The Empire of Dreams

by Rae Carson

  I plunk down on the bed, not caring that this will wrinkle my overwrought train. “I’m wearing the monstrosity, aren’t I?”

  “A more than acceptable compromise, if you ask me.”

  A knock sounds at the door, and Mara rushes over, hand to the dagger at her belt. I tense and clench my fist. It’s not that we’re in any danger; it’s just that I and everyone I know and love—Mara, Hector, Elisa, Rosario, Belén—have been through so much that peril is a constant, comfortable companion, and we are prepared to welcome it always.

  “It’s me,” comes a muffled voice through the door, and Mara swings it open.

  “Good morning, Highness,” she says to Prince Rosario, my soon-to-be stepbrother and my best friend.

  “Mara,” the prince says, striding inside. When he sees me, he stops short—and doubles over laughing.

  The fifteen-year-old heir to the Joyan Empire is as tall, slender, and strong as a palm, with dark eyes full of mischief and lips always on the verge of smirking. He’s the object of many a young court lady’s dreams, and depending on which day you ask, either the bane or the pride of his stepmother’s existence.

  “It’s not that funny,” I say with a mock glare.

  “Oh, yes it is, little sister.” He straightens the vest of his ceremonial garb and pretends to dab tears from his cheek. Then he raises one eyebrow and gives my gown a thorough study. “It’s even worse than you described.”

  “It’s pretty awful,” Mara agrees. “I’m going to make sure Mena didn’t slip by the Guards again. I’ll be there for the procession, Red, cheering you on.”

  “Thank you.”

  After she leaves, Rosario settles beside me on the bed so that we are shoulder to shoulder. “I think it’s perfect,” he says.

  “You do?”

  “We match,” he says, indicating his suit. He wears off-white trimmed in gold, with all the medals and seals of his station pinned to his chest. “Besides,” he continues, “once you wear that thing in public, everyone will finally understand the truth: You are younger than I am.”

  “It’s good to have ambition, little brother.”

  It’s been a mock argument between us ever since that day, almost eight years ago, when Elisa brought me home from the mountains and introduced me to her seven-year-old prince—who immediately declared himself in charge.

  “You’re wearing the Queen’s Star,” I say, indicating the golden star with an inset ruby hanging from his lapel.

  He grimaces. “The seneschal is going to announce it. The Quorum thinks it’s best to remind everyone that I’m a hero”—he sneers out the word—“as I walk you down the aisle.”

  “I’m sorry.” The Battle of Brisadulce took place a year before I became a member of court. But Rosario and Elisa have told me all about it, so I know the Queen’s Star is one of Rosario’s greatest treasures. He hates having it used as a commodity, as though it cheapens his accomplishment along with all the tragedy of that day.

  “Anyway, I brought you something,” he says, reaching into a pocket. “Since this will be the first actual birthday you celebrate, it seems right that someone should give it to you.”

  “Oh?” I peer at the object in his hand, but he holds it tight, not yet ready to reveal it.

  “Every royal child receives this on their first birthday, you see. It’s a long tradition, and you should be part of it.”

  “Well, that’s very thoughtful of—”

  He opens his hand and exposes a slender stem of marble topped with a golden ball. It looks like a tiny dagger, or maybe a letter opener, but with rounded edges and a jeweled hilt.

  Rosario gives it a gentle shake, which causes it to jangle softly. Either the hilt or the golden ball is hollow.

  “I . . . what is it?”

  Rosario’s grin is like the sun spilling over the sea. “It’s a baby rattle. For my baby sister.”

  I consider pretending to be offended, but a giggle escapes before I can stop it.

  “And look!” he says, “When your baby teeth finally grow in you can bite, like this.” He pantomimes biting down on the rattle. “Gold is very soft, you know. We’ll polish out the tooth marks every few months. Any jeweler here in Brisadulce can do it for you.”

  “Well.” I grab the rattle and give it a shake. “Let it never be said that I don’t follow the traditions of my adopted country!” I hold it up to the light, which sheens against the golden ball. This tiny bauble is worth more than everything I owned during the first decade of my life all put together.

  “I’m not funning you,” Rosario says, more solemn now. “Well, not entirely. A jewel rattle really is a traditional gift among the nobility, and if you look there”—he points—“you can see a clasp. Flick that, and the rattle will open. Inside are a few tiny gemstones. Nothing much, but enough to help if you’re ever in trouble. The baby-rattle tradition honors a child’s first birthday, but it’s meant to be an inheritance too. So . . . welcome to the family, I guess?”

  I give the rattle another shake. “I don’t care what everyone says. You’re actually very sweet.” I lean over and give his cheek a peck with my lips. “Thanks, little brother.”

  We chat for a while about nothing in particular, in the way of easy friends with nothing to prove, waiting for the monastery bells to ring the hour. Even though I’m expecting the sound, when the bells finally peal, I startle hard, my heart jumping into my throat as my whole body jolts.

  Rosario gives me an understanding look. “That was a bad one,” he says calmly.

  I nod, even as I close my eyes a moment to focus on my breathing. Everything in me wants to flee or lash out at someone, even though it makes no sense. I’m home. Surrounded by people I love. It was just bells ringing.

  Rosario stands, reaching for my hand. “Ready? Or do you need more time?”

  I allow him to yank me up.

  “Good. Our Royal Guard contingent is just outside the door.”

  Once I’m a princess, I’m not to venture anywhere without them.

  He squeezes my hand. “You get used to having them around, I promise.” He lets go and reaches for the door, saying, “They’re good company. Completely loyal to Elisa and the family, not to mention the greatest warriors in the empire. I sleep easier, thanks to them.”

  Sleep. The prince knows how bad I am at it, just like he knows how easily I startle.

  Rosario opens the door to my suite, and sure enough, four Royal Guardsmen stand outside, wearing the flowing red capes and shining steel of ceremonial armor. One steps forward, striking his chest with a fist. “Your Highnesses,” he acknowledges.

  “Fernando, it’s a little premature to address me that way,” I tell him with a smile. One of the things I’ve learned while training for court these last few years is how to appear serene even when my heart is racing and my legs are twitching to run.

  Fernando grins back. He has a weathered face, an easy smile, and forearms like tree trunks. He’s Elisa’s best archer—maybe the best in the empire—and he has always been kind to me. “Just practicing,” he says. “Ready? The empress, her family, and the Quorum of Five are already in place.”

  “Lady Mara?”

  “Rushing Princess Ximena to the audience hall. I understand there was a minor pomegranate jam incident, but the crisis seems to have been averted.”

  I take Rosario’s proffered elbow. “Let’s go,” I say, in a voice I don’t quite recognize as my own.

  The double doors leading to the audience hall have never seemed so massive. Noise filters through them—the buzz of conversation, a lively band of vihuelas, the click of heeled boots on tile. Nearly a thousand people are gathered on the other side of those doors, all come to watch my adoption ceremony.

  The seneschal stands ready to open them, flanked by two palace guards armed with long ceremonial spears. He’s been at court my whole life, growing smaller and grayer with age, though his booming voice remains as magnificent as ever.

  “Ready, my dear?” he says, with
such a look of pity that I’m suddenly suspicious.

  “I . . .” Maybe Mara cinched my bodice too tightly after all. How can I be expected to breathe in such a thing?

  Rosario’s hand squeezes my elbow. “It’s going to be fine,” he whispers.

  I inhale deeply through my nose, relax my neck and shoulders, ground myself to the earth. It’s a trick Hector taught me, a way to find my “fighting calm.” Harsh winds, rough seas, still hearts, he always says.

  But I must have said it aloud, because the Royal Guardsmen whisper their motto right back at me, “Harsh winds, rough seas, still hearts.”

  I glance at Fernando, who gives me a quiet nod. It fills me with confidence. With light. “All right. Yes. I’m ready.”

  The doors open outward, releasing a gust of body-warmed air. The palace guards tap the butts of their spears to the ground, once, twice. A hush falls over the audience. As one, heads turn to stare.

  “Lady Red Sparkle Stone!” the seneschal booms, and I wince to hear my ridiculous name echoing over the heads of a thousand people. “Handmaiden to Her Imperial Majesty Empress Lucero-Elisa né Riqueza de Vega! Candidate for imperial adoption!”

  Two Royal Guardsmen sweep inside before us, hands to their scabbards. The remaining two, including Fernando, will remain at our backs. It’s all highly choreographed—the crown prince as my escort, the Royal Guard contingent, the monstrous adoption gown—to send a message to everyone watching that I’m already royalty, and worthy of such things.

  “His Imperial Highness Prince Rosario né Fleurendi de Vega!” the seneschal continues. “Crown Prince and heir to the united kingdoms of Basajuan, Orovalle, and Joya d’Arena! Conde of the Southern Reaches, youngest recipient in our great empire’s history of the Queen’s Star for acts of gallantry and intrepidity in circumstances of extreme danger!”

  The vihuelas begin playing a stately interpretation of the “Entrada Triunfal.” Our procession moves forward, and the throng parts to make way, revealing a deep purple carpet that runs the length of the audience hall, ending at a large dais. The dais is occupied by familiar faces—Prince Consort Hector, his daughter Princess Ximena, Lady Mara, and the Quorum lords, all arrayed around Empress Elisa herself on her giant throne.

  Hector is solemn as always, but his eyes twinkle as though he’s trying to resist winking. Elisa, however, is perfectly imperial, straight-backed and proud, her face grave. Her smile, when it comes, is slow and deliberate, as if reminding everyone of the magnitude of today’s ceremony.

  But even her measured smile is beautiful, and it’s surrounded by the most glorious black hair I’ve ever seen. She wears a gown of silver blue with cobalt trim and a necklace of sapphires. Her imperial crown is made of shattered Godstones, a symbol of her unique power, and they catch the light of the chandeliers just so. She has always been generously plump, but her rigid posture reveals a waist thickened by two pregnancies—and another on the way.

  Her current pregnancy is supposed to be a secret. I glance around, wondering if anyone is noticing.

  Standing next to the royal family—my family—is Songbird, the Invierno ambassador, who has been attempting to negotiate a new trade and cultural exchange treaty. He wears fabrics that match those of the wealthiest members of the court, a symbol of the ties that already exist between our people, woven in elaborately patterned colors that complement his unnatural height and his pale skin without drawing extra attention to them. His retinue is similarly attired, emphasizing the commonalities between us instead of the differences. The attempt to fit in doesn’t succeed; an empty space surrounds his party, as if they are bearers of a contagious disease. The ambassador’s large, thoughtful eyes linger on me, curious but not rude.

  But the light of Elisa’s smile draws my attention back to her, pulls me down the aisle. The “Entrada” crescendos. Nobles twist in place to follow my journey with their eyes. I’m supposed to be here, doing exactly this; I know I am. But my ruffles are ridiculous, stretching the length of the receiving hall. Light from the chandeliers washes my skin to nothing. Everything feels off. Wrong. Like I’m a hawk dressed up to look like a camel.

  Rosario’s attention is pulled toward the right, and I follow his gaze. It’s Lady Carilla, a girl about my age, with blushed round cheeks and huge dark eyes that gaze at the prince in rapt, unwavering attention. I resist the urge to smile.

  Someone murmurs off to the left. The slightest sound, but jarring nonetheless. I glance over—it’s Lady Malka, speaking to a companion behind a gloved hand.

  Her hand lowers, revealing full lips turned up into something too nasty to be a smile.

  Rosario’s fingers on my elbow tighten.

  Straight ahead, Elisa’s face falters. Hector reaches down and grabs her hand.

  The air is taut and heavy—how did I not notice it before? Eyes are wide with anticipation. With sure knowledge. I pass a tall, reed-thin man wearing a green silk stole, who glares at me with fire in his eyes. His hate is such a palpable thing that I nearly stumble.

  As quietly as I can, I dare to whisper, “Something is wrong.”

  “Just keep walking,” Rosario whispers back.

  Is it my mark? Maybe the dye didn’t take. Maybe it’s shining as white as a cloud for everyone to see. Or perhaps my train ripped, or it picked up something unspeakable on the journey through the palace that now drags in its wake.

  We reach the dais. The vihuelas cease, and a hush descends. I hear the tiny pop of a candle bubbling in the chandelier above my head.

  Father Nicandro, head priest of the Monastery-at-Brisadulce, hobbles forward. He holds a copy of the Scriptura Sancta in one arthritic hand, a sparkling tiara in the other. He closes his eyes and intones a blessing in the Lengua Classica, and I should focus on his words, soak up this moment, but all I can think is that something is wrong, wrong, wrong.

  Nicandro closes his blessing, and the room mutters “Selah” in unison. He steps aside and is quickly replaced by Conde Astón of Ciénega del Sur, a man of middle height, broad shoulders, and almost inconceivable wealth. More important, he is the elected speaker of the Chamber of Condes, one of the three governing bodies of our empire. Which makes him the most powerful person in this great hall aside from Elisa herself.

  In a loud, clear voice, he says, “Her Imperial Majesty Empress Elisa and His Imperial Highness Prince Consort Hector have petitioned the chamber to adopt the candidate before you, and assume all rights and duties with respect to the child.”

  I’m hardly a “child.” It must be formal wording, set forth in the Articles of the Empire, when Elisa agreed to relinquish some of the powers held by the crown in exchange for unanimous ratification of her new peace treaty. I remember Ratification Day well. I ate my first coconut scone.

  “The candidate,” Conde Astón continues, “named Lady Red Sparkle Stone, was purchased by our empress as a slave from an innkeeper in the free villages and immediately emancipated. According to testimony, the child then played an integral role in securing our victory in the Battle of Basajuan. She has remained a member of court in the years since, bringing no shame or dishonor to herself nor to her warden, the empress. Her natural parentage is unknown, though she is presumed through physical examination by the Imperial Physician Enzo to be half Invierno, and therefore infertile. Her age is estimated at seventeen years.”

  He pauses, letting everything sink in. None of this is new information to the court, and I’m not sure why it was necessary to state it aloud. Maybe he’s trying to humiliate me. It won’t work. I’m not ashamed of my past or of what I am. It’s nothing I can help; why be ashamed?

  “Is there anyone,” the conde says, “who will vouch for the moral character of the imperial adoption candidate?”

  Three people will vouch, all carefully arranged in advance. Still, I hold my breath and wait.

  Conde Tristán steps forward on the dais until he stands parallel to Elisa’s throne. He’s a member of the Quorum of Five, and the most delicately beautiful man I’ve eve
r seen. He’s also one of Elisa’s dearest friends.

  “By my word and honor, I vouch for the candidate!” Tristán says.

  “By my word and honor, I vouch for the candidate!” comes a voice from the crowd. The mayor of Brisadulce, no doubt. I don’t know him well, but he owes Elisa a favor.

  A pause stretches into awkward silence. Rosario is stiff in the space beside me, and I force my gaze to remain steady, not to look desperately around for help. The next person to vouch was supposed to be Captain Bolivar of the Royal Guard. That is the tradition: a member of the court, a member of the commons, a member of the military. But now that I think of it, I don’t remember seeing Captain Bolivar at all during our procession.

  Elisa and Hector exchange a worried glance.

  Suddenly, a voice booms in my ear. “By my word and honor, I vouch for the candidate!” It’s Rosario, coming to my rescue. I give him a quick look of gratitude.

  Conde Astón hesitates a moment. “Prince Rosario is not yet an adult, and as a member of the royal family he should not—”

  Elisa stands.

  “All hear, all hear,” the seneschal booms. “Her Imperial Majesty addresses this royal chamber.”

  The Conde presses his mouth closed, and for the first time I see a crack in his composure as he shifts his feet uncomfortably.

  Elisa says, “If anyone would deny Crown Prince Rosario as a member of this court, or reject his right to speak in this chamber, let them do so now, before all assembled.”

  Silence stretches over the audience hall like the string drawn on an assassin’s bow.

  Elisa likes to boast that even her enemies love Rosario. He’s the son of their former king, after all. For many, he’s the exemplar of everything they want in a ruler—someone born to their nation, from the highest possible rank of their nobility, a hero in the old war against the Inviernos, a man.

  No one speaks. The bowstring of silence relaxes without firing a single shot.