by Rae Carson
Hector walks nearby, and from the crowd’s perspective, I hope it appears as though he guards the queen’s carriage. Through the almost-sheer curtains is the shape of a young woman sitting inside, a large crown on her head—my ruby crown, not my new one. The one made of shattered Godstones rides comfortably in my pack beneath the carriage bench.
Hector hired her. I don’t know who she is or where he found her. And I don’t want to know. She waves enthusiastically at the crowd, and I’m terrified for her, this decoy Elisa. I scan the onlookers for danger, thinking of all the ways to kill a person. It would be so easy.
Just like the day of my ill-fated birthday parade, we make our way down the Colonnade toward the city gate. To my left, a townhome towers above us, its high windows sparkling in the sunshine. An archer could hide up there, send an arrow spearing into the carriage, and then slip away in the chaos. And though the crowd is not as thick as it was for my birthday parade, enough strangers press close that I find myself flinching away. Any one of them could be carrying a dagger.
This is what it’s like to be Hector and Ximena, I realize. Always terrified for someone else, always distrusting, imagining weapons and foul intentions where there are none. Is that why Hector is so stoic and hard? Why Ximena keeps so many thoughts to herself? Because it’s the only way to deal with existing forever on the cusp of disaster?
My guard and my guardian.
Hector said that damage is the price of royalty, but maybe my price is so high that others will be forced to pay it. Maybe he and Ximena are the damaged ones. And Mara. And Rosario, who is afraid to be king.
It’s a very long walk.
But when the gate and the desert beyond come into view, my heart starts to pound, not with terror but with excitement, maybe even happiness. I’m desperate to get beyond these walls, into open air and sunshine. I can’t wait to feel the crush of sand beneath my boots, for the dry air to whip my hair against my cheeks. I hope we trade our horses for camels somewhere along the way. I miss their soft, long-lashed gazes and their resolute plodding. I even miss the scent of camel-dung campfires.
At last we pass through the shadow of the great wall and into the light. Our road leads south along the coastline, but to our left stretches my desert, vast and golden and shimmering with heat. Looking at it, my heart is so full I can hardly stand it. I feel freer, lighter, with each step we take away from the city. I want to skip or run or reach my arms wide to the openness of the sky and breathe it all in. I settle for kicking at bits of sand and gravel on the highway.
Hector sidles over and peers down, an odd look on his face. “I’ve never seen you smile like that before,” he says.
I hadn’t realized I was smiling. “Just glad to be outside, I guess. And look at that desert! Isn’t it beautiful?”
“Yes,” he says softly. “Beautiful.”
“Did you know that some nights, if you time it just right, you can glimpse the Sierra Sangre at sunset? As the sun dips below the ocean, the eastern horizon flashes red, bright as blood. It’s amazing.”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“You should look for it tonight. And in the afternoon, when it’s the hottest, all the colors of the world coalesce where the sand edges up against the sky. Like a ripple of light.”
“You don’t say.”
I look up at him sharply, wary of the amusement in his voice. Is he mocking me? “Surely there’s a place you love too? Somewhere you’re always happy to go back to? Where you feel more yourself than anywhere else?”
As Hector considers, our procession shifts to the right to allow the steady stream of oncoming traffic—a few dusty riders, both on camelback and horseback, one small merchant caravan. They view the queen’s carriage with wide eyes and keep their distance. Up ahead, Mara swings out of the servants’ carriage to walk beside it. I don’t blame her; I wouldn’t want to be ensconced with Storm for any length of time either.
“Yes, there is such a place,” Hector says at last.
“As your queen, I command you to tell me about it.” I want to whip off my maid’s cap, to expose my head to the sun and sky, but I don’t dare. Everyone in our group knows who I am—their participation in the plan is crucial— but the highway is too busy this close to the city.
“Well, since you command it,” Hector says wryly, “I’ll tell you about Ventierra, my father’s countship.”
For some reason, I’m feeling the need to tease. “Oh? Surely that tiny patch of dirt is nothing compared to this.” I gesture toward the dunes.
He takes it in stride. “‘That tiny patch of dirt’ is made up of rolling hills, bright green during the rainy season, golden when dry. The grass is like an ocean, so long that it ripples on a windy day. From a distance, it shimmers like velvet.” His eyes grow distant as he speaks, and the planes of his face soften. “Waves crash against the coastal cliffs, spewing geysers of white water into the air. Near the mouth of the river are tide pools—I spent hours and hours playing there as a boy. But nothing is more beautiful than a vineyard ready for harvest. Rows and rows of grapevines, dripping with frosty purple . . .”
“Ah,” I say. “That painting in your quarters.”
“Yes. I used to steal grapes off the vine when my father wasn’t looking. I felt sorry for them, getting beaten and pressed, rotting into something that smelled bad. It seemed to me that grapes would rather be grapes than wine.”
I laugh.
“What did I say?”
“Nothing. It’s just that I’ve never seen you smile like that before.”
Our gazes lock. The rest of the world drops away, and all I can think is, God, I love his smile. It melts the last few years off of his face, and I see the boy underneath, the one who scampered among tide pools and rescued helpless grapes. What happened to that boy? Alejandro, I suppose. And war. And me.
I say, “I’d like to see Ventierra someday.”
His smile fades. “I would too.”
“You miss it, then?”
He just shrugs.
I stare at his profile, which has gone flinty. It’s his way, when he’s trying not to feel too much.
“I didn’t realize you were so homesick.”
He whips his head around. “I didn’t say—”
“You didn’t have to.”
He shrugs sheepishly. “I like my home in Brisadulce too.”
“I’m glad.”
Up ahead, the curtains of the queen’s carriage part, and Ximena peeks out. I smile and wink. She starts to smile back, but then she sees Hector beside me and her smile fades. The curtain swishes back into place. I frown at the spot her head just vacated, wondering what she is thinking.
As evening burnishes the sand to copper, we bypass a busy way station of scattered adobe huts and palm-roofed stables in favor of making camp alone, well off the road and in the sand.
I peer into the queen’s carriage for my pack and tent. Ximena sits beside decoy Elisa, looking stiff and out of sorts. The girl herself has wilted beneath her veil and crown, and pools of sweat collect under her arms. I wince in sympathy. “I don’t think the crown is still necessary,” I tell her. “Or the veil. This far from the road, why don’t you open the curtains and cool off?” She and Ximena will sleep in the carriage, presenting a tempting target for any would-be assassin.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she says in a shy voice. I haven’t bothered to learn her name. I don’t want her to become too real to me.
I spot my pack and tent beneath the bench and grab them. I call out to Hector, “Where do you want me to set up?”
He gestures toward a flat spot, saying, “We’ll make a perimeter around you.”
I flip open the tent roll, pull out the poles, and get to work. My fingers fly with motion memory, and I revel in the feel of it, the crunch of sand as I bear down with my poles, the sound of fabric flapping in the wind. I leave the entrance open, tied up at the side with loops for that purpose. I rummage through my pack for flint and steel, then toss the r
est of the pack inside my tent. Time to get a cook fire started, if Mara hasn’t already.
A shape looms before me, and I nearly drop my flint and steel.
Conde Tristán is staring at me, his eyes wide. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone set up a tent so fast. I didn’t know you could do that.” Other tents are going up around mine, including a larger one to be shared by Belén and Alentín.
My grin is smug. “Did you think I spent my days as leader of the Malficio embroidering? Composing odes to the desert sunset, maybe?”
He runs his hand through his hair. “No. I guess I just imagined more . . . administrative tasks.”
“I can also start a fire, skin a rabbit, forage for edible plants, tend minor wounds.” It feels good to brag shamelessly. “Oh, and I can definitely scare something off by flinging a rock in its general direction with a sling.”
Several paces away, Hector has removed the saddle from an antsy bay gelding and is toweling him down. He looks up from his work and catches my eye, a smug look on his face. Hector, at least, is unsurprised to find me so capable. He might even be a bit proud. It makes me feel warm all over.
Later as we sit around the campfire sipping Mara’s soup—not jerboa, but a light broth made with lentils and dried vegetables—the sun dips into the distant sea. I’m not paying attention to see if the sky flashes red on the opposite horizon because I’m staring north instead. Though we are too far from Brisadulce to see its walls, a soft sphere of radiance against the black sky marks the spot. I think of the thousands of lanterns and candles now brightening my capital city. And I think, with a twist of despair, how I feel so much happier, safer, abler away from it.
But we haven’t gone far the next day when Hector mutters, “I think we’re being followed.”
I snap my head up to look at him, then force myself to stare straight ahead. If indeed we are being followed, then it wouldn’t do for the queen’s Guard to be seen talking to a maid who looks uncannily like the queen.
I say, “Are you sure? This road is highly traveled.”
“No. Just something to watch for now. But a group of riders has kept a steady distance behind us since we set off. They don’t have carriages, and no one is on foot. So they should be traveling much faster than we are.”
“Everyone knows I journey south. Maybe someone is curious. In fact we may attract quite a caravan along the way.”
“Maybe.” But his tone is unconvinced.
“Would it help for me to walk in front of the queen’s carriage instead of behind it?” I say hopefully. I’m choking on dust, and I’ve had to tie my shawl across my nose on several occasions.
“It might,” he says. “Though I hate to give up the advantage of having you covered in filth. No one would recognize you like that.”
I can’t help turning to glare at him. His lips twitch, but the amusement fades quickly. “We’ll keep an eye on them,” he says.
“No.” I’m in the desert now. I know exactly what to do. “We’ll do better than that.”
“Oh?”
“If they’re still behind us when we camp tonight, I’ll send Belén to scout them.”
“You’ve decided to trust him, then?”
“I trust his ability to scout.” I think back to the day of Iladro’s poisoning. It felt so natural to call on Belén for help. The moment required it, and we slipped back into our old roles as if nothing had happened. “And I dare hope the other kind of trust will come in time.”
When we make camp, the riding party Hector spotted is still there, tiny black figures near the horizon. Other travelers come and go, but these riders stop when we do, make camp when we do. Their campfire glows as dusk fades to night.
I order everyone to forego campfires tonight, and we dine on jerky, dried dates, and flatbread. I don’t want anyone to see us from a distance, to know that we hold council.
We sit in a rough circle with only the moon and stars for light. There are almost thirty of us, including Tristán’s people, all of whom were personally vouched for. Even Storm dares exit the carriage to join us. The others eye him warily but make a space for him. He does not remove his cowl.
I stand and say, “Belén, come here.”
He approaches without hesitation and drops to one knee.
I ask, “Do you still wish to swear fealty to me?”
His soft indrawn breath is the only indication that I’ve taken him by surprise. “I do,” he says evenly.
“Then I would accept you into my service.”
He reaches up with both hands and clutches the fabric at my waist, quickly, as if he’s afraid I’ll change my mind. It’s intimate and unnerving, especially when the side of his thumb brushes across my Godstone, and I hear the whisper of drawn daggers somewhere nearby. But it’s the traditional gesture of a newly sworn vassal, and it must be allowed.
Belén intones, “I swear my life and service unto you. I swear to protect you and to honor you. I am yours to command in all things. For as long as I live, your people shall be my people, your ways my ways, your God my God.”
I take his hands and pull him to his feet while everyone in the group mutters, “Selah.”
He towers over me. I can’t help but stare at his eye patch. He was tortured. For me. Because he refused to give me up once he realized his mistake. On impulse, I pull him close and hug him tight.
He whispers, “Thank you, Elisa.”
Behind him, I glimpse Mara’s face. Her cheeks shine with moonlit tears.
I pull away, hoping I have not forgiven too easily. But it feels right to do it. “I need your help,” I tell him. “Tonight.”
“Anything.”
When I explain about the riders following us, he nods, unsurprised. I don’t even have to tell him what to do. He simply says, “I’ll be back by morning.” And he slips away into the darkness.
“Who do you think it is?” Mara asks, once he is gone.
I sit back down and cross my legs. “I suspect Conde Eduardo. He was displeased to hear of this journey and its purpose. He is set on me marrying a northern lord. And he knows I’ve been keeping things from him.”
“He does not know about me, yes?” Storm says in his sibilant voice.
“That is one of the things I’ve been keeping from him.”
“If they are the conde’s people,” Ximena says, “we might be able to use them to our advantage. Set a false trail, maybe.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” I say.
“What if they’re thieves?” says a female voice I don’t recognize.
Hector barks a laugh. “Then they are poor thieves indeed,” he says. “Five against all of us?”
He is right to be amused. He and Tristán could probably defeat five common thieves alone. What I worry about, what I don’t say, is that they might be assassins. They might be observing, patient and cold, waiting for the right moment to creep into our camp.
Perhaps Hector is thinking the same thing, because he says, “Until we know for sure, we’re doubling our watch. Elisa, will you ride in the servants’ carriage tomorrow, out of sight?”
I open my mouth to protest, to say that I prefer my own two feet to a hot, bumpy carriage, but then I remember that I’ve decided to trust his judgment in these matters. “All right,” I say. And it really is.
Chapter 18
I’M awakened by a hand pressing across my mouth. I arch away from the intruder, pulse pounding, drawing breath through my nose. It’s happening at last, what I have feared—
“Elisa!” comes Belén’s whispered voice. “It’s me.”
I go limp with relief. He removes his hand, saying, “Shh!”
“What do you think you’re doing?” I whisper furiously.
“I wanted to see if I could sneak past Tristán’s sentries and the Royal Guard and into your tent.”
“Oh.” I push back my bedroll and sit up, then rub warmth into my arms. My guard is the most elite force in the country. Surely not just anyone could slip by them. We
akly I say, “Well, you are one of the sneakiest people I’ve ever known.”
“I don’t deny it.” I can’t see him in the dark, but I hear the smile in his voice.
“What did you find?”
My tent tilts precariously as he knocks the wall crossing his legs. “Five men trying to pass as desert nomads. By their clothing, you’d think they came from my own village. But the hair isn’t right. It’s too . . . careful. Coifed, even. And their horses are stout and sea bred. No colors, no markings, but their tack is high quality. Even the weave of their saddle blankets testifies to wealth.”
“So they might be Conde Eduardo’s men after all. Or the general’s.”
“I recognized one. I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him at the conde’s shoulder. A very tall man, taller than me. Fine, straight hair slicked back with oil. He seems young at first glance, but I’d wager not. He has the look of experience about him.”
I search my memory, cataloging the conde’s advisers and attendants. There is only one I’ve never encountered. “You may be describing Franco,” I say. “An elusive man. I don’t know that I’ve ever spoken to him.”
He pauses, shifts in his rear. “Elisa . . . you should know. If Humberto were alive, he would be very proud of you.”
The hurt that wells up is so unexpected that it’s a moment before I can speak. “Thank you,” I manage. I have to redirect the subject. I’m not sure I want to talk about Humberto. “Did you overhear anything?”
“A tasteless observation about one of their mothers and her goat, which I will not repeat. One suggested they allow themselves to drop farther behind tomorrow. ‘Out of sight,’ he said. But the tall one—Franco?—said, ‘We have to keep her in view. She’ll make a move soon enough.’”
I loose a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. “So we can reasonably conclude that they follow us, most likely on the conde’s orders.”
