“Arrogant superiority must be a cultural obsession. The animagi I encountered were much the same.”
He crosses his arms and leans a hip against the desk. “You could simply make it known that he’s here. If what he said is true, his own people will take care of him.”
Seeing Hector in such a relaxed pose helps me force the tension from my own limbs. I take a cleansing breath and say, “I’m glad you were here, Hector. I admit that was terrifying.”
His sloppy grin makes my stomach clench, not unpleasantly. “You faced him down like a seasoned warrior,” he says.
“Only because I had your daggers at my back.”
“Always.”
“Do you think he was telling the truth? About the spies? About why he wanted to warn me?”
Hector shrugs. “Alejandro and I used to speculate that the Inviernos are incapable of falsehood. They tend to go silent and refuse to speak rather than lie. He was wrong about one thing, though. Someone wants you dead, as your wounds attest.”
Reflexively, my fingers find my Godstone. Then they shift left, skim my bodice. It’s thin enough for me to feel the ridges of my new scar. Another possibility occurs to me, and I gasp in surprise.
“What is it?”
“Hector, what if it wasn’t an assassination attempt. Is that possible? Did someone mean to take me alive?”
His dark eyes seem to whirl as his considerable intelligence chews on the idea. Without breaking my gaze, he says to the remaining guard, “Lucás, step outside and watch the hallway.”
“Yes, my lord,” comes the voice. The door creaks open, bangs closed.
Hector and I are alone.
Chapter 9
I’M suddenly aware of the silence; no creak of armor, no footsteps, no quiet chatter. Just his breath and mine, steady and even. It’s the first time I’ve been alone—truly alone—with anyone in weeks, and it feels as though we are sharing a secret.
He says, “I don’t care to discuss what happened that day in front of my men.”
“Why not?” Looking up at him is giving my neck and shoulders a crick, so I stand and stretch my arms to the ceiling, careful of my mending side. Softly, I say, “What did happen that day, Hector? Were you the one who found me?”
He turns, putting his back to me. “The general held me back after the Quorum meeting,” he says. “I let myself get distracted. I didn’t go after you right away.” When he turns back around, his face is stricken. “Elisa, I’m so sorry.”
“Just tell me.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “You left, and I was about to go after you, but the general grabbed my arm. He wanted to discuss a new rotation near the amphitheater—a collaboration between the Royal Guard and his own soldiers. It was ten minutes or more before I followed you.”
“I see.”
“I let myself get distracted. It won’t happen again.”
“I’m not angry.”
He sighs as if exasperated. “You’re rarely angry. Even when you should be.”
“I’m angry all the time!”
“Not at me.”
“No, not at you. I told you I wanted to be alone that day, remember?”
“Yes.”
“How can I be angry when I got my wish? I was the foolish one, not you. You warned me. And I’m sorry about that. I caused a lot of trouble, especially for you.” He starts to protest, but I put up a hand and look him straight in the eye. “Do you think Luz-Manuel drew you away on purpose?”
“How could he know you would go to the catacombs?”
“Well, I had been making a regular habit of it. Maybe it was just a matter of waiting for the right opportunity.”
He looks off into the distance, worrying the pommel of his sword with his fingertips. “A few weeks ago, I would never have considered it,” he says. “I’ve always thought him a devoted Joyan who would give his life for his country.”
“And now?”
“Now I’ll make sure you are never unguarded, even in your own palace.”
Again I touch my forefinger to my waist, to the scar there. I shudder to remember the blade, how it felt plunging into my abdomen. “Were you the one who found me?”
He rubs the back of his head as if suddenly exhausted. “I called your name, but there was no response. Then I saw your foot, poking out from behind one of the pedestals. I ran over, and . . . God, Elisa, I thought you were dead.”
I clasp my hands together to keep them steady.
“You had stopped bleeding,” he continues. “I’ve seen it in battle; a wounded soldier often stops bleeding when he dies. But then . . . you breathed. A big, strong breath. So I gathered you up and got you to Doctor Enzo as quick as I could.”
I whisper, “Thank you.”
He stares at me, and I stare back. His lashes are short but thick, and he has a tiny freckle at the crease of his left eye. He has the deepest eyes I’ve ever seen on a person, like a whole world goes on inside his head.
He says, “I think the Godstone protected you. Or started to heal you. Enzo didn’t realize how badly you’d been stabbed until he broke the scab and cleaned the wound. At first he thought it was just the bump to your head that had sent you into a coma.”
Hearing his account, it seems as though I barely escaped death. But something about it feels strange. Something doesn’t add up.
“Is it possible my assassin knew exactly how badly to wound me without killing me? Was there any indication that he didn’t leave me for dead? That he planned to take me alive?”
“No. Wait. Maybe. There was blood all over your face, even though your face wasn’t anywhere near the pool of blood. And the floor was streaked. I thought you had managed to crawl away before collapsing. But what if—”
“What if I was dragged? What if by coming to look for me, you interrupted something?”
Hector moves to the windows, paces back and forth between them. “This might be a good thing,” he says. “Kidnapping you requires planning. Finesse. Merely killing you is easy by comparison.”
“Oh?” The last thing I want to hear is that killing me would be easy.
“An abduction requires getting very close to the victim,” he muses. “Nothing long range. They’d have to draw you away from your protectors. . . .”
An idea slams me. I turn it over in my head, considering it from different angles.
“Elisa?”
I led a rebellion, defeated sorcerers, became queen. I can do this too. I push my shoulders back, raise my chin, and say in my best queen voice, “Teach me to defend myself.” Before he can protest, I add, “I’m not saying make me into an elite soldier. Just teach me to survive a close-quarters encounter. Teach me to evade an attacker. I’m a very good student. I can learn anything if I study hard enough.”
He nods. “I know you can. But what about your injury? Shouldn’t you—”
“We’ll start slow and easy.”
He grasps the pommel of his sword. “If you had been raised to the throne, you would have learned basic techniques anyway.”
“We’ll need space. Privacy.” I don’t want to be clumsy and awkward before my entire guard.
“Alejandro’s suite?” he suggests. “It’s quite large, especially if we moved the bed to the side.”
“Good idea.” I grin in anticipation.
His lips twitch as he fights very hard to not grin right back.
The next day, the guards rearrange everything in the king’s suite to open up space, shoving the absurd tower bed against the wall. Several rugs cover the floor in an array of sunset colors and textures. The guards start to remove these, too, but Hector stops them.
“You’re mostly likely to be assaulted in the palace,” he says. “So we’ll practice with the rugs underfoot at first. And it’s not just assassins I’m worried about—a queen can just as easily be killed by a mob. So we’re going to focus on close-quarters encounters.”
Hector dismisses all the guards except for Fernando, telling them to take up t
heir regular posts in my own rooms. He orders Fernando to guard the door outside the king’s suite.
I’ve given Mara the hour off, but Ximena settles on the bed to watch. Hector eyes her warily but says nothing. I sense the tension between them, but it is right that Ximena be here.
Hector and I face each other. Nervousness patters in my chest. I know it’s silly, but I’m afraid of looking like a fool in front of him.
He says, “If I were an enemy, and I started bearing down on you like this”—he draws his sword, stretches the tip toward me, takes a single step in my direction—“what would you do?”
Possibilities race through my head. Should I look for a weapon? Dodge and come up behind his guard? Trip him? Insult his mother?
I decide to be honest. “I would run,” I admit. “As fast as I could.”
“Good! That’s the right decision. Escaping should always be your first resort. Everything I teach you is a contingency, to be used only if your first resort fails. Clear?”
“Clear.” I glance over at Ximena to find her nodding approval.
“So, to start, I’d like you to get accustomed to holding a knife.” From a utility belt at his waist, he pulls a short, light dagger. It’s plain, with a wooden handle, but the blade shimmers from constant polishing and sharpening.
The blade.
My mouth goes dry.
He flips it in the air so that the blade is pinched between his thumb and forefinger and holds it out to me, handle first. “Go ahead,” he says. “Take it.”
I wipe my hand on my breeches. Slowly, heart pounding, I grasp the handle. It feels cold in my palm.
“You should have a knife on you at all times,” he says. “We may have to adjust your wardrobe to accommodate one. If you keep it hidden, you’ll have the advantage of surprise in a close-quarters encounter.”
I stare at the thing in my hand.
“I’ll teach you where to stab someone to inflict maximum damage,” he says.
I stabbed someone before. I hated it. So intimate, so destructive. Afterward, there was blood everywhere.
“You’ll notice that the edge is slightly serrated.” He points to a couple of indentions near the tip. “That way, the blade does damage when you withdraw it as well.”
The dagger that slid across Humberto’s throat had a serrated edge. I remember it as if a painter had captured the moment and stretched out the canvas before my eyes. I wonder if the blade that plunged into my own body was serrated. Is that why I required so many stitches? It certainly went in easily enough.
My stomach roils with nausea. I swallow hard against it even as my cheeks go clammy cold.
“And since you are not a large person, I’ll teach you how to get maximum leverage and force for stabbing. There are a few tricks—”
I drop the knife. It bounces off a rug, clatters to the stone floor. I wipe my hand on my pants again, as if I can wipe away the sensation memory.
“Elisa? What—”
“I can’t,” I whisper, looking everywhere but at him. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t understand. This was your idea. And a good one. You should learn—”
“I’m not sure I can use a knife.” I stare at it on the floor. Maybe I could work up to it again. I just won’t think about it plunging into my own stomach. I can do it. I can be strong.
“It’s the best way to defend yourself,” he insists.
I’m about to tell him I’ll give it another try when Ximena says, “It’s really not.”
He turns on her, brow furrowed.
Ximena scoots off the bed and lands heavily on her feet. She lumbers toward us, and I marvel that this large older woman is capable of protecting me. I’m eager to see what she’ll do.
She bends over to pick up the dagger and hands it to Hector, hilt first. “Attack me,” she says calmly.
Hector’s eyes narrow. “You’re sure about this, my lady?”
She smiles. “Do be gentle on an old woman, though.”
He shrugs. Then, with lightning speed, he feints left, but sweeps right with the blade, arching it toward her belly.
She shifts to avoid it, and her arm blurs in a flurry of ruffles. Hector grunts. The dagger clatters onto the floor again.
Their eyes lock. Ximena holds his wrist, pinching it in such a way that his grip has relaxed and his hand flops uselessly. The sleeve of her voluminous blouse is torn.
“The Royal Guard trains in hand-to-hand combat,” she says, “so you know as well as I do how easy it is to disarm someone.” She lets his wrist go and steps back. “It is especially easy to disarm someone who is not adept with knife work. Which means, in essence, that the enemy ends up holding an extra weapon.”
Hector rubs his wrist, frowning. “I did go easy on you,” he says.
“Thank you,” she says solemnly, but her eyes twinkle.
He turns to me and says, “Your nurse has a good point. But I insist on training you to defend against a knife attack, even if you don’t choose to keep one.”
It’s a fair concession. “Agreed.”
“I’d like to teach you to use some kind of weapon,” he says. “Maybe a quarterstaff?”
“A quarterstaff is not very subtle,” I say. “Or handy. If a kidnapper comes at me, what am I supposed to do? Say, ‘Excuse me, my lord, while I pull my enormous quarterstaff out of my bodice?’”
Hector rubs his jaw. “You’re right. I’ll give it some thought. But for now, we’ll start with the easiest escape maneuver.” He gestures with his hand. “Come here and turn around.”
Feeling suddenly unsure, I glance at Ximena, who gives a nod of approval.
I approach, turn around. He presses up behind me and wraps his left arm around my torso, across my breasts, trapping my own arms to my sides. My head fits snugly and perfectly beneath his chin. The mink-oil scent of his rawhide armor pricks at my nose.
“It’s instinct,” he says, his breath tickling my scalp, “for an attacker to think of your arms and hands as dangerous. He’ll subdue them as soon as possible. And it’s instinct for the victim thus subdued to feel powerless.”
“I see.” I don’t feel powerless at all. Pulled tight against Hector, hearing his voice shift low, I feel safer than ever. “I could stomp on your foot,” I tell him.
“That’s exactly what you should do. The instep of the human foot is made up of hundreds of tiny bones. You can do immense damage with one good stomp. So try it. Gently, please.”
I comply by halfheartedly sending my heel onto the top of his foot. The force can’t possibly be enough to hurt him through his boot, but he releases me instantly.
I turn to find him grinning at me.
He says, “Now that you have momentarily incapacitated me, what do you do?”
“I run?”
“Like you’re being chased by a sandstorm.” I begin to think that maybe I should practice running. “Come back. Let’s do it again.”
This time, when his arm slides around me, it feels slower, more deliberate.“The trick,” he says in my ear, “is to be wholly committed to your action. No hesitation.” His arm tightens in a little jerk, and I catch my breath. “Do you understand, Elisa? You might have to stomp to live.”
I swallow hard. “I understand.”
“Lady Ximena, can you bring us a few pillows?”
My nurse rustles around on the bed. She must know exactly what Hector has in mind, for she strides into my field of vision and, without being asked, crouches down to cover Hector’s right foot with cushions.
Hector says, “Now come down as hard as you can on my foot.”
“No! I don’t want to—”
“Do it.”
I lift my knee high and slam my heel into his instep.
He gasps, releases me.
I spin to face him. He is bent over slightly, regarding me with wide eyes. Then he says, “Well done!”
I wilt with relief. “It hurts,” I admit, flexing my toes.
“That’s why I had Ximena bri
ng cushions. You must be willing to hurt yourself a little in the short term.”
I laugh. “The cushions were for your protection. If not for them, I would have broken your foot.”
He shrugs. “You’ll have to stomp a lot harder than that.”
My mouth opens in surprise. Then I realize he’s trying to goad me. It’s working.
Without breaking his gaze, I say, “Ximena, please fetch more pillows. Hector is going to need them.”
As she hurries away, he says, “Think you can learn this faster than your seven-year-old heir did?”
“Watch me.”
He grins.
We spend several more minutes stomping, with each foot, and then he teaches me to dislocate someone’s kneecap. By the time Ximena calls a halt, my heels ache, the muscles in my calves and shins tremble, and the scar on my abdomen stings with overstretching.
I’m surprised to realize I enjoyed myself. I rotate my ankles experimentally, relishing the burn. I feel strong in spite of my fatigue. Powerful, even. And Hector has always been easy to be with, since that day more than a year ago when he took a lonely princess on a tour of the palace to help her feel at home. I hope we have our next lesson soon.
Chapter 10
I’VE neglected Father Alentín and Queen Cosmé’s delegation long enough to give offense. It’s especially insulting given that he now quietly aids Ximena in researching the Godstone. So I decide to host a small dinner in my private dining room, hoping to relax in the company of friends, share stories, rediscover the ease of having close companions.
But the mayordomo insists I also invite Conde Tristán and his foppish attaché, along with Lady Jada, whose Quorum vote I may need if we do not find a permanent replacement soon. He’s right—it’s the strategic thing to do. But my anticipation is replaced by dread. I had so hoped to indulge in an evening of not being queen.
By design, I am the last to arrive, for I can’t stomach the idea of making idle chatter while waiting to be served. As is tradition in Joya d’Arena, the table is low and surrounded by huge sitting cushions. Not for the first time, I consider drawing up a royal edict demanding the use of proper tables and chairs.