by Rae Carson
“Let the ceremony continue,” Elisa says, and she takes her seat.
“Let the ceremony continue!” the seneschal says.
Conde Astón can’t keep the disappointment from his voice. “Very well. The candidate has been vouched for thrice by members of this distinguished assemblage. We shall now move to ratify. All in favor of the adoption of Lady Red Sparkle Stone to the imperial line, with all the rights, privileges, and duties thereof, up to and including full inheritance according to legal succession, please raise your hand and say ‘Aye.’”
I don’t dare turn around to look, but a chorus of ayes hits my back. Maybe I imagine that the vote is not as full-bodied and enthusiastic as we’d hoped. Then I see Elisa’s narrowed eyes, and I’m forced to conclude that I am not imagining it.
Princess Mena presses against her father’s leg, her chubby fingers clutching as much fabric of his pants as she can manage. Her brow knits as she looks back and forth between me and the speaker of the chamber.
My upper lip has grown damp.
Finally the speaker allows himself the barest beginning of a smile. He says, “All against, raise your hand and say ‘Nay.’”
The nays hit me loud and fierce, like a thunderclap.
Members of the audience begin to titter with amusement. Conde Astón gazes steadily at me, looking like a cat that just found a bowl of cream. His eyes remain fixed on my face as he announces, “The imperial petition is denied.”
Princess Mena’s huge brown eyes fill with tears.
The ground is opening beneath me. Were it not for Rosario’s hand on my elbow, the earth would suck me into darkness and swallow me whole. Maybe I want it to.
The amused tittering at my back has become a buzz of excited conversation. I don’t dare turn to face them all. I can’t.
“God will judge!” someone yells.
“Burn the Treaty of Basajuan!” yells another.
The audience hall becomes chaos. Everyone mills about, either trying to escape the press of bodies or get a better look. The empress appears furious. Beside her, Prince Hector comforts his daughter, but his right hand is at his scabbard and calculation whirls in his eyes. No one saw this coming. Most especially me.
“Red, let’s get you to safety,” says a voice in my ear. It’s Rosario, reminding me of all my royal training. I’m a target now. A failed princess. Every member of court who only pretended kindness to me because of my eventual position is now free to be openly hostile.
The Royal Guards close formation around me, both protecting me and conferring a modicum of remaining status—a small mercy.
Empress Elisa stands from her throne, hands clasped, face serene. Her gaze fixed on me, she lifts her chin ever so slightly in the direction of the side door. I’m to follow her.
“Court is adjourned!” booms Conde Astón unnecessarily, and his announcement barely penetrates the din.
Rosario’s hand is almost painful on my elbow, and the Royal Guards press so tight I can hardly breathe as I’m herded around the dais, through the door, and away, away from the imperial court that has just rejected me.
3
Then
IF Horteño the blacksmith, or the wise woman, or any of the other children were forced to flee through the woods pursued by enemies, they would choose to flee toward the village. Toward other people. Toward safety.
But the village would not be safe for the girl.
She and Mamá lived on the outskirts, as far from everyone else as they could. They went to the village only on market day, to trade chickens or eggs, herbs they’d gathered, or firewood they’d cut for the things they needed—meat, thread, chicken feed.
The girl was little, but she wasn’t stupid. So she understood that when people spat on her mamá and called her a whore and gave them the worst prices . . . that somehow it was all her fault. She was the girl with strange golden eyes and skin blanched the color of fever.
“They mostly tolerate you,” her mamá had said once, “and they will so long as you’re a little girl.”
“I’m not stupid!” the girl had snapped. Because “mostly tolerate” was just a polite way to say “hate.”
So even though the village beckoned with cozy snow-covered rooftops and familiar faces and pine-sharp smoke curling up from hot chimneys, the girl ran in the opposite direction, toward the mountain peaks and the tree line. It would be colder, harsher, hard to travel, impossible to find food . . . but it wouldn’t be hateful.
Besides, she had an idea.
A month ago, she’d chanced upon a tree squirrel, a particularly bold fellow who hadn’t run away from her. She was hungry. They were short on supplies. So she’d picked up a rock and threw it at the squirrel as hard as she could.
The rock hit the rodent square in the head, leaving a gash where one eye used to be, but not hard enough to kill it. The squirrel careened away, dizzy and concussed, crashing into trees, barreling through underbrush as it fled.
The girl remembered the sick feeling in her tummy. She never, ever would have thrown a rock at the poor creature just to hurt it. But it had been so close, and she had been so hungry.
So she’d torn after, following the clear trail through the snow. The squirrel would tire eventually. She would find it and put it out of its misery. Or maybe bandage up its head. After it was warm and fed, it would understand that the girl was really a good friend who had just made a terrible mistake.
The squirrel tracks had led to a granite face, polished clean by wind, sparkling in the winter sunshine. And that was where the prints disappeared. She had no way to tell where the squirrel had gone, and she never saw it again.
The girl had to be like the squirrel. If she could reach the smooth granite slopes where snow never caught hold, the sorcerer’s people would lose her trail.
She was smart. Mamá always said so. Even Yara the herb woman, who hated her, always called her “wise for her years.” So she set off with firm determination in the direction she was fairly sure was east, toward the windward side of the mountains.
She didn’t get far before she heard someone yell. The voice sounded far away, but it was hard to judge in these mountains; sometimes a distant sound turned out to be as close as a whisper in the ear. The girl broke into a run.
Running through snow was one of the hardest things in the world, especially if you were little, with little feet and little legs, and a very awkward basket filled with a heavy cloak. She fell to her knees three times before she realized it was faster to just walk.
The voices sounded again, closer. She couldn’t help herself—she was too scared and her legs wanted to run too badly, and she gave in, tripping and wading her way up the snowy slope. But no matter how hard she tried, no matter how many times she ordered her legs to go faster, they refused. They felt like porridge. Useless, wobbly things that could barely hold up her body.
The monster’s people were catching up to her. Their hands would be on her, a knife in her kidney, long before she could reach the granite slopes. She had to think of something else. But thinking was hard. Her vision was blurry now, her breath so loud in her own ears. The pit of hunger in her tummy was dragging her down, down, down, making her stumble in the snow. Her feet were so cold she could hardly feel them.
She spied a huge slate-colored boulder jutting out of the snow. Beside it was a pine tree, thick with white-laden branches. The girl had climbed plenty of trees. They were familiar. Safe. She plunged toward the boulder.
Its surface was slick and icy cold, and her feet slid down as much as they pushed her up, and she wasted precious seconds scrambling to the top. From there, it was an easy reach to a sturdy pine branch. She hoisted the basket’s handle to her shoulder, grabbed the branch with both hands, and lifted one leg and hooked it around.
She’d done it a hundred times before—swung the dangling leg to provide momentum enough to propel her to the top of the branch. But she was hungry and cold, and the heavy basket yanked at her shoulder, and she couldn’t quite ma
nage it. She tried again. And again. The third time, one of her hands slipped on the slick branch. Her basket swung wildly against her back, and all of its contents spilled out, crashed to the boulder below, then slid off the rock to plunk down into the snow.
“No!” the girl cried out, before she remembered that hiding from someone meant being very, very quiet.
Maybe she should leave all those things behind. Jump from the tree and take off again. Without a basket full of heavy things, she could go faster. Maybe even run for real.
But she needed that cloak and that tinderbox. Cloak, fire, and food.
More voices. A horse neighing.
Panic leaped in her throat. The girl released the branch and fell hard against the boulder, bruising her hip. She half climbed, half slid to the ground, gathered up the cloak and tinderbox as fast as she could. Her hip didn’t want to move, but she forced herself to stumble forward, away from the traitor tree, even as she stuffed her precious items back into the basket.
Snow began to fall, lightly at first.
Ahead was a break in the trees. Maybe. It was hard to see. Everything blurred, and the sun had disappeared behind furious black clouds. The girl wiped at her eyes, and wetness smeared the back of her hand, turning instantly chilly. Tears. But she was not crying, she wasn’t; it was just the angry wind, making her eyes water.
Blinking rapidly, she pushed through the snow toward the place where the trees seemed to part. Not much farther.
Someone yelled. She didn’t recognize the words, but she knew that excited tone. They seemed very close. The girl dared to look over her shoulder, but she saw no one.
The snow came harder, and gusts of wind snatched up powder from yesterday’s storm, swirled it into little eddies, whipped it around her ankles. She imagined the flurries were like white monster claws, grabbing for her legs, threatening to pull her down.
She reached the edge of the trees and almost sobbed in relief. They opened onto a granite face that sloped upward, curving toward the summit like a giant upside-down bowl of stone. She’d slipped on granite many times. It would not be easy to get across, especially while her hip hurt so badly and snow was swirling everywhere.
The land transitioned from snow-covered forest to stark stone in the space of a single step. Up here, away from the trees, the wind whipped even harder. A fold of cloak separated from the rest and hung out of the basket, flapping against her back, but she was too scared to slow down even the smallest bit to shove it back in place.
The slope grew steep, and she used a hand to steady herself. Her toes kept slipping, losing their purchase on the rock face. Her hip screamed in agony. The snow fell harder. Between that and the wind tears, she couldn’t see where she was going. Just up, up, up, keep going up, don’t stop no matter what, no matter what.
Before her mind could register that she had crested some kind of rise, her momentum carried her right over and suddenly she was grappling, scraping knees, sliding faster and faster.
Her fingertips found a tiny ledge; it was just enough to slow her descent and pivot her around, but the weight of her legs was too much and her fingers slipped away, leaving some skin behind.
She plummeted, picking up speed like water through a chute, and just as she was thinking, Sorry, Mamá, I tried not to die, her feet impacted ground with a bone-numbing force that shivered up her spine and gave her neck a crack. She collapsed to her knees. The basket spilled to the ground beside her, but by some miracle, nothing fell out.
The girl was in a ravine. No, more like a granite crevice. The wind didn’t blow so hard here, and the ground felt squishy, filled with an accumulation of dirt and gravel and pine needles and even a bit of snow. The squishy ground had saved her life.
Her first attempt to gain her feet failed; her hip was locking up, and sharp pain in her neck made it hard to move her head.
But ahead, up the slope of the crevice, was a dark spot where the walls of granite closed in. A cave maybe, or at least a depression, that would protect her from the falling snow and from prying eyes. A hiding place. A safe place.
She used her good leg as much as possible to gain her feet. Her cheeks were icy with tears and her heart was like a rug beater against her throat as she pushed forward, toward the inviting murk.
It was a cave! The wind instantly quieted as darkness pulled over her head like a blanket. It wasn’t very deep. She could barely stand up straight, and an old pile of dry scat hugged the wall near the entrance. Something had used this as a den once, probably one of the big mountain cats. Now it was her den. Her secret place.
With her back to the wall, she slid to the ground. Her belly hurt almost as much as her hip, from terrible emptiness, but there was nothing she could do about that. Not until the monster’s men were long gone.
She huddled against the cave wall, tired beyond all understanding, but she wasn’t sleepy. So she didn’t understand why her vision was going black, why the world was disappearing. The girl fought to stay conscious. Something important troubled her thoughts as she pulled the cloak from the basket. There was something Mamá would have wanted her to do before she slept. She would remember it any moment, if she could just keep herself from falling. . . .
4
Now
THE Quorum of Five council chamber lies in the very center of the palace, in a sacred space centuries old. It’s low ceilinged and windowless, with walls made of bulging river rock and thick mortar, draped on all sides by tapestries displaying the sigils of the major countships. Flames flicker from sconces set into the mortar between tapestries. On the floor is a low table, made of a single oaken slab with remnants of bark still clinging to the edges. It’s surrounded by red velvet sitting cushions.
The meeting room is hot, airless, and utterly quiet. Elisa is speaking to Hector as we enter. “Did you see Ariña? Standing beside Lady Malka. Looking smug.”
“Why did we give her a pardon?” Hector says, his voice so taut with quiet fury it scares me.
“We didn’t. The chamber of condes did. It’s been the better part of a decade. Her friends assured us that she regrets opposing me, that she suffered enough in exile. If she weren’t Queen Cosmé’s sister, I’d—”
The double doors thunk shut, and the bolt slides home. I feel safer than I have in weeks.
It’s like being in a cave.
Elisa plops onto one of the cushions. Little Mena crawls into her lap, and the empress absently strokes her daughter’s hair. “So,” Elisa begins. “What went wrong?”
Hector’s fist crashes to the table, which is the kind of thing that usually startles me, but at the moment I think it’s impossible for me to be any more tense or alert to danger. “We had the votes. We had them.” He looks around at everyone, his face grave. “We were betrayed. What happened to Captain Bolivar? He was supposed to vouch.”
Lord-Commander Dante of the Royal Guard speaks in a quiet voice that is more menacing than any shout. “He’d better be dead, because that is the only excuse I will accept. My best men are searching for him—or his body—right now.”
“Oh, no, not Bolivar,” Mara says. “He was such a good man.”
“We’ll find him,” Elisa says. “Maybe he yet lives, and has a good explanation.”
The room is crowded with bodies, and growing even hotter. The Quorum is here: the empress, Lord-Commander Dante, the General, and two of the empire’s highest-ranking condes, Tristán and Juan-Carlos. The five of them usually meet here alone, but with the addition of me, Rosario, Hector, Mara, and the princess, there’s barely room for everyone to sit.
And they’re all looking at me.
“I . . . I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did wrong—”
“Nothing!” Rosario practically yells. “You did nothing wrong!”
“Red, don’t apologize,” Elisa says.
Conde Tristán puts a hand on my shoulder. “You did everything you were supposed to do. Like Hector said, we were betrayed.”
Suddenly all eyes move to Conde Ju
an-Carlos. It’s a reflexive thing. His predecessor was a traitor who nearly plunged our nation into a civil war.
Juan-Carlos’s eyes narrow. “I am not my father,” he says in a tight voice. He’s young for his station, only a few years older than I am, and his face seems perpetually on the verge of a frown.
No one responds. Hector and the General exchange a meaningful glance.
“I have voted with the Quorum every time since taking office,” Juan-Carlos continues, “in gratitude for my family retaining its rights and holdings. You can’t possibly still doubt my loyalty.”
Everyone shifts uncomfortably. I get the feeling they’ve had this conversation many times behind closed doors.
At last Elisa says, “I do not doubt your loyalty,” and I can’t be the only person who notices that she refrains from saying “We.”
“We’ll figure out what happened,” Lady Mara jumps in, before anyone can point out the obvious. “The spymaster is seeing to it personally. I expect we’ll hear a knock on the door any moment.”
“In the meantime, we need a plan,” says Conde Tristán. “I hate to say this aloud, but I worry for Red’s safety.”
The General has been quiet until now. He leans forward, elbows on the table, and says, “Our enemies would be well advised to carry out an assassination now, while we appear weak.”
The safe, cave-like feeling dribbles away.
“They have to consider that we will regroup and try again, maybe next year. They’ll want to put a stop to any future adoption while sentiment is low.” The General is an older man with gray hair and a deep squint pinching a narrow nose. He refused the spectacles Doctor Enzo offered, calling them “modernistic and untrustworthy,” though it would be a mistake to think him unprogressive. I clearly remember his acceptance speech eight years before, when he publicly declared that the young Empress Elisa had one of the finest military minds he’d ever encountered.
Elisa sighs. “Overturning a rejected petition would require a two-thirds majority vote. I don’t see us getting two-thirds, even in the best of circumstances.”
