by Rae Carson
Juan grips the wall with one hand and leans down toward Beto with the other. “Jump,” he orders.
Beto jumps, misses.
He takes a few steps back. Then he runs at the wall full speed, launching himself at the last moment toward Juan’s waiting hand. They grasp forearms. Beto’s body swings against the wall, thumping it once, twice. Veins pop out on Juan’s neck as he pulls his friend, one-handed, up, up, up, until finally Beto can grasp the edge of the wall himself.
Beto yanks himself over, and they both land on the other side and raise their hands in victory.
Valentino and his friends whoop and holler. The audience cheers. Second years rush to reset the obstacle course, carrying buckets of water to refill the basins, rolling the log back into place.
“We’re never getting over that wall,” Aldo says.
“Maybe, maybe not,” I say.
“You have an idea?”
“Not yet.”
Next up are the Arturos. This pair is a little shorter than the Ciénega del Sur partners, but they’re notably stronger. They struggle with the sway beam but make much quicker work of the rolling log. The wall proves a challenge; it takes them several tries to reach the top, but they do, and then they fall over into the sand, exhausted, while onlookers cheer them on.
Iván goes next, along with a boy from Basajuan whose arms are as thin and bony as flagpoles. Like me, Iván has been paired with someone who gives him little chance of success. But it turns out that Iván is a wonder, because the moment he hits the sway beam, it’s obvious that he’s fast and agile, in absolute control of his body. The skinny boy also proves light on his feet, and they are across the beam in record time. They roll the log with effort, but they do it—Iván is stronger and more coordinated than I realized, and I remember Hector’s words about how some candidates hold back, hesitant to reveal the extent of their skills and training. Iván held back yesterday.
The skinny boy struggles with one of the hurdles, knocking it over twice before Iván runs back, holds the hurdle steady while the boy climbs over. Then they’re up the net faster than rats climbing the rigging of a caravel, and through the water basins like they’re little more than monsoon puddles.
Iván launches his partner to the top of the wall, who then reaches back to help him over. They topple to the ground on the other side and collapse onto their backs, gasping for air. Theirs is the fastest time yet.
Sergeant DeLuca frowns, but everyone else is cheering—Aldo and I loudest of all.
“That was incredible,” I say to Aldo.
“Iván is in better condition than I realized,” Aldo says.
“Recruit Red! Recruit Aldo!” the sergeant barks. “You’re up.”
The arena goes silent. Even our fellow recruits, who have been cheering and clapping all along, offer nothing in the way of encouragement. Everyone expects us to fail. Maybe they’re hoping for it.
As I step forward, I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn around. It’s Iván. Sweat pours from his forehead, plastering his black hair to his temples, and he’s still sucking air. “There’s a hollow in the ground beneath the log, about a third of the way down,” he says, fast and low. “You can use it to get your hands under the log, give yourself better leverage.”
“I . . . Thank you.”
“Recruit Red, what’s the delay?” yells the sergeant, and I hurry to get into place.
“What are we going to do?” Aldo whispers.
“Our best,” I say.
“Not sure that’ll be good enough.”
Everyone in the arena is silent but rapt. Their anticipation is like a taut sail, full of energy, ready to spring a ship from the harbor. Whether we succeed or fail, the crowd will be entertained.
It sparks an idea. “Let’s give everyone a show,” I say.
“Huh?”
“We can’t do this well. Let’s do it wildly.”
Aldo grins.
Sergeant DeLuca raises his hand, sweeps it downward.
We sprint for the sway beam. “Onto my back!” I yell. Aldo doesn’t hesitate. He springs up, arms wrapping my neck while I hook his legs with my elbows. He’s not that heavy—I’ve lifted worse while training with Hector—and I’m able to scramble onto the beam. It sways like an ocean wave, and I’m still a long moment, centering myself. Harsh winds, rough seas, still hearts. Aldo obliges me by being stiff and motionless on my back, as easy a burden as possible.
Carefully I make my way across the beam.
“That’s it, Red, you can do it!” It’s Valentino, and his cheer breaks something loose. Everyone else starts cheering too, even his ducklings. Even the surrounding crowd. It warms me more than I would ever admit aloud.
We reach the end, and I step off, Aldo slipping from my back.
The giant log lies before us.
I slide my hands along its length, looking for the indention Iván mentioned. There. A slope in the earth, hidden by the arena’s deep layer of sand. I dig down until I’m able to get my whole hand and part of my wrist beneath the log. On the other end, Aldo has dug under the log as best he can. He looks at me expectantly. “On three?” he says, and I nod. “One, two, three.”
We grunt and heave, but nothing happens. The log wobbles slightly but does not budge.
The cheering fades.
Then comes Iván’s voice. “You can do it! Try again.”
“Try again!” is echoed all around us. I appreciate the sentiment, but this isn’t a problem we’re going to solve with a good attitude and plucky determination. We are simply not strong enough.
I straighten and stare down at the log in dismay. Failed when we’ve hardly begun. Maybe we should skip this obstacle and at least complete the others. Which is probably against the rules, but surely it would be better than nothing?
My gaze catches on the weapons rack at the arena’s edge. “Aldo! I have an idea!” I sprint toward the rack, and Aldo follows.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the sergeant calls. “Get back . . .”
I ignore him, grabbing the same huge wooden ax that Valentino swung at my head just yesterday. “Aldo, grab the strongest, thickest weapon you can—”
“Like this?” Aldo has lifted a broadsword from the rack, one of the few weapons not made of wood.
“Perfect. Let’s go.” Aldo can barely lift the sword, so he drags it in the sand behind him as we return to the log.
The audience buzzes with speculation about what we’re going to do. I expect to hear DeLuca’s booming voice, ordering us to desist, but he doesn’t even bother to repeat his earlier protest.
I lay the tip of the battle-ax sideways against the sand, and then thrust it beneath the log until it will go no farther. Aldo does the same with his broadsword. I hope that sword is made of quality steel, or this will never work. “On three!” I yell. “One, two, three.”
We lever our weapons upward, and the log shifts. I strain against my ax. The log shifts a little more. I press my foot against it. Aldo mirrors me on his end, and together we push and heave and kick. The log rolls over and thumps into the sand.
The crowd erupts with cheering.
With our battle-ax and broadsword, we lever the log all the way across. We’re slow about it, slower than any team thus far, but eventually our log reaches the flag marker. We drop our weapons, leaving them in the sand.
Aldo and I exchange a quick grin of triumph as we dash for the hurdles. My legs are rubbery, my vision blurry with sweat and exhaustion, but I’m hopeful now. Maybe we can do this.
Several of the hurdles are too tall for us to jump, and we must use our hands to push up and swing our legs over. The last one is too tall for Aldo to do even that, so I make a show of bowing formally, getting down on one knee like a supplicant, and offering my bent knee to him as a stepping stool. Aldo gapes at me a moment, an odd wonder blooming on his face, before he steps onto my proffered knee.
The crowd loves it; several whistle as Aldo hops up and over.
“Any
ideas for a wild net climb?” I ask between breaths.
“I practically grew up on a ship,” he says breathlessly. “Let me go first.”
Aldo launches for the net, lands on all fours, then swings around the edge so that he’s hanging underneath.
The crowd looses a collective gasp.
He spiders up the net from below, hands and legs moving so fast he’s a blur. As he nears the top, he lowers his legs so that he’s hanging. He swings back and forth, back and forth, and once he’s picked up enough momentum, he whips his body up and around, landing neatly on the platform.
Valentino yells, “Nice work, Aldo!” as the crowd whoops and hollers.
I follow at an anticlimactic pace, but Aldo grabs the top of the net and pulls it taut, which helps me pick up speed and finish creditably. Together we jump from the platform into the straw pile. Remembering the way Juan limped after his jump, I duck my head and turn my landing into a forward roll, which garners a few cheers.
We dash toward the water basins. Iván and his tall partner were able to run through them by kicking up their knees, but Aldo’s legs and mine are far too short for that: The edges of the basins nearly reach my crotch. We step gingerly, lifting each leg high, careful not to scrape our thighs. The water sloshes around, threatening our balance, weighing down our pants and our boots, making each step a torture.
But it’s also refreshing and cool. About halfway through, I stop to cup some water with my hands and take a long drink. Aldo pantomimes bathing by splashing his face and his armpits. The crowd laughs.
The truth is I’m stalling, because I still have no idea how we’re going to get over the final barrier.
Aldo and I step from the last basin and drag our dripping selves toward it. My breath is ragged, my hands puckered and raw, as we stare up at the wooden wall in dismay.
“Any ideas?” I ask Aldo.
“My praying seems to have worked so far, so I’m going to keep doing that.”
I’m laughing when the idea strikes. “I’ll be right back!”
Running through sand is hard enough with good food and sleep, and my ankles and lower legs burn with effort as I sprint back toward the weapons rack.
The longbow is still there, but the arrows are too thin and flimsy for what I have in mind. However, behind the quiver of arrows, almost hidden, is a rusty crossbow, and with it a satchel containing exactly six bolts. They are iron tipped and thick as thumbs. They just might work.
I run back to the barrier and take a good, long look, sizing it up.
I’m no expert with bows and crossbows like Fernando and Mara, but I’m competent. If I take my time and steady my breath, I can put those bolts in the general proximity of where I want them.
“Aldo, step away from the wall,” I order, and he complies, already grinning ear to ear.
The first bolt should go about thigh high, enough to be a large but comfortable step. I load the first bolt. Take aim. Inhale.
I release on exhale, and the bow kicks back against my forearm even as the bolt thuds into the wall, burying itself almost two knuckles deep. I grin at this bit of luck. The wall must be made of pine. If it had been hardwood, the bolt would not have embedded itself so far.
I send five more bolts into the wall, staggering left and right, ever upward.
Aldo places his foot on the first one, testing. “Feels solid!” he says. And with that he launches up, grabs the next bolt, and climbs my makeshift ladder until he reaches the top. He pauses there, straddling the edge, just in case I need help.
But I don’t. All the recruits yell encouragement as I shimmy up the wall like it’s nothing.
Together, we slip over the side and hang, feet dangling, then allow ourselves to drop into the sand. I collapse, gasping for breath. But Aldo jumps up and bows as though he’s accepting laurels. The crowd screams approval.
Aldo helps me to my feet, and we turn to face Sergeant DeLuca.
A hush falls over the arena.
The sergeant regards us, lips pursed, brows knitted. At last he says, “Congratulations, Recruit Aldo and Recruit Red. You’ve achieved the slowest obstacle-course time in the history of Royal Guard training.”
The crowd boos, and it takes a moment for me to realize they’re not booing Aldo and me but the sergeant.
DeLuca holds up his hand. “However! It was also the most innovative. You’ve given your trainers much to consider.”
With that, he signals that Valentino and one of his ducklings are up next, and Aldo and I move to rejoin our fellow recruits.
On his way to the sway beam, Valentino says, “Nice job, Red!” and gives my back a hard thump.
I respond with a cheery “Good luck!” But a curl of dread is making me queasy. Valentino is listing a little to the left, his gaze unfocused, his skin sallow. Something is deeply wrong; I’m sure of it. Maybe it’s his kidney, from when I elbowed him. I resist the urge to call out to him to be careful. Instead, I yell, “Olé, Ciénega del Sur!” because he cheered me on without hesitation, and I owe him one.
“Oléeee!” his ducklings respond.
Valentino and his partner stand before the sway beam, awaiting the sergeant’s signal. Iván sidles up to me. His eyes are shadowed, his mouth on the edge of a frown. “Something’s wrong with Valentino,” he whispers.
“He’ll be fine,” Aldo says. “I mean, he’s the son of the richest conde in the kingdom. Everyone loves him. They can’t cut him, no matter what. Right?”
Sergeant DeLuca gives the signal, and Valentino and his partner dash for the sway beam. Valentino’s course is wobbly; he lags behind right away.
His partner climbs onto the beam, places his feet just so, spreads out his arms for balance, and gradually pushes up to a standing position.
“Olé, Sancho!” Valentino yells cheerily.
“Is he drunk?” Iván says.
Sancho is nearly to the end of the beam when Valentino reaches it, grasps it, tries to climb on.
His effort makes the beam sway wildly in its rope, and Sancho flails a moment before tumbling off into the sand. He scrambles to his feet, tries to remount, but he can’t get good purchase because Valentino is still trying to climb on.
“Valentino!” he yells. “Stop!”
Valentino backs away, looking baffled. Sancho climbs back on, finishes the beam walk, jumps off. “All right, now you can go,” he says, beckoning to his friend.
Valentino tries again. His foot slips off before he can leverage himself up. He places both hands on the beam and tries again, but the beam recoils, spearing him in the chest and knocking him backward into the sand.
He doesn’t move. A breeze blasts through the arena, sending up a dusting of sand, ruffling the beautiful blue silk of Valentino’s clothes.
“Come on, get up,” I murmur.
“Olé, Valentino!” someone yells. “You can do it!”
But he doesn’t budge, and I can’t tell if he’s breathing or if it’s just the wind playing with his tunic. Sancho stands at the end of the sway beam, looking back and forth between Sergeant DeLuca and Valentino, his face gradually shifting from annoyance to concern.
Finally, he can’t take it any longer; he rushes over to his friend and falls to his knees in the sand beside him. “Valentino?” he says, shaking his shoulder. “Are you all right? He’s not breathing! Somebody help!”
I’m about to dash forward, but DeLuca has sprung to action, along with several other Guardsmen, and they surround him quickly, creating a wall of bodies. Just like they did with the boy yesterday, they lift Valentino from the sand and carry him out of the arena while the rest of us look on in growing horror.
“What happened?” I say to no one in particular. “He was fine yesterday. He said there was no blood . . . he said . . .” What if it’s my fault? What if the injury to his kidney was worse than he let on?
All the recruits are milling about, whispering among themselves. The audience rimming the arena is as silent as a catacomb. Sancho stands alone in the s
and, staring at the dark tunnel his friend just disappeared into.
“Is Valentino dead?” Aldo asks.
“I saw his leg move when they were lifting him,” Iván says.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“No,” Iván says.
Guardsman Bruno calls us to order. “Back in line!” he hollers. “Recruit Sancho, take a break. You’ll be running the course with Recruit Pedrón. You two, Luca and Andrés—” He gestures toward the remaining army recruits. “You’re up next. We will finish this today.”
Two by two, everyone attempts the obstacle course. It’s easier now. Anyone who struggles with the log roll uses Aldo’s and my method of levering it with weapons. Second years try to remove the crossbow bolts from the final barrier, but they are lodged deep and immovable. Everyone climbs them easily.
The course is boring now, the mood somber. The crowd gradually thins until it’s gone. No one yells, “Olé!”
The final recruits struggle the most—another small, weak-looking pair who can’t budge the log any better than Aldo and I could. They try to lever it, but after being used all morning the wooden ax finally snaps, and the log refuses to budge. They are forced to skip the log roll, and they finish the rest of the course with their shoulders slumped, their faces dejected.
“Well,” Aldo says. “We didn’t hold the record for slowest time for very long at all.”
“I’m glad we weren’t the worst? I guess?”
“We might still be cut.”
He doesn’t need to remind me.
Guardsman Bruno calls us to attention. “You’re getting a midday meal today,” he says. “Your instructors have work to do, so go eat your grub. We’ll fetch you from the dining hall when we’re ready for you.”
“Instructors?” Aldo whispers. “What instructors? No one has taught us anything yet.”
“The first few days are just to get rid of the riffraff,” says a voice in my ear. It’s Pedrón, stepping in between Aldo and me. “Actual training will start soon.”
“How do you know that?” Aldo asks.
“My brother is a third year.” Another reason why DeLuca likes him. “Red, I’m going to sit by you in the dining hall, all right?”
