8

Now

EVERYONE takes a turn sparring. The Arturos from Basajuan show some talent, as does the darkly frowning boy Iván. The three army recruits are all brawn and no finesse—Pedrón is definitely the best of them. A few boys demonstrate little to no training, though I know this will not automatically disqualify them, especially the young ones. Everyone will be given a chance to learn.

One boy, though, ends up flat on his back in the sand and is deathly still for several breaths. We all lean forward, some with concern, others with unnerving eagerness. Get up, get up, get up, I plead silently, while Aldo whispers, “Is he dead?”

The boy moves, digging furrows in the sand with his heels and groaning. Several Guardsmen rush forward and huddle around, so that all I see are his still-kicking legs. After a moment, they heft him from the sand and carry him from the arena.

“Well,” Aldo says. “I guess we have our first wash.”

The mood is somber after that, the remaining sparring matches half-hearted.

The sun is high, the skin of my face and arms hot, before everyone is done. Sergeant DeLuca lines us all up again.

“What now?” Aldo whispers.

“No idea.”

Sergeant DeLuca steps back and faces us. “It’s time to take the oath. Your answers will be binding, so respond only if you are certain.”

He allows time for his words to soak in, gazing at each of us in turn. Then he draws his sword and raises it to the sky. His voice booms: “Do you have what it takes to be Royal Guard?”

“Yes, sir!” we answer in unison.

“Will you work harder than you’ve ever worked, through pain, through pride, through exhaustion, to become something more?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Do you give up everything you own, everything you are, and swear to protect Elisa né Riqueza de Vega, Queen of Joya d’Arena and Empress of the United Joyan Empire, along with her family and her interests—even unto death?”

“YES, SIR!”

I am prepared to speak the real Guard’s Oath. It is poetic and powerful, and I have already memorized it. But the true oath will have to wait; we aren’t allowed to swear that until we’ve successfully completed our training and formally joined the Guard.

“Then let me be the first to welcome you to Royal Guard recruitment training,” DeLuca finishes. He re-sheathes his sword, slamming it home in his scabbard. He beckons to a Guard standing near the portcullis, who hurries over.

“Guardsman Bruno will be your nursemaid for the remainder of the day. He’ll get you situated with bunks and show you around. You’ll obey his orders as though they come from the empress herself, or risk being dismissed. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir!”

Guardsman Bruno steps forward. He’s an intense fellow, with eyebrows like caterpillars hovering over a magnificently broken nose.

Looking down that crooked nose at us, he says, “This way to quarters. Follow in an orderly fashion.”

We do as asked. It’s such a relief to pass under the portcullis and leave the sun-scorched arena for the cool dark of the barracks. The heat has always been a challenge for me. It will be one of my greatest disadvantages.

“Your face is really red,” Aldo says as we file through the stone tunnel toward our quarters.

“She is aptly named,” Valentino says.

“You Inviernos,” someone says at my back, and I turn to find Iván frowning at me. “With your light skin and light eyes; too soft for this desert. It’s a wonder your people were worthy foes for so long.”

“I’m not an Invierno,” I snap.

“You’re not Joyan either,” he says with a shrug.

“At least I’m not a traitor,” I say, which is cruel, but he struck first.

The effect is immediate. Iván’s eyes have so much fire I feel like he wants to burn me alive. “I am not my father,” he says in a low, dangerous voice. His older brother uttered the exact same words a few days ago in the Quorum chamber.

I round on him and stick a finger in his chest. “I’m not my father either, you ridiculous goat,” I say.

He stares down at me, then at my finger, which I quickly remove. Provoking him was foolish. He’s twice my height and carries at least as much rage. Everyone around us is silent and still with anticipation, waiting—maybe hoping—for us to come to blows.

I can’t back away now. “I’m a loyal Joyan,” I say, “and I would protect Eli . . . the empress with my life. Would you?”

Guardsman Bruno senses that the recruits are not at his heels and turns around, but he does not call us to task. Maybe he’s as curious as everyone else to see what happens.

At last Iván says, “I just said I would, same as everyone.” His tone is wary, calculated.

Not exactly a yes, but I say, “Good” and turn away from him.

I’m filled with misgiving as we all hurry to catch up to Bruno, who continues on as though nothing has happened.

We turn left and find ourselves in a squat, windowless chamber, filled with bunked cots. The walls are made of hardened earth, buttressed by massive ceiling beams. Three oil lamps hang from the center beam, providing meager orange light. The room is cool and slightly damp, and it smells faintly of rat feces.

Guardsman Bruno says, “Go claim a bed.”

Everyone rushes forward. I dart to the farthest end of the room and grab the bottom bunk. It would be wiser to sleep near the doorway, allowing myself a quick escape, not to mention fresher air. But I like the way this bunk is tucked into the corner. It feels like a cave.

Beside each bunk is a small chest with two drawers, one drawer for each of us. I place my three precious items in the bottom drawer. I’ll have to come up with a better hiding place soon. Hector told me that thieving is rare in the Guard and harshly punished, but I’d rather take precautions.

“Do you mind having me for a bunkmate?” says a voice at my shoulder. It’s Aldo.

“Do you snore?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think—”

“I’m glad to have you as a bunkmate.”

His grin is sheepish as he drapes his beautiful blanket over the top bunk and stashes his other two items—a gold ring with the crest removed, and a small perfumer’s vial—into the drawer above mine. Maybe they’re remembrances of home and family. But he’s not asking about my items, so I won’t ask about his.

Aldo says, “I thought they might put you in a different room, being a girl and all.”

I shrug. “It wouldn’t be right to give me my own room. I guess I’ll get the same treatment as everyone else.”

“But how will you get dressed? And . . . er . . . relieve yourself . . .”

“I’ll figure it out.”

Everyone sorts themselves quickly. I’m glad to see the army recruits, including Pedrón, the boy who tried to look down my shirt, taking bunks near the doorway. I’ll sleep easier with them far away. Valentino is a few bunks down from Aldo and me. Iván tries several times to claim a bunk, only to be rebuffed. No one wants to sleep near the son of a traitor.

Eventually he ends up right across from us, with a bunk all to himself. He claims the bottom, leaving the one above him free. The empty top bunk will be a constant reminder of the boy who washed out this morning. Perhaps, after a few weeks, this chamber will have a lot of empty spaces.

“We should name this section of quarters,” Aldo says to me and Iván. “Outcast Territory?”

“The Badlands,” I suggest.

“Ostracism Alley,” Aldo says with a perfectly straight face.

Iván looks back and forth between us, eyes narrowed, as though he’s only mostly sure that we’re joking. After too long a pause, he offers, “Traitors’ Corner?”

Aldo nods. “I like it.”

“Me too,” I say. “Traitors’ Corner it is.”

Something clangs—loud and grating—and I startle hard, nearly banging my head on the top bunk. My heart is racing, my breath coming fast, as my mind works out the fact that someone hit the brass bell hanging from the entrance to our quarters. Just a bell. Nothing to be frightened of.

The chamber has gone silent. My companions were startled too, so my overreaction has gone unnoticed. “I guess that’s how they’ll wake us every morning,” Aldo whispers, and my lungs fill with dread. If he’s right, it means I’ll be startled awake every morning for the foreseeable future.

“Midday meal is up!” yells Guardsman Bruno. “Form two lines based on bunk order, and follow me to the mess.”

I groan. If I’d known our meal line would be based on bunk placement, I might have chosen differently. But Aldo is laughing quietly to himself. “Of course we’re last. Of course we are.”

“I hear the food is terrible,” Iván says.

“And I hear we’d better eat it anyway,” I say, “because we can’t know when we’ll eat next.”

The mess hall is a twin to our bunk room, except instead of beds the room is filled with tidy rows of long tables and benches. The air is hot and dry, thanks to a bread oven and a massive hearth. Above the mantel, a huge plaque stretches the width of the stone chimney with the Royal Guard motto burn-etched into it: Harsh winds, rough seas, still hearts.

Young men are lined up at the hearth, getting sludge ladled into ceramic bowls by a man in a blacksmith’s apron. The room goes silent as we enter, and everyone turns to stare at us.

Aldo whispers, “I think those are the second years.”

“There are only ten left!” one of the Basajuan recruits whispers back.

Which means more than half washed out. Everyone in our group glances around, no doubt wondering which of us will make it. The second years are assessing us the same way. More than one gaze lands on me.

“Line up behind the second years,” Guardsman Bruno commands, and we scurry to obey. One by one, we’re given a bowl and spoon, and yellowish slop with brown bits is plopped into our bowls.

“Smells like piss,” someone says.

“Is this rat meat?” says another.

We find spots on the benches and sit to eat. I’m surprised to find that several boys want to sit by me, even a few of the second years. I ignore them all, just spoon yellow sludge into my mouth like nothing is happening. It’s not that bad; a little salty perhaps, but the sludge is actually cornmeal and the brown bits turn out to be bacon.

“You’re eating this stuff as though you like it,” Aldo points out.

I shrug. “I never turn down a meal.”

Pedrón and his fellow army recruits sidle over. They are focused and intent, making me feel like a cornered rabbit. “That move you did,” one says. “That leg sweep. Where’d you learn that?”

I blink up at him, wondering how much to reveal. I’ve always been terrible at hedging. Though, come to think of it, I can’t think of a single good reason to be evasive at this point. Everyone already understands my close association with the royal family. Besides, we’re supposed to be allies here. Brothers in arms. “I had a good teacher,” I say. “The best teacher.”

“But I haven’t seen that move before,” he persists. “I mean . . . you landed on your hands while sweeping your legs. . . .”

“I haven’t seen a move like that since the acrobats visited my mother’s hacienda,” Aldo says.

“You were like water,” says another army recruit. “You were there, and suddenly you weren’t.”

I set my spoon down. “Look,” I say. “It might have escaped your notice, but I’m smaller than most of you.”

Two of the army recruits exchange a waggly eyebrowed look. “We noticed that. Among other things.”

Others drift toward us, curious about our conversation. I sense bodies at my back, peering over my shoulders, and I resist the urge to visibly squirm.

“I’ll never be a strong as most of you, or have the reach,” I continue gamely. “So my teacher took stock of my advantages and trained me accordingly. For instance, he noticed my quickness. And that I have good abdominal strength. You think that move was about landing on my hands? It was about having control of my center and knowing where my body is at every second.”

“In other words,” Pedrón says, “he trained you to fight like a girl.”

I glare at him. “If by that you mean he trained me to fight like a small girl who can thrash large men.”

“She definitely thrashed me,” Valentino says.

I can’t believe how good-natured he’s being, and I give him a grateful look. “You’ll thrash me next time.”

Pedrón leans forward, and something about his wide grin gives me a shudder. “There’s just one thing I have to know.” He pauses, looking around for encouragement.

His companion nudges his shoulder. “Go on, ask her,” he says, as though they’ve discussed whatever this is between themselves already.

“Just out of curiosity, of course,” Pedrón says. “You being Invierno and all—”

“I’m not an Invier—”

“Do you have . . . the same . . . parts? As normal girls?” He looks down in the direction of my lap, giving no doubt as to what he means by “parts.”

I gape at him, truly at a loss for words.

He presses on. “I mean, you’re a hybrid, right? A mula. Infertile. So . . . does that mean you have different parts?”

Rage boils in my gut. My fist clenches, but I stop short of raising it. I look around for allies; why is no one saying anything? Aldo’s eyes are wide with shock. Valentino shifts uncomfortably on his feet. Iván seems darkly amused.

But no one comes to my aid. Maybe they’re all curious. Maybe they’re all obsessed with “parts.”

Would it be awkward for me to crawl under the table and die? Instead I let my rage burn through and glare at him until he blinks and turns away.

“Where’d you get that Godstone?” asks one of the second years.

“Is it true you don’t believe in God?” asks another.

Suddenly the questions are pounding at me so fast I can hardly keep up.

Have you been inside the empress’s private chambers? Have you ever met an animagus? Are you betrothed to anyone? Is it true you like other girls? No, I heard she and Prince Rosario are lovers. How’d you get that funny name? Is it true you used to be a slave?

Their words are a weight, pressing and pressing in until I feel too small to be a real person. I can’t help it: My shoulders hunch, my head droops; I coil in on myself until they’re no longer the ones making me feel small anymore. I’m doing all the work myself.

“Red, are you all right?”

It’s the only question that gets through, and I look up and find Aldo’s peering face. His concern is palpable. Hearing my true name is a lifeline.

I unfurl. And I force a smile for the benefit of everyone around me. When in doubt, smile, Mara always says. Men are stupid. Smiling puts them at ease. “I’m fine,” I tell him, and it almost feels like the truth.

The questions keep coming, but I ignore them, shoving slop into my smiling, smiling face. I don’t know what the afternoon holds, but all these boys are going to regret harassing me when they had a chance to eat.

I don’t wait long before being proved right. Guardsman Bruno calls us to attention. “First years, line up against the wall!”

We do as asked, many leaving their bowls hardly touched. Servants scurry to clear the tables while we mill about, eventually lining up shoulder to shoulder, backs against the stone wall of the mess.

Guardsman Bruno walks down the line, hands clasped behind his back. “We have an opportunity here,” he says. “With so many of us gone, our stable is nearly empty. So you are going to clean it. From top to bottom.”

Someone groans. The second years look on with obvious amusement.

“Empty the stable completely of straw and hay, scrub the floors and walls, oil the hinges, make repairs to the gates, polish the spare tack, reset the rattraps, and replace the entire area with fresh straw.”

“That’s going to take all day,” someone whispers, too loudly.

“And well into the night,” Guardsman Bruno snaps back. “So you’d better get to it. Follow me.”

He leads us down a dark corridor, past another bunk room, and into daylight. We’ve reached the dusty riding arena, which is shared with the palace Guard. The palace itself is at our backs now, a huge edifice rising high to block the worst of the sun’s afternoon rays. Before us is a long narrow stable, huddled up against the walls that encircle the palace grounds. Atop the walls, between crenellations, I glimpse the helmets of palace guards as they walk their rounds.

“That’s a lot of stalls,” Aldo says.

“Thirty-six, to be exact,” Bruno says. “Be grateful we’re not cleaning the army stable. It’s even bigger.”

Horses peek out over the lower doors of a few stalls, hoping our approach means treats or at least a little exercise, and I’m sorry to disappoint them. The majority of stalls are vacant, just like Bruno said.

To the left is an empty wagon. Leaning against it are several pitchforks.

“Any volunteers to polish tack?” Bruno says. The Arturos raise their hands, and he directs them toward a stable hand for guidance.

“And who wants to muck?”

I raise my hand. I did plenty of mucking when I was a little girl living in the free villages. It’s been years, and my memories of that time are foggy, but if I’ve learned anything, it’s that the body remembers.

Bruno indicates that I should grab a pitchfork, along with Aldo, Valentino, and Pedrón. We are to remove all the straw from the empty stalls and dump it in this wagon, which will haul everything away once we’re finished.

The wooden handle feels rough in my hands. My calluses are different these days—from gripping a sword or dagger, from the string of a bow, from knitting. I hope they hold true.

“You know,” Aldo says as he plunges his pitchfork into a pile of manure, “this Royal Guard thing might be a swindle. Maybe it’s just a way for the crown to get free labor.”

“That’s good, right?” Valentino says. “Keeps our taxes low.” He winces as he bends over. Clumps of manure are already sticking to his beautiful blue silks.

“Go easy, Valentino,” I say. “Work in the back of the stall where the Guards can’t see. We’ll cover for you.”

“No, we won’t,” Pedrón says.

“Yes,” I say, glaring. “We will. Just like we might cover for you someday.”

Pedrón considers this. Then he shrugs and gets to work.

“Thanks, Red,” says Valentino.

An hour later, the wagon isn’t even half full, and a stable hand comes to check our progress. He’s a short fellow with long sideburns and weathered skin, and he sidles so close that I can smell the horse musk on his skin. I resist the urge to step away and make more space for myself.

“Everything all right?” he asks, and his breath smells like something crawled into his mouth and died screaming. “Any questions?”

“We’re fine,” Aldo assures him.

“Glad to hear it.”

I’m considering whether or not to tell him to back off when I feel his hand at my waist. Of their own accord, my fingers bend, my knuckles aim for his windpipe.

I stop myself just in time. Because he’s not taking liberties. He’s slipping something into my pocket. Something light. A note, I’d wager, though I don’t dare pat my pocket to check just now.

“I’ll let Guardsman Bruno know you’re all doing a good job,” he says, and the stable hand walks off, whistling a merry tune.

“That was weird,” Valentino says between pained breaths. He’s tossing out one forkful of straw for every three of ours.

“Hector told me they’d be evaluating us,” I say. “All the time, no matter what we were doing. So I’m sure that stable hand will report back to Bruno for true.” I’m dying to reach into my pocket. The imperial spy network uses pickpockets and sleight of hand to pass messages. Or maybe it’s an enemy, and the note contains a threat.

“You know the prince consort well, do you?” Aldo says.

I freeze, pitchfork raised, unsure how much I should say. Once again, I fall back on the truth. “He was going to be my adopted father, remember?”

“Oh. Right. Well, I thought maybe that was all for show.”

Pain needles my gut, as though Aldo had sifted through my mind for my worst fears, plucked them out, and stabbed me with them. It was all for show.

Valentino says, “My father thought it was a political ploy. To force people to start accepting the Invierno presence in Joya.”

“I’m not an Invern—”

“I’ll never accept Inviernos,” Pedrón says. “Inviernos killed my uncle.”

He’s not the only person in the capital who feels that way, even if he’s the only one who has said it to my face. We are silent a long moment, tossing straw into the wagon, and my own tossing is perhaps a little more violent than necessary. It’s a nice, distracting rhythm. Scoop, carry, toss. Scoop, carry, toss.

Valentino is the one to break the silence. He leans against the wall, hand to his side, and breathes heavily. “So, Pedrón. If you disagree with the empress’s foreign policy, why did you join the Royal Guard?”

Good question. We all look to Pedrón for his answer.

The army recruit responds without pausing his work. “I do hate her foreign policy, but I like her quite a lot. She saved us all. And she’s . . . nice.” He tosses a huge pile of straw into the wagon, wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, and plunges the pitchfork into another pile. “I think she’s not taking the Invierno threat seriously enough. That’s all right. I’ll take it seriously for her. Maybe next time an Invierno comes for her, I’ll be there.”

I say, “So you want to protect Elisa from herself.”

“Sort of. I guess.” Pedrón grins. “Also, joining the Royal Guard is great way to meet girls. Girls love Royal Guard recruits. Even more than army.”

“Gross,” I say as Aldo rolls his eyes.

“Little did I know,” Pedrón continues unabashed, “that I’d meet some girls on my very first day.” He winks at me.

“Girls?” I say. “More than one?”

“You and Aldo,” he says.

“Next time we spar,” Aldo says, “I’m going to kick your ass.”

“If you can reach it, little girl.”

Aldo shrugs it off, but his face is stony and he avoids our gazes as he mucks.

“By the way, Red,” Pedrón says, “do you want to sneak into my bunk some night?”

“Are you always this disgusting?”

“I promise you’ll have a good time.”

“I said no!”

“No, you didn’t. You said, ‘Are you always this disgusting?’”

“You really need to widen your definition of the word ‘no.’”

“Well, if you change your mind . . .”

“Let it go, army reject,” Valentino says.

Surprisingly, Pedrón doesn’t push things further. We fall back into silence, mucking, mucking, mucking until the sun is low. The dinner bell rings. We all look up expectantly.

“Sweet God, I’m so hungry,” Pedrón says.

“Keep working,” Guardsman Bruno yells. “No chow until the job is done!”

Pedrón groans. My stomach growls, even though I’m one of the few who made sure to get a decent meal.

Once the stable is empty of straw, we sweep it of dust and leavings with whisk brooms. Two second years bring buckets and rags, and we get to work scrubbing the stone floors.

An hour later, a stable hand comes to light all the torches. Crickets sing as we polish the hinges, tighten loose latches, replace all the straw with a fresh load just delivered. My hands are raw, my back aches, and I’ll never, ever get the smell of manure out of my hair.

At last Guardsman Bruno takes pity on us. “Get yourselves back to the dining hall. After you eat, you may all use the latrine, then get to bed. Do it fast, because you’ll need your sleep for tomorrow.”

We rush toward the mess. Valentino lags behind, and I slow down to keep him company.

He says, “I think I need to use the latrine before we eat.”

“If you sneak in, I’ll guard the door.”

“Thank you.”

And that’s exactly what we do. While the others go on ahead, we peel off at the door to the latrine. The room contains a row of holes across a long stone bench. Beside each hole is a bucket of mulch with a scoop, used to tamp down the smell. It’s not as disgusting as it could be. This place is kept clean, the latrine regularly emptied, and I find myself pitying whoever has that particular task.

I turn my back while Valentino tends to his needs. After a moment, he taps me on the shoulder.

“Any blood?” I ask.

“None.”

“Good sign.”

“Are you always so . . . frank?”

“Yes.”

“I hear that’s an Invierno trait.”

Before I can answer, he adds, “Your turn. It’s a chance for you to get a little privacy. I’ll watch the door.”

“Thank you.” I rush to comply because in addition to taking care of my needs, this is my chance to read the note in my pocket.

I pull it out while I sit. It’s a folded parchment, sealed with a bright blob of red wax, which is stamped with the imperial crest. I break the seal. My heart begins to race when I recognize Rosario’s handwriting: characteristically rushed and marred with a few small ink blots.

come to the place we first met

at the second hour

let no one see you

bring Iván

I shove the note back into my pocket, finish my business, and pull up my pants. As Valentino and I rush to catch everyone else, my thoughts are a maelstrom of worry.

When I spoke to Rosario, he was afraid for his life. Has something gone wrong?

The place he and I first met is a hideout located beneath the city district known as the Wallows. The prince mentioned that he might spend some time there. I can reach it through the catacombs, but no one is supposed to know about it. I hate the idea of sharing it with Iván.

We’ll have to sneak out of the bunk room and hope everyone is sleeping too soundly to notice. I really picked the wrong bunk. I’ll have to traverse the whole room just to get out the door.

Rosario knows I understand this vast palace better than anyone, except maybe Hector and the spymaster. Once I’m in the latrine, I can get us almost all the way to the catacombs using secret passages. So, by ordering us to arrive unseen, the prince fully intends for me to reveal some of the palace’s most ancient secrets to Iván.

My muscles burn from working all day, and I need rest more than anything, but I won’t dare let myself fall asleep even for a moment, lest I miss the second hour. I’m going to be exhausted tomorrow. If we have any training exercises, I won’t be able to perform creditably.

I’ll have to worry about that later. Rosario is my friend, and my future emperor, and he might be in trouble. If I could leave right this second, I would.

But if it turns out he’s just lonely and frightened, I’m going to whack him upside the head with my baby rattle. No, no, that can’t be it. Rosario isn’t an idiot, and he’s no stranger to peril or intrigue. If he’s summoning me, he has a good reason.

In the dining hall, I make a point of sitting next to Iván, which turns out to be easy because no one else wants to. He glares at me when I settle beside him, but says nothing. His knuckles are scraped raw. While I was mucking stalls, he spent the whole day mending the thatch roof and patching mortar in the walls.

When everyone is distracted, I slip the note out of my pocket, just far enough so that he can glimpse the imperial seal.

I whisper, “The prince wants to meet with us tonight. Just you and me. We’ll have to sneak out. I’ll wake you when it’s time to go.”

Iván’s hand holding his spoon freezes. A dollop of cornmeal falls from the spoon and plops back into the bowl.

Then he nods and continues to shove slop into his mouth, treating me with stony disregard.