by Rae Carson
“Do you have anything else to report?” he says at last.
“Just that we have a new swordmaster,” I tell him.
“Master Santiago,” Iván adds. “Do you know of him?”
The prince’s eyes narrow. “He was the dowager queen’s personal guard for many years. I don’t know him well, but he is not Royal Guard.”
“So, in your judgment, he should not be trusted?” I ask.
“Definitely not. Like I said, I don’t know him well, but I did know Grandmamá, and she hated Elisa.”
“How could she?” I say. “They hardly spoke.”
“Maybe hate is too strong a word. She disapproved of her. Elisa was too foreign, too fat, too young. Grandmamá always hoped Papá would remarry, but she had her sights set on several other women, many of whom she foisted on him at every opportunity. A few even became his mistresses.” Rosario frowns. “I was such a stupid little boy. Every time he got a new mistress, I toddled after her, hoping she would become my mother. How pathetic is that?”
“You ended up getting the best mother of all,” I point out.
Rosario’s face softens. “True. And Hector has been more of a father to me than the king ever was.”
“Yes, well, that’s not saying much,” Iván says. “The list of things that were a better father to you than King Alejandro is very long. Like the plague, which at least shows up once in a while.”
I round on Iván, ready to lay into him, but I hear Rosario chuckle.
“And the list of things less traitorous than your father is equally long,” Rosario says. “Like a mosquito, which will stab you in the back only once.”
Both boys are grinning ear to ear now, and I realize I’m on the outside of an old joke.
Suddenly they’re both looking at me expectantly. Like I’m supposed to contribute something.
I say, “At least you both know who your father is! The list of degenerates who could be my father is longer than both your lists.”
“My little sister has a good point,” Rosario says, and a lump lodges in my throat because it feels so normal for him to call me that.
“We can at least be certain he was an Invierno, right?” Iván says.
“A worthless Invierno snake, you mean, who left my mother pregnant and alone,” I say.
Iván says, “If we had a flagon of wine right now, I’d raise a toast to surviving terrible fathers.”
“Hear, hear,” Rosario says.
“I’d drink to that,” I say.
“Anyway, I think Red’s father was an animagus,” Rosario says. “Red can sense Godstones, even better than a priest. Did you know that, Iván?”
“I’ve heard a little about it.”
“Her affinity is so strong that . . . Red, is that your magic mark showing?”
My hand flies to my hairline before I can stop it. “I . . .”
“I thought you took some dye with you as one of your three items.”
“It was vandalized.”
Rosario’s eyes widen. “Oh . . . well, I’ll get you some more. I’ll have it delivered to the barracks within two—”
“I don’t need more dye. I’ll be fine.” I blink rapidly for a moment, letting my own words echo in my head. I don’t need more dye.
Before he can respond, the monastery bells ring the half hour, and I nearly jump out of my seat. We must be directly beneath the bell tower, for it to clang so loudly. How do the priests ever sleep?
Rosario gives me a look of sympathy. He says, “Back to business, yes? I received a message by pigeon yesterday. The empress’s procession has passed the oasis and is heading into the Hinder Mountains. They should reach Amalur in less than two weeks. Elisa is in good health. She sends her best wishes for Bolivar’s recovery. Also . . .” He pauses before adding: “Mena lost her first tooth.”
My smile falters as soon as it comes. Rosario is not smiling either.
“This is all good news, right?” Iván says.
“Yes, good news,” Rosario says dully.
I know how he feels. Neither of us is there to exclaim over Ximena’s missing tooth. Neither of us will be there when Elisa’s baby is born.
“You don’t seem pleased,” Iván observes.
“It’s just . . . when certain people are gone,” Rosario says, “it feels like part of your very self is gone. Like an arm. Or a heart.”
Iván looks back and forth between us. “The very best thing we can do in their absence is figure out what’s happening and keep you safe.”
“Agreed,” I say. “Rosario, now that Fernando is injured, do you have anyone else to protect you?”
He nods. “I have three personal bodyguards remaining.”
Iván frowns. “That means you only have two, since they must sleep in shifts.”
“Yes.”
“It’s not enough,” Iván says.
“No.”
“I can talk to my brother, see if he can spare some of his own personal guard.”
“Juan-Carlos needs his personal guard as much as I do.”
“No!” I say, a little too fiercely. “No one needs a guard more than you. You’re being targeted, little brother. They’re chipping away at your defenses, bit by bit. Making you vulnerable, as if preparing for something. If we don’t shore up your guard, Iván and I should quit the recruits to be at your side.”
“Just say the word, Highness,” Iván says, “and we’ll both be there.”
Rosario is shaking his head. “Bigger things are coming, and I need you both in the Royal Guard,” he says. “Do you understand? I’m ordering you to do everything you can to not get cut.”
“But—” Iván starts to protest.
“I’ll talk to Juan-Carlos,” Rosario says. “That was a good idea. I’m sure he can spare a man or two.”
Iván slumps a little in relief.
“So what’s our next move?” I ask no one in particular. “We still need to talk to Valentino, I suppose. To find out if he took sweet dream.”
“Yes, we’ll make that a priority,” Iván says.
“The stable hand is gone,” I remind them. “So how do we communicate when one of us has something to report?”
“An assistant cook has informed for us on occasion,” Rosario says. “He’s been doing the job for only a few years, but the spymaster trusts him. I’ll have him identify himself to you, so be ready.”
“Only a few years?” I say.
“Yes, why?”
“You said the spies who disappeared are all people who have been doing the job a long time.”
The prince turns thoughtful. Light from the oil lamp sheens against his black hair, making it appear coppery.
Iván says, “The spies who disappeared . . . exactly how long had they been working as spies?”
Rosario considers this a moment. “Everyone who disappeared had been working for us at least nine years.”
I say, “I don’t understand how well-established spies were compromised but newer ones were not. That makes no sense.”
“Unless . . .” Iván begins, “the person behind this is not familiar with current operations.”
Rosario sits straight up. “You’re saying it’s someone who used to be familiar with them. Someone who was part of the king’s inner circle nine years ago, before Elisa came to power.”
“I don’t know. Maybe? If so, the only person I can think of is Iván’s father.”
Iván glares at me. “Impossible.”
“Are you sure he’s not making a play for the throne again?”
“I’m sure. Last I heard, he was rotting in an Invierno mine.” Then, softly, he mutters, “Please let him be rotting in an Invierno mine.”
Rosario is shaking his head. “It’s not Conde Eduardo. We’ve kept a very close watch on him over the years. We know where he is and what he’s doing at all times.”
“Then who?” I ask.
“I’ll give this some thought. In the meantime, I need to get you back to the barracks before anyo
ne gets suspicious.”
“No,” Iván says. “We need to get you safely back to your quarters. We’ll find the barracks on our own.”
Rosario nods once and rises from the table.
Someone bangs on the door.
“Who goes there?” Rosario says.
“Nicandro.”
Rosario lifts the bar and opens the door. A small, hunched man in gray robes and a walking cane hurries inside and shuts it behind him. His dear, familiar face is grave, and he leans heavily on the cane with both hands. I haven’t seen him since he presided over my failed adoption ceremony.
“Father,” Rosario says. “We were about to . . . What’s wrong?”
“Your Highness,” he says, his voice thin with age. “I received news from Doctor Enzo. Captain Bolivar is dead.”
17
Now
ROSARIO plunks back down in his seat and hunches over, hands on his head, as though pressed down by a crushing weight. More than anything I want to go to him, put my arms around his shoulders. But maybe that would be more of a comfort to me than to him.
I whisper, “I’m so, so sorry, little brother.”
“Any word on Fernando?” Iván asks the priest.
“No change to his condition,” Nicandro says. He turns to me, peering close. “Lady Red, I do not sense your Godstone, the one Elisa gave to you.”
“I left it in the Guard barracks,” I tell him.
“You should carry it with you at all times, my girl. It’s special. More powerful than most. Elisa acquired it on the hidden isle, in a place of power, and she gave it to you for a reason.”
“Yes, Holiness,” I say, though I have no way to carry it.
He waves a hand in the air. “Stop with that holiness nonsense. There has never been formality between us.” He turns to Rosario. “Sweet boy, I know how much you loved Bolivar. I regret that we will be unable to honor him in death right away; I think it’s best that everyone still believes him missing. But I promise you that his body will be tended to with dignity and respect, and when your family returns from their travels, we will bury him in state, as he deserves.”
“Thank you,” Rosario chokes out.
“Does he have a family?” Iván asks. “Does he leave behind a widow or children? If so, we should—”
“The Royal Guard was his family,” the priest says. “Now, come, all of you. Four trusted acolytes have volunteered to help escort you. They are not fighters, but they’ll make a fine living shield for our prince.”
Father Nicandro gestures us up and out of the archive, where three young men and one young woman in black robes wait, backs straight, arms crossed and muffled by their voluminous sleeves. The acolytes, Iván, and I all surround the prince, like he’s the center of a meat pie, and begin our trek out of the monastery.
“Wait!” Father Nicandro says, and our strange little procession pauses. “I almost forgot.”
He hurries back into the archive and returns a moment later carrying a book with a metal clasp. “Red, this is for you,” he says, plopping it into my arms.
I run my hand across the cover. It’s hardened leather, stamped with the rose and crown of the de Vega royal crest.
“What is it?” I ask.
“A copy of the Articles of the Empire. There’s something inside you should see. Or rather, there’s something not inside you should see.”
“What do you mean?” Bound books are valuable and rare. This is a royal gift, no matter what it contains.
“Just read it. If your heart is ready, you will see.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. “I . . . thank you.”
To Rosario he says, “I light a candle every night and pray for your safety. Be well, dear boy.”
The barracks are silent with sleep when Iván and I finally make it back. Or so it seems. I store my book in the bedside table and shuck my boots. When next I look up, I’m surrounded by recruits. Aldo’s head hangs over the top bunk. Itzal plunks down beside me. Pedrón and the Arturos stare at me with expectation.
“So,” Itzal says. “What was it like? Did you see the prince?”
“I bet there were beautiful girls in beautiful gowns,” Pedrón says dreamily.
Iván says, “You know we can’t tell you anything.”
“Not even a hint?” Aldo says. “Where did you go? Was it a grand ballroom?”
“I can tell you one thing,” I say.
Everyone leans forward into my space.
“It was boring,” I say, and they wilt with disappointment. “You just stand there, not able to say anything or eat anything. But you can’t let your mind wander to pass the time, because you’re watching everyone and everything for any possible threat.”
“Red’s right,” Iván says. “It was boring.”
“You’re lying,” Itzal says, peering into my face, though I’m not sure what he thinks he’ll see in this gloom.
Pedrón says, “Moneybags here just wants to hear about all the fine things. He says the ambassador has a flower vase that’s worth three times my father’s annual wage.”
I lie down and push Itzal off the bed with my foot. “You’ll find out yourself. It will be your turn soon enough. Now let me sleep.”
The next morning at breakfast, someone I don’t recognize mans the cauldron, and we line up so he can ladle porridge into our bowls. He is short and slight with sharp features, barely older than the recruits. When I reach the head of the line, he says, so softly that only I can hear, “My name is Luz-Daniel. Please come to me if you need anything.”
I refuse to make eye contact as I whisper my thanks. This is Rosario’s spy, who can get a message to the prince should the need arise.
The morning training session brings more practice with sword forms. And the morning after that. Our nightly class continues, and everyone’s technique improves greatly. Even boys like Itzal, who came to the Guard with no training and hardly knowing left from right, can now be counted on to keep a strong grip while flowing through the poses like water.
Autumn begins to cool the air, bringing the occasional light rain, and we all become restless and frustrated with our routine: sword forms all morning, followed by fitness training in the afternoon, and more sword forms before bed. The boys are eager to learn how to fight, and I don’t blame them one bit. We’re ready. I know we are.
I’m equally frustrated by the fact that we’ve been given no opportunity to earn free time. I’m desperate to talk to Valentino. I’m harried by thoughts of Captain Bolivar’s death, of Fernando fighting for his life. Every day that passes puts my prince in greater danger. One night, Iván suggests we sneak out, but once again, I refuse. We risked too much the first time we snuck down to the Wallows. We don’t dare do it again. Don’t get cut, Rosario said.
Finally, three weeks after the ambassador’s soiree, we enter the training arena for our morning session, but instead of Master Santiago, Guardsman Bruno awaits us. He is swordless.
“Into formation!” he calls, and we scurry to grab our wooden swords but he stops us. “No weapons today.”
Empty-handed, we line up in the staggered formation Master Santiago assigned us. Aldo gives me a questioning look. I shrug.
Guardsman Bruno paces before us, hands behind his back. “Swordmaster Santiago has other commitments today, so I will oversee your training. He assures me that you are not quite ready for swordwork yet. Instead, you will be given an introduction to close quarters combat.”
Excited murmuring runs down the line. Finally we’re going to learn something useful.
“I’m sure it has not escaped your notice that we haven’t made any cuts in several weeks. Since the Ciénega del Sur boys did us the favor of disqualifying themselves, we were able to keep some of you on longer than we expected. That will change. I assure you, cuts are coming, so pay attention today and learn well.”
Itzal groans softly. “It’s me,” he whispers. “I know it’s going to be me.”
“As Royal Guards,” Brun
o continues, “you may find yourself in a situation where swinging a sword is a terrible idea—when an attacker is too close to the empress, for example, or when you’re in the middle of a crowd. We will teach you to disarm opponents, grapple an enemy into submission, and even de-escalate sensitive situations—all without ever raising a blade.”
His bushy eyebrows knit together into a single caterpillar line, and he says, “Any volunteers?”
We are as silent and still as the grave, for no one wants to be made a spectacle of in front of everyone. A gust of wind kisses the arena sand, sending up a layer of dust.
“Recruit Red,” Bruno says. “Thank you for volunteering.”
I’m unable to resist giving him an angry glare as I step forward.
“Turn around and face your fellow recruits.”
I do as ordered, and he steps up behind me. Maybe I imagine the warmth of his body permeating my skin, because he’s not that close. Still, my limbs start to tingle, heat races up my neck, my heartbeat comes fast.
He’s going to choke me from behind. But it will be a mere demonstration. Nothing to fear.
The recruits stare at us in anticipation.
“I’m going to reach for your neck,” Bruno says. “I want you to try to escape my grip. Ready?”
I take a deep breath. “Ready.”
My senses narrow to the presence at my back, the hands coming up to my throat, the thumbs pressing against my windpipe.
My body knows exactly what to do. I’ve practiced this maneuver with Hector and Rosario a thousand times. But Bruno is a stranger with strange hands and a strange smell and a strange grip, and I can’t force my body to treat him like a friend.
I drop a shoulder and twist, forcing his grip to release, and I explode my opposite elbow upward, ramming him in the chin.
He flails backward.
I step in for the killing blow. His eyes are wide, his mouth open in surprise, and at the last second I pull my punch. Instead of a hard blow to the groin, I give his abdomen a light tap.
He blinks rapidly, opening his mouth wide to test his jaw.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you!” I say. “Are you all right?”
He nods before finding his voice. “That was well done. Excessive, but well done.”
