by Rae Carson
He pulls his knees to his chest and rests his chin on top of them. “Captain Bolivar. Still missing. I trained with him. I . . .”
“He was the captain in charge during the year you spent with the Guard.”
“Yes. But not just that. I can’t stop thinking about him . . . Red, what if it wasn’t an accident? What if he was purposely kept away from that audience hall?”
The crickets have fallen silent, and tree frogs are taking up the chorus in their place. Their chirrupy, bell-like sound is something I’ve always found pleasant. It means dawn is not far off.
“I think,” I begin carefully, “that if Bolivar was purposely disposed of, it speaks to a wider plot. A possible coup.”
“Exactly. And with Elisa and Hector leaving, who do you think is the next, most likely target?”
Oh. Understanding lands like a rock in my gut. “You are.”
“I am. And if that adoption had gone through, you would be too. I’m glad you’re going to the Guard.”
The prince is frightened for his life. No wonder he can’t sleep. “What does Elisa think about all this? Surely you’ve shared your suspicions with her. Maybe you should go with her to Orovalle.”
“She says I’ll be well guarded. She also says that we must not consolidate targets. The entire royal family should not be on the road at the same time. And she wants me to stay behind and treat with the Invierno ambassador. To ‘practice my diplomacy.’”
“That sounds like Elisa.”
“Pragmatic to a fault,” he agrees. “I hate that she’s right. Since becoming the ruler of Joya d’Arena, she’s had six attempts on her life. And those are just the ones we know about. She’s always a target. By splitting up, we take some pressure off each other.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
The prince takes a deep breath. It’s too dim to see his features clearly, but I can hear the frown in his voice when he says, “I’m going to keep my head down. Sleep in a different bed every night. One of my Guards will prepare all my food. I may spend some time training in the Guard hideout beneath the Wallows.”
“I think all that sounds wise.”
After a long pause, he says, “Red, is this what being emperor will be like? Always wondering if the next corner hides an assassin? If my next scone is full of poison? I don’t think I can live like that.”
And I don’t think I have an answer for him. We sit together in silence. Then the monastery bells ring the fourth hour, and it’s like an explosion in my chest. I startle so hard that I bite my tongue.
Rosario waits in patient silence as I breathe deep to settle my heartbeat, in through my nose and out through my mouth, just like Hector taught me. With the metal tang of blood in my mouth comes clarity. I do have an answer for Rosario.
“I’ve been afraid my whole life,” I say. “I don’t remember everything that happened to me, but my body certainly remembers how to be afraid. Hector calls it the soldier sickness. He says he’s seen it a lot, especially lately, since the war.”
Rosario knocks my shoulder with his own, giving me a gentle shove. “I know how you are. What I don’t understand is . . . how can you live with it?”
“When I figure it out, I’ll let you know.”
Rosario snorts. “I thought you were going to say something wise and inspiring.”
“No. Just . . . you’re not alone. I understand what it’s like to be afraid, and I don’t blame you for it one bit.”
He leans his head on my shoulder, and his soft hair tickles my cheek. “Thanks, little sister.”
“No problem, little brother. You can sleep here if you want. I’ve got the floor.”
5
Then
WHEN the girl woke, it was to the wavering, flashing orange of torches against the night.
They provided just enough light that she could make out the shape of a huge snowdrift blocking half the entrance to her den. She froze, more still than a rabbit with a hawk overhead.
The girl was colder than cold, like her very bones were made of icicles, and her lips felt puffy in her face. Though she had obviously slept all day and into the night, she wanted nothing more than to close her eyes and return to oblivion.
Her mamá had taught her about cold sickness. Your bones like ice. Your eyes so heavy with the need to sleep they’re like rocks in your eye sockets. Your lips that swell to cracking.
It meant she needed to get warm—quick, before she was dead.
That was it, the thing she was trying to remember before she blacked out. Her mamá would have wanted her to build a fire. The tinderbox was still in the basket, barely a stretch away. But she couldn’t chance moving with the torches so close.
Voices drifted toward her, muffled by snow and stone. That language again, with the funny syllables and singsong cadence. The language of monsters. She hardly dared to breathe.
They were above her, maybe right over her head, peering into the ravine. If they climbed down, they’d see her little den. But the ravine was thick with snow now. It probably didn’t look like much. You had to be born to these mountains to understand how tricky things were in winter, like how ledges and overhangs were smaller than they seemed and you’d better watch your step or else, and how crevices were always deeper, with sharp branches and hard boulders and maybe even tiny cozy dens hidden beneath the snow.
Being so still for so long was awful. It made her think and feel things she didn’t want to think and feel. Like how cold she was. How hungry. How tired. How alone. And oh, she missed her mamá so much it was an actual pain in her belly, far worse than the cramp of days-old hunger.
The monsters talked in their funny language for a long time. Daylight began to turn the walls of her den to murky gray. Their footsteps dislodged snow, which tumbled down from above, pattering onto her snowdrift. That snowdrift had probably saved her life, blocking out the worst of the wind.
A hawk squealed. Wind whistled against the granite slopes, and more snow floated down. It occurred to the girl, distantly, that she couldn’t feel her toes.
Suddenly it was brilliant daylight, and a sliver of blinding brightness angled right into her eyes. Maybe she had blacked out again. She didn’t remember falling asleep, but the voices were gone and the sun was high.
Still, she waited a moment, listening.
Nothing. No funny language, no footsteps, just the ever-present wind and the chatter of mountain jays, who would never be so joyous if the monsters were still around.
Carefully, slowly, she reached for her basket. Her fingers were clumsy and thick and she dropped her tinderbox twice before bringing it to her lap.
Now, for kindling. Detritus covered the floor—some pine needles, a few small sticks, the dried cat droppings.
She gathered it all into a little pile. It wouldn’t burn long, but maybe it would be enough to stave off the cold sickness.
The girl fumbled with her tinderbox. It was wooden with a hinged lid, and it took several tries to get it open. Everything inside was intact: a firesteel with a small handle, a flat piece of uneven flint, some dry grass tinder.
She left the tinder alone; she had plenty in her den, and she might need it later. She lifted firesteel and flint from the box and struck them—at an angle, just like Mamá had taught her.
Pain blossomed in her knuckle. She popped it into her mouth and sucked. The girl had scraped a good chunk of skin off, with no spark to show for it.
She tried again. And again. On the fourth try, she got a decent spark, but it landed in the dirt and fizzled away. The girl leaned closer to her little pile and aimed. This time, the spark landed on some dry pine needles. They crackled and grayed and she held her breath—until she remembered that she was supposed to blow oh-so-gently to fan it into flame.
She did, just like she had practiced with Mamá, and the pine needles caught for true. A beautiful, bright flame licked at them, then hungrily leaped for the tiny sticks, and finally for the cat droppings.
Warmth flood
ed her cheeks and fingers, which all began to itch. The girl was so relieved she almost cried.
But the fire was burning itself out too quickly. It wouldn’t last long enough for her to get warm, not really. There were probably more branches outside, under the snow, but she didn’t dare go out there. What if the monsters were still nearby?
The girl glanced around her tiny den. She spied another branch, a small pile of pine needles, collected in a crack. Still not enough.
Then her eyes settled on the basket. It was big, made of willow. Sitting on the ground, it rose past her knees. It could hold a month’s worth of herbs, a week’s worth of chicken feed, an entire cloak with a tinderbox.
Her lower lip trembled. She caressed the handle with her forefinger. Mamá had woven this basket herself. They’d collected the willow shoots together along the creek. One of their bundles had dried a beautiful reddish brown, which Mamá had used to make a lovely stripe just under the basket lip.
You know how much I want you to live, yes?
She burned the basket.
Hours later, thirst drove her outside. The sun was high overhead. Melting water sheened down the walls of her crevice. She tried to lick the stone, but found it was easier to just grab handfuls of snow. The cold made her tongue itch, and each handful was barely a few drops in her mouth once it melted. Her lips and gums drank up the water almost before it could reach her throat.
She ate so much snow she thought she might burst.
She rummaged around the ground outside and found a few branches, which she took back inside her den. She brushed snow from them as best she could, but when she placed them over the flame they crackled and popped and hissed with melting water. The girl was grateful when they caught and burned.
Now, for food. Eating snow had at least given her tummy something to do for a while. She was still dizzy, still weak, and for some reason the thirst in her belly was worsening. She shivered. And then she shivered some more. Not even the fire was making her feel warmer.
She stared out the entrance to her den at the steep crevice walls. She’d have to climb out somehow. The walls were slick with meltwater, and her hip still hurt something awful. Still, she had to try.
The girl gave herself a little while longer, to drink more snowmelt water—which was not slaking her thirst at all—to absorb the warmth of the fire, to gather her courage.
She had no basket to carry the cloak, so she put it on, working the bone hook through the clasp. It was so huge that it would drag behind her, maybe even trip her if she wasn’t careful.
The girl shoved her tinderbox down her shirt and stepped into the cold sunshine. She stared at the granite walls.
There was no way up. No cracks, no ledges, absolutely nothing to hold on to. Just slick gray stone covered with water that would freeze into sheets as soon as the sun was no longer directly above.
A rustling sounded just ahead, where a stunted manzanita shrub clung to a bit of soil at the bottom of the crevice. Her eyes roved the shrub hungrily, but it was too early in winter for edible manzanita blooms to appear. Maybe she could chew on a branch, give her mouth something to do, trick it into thinking she was eating. She stepped forward.
A snowshoe rabbit burst from the shrub, a flash of white with only a few patches of summer brown left in its fur. The girl tore after it.
Her cloak caught in detritus and she nearly tripped, but she kept going. A rabbit! A rabbit would feed her for two days. Maybe the crevice would dead end. The critter would have nowhere to go and she could catch it and—
The crevice hooked right and broke apart, spilling her onto a snowy meadow. The rabbit tracks bounded across the snow, and she followed—across a frozen creek, around a clutch of young pines, down a slope. And straight into a wall of thorny bushes she could not penetrate. The rabbit was gone.
A little whimper escaped her lips. Dizziness made her sway, and the girl allowed herself to crumble into the snow.
It had been stupid to chase a rabbit. She couldn’t catch a rabbit on foot in fresh powder snow even if she was rested and well-fed. She was a foolish little girl, just like the blacksmith always said.
At least she’d found her way out of the crevice.
An icy blast hit her cheeks. Blackness roiled overhead, and wind whipped the tree branches into angry, punishing paddles. Another storm was coming.
She glanced around in a panic. She had forgotten to track her journey. “Pay attention to where you’re going,” Mamá always said. “Or you’ll get lost.”
The girl spied her footprints, and relief filled her. She could follow her own trail back to the cave. The girl forced herself to her feet.
Her hip throbbed in agony. Her stomach was a pit of raw pain. Snow swirled; she tracked it dizzily as it dipped and swooped in the air, until she realized that she had forgotten to keep walking.
Keep walking, keep walking. The snowfall thickened. It gathered in small drifts against the trees, filled the dips in the land. The footprints she followed began to soften and blur. Soon she couldn’t see them at all. She had no way to retrace her steps.
Nothing looked familiar. She’d torn after that rabbit so fast that she hadn’t paid attention to anything else. She was truly, hopelessly lost.
“You’re a smart girl,” her mamá always said. “Think, my sky.”
She reached for a nearby pine branch and in one swift motion, stripped a handful of pine needles, which she shoved into her mouth. Chewing pine needles would keep the whites of her eyes from turning yellow and make her teeth stay in her mouth. Or so Yara the herb woman had told her. She just had to be careful not to swallow, no matter how angrily her tummy demanded it.
With the sharp tang came a brief clarity: She had to find her village. People there were hateful, sure, but asking for help would be better than starving or freezing to death. But which direction should she go?
She had no idea. She was too little to decide such an important thing. Too scared, too hungry, too dizzy.
The pine needles were pulp in her mouth now. She wanted to swallow them more than anything, but she knew they would give her belly a bad pain. She forced herself to spit them out.
The girl stood there in the pine grove for too long, trying to make herself move, unable to take a single step, much less think. Tears pooled in her eyes and froze on their way down her cheeks. I’m not smart, Mamá, I’m not smart at all, you were wrong about me.
Minutes passed. Her eyelids grew heavy. She was supposed to be thinking about something. Something important. Maybe she would just sit down in the soft snow.
A mountain jay cawed, and it startled her. She saw a flash of dark blue wings trimmed in black. It drew her forward.
The jay flitted from branch to branch, cawing as it went. Such a pretty little thing, so full of life and energy, able to gobble up distances with a hop and flap. The bird made it look easy.
The girl wanted to be a bird. She would spread her wings and fly far away. It would be effortless, so different from this icy trudging. Actually, the trudging wasn’t so bad anymore. She couldn’t really feel her feet. She wasn’t even sure if she was moving or not.
Of their own accord, her arms came up to shoulder height. She flapped them experimentally. Did she imagine that her feet lifted off the ground a little?
“You have always been my sweet sky,” Mamá said in her ear. “Now, fly!”
The girl lunged forward, wings flapping. She had a vague memory of struggling before, but everything was painless now, easy. She flapped all the way down the icy slope.
The girl’s feet met air. Her heart leaped into her throat as she fell from the cliff’s edge, flapping, flapping, flapping.
6
Now
ON the dawn of the empress’s departure, a ribbon of clouds along the eastern horizon masks the rising sun, keeping the air cool and dim. The city’s earliest risers are already awake; the scent of warm yeast permeates everything as palace bakers set out their bread for the day, and distant ship bells heral
d departures into coastal fishing waters.
The giant carriage house is bustling as I enter. Stable hands check and double-check traces, horses kick up their knees with impatience, and Royal Guardsmen load supplies onto pack camels. Five carriages are ready to go, all lined up. Dead center of the procession is the royal carriage itself, rich with mahogany and gilded scrollwork, littered with plush cushions, windowed to let in the breeze. Elisa will ride in it one-fifth of the time. For safety, she’ll rotate carriages regularly, and only a handful of Guards will know where she is at any given moment.
The empress herself stands before the carriage, dressed in simple traveling clothes, her long hair wrapped around her head in a crown of braids. She’s giving last-minute instructions to one of her Guards, but when she sees me, she smiles and waves me over.
“Did you choose three items to take with you to the Guard?” she asks with forced cheer.
“Yes. It was an easier choice than I thought.”
Recruits who aren’t princes give up everything else, Rosario reminded me this morning before leaving my chamber. Title, property, loyalty to anyone other than Elisa—for the privilege of joining. Which sounded funny at the time. I’m already loyal to Elisa. I hold no title or property aside from her indulgence anyway. I’m giving up nothing.
You’re giving up a luxurious life as the empress’s ward, Rosario said candidly, and I’m not quite sure how I feel about that yet.
“Good,” Elisa says. “That’s good.”
We stare at each other. I shift awkwardly on my feet. Neither of us has ever been disposed to offer up what we’re feeling.
“Do you . . . need anything? From me?” she asks.
“No. I’m fine. I just came to say goodbye.” We are of equal height, and I can’t escape her dark gaze. I should be taller, being half Invierno, but Doctor Enzo says a rough start in life made it hard for me to grow.
The empress gives me a look I can’t read and says softly, “You never ask for anything, do you, Red?”
