by Rae Carson
“Will you be wanting real venison for them?”
“Don’t bother.” Orlín spotted Mula, hovering near the door. “Girl, when the newcomers are done with their stew, show them to their rooms. Give them the dormers, hear?”
“Hear.”
“And as soon as you get a chance, find out what’s inside those travel packs. They might be traders. Rich traders.”
“You want me to steal something?” Mula hated stealing, but she did it once in a while on Orlín’s orders. She could be quiet as a rabbit in a burrow, when she needed to be.
“Not yet. Just tell me what’s inside.”
Mula nodded and backed out the door before Orlín could think up some other awful task for her.
The girl did exactly as asked. Once the strange group had finished their stew, she led them upstairs to the dormer rooms. She lingered while they settled in, hoping to get a glimpse inside their packs.
The tall woman approached her. “Do you need something from us?” she asked with an arch look.
“What’s inside those packs?” Mula asked. “Are you traders?”
The two women exchanged a glance.
“Just supplies,” said the plump woman.
“Orlín thinks you might be traders.”
“Orlín?”
“Man who owns this inn and everything in it.”
“Ah.”
“Yes, traders,” the tall woman said. “Spices. If they sell well, we might come back with more.”
The plump woman stepped forward, cocked her head to study the little girl. “Did the innkeeper put you up to asking?”
Mula should lie. She knew she should. But Mula was terrible at lying, and these people had kindness in their eyes, so she nodded once, quick, then looked away, unable to meet their gazes.
The plump woman said, “You may tell your innkeeper that we carry marjoram and sage. Now please allow us some privacy.”
Mula turned to go. She knew what sage was, but she’d never heard of the other one. She practiced the word in her head.
Mula wasn’t sure what made her turn back around, pin the plump woman with a look and say, “Orlín says you might be fancy lords and ladies. He’s got a very bad want for seeing inside your packs.”
In the ensuing silence, the girl’s heart was fierce in her chest. What had she just done? If Orlín found out . . .
“But please don’t say I told!” she added, then she fled, pounding back down the stairs in her bare feet.
Orlín was waiting for her in the common room. “Well? What did you find out?”
“Traders,” Mula said, breathless. “They have spices. Sage and merry jam.”
“Marjoram?”
She nodded.
“Did you see? Or did they tell you?”
“They told.”
Orlín frowned. “When they leave their rooms tomorrow, I want you to get inside and have a look around.”
“You think they’re lying?”
“Joyans are known for it.”
“They have an Invierno with them,” Mula pointed out.
“They do indeed.” Orlín tapped a fingertip to his lip. “Which makes me think they are definitely not traders.” He crouched down before her, grasped her shoulders, pinned her with a gaze. “You must find out what’s in those packs,” he said. “You will not eat until you find out, hear?”
Mula’s lower lip trembled. “Hear,” she whispered.
19
Now
THE next morning, Master Santiago is back, and we return to endless practice of forms. Our forms are perfect. I have no idea why he refuses to progress our training, why he constantly belittles and berates us. At lunch, I sit beside Aldo, Iván, and Pedrón as usual. Across the room, the Arturos and their fellow Basajuaños are deep in quiet conversation with some of the second years.
“What do you think they’re talking about?” Aldo says.
“No idea,” I say.
We find out that night, during our unsanctioned class. I instruct everyone to grab their wooden practice swords, but Tall Arturo says, “Wait. We need to talk.” He gestures for us to gather into a cluster in the center of the arena. “Might as well sit down for this,” he says.
Short Arturo adds, “And speak quietly so no one lingering on the walls can hear.”
Iván and I exchange a startled glance as we comply. Soon, we’re all cross-legged in the sand, sitting in a tight circle. Evening paints the sky pink and coral. Two palace guards make their rounds nearby; their silhouettes seem to float along the arena wall, black against the sunset.
“What’s going on?” I whisper.
Short Arturo gives Tall Arturo a nod of encouragement. Tall Arturo takes a deep breath and says, “We’ve been talking to the second years. They had a very different first year of recruitment than we’ve had.”
“What do you mean?” says Pedrón, though I have a guess where this is going.
“First of all, they were trained by Captain Bolivar,” Tall Arturo says. “I know Sergeant DeLuca said the captain was busy doing something else, but it’s highly irregular. The captain of the Royal Guard oversees training every year. Every year. The second years have no idea where he is or why he’s been absent so long.”
I sense Iván stiffen in the space beside me. I resist the urge to look at him.
“I’ve been wondering about him,” says Itzal. “I was looking forward to meeting the captain. Supposedly he’s one of the empress’s most trusted men. And a gifted instructor besides.”
“Maybe he’s away on a special mission for the empress,” Pedrón says.
“It’s been almost two months,” Tall Arturo points out.
The truth is like a silent scream in my head. He’s dead. Dead, dead, dead. It goes against everything in me to allow the deception to continue. Maybe these boys, who’ve sworn to protect the empress even if it costs them their lives, deserve to know the truth. It’s not like Prince Rosario specifically ordered us to keep his death a secret. . . .
“There’s more,” says Short Arturo. “By this time last year, the second years were practicing real swordwork, not just forms. They were learning blocks and parries and even a few attacks.”
“Maybe we’re just terrible compared to them,” Itzal says.
“No, you’re just terrible compared to them,” Pedrón says.
Itzal sighs. “I don’t deny it. I’m going to get cut for sure.”
“We’re not terrible compared to them,” Short Arturo says. “Everyone says we’re the most promising class in a decade. Iván and Red have had extensive training. Pedrón and the former army recruits are here specifically because they were too good for the army.”
“Damn right we were,” Pedrón says, and his friends echo him with, “Damn right!”
“Aldo is surprising everyone,” Short Arturo continues. “We Basajuan boys grew up on the Invierne border, so we’ve been adept with slingshots and bows and traps since we could walk.” He pauses to let it all sink in. “There is absolutely no reason for Master Santiago to delay our training.”
“I’m the one holding everyone back,” Itzal says, hanging his head.
“No!” I say. “If that were true, they’d just cut you. You’ve survived this long for a reason. We all have. Pedrón, what does your brother say?”
“I haven’t talked to him. The third and fourth years don’t stay in the barracks. They’re out on maneuvers.” Pedrón is dragging his fingers through the sand, unable to sit still. “I know I’m not as smart as the rest of you,” he says. “But it sure sounds like the swordmaster is delaying our training on purpose.”
The Arturos are nodding. Tall Arturo says, “The second years think it’s very strange that Sergeant DeLuca brought in an outsider for training. And then to see him teach us nothing but forms, forms, forms, for weeks on end . . . I mean, I’m glad we’re strengthening our arms and wrists and shoulders or whatever, but this is getting ridiculous.”
I can’t resist piping in with, “Our forms a
re excellent now. Even Itzal’s. I don’t see how they can get any better.”
Aldo speaks up for the first time. “So what does all this mean?” he asks, and his voice carries a note of challenge.
“We’re not sure,” Tall Arturo says. “And we don’t want to alarm you . . .”
“. . . or overreact,” says Short Arturo. “But . . .”
“There’s no reason to keep Guard recruits ignorant and incompetent, unless . . .”
“. . . you want them to remain ignorant and incompetent.”
“In short,” Tall Arturo says, “we’re a little bit concerned for our prince.”
Silence greets this pronouncement. Distant wagon wheels roll across cobblestone. The sun sinks behind the outer wall and the sea cliffs, leaving the arena in shadow.
Softly, Iván says, “I think we should tell them. He would want us to use our own judgment, right?”
The Arturos exchange a startled glance.
“What? Tell them what?” Pedrón demands. “Who wants you to use judgment?”
I ignore them all, staring at Iván. His face is a tad apologetic as he leans down and whispers in my ear, “We don’t have to tell them everything. But they deserve to know about the captain. We don’t have orders for secrecy, right?”
I’m so relieved he feels this way. “I agree,” I tell him.
“Red? Iván? What are you whispering about?” Aldo says.
“You must swear to tell no one what we’re about to tell you,” I say.
“On my honor as a Royal Guard,” Pedrón says.
“On my honor as a Royal Guard!” everyone echoes.
I say, “The Arturos are right to be suspicious. I’m afraid Iván and I must inform you all that Captain Bolivar is dead.”
“What?” says Tall Arturo.
“No!” says Itzal.
“How?” says Aldo.
I’m not sure how many details to reveal. Before I can decide, Iván says, “We’re not sure. But there’s a good chance he was assassinated.”
Pedrón tosses a handful of sand at me. “Why didn’t you say anything? Why would you keep that a secret?”
“It’s not her fault!” Iván says. “We thought it was the sergeant’s place to tell everyone. Or Guardsman Bruno’s. We just followed their lead by keeping quiet.”
“Oh,” Pedrón says, somewhat sheepish. “That makes sense.”
It does make sense. I never would have thought up such a perfect response.
Aldo says, “Where did you find the captain? How do you know what happened to him?”
Iván gives me a questioning look, and I shake my head slightly.
“We weren’t given those details,” Iván says smoothly. “I mean, we’re just recruits.”
“But you are friends with the prince, right?” Aldo presses. “Is he the one who told you?”
“Yes. The other night at the soiree.”
Aldo looks down at his hands, frowning. I know how he feels. Right now, it feels like all of us have failed.
“This is serious,” Itzal says. “Getting Bolivar out of the way made it possible for Sergeant DeLuca to take over training.”
“Right,” says Tall Arturo. “And Master Santiago wouldn’t have been brought in at all if the captain were still here.”
“It’s all connected,” says Itzal.
“That’s why we’re worried for our prince,” says Short Arturo. “Especially now that we know Bolivar is dead. It sure seems like sabotage.”
“So what do we do?” Pedrón asks.
“We’re just recruits,” Aldo says. “First years.”
“We should tell someone,” says Pedrón.
“We don’t know who to trust!” says Itzal.
“There has to be something we can do, right?” says Short Arturo.
Everyone starts talking over each other. Their voices get louder and louder, edged with panic. Soon the whole palace will hear us arguing.
“Stop it!” I yell.
Suddenly everyone is looking to me. What would Rosario have me do? Tell them to go to bed and not worry about it? Carry on as though nothing has happened? Pretending has never been my strong suit.
I say, “Harsh winds.”
“Rough seas,” say Aldo and Iván.
“Still hearts!” says everyone else.
We repeat the Guard motto, in unison this time.
Into the ensuing calm, I say, “We train.”
Pedrón smiles.
“How?” says Itzal. “More forms and escapes?”
“Short Arturo is right,” I say.
“Just call me Arturito,” he says. “Or Rito.”
“Rito, then. You’re right. We’re the most promising class in a decade. All of us bring something. I don’t have a lot of experience with a sword, but I can teach dodging and close quarters combat. Iván is a wonder at footwork.”
Iván points to Aldo. “He showed us how the forms work. I bet he can teach us how to parry and how to turn those forms into attacks.”
Aldo hesitates, not meeting anyone’s gaze. “I guess can do that,” he says. “I mean, I’m not just here in the Guard because I’m better looking than the rest of you.”
Rito rolls his eyes.
“My boys and me,” Pedrón says, “we learned some exercises as army recruits that made us strong.”
“Good!” I say. “That’s good, Pedrón. Exactly what we need.”
“We Basajuaños can teach everyone basic archery,” says Rito.
“And I,” Itzal says, “am a magnificent encourager.”
I grin at him. “Everyone can help in some way.”
“We don’t have real swords,” Andrés points out.
“We don’t need real swords to train,” I insist. But we will need them if we ever have to fight. That’s a problem we’ll have to solve another day.
Iván says, “We can do this.”
“We can do this,” Aldo agrees.
“If the Guard has been compromised,” Tall Arturo says, “or if someone comes for our prince, we’ll be ready.”
I jump to my feet. “Let’s start right now.”
The others follow. “Start with what?” Itzal asks.
“Grab your wooden swords,” I say. “Let’s learn some basic parrying. Aldo, can you help us out tonight?”
He grins. Whatever hesitation he had, I can tell he’s fully committed now. “Of course. You’re not really training for combat until you’ve felt the impact of your opponent’s sword shiver down your spine.”
We spend the next half hour on parrying angles. Aldo is a good teacher. Just like he did on that first day, he shows us how the forms interact, how they’ve prepared us to defend and counterattack. Even better, he shows us how to anticipate the direction of a swipe by watching someone’s shoulders and how to ground ourselves so we don’t get knocked down. The wooden swords clattering against each other sound like a group of furious carpenters building something in the arena. During a pause to wipe the sweat from my forehead, it occurs to me that we are building something in this arena.
“There’s a lot to learn,” Aldo says as he adjusts Itzal’s wrist to strengthen the boy’s grip. “As you get better, I’ll show you how to make sure you don’t leave yourself open to a follow-up attack, and how to use your parry to knock an opponent off balance. But for now, I want you all to focus on your stance, your grips, and your angles.”
We are exhausted by the time the torches are snuffed. My muscles burn with the satisfaction of having worked hard. As we pass under the portcullis and return to the barracks, Iván whispers in my ear, “I hope we did the right thing by telling them.”
“Me too.”
We settle into a routine: useless forms in the morning with Master Santiago. Fitness exercises or chores in the afternoon. Our unsanctioned class at night before lights out.
After three days of parrying, we all agree to switch to archery for a few days, to keep ourselves fresh and give our bodies a chance to recover. I expect Iván to be good wi
th a bow. When he misses the target over and over, I give him an arch look.
“What?” he says, looking offended. “I’m allowed to be bad at something.”
“But your fingers . . . those calluses . . .”
“These?” He holds them up in the fading light. “Red, I play the viheula.”
“Oh.” I blink up at him. In spite of sharing Traitors’ Corner, in spite of conspiring together on behalf of our prince, there’s still so much I don’t know about him.
“Or rather, I used to play the viheula. I haven’t picked one up since I joined the Guard. My brother talked me out of bringing it as one of my three items. He said I play so badly I’d end up murdered in my sleep by the other recruits.”
I can tell he regrets the joke as soon as it leaves his mouth, remembering the night that Beto and his duckling friends literally tried to do that to me.
“Sorry,” he says.
I lift my chin toward his bow and quiver. “You should be sorry. You’re terrible.”
“You’re not much better!”
I shrug. “Once everyone realized I would never have the height for archery, Hector focused on teaching me how to beat larger opponents. We always thought the biggest danger for me was going to be attacks at close quarters. Rosario is competent with a bow, though. And Mara can put an arrow through the eye of a soaring pigeon.”
Iván frowns. “That might be the level of competence we need. And we might need it soon.”
I’m afraid he’s right.
A few days later, we switch to close quarters combat, and I start teaching everyone how to use elbows, knees, and palms to evade a weapon and subdue an attacker. After that, one of Pedrón’s friends introduces us to basic shield work.
“It’s easy to overuse a shield,” he says. “To rely on it too much. So we’ll go easy until we’re all adept at basic swordsmanship. We will learn it, though, and learn it well. Solid shield work is one of the most effective ways to keep our empress safe.”
True to his word, Itzal encourages us all relentlessly. Whenever someone performs a new skill correctly for the first time, Itzal is there with a smile and a back slap and a “Good job!”
Midway through the second week, we enter the arena to find a handful of second years already there, waiting for us. The sand is wet from a recent rain burst, and their footsteps crunch as they approach.
