Author: Rae Carson

“You must be Alejandro’s special guest!” she says. Her voice is soft and high like a girl’s. Only faint lines and slight weariness around her eyes reveal that she is older than I, maybe late twenties.

I nod, unsure what to say. I wish the king was here so I could follow his lead.

“Come, sit with me.” She grabs my arm, and I let myself be pulled along. “I’m Condesa Ariña. I’ll introduce you to everyone after you’ve had something to eat.”

As Ximena and I settle beside her, the damp ruffles of my skirt stick cold against my legs. It is odd that the condesa has not asked my name, that she speaks of my husband with such familiarity.

I try not to be too interested in the food as she fills a wooden platter for me, selecting from various dishes before us. I look at the people seated around me; they eat daintily, glancing away as soon as my gaze catches theirs. The chamber is stone-cold gray and huge, too huge for two handfuls of people. I miss my cozy adobe.

Condesa Ariña sets the platter in my lap. “Here you are, Lady Elisa.” So she already knows my name. I’ve told no one to address me that way save Cosmé. I glance toward the curtained doorway we entered through, but the maid is gone.

I attack the food. It’s a bit bland, but so much nicer than traveling fare. I bite into a puffed pastry, remembering an almond glaze that would contrast beautifully with the mild egg flavor. Maybe Alejandro’s kitchen master will be willing to experiment with some of Orovalle’s finer dishes.

Then I remember Ximena. Ariña hadn’t bothered to serve her. I hand her my platter, smiling in apology. She winks at me and grabs a tiny quiche. As I settle the platter between us, I notice several of my companions looking at me strangely. I wonder what I’ve done wrong. Maybe they’re not used to seeing a servant treated with respect. Or maybe I don’t eat daintily enough for them. I stuff another pastry into my mouth and stare right back.

Attention shifts toward the doorway. The curtain moves aside, and Lord Hector enters, followed by Alejandro. I’m so relieved to see them both. Everyone stands and bows low, and I sit there like a fool, not sure what to do. Does a wife bow to her husband in Joya d’Arena? Does a princess bow to a king? I only bowed to my father on formal occasions.

I clamber to my feet, and my face flushes hot when I realize my damp skirt is stuck to the backs of my legs. Alejandro can’t see, but I’m sure Condesa Ariña is making a careful study of my ample rear. I don’t dare yank my skirt from behind.

Alejandro strides toward me, smiling like he’s glad to see me. His skin is fresh scrubbed; his hair sweeps away from his forehead in soft, black waves. I’m caught by the way it curls behind his ears, by the strength of his jaw that frames otherwise delicate features. He grabs my shoulders and leans in to kiss my hot cheek.

“I trust you slept well, Highness?” he asks loudly.

Highness. I feel the collective gaze of my breakfast companions hammer me with silent surprise.

He turns to face them. “Have you met everyone yet, Elisa?”

“Only Condesa Ariña, who has been most kind.” To our left, Lord Hector’s mustache twitches.

Alejandro looks over the top of my head toward the beautiful lady. “Yes, I’m sure she has been.” His gaze travels around the room. “I’d like to introduce Lucero-Elisa de Riqueza, princess of Orovalle. She is visiting us indefinitely on behalf of her father, King Hitzedar.”

I almost laugh when all those who have been so carefully indifferent bow to me. So, I do get to be a princess of Orovalle. At least I’ll have that. But by revealing who I am, surely they will know about the Godstone I carry. In Orovalle, everyone knows the name of the bearer. Perhaps things are different in Joya d’Arena. Centuries ago, when my ancestors left Joya to colonize our little valley, few remained who followed the path of God.

Alejandro gestures for me to sit. “Please. I didn’t mean to interrupt your breakfast.” I do so gladly, giving a worried thought toward plucking the plastered skirt from my rear when next I stand. He settles between me and Ariña. Lord Hector stands guard behind him.

I can hardly bear the polite nonsense from the others that ensues. Did you sleep well? How is breakfast? Let me know if you need anything! And of course there are inquiries about my journey, which I answer in monosyllables, not wishing to discuss Aneaxi’s horrifying death or the jungle battle. Alejandro introduces me to each of them, but they all blur in my mind. I only remember a conde Eduardo, a general Luz-Manuel, and of course, the condesa Ariña. I’m good at memorizing things, and I should note everyone’s name, but it’s hard to care. I’m still so tired, so alone.

I find myself leaning toward Alejandro. It would be nice to feel his arms around me, like the day of the Perditos’ attack, or last night when I told him I’d trust him. But I stop myself. I’m not really his wife in this stifling place, and in spite of our conversation on our wedding night, hardly even his friend.

Maybe he senses my sudden sorrow, because I see a question in his eyes. I manage a slight smile. Beyond him, the lovely Ariña watches us. Her face wears a child’s pout, like she might cry. She catches my gaze and looks down at her platter. I study her profile, intrigued. Something about her eyes, wide with hurt, about the way she swallows hard.

“What is it?” Alejandro whispers.

Is there something between you and Ariña? “Er . . . thank you for sending Cosmé to help me this morning.”

“Cosmé came to you? I didn’t send the girl.” His whisper rings with alarm. “I didn’t send anyone. I was going to have breakfast brought to your room.” He lowers his voice further. “Cosmé is Ariña’s maid.”

“I see.” And I certainly do. Ariña wanted to find out about Alejandro’s “special guest.” What will she do when she learns about our marriage?

“I can forbid her to attend you again.”

I start to nod, then think better of it. “No. But thank you.” Then I grin. “Don’t be afraid to be queen,” Alodia had said. I am not the queen yet, but I intend to be.

I lean across him, toward Ariña. “Condesa?”

“Highness?” Such a lovely, innocuous voice.

“Thank you for lending me the use of your maid. I tragically lost my lady-in-waiting on our journey and found Cosmé’s presence such a comfort.”

Ariña smiles, catlike. “You’re quite welcome.”

“I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind lending her to me for the duration of my stay? She does excellent work.”

Her face freezes for such a quick instant that I’m almost sure I imagine it. “Of course, Highness.” She inclines her head in perfect acquiescence.

“Thank you.”

The Belleza Guerra devotes several lengthy passages to the art of keeping one’s enemies close and intimate, and I know Alodia would approve. I finish my breakfast with genuine pleasure, savoring the tiny quiches and spicy sausage.

Chapter 6

AFTER breakfast, Lord Hector pulls me aside. I look up at dark eyes—darker even than Alejandro’s—and a rugged, mustached face. His skin is too weathered and crisscrossed with scars for one so young, but I should not have thought him unkind. Hard, perhaps, but not unkind.

“Your Highness, Alejandro told me to warn you.” He talks fast and low. “You may go anywhere in the palace or the city of Brisadulce. But you must always be accompanied by Ximena. It is not safe otherwise.”

I nod, wide-eyed at both his warning and the implication that Ximena is indeed capable of protecting me.

“In fact,” he continues, “if you have no plans for the day, His Majesty would like for me to show you around.”

Of course I don’t have plans. “Thank you, Lord Hector. I’d like that.” Were I home in Orovalle, I’d be making my way to Master Geraldo’s study by now. What will I do with my days here?

“In an hour, then.” He bows low and returns to Alejandro’s side.

I return to my suite to write a letter.

Dear Alodia,

Ximena and I arrived safely in Brisadulce. I’m sorry to report that we lost Aneaxi to a jungle infection.

I need your counsel. Alejandro does not wish to acknowledge me as his wife. He says the time is not right. He also does not wish to reveal that I bear the Godstone. Did you know this would happen? Should I continue to trust him?

I am sending a more detailed letter by post, but I don’t expect it to reach you for some time. Please respond with your thoughts soon.

Give my love to Papá.

Elisa

I copy it three times, hoping my sister will read the anger and frustration in my harsh pen strokes. “We lost Aneaxi to a jungle infection.” Such a huge and horrible thing reduced to a single, pathetic phrase, but I can only send so much on a pigeon’s leg. I roll the tiny parchments to fit inside casings no longer than the first joint of my forefinger. Ximena takes them—all three fit easily into the palm of one hand—and leaves our suite for the dovecote. I offer a quick prayer of thanks that my sister’s pigeons survived our jungle ordeal.

Then I laugh wryly. How quickly and unbidden the prayer came. It is such a habit to attribute all of life’s good things to God. For the first time I can remember, I wonder if I should be thanking someone else. Alejandro’s soldiers, maybe. Or even myself. We are the ones who won through that day, not God.

I put my fingertips to my abdomen. The stone is smooth and warm even through the cotton weave of my skirt, proof that God—or someone—is there. Someone placed this thing in my navel with its burning affirmations, its icy warnings. And through it, someone responds to my prayers with tangible comfort.

But that same someone ignored my prayers and allowed my lady-in-waiting to die. It makes no sense, but Aneaxi’s dying wish was that I not lose faith. I’m trusting a lot of people on faith. My sister, Ximena, Alejandro, and now God himself. I will need more than this, O God. If you love me as Aneaxi said, please send me something to go on. Something soon. Tender heat blossoms in my belly, spreads into my chest and down my arms until they tingle delightfully. It is the same as that night by Aneaxi’s bed, the night I pleaded with God for her life, so I’m afraid it means nothing.

Cosmé arrives before Ximena returns. She curtsies, but I catch her sullen look. I don’t release her from her curtsy until I’m certain she is uncomfortable.

“Hello, Cosmé.”

She rises. “Highness, the condesa says you sent for me.” Her short black hair curls so appealingly from under her maid’s cap, and her black eyes are wide with virtue. I want to pinch her.

I swallow guiltily. “Yes. I’ll need a maid for my stay, and I’m quite taken with you.” I wonder if it sounds as silly to her as it does to me. “Ariña was kind enough to lend you to me.”

“What would you have me do?”

I hadn’t thought this far. She will need to be kept busy. Too busy to spy or gossip.

“Er . . .” I look around my suite, searching for ideas. Like all the rooms I’ve seen in this monstrosity of a palace, it is far too large for so few furnishings. It feels open and gaping and altogether unhomelike. “I need a chair. Two chairs. If you can’t find any, I trust you to commission them. Also, I need plants. Large plants in pots. Anything green and alive. I want two for the balcony, at least two for the bedroom, one for Ximena’s room.”

Cosmé gapes at me like I’ve swallowed a scorpion. I try not to look too smug. Not only will such a task take her all day in this empty, barren place, it will give her something harmless to blather passionately about.

I’m still congratulating myself when Ximena appears.

“It’s nice to see you smile,” she says.

I don’t want to talk about the things that have stolen my smile lately. “You released the pigeons?”

She nods. “The handler was quite curious. It was wise to write in the Lengua Classica.” The holy language. Ximena scribed copies of the scriptures for years and is probably as fluent, if not more so, than I.

“When Lord Hector comes,” I say, trying to sound offhand, “let’s see if he’ll take us to the monastery.”

Longing widens her eyes. “I would like that very much,” she whispers.

We don’t wait long. Lord Hector appears in the doorway dressed in light armor—rawhide instead of steel, a brown walking cloak instead of the crimson drape of the Royal Guard—and bows from the waist.

“Ready, Highness?” I take the offered arm and step into the hall, Ximena following behind.

Lord Hector’s knowledge of the palace and its history astounds me. He guides us through the armory, the reception hall, the grand ballroom, the library. Know your environment, the Belleza Guerra says. So I focus carefully on what he tells us. I repeat words and phrases in my mind and create pictures to accompany them, the way Master Geraldo taught me. And tomorrow, I will retrace this walk and try to remember everything I learned. It won’t be difficult; Lord Hector’s enthusiasm is contagious.

In the portrait room, he points out Alejandro’s father, a thickset and graying version of my husband. King Nicolao, the guard tells us, beat back the forces of Invierne to save the hill villages east of the desert. He was killed by a stray arrow during battle.

Something about Nicolao, or maybe about the last war with Invierne, silences the guard.

“You served Alejandro’s father?”

He nods, his eyes fixed on the painting. “Indirectly. When I was twelve years old, I became Prince Alejandro’s page. We often kept company with the king. He was a good man.” I don’t know him well enough to determine if it’s wistfulness that softens his voice.