a crown made of white gold with swirls and loops as intricate as lace. It’s dainty enough to be light on my head, and yet so much more substantial than the tiaras I wore as a princess. Indeed, it is fit for a queen.

But what makes me draw breath sharply, what fills my eyes with tears, are the shattered Godstones set into the gold. They range from dark blue to black; some are no more than shards. In the center is the largest, the one Godstone that survived mostly intact, though a large spiderweb crack bursts across its surface just left of center.

Whoever designed the crown was inspired by the broken jewels and carried the theme through the whorls and spikes of gold. Though delicate, the overall impression is one of bold strength and jagged shimmering.

It’s the crown of a warrior. Of someone who has faced destruction.

Because I am frozen in place, Ximena lifts it from the box and settles it on my head. It feels perfect. I step into the atrium to view my reflection in the vanity mirror. Tiny motes of untouched sapphire spark under the skylight.

“No one,” I breathe, “in the history of all the world has worn a crown such as this.”

“No one else could,” Hector says over my shoulder. Our eyes meet in the mirror. I’m the first to look away.

“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you all. But how—”

“All those gifts from your suitors,” Ximena says. “When you were convalescing. We sold several items, melted the jewelry down. It was Hector’s idea. Mara helped the jeweler design it. Each of the guards chipped in a few coins.”

“It’s amazing,” I say. “It’s magnificent.”

“Go show it off, my sky,” Ximena says with a soft smile.

I find I’m eager to do so. I look to Hector, and he holds out his arm.

The audience hall is transformed for the Deliverance Gala. Rose garlands swoop from crystal chandeliers, filling the hall with their heady scent. The casement of each high window holds a lighted candelabra, so that the room seems surrounded by stars. Low tables line the walls. They are covered with silk cloth and brimming with appetizers and drink served in silver dishes, all surrounded by sitting cushions for easy chatting.

Musicians play vihuelas and dulciáns from a wooden stage near the entry, and hundreds of people mill about, smiling and laughing, dressed in their yearly best. More trickle in through the entrance after being thoroughly searched for weapons, but even this does not damper the mood. They’re as bright as a flower garden in their Deliverance colors—coral hibiscus and yellow night bloomers and sky-blue vine snaps. Women wear their hair up in jeweled nets; men wear long stoles trimmed in gold embroidery. It’s a night for shimmering, for catching the light just so.

No one dances yet. It’s up to me to begin the festivities.

The moment I enter, the hall goes silent. Hector pauses in the threshold, giving them a chance to size up their queen. I hold lightly to his arm, and he reaches with his other hand and gives mine a quick squeeze.

Everyone bows, but their collective gaze fixes on my new crown. I give them a defiant smile in return and wait the space of a few beats for them to fully understand what they see.

I gesture for everyone to rise, and Hector and I resume our procession. The crowd breaks into a flurry of low-voiced conversations. I catch the words “Godstone” and “sorcery.” I hold my smile easily, knowing the crown has had its intended effect.

At the end of the hall, my throne dais has been rolled away to reveal the massive Hand of God, a masterwork of marble sculpture we gaze upon only once each year. My Godstone leaps in rapturous response. I calm it with my fingertips, mumbling, “Stop that.”

The man who carved the hand, Lutián of the Rocks, spent his whole short life working on it. They say he was overcome with God’s spirit, that he carved with fevered frenzy, stopping only for occasional food and drink and sleep. When he finished at the age of twenty-one, he pronounced it good and promptly collapsed of a burst heart. He bore a living Godstone, like me, and carving this giant hand was his great service.

With Hector’s help, I climb the steps leading to God’s cupped fingers. I step across them carefully, for they are as rounded and ridged as real fingers. I spread the skirt of my aquamarine gown around me, and lower myself so that I sit cross-legged in the giant palm.

The crowd hushes in expectation.

I close my eyes, lift my hands to the sky, and intone the Deliverance blessing.

In you our ancestors put their trust,

they cried out and you delivered them.

Yea, from the dying world they were saved;

in you they trusted and were not put to shame.

Bless us, O God, as we remember your hand;

your righteous right hand endures forever.

“Selah!” the crowd thunders.

The musicians resume, dancers float onto the center floor, and the Deliverance Gala has officially begun.

From below, Hector gestures for me to come down. Normally, the monarch would sit in the Hand of God for several dances, absorbing luck and blessing. But it is too dangerous for me to be exposed for so long.

Holding tight to his hand for support, I navigate the steps, mindful of my full skirt. My foot has barely reached the floor when I am accosted by my first partner.

“May I have this dance, Your Majesty?” asks Prince Rosario. He bows with the ease of long practice, his small fingers outstretched in gentlemanly supplication.

“Of course!” I say with genuine enthusiasm, taking the offered hand.

His head does not even reach my chest, and I’m tempted to lead him, but he seems determined to do the job credibly, so I let him.

“Did your nurse put you up to this?” I ask.

He peers up at me from beneath thick lashes—his cinnamon eyes are so like his father’s—and says, “No, but Carilla wants to dance with me.” With a quick tip of his chin, he indicates a young girl with wild curls and satin ruffles standing at the edge of the crowd, no more than nine years old. Rosario wrinkles his nose. “She tries to kiss me. It’s awful.”

I laugh. “So you told her you had to dance with me instead.”

He nods solemnly. “Even though you are a terrible dancer. Dancing with you is better than dancing with Carilla.”

With equal solemnity, I say, “Excellent decision. You will be a wise king one day.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “Wiser than Papá. Everyone says so.”

My heart breaks for him a little. “We should drift across the hall so that you are far away from Carilla when the song ends.”

He brightens. “Good idea!”

As we dance, I ask him about his studies, which he loathes, and his swordsmanship lessons with Hector, which he loves. By the time our dance ends, we are laughing together over his favorite pony, who can nose his way to a syrupy date even through three layers of clothing. I don’t step on Rosario’s feet even once.

When we separate, he bows. “I thank you for the dance, Your Majesty,” he intones.

“It was a pleasure, Your Highness,” I respond. Several people around us applaud lightly, as if we have put on a bit of theater. And I suppose we have. I hope it has cheered them to see their queen and her heir having a good time together.

A hand grasps my elbow. I look up into Hector’s worried face. He whispers, “
Please
. Do not drift through the crowd while dancing. Stay close to the edge, where I can see you.”

The music changes to a slow, rhythmic bolero.

“I didn’t realize . . . I’m sorry.” He is very close, and my heart starts to pound. I remember our last lesson, the way his hands stroked up my bare forearm, showing me proper form, guiding my movements. The way the world dropped away as we moved effortlessly together, lost in the drill that was more like a dance.

I whisper, “Dance with me.”

He pauses, as if considering. Then, “Yes, Your Majesty.” And my heart sinks to think that dancing with me may be yet another
duty
for him. But then I can’t think of anything at all, for his hand has slipped around my waist to pull me toward him. Holding my gaze, his left hand slides gently down my forearm to my fingers. He entwines them with his own and spins me into the center of the floor.

We are not close enough as we dance. I imagine myself pressed against him, my face buried in his neck. But this particular dance demands a certain choreographed distance, and we comply. I focus instead on the hand at the small of my back. The leather of my hidden corset protects me from daggers, but it protects me from Hector’s touch too, and I find myself hating it. I can feel the pressure of his hand but no more. I want to feel his fingers, his warmth. I want to feel
everything
.

“How is your injury?” I ask, to distract myself.

“I have forgotten to notice it.”

I have no idea how to respond. After a moment of my stunned silence, he says, “Of all your suitors, has any one caught your particular attention yet?”

His question startles me. It feels out of place. Forced.

I consider making a joke but abandon the idea. Instead I say, “I haven’t encountered many yet, but Conde Tristán seems nice. He’s intelligent and charming. And . . . and I think he likes me, too.”

“You think he could be a good friend, then?”

“Maybe. I don’t . . .”
I don’t love him.
“I don’t know that the Quorum will approve. He’s southern, after all. But I think he’s a good man.”

I hear him sigh, and his arm squeezes my waist, pulling me a little closer. He says, “I’m glad. You could do much worse. And I’ll always be grateful to him for coming to our aid.”

I nod agreement, trying to keep the disappointment from my face. It’s wrong of me, I know, but I don’t want Hector to be glad about a potential suitor.

The dance floor is full now, and Hector is careful to keep us from brushing against anyone else. He leans down and whispers, “I’m not sure it’s proper for a queen to dance with her guard.”

My heart sinks a little more. Always the dutiful commander. I lift my head to whisper back at him, and my lips accidentally brush his jaw when I say, “I don’t care.”

“May I cut in, Your Majesty?”

I turn toward the intruder, angry.

It’s Conde Tristán. He is so wide-eyed with nervousness that I soften at once.

Hector says, “Of course, Your Grace. Her Majesty and I were just discussing some of the finer points of security, but our conversation is finished.” He spins me toward the conde, and I catch one last glimpse of his unreadable face before Tristán traps me in his arms and Hector drifts back into shadow.