“You must understand, Ren,” he says, holding my hand the way one might cup the severed head of a rose, afraid the petals will come loose and spill. “Now that you’re here, you will face an audience with the king. You will be under my protection, but you must prove yourself.”
I nod quickly. “It’s why I came back. You don’t know how lonely I’ve been.”
He doesn’t respond, but I see his brow set with resolve. I remember the way his silence meant he was planning, always planning. What will it take to gain his trust?
Then his eyes snap to the door. Loud footsteps march in, the ragged breathing of someone who just finished sprinting. I whirl around to find a young man in the deep black-and-red robes of a judge, the rank that makes up all in the Arm of Justice who are waiting to take Méndez’s place upon his death. He’s got thinning brown hair the color of sparrow wings and a ruddy complexion. His brown eyes flare wide when he takes me in. Nearly tripping on robes too long for his average height, he makes a beeline for us.
“Is this it?” he asks. I’ve heard bleating goats with less grating voices. “A real Robári for the Hand of Moria. King Fernando will finally be pleased with our efforts.”
Does he not know I can understand him? My every muscle is tense. I want to smack him for referring to me as it.
“Alessandro!” Justice Méndez snaps. There’s a crack in his calm exterior. And I realize, perhaps the real reason he’s so happy to see me, so ready to present me to the king, is because he needs me. “I do not remember summoning you.”
The young judge takes a step back, stuttering through an apology. He genuflects over and over. The way he grovels makes my skin crawl. But isn’t that what I’m doing? Trying to get back into the good graces of the man who destroyed my life?
“My sincerest apologies,” Alessandro says, speaking lightning fast. Méndez’s face is aghast that this boy is still talking, even though he holds his hand up in a way a king would silence a subject. “I am at your service. I am simply overjoyed that our mission will move forward. I only want—”
“The best for the kingdom,” I say, interrupting him.
“How dare it speak for me.” Alessandro practically recoils from where I sit.
Méndez’s gray eyes slide in my direction, a pleased smile curling his lips.
I want to say, It does more than that. It can rip your memories from your head until there is nothing left of you but a fumbling shell. But that is not the girl I have returned to be. I bite my response and wait for Justice Méndez to speak.
“This is Renata Convida,” he says.
“The girl stolen by the Whispers?” When he grimaces, his neck practically disappears. His eyes dart from Méndez to me, as if only now realizing he shouldn’t have spoken so freely. If there is a rift between the king and the justice, perhaps I can use that to my advantage.
“She has returned to us, Alessandro,” Méndez says, regaining his steely calm. “I would like to speak to her alone.”
“My justice—you shouldn’t be alone with such a creature.”
I breathe deep to stomp on the violent impulses coursing through my bones.
“As you can see,” the justice says, “she cannot hurt me in her state.”
“I would never,” I say.
The disdain in Alessandro’s eyes tells me he does not believe me. When he smooths his hair back, I notice the marriage band on his finger—simple polished wood. No one in the Arm of Justice would want to wear metals associated with the Moria.
He bows once more. “I will return with updates.”
“Shut the door when you leave,” Méndez says.
“The young justices can marry now?” I ask, the moment Alessandro is gone.
Justice Méndez sits back down, returning to the items on his desk. He selects a bandage.
“The king, in his infinite wisdom, has decreed that the next generation of Leonesse must be loyal to the crown. What better place to start than among those sworn to protect the kingdom from its enemies?”
Who will protect the king from me?
Unrolling the strip of cloth, he wraps it around my palm and wrist. When he guides my fingers open again, I have the vague notion that I make quite the marionette girl. Margo’s voice rings in my head. Obedient is not the same as clever. While I’m here, I have to be both.
“There we are,” he says. “All better, for the moment.”
He pulls off his blood-splattered calfskin gloves and bundles them in a piece of cloth to be dealt with by a servant who cleans the justice’s office. He pulls out a sweet from his desk and hands it to me: a stellita. He used to always give me them.
I suck in a short gasp, cradling the candy in my hand. My mouth twitches with the need to smile. I decide that it would be an appropriate reaction.
“I haven’t had one of these in—”
“Eight years.”
“Thank you,” I say as I take and chew the sticky candy. My jaw aches from not having had anything to eat in so long. The sugar melts quickly. A rush comes over me when I consider my rashness. What if it had been poisoned? I chew to buy myself a moment to think. Méndez needs me to present to the king, who has been displeased with Justice Méndez. He wouldn’t dare. I decide I’ve done the right thing. This is the way I show him that I trust him, rushing to consume the treasures he’s giving me, no matter how small. Still, I need to be more careful.
Méndez waits until I swallow before he snaps open another drawer to pull out a piece of dark fabric with something metallic attached. It isn’t until he holds it by the metal cuff that I see it is a single locked glove.
It’s been years since I’ve worn the design of his own making, but I hold out my good hand to him. It’s like my muscles remember his every command, and I feel like my body has betrayed me. The gloves, the candy, the story he told me about when I was injured. We are stepping into the past, into a time when he trusted me. I need that trust to find my way around the palace.
He places the glove on my hand, the leather soft but snug over the calluses along my knuckles and palm. Then he clicks the iron bracelet into place. It’s a pretty thing, for a manacle.
“This will have to do until your other hand heals and you can wear them both.” He rings his bell, and a moment later, a boy scurries in, dressed in the sunflower-yellow uniform of a justice’s page.
“Take her to Lady Nuria’s former apartments,” Méndez orders. “The attendants should have arrived by now. When you’ve delivered her, let Leonardo know he will have his work cut out for him before the royal presentation.”
My stomach turns into knots at the thought of being brought before the king and prince. Perhaps if I start now, I will be able to control myself when I see him. Stay for more, Lozar had asked of me. I owe too many promises to the dead, it seems.
The page nods and begins to head to the door, and I stand, ready to follow him. Dazed not just from the day’s events or the wound that throbs slightly, but from hope.
A heavy weight descends on my shoulder. Méndez’s hand squeezes once, and his voice takes on a familial tone. “I’m glad you’re back, Renata. It’ll be as if you never left.”
And as I follow the servant down the cavernous hall, that’s exactly what I fear.
But I am wrong. Some things—like the sprawling mosaic of griffins on the floor—are the same, but not everything. The halls appear smaller. When you spend nearly a decade sleeping under the sky, or in the wide-open spaces of the Moria stronghold in Ángeles, a place like this is bound to stifle. It’s like wearing an old article of clothing and finding it no longer fits. The gold-painted molding and halls filled with sculptures, panels of glass from the best artisans in the town of Jaspe. King Fernando takes pride in surrounding himself with the riches of Puerto Leones. All he allows to be imported are silks and a violet dye only found in the kingdom of Dauphinique, and the bananas that flourish best in Empirio Luzou across the sea.
I’m led through halls decorated with vases, tapestries in vivid greens
and blues. We ascend stone stairs that smell strongly of incense, and step into a sky bridge with arched columns glittering with tiles in the old Zaharian style. When the boy turns down a long corridor, I get the dizzying sensation of remembrance. I’m most struck by a simple wooden door. The skin of my arms turns to gooseflesh as I slow down. Rusted hinges and a keyhole filled with dust speak of a forgotten place.
But I could never forget this door.
I know exactly what’s behind it.
I remember it so well I can almost taste the dust of its books, feel the softness of the plush velvet chairs that line the small library. I grab for the doorknob, but it’s locked.
“We have to keep going, miss,” the page boy says, his voice climbing an octave, and I realize I’ve been staring at the closed library door for who knows how long. Releasing a pent-up breath, I keep walking.
As soon as we get to the end of the hall the boy bows a fraction, then scurries back the way we came. I step inside. The stone walls keep the room cool. The apartments I’m to stay in give me the sensation of walking in someone else’s skin, like I’m not even here. I wonder if this is what people feel when I take a memory.
Lamps decorate the dressers and table. Everything is the color of summer blush wine with powder-white accents. The silk brocade drapes hide the night sky, and sheer white cloth hangs around a four-poster bed bigger than any I’ve ever slept in.
I find the three attendants Justice Méndez spoke of already waiting for me in the washroom, standing next to a full porcelain bathtub with rose petals drifting on the water’s steaming surface. My bandaged hand is practically useless. I allow the attendants to undress me before I dismiss them.
“Our orders are to clean you up,” one of them says.
“Or try,” another mutters.
No one wants to be near a naked Robári, even one wearing a glove on one hand and a bandage around the other. Too dangerous. How long has it been since they’ve seen one? And what happened to the one I’m now meant to replace?
“Get out,” I snap, narrowing my eyes at them.
One of them squeals as if I’ve advanced on her, but they leave all the same, and even though it’s what I wanted, I can’t say it doesn’t hurt.
When they’re gone, I sink into the water until it reaches the top of my breasts, and warmth hugs my body. A moment of sheer bliss. And then I hear the click of a lock from the outside of the apartments. Locked in. Did I expect anything else?
My arms tremble, and I sink deeper into the tub. It’s been so long since I’ve had a proper bath. The last time was in one of the hot springs in Tresoros five months ago. Hot water is a luxury. Everything is a luxury when you’re on the run. And yet, I sink into it, allowing the warm water to envelop me the same way vengeance hugs my heart. Words and images jumble in my mind.
Castian’s cold blue eyes. Lucia’s magics, carved out of her. The cure. Castian. Dez. Lozar’s brittle bones snapping. A little boy standing amid smoke. A set of dice and children laughing. Fire.
Fire.
Fire.
Always fire.
I sit up so quickly that water sloshes out of the tub and onto the floor. The fire in my mind burns bright, in full vivid color.
I try a technique Illan taught me to clear my thoughts. It’s easy for a Ventári to be able to think of nothing when they possess the gift to peer into the minds of others. Less easy for one haunted by a thousand stolen pasts. No matter how many herbs he gave me, how many solitary walks, even a quest for a magical spring, nothing could completely crack open the Gray inside my head.
But truth be told, I never wanted those memories to come out. Every Hollow I created felt like a living voice inside me. If I multiplied that innumerable times—I wouldn’t be able to think. Terrible headaches plagued me until I could barely wake. For memory thieves, the past demands to be seen, even if it means swallowing memories of your own. That’s what Illan believes created the Gray. My own mind constructed such a thing and my own life got swept up with it, leaving gaps in my story. Being in this place is rattling something loose. My temples stab with pain, giving in to the pressure of these wretched days and nights.
“Please, go away,” I cry out. “Leave me alone.”
I plunge my head beneath the water’s surface. It doesn’t stop the memory of flames from coming:
I am nine years old, and after two years in the palace, I am a proper little lady. I warm my back by the small pinecone fire in the library, sitting on a long settee in front of a window as tall as the ceiling. If I look out, I will be able to see all of Citadela Andalucía. The capital with lights along twisty streets that turn at strange angles and wrap themselves around alleys like the mazes in the palace. The justice and the king love mazes, and so I decide I love them, too.
It’s late, and the other Moria children were sent to bed ages ago with their attendants, but Méndez said I could stay awake until the next bell chimes.
I pop a stellita in my mouth and sigh with contentment as its sweetness covers my tongue. They’re my favorite, specially made by the king’s candy maker, crafted from honey caramels that look like marbles flecked with bits of edible gold. The shimmer matches the paintings in my book. There’s Queen Penelope, sitting in her garden. I try to flip the page of the storybook, but the parchment sticks to my sugar-stained gloves. The page rips slightly as I move to the next picture—the Lord of Worlds standing on the horizon of his creation. The orange inks are so vivid, it’s almost as if they glow, filling the library with light.
I look up, squinting. The light’s not coming from the storybook. Setting it down, I turn my head over my shoulder and peer out the window.
An incandescence has settled over the capital, like an illustration of the Lord of Worlds come to life. Like the glow of angels. At first, the fire is just a line against ultimate darkness, consuming the small forest that borders the capital.
My hands begin to prickle.
Today, during memory lessons with Justice Méndez, I saw a picture of that forest in my mind. He brought a man to me whom I recognized—an old neighbor from my village, named Edgar. I liked the picture I pulled out of Edgar’s mind, the one of Mamá and Papá outside our wooden house, Mamá culling weeds from the garden and Papá chopping wood. Mamá’s hair is less black than I remember, more gray. And Papá’s shoulders, always broad, seem to slope. It’s the first time I’ve seen them since I got lost. I pulled away from Edgar, and excitedly told Méndez that I knew where my house was! I knew where my parents were, and if I could please bring them to the palace to see me? Mamá would love a stellita, and I knew Papá would love one of the little chocolates crafted to look like a roaring lion.
Méndez promised he’d send them a message.
Now, not only are my hands prickling, but my heart feels itchy, as if it were about to explode. Why is the forest on fire?
As I watch, the fire spreads from the forest and toward the city. I can’t look away. I press my hands, small and chubby against the window, leaving sweet smudges on the glass panes. The fire is even closer now, racing through the narrow streets, as if trying to finish the maze as fast as it can.
I start to scream. People cluster in the streets set aflame. They dash away from the fire, some holding torches and others becoming them.
Their screams find their way to the palace, and then within the walls.
There are shouts in the hallway.
“Watch out, Illan!” a woman’s voice cries. “The king’s men are behind you!”
There’s a clang of sword against sword, but the pounding of my heart is even louder as I run away from the door. I don’t know what’s happening, but I know I need to hide! I stuff myself behind a plush armchair, its feet carved into lion paws.
The door opens, and I hear someone enter. At first, I think it’s Méndez, but the footsteps are too light. Then I see a pair of boots standing in front of the armchair.
“You!” A young boy’s voice is a whispered rush. “What are you doing here?”
>
The sound of water slapping onto the tiles is suddenly louder than the clatter of swords in my memory. Opening my eyes, I realize the faucet is still running, and the water spills over the tub and pours onto the floor. I quickly turn off the tap.
The entrance of Dez into my life has come and gone in segments, never continuous like that. Renata Convida, the Robári of the Hand of Moria vanished that night in the flames. But here I am, back in a similar room decked in finery. What if she’s not gone from me, after all? Perhaps I’ve made a mistake in coming to this place where my mind can never know peace.
That night the Whispers’ Rebellion was able to rescue me along with a handful of others. The rest, sleeping in their rooms, were killed by the justice before they could fall back into enemy hands, knowing too much about the interior workings of the justice and the palace.
It was also the night that María and Ronáldo Convida died in their little wooden house, set ablaze by a raging fire.
And all of it started because I wanted more sweet things.
I submerge myself beneath the surface of the water again and hold my breath, knowing no matter where I am or what I do, I will never escape the heat of flames and the taste of ash. But I no longer want to escape. I want to wield that fire and watch this place burn.
Chapter 14
The next morning, I struggle to blink open my eyes, rubbing away a layer of crust. This bed is too large, too soft, too—beautiful. At the San Cristóbal ruins in Ángeles, everything we own is modest, and when I was old enough to start training as a Whisper, we slept out in the woods. Where are Sayida and the others sleeping now?
I push away the feather-soft blanket and examine my injured hand. The stitches are swollen and red. It hurts to stretch them, and blood still trickles from the stem of the cut. My other hand is itchy inside the tight leather glove. I’ve never felt as useless as I do now. I’m only glad no one can witness this humiliation. With a damaged hand, I could only manage to wiggle myself into a thin silk robe last night, which I now regret as a draft sends shivers racing across my skin.
Incendiary (Hollow Crown) Page 17
