21

Now

THE day before the gala dawns bright and hot, and as usual we are training with Master Santiago. Guardsman Bruno observes us this morning, perhaps to discover why our training is taking so long.

Master Santiago has become extraordinarily creative in his ability to find fault with our forms. I make a game of anticipating what imagined flaw he’ll focus on next—maybe the way Arturo grunts.

Santiago opens his mouth to berate someone, but Sergeant DeLuca barrels through the portcullis and into the arena.

“Sergeant,” says Master Santiago. “What a pleasant surprise. Are you here to inspect these wretched recruits? They persist in evading proficiency, but they are not as shameful as they were.”

“Not at this time,” the sergeant says. “I’m here for two quick pieces of official business, and then you can resume your training.”

Santiago bows his head and steps back, ceding the arena floor. “The class is yours, Sergeant.”

Guardsman Bruno peers at his superior, eyes narrowed. Something about this isn’t part of the usual routine. Well, nothing about our class is part of the usual routine. But DeLuca seems as pleased as a well-brushed pony, and for some reason, this fills me with dread.

DeLuca says, “The time has come for the first years to choose your squad leader. It should be someone with proven competence, with the ability to inspire and make good decisions. Someone who has helped make the rest of you better, someone you trust to lead you for the next three years.”

No one says anything, but it feels like a ripple passes through our group. We’ve known this was coming. I’ve already decided to vote for Iván, whose quiet intelligence has made us pay attention more than once. He’s had just as much training as I’ve had, but he’s so much smoother when talking to people.

“So consider who you will elect while we take care of the second item of business,” he says.

Something about the way he says it causes everyone to go very still.

He folds his hands behind his back. “I’ve received disturbing reports about the behavior of some of our recruits,” he says. “As a result, I’m afraid I have no choice but to make another cut today.”

Guardsman Bruno’s mouth parts in surprise.

I can’t imagine what the sergeant is talking about. Since Valentino’s ducklings were cut, everyone has been on their best behavior. We’re doing everything they ask of us. And more.

Beside me, Aldo shifts in place. I hope it’s not him. He’s the smallest and youngest of us, true. But also the cleverest and quickest.

“Recruit Red, step forward,” DeLuca barks, so much louder than necessary, and my stomach drops into my toes. “Pack your things and go. Her Imperial Majesty thanks you for your service.”

“What?” says Iván.

I try to step forward, but my legs won’t budge. I can’t even look at anyone. I don’t want them to see my face.

“What reports are you talking about?” says Guardsman Bruno.

DeLuca rounds on Bruno. “I do not have to explain myself.”

Bruno doesn’t back down. “I thought my input on the recruits meant something. I’m usually consulted on these decisions.”

“This ruling was handled by those above your rank and station,” DeLuca counters. “And above mine. But if you want to do this here, we’ll do it here. If you want to embarrass your recruits, fine. The fact is, it has come to our attention that having a young lady in the Guard is an insurmountable distraction.”

I can barely hear his words for the blood rushing past my ears.

Bruno inhales deeply, considering his next words. Finally: “Red is one of the best in this class. And this whole class is better than average.”

“You’re out of line, Guardsman,” DeLuca says coldly. “And you’re wrong. For blessed sakes, man, the recruits are still practicing their forms. We’ve never have a class take so long to make so little progress.”

“Sir—” Bruno begins.

“Guardsman,” DeLuca interrupts, “if you contradict me one more time, the only thing you’ll change my mind about is your fitness for duty. Report to my office after class today.”

Bruno snaps to attention. “Yes, sir.”

DeLuca addresses the recruits, though he avoids looking at me. He says, “You don’t understand this now, but one day it will be clear to you. One cannot expect boys your age to learn and grow when there is such a lovely young woman in your midst. It’s our job as your teachers and mentors to shelter you from distractions as you mature into the young men we expect and know you can be.”

I finally find my voice. “I am not a distraction.”

“What?” DeLuca says, apparently surprised that I’m still here.

My face is hot with fury. My fists shiver with an overwhelming need to bash something. “I am not a distraction. I am a Guard recruit, just like the others.”

“Dear girl,” says DeLuca. His indulgent smile makes my skin crawl. “It’s meant as a compliment. Of course you’re not like the others. You’re beautiful and charming. Most young ladies in the palace wish they had half your qualities. You should be proud.”

“Red is not a distraction,” Iván says.

“She’s an asset,” says Arturo.

“You can’t tell us to pick our squad leader and then kick her out!” says Pedrón.

DeLuca turns on them with the same open fury that he showed Bruno. “You are all speaking out of turn, and you’ll run the walls tonight after dinner. It will give you time to consider your words, and how you’ve let this young lady manipulate and deceive you. You wanted proof that she’s a distraction—well, there it is! Your training would be much farther along by now if she had never taken to the sand.”

I stare daggers at him, my fists clenched at my sides. He would never dare cut me for such a ridiculous reason if Elisa were around. I can’t believe he dares it now. Something happened. Or someone got to him. And the only person I can think of with the power to make him cut me, the ward of the empress, is Conde Astón of Ciénega del Sur.

It hits me all of a sudden: He wants me out of the way for the Deliverance Gala. He wants to make sure Rosario is as exposed as possible.

I’m already cut. The worst thing that could possibly happen to me has happened. So I have no hesitation saying, “You are going to regret this, DeLuca. You have my word on it.”

If my threat lands, he gives no indication. “Gather your things and go.”

Suddenly I’m surrounded by recruits. “We won’t forget you, Red,” someone says. “This is wrong,” says another. Hands pat my shoulders. One grabs my hand and squeezes.

All at once, the space around me is taken up with Iván. He leans down and whispers in my ear, “Get to Rosario. We’ll figure this out.”

“Get back in line right now,” DeLuca says. “Or there will be further cuts!”

Before Iván can step away, I grab his collar and whisper back, “Make sure no one eats or drinks tomorrow. Especially during the annual Deliverance toast.”

Hands grab me. My eyes are locked with Iván’s as DeLuca drags me away.

Iván nods once, slightly.

DeLuca shoves me through the portcullis. “Guardsman Bruno,” he says. “Escort this civilian out of the barracks by the quickest route possible.”

Bruno watches over me as I gather my baby rattle, my Godstone, and Father Nicandro’s book from the drawer. I leave the broken shards of my dye pot where they are. They’re useless now.

“Ready,” I tell him.

“You must change out of your uniform too.”

I stare at him.

“I’m sorry, Red,” he says. “I don’t agree with DeLuca’s decision, but . . .”

“But you have to follow orders.”

He nods.

“Can you at least give me a little privacy?”

“Don’t make me regret this.”

He turns his back, and I quickly shuck shirt, vest, belt, boots, and pants, and re-don the desert garb I wore the day I first took to the sand.

I stare at Bruno’s back a moment, wondering if there’s something else I ought to do while his back is turned, something sneaky that might help me. . . .

But of course I can’t think of a single thing.

I shove the Godstone and the baby rattle into my pocket, then grab the Articles. “Now I’m ready.”

Bruno looks me up and down. His gaze lingers on my bound book, but he chooses not to make an issue of it. “Follow me.”

He leads me through the tunnel, past the latrine, to the side gate where they take deliveries for the barracks. When he opens the pass-through door, I step into the alley between the barracks and the stables. The sun is cruel on my face.

“Farewell, Red,” Bruno says. “I wish you every blessing.” Then he ducks back inside. I hear the heavy bar slam down, closing off the barracks to me. The guards standing at this entrance couldn’t let me back in even if they wanted to.

Now what?

The alley is busy with gala traffic. It feels like everyone is staring at me, the girl who just exited the barracks empty-handed. I’m well known here, the former ward of the empress, the half-human hybrid. And now that my hair has grown back to my shoulders, my white streak has surely grown to my ear.

Get to Rosario, Iván said.

I hurry through the plaza to the main entrance of the Sky Wing, where I’m stopped by a pair of unfamiliar guards.

“I’m the ward of the empress,” I tell them. “Lady Red Sparkle Stone. I live here.”

One snickers at my name. Someone is always ready to snicker at my name. But the other says, “Do you have a pass signed by Sergeant DeLuca of the Royal Guard?”

“No.”

“Then you don’t live here, at least not until after Deliverance Week is over. We have strict orders to let no one into the Sky Wing without a written pass from Sergeant DeLuca.”

Someone wanted to be sure I was unable to get in to warn Rosario.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” I tell the guards. Glumly I add, “Happy Deliverance Day.”

There has to be another way inside.

I could access the monarch’s quarters through a secret entrance in the city, but I’d still have to traverse several corridors of the Sky Wing to get from there to Rosario’s suite. If they caught me, I’d see the inside of the prison tower before I ever saw Rosario.

The monastery bells ring the hour. Which gives me an idea. The sanctuary is always open to the public, night or day, all year round. I’ll start there.

I hurry through the plaza, dodging carriages and supply wagons and teams of horses. A few merchants have set up stalls on the outskirts, those who could acquire a coveted palace vendor license. They do quick business this time of year, with so many visitors in need of extra items. I pass a saddler, a counter full of steaming meat pies, even a jeweler.

Halfway past the jeweler, I pause. I dig into my pocket and fish out the baby rattle.

“Lady Red,” the merchant says, trying not to stare at my white mark. I don’t recognize him, but it’s not unusual for people to recognize me. “I thought you were . . . er, how can I help you?”

Carefully, so that I don’t drop anything, I find the tiny latch at the base of the rattle and flick it open, just like Rosario showed me months ago. The ball of the rattle dislodges from the base with a pop, and I upend the contents into my palm.

Four gemstones wink up at me, small but lovely. A sapphire of royal blue, an emerald with one noticeable inclusion but still beautiful. A tiny ruby with a slight pink cast. A golden tiger’s-eye. “How much will you give me for these?”

The merchant’s eyes widen. He lowers his head to peer closely at my palm. “Hmmm,” he says. “Interesting. I don’t know. . . . Maybe that one . . .”

“Sir?” I prompt.

“I don’t have enough coin on hand to purchase them all,” he says. “But I can give you three gold crowns and eight silvers for the tigereye and the emerald.”

I don’t know much about gemstones, but that price hardly seems fair. Alas, I’m in too much of a hurry to haggle much. “Throw in that silk amulet bag,” I say, pointing to a tiny bag of blue silk embroidered with green vines and leaves. “And you have a deal.” It hangs on a silken tie and closes tight with matching drawstrings. Ladies wear them to keep locks of their children’s hair close to their hearts, or fill them with their favorite scent. It will be perfect for carrying my Godstone.

“Deal,” says the merchant, and we make the exchange.

I slip the Godstone into my new amulet pouch as I move to the next stall, a weapons seller with several items on display, including a crossbow, a few swords, and several daggers. Showpieces for noble scions. Most of the daggers are fairly useless, with their ornate hilts and tiny blades, best for breaking seals on correspondence.

“Let me see that sword,” I say to the merchant, a younger man with day-old stubble and a blacksmith’s apron.

He hands me the one I indicate. It’s smaller than the others, but it comes with a belted scabbard, and when I hold it out straight, the light hits the steel blade with perfect evenness and clarity. “A nice piece,” I tell him.

“I made it myself!” he beams. “That’s Basajuan steel too, so you’ll never have to worry about it shattering.”

“How much?”

“Five golden crowns.”

I set the sword back on the counter, disappointed. “I don’t have that much.”

“Well, make me an offer I can’t refuse,” he says.

I fish out my baby rattle again, and retrieve the ruby. “Three crowns and this ruby.”

“Done!” he says, so quickly that I’m sure I’ve overpaid.

But if danger is coming for Rosario, no price is too high. Now I have a sword, a safe way to carry my Godstone, and enough silver to eat for several weeks. Buoyed by my success, I head toward the monastery entrance.

Five paces away, I stop short. My throat itches. My limbs twitch. There’s a buzzing inside me, like something is about to burst from my skin. I look around frantically, because I know this feeling.

An animagus is nearby. In the palace complex. During Deliverance Week.

“Out of the way!” someone calls, and I realize I’ve blocked his horse cart. I step aside, still studying my surroundings, racking my memory for anyone who might have brought an animagus along with them. Ambassador Songbird does not have a sorcerer among his staff. None of the condes or condesas I know of keep one for an adviser. The only animagus who is allowed unfettered access to the palace is Storm, Elisa’s brother-in-law, and he is far, far away.

I hurry into the monastery, more desperate than ever to reach Rosario.