The Crown of Embers by Rae Carson

Elisa.”
    My limbs tingle and heat fills my cheeks as we stare at each other.
    I snap back to myself. He’s talking about his duty . Of course his life is mine. He is Queen’s Guard, after all, sworn to jump in front of a crossbow bolt if that’s what it takes to save me.
    Carefully I say, “You’re a good friend, Hector. And I’m grateful to have you at my side.”
    His gaze drops to the ground, and his chest rises and falls with a breath. “Always.”

Chapter 7
    I T’S late evening, and sunset glows warmly through my balcony windows. Ximena and I sit cross-legged on my bed, surrounded by faded parchment and musty scrolls—old palace architectural plans, retrieved from the monastery archive by my request. We’ve been studying them for hours.
    One shows the restoration of the throne room, another the monastery addition, but none give clues about secret tunnels or underground villages. I push them away with frustration.
    Something slips from one of the scrolls—a tighter coil of vellum, blackening along its tips. Curious, I break the wax seal with my thumbnail, and my fingers smear with something dark—rot or mold?—as I unroll it onto my thigh.
    It’s a map of Joya d’Arena. My native county of Orovalle is unmarked—the beautiful valley that lies north of the Hinders was undiscovered when this map was drawn. Which means it is probably five hundred years old, a priceless treasure that I have now exposed to light and air. I should send it back to the archive immediately for treatment and safekeeping. But I can’t make myself look away.
    The eastern holdings beyond the desert—now the country of Basajuan, ruled by my friend Cosmé—are referred to as “territories.” Only the northern and southern holdings are clearly defined. Much like my country appears now, I realize with a start. The arable land of Joya d’Arena is once again a crooked sort of hourglass—fat on the top and bottom, thin and fragile in the center where the desert and ocean push together right here at my capital.
    But Joya d’Arena is not alone anymore. I have allies now, protecting my borders on two sides—my father and sister to the north, Cosmé to the east. It makes me feel a little safer.
    “My sky, there’s something I must tell you,” Ximena says.
    I look up at my nurse. Dust smudges her right cheek, and wisps of gray hair dangle from her usually neat bun.
    She takes a deep breath, as if steeling herself. “I’ve been doing some research on the Godstone. Since you fell into a coma.”
    I straighten too fast, and several scrolls topple off my bed. “Oh?”
    She runs a reverent forefinger across the parchment in her lap. “You know the prophecy in Homer’s Afflatus, the one that says, ‘He could not know what awaited at the gate of the enemy, and he was led, like a pig to the slaughter, into the realm of sorcery’?”
    “Father Alentín thinks I fulfilled that prophecy when I was captured by Inviernos.” I keep my tone and expression bland, afraid she’ll change her mind about talking to me. Ximena spent years cultivating my ignorance on matters pertaining to the stone I bear. She believed it was the will of God. I know how much it costs her to turn her back on this tenet of a deeply personal faith.
    “I’m not so sure you did.”
    I swallow hard. “Oh.” I’ve been clinging to the hope that I am done with ‘the realm of sorcery,’ that being queen will be my great service to God.
    She dumps the parchment off her lap and stands. “It’s the word ‘gate’ that gave me pause,” she says as she begins pacing at the foot of my bed. “In the Lengua Classica, it’s an archaic usage that also sometimes translates to ‘path.’ As in, ‘narrow is the path that restores the soul,’ from the Scriptura Sancta .”
    “Go on.”
    “It’s the same word we just found etched into the tunnel below the catacombs.”
    I whisper, “‘The gate that leads to life is narrow and small so that few find it.’” I wrap