by Rae Carson
“Uh-oh,” says Aldo.
One steps ahead of the others. He’s broad shouldered, with a deep cleft in his chin. “I’m Tanix,” he says. “Squad leader for the second years.”
“What do you want, Tanix?” I say. There are only five of them, and there are thirteen of us. We can take them, if it comes to that.
“We’ve been keeping an eye on you,” the squad leader says.
“Keep watching,” Itzal says. “Maybe you’ll learn something.”
“No call for that,” Tall Arturo says, putting a hand on Itzal’s shoulder. “He’s here at my invitation.”
“What? Why?” says Pedrón.
Tanix lifts his chin and says haughtily, “We’d like to join your class. We think we can help you.”
Aldo says, “We’re doing just fine.”
“Wait,” Iván says. “Let’s stop and think.” His voice is calm and steady—in fact, I can’t remember him ever raising it—but there’s something about it that makes people stand at attention. Something about him. He says, “Are we Royal Guard?”
Several murmurs of assent.
“Are we all Royal Guard, sworn to protect Empress Elisa, her family, and her interests?”
“We are,” Tanix says. “Every one.”
“Tanix and the second years can help us,” Tall Arturo insists. “And we can help them. Their training has been stalled for weeks too, and no one knows why.”
I say, “This isn’t all of you.”
“No,” Tanix says. “Not everyone could be convinced that we need to team up. We’re all in danger of getting cut, you see. The better your class does, the higher the chance they’ll get rid of some of us.”
“The other way around holds too,” Itzal says.
“Yes,” Tanix acknowledges.
“Making us all compete against each other is the best way to keep us divided,” I point out. “Keep us weak.”
“Red has a point,” Itzal says.
“But that’s how it’s always been done, right?” says Pedrón. “After four years, only the best remain in the Guard.”
“Maybe things need to change,” I mutter.
“You’re saying people should stay in the Guard who aren’t the best?” Pedrón says.
“No. I just think there has to be a better way. And now, this year, when everything is weird and our prince might be in trouble, we have to stick together more than usual.”
“Hear, hear,” says Iván.
“Let’s vote on it,” I say. “All first years in favor of welcoming the second years to our unofficial class, raise your hand.”
Arturo’s hand shoots into the air. Other hands follow quickly, even Pedrón’s.
“It’s unanimous,” Itzal says, grinning now. “Welcome to the class, Tanix.”
Tanix and the second years fail to hide how pleased they are.
After a few minutes of wrangling, we settle on a plan for the next few weeks, which will rotate us through swordsmanship with occasional shield work, archery, hand-to-hand combat, and fitness training. None of us is an expert at anything, but everyone knows something. It will have to be enough.
Two weeks after the second years join us, Luz-Daniel, the assistant cook, slips me a note while he ladles refried beans into my bowl. I slide the note into my pocket. Reading it will have to wait until I can break away from the crowd.
As we’re leaving for our afternoon fitness session, I say to anyone who is listening, “I need to use the latrine. See you all out there.”
“I’ll guard the door for you,” Aldo says. My fellow recruits have been taking turns at this, allowing me peace and privacy for tending to my personal needs.
“Thanks, Aldo.”
While Aldo stands in the doorway with his back to me, I pull the note from my pocket and read.
Three barrels date syrup destroyed. Searching for others.
From Amalur: continued health. Baby soon.
Keep training.
Relief hits me like a brick, and I almost loose a sob. Rosario understood my note. He’s taking action. Elisa and the baby are fine. The prince knows about our training and approves.
But my relief is short-lived, because when I read the note a second time, I realize that thirty-seven barrels remain unaccounted for. Enough to poison an army.
“Red? We’d better hurry,” Aldo says from the door.
“Coming.” I toss the note into the latrine and cover it with mulch, then hurry to rejoin Aldo at the door. “Let’s go.” As we jog through the tunnel toward the arena, I add, “Aldo, you were great last night. Your parrying reflexes are incredible. I’m learning a lot from you.”
He beams. “And you’re learning fast. Which is good.”
“The two of us are on the small side. We have to work harder than everyone else.”
“Yes,” he says solemnly. “In addition, I bear the great burden of beauty.”
“But you soldier on.”
“By the grace of God.”
We are the last of the recruits to arrive, and we barely have time to take up our positions before Bruno enters, followed by two other Guards.
“Good afternoon, first years. Today, you’ll be running the walls. This time, you’ll carry packs filled with sand.”
We know better than to groan aloud, but I sense some of the boys around me drooping. It’s a very hot day, the worst kind of day for running.
“But first, I’m afraid we have to announce a cut. We’ve put it off as long as possible, but the time has come.”
Everyone around me is frozen in place. A muffled din of voices filters toward us from the nearby stables. The sun beats on my scalp. I can hardly breathe. Don’t get cut, Rosario said. If I’m kicked out of the Guard, I will have failed him.
Guardsman Bruno says, “Itzal, you are dismissed from training. The empress thanks you for your service.”
I’m dizzy with relief. Then sick with disappointment. Itzal is clumsy, yes. Slow to learn anything physical. But he’s intelligent and earnest. I’ll never forget the day I received my uniform, when Itzal stood before me to create a privacy barrier.
Itzal’s head is down, his shoulders rounded with defeat. “I knew it,” he mutters.
I’m hardly aware of what I’m doing when I break formation and go to him. “Itzal,” I say, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. “You will be missed.”
Suddenly we’re surrounded by recruits, and Itzal is forced to suffer patting on the back and hugs and even a robust hair ruffle from Pedrón.
“Good job, Itzal,” someone says.
“Stay strong,” says another.
“We won’t forget you.”
“Still hearts, my brother.”
Itzal’s eyes are filled with tears as he breaks away, but his head is high, his back straight, as he begins walking toward the barracks to retrieve his things.
“Wait,” Guardsman Bruno calls out. “I’m not finished. The rest of you, back into formation!”
We hurry to comply. Itzal stops where he is and stands tall, though his expression is perplexed.
“Itzal, you have other qualities that have been noted by your teachers,” Bruno says. “And it’s clear you’ve earned the respect and affection of your brothers. Er, and sister.”
Itzal does not respond. He simply waits, calm and poised.
“One of our stewards is soon to retire,” Bruno says. “It’s exceedingly rare for us to offer a staff training position to someone who hasn’t made it beyond the first year of recruitment, but we feel an exception is in order. Recruit Itzal, are you willing to accept an apprenticeship with the quartermaster? It will entail bookkeeping, supply chain, and inventory management.”
“Absolutely yes sir thank you sir with pleasure yes.”
Bruno cracks a small smile. “In that case, gather your things and report to the central storeroom at once.” He pauses. “And now the empress thanks you for your continued service.”
“Yes, sir!”
Aldo starts clapping, and I join
him. Soon, everyone takes up the applause, and Itzal flashes us a quick grin as he steps under the portcullis.
“Light feet, recruits!” Bruno yells. “Ten times around the palace tonight. The first five finishers get dessert.”
The Guards hand us packs, which we hitch over our shoulders. Guardsman Bruno gives the signal. As one, we rush for the wall.
I usually finish well, in spite of my shorter legs. Even with the added burden of the pack, I have a good chance at the top five. I’m not sure it’s worth making the effort on such a hot day for a mere dessert, though. Then again, finishing well will shore up my case to survive the next cut.
The key to endurance running is to occupy your thoughts with something else, so I ignore the weight bouncing against my back, pick up my pace, and think of Itzal. I’m glad he found a permanent place with the Guard. I’ll miss him in training, but at least he’ll stick around. In fact, next time I see him, I’ll make sure he knows he’s still welcome in our nightly class.
After the third lap, I let myself fall behind a little, just enough so Iván can catch up. When he does, I whisper about the note I received.
“Still thirty-seven barrels unaccounted for,” he whispers back.
As winter approaches, an unseasonable heat wave turns the arena sand into scorching lava that we feel even through our boots. My nose reddens and peels, then reddens again before it can heal. We are forced to launder dust and sweat from our uniforms every single evening, giving us less time for our unsanctioned class.
But we keep at it, training every night before bed. Tanix and his small group of second years maintain perfect attendance, and their addition is a boon; one is a natural at sword and shield, another knows some grappling throws that are especially useful for taking down a larger opponent. Itzal joins us when the quartermaster allows; a few weeks later, he shows up with one of the cooks and an apprentice blacksmith.
“We are all Guards, even if some of us aren’t fighters,” he says proudly. “And we are all willing to take up arms on behalf of our empress, should the need arise.”
The rest of the class votes to let them stay.
The palace becomes dense with bodies and riotous with noise, for people are arriving from all over the empire for the annual Deliverance Gala. The courtyard plaza is packed with supply wagons and nobles in their carriages, all surrounded by personal guards and servants, camels and horses. Some settle into townhomes just outside the walls, along the famous Avenida de la Serpiente. But plenty of others keep quarters in the palace itself, and out of necessity, our afternoon fitness training is replaced by running errands and messages between them all.
“That happened to us too,” Tanix tells us one night. “We acted as pages to every conde and condesa in the empire for three weeks. Pay attention. It’s good experience. As Royal Guard, you’ll be expected to know every corridor and corner and courtyard of this palace so well you could navigate it blindfolded.”
Three days before the gala, I get another message from Rosario.
Four more barrels destroyed.
Fernando not fit for duty but recovering.
Thirty-three barrels still unaccounted for. And while I’m delighted that Fernando is recovering, he won’t be able to protect the prince throughout Deliverance Week.
The morning before the gala, we have taken our places in the sand and we are performing Eastern Wind when the monastery bells ring out, so startling and crisp and strange that I drop my sword.
The other boys laugh at me. I smile back sheepishly, telling my heart to calm down, the firing nerves in my limbs to settle. I realize that I haven’t had a startle moment like that in a long time. Weeks, for certain. Months, perhaps.
Guard training has changed me.
The bells continue to sing as I retrieve my sword and dust off sand from its wooden blade. The sound is a raucous tumble of joy, so much louder and stronger than its usual marking of time or its weekly call to prayer.
Master Santiago pauses, looking toward the bell tower, his eyes narrowed.
Guardsman Bruno suddenly appears through the portcullis, running toward us, a huge grin spreading beneath his giant nose. “It’s a prince!” he calls out. “The empress has given birth to a prince! Alive and healthy. She has named him Alejandro Hector né Riqueza de Ventierra.”
Cheers erupt from every direction—the palace watchtower, the nearby blacksmith, the entry courtyard, the stables—as word spreads about why those bells are ringing.
Iván is the first to cry out, “Long live Prince Alejandro!” and we quickly take up the cry. Within moments, the entire palace rings with the cheer.
“Long live Prince Alejandro! Long live Prince Alejandro!”
If Elisa were here right now, nothing in the world could stop me from running to her. I want to see that baby more than anything. Kiss his tiny forehead. Tell him how glad I am that he’s here.
Then again, maybe I don’t have a right to any of these things. Maybe this joy is not mine to hold. I’m not his sister.
Gradually the cheering dies down. The monastery bells cease, though I know they’ll take up again tomorrow and probably every day for a week, as is the tradition when a royal heir is born.
As the noise subsides, an odd muffled sound turns my head. To my right, Aldo is bent over slightly. It takes me a second to understand. He is quietly weeping.
He notices me noticing him and he peers at me through teary, long-lashed eyes. He blinks. Wipes his eyes. Composes himself. “Good news, right?” he says through a timorous smile.
“The best news,” I tell him.
I reach out to pat his shoulder, but he flinches from my touch, and I let my hand drop.
20
Then
“GO on then,” Orlín said, raising his hand to strike her.
Mula flinched and darted out of the kitchen doorway, where the innkeeper had been lying in wait for her. It had been a whole day, and she still hadn’t spied out their guests’ supplies.
Reluctantly, she dragged herself back up the stairs to the dormer rooms. The scents of fresh-baked bread and leek soup and dogmeat stew followed her from the kitchen, tortured her, as she crept toward one of the doors.
She was a hollow girl, she’d known it for some time, but there was nothing like hunger to remind a body. It felt as though emptiness clawed at her, threatening to eat her away.
The two men had left in the morning, Orlín had assured her. The south-facing room should be empty. Mula put her ear to the door and listened. Nothing.
The door pushed open easily. She peeked inside. Relief flooded her, for the room was empty save for two cots and a single bulging travel pack. She closed the door silently behind her and tiptoed forward.
The pack was made of thick leather, with a flap that tied it closed. She fumbled with the knot, flipped it open.
The most amazing smell she had ever smelled walloped her in the face. Saliva swamped her mouth.
She reached inside, rummaged through, until she found it. Dried leaves wrapped around something glorious, something magical. She peeled them back and drew in breath.
It was dried meat. Nothing more. But it smelled better than any dried meat she’d ever had. She couldn’t help herself. Her hands brought the meat to her mouth of their own accord. She bit down. Flavor exploded on her tongue.
It was venison, still a little tender, smoked and salted, cured with a bit of sugar and something else she couldn’t identify. She could eat this forever. Every day for the rest of her—
A rough hand gripped her shoulder, spun her around. She almost choked on the venison.
“Hello, little thief,” said the Joyan man with the eye patch.
Mula couldn’t say anything back. Her mouth was too full.
He snatched the rest of the meat from her hand. “Come with me,” he said, and he dragged her across the hallway to the other room.
The two women were inside, sitting on their cots, the Invierno standing over them. “Look what I just found,” said the eye
-patch man, thrusting the girl forward. She tumbled to her knees, scurried across the floor to the wall, where she huddled as small and tight as she could get. “She was after this.” He held up the packet of meat.
The girl could finally swallow. She said, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to steal! It was a black thought, and I tried to make it go away, but it smelled so—”
The plump woman reached for her, but Mula flinched away, knocking her head against the wall.
“I’m not going to hurt you!” the fine lady said. “Here. Have more.” She grabbed some meat from the pack, tossed it at Mula.
The girl snatched it from the air, shoved it into her mouth quick. The taste made her want to weep.
“Look at me,” the fine lady said, and Mula tried, but it was terrifying, looking into those deep brown eyes that were trying to see inside her. “If you weren’t there to steal, why were you in that room?”
Mula froze.
“Did the innkeeper put you up to it?”
Mula said nothing. The fine lady grabbed another piece of meat and tossed it to her.
The girl snatched it from the air, shoved it into her mouth.
“Mula? Is that your name?”
The girl shrugged, chewing as fast as she could. This was the most food she’d eaten at one time in as long as she could remember.
“Please answer my question. It’s an easy one, yes?”
Mula said, “I wanted to know what merry jam smelled like.” There. A partial truth. Not so bad to say.
Gently, the tall woman said, “But did Orlín put you up to it?”
They weren’t going to let it go. “No. I did it my own self.” But her words were shivery and she couldn’t make herself look the fine lady in the eye, no matter how hard she tried. The lie echoed in the room around her. Shame clogged her throat.
The Invierno had been silent until now. He leaned forward and said, “God hates liars.”
Yes, Mula agreed silently. And me most especially.
The fine lady rose from the cot and began to pace in the tiny room, turning and turning and turning, a thumbnail between her teeth. Finally she whirled, faced the eye-patch man. “We have to leave. We can’t risk staying.”
