by Rae Carson
“That explains why Lord-Commander Dante couldn’t find him,” I say.
“We suspect he was out cold for more than a day. When he regained consciousness, he stumbled to the catacombs. Fernando helped him reach the village, then sent for me. I brought Doctor Enzo down here to treat him. The doctor says he needs rest and lots of water to flush out the rest of the poison.”
“Did the tea taste unusual?” I ask.
“Tasted funny,” the captain says. “Spicier, with sediment. Only had a few sips.”
“We need to get inside his quarters,” Iván says. “Have a look around.”
“I agree,” I say. “We’ll have to be sneaky about it. Recruits aren’t allowed anywhere near the officers’ quarters.”
“We’ll figure out a way,” Iván assures me.
“I sent a message to Elisa,” Rosario says. “Via pigeon. But it will be a few days before her entourage reaches the oasis way station to receive it.”
“Good,” I say. “She might be in danger too. Or Princess Ximena.”
“Hector won’t let anything happen to either of them.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Rosario says, “Well, you two have a place to start.” He gains his feet with obvious reluctance. “Unfortunately, I must return to my quarters. I have a long day ahead of pretending nothing is wrong.”
“Do you have an escort back?” I ask. “Is it safe for you to leave the Wallows?”
“I’m very well protected,” he assures me. “And I’ll be keeping all my public appearances to a minimum until we figure this out or I receive specific orders from the empress. Besides, I’m brave, remember? Everyone says so.” Rosario’s tone is self-mocking, and I think of his Queen’s Star medal. Perhaps the prince is wondering if he can measure up to the gallantry of his early childhood. It’s easy to be brave when you’re a little boy, he told me once. You still think the world is ultimately good. That nothing truly bad will happen to you.
I get to my feet and grasp Rosario’s shoulder. I’m staring at Bolivar, his prone form barely breathing, when I say, “Please be safe, little brother.”
“You too, little sister. Here.” He pulls an iron key from his pocket and places it in my palm. “This will get you into Bolivar’s quarters.”
I close the key into my fist.
“What if we need to contact you?” Iván asks.
“Use the stable hand, the one who slipped the message to you. He’s one of the spymaster’s people. Now go. If you hurry back, you might be able to get a few hours’ sleep. The second day of training is always awful, and I need both of you to perform well.”
“We’ll do our best,” I assure him.
“Do better than your best,” Rosario says. “Do you understand what I’m saying? It’s the single most important thing right now. Don’t get cut.”
11
Now
IVÁN and I sneak back to the barracks. Our bunk room is silent when we enter, except for some soft snoring. Before letting Iván collapse into his bed, I grab his arm and whisper as quietly as possible, “We should eat dinner together again tomorrow, go over what we might have learned, plan how we’re going to get into Bolivar’s quarters.”
He nods once, then stretches out and closes his eyes.
I’m about to stretch out on my own, but my hands encounter something wet and sticky on the blanket. It smells of rich loam and wet ash, and I almost loose an actual sob.
I know exactly what it is, even in the dark: my hair dye, spilled all over my bed, staining my fingers. Someone noticed I was gone and took the opportunity to vandalize my things.
I rip the blanket from my cot and wad it up so the dye doesn’t get anywhere else. Carefully, I slide open the bedside drawer and peer inside. I breathe deeply of relief to discover the dark shapes of my baby rattle and Godstone, still intact. But my pot of dye is in ruins.
On closer look, a tiny bit of ink remains, trapped in the curve of a ceramic shard. Not enough for even one hair treatment. My white streak will start showing within days. In two weeks, it will be a blotch on my forehead. In a few months, a streak all the way to my chin.
Who would do such a thing? Someone who hates me. Someone who wants to hurt me. No, maybe it was just a prank. Not everyone understands how important that dye is to me, what great pains I take to cover the white streak in my hair.
Either way, I’ve no recourse for acquiring more. I could sell the jewels in my baby rattle, but I’d need time and freedom to leave the barracks during market day. Perhaps Rosario could help me.
Or maybe that would be an abuse of our friendship. He has more important things to worry about. I have more important things to worry about. Like whether or not whoever did this realized how long I was gone, whether they saw Iván and me leave, whether they followed us into the latrine.
And figuring out who poisoned Captain Bolivar.
I stretch out on my cot, the blanket wadded up at my feet, Bolivar’s key still clutched in my fist. I close my eyes and listen hard for anyone who might be stirring, but I hear nothing except the deep, even breathing of slumber.
More than anything, I need to join my fellow recruits in sleep. Tomorrow, I begin searching for an assassin while facing the notorious second day of training. But even though my limbs are like lead and my eyes burn with dryness, my mind won’t stop churning.
In desperation, I slip from my bed and curl up on the floor, my back to the wall. The cold stone is safe and solid, and at last I drift away.
I’m fleeing through the pine forest, barefoot in the snow, chased by a brass bell that won’t stop ringing, its crystal clash driving deep into my mind, shattering my thoughts, my sleep. . . .
My eyes fly open, and it’s a moment before I orient myself. I’m on the floor, chilled to the bone. My shoulder aches from my odd sleeping angle. A soft-cheeked face with long-lashed eyes is peering down at me. “Red? You all right?” says Aldo. “Did you fall off the bed?” He reaches for me. “Get up before Guardsman Bruno sees you.”
He helps me to my feet. Everyone else is scurrying to don their boots and make up their cots. Across from us, Iván bumps his head on the top bunk in his hurry to situate himself. I hope he’s not as tired as I am.
I join them all in the fray, shoving on my boots. I slip the key down my sock along my outer right heel and twist my foot around to test it. It chafes a little, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.
Next, I flip out my blanket to appear as though I’m making up my cot, but it’s really to assess the damage in the light. The woolen fabric is blotched with black dye, which is already drying. So many recruits choose a blanket as one of their three precious items because the standard barracks issue is this cheap, thick, scratchy affair; a boon, in this case, because dye leaked through in only a few places. It’s ugly, but salvageable.
“What happened?” Aldo says, tucking in his shirt. “Your blanket . . .”
I shrug it off. “A prank.”
“Huh? Who would do—”
I’m saved having to respond when Guardsman Bruno stomps in. “To the dining hall,” he booms, “by bunk order. Eat fast. We have a big day.”
We line up. As I pass Bruno on the way to the mess, I sneak a glimpse at him. Did Guardsman Bruno poison Captain Bolivar? But my quick glance reveals nothing, save for a stern glare from beneath caterpillar brows.
We are served cornmeal mush again, and no one repeats yesterday’s mistake; we all shovel the slop into our mouths and wash it down with water as fast as we can. Within minutes, our bowls are scraped clean and we are marched out of the barracks and into the sand.
The arena has been transformed with obstacles. Near the weapons rack, a long wooden beam is suspended by hanging ropes—I’m guessing we’ll have to run across, adjusting for the sway. Beyond that is a giant cedar log that I assume must be rolled over the lumpy sand to a flag marker. Next comes a set of wooden hurdles, staggered at varying heights, followed by a net climb to a high platform. A landing area below the
platform is cushioned by a pile of straw. After that, water basins are lined up four wide and ten deep, all filled to the brim. And finally, a wooden barrier juts from the sand, surpassing even the height of the surrounding walls.
The arena walls aren’t as thick with onlookers as they were yesterday, but they still hold a fair-sized audience. News of whatever happens today will be all over the city by nightfall.
News of my humiliation, that is. Even if I’d gotten a full night’s sleep, even if the morning was cool and breezy instead of brick-oven hot, I’m not strong enough to roll that log, and I’m not tall enough to get over that barrier. I have no idea how I’ll pass this course.
Sergeant DeLuca is inspecting the net climb, checking the rope. Satisfied, he clasps his hands behind his back and turns to face us. He announces, “One of you is about to be cut from training.”
A wave of murmurs flows down the line. Aldo whispers, “Who do you think?”
I can’t respond. I can hardly breathe. It’s me. It has to be me. Whoever vandalized my empty bunk last night must have reported me missing.
DeLuca continues, “At least one of you. Maybe more. We’ll be watching closely as you traverse the obstacle course. Excellent physical fitness is essential to protecting our empress. Therefore, the recruit who performs the poorest will gather his—or her—things and leave the barracks.”
The sergeant means to intimidate me by singling me out. Instead, he has filled me with breath and hope. They haven’t yet decided who to cut. I still have a small chance.
“We’ll be evaluating you based on several factors,” the sergeant continues. “Speed, naturally. But also technique and effort. Strength and strategy. And of course teamwork, since you’ll be traversing the course in pairs, working together.”
I glance down the line, evaluating my fellow recruits. I need to pair up with someone tall, if I’m to have any chance of making it over that barrier. Maybe Valentino. No, he appears even more tired than I feel, with blanched skin and hollow eyes—like he’s a ghost of himself. His ducklings mill around him. One pats his shoulder; another says something that makes him laugh. Valentino leans against one of them in a show of weakness that fills me with misgiving. He’s smiling, sure, and even chatting with his friends, but he’s barely on his feet.
Iván or Pedrón, then. I ready myself to dart over and claim one of them as soon as I’m given leave.
“In order to complete the course,” the sergeant says, “both you and your assigned partner must complete it. This is the Royal Guard, and we leave no man behind.”
“Or woman,” Aldo whispers under his breath, but I don’t have space in my head to be bothered by that, because the sergeant just said we’d have assigned partners, and there’s no way he’ll pair me with someone who might allow me a chance of success.
“Recruit Red,” the sergeant says, as though reading my thoughts. “You will partner with . . . what’s that black stuff on your hands?”
“Ink, sir.”
“Royal Guard recruits are to be well groomed at all times. Why did you enter the training arena with ink on your hands?”
“Because it wouldn’t come off on my pants, sir.”
He blinks. “How did this happen?”
“A harmless prank, sir. I’m sure the ink will fade in a few days.” Everyone is staring at my stained hands now, and I fight the urge to hide them behind my back.
“Be sure that it does.”
“Yes, sir.”
“As I was saying, you will partner with Recruit Aldo.”
I try to keep my face blank, even though it feels as though my heart is sinking into my toes. A glance toward Aldo confirms that he is unsuccessful at hiding his own despair. We are the smallest of all the recruits. There’s no way we can finish the course together.
Sergeant DeLuca goes down the line, pairing recruits, and there can be no mistake that he’s matching strong with strong, weak with weak, tall with tall. We have an uneven number of recruits, so he pairs Pedrón with Guardsman Bruno. At least we know his favorite.
“He’s sabotaging us,” Aldo whispers.
“For some reason, they need to get rid of some recruits.”
“Too many mouths to feed? I heard they’re going to assign uniforms today, which is great because I stink. Maybe they’re short on uniforms?”
“Maybe.” Or maybe Sergeant DeLuca is the assassin, and he wants as few prying eyes as possible while he . . . does whatever it is he’s doing.
Two of Valentino’s ducklings are up first. They’re both tall, broad shouldered, and fit. I anticipate they’ll have no trouble at all.
“Watch carefully,” I say to Aldo. “We might get an idea how to run the course ourselves.”
“My current idea is to pray and hope for a miracle,” Aldo says.
“That’s never worked for me,” I tell him.
DeLuca raises his hand to the sky. The boys stand before him, weight shifted to the balls of their feet, ready to take off.
“Oléeee, Ciénega del Sur!” someone yells from the audience, and the two boys wave merrily in response.
“You can do it, Beto and Juan!” calls Valentino to his friends.
DeLuca’s hand sweeps down, and the boys shoot forward, sprinting for the sway beam. They arrive at the same time, and for a split second they knock shoulders trying to climb on. Common sense prevails. One steps back, allowing the other a way forward.
He climbs on; the beam sways wildly. He crouches for a moment, adjusting his balance. Gradually he stands, arms out, and begins to creep forward.
“That’s it, Beto! You’ve got it!” Valentino yells.
When he’s halfway across, Juan loses patience and tries to mount the beam himself. It jerks sideways. Beto flails, tumbles to the ground.
A smattering of laughter hits us from the audience.
Beto climbs back on. Juan wisely chooses to wait this time. Slowly—too slowly—Beto makes his way down the beam. When he leaps off, the beam ricochets backward, bumping Juan in the chest hard enough that he plops in the sand.
More laughter does not prevent Juan from leaping to his feet and attacking the beam. He’s a little faster than Beto, a little lighter on his feet, and he makes it across in mere seconds while Beto urges his partner onward.
Juan hops off into the sand, and together he and Beto run for the giant cedar log.
Aldo whispers, “We’ll do fine on the beam. Better than Beto and Juan.”
I think he’s right. The next obstacle, though, will be another matter.
Juan and Beto crouch before the log, one at each end, and try to push it over. The log tips forward a tiny bit before rolling right back into place.
“If they’re struggling, there’s no way we’re going to budge it,” Aldo whispers.
Beto’s voice carries over to us: “We have to do this at exactly the same time. On three. Ready? One, two, three.”
This time, they coordinate their effort, and the log rolls over once and thumps into the sand.
“Again!” yells Beto. “One, two, three.”
Another roll, another thump. They repeat this process seven times, until the log reaches the flag marker. “Well done!” Valentino yells as the boys dash for the hurdles.
The boys’ long legs serve them well, and they clear all the hurdles easily, except for the tallest, which they mount using their hands, and then swing their legs over.
“We’ll be slower at that one, but we can do it,” I tell Aldo.
Beto and Juan reach the net climb. They treat it like it’s a ladder, climbing hand over foot, but the net is not entirely taut, and they swing wildly, holding tight to keep from falling. Beto’s foot shoots through and he spends a precious moment untangling himself before continuing. Still, the boys reach the high platform without too much trouble, and leap off into the pile of straw.
Juan is slow to get up, and he limps slightly as they head toward the water basins.
“High knees!” Valentino yells. “Oléeee, Ciénega de
l Sur!”
I spare a glance toward Sergeant DeLuca. Surely all these displays of countship pride rankle; we’re supposed to leave our previous loyalties behind to join the Guard. But I guess being the son of the richest conde in the kingdom still holds sway, because DeLuca does not react in the slightest.
Beto and Juan start to run through the water basins. Each basin is perfectly round, with a diameter the width of a mead barrel. They’re lined up four across, which allows both recruits to go at the same time. The edges of the basins reach higher than their knees, and I realize they’re deeper than they look because they’re partially buried in the sand to hold them in place. The boys are forced to slow down and place each leg carefully in each basin. Water sloshes everywhere, pushing them against the sides, soaking their clothes and even their hair.
When they finally exit the other end, they are both slumped over with the effort, and their legs drag as they push toward the final barrier. Water drains from their clothes and shoes, leaving dark stains in the sand behind them.
They pause a moment to stare up at the barrier. It’s made of wooden slats that are perfectly joined, leaving no hand- or footholds. Crossbeams buttress the structure on the other side, but the surface they’re staring up at might as well be a sleek, sheer granite cliff. It’s almost the height of two fully grown men.
Beto bends over, hands on his knees, and takes a few gasping breaths. Then he straightens, places his back against the wall, and cups his hands before him, indicating that Juan should step in.
Juan places his foot into Beto’s hands. The two murmur something to each other. Juan nods once, then springboards up as Beto launches with hands and thighs. Juan’s fingertips barely reach the top, grapple with the edge. It seems as though he’s going to slip, but Beto pushes on the bottoms of his feet and Juan is able to hook an elbow over, then an armpit, and finally a leg. Soon, he’s straddling the wall.
Valentino and the remaining ducklings cheer.
