The Empire of Dreams

by Rae Carson

  “I . . . don’t want to be a bother.”

  I’m almost certain her answering glare is mocking. “Ask me for something,” she orders. “Right now. Anything. It’s an imperial command.”

  I glare right back. “I ask that you have a safe journey and take good care of yourself and that baby.”

  Her lips twitch. “A nimble deflection,” she says. “But don’t think I’ll let this go. I’ll ask you again when I return, so consider hard.”

  I’m not sure what to say to that.

  “Your Majesty, we are loaded and ready,” calls one of her Guards.

  “I have to go,” Elisa says. Her hand comes up to stroke my hair. “Be well, Red. I’m so proud you’re taking to the sand today.”

  Moments later, she is bundled into her carriage, and Lord-Commander Dante gives the order. Wheels creak, camels grumble, and footsteps march forward in a steady one-two. I linger, watching as the procession files out of the carriage house and into the gloomy dawn.

  I exit the dark arched corridor and enter the arena. The morning sun is still low, the arena cloaked in shadow, the air crisp with residual night. I’m the first to arrive, and I stand in the sand all alone, dwarfed by the stone walls around me.

  This will be my last moment alone for a very long time.

  I’m dressed like a desert nomad, in a loose linen shirt, a leather utility belt, and comfortable pants that tuck into my camel-hair boots. I’ve cut my black hair short, and without the extra length, it curls slightly at my temples and nape.

  I carry my three chosen items. All recruits are allowed exactly three possessions from their previous lives, and mine are sure to provoke mockery and scorn. But they are precious to me, and I will have them, no matter what.

  The training arena is a massive oval, two hands’ deep in sand. Opposite the iron portcullis where I entered are straw practice dummies and archery targets. Beside the targets is a weapons rack, filled mostly with wooden swords and daggers, but also a few steel weapons. Blunted, I hope.

  I’ve attended my share of recruitment days, and every year the Guard comes up with a creative way to test the new recruits’ mettle. During Hector’s year, recruits were given the ridiculous task of washing the entire arena with scrub brushes and dirty water. The recruits never see weapons on the first day. It means they’re breaking with tradition this year. I can’t help but wonder if it’s because of me.

  I don’t wait long. Three young men enter, dressed exactly alike, their own items in hand. They’re older than I am, taller and stronger. Probably the army recruits Juan-Carlos mentioned, with two years of formal training already.

  They look me up and down, not bothering to mask their surprise. One smirks openly. I don’t know if Juan-Carlos has gotten the word out yet about my “punishment,” so I’m not sure what these young men are seeing—the failed princess from a few days ago, or merely a girl daring to take to the sand.

  I’m half tempted to step over and introduce myself, like it’s a perfectly normal day and I’ve every right to be here. I’m not sure why I hesitate.

  Another boy enters through the portcullis. He’s half a head shorter than I am and barely fourteen years old, with chub still in his cheeks and huge brown eyes surrounded by luxurious black lashes. He holds a beautiful folded blanket in his arms, dark blue with a black wave pattern and a lavish fringe.

  He startles to a stop when he sees a girl in the arena, but then a shy smile overtakes his face, and he heads my way with deliberation. His blanket bulges, attesting to other, hidden items.

  “Morning,” he says.

  “Morning,” I answer, more than a little grateful to be acknowledged politely. “Beautiful blanket.”

  “Thank you! Mamá made it for me.” He looks up at the brightening sky. “It’s a good day for some mean-spirited hazing, yes?”

  I bark a laugh. “Is that what’s going to happen?”

  “Mostly to you and me. You for being a girl. Me for being small but enviably handsome.”

  “I do see your point. I’m Red. I’d shake your hand, but . . .” I lift my hands, which are gripping my three small items so that they remain hidden.

  “Weird name. You’ll get double the hazing just for that. I’m Aldo. Nice to meet you, Red.”

  “Nice to meet you, Aldo.”

  “Who are those three?” he says, looking toward the young men.

  “Former army recruits, I think. They haven’t stopped smirking since they saw me.”

  “Huh. Can you take them in a fight?”

  Hector’s words come back to me. Some recruits delay revealing the full extent of their skills and training.

  “Look at them!” I say. “They’re huge.”

  “Yeah, me neither,” Aldo says.

  Another boy enters, as tall as the army recruits but leaner, with broad shoulders and gangly arms that promise more growth, if not more height. He has quick dark eyes and the most perfectly symmetrical cheekbones I’ve ever noticed. Seventeen years old, is my guess. He considers the army recruits, then Aldo and me. I see the exact moment he makes his choice. He heads toward the recruits.

  Aldo whistles soft and low. “I think I have competition for the Most Handsome medal.”

  “Sorry. But yes, I think you’re right.”

  Several more boys drift into the arena, dressed like me in the attire of desert nomads. Queen Cosmé’s contingent from Basajuan, no doubt. They’re the only ones so far who don’t noticeably react to seeing a girl in the sand, but they still choose to keep to themselves, avoiding me and Aldo as well as the others.

  The sun is rising, and the walls of the arena are turning from ochre dark to milky sandstone. A crowd begins to form around us, some standing on the wall, others sitting with their legs dangling over the edge: palace guards, servants, city watchmen, more than a few nobles. Annual recruitment is always an event. Sometimes even Elisa and Hector attend.

  Maybe Rosario will be here, but a quick scan of the growing crowd does not reveal him. Good. We still don’t know what happened to Captain Bolivar, and I feel better knowing that Rosario is keeping out of sight.

  Everyone on the walls is staring at me. Whispering to each other about me. Some are laughing. Others appear deadly serious. Go ahead, I think. Get a good look. I stare back daggers with my eyes.

  “You’re . . . popular today,” Aldo whispers.

  “It’s you they’re looking at,” I tell him. “They’re overwhelmed by your handsomeness.”

  “Understandable.”

  Abruptly, the audience’s focus is drawn back toward the portcullis, where another young man strides through, chin held high, shoulders relaxed and easy. He wears loose clothing made of pale blue silk, a popular form of dress among the wealthiest southern nobles. At his back are several other young men, who follow him in formation like baby ducks after their mother. The crowd rumbles with recognition.

  I don’t know him by sight, but I’ve no doubt he’s a rich conde’s son with the best training and tutoring money can buy and an already established contingent of lackeys. A crowd favorite. Everyone expects him to make the final cut, me included.

  More enter, until I count exactly thirty-two of us. The iron portcullis slams down, barring us in.

  A Royal Guardsman strides toward us, red cloak whipping at his back. His shining ceremonial breastplate reflects blinding flashes of rising sunshine, and I can’t help wincing.

  “Recruits!” he booms. I don’t recognize his face or voice.

  “That’s not Captain Bolivar,” Aldo whispers.

  “No.”

  “Doesn’t the captain usually oversee training? God, I’m nervous,” he says.

  “Line up!” the Guard orders. “From here to here.” He indicates an imaginary line with a sweep of his arm. “Orderly and tight. Now!”

  We hurry to comply, scurrying around each other like ants after a dropped crumb.

  “I said now, recruits.”

  A bit more adjusting and our line is straight, though unev
enly spaced. I end up with Aldo on my left, one of the army recruits on my right. The army recruit peers down at me, somehow missing my gaze. It takes a moment for me to realize he’s trying to see down my shirt.

  I hope I get to spar with him.

  “That was clumsy but serviceable,” the Guard says. “I’m Sergeant DeLuca. You will address me as sergeant or sir. Now, let’s see what riffraff God brought us this year.”

  Sergeant DeLuca’s evaluating gaze sweeps the line. He nods to the silken-clad conde’s son with such deference it’s almost a bow. He nods again to the Basajuan contingent. His gaze slides right over everyone else, as if they’re not worthy of notice. Then it snags on me. A slight smile curves his lips, and I’m reminded of a cat that just sighted a sparrow.

  He says, “Never in all my years have I seen a little girl take to the sands.”

  I stare straight ahead, determined that my face will betray nothing.

  “I can’t imagine what the empress was thinking, sponsoring you,” he says.

  And I can’t imagine that I’ve never seen this Guard before, though I’ve been at court for eight years. What kind of Royal Guardsman is never allowed into Elisa’s chambers? Never watches over her at major functions? Only the lowest in rank, who manages to be just useful enough to keep from being dismissed.

  Sergeant DeLuca is not someone I should trust.

  Come to think of it, I recognize very few of the Guards in the arena today. Lord-Commander Dante must have left behind everyone who wasn’t part of Elisa’s inner circle of trust.

  They’re still Royal Guard, I remind myself. Maybe not the best of them, but smart enough and capable enough to remain members of the most elite fighting force in the world. I’ll do well to not underestimate any of them.

  “I expect you’ll wash out within a week,” DeLuca adds. “Maybe even today.”

  I expect he’ll be surprised.

  “Why are you smiling?” he demands, leaning in so that his breath is hot in my face.

  A direct question, so I must respond. “Just glad to be here, sir.”

  “We’ll see how you feel later. Name?”

  As if he doesn’t know. “Red.”

  The army boy beside me chuckles.

  “Ah, yes, the half-breed who failed to become a princess. And what three items did you bring with you, Recruit Red?” Not Princess Red. Not Lady Red. He’s reminding me that I’m no one.

  I’ve been dreading this moment. I open my hands and show him my items.

  He peers at my right hand. “What is that?”

  “A pot of black dye.”

  “What for?”

  “It has sentimental value.”

  His eyes narrow; he knows I’m lying. “And this here? This is a baby rattle. Are you going to tell me it has sentimental value too?”

  “Naturally.”

  He grabs the rattle from my left palm and lifts it high for the crowd to see. “Recruit Red is going to protect the empress with a baby rattle!” he says, and a wave of polite laughter sweeps over us.

  But the recruits aren’t laughing. They’re staring at my hand. Because by lifting away the baby rattle, the sergeant revealed my third item: a thumb-sized gemstone of glorious sapphire blue. But it is no mere sapphire.

  “Holy God,” Aldo says.

  A recruit down the line whistles appreciatively.

  DeLuca spins back around, my rattle clattering in his hand. His confused look is quickly replaced by shock. “Is that . . . ?”

  “A Godstone,” I confirm. “A gift from a friend.”

  The Inviernos would call it an anima-lapis. The most valuable commodity in the world. And Empress Elisa is the only person known to have a collection of them.

  The Guard takes a step back.

  “It’s not going to hurt you,” I tell him, which must be the worst possible thing to say, because something hot and angry flits across his face. Like maybe he hates me.

  Slowly, carefully, he places the baby rattle back into my palm, covering up the Godstone. He says, in a voice so low only my fellow recruits can hear, “She is not here to help you now.”

  It’s a threat, clear as day. I can’t let it go.

  “She is not, sir. And even if she were, she would not help me. I’m to succeed or fail on my own, like any other recruit.”

  He blinks. “A pretty speech.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He dismisses me with a shrug and moves down the line, pausing at each recruit to level mild insults and intimidation. Aldo is too small, even smaller than “the little girl.” The boy with quick, dark eyes is the son of a traitor, and DeLuca will be watching him. The army recruit who tried to look down my shirt brought a soft coral blanket with a fringe as one of his three items; the sergeant tells him it’s fit for a real princess.

  If I were Elisa, I’d listen closely to every single one, get to know my fellow recruits, evaluate them silently and begin to strategize. But I’m not Elisa, and DeLuca isn’t clever with his slurs, and I find the whole thing tedious.

  When he’s at the opposite end of the line, I can barely hear him talking, which is a small relief. The sun is starting to beat against my skin. Sweat dampens the nape of my neck.

  “You shouldn’t have brought a Godstone,” Aldo whispers.

  He might be right. I should have brought a warm blanket, like Aldo and the army boy did. “Why not?” I whisper back.

  “DeLuca has sworn his life and honor to the empress. And you’ve just proven that you’re closer to her than he’ll ever be.”

  “So?”

  “You’ve made him feel bad. And look bad. He’ll take it out on you.”

  “Why is it my job to make him feel good about himself?”

  Aldo is silent a moment. “Huh. Good point.” He stares at my hand as though the Godstone it holds might grow legs and scuttle away.

  “What?” I say. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s weird thinking how that . . . thing . . . used to be lodged in some sorcerer’s navel.”

  Which is why the Inviernos have so many names for it. Life stone, soul spark, umbilical stone, anima-lapis, Godstone. A living material that grows as hard as a gem before falling out at age three or four. But like bones, Godstones last long after the body’s death. “Definitely gross,” I agree.

  “Shut up, you two. You’ll get us into trouble,” says the army recruit boy.

  “I think I’m already in trouble,” I tell him, and he surprises me by chuckling.

  At last DeLuca finishes his tour of torpid abuses. He centers himself before us, hands clasped behind his back. “As many of you know, Her Imperial Majesty is not in residence. She travels in state to Amalur, the capital of Orovalle. A highly trained and trusted contingent of the Royal Guard was left behind to protect her interests here at home.”

  I barely choke back a laugh.

  The rich conde’s son raises his hand.

  “Yes, recruit?” says Sergeant DeLuca.

  “I expected to see Captain Bolivar here today. Is he not overseeing recruitment this year?”

  DeLuca’s right eye gives a slight twitch. “The captain is otherwise occupied.”

  Which is a bold-faced lie. I don’t blame him for it; I wouldn’t want Elisa’s enemies to know that the captain of her Royal Guard is missing either.

  DeLuca continues, “Because of our reduced manpower, we’ll be training recruits to take on responsibilities as quickly as possible. Those who show themselves loyal and competent will be assigned official Royal Guard duties within the year, starting with watch shifts, commissary, and supply routes. We’ll add to these responsibilities as recruits demonstrate potential.”

  At this, a few boys shift in place, and excited murmurings filter down the line. I understand their eagerness, but uneasiness tickles the back of my neck. It usually takes years for the Guard to vet its recruits for loyalty and discretion, even for simple duties like escorting supplies and standing watch. It’s the only way to keep Elisa and her family safe.
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  “I see you’re all eager to get started,” DeLuca says. “Fine, then. To the weapons rack, ladies!”

  I grit my teeth as I follow everyone to the other end of the arena, wondering if DeLuca hates women in general or if it’s just me.

  “You!” the sergeant says, pointing to the boy who tried to look down my shirt. “Tell me your name again?”

  “Pedrón.”

  “Pick a weapon, Recruit Pedrón.”

  “Yes, sir.” Pedrón obediently sets his pretty coral blanket on the ground and peruses the weapons—swords, daggers, spears, shields, a maul, a longbow, a crossbow, a single-bladed ax, a double-bladed ax. He reaches for the crossbow.

  “No projectiles!” DeLuca calls out. “Today we are evaluating your close quarters combat aptitude.”

  Which is a questionable idea. Many of these boys have had training, for true, but several haven’t had a lick. Any good teacher knows that the best way to determine someone’s aptitude is to try to teach them something.

  The boy selects a wooden longsword. A good choice. He’s tall enough to make use of it.

  “Now you,” DeLuca says, gesturing to Aldo. “Choose your weapon.”

  “What?” I say, before I can think better of it. “Pedrón has four years and a full arm’s length on Aldo!”

  DeLuca rounds on me, fury in his eyes. “Do you think the empress’s enemies give a roach’s ass if they’re fairly matched or not?”

  “I . . . no, of course not.”

  “Interrupt a training session again, and you’re short a ration.”

  I’m about to protest further, but Aldo catches my eye and gives me the barest nod of his head. “Yes, sir,” I say weakly.

  Aldo steps to the weapons rack. He chooses two wooden daggers.

  “That’s two weapons, not one,” Sergeant DeLuca says.

  Aldo’s expression reveals nothing as he returns one of the daggers to the rack.

  “Make a circle, everyone!”

  We do, and Aldo and Pedrón face each other, wooden weapons brandished.

  “The match lasts until first blood—or until I call a halt, understood?”

  “Yes, sir!” we all respond.

  “We know that not everyone has prior training. Just do your best, and trust in our expertise to evaluate you according to your current skill level.” This was one of Hector’s reforms, and it’s good to hear DeLuca repeat it, even if I don’t trust him to follow through. “Understood?”