13

Now

DELUCA looks at his parchment and calls out four names: “Recruits Sancho, Itzal, Beto, and Iván. Come with me.”

Iván rises from the table, face displaying both incredulity and relief.

“Congratulations, Iván,” I say.

He nods acknowledgment, and follows the others from the dining hall.

“No surprises there,” Aldo says.

“I didn’t expect Iván to be in the first group,” I say. “I thought DeLuca hated him.”

Aldo shrugs. “Iván is the brother of a Quorum lord. Not to mention pretty enough to make an angel cry.”

“I thought maybe it had something to do with him being well trained and in excellent shape.”

“That too.”

It seems as though we wait forever—though it’s probably only a few minutes—before DeLuca returns to claim another group. This time, he calls Pedrón’s name, along with the other army recruits, Andrés and Luca, and one of Valentino’s remaining ducklings. “Oh, thank God,” Pedrón says, rising from the table, and I’m surprised to discover he had anything to worry about. He runs his hand through his short-cropped hair and grins down at me. “See you in there, Red,” he says, and I hope he’s right.

The next group contains most of the Basajuan contingent, including the taller Arturo. The one after that sweeps up all of Valentino’s remaining lackeys, along with the shorter Arturo. My hopes dwindle along with the recruits still seated in the dining hall. Soon only six of us remain, including me, Aldo, the two boys who couldn’t complete the log roll, and two others.

DeLuca returns. He pauses a long moment, staring down at us. He’s torturing us on purpose.

At last he says, “Recruit Aldo. Recruit Red. Come with me. The rest of you may return home. Her Imperial Majesty thanks you for your service.”

Aldo’s breath leaves him in a whoosh. I stand up so fast I knock my knee against the table. As we hurry after DeLuca, I spare a thought for the boys left behind. I feel terrible for them. And so relieved they were cut instead of me.

We enter the bunk room to a smattering of applause. Everyone is standing at the foot of his bunk, each smartly dressed in a brown vest that laces up over a linen tunic. The vest and tunic fall mid-thigh over black woolen pants and brown leather boots. Everything is cinched up by a leather scabbard, empty until we’ve earned the right to carry weapons.

“I knew you’d make it, Red,” says Pedrón, grinning proudly in his new uniform.

“Your clothes are folded on your bunks,” Sergeant DeLuca says. “Please change immediately.”

As Aldo and I walk the gauntlet of uniformed recruits to our shared bunk, Beto says, “Yes, Red, change immediately. I promise I won’t look.” His voice is mocking, his intent clear.

Aldo grabs his new clothes from the top bunk and gets started right away, whipping off filthy pants and shirt. The other recruits whoop and holler, poking fun at his skinny legs. The mockery is undeserved; Aldo may be small, but he’s also fit, with muscled thighs and an abdomen like a granite cliff.

He finishes, stands at attention at the end of his bunk.

“What are you waiting for, Red?” taunts Beto.

I look to Sergeant DeLuca. Does he really want me to change in front of everyone? He returns my look with a raised brow.

All right then. I’ll make this quick. I’ll ignore them all. I’ll be fine.

I reach for the tie of my linen shirt. Someone whistles.

“Red,” says Iván. “Wait.”

He steps forward, stands in front of me with his legs slightly spread and his arms crossed. Aldo joins him, standing shoulder to shoulder with Iván, though a head shorter. Then another boy, whose name I haven’t bothered to learn—did DeLuca call him Itzal?—stands beside Aldo. They’ve created a privacy wall for me.

I swallow a sudden lump in my throat and dart behind them. I’ll have to work as fast as I can, before any of them think better of helping me or DeLuca decides to put a stop to it.

The first thing I do is fish out Bolivar’s key and transfer it to the pocket of my new pants.

Everything fits, even the boots. The vest hugs my shape so perfectly it’s as if the royal tailor himself sculpted it. The pants and shirt are loose enough for comfortable maneuvering. The boots are stiff, but they’ll allow room for my toes to flex once they’re broken in. I waste a precious moment marveling at how good this uniform feels to wear. Like it was meant to be mine. Like I’m truly a Royal Guard recruit now.

I tap Iván on the shoulder. “I’m finished. Thank you.”

He and the others step aside, and we take our places before our bunks.

DeLuca says, “You have the quartermaster and his staff to thank for your tailored uniforms. His eye for fit is extraordinary, as always. You will demonstrate your gratitude to the quartermaster by keeping your uniforms in good condition at all times. If you do not know how to launder or repair your clothing, you will be taught. Never enter the training arena in the morning with a uniform that is damaged or dirty. You will be given time each evening for laundry and ablutions. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir!” we respond in unison.

“The next official cuts will be in three days,” he says. “Until then, we have work to do. The first two mornings demonstrated a shameful lack of fitness. We’ll remedy that immediately.”

“Uh-oh,” Aldo whispers.

“You will spend the afternoon running the walls.”

Several boys groan loudly.

DeLuca says, “Complaining is taken into consideration when determining cuts,” and the boys fall immediately silent. “You must complete ten full laps around the palace. If you complete them before the dinner bell, you’ll be allowed free time tomorrow evening.”

The other boys look glum at this announcement, but I’m secretly thrilled. I may be small and not as strong as the others, but I can run. I’ve run the walls plenty of times with Hector. Sometimes even with Mara. I love looking out over the eastern rooftops to the swooping desert dunes, and over the western rooftops to the endless azure sea. I love the fresh air and wide-open sky, the solid stone beneath my feet and the cheery hellos I get from palace guards as I pass.

And by finishing well, I’ll earn free time tomorrow. Time to find Bolivar’s quarters, maybe.

“Any questions?” Sergeant DeLuca asks.

I raise my hand.

“Recruit Red?”

“Do you have word on Valentino?”

“He’s very ill. Too ill to return to the Guard. We expect him to make a full recovery eventually, but most of you will likely never see him again.”

The duckling contingent, led by Beto, buzzes at this news, and their murmurings are both relieved and angry. I understand how they feel. I’m so glad Valentino is going to be all right, especially glad that I didn’t accidentally kill him. Because I liked him. He was smart and kind and an excellent candidate, and he was maybe about to become my friend.

“Guardsman Bruno will lead you to the walls,” DeLuca says. “People will be watching. Do us proud.”

And with that, we march in our new uniforms, out of the dark barracks and back into the sunshine.

I finish third.

It was harder than I expected, thanks to these new boots and the fact that I only got a few hours’ sleep last night. My breathing was fine and my endurance held. But my feet are covered in blisters—several of them broken—and each step is a stinging agony. I’m not the only one. We’re all moving gingerly as we return to the dining hall.

More than half the first years are still out on the walls, struggling to finish, so there are plenty of empty seats. I make a point of sitting beside Iván, who finished fifth. Aldo is not back yet, or Pedrón, though I expect them shortly. The Basajuan boys are all here, though, which is no surprise; the desert nomads spend their days walking and running.

“We can search the captain’s quarters tomorrow,” I tell Iván in a low voice.

“I think we should find Valentino instead,” he says. “See if we can talk to him.”

“Why?” I say around a mouthful of food. We’re back to eating cornmeal sludge.

“Beto said Valentino took stuff, remember? I want to find out what it was.”

“You think it might have been sweet dream. Like the poison given to Bolivar.”

Iván nods. “If it is, we need to know who he got it from.”

Makes sense. Except . . . “If any of the ducklings have free time tomorrow, they’ll probably use it to visit Valentino. They practically worship him.”

Iván snorts, which takes me aback because it’s almost a laugh. I’m not sure I’ve heard him laugh before, or even seen him smile. “Ducklings. That’s appropriate.” He takes a bite of sludge, swallows, then says, “You might be right. If Valentino is seeing visitors, it will be hard to get him alone.”

“So maybe we investigate the captain’s quarters first, and visit Valentino at our next opportunity?”

“Fine. Now let me eat.” With that, Iván visibly cuts me off, tilting his shoulder just so. It’s not quite like he’s turning his back on me, but almost.

With a sigh, I slide down the bench to give him a little space, and finish my sludge.

It’s full dark. Everyone has finished running the wall, though only some of us earned free time. We were shown to the laundry area—a dungeon with a low arched ceiling, filled with basins and washboards that stink of sweat and lye—and given a brief lesson on how to clean our uniforms. It’s astonishing to me that so many of these boys have never in their lives laundered even the tiniest sock.

Afterward, a stray cricket serenaded us as we took turns doing our business in the latrine. Now we’re collapsed onto our bunks. Guardsman Bruno has just blown out the oil lamps, and the monastery has rung the tenth hour. I sink into the mattress, exhausted but grateful, Bolivar’s key now stuffed down my sock so it doesn’t fall out during my sleep. I’ve passed the first hurdle, survived the first cut. For once, I might fall asleep easy and stay that way.

I drift off, as effortlessly as a cloud in the breeze.

My eyes fly open when a hand presses down on my mouth.

“Unngggh!” I try to speak, but someone holds me fast. Hands are gripping my arms and legs too, pressing tight, relentless. I can’t move at all. I can hardly breathe.

“You got Valentino cut,” says a voice in my ear. It’s Beto. His damp breath is hot and so, so close.

I try to whip my head to the side, but the hand on my face presses down until the slats of my cot dig into my skull. Beto is going to break my neck.

“What’s going on?” someone asks blearily, and I can’t tell who because blood is rushing past my ears and bile is rising in my throat and there’s a pressure in my chest that’s familiar and comforting and terrifying all at the same time because it means I’m about to lose control of myself.

“Stay out of it!” growls Beto. “This is none of your business. It’s between us and Red.” He kisses me on the forehead; his hot, wet lips feel like slugs against my skin. “Isn’t that right, little mula?”

Mula.

The pressure in my chest becomes a maelstrom. Tears leak from my eyes.

“Aw, poor Red, are you cry—”

With all my strength, I bite down on the fleshy part of his palm. Beto yelps, lurching backward as wonderful, glorious air fills my lungs.

The others are startled enough to loosen their grip. I fling myself over the side of the cot and onto the floor. I’m on my feet in an instant. “Get her!” Beto yells.

Beds creak as everyone around us wakes. I’m trapped between bunks, my back to the wall, as Beto and two ducklings approach. In the dark, they are looming shapes, like the shadow monsters from my nightmares.

Hold back, a tiny voice says. Don’t hurt them. But the maelstrom has me firmly in its grip now, and I’m helpless against it.

A shadow shoulder swings back, priming for the punch. I dodge left, grab his forearm as it sails past, use his own momentum to slam his fist into the wall.

He doubles over in pain, cradling his fist. I take the opportunity to grab the back of his head and smash his face against my swiftly rising knee. He shrieks as his nose shatters.

I lift my heel, shove it into his broken face, and send him reeling backward into the arms of his friends.

“Who’s next?” I say, advancing. I am fire. I am a thunderstorm. The remaining two shadows start to back away.

Someone grabs me from behind, squeezes my neck, pins my arms to my sides—a fourth person I didn’t notice before. The other two shadows see their opportunity and attack, fists flying.

Pain explodes in my abdomen. In my cheekbone. Everything freezes. The bunk room disappears. Instead, I see blue-stained fingers and iron ladles.

A glass heron sitting on a fireplace mantel, poised to take flight.

Distantly, I know I’m being pummeled. I should defend myself; someone taught me exactly what to do. But I’m helpless, because the blue-stained fingers are coming closer. They hold a vicious-looking quill; no, it’s a needle. I’m about to get a tattoo.

“Please,” I whisper. “Not again.”

Someone screams. Not me. The pressure against my throat lessens.

“Red!” someone yells.

The pain in my cheekbone sharpens to a brutal here and now because I am Red. I am Red Sparkle Stone of Joya d’Arena and a Royal Guard recruit, and someone is attacking me.

I raise my leg and slam my heel into my attacker’s instep, crunching bones. I whirl on him before he can recover. He reaches feebly for my neck, but I’m faster. I send the heel of my palm up into his chin. His head snaps back and his teeth crunch. He staggers, disoriented, and I fell him with a swift kick to the groin.

I don’t bother to watch him writhe on the floor. I turn to discover that the two remaining shadows are grappling with someone else. I reach for the one on the left, grab a handful of hair, and yank backward with all my strength. Hair rips from its roots as his neck kinks backward. I sweep the back of his leg with my foot. He topples; I step aside and let him fall, his head cracking against the edge of the cot.

When I look up, the final shadow is subdued. He sits huddled on the ground, cradling a broken arm. Above him looms my ally, tall with gangly shoulders, but somehow as steady and large as a mountain. It’s Iván.

He turns to me. “I think that’s all of them.”

The maelstrom is slowing. As my heartbeat approaches normal, the pains in my rib and my cheekbone intensify, making it hurt to breathe. My stomach roils, threatening to toss up my cornmeal sludge. Everyone is awake now, their shadowed bodies sitting up in their cots, watching us.

My limbs are shaking. They always shake after the maelstrom leaves.

I say the first thing that comes to mind. “I didn’t need your help, Iván.”

Iván has a split lip and disheveled hair, but he doesn’t seem bad off. As usual, he’s frowning at me. “I didn’t want to help you.”

“You didn’t? I mean, good. I don’t need saving.” Blood drips wet and warm from my nose to my upper lip. I wipe it with my sleeve before remembering that I’ll have to wash the blood out of my shirt before morning.

“I know you don’t,” Iván says.

I give him a perplexed look. “Then why—”

“Red, I don’t even like you. But what they were doing was wrong. It wasn’t about saving you. It was about stopping them.”

“Oh.” It’s the kind of thing Rosario would say. Bad men need stopping.

“What’s going on here?” It’s Guardsman Bruno, standing in the doorway with a torch. Several other Guards are right behind him.

I let my gaze fall to my recent attackers. All four are on the floor. I recognize Sancho in spite of his smashed face; his breathing makes an odd whistling noise. Beto is collapsed against the wall cradling a broken arm; the torch flame casts light on his hands. His cuticles are stained black. He’s the one who spilled my hair dye.

Two of the other ducklings are curled up like babies in the cradle—one is still protecting his crotch, the other is blinking oddly while blood seeps from his head wound.

Aldo sits up in his bunk, looking down at me, eyes wide. “I’m sorry I didn’t help, Red,” he whispers. “I panicked, and . . . I was afraid . . .”

“I was just about to jump in,” Pedrón says, trying to look gallant. “I really was. In fact, these boys are lucky I was slow to wake up, or I would have—”

“Shut up, Pedrón,” I snap.

“I’ll ask one more time,” Guardsman Bruno says, his gaze sweeping over the injured boys. “What happened? Who started this?”

I’m not sure what to say. If I blame the ducklings, everyone might hate me even more. If I don’t, maybe other boys will think they can get away with the same thing.

In the distance, the latrine cricket chirps and chirps.

“Fine,” says Bruno. “Tomorrow morning all of you will run—”

“These recruits started it,” Aldo says, gesturing toward Beto. “They attacked Recruit Red while she slept, all four of them at once. They said something about her being Empress Elisa’s favorite and then started pummeling her. They attacked a defenseless recruit, Guardsman. It was awful.”

I blink up at him. I don’t remember that part about being Elisa’s favorite. Maybe he’s altering the story on purpose, reminding everyone that I was sponsored by the empress herself.

“And you stepped in to help?” Bruno asks, indicating Iván and his busted lip.

Iván remains silent, but Aldo says, “Yes, but she didn’t need Iván’s help. She took care of them on her own. In fact, they’re lucky they didn’t get themselves killed. Frankly, anyone who attacks Red is an idiot.”

And now Aldo is warning all the other recruits not to come after me.

“Is this true, Recruit Red? Recruit Iván?”

“It’s true,” I say. “Just like Aldo said. Except that Iván . . .” I hate to admit this, but I’m going to anyway. “Iván handled Beto so I could take care of the others. He really did help.”

“I slept through the beginning,” says the boy named Itzal. “But the rest was exactly as they said.”

A few other boys jump in with “Red is telling the truth” and “In the mess hall, I heard Beto trying to convince the others to attack her” and “Red was just defending herself.” I gape at them all. Never, ever did I expect a show of support.

Bruno presses his lips together, considering. “All right, Red and Iván, go get cleaned up. Red, if you feel like you need to get your wounds tended, I’ll give you leave.”

“I’ll be fine.”

To the Guards accompanying him, Bruno says, “Get this trash out of here; these boys are going home.”

“So much for Ciénega del Sur,” Aldo mutters.

As Iván and I stumble to the laundry dungeon to clean up, I do a quick count in my head. We’ve lost ten recruits in two days.

The laundry contains three empty basins with paddles for stirring, four smaller buckets with washboards, and two stone benches, all arrayed around a rusty drain in the floor. A wooden shelf displays buckets of lye, rope soap, coral for scraping, and several neatly folded rags in various shades of faded gray. A spigot beside the shelf drip drip drips with water.

“Let me know when you’ve covered yourself back up,” Iván says, turning his back to me.

Quickly, I strip off my vest and shirt, then re-don the vest.

“I’m decent,” I say, studying the shirt. A large drop of blood already browns on the collar. A lighter spray patters the right sleeve, and a smear mars the left from when I wiped my nose. My stomach roils as I stare. Aside from the smear, I’m not entirely sure whose blood I’m looking at. “I really hurt those boys,” I whisper. With the skills I’m teaching you comes responsibility, Hector told me. You must use them wisely.

Iván says, “They had it coming.”

“But . . . Sancho’s face . . .” I can’t stop seeing the bloody mess, or hearing the whistle sound of his breathing.

What would Hector think of what I did?

Iván whips off his own vest; blood from his split lip has dribbled down his chest, and the vest will need a thorough soaking. “It was a brutal takedown,” he acknowledges, and somehow I know it’s a simple observation, not a judgment. “Efficient and deadly. Prince Hector taught you to fight like a street brawler.”

I grab a bucket and turn the spigot. Water pours out, unpleasantly cold on my hands, filling the air with a hint of brine. I’m glad to have a task right now, a sensation. Anything to distract me from my still-racing heart and needle pinpricks of firing nerves. It might be a while before I can sleep tonight.

“What works best on blood?” Iván asks. “Lye?”

“Just soak it in cold water. Do it fast before the stain sets.”

“Sounds easy enough.”

Favoring my injured rib, I sit on a bench and dip my shirt into the bucket, letting it soak for several seconds. Iván follows my lead. “Have you never done laundry before?” I ask him.

“My brother always did the laundry,” he said. “We couldn’t afford staff for a while after . . . everything. So we divvied up the chores. I was the countship’s stable boy for several years.”

“Your brother did the laundry?” I say, gaping. “Lord-Conde Juan-Carlos was a laundry boy?”

“No, not him. My other brother. The one who died.”

“Oh.” The blood is already lifting from my sleeve, whirling up in tiny eddies. Or maybe it’s the torchlight playing tricks on my eyes.

“He was only twelve.”

I have a guess about what happened to Iván’s brother: “An Invierno killed him.”

“A sniper with a longbow. During the first big battle I remember.”

“Is that why you hate Inviernos so much?”

“Among other reasons.”

Iván’s bucket is trapped between his knees, and he rubs his thumb against his soaking vest, but he seems hardly aware of the action. After a long moment he says, “What about you? Why do you love Inviernos so much?”

“I hate them as much as you do. Maybe more. Well, except for a few. They’re not all bad, I guess.”

“Does that mean you hate yourself?”

I open my mouth to protest, but the words just aren’t there. For once, I have nothing to say.

“Fine,” he says. “Why do you hate some Inviernos so much?”

Maybe this is too personal, too raw, to talk about with someone I don’t like or trust, but I’ve never been good at keeping my thoughts to myself, and the words bubble up before I can stop them. “The first one I met was an animagus. He killed my mother.”

“That’s . . . how old were you?”

“Six or seven, maybe.”

“How did you get away?”

“I killed him right back.”

He jerks in his seat, and water sloshes over the side of the bucket. He says, “You killed an animagus.”

“Yes.”

“When you were a little girl.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

I’ve told this only to Hector and Rosario. Why am I telling Iván? “I’m not sure how. I dream about it. Sometimes in the dream, I kill him by pushing him into the fireplace. He falls and hits his head on the mantel. But most of the time, I stab him with a skinning knife. That’s how I think it must have happened. The stabbing, I mean. Because that’s the memory that makes me . . . I can still smell his blood.”

Gently Iván asks, “Was it during a battle too?”

“No. He was looking for something. Something of my father’s, I think.”

A partial truth. Filtered through the sieve of life and retrospection, my memories tell me the animagus was looking for a Godstone. Like the one hidden in my drawer in the bunk room.

“And before you ask . . .” I hold up a hand to forestall the question forming on his lips. “No, I don’t know who my father is, and no, I’ve never met him, and no, I don’t care to.”

Iván’s lips quirk. “Fair enough. But you’ve met some Inviernos since then that you didn’t hate?”

“Not at first. The next one I met made me her slave and beat me on the regular. Several other Inviernos came to the village I lived in. Sometimes animagi. My next master always needed money; he often sold my blood to them so they could work their magic. I was a good bleeder, he always said.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Yes.”

He holds up his vest; water drips back into the bucket. “Almost clean.”

“Iván, don’t move.”

“What?”

I grab a clean rag from the shelf. “Your lip is dripping blood. Be still, or you’ll have to launder your shirt too.”

I hold the rag beneath the spigot just enough to dampen it, then gently press it against his mouth.

“Is it as swollen as it feels?” Iván mumbles into the rag.

“You look like a puffer fish.”

His grin becomes a wince before it can truly bloom on his face. “It really hurts to smile,” he says.

“I’ll do you a favor and be perfectly dull. Actually, you should stop talking entirely and let me keep up the pressure, or this will never stop bleeding. Beto got you good.”

“I got him better.”

“Yes. Now shut up.”

“Distract me.”

“Huh?”

“Tell me a story to keep me from talking. Like, how you got that white streak in your hair.”

I yank the rag away and prime my shoulder to punch him in the nose, but I stop myself. He’s not mocking me. He’s asking for true. Out of curiosity.

“Fine,” I say, reapplying the rag. “But after I tell you, you must truthfully answer a question of mine.”

“Deal.”

I take a deep breath. “It was Elisa.”

“The empress gave you that mark?”

“Stop talking! As I’m sure you’ve heard, she bought me while passing through the free villages toward Invierne. Hector had been taken hostage by an enemy, and she was desperate to get him back. We were in horrible danger the whole time; I know this now. But . . . I was just happy. I’d been bought by a fine lady, you see, and I was given warm clothes and kind words and the same food as everyone else. I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world.”

He raises an eyebrow as if to say, “Go on.”

“A few days later, we caught up to Elisa’s enemy, and we attacked his camp, freed Hector. It all went mostly well. But after the battle, just as we were realizing that one of them had gotten away, he launched from the trees and attacked Elisa. I remember it so clearly . . . she couldn’t breathe. There were all these dried leaves in her hair. Her arm was stretched out on the ground, limp, dirt in her nails . . . it made me think of my mother. The last thing I ever saw of her was her hand, sticking out from beneath a pile of rubble, and I . . . Elisa had been so kind to me. . . . It’s like I went to another place in my head, and I wasn’t me anymore but this monster. . . .”

I pause a moment, swallow hard, take a breath. The spigot drip drip drips. Iván’s eyes are intent on me, but again there’s no judgment there. He’s just listening.

“I launched at him. Pounded him with my fists until he let go of Elisa’s throat. But I was just a little girl, and he was a fully grown Invierno assassin, so of course he had me flipped over and pinned in seconds. He hit me so hard my sternum caved in.”

Iván’s brows knit, as he puzzles something out.

“The next thing I knew,” I continue, “I was alive and awake on the cold ground, Elisa collapsed on top of me. Turns out, Hector had killed the assassin, then Elisa used the power of her Godstone to heal me. There was a lot of blood on the ground by then, and Elisa was newly come into her power, so the healing was . . . intense.”

I dash off the words as if they’re no big deal, and I gently peel up a corner of the rag to check Iván’s lip. “The bleeding has lessened,” I say.

The laundry dungeon is cooler than the barracks, and the chill dimples my arms. It’s easy to imagine myself back in the mountains, the air brittle with approaching winter. I don’t remember a lot of what happened to me before I met Elisa, but my flesh remembers being cold.

Iván points toward my hairline, to remind me that I haven’t quite finished my story.

“The truth is, we don’t know for sure how it got there,” I tell him. “Mara was the one who noticed it, a little while after Elisa healed me. Just a little blotch above my forehead that gradually grew out with my hair. Father Nicandro is sure it was Elisa’s magic, though. Did you know that an animagus’s hair grows lighter and lighter with magic use? That’s why so many of them have white hair. Anyway, I’ve always been close to the magic of the earth. I can sense Godstones being used, just like a priest can, or like Elisa’s sister Alodia. I mean, I’m no sorcerer, but Father Nicandro thinks that my affinity, combined with an enormous dose of healing power, caused a bit of my hair to turn white.”

He doesn’t respond for so long that I’m sure I must have offended him somehow. He just stares off into the distance, his dark eyes churning. I pull the rag away and inspect his lip. “The bleeding has stopped. You might want to take a rag to bed with you, though.”

He catches my wrist as I’m drawing away. “This assassin. The one who almost killed you. It was Franco, wasn’t it?” His grip is a little painful.

I blink. “Yes. Though his Invierno name, his real name, was Listen to the Falling Water, for Her Secrets Carve Canyons into Hearts of Stone.”

When Iván doesn’t respond, I add, “And yes, I realize he’s the man who conspired with your father to start a civil war.”

“No wonder you hate me.”

“I don’t ha— I mean, Rosario has ordered us to get along, so I will if you will.”

He releases my wrist so fast that I lurch backward. Any semblance of peace between us seems to be gone; his brow is furrowed, his dark eyes churn. “By telling me all that,” he says, soft and low, “were you trying to make me feel sorry for you? Do you want me to know how much you’ve suffered?” His tone is contemptuous, mocking.

“No.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Iván, I was just answering your questions. No one has to feel sorry for me. Since becoming ward of the empress, I’ve had such comfort and ease. I had a rough start, sure, and being half Invierno doesn’t exactly win me friends, but I’m still the luckiest girl in the world. All those things can be true at once, you know.”

Ivan’s not looking at me anymore. He pulls his vest from the bucket and wrings it out over the floor drain. “We should get back to the barracks. Get some sleep if we can.”

“You still owe me the answer to a question. We had a deal, remember?”

His frown deepens. “Fine. Ask your question.”

After assuring myself that the bloodstains are no longer visible, I follow his lead and wring the water from my shirt. “Elisa ruined your father,” I tell him, shaking it out flat. “I mean, he deserved it, but she destroyed him utterly, exiled him, gave him over to the Inviernos.”

“Is there a point? Just ask your question.”

“Your countship has been in disgrace ever since, even though your brother is a Quorum lord. Your coffers are empty. You hate Inviernos, so you can’t possibly agree with the treaty Elisa brokered. So my question is this: Why did you join the Royal Guard? Why do you want to protect the person who brought such misery upon you and your family?”

He’s silent a long moment, staring at me. I hate staring; it’s one of the reasons I cover my mark. One less thing for people to gawk at.

The constant drip plink of the spigot echoes around us. I force myself to meet his gaze without flinching, even though my feet are twitching to run, my ears growing warm.

“You’re right,” he says at last. “The empress ruined my father, and our countship is slow to recover from the devastation.”

“Then why—”

“I loved my father. But I hated him too.” His slight grin is self-deprecating. “Those things can be true at once, you know.”

I’m not sure what to say to that.

“He was the worst person I ever knew,” he continues. “And no, I don’t feel like telling you about that. But the day the empress stripped him of his title and exiled him was the best day of my life.”

I blink. “Huh. Well, in that case I’m glad for you.”

“We really should get back to the barracks,” he says. “You think our clothes will dry in the next few hours?”

“Hope so.” I head toward the doorway, and Iván follows.

“I haven’t told anyone that,” he says to my back, “about my father, I mean.”

Without turning around, I say, “Besides you, only Hector and Rosario know about me killing that animagus.”

We enter the hallway and step quietly toward the bunk room. “Meet me after dinner tomorrow,” he says. “We’ll use our free time to investigate Bolivar’s quarters.”

“I still have the key,” I assure him.

“All this confiding and conspiring,” he says. “I hope it doesn’t mean we’re becoming friends.”

“Of course not,” I snap.

Just before being enveloped by the darkness of the bunk room, I note a hint of a smile edging his swollen lip. I turn my head away before he can see any reaction on mine.

I’m prone on my cot, trying to fall back asleep. My stomach is in knots, my lowest right rib feels like shards of glass, and daggers of pain stab my skull in perfect time with my heartbeat.

I reach into the drawer and root around until my hand closes around my Godstone. It’s cool and hard, with faceted edges. I bring it to my chest and run my thumb along one edge, back and forth, back and forth. I give a passing thought to the long-dead animagus this stone once belonged to, then I decide I don’t care about them.

Just like Elisa showed me, I send my awareness deep into the earth, seeking the magic that lives there, swirling beneath the skin of the world. She taught me this as a meditation—because I refused the comfort of prayer—to help quell the maelstrom that comes when I can’t control my fear.

I’m no sorcerer. I can’t bend the magic to my will. Which is just as well; I’m afraid what might happen to my hair.

Magic squirms beneath the crust of the earth, Elisa always says, yearning to break free. I don’t believe in any god, but the power she speaks of is real. When I reach for it, it tingles along my neck, suffuses me with warmth, connects me to everything. And sometimes, when I’m lucky, the magic speeds the healing of my wounds.

I close my eyes, trying to be mindful of all my body’s sensations, like Elisa taught me. Suddenly, everything is too familiar. Lying on a poking straw tick, trying to sleep through unspeakable pain. For a brief moment, I smell damp pinewood smoking on the fire, mixed with the scent of cheap ale on sour breath. But I swallow, and it’s gone. A phantom memory. Not even real.

I clutch the Godstone to my chest and firmly remind myself that I’m the luckiest girl in the world.

Hours later, the brass bell is like a cymbal at the base of my skull. I sense everyone scurrying around me, making their bunks, throwing on their boots. My nose feels like it has swollen to twice its size, and my rib gives me a nasty pinch as I swing my legs over the side of the bed and toss my Godstone back into the drawer.

A quick glance toward Iván’s bunk reveals that he’s already gone, his bed perfectly made. He’s likely eating right now.

“You all right, Red?” Aldo asks. An imprint from a blanket wrinkle is pressed into his left cheek.

“Not bad,” I tell him with forced cheer. I can handle a swollen nose and a nasty rib pinch. Maybe the Godstone worked a little.

“Don’t be too long,” he warns. “You need to make a show of looking strong in the sand today, even if you don’t feel it.”

“Good point.”

“I’ll save a place for you at the breakfast table.”

Aldo, and everyone else, exits the barracks for the mess while I lace my boots. Once they’re gone, I change back into my almost-dry shirt and re-don the vest. I stand and gently stretch, testing my muscles. My bruised rib pulls badly, but it’s not hampering my motion. I got lucky.

I’m heading toward the doorway when my belly cramps, deep and low, and I stop in my tracks, swearing loudly.

The spasms herald my monthly courses, coming several days earlier than I planned, probably because of the beating I took last night. If all else goes normally, the cramping means I have exactly one day to procure supplies.

I have no idea who to ask. And if I did, would they think I was asking for special treatment? Maybe no one will notice if some of the laundry room rags go missing.

On the other hand, getting caught stealing is the fastest way to get kicked out of the Guard.

I hurry to the mess hall to down a quick breakfast. I’ll have to figure it out later.