Daughter of Fire: A Novel by Robleda Sofia

Author:Robleda, Sofia [Robleda, Sofia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Amazon Crossing
Published: 2024-08-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 12

Santiago de los Caballeros, Guatemala

Winter 1552–1553

When I woke the next day, I was in bed, wearing only a shift. The curtains had been drawn around all four posters. My pulse spiked and resounded in my temples. Vague memories of the night before drifted in my mind, voices and shadows.

I couldn’t remember much except for the one glaring thing: Juan’s engagement.

My head throbbed sharply like a drum. I groaned, unstuck my tongue from the roof of my mouth, and reached out for water, but my muscles were too sore and weak, like my heart. It felt like a wounded animal, a coati perhaps, or an egret, perforated by poisoned darts. My arm fell and I wept in silence.

Pathetic.

Of course he was engaged. He was a king. It was his duty to marry and have children. As many heirs as he could, to keep his bloodline alive. His native bloodline, which would probably be unacceptable to my father. Cristóbal was right. If it was rare for Spanish men to marry Indígenas , it was almost unheard of for it to be the other way around.

A spasm of grief seized me, and I suddenly wished Cook were there to comfort me, but that only hurt me more, for I felt the truth in my bones. She was gone.

Oh, I thought, where is Maribel? I needed to know what had happened last night. I needed to know Cook had gone in peace, that she hadn’t felt any pain, that she’d been sung to and caressed, loved until the end. I called out, voice hoarse, “Maribel?”

Something scraped the floor, the foot of a chair or a stool, and heavy footsteps approached. “Who’s there?” I said.

The curtains ripped open and I yelped, pulling the bedsheets high up to my chin. Father looked down. His gaunt face was blotchy, and his beard and hair stuck out at odd angles. He leaned on a walking stick with a silver handle, wrought in the shape of a ram.

“The princess finally wakes from her slumber.”

“Father! You’re not well! Go back to bed!”

“Why? So you can sneak off again?”

I froze.

“Victorino spotted that maid of yours going down to the cellar. We’ve had rats before, servants with sticky little fingers. So he followed her, and behold, found you instead. He came straight to me. Told me you were drunk. Drunk!”

I jolted. My head pounded behind my eyes.

“What have you to say for yourself?” He waited for me, and a vein pulsed at his throat.

I whispered the first sensible thing that came to mind. “I’ve been so scared with you being so sick and—”

“Do not lie to me!” He reached into his pocket, pulled out some kind of cloth, and threw it at me. It was so filthy I didn’t know what to make of it until I spotted the ribbon tops. Taffeta. Oh, I thought, this is bad. This is really bad. I looked at Father and shook my head. Sweat broke out on my upper lip. I thought I would be sick, and not from the balché’ ki’ .

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