I do my best not to gape at him. “I fought for this nation as one born to it!”

He nods solemnly. “What you did was an important part of the whole effort.” I curl my hands into fists against the condescension in his voice. “But you have difficult decisions coming up, like raising taxes to support rebuilding efforts. You will find that when people are tightening their belts, your heroics won’t matter. They will blame you, Your Majesty, and you alone. They’ll demand we hand you over to our enemy.”

I knew my Quorum held little respect for me. But I didn’t anticipate this. And his words cut hard because he is right. I am a child, and an inexperienced one. Leading a small desert rebellion, defeating Invierne’s animagi with my Godstone—these things were impressive, certainly. But they were nothing like ruling.

Lady Jada’s gaze shifts between the general and me, her eyes large and eager. She is a keen gossip, and I wonder if Luz-Manuel invited her specifically in the hope that she would spread the idea of my regency. Or the reason for my proposed regency—that I can’t rule on my own.

Conde Eduardo stares into the distance, rubbing at his close-cropped beard. Finally he says, “There is another way.” He leans his elbows onto the table and stares at each Quorum member in turn, settling finally on me. “My dear queen, it is time for you to choose a husband.”

Ah, so that’s it. The regency discussion was simply meant to introduce marriage as the more palatable alternative. They probably worked it out between themselves ahead of time.

“Oh, yes!” says Jada. “Someone whose counsel is widely respected. Everyone would accept your queenship with a strong prince consort at your side, even given today’s events.”

Softly Hector says, “The king has only been dead five months.”

“The queen is beyond the ceremonial mourning period,” Conde Eduardo says with a shrug. He turns to me. “I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but our nation suffered weak rule under Alejandro and Nicolao. We were coming apart at the seams even before the war. Your Majesty, I beg you to put your people first. Please choose either a regent or a strong husband, and bring the stability we so desperately need.”

“You would gain the most political advantage by choosing someone from the northern holdings,” the general adds. “The north bore the brunt of the war.”

“I’ll compile an eligibility list,” Lady Jada says. “We can look over it at our next meeting. Lord Liano of Altapalma comes to mind. And of course Conde Tristán of Selvarica, who is a southern lord but should not be discounted. Also . . .”

I can’t bear to pay attention as Jada prattles on about every lordling in the entire kingdom. I’ve known for a while that I would marry for the good of Joya d’Arena. But now, faced with the prospect, I don’t want to. I want to love someone again, the way I loved Humberto, or at the very least share a friendship, as Alejandro and I did in the end.

And I want to be queen of this great country not because someone is holding my hand, but because I can do it. Me. Elisa.

But I agree to look at Lady Jada’s list at our next meeting, because I don’t know what else to do or say. If nothing else, it buys me time to consider my options.

Our conversation moves to reconstruction. Whole villages along the desert caravan route still lie in ruins after the enemy’s march. The cost to clean and rebuild is becoming enormous. The highway through Puerto Verde is near impassable after several years of unusually bad weather. The tanners’ and weavers’ guilds are close to rioting over the shortage of hide and wool, now that the seceded country of Basajuan is no longer forced to trade sheep with the capital.

The nation is in shambles. Though we won the war, our coffers are drained, our army weakened, our people dispirited. Today’s birthday parade was supposed to inspire hope, to demonstrate the safe normalcy our lives were returning to.

My ridiculous crown grows unbearable as I ponder the centuries of rulers who came before me and sat in this same room, at this same table. Did any of them inherit a mess this big? Were any of them mere children, like me?

I can’t mask my relief when our meeting is over. I rise stiffly and thank everyone for coming; then Hector releases the bolt and opens the door. I bask in the fresher air that hits my face.

Once outside, my ladies press close. I yank off my crown and fling it at Ximena. Mara mops sweat along my hairline with a cloth and fluffs my skirt.

I say, “I need to walk.” Mostly, I need to think, away from watchful eyes and weighty problems.

They clear a path, and Hector steps up to accompany me.

I shake my head. “I need to go alone.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“I’ll just be a few minutes,” I assure him. “I’m going to the catacombs to pray. I’ll only walk where our own guards patrol. Come looking for me if I’m not back when the monastery bells ring the hour.”

He reaches up as if to grasp my arm, but then changes his mind and lowers his hand. “Be wary, my queen.”

I smile assurance, and then I’m off, away from the crowd.

The cobblestones beneath my feet are worn smooth, for Brisadulce was built almost two thousand years ago, after God scooped up our ancestors from the dying world with his righteous right hand and deposited them onto this one.

As I walk, I run a finger along the rough stone wall, taking comfort in its solidness. I imagine the palace and its ancient capital, sprawling across its peninsula of limestone, surrounded by ocean on three sides and desert on one. My new home is such a determined place, unchanging despite being hemmed in by things that pound it with deadly sandstorms and hurricanes for a season each year, and the rest of the time are merely fluid and forceful.

The city’s salvation is its underbelly. My old tutor used to tell me that long ago, before people arrived, our great sand desert was an inland sea. Something cataclysmic happened to drive all that water deep underground. Now it rushes out to meet the ocean in the caverns beneath my feet, providing plenty of fresh water for the beautiful oasis that is my capital city.

The catacombs, which were built to take advantage of the natural water-formed caverns, are my favorite place to find solitude.

The guard at the entrance is not surprised to see me. He greets me with a bow and a smile. “Glad to see you back safely, Your Majesty,” he says. “I heard what happened.”

“Thank you, Martín.” But I don’t want to talk about that. “How is your wife?”

He is one of the youngest among the Royal Guard, and it’s hard to believe that someone barely older than me could be married and expecting a child already. “Approaching her ninth month of pregnancy. And cursing the desert heat every day.” He lifts a torch from a wall sconce and hands it over. Martín’s grin turns sheepish. “If it’s a girl, she wants to name her Elisa.”

I nearly drop the torch. “Oh. Well . . . er, I would be honored, of course. Either way, you must promise to introduce the child to me when it comes.”

He knocks his chest with the flat of his fist—the gesture of a true oath. “I swear it, Your Majesty.”

It’s a strange thing to be a queen, to have one’s every word given such import. I am a bit discomfited as I hold the torch high and descend the cool, tight stair. My gown drags on the steps behind me, but I don’t care. I pray as I go, asking God’s blessing for Martín’s baby-who-might-be-Elisa, that she grow up to be charming and slender and beautiful.

An orange glow suffuses my path ahead. I duck through a low archway and enter the vast Hall of Skulls.

It’s a cathedral of bones. Skulls layer like bricks, reach toward an arched ceiling so high as to be lost in shadow. A row of larger skulls juts out at the wall’s midline, their gaping jaws plastered open and inset with glowing votive candles. Curving rib bones frame dark openings at regular intervals along the wall.

I am weary of death. When I close my eyes, I see blood leaching into the sand, flesh melting like wax beneath an animagus’ fire, gangrenous wounds, lifeless eyes. But these beautiful skulls are free of their rotting flesh, preserved and smiling. I love this reminder that death is an important foundation of my great city, that something of the dead can remain forever.

I pass through the third entrance on the right and enter the tomb of King Alejandro de Vega. His chamber still smells of roses and incense. I sconce my torch in a brass holder and wait as my eyes adjust to the dim light. In the echoing distance, the underground river pounds through the caverns. It’s near enough to stir the moist air, and my torch wavers.

Five stone caskets rest on giant pedestals, but the meager torchlight illuminates only the nearest three. One holds the remains of Alejandro’s father. The second contains my husband’s first wife, who died giving birth to our little prince, Rosario.

In the third is my husband.

A silk banner covers the casket, and I trace its smooth length with my forefinger. Banners cover the other caskets too, but they are tattered with time, or maybe with the moisture that pricks at my nostrils.

“Hello, Alejandro.” My whisper echoes around me.

Talking to a dead man is likely foolish. Do those who cross the barrier into the next life see or hear what happens to those stuck in this one? The Scriptura Sancta is unclear on the point. But I talk to him anyway, because even foolish comfort is something.

“I watched a man set himself on fire today. I thought of you, the way they burned you.” I place my palm against the casket, and for a crazy moment, I imagine Alejandro’s heartbeat thrumming beneath the stone. I wrench my hand away.

“The Quorum wants me to remarry, and I think I must do as they ask. Our marriage was a jest, I know. Still, we started to become friends in the end. You even said we could have loved each other, given time. Or were those words simply your final kindness to me?”

I came close to death myself today; I embrace it fully, let the truth of it wash over me. The animagus could have turned his fire on me. I would have died young, like most of the bearers before me.

And once the idea has settled into my bones, I’m suddenly eager to say to Alejandro what I never could when he was alive.

“You were a good man but an awful king. Indecisive, frightened, unwise.” I swallow hard against the still-unfamiliar sensation of missing him. “Oh, but now I wonder if I judged you too harshly. I must tell you, because I must tell someone, that I am . . . anxious. About being queen. I’m not sure I’m doing a good job of it so far. Ximena tells me I’m the only monarch in history who is also a bearer. But I’m only six . . . seventeen. What if I’m even worse than you were? Maybe—”

The Godstone freezes. I gasp as icy shards shoot through my blood, numbing my fingers and toes. I spin, seeking the source of danger.

Wind whips through the tomb. My torch winks out, leaving me in darkness.

Instinctively, I pray hard and fast, begging God to protect me from whatever lies ahead. The Godstone responds by easing warmth into my abdomen, just enough for my breath to come easier, to let me think.

I consider a strategic scream. But screaming would give away my exact location to whatever lies in ambush.

I need a weapon. I search frantically for something, anything. A silk banner flutters in the breeze. I grab the tassels and whisk the banner from its casket. Dust puffs into the air, and my chest lurches with the need to cough. The banner is long, nearly twice my height. Praying warmth into my limbs, I fold it in half, then once more.

I have no idea what to do with it. Venturing from the crypt armed with a silk banner is a ridiculous idea. And during my time in the desert, I learned it is stupid to fight when you can run and hide.

Two of the caskets are empty, awaiting their permanent residents. I have a sudden urge to crawl inside one, cross my arms over my chest, and close my eyes to the world. Instead, I creep behind the nearest and squat down so I can’t be seen from the doorway. I only need to be invisible long enough for Hector to come looking for me.

A shape moves in the dark.

My stomach drops into my toes. Someone is here, has been in the crypt the whole time.

I lurch away, but I am too cold, too slow.

Light winks against a steel edge. I raise my banner against the wicked glimmer.

Something rams the silk, slides off, ricochets against my forearm. My skin parts; pain sluices up to my shoulder.

I drop the banner, scurry backward in a crab crawl, but I collide with a pedestal. The blade plunges again.

I scream as it glances off my Godstone, slips into my stomach as if I am made of butter.

The pain is like nothing I’ve experienced. I know I will burst from it.

Warmth glides across my belly, down my thighs. The blade is ripped from my body, and I crumple to the stone. My cheek splats into a pool of my own blood.

My last thought is of Alejandro, and how surprised he’ll be to see me.

Chapter 4

I awaken as if into a dream—a dream of light and heat and pain.

I should open my eyes, but I can’t seem to find them in my head. I ought to cry out, but I’m too distant from my flesh to figure out how. I’m lost in the desert of my own mind, in a wilderness of sand and light.

. . . dead soon, I imagine the general’s voice saying, distantly, as if from another world. . . . the priest . . . final sacrament. He wants me to die. I know it with surety, even from this bright, lost place.

But I refuse.

And later, maybe much later: Elisa? . . . Hector. . . hand moved! Rosario’s high voice this time—someone who very much wants me to live. I focus hard on his words, cling to them as to a lifeline.

Warmth. Pressure. My hand! Someone squeezes it.

I make my hand my whole world. Hand hand hand hand. I push through the sand and light and heat, and with every bit of strength I have in me, I squeeze back.