The Crown of Embers by Rae Carson Page B

acquiesce to my mayordomo’s request to take on more attendants.
    I spot the round clay pot on the shelf beside Mara’s bed and grab it. Even without lifting the lid, I catch the strong scent of eucalyptus.
    I’m hurrying back through the atrium when I step on something sharp. I nearly drop the pot as I lurch sideways to shift the weight from my foot. The effort tears at my abdomen, but I keep my balance. I peer down at the floor to see what nearly tripped me.
    It’s one of my ancient Godstones, detached from its long-dead bearer. After using it to magnify the power of my own living Godstone and defeating the animagi, I tossed it along with its used-up brothers into a jewelry box on my dressing table. Mara must have knocked it over.
    I lift it up between thumb and forefinger. It’s as blue-black as a bruise and jagged from its final devastating act. But in the wash of atrium light, I catch the hint of a spark, a tiny mote of untouched perfection deep inside the shattered jewel.
    I hand the pot to Ximena, set the cracked Godstone on the vanity table, and crouch to face my lady-in-waiting.
    “It’s doesn’t hurt that badly,” Mara assures me. “It just caught me by surprise.”
    “She’s being brave,” Ximena says. “The rip is deep, and she shouldn’t be moved until Doctor Enzo gets here. The salve will help keep the skin moist.”
    Someone pounds at my door, and with an apologetic shrug to Ximena and Mara, I hurry back to the bedchamber. A guard is peering through the peephole. “It’s the mayordomo, on some urgency,” he says.
    His timing could not be worse. “Show him in.” I smooth my rumpled pants, wishing I’d taken the time to bathe and change today.
    The mayordomo has made a gallant attempt at elegance, with a velvet vest over a blouse with flared lace cuffs. But as always, his clothes are a size too small, and his belly strains the buttons near to popping. He dips into a courtier’s bow.
    “Rise.”
    “Forgive the intrusion, Your Majesty.” He eyes the manuscripts strewn across my unmade bed. “I know you said to clear your schedule, but a delegation from Queen Cosmé of Basajuan has just arrived. I’ve assigned them to the dignitaries’ suite. They expressed a strong desire to see you as soon as possible.”
    A delegation from Cosmé! I hope she sent friends, dear people I have not seen since my time in the desert. “You were right to inform me. See if they require food and drink. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
    Ximena appears in the doorway to the atrium, Mara’s pot still clutched in her hand.
    The mayordomo bows again. “Yes, Your Majesty. If you’re ready to receive guests, does that mean we may discuss your schedule? Several noblewomen have applied for the open attendant positions—a queen needs more than two ladies! And I’m afraid you’ve acquired a long list of suitors; His Grace the conde Tristán of Selvarica has been relentless in trying to schedule an audience with you. There was a riot in the merchants’ alley yesterday over the wheat shortage, so the mayor would like to discuss increasing the guard presence there and in the Wallows—”
    I wave him silent. “Later. See to our guests.”
    He flees without another word. I frown at his back, unease curling in my stomach. Another riot . I resolve to call him back the moment I’m finished with the delegation.
    “You’ll need a quick bath and a change of clothes,” Ximena says.
    “No time for a bath,” I say, heading toward her.
    “You can’t dress yourself with that injury!”
    I grab the pot from her hands. “I’ll apply the salve while you shake out my dress and undo the bodice.” The stuff inside is thick and brown, with the consistency of something between wax and date jelly.
    Ximena squeezes my shoulder and grabs my gown from the floor where Mara dropped it.
    I crouch beside Mara and dip two fingers in the pot.
    “It’s not right, Elisa,” Mara protests. “You’re my queen. You