The Crown of Embers by Rae Carson Page A

my arms around myself. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” I say, but my heart patters and my limbs tingle. There is something to what she’s saying. Something important.
    “I made a study of that word when I was a scribe. I went through all four of the holy scriptures looking for usages. It occurs exactly ten times. Five times, it refers to the gate—or path—of the enemy. But the other five times, it refers to something positive. Like life, or restoration, or healing.” Ximena pauses and grabs one of my bedposts. We lock gazes, and she says, “What are the chances of each reference occurring exactly five times?”
    I shrug. “It’s the holy number of perfection. Something will occur exactly five times if God wills it.”
    “Exactly. He must will it so. Such things do not happen by chance.” She resumes pacing, and her face grows distant. “I always thought those verses were metaphorical. I thought the path that restores the soul was a way to live one’s life. The way of faith, maybe. But what if . . .” She takes a deep breath. “What if it’s a real place? What if they are both real places ?”
    The Godstone buzzes with affirmation, sending prickles up my spine. “Both of them, real places,” I murmur. “The gate of the enemy, and the gate that leads to life.”
    “I don’t know, my sky. But I’m looking into it.”
    “Father Nicandro might be able to help. He has provided quiet aid to me in the past. Also, he is fluent in the Lengua Classica, and I trust him with my life.”
    She nods. “I’ll discuss it with him. I’m at the point where I need access to the restricted areas of the monastery archive anyway.”
    “Ximena,” I whisper. “What if it is a real place? What if I still have to go there?”
    A year ago, she would have offered meaningless platitudes—or maybe a pastry—in an attempt to brush away my fears. But now she just gazes at me, her small black eyes full of determination, maybe even excitement. I shiver.
    Glass shatters. Something thumps to the ground.
    Ximena rushes into the atrium. I follow as quickly as I can.
    Mara is doubled over beside the bathing pool, hands clutching her stomach. Several items from the vanity lie strewn about the floor. The moist air is too thick and sweet with my freesia perfume.
    “What’s wrong?” I demand. “What happened?”
    “I . . . shaking out your gown . . . my . . .”
    “Her scar,” Ximena says. “It split open again.”
    Her scar. From when the animagi burned her. Mara threw herself into the path of Invierne’s sorcerers to allow me time to work the magic of my Godstone. She barely survived. I have hardly given a thought to her injuries since that day.
    I yell for one of the guards to fetch Doctor Enzo.
    Mara slips to the ground, legs stretched out. Ximena unlaces her bodice to reveal a white chemise dotted with bright blood. Then she gingerly peels the chemise from Mara’s midriff.
    I can’t control the gasp that escapes me. A ropy scar, about four fingers wide, stretches across her stomach, ridged with peaks and valleys of skin where her navel ought to be. Blood wells along a line of split skin.
    “It’s deep this time,” Ximena says, blotting gently with the edge of Mara’s ruined chemise. “But it’s clean and straight. Easily stitched.”
    “This time?” I ask. “It happens often?”
    “I’ve been forgetting,” Mara says between breaths, “to put salve on it.”
    “What salve? Where?” I demand.
    “Small pot on the shelf by her bed,” says Ximena, continuing to blot.
    “I’ll be right back.” I hurry through the atrium to the maids’ room.
    It’s much smaller than my own chamber, with one high window, four bunked beds, and a shelf next to each bed for personal items. A few simple gowns hang from pegs on the wall below the window, and beside them is a writing desk with several half-melted candles. Such a tiny place to live. I can’t imagine how crowded it will feel when I finally