Fortunately, I do not wait long.
When a guard escorts the conde into the atrium, Tristán drops to one knee and bows his head, refusing to meet my eyes.
“Rise.”
He does, and I note his traveling clothes: leather breeches, a loose blouse, a utility belt.
“Going somewhere so soon?”
He focuses on a point just above my head. “Yes, Your Majesty. I thought it prudent.”
“You were going to leave without saying good-bye.”
He looks sharply at me, really looks, not bothering to hide his confused suspicion.
I press on. “I had thought . . . or maybe just hoped that we had found a sort of connection, you and I.”
“Your Majesty, I . . . I’m sorry, but I thought . . . last night . . .”
“Your Grace.” I stand from my stool and offer him my arm. “Let’s go somewhere private where we can talk.” To Ximena, I say, “Wake Mara. I need that room.”
She hurries away. The conde and I follow at a slower pace.
When we enter the austere attendant’s room, Mara is sitting up in bed, rubbing bleary eyes. She and Ximena start to leave, but I hold up a hand. “Stay.” I close the door behind me.
“Keep your voices low,” I say. “My Royal Guard listens close for danger, and I do not care for them to know about this.”
“About what, Your Majesty?” the conde says wearily, looking at the floor. “Why am I here? If you’re going to punish me, or exact some kind of revenge, please get it over with.”
Ximena and Mara exchange a puzzled look.
Something about his frankness pleases me. I say, “Conde, I need your help.”
His gaze snaps to mine. “Oh?”
“How many people know about you and Iladro?”
“Not many. My mother. A few attendants.”
“Good. I need a reason to . . .” I almost say “escape.” “To leave the city and go south. I also need the Quorum—no, the whole country—to believe I am very serious about selecting a husband.”
His eyes flash with understanding. “You want to pretend we are betrothed.”
“Or at least pretend to begin negotiations. Which, of course, would require that I visit Selvarica and inspect your holdings.”
“Of course. I assume that, after an acceptable period of time, we would regretfully conclude that we are not as compatible as we had hoped?”
“It might be a long period of time. But yes.”
“And if I don’t agree to this? Will you expose me for the liar I am?”
“No.”
He stares at me.
“I’m not interested in that. If you don’t want to help me, you are free to go.” I shrug nonchalantly. “Though if you tell anyone about this conversation, I will destroy you.”
He cracks a relieved smile in response to my threat, which also pleases me. But then he leans against the frame of Mara’s bunk, and his eyes turn thoughtful. “You do realize that a broken betrothal would be a huge blow to my countship’s status? Everyone would assume the worst, that you found me lacking in some way.”
“I am prepared to offer something in exchange.”
“I’m listening.”
“Despite our incompatibility in marriage, you and I will discover a deep mutual respect and affection. I will be so taken with the good people of Selvarica, with their character, their potential to evolve into a great countship, that immediately upon returning to Brisadulce I will nominate your house to the open Quorum position.”
He gapes at me. “I . . . I hardly know what to say.”
“I also want two votes once you are a Quorum lord. Two separate occasions of my choosing when you must vote with me on an issue, regardless of your own feeling on the matter.”
He begins to pace. I force myself to remain silent and still, giving him time to consider. I glance at my ladies. Mara is wide-eyed, whether from surprise or alarm I cannot tell. But Ximena wears a soft, approving smile, and when I catch her eye, she gives me a barely perceptible nod.
At last he says, “This seat on the Quorum. It will be permanent, yes?”
I nod. “To be passed down through your heirs. Only the military seats are not inherited.”
“You think you can get the votes to approve my nomination?”
“I have one vote assured. I only need one more, and I have a few ideas on how to get it.”
“So you can’t guarantee that I will have a seat on the Quorum.”
“I guarantee that I will try my best. Even if my nomination does not pass—which is unlikely—you will be forever marked as one who has the queen’s favor.”
He stops pacing, runs a hand through his hair, looking suddenly sheepish. “We could marry in truth, you know,” he says. “You needn’t offer me the concession of a Quorum position. I think . . . I think we could be good friends, you and I. Marriages are built on less.”
Softly I ask, “Could you give me another heir?”
“Probably?”
I stare at him.
He sighs. “So, a fake betrothal in exchange for a Quorum nomination. And two votes if I take office.”
“That is my bargain.”
“Done.”
I reach out and clasp his offered hand. He returns my smile with a delighted grin that lights up his whole face, and I think, briefly, what a tragedy it is for women everywhere that he cannot love them.
Then I add, “This is a secret bargain, witnessed only by my two ladies. It’s fair that you be allowed two witnesses as well. Would you like me to repeat my offer in front of anyone?”
He doesn’t even think about it. “I trust you.”
“Then we are agreed. Would you mind postponing your departure? I would like to inform the Quorum of our imminent betrothal and give the nobility the opportunity to fawn over you.”
He bows. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
“Please. Call me Elisa.”
We make preparations quickly. Tristán’s people and mine will travel together in state. But there are certain precautions we must take, and Hector and Tristán spend long hours together, going over routes and formations and personnel.
Hector alone of the Royal Guard knows our betrothal to be a pretense.
We have a heated discussion about whether Storm the Invierno should accompany us. Ximena insists that he is too easily recognizable. But Father Alentín believes his knowledge could be useful. I point out that I would rather have him where we can keep an eye on him. When Hector promises to keep him cowled and hidden in a carriage, and Tristán vouches for the discretion of everyone in his entourage, we agree that Storm will come.
He is only too willing. He knows the truth of it: that I go in search of the zafira.
I cancel the Quorum meeting, the one I would have used to explain my foray into the prison tower, pleading eagerness to spend time with my potential husband. I tell Conde Eduardo that Tristán and I used the prison tower to begin negotiations, that with so many visiting the palace for Deliverance week, we both preferred privacy. It’s a weak lie, and by the narrowing of his black eyes, I know the conde does not believe me.
But he does not press. He merely says, “It’s not too late to change your mind and do what is best for our kingdom. I’m confident you’ll come to understand that one of the northern lords would be more suitable.”
I thank him for his counsel and assure him that I will make a considered choice.
The night before our journey, I am grateful for the darkness and solitude. I lie awake a long time, thinking of Alejandro. Though I’ve no intention of marrying Tristán, everyone thinks I do. A tear trickles down my cheek to think how easily displaced my late husband is. His presence touches everything around me. I see him in the dark woods and jeweled tones of his chamber, in the newly commissioned portrait in the Hall of Kings, in the face of his son. But the court gives him up so easily. When I do finally marry, it feels as though even the phantom memory will be well and truly gone.
“Elisa?” I feel the mattress dip as a tiny form crawls toward me on the bed.
I lift the blankets to let Rosario slip underneath. He worms close, and I wrap an arm around him.
“Does your nurse know you’re here?”
He shrugs against me, which means she does not. I press my lips to his forehead.
“You’re going away again,” he accuses.
“Yes.”
“I want to come.”
Excuses run through my head. But I settle on the truth, as I always seem to, with him. “Bad people are trying to hurt me. So I can’t have my heir travel with me. I need you to stay here and be safe.”
“Are they going to kill you?”
“I hope not. I’m going to try my hardest to live.”
“Hector will protect you.”
I smile. “Yes, he definitely will.”
“Will you come back?”
“I’ll try my hardest to do that too. I promise.”
He shifts, and his cold bare feet knock my leg, but I know better than to pull away. He says, “You always keep your promises.”
I catch my breath. It’s something I told him long ago. Little did I know at the time how important it would be to him, a boy to whom promises had never been kept. “I do.”
He is quiet for such a long time that I think he must be sleeping, but then he whispers, so softly that I have to strain to hear, “I don’t want to be king.”
It’s like a dagger in my chest, because if feels like failure. Of course he doesn’t. Of course he’s terrified. I know how hard it is to be frightened for so long. I’m so sorry, Rosario.
After a moment spent collecting myself, I say, “I think that if you decide you want to be king, you will be the greatest king in the history of Joya d’Arena. But I won’t make you. You don’t have to.” My court would have collective apoplexy if they heard me say this, but I could never force the boy.
He sniffs. “Promise.”
“I promise. But you have to promise me something too.”
“What?”
“Promise me you won’t discuss this with anyone until I get back.” The last thing I need is for the country to start rumbling about an abdication. “Not a word. Also, if anything goes wrong, or if anything scares you while I’m gone, I want you to find Captain Lucio, Hector’s second-in-command, and do exactly what he says. He will help you. If you can’t find Lucio, go to Matteo. He’s with Queen Cosmé’s delegation in the dignitaries’ suite.”
His wide eyes gleam in the dark. “I promise.”
I don’t want to frighten him, but this is important. So I ask, “Who did I just say to find if something goes wrong?”
“Captain Lucio or Matteo.”
“That’s my boy.” I pull the quilt up over his small shoulders. “How about you sleep here tonight?”
“Oh, all right,” he says, as if it wasn’t his grand plan all along.
The entire palace sees us off—servants, resident nobles, the city garrison. Conde Tristán’s carriage leads the procession, followed by several guards on horseback, another carriage for my servants and supplies, and finally the queen’s carriage, larger and more elaborate than the others, surrounded by even more guards on foot. The royal crest streams behind on pennants, and almost-sheer curtains hang in the gilt-framed windows.
But I am not in the queen’s carriage.
I walk just behind it, surrounded by the conde’s servants. I wear a rough cotton skirt and a shapeless blouse, a maid’s cap pulled low on my brow. My skin is powdered to appear lighter, and my hair—my most distinctive trait—is plaited tight against my head and hidden under my cap.
General Luz-Manuel and Conde Eduardo stand on a balcony overlooking the main gate. The general is as cold and unreadable as always, but the conde seethes blackly. His eyes are narrowed, his jaw taut, his arms crossed. It’s obvious that my last-minute excursion to Selvarica is not part of his plan, whatever it is. As we pass beneath him, under the palace portcullis, I force myself to look straight ahead lest I catch his eye.
Hector walks nearby, and from the crowd’s perspective, I hope it appears as though he guards the queen’s carriage. Through the almost-sheer curtains is the shape of a young woman sitting inside, a large crown on her head—my ruby crown, not my new one. The one made of shattered Godstones rides comfortably in my pack beneath the carriage bench.
Hector hired her. I don’t know who she is or where he found her. And I don’t want to know. She waves enthusiastically at the crowd, and I’m terrified for her, this decoy Elisa. I scan the onlookers for danger, thinking of all the ways to kill a person. It would be so easy.
Just like the day of my ill-fated birthday parade, we make our way down the Colonnade toward the city gate. To my left, a townhome towers above us, its high windows sparkling in the sunshine. An archer could hide up there, send an arrow spearing into the carriage, and then slip away in the chaos. And though the crowd is not as thick as it was for my birthday parade, enough strangers press close that I find myself flinching away. Any one of them could be carrying a dagger.
This is what it’s like to be Hector and Ximena, I realize. Always terrified for someone else, always distrusting, imagining weapons and foul intentions where there are none. Is that why Hector is so stoic and hard? Why Ximena keeps so many thoughts to herself? Because it’s the only way to deal with existing forever on the cusp of disaster?
My guard and my guardian.
Hector said that damage is the price of royalty, but maybe my price is so high that others will be forced to pay it. Maybe he and Ximena are the damaged ones. And Mara. And Rosario, who is afraid to be king.