22

Now

THE sanctuary is more crowded than usual, with stable boys in work frocks sitting side by side with noble ladies in fine silks. The altar reeks of burned blood and rose petals, for many choose to perform the Sacrament of Pain during Deliverance Week.

I search the faces, my gaze lingering on anyone in priest’s robes, hoping to see Father Nicandro. But he is not here.

I’m almost to the archival room when a priest steps in front of me, blocking my way. “Can I help you, child?” he says.

I don’t recognize him, so I have no idea if I can trust this man, but time is short and I’m desperate, so I say, “Where is Father Nicandro?”

“Father Nicandro is unavailable at the moment.” Meaning, He’s the head priest and you seem like no one, so go away. “Perhaps—”

“Tell him Lady Red Sparkle Stone is here to see him on a matter of grave urgency.”

He opens his mouth, closes it. Ponders the white streak in my hair. “Very well,” he says. “Have a seat on the bench.” He turns before I can reply.

I adjust my new sword and sit. The bench grows hard beneath my rear. It feels as though an eternity passes, though I’m sure it’s only a few moments, before Nicandro comes shuffling my way, aided by his cane.

“Red,” he says, voice low. “I did not expect to see you. Please come. Hurry.”

He guides me past the archives and into a private prayer chapel. Candles line the walls. Kneeling cushions litter the floors. The arched ceiling is low, trapping heat and the scent of the rose petals that are scattered everywhere. This is where the priests themselves come to pray, when they need a respite from their flock. For now, at least, we are alone.

“Now tell me,” says Nicandro.

“I was cut from the Guard for being a ‘distraction’ to the boys.”

The priest frowns. “That reeks of political maneuvering.”

“Yes. Someone got to Sergeant DeLuca, convinced him that cutting me was a good idea. Rosario’s supporters have been eliminated one by one. I fear for him.”

“I’ll get a message to him at once.”

“Thank you.”

“Wait here.” He turns to leave.

“One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“There’s an animagus in the city. Maybe right here in the palace.”

Father Nicandro’s eyes narrow. “I thought I might have sensed something earlier this morning, but then it was gone, like a breeze.”

“I’m certain of it.”

“I believe you, dear girl. Unlike you, I can only sense Godstones when they are drawing magic. You’ve always been more sensitive than I, and I’m an old man besides.”

“Do you know of anyone attending the gala who would retain the services of a sorcerer?”

“I do not. Is your Godstone with you?”

I reach for my amulet and lift it toward him.

“Good. Keep it safe. It may keep you safe.”

“How will my Godstone help?”

“I don’t know that it will . . . though in the past, the empress achieved some immunity to the magic of others with her own Godstone. In any case, now is not the time to discuss the finer points of theology.” His shoulders slouch, and he suddenly seems ten years older. But when I peer into his face, his eyes are full of fire. “I’ll get a message to the prince as quickly as possible.”

Getting a response from the prince could take hours, so I pick one of the largest cushions and settle in for a long wait. After a few minutes, though, I’m twitching to move around, to do something. So I stand, kick all the cushions to the side of the room to clear a space, and draw my new sword.

I haven’t worked with a real sword in months, and it feels foreign and cold in my hand as I start moving through the forms. But my wrist and forearm adjust. I’m stronger now, thanks to endless practice with Master Santiago, and the sword is so well balanced that by the time I hit Bulwark, I’m grinning. I feel so fluid. So powerful.

I whip the sword through the air, performing some swipes that Iván taught us during our nightly class. Then a few thrusts. Careful of my footwork, I move through some parrying positions I learned from Aldo. The sword sings.

My blood is warm, my forehead damp with sweat, by the time Rosario himself enters, accompanied by two fully armored guards.

“Little sister,” he says.

“You shouldn’t have come yourself!” I tell him. “It’s not safe for you to . . .” The look on his face silences me.

“I just . . . wanted to see you.”

I sheath my sword and wrap my arms around him, hugging him close. “It’s good to see you too, little brother.”

He clings a little tighter than usual, then disengages, saying, “Nice sword.”

“I thought it might come in handy.”

“Father Nicandro says you were cut from the Guard.”

“Yes,” I say, avoiding his gaze. His two accompanying guards wear breastplates trimmed in blue steel, marking them as knights of the Eastern Reaches. “I’m glad Juan-Carlos was able to lend you some men.”

“Efren and Iago have proven themselves invaluable,” Rosario says. “I’m so grateful to them and to Juan-Carlos. You may speak freely in front of them.” He sighs deeply. “I really wish you hadn’t been cut.”

“I’m so sorry. I know I failed—”

“It wasn’t your fault! I’m more concerned that DeLuca was convinced to cut you at all, because it means someone beside the empress has undue influence on him.”

“That’s what I’m worried about too.”

“Do you still think he’s the traitor?”

I shake my head. “Or at least he’s not the traitor. He gives orders like a man who’s been taking orders, and he talked about how the command came from someone who was ‘above his rank and station.’”

“That’s what happens when you teach blind obedience,” Rosario says. “Sometimes it doesn’t matter who the orders come from anymore.”

“But he’s not innocent. He still had—has—a part in this. Someone gave the intruder a key to Bolivar’s quarters, right?”

“Right.” His face falls, and he stares off at nothing in particular. He has the longest, prettiest eyelashes I’ve ever seen, and even though he’s grown tall and lanky, those long-lashed eyes make him seem as vulnerable as a babe. “Red,” he says. “What do I do?”

“Oh, Rosario, I wish I knew.”

“We only found seven of those barrels.”

“What about the ship itself? The Kestrel?”

“Now that was interesting.”

“What do you mean?”

“The ship is long gone, left port more than a week ago. But we tracked down its records . . . it belongs to one of my father’s former mistresses.”

“That is interesting.”

“I have no idea what it means, though.”

“Rosario, maybe you shouldn’t attend the gala. If anything happens, it will be then.”

He straightens, trying to look royal. “I have to. It’s my responsibility. I have to give the annual blessing, show myself around, assure everyone that all is normal. People come from all over the empire to be in the same room with their empress. There’ll be no empress this year, of course, but at least we can give them a prince.”

I’m shaking my head. “It’s not worth it. Not if your safety is at risk. Rosario, I sensed an animagus nearby.”

He draws in breath, but collects himself quickly. “If I don’t go, our adversaries will use my absence to their advantage. ‘See how he doesn’t take his responsibilities seriously?’ they’ll say. ‘See what a coward he is?’” When I don’t respond, he adds, “Besides, I have Efren and Iago to keep me safe.”

“And me.”

He brightens. “And you. I’ll give orders that you’re to be allowed full palace access. Want to stay in my room tonight? You can have the floor.”

I’m so relieved to have somewhere to go. “Yes, please.”

Even though I’m snugged up in the space between the wall and Rosario’s bed, nested into the softest pillows and the most luxurious quilt in the whole empire, I can’t make myself sleep.

I roll everything around in my head: my failed adoption. Captain Bolivar dead, possibly poisoned by the most powerful conde in the empire. Fernando ill, unable to protect Rosario. Barrels of dream syrup hidden somewhere here in the capital. Training for Royal Guard recruits inexplicably stalled. I wish I knew what it all meant.

One thing is certain, Efren and Iago and I cannot protect the prince all by ourselves. He needs a small army if he’s going to get through the gala alive.

Sunrise brings warmth and light into Rosario’s suite. I stand and stretch, glad the long night is over, and look down at my sleeping prince. He always sleeps spread-eagle, taking up his entire giant bed with his gangly limbs. His mouth is open, and a puddle of drool soaks his pillow.

I try to be silent as I fold up my quilt, but he stirs anyway and sits up in bed. “That’s the best I’ve slept in a long time,” he says, following it with a huge yawn.

“Rosario.”

He’s suddenly trying very hard not to laugh. “Now that your hair is shorter,” he says, “your sleephead is spectacular.”

I’d love nothing more than to pretend nothing is wrong and joke around the way we always do. Instead I place the folded quilt across the foot of his bed and say, “We need more protection for you.”

“Every fighting man in the Royal Guard will be at the gala. I’ll be fine.”

“The Royal Guard that Sergeant DeLuca is currently in charge of? That Royal Guard?”

He frowns.

“You know we can’t trust him.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Send me to retrieve the recruits. They’re not fully fledged Guards, but we’ve been training so hard. Surely they’re better than nothing.”

He considers this. “First-year recruits aren’t even issued swords.”

“No, but they have bodies. Bodies that can be barriers between you and an enemy.”

“I hate that idea.” He runs a hand through his mussed hair. “Using the recruits as human shields.”

“They took an oath to die for you.”

“For Elisa, you mean.”

“Elisa won’t be empress forever. When she steps down, they’ll be your Guard. Everyone who takes to the sand understands this.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t think too long. In the meantime, be careful what you eat or drink.”

His smile is sad and resigned. “I already took the liberty of securing some trail food—jerky, a canteen of water, some dried coconut. It’s all I plan to eat today.”

“Gross,” I say.

He nods. “It’s going to be the worst Deliverance Day ever.”

Rosario spends the morning suffering a final fitting for his formal gala outfit, which I’m happy to see includes a layer of light armor beneath a silk jacket. Early in the afternoon, he settles into the receiving room of his suite, where he endures visits from the seneschal, the mayordomo, and an unending stream of lords and ladies who have come a very long way just to say hello. He is polite and gracious to everyone.

Efren and Iago search every single person who enters the receiving room for weapons, no matter their station. Even so, I glare at anyone who dares come too close to the prince, all the while keeping my hand ready on my scabbard.

Finally Rosario’s receiving schedule is complete for the day. He breathes deep, scrapes his chair back, and puts his feet up on the desk. “It’s getting harder and harder to smile at everyone.”

“You’ll have to do even more of it tonight.”

“Promise you’ll dance with me at least once,” he says. “I’ll need a break from everyone else.”

“I won’t be dressed for dancing,” I say, indicating my desert garb.

“I don’t care. I just want . . . Red, are you all right?”

My chest is buzzing, my breath coming in gasps. The magic squirming beneath the earth sings to me, yearning to break free. All it needs is a little blood. . . .

Blood welled up on her thumb, dripped to the floor in time with her heartbeat. The girl tried to wrench her hand away, but the White Hair gripped her arm too tight. The amulet hanging from his neck began to glow with blue fire. Its heat warmed her face. . . .

“Red?”

I lurch back into myself. “I’m sorry. I . . . the animagus. He’s nearby.”

“You did that thing where you . . . go away.”

My heart is racing. “Sensing the animagus triggered a memory. Rosario, please let me go call up the recruits on your behalf.”

One of the guards, either Iago or Efren, says, “A rogue animagus is a serious matter, Your Highness.”

Rosario looks to me. His borrowed guards. Back to me. “Fine,” he says at last. “Do it.”

I’m dizzy with relief. “Thank you. I need a letter from you authorizing my entry to the barracks and officially calling the recruits into service.”

“Bring them back as quick as you can. I’ll be heading to the ballroom soon. Meet me there.”

As soon as the ink is dry, we roll up the parchment, seal it with red wax, and stamp it with Rosario’s signet ring. With a final admonishment to the guards to keep him safe, I dash from the suite, down the stairs of the Sky Wing, and into the impossibly busy plaza.

I dodge carriages and horses, pages and hostlers. By the time I reach the Guard barracks, my camel-hair boots are covered in dust and manure. Two Guards stand at attention, holding spears and shields.

Their steel helmets cover everything but their eyes and mouths. I peer closer. I’m almost certain I don’t recognize them. After months of training, moving through the barracks, three meals per day in the mess, surely I’ve chanced upon every member of the Guard by now?

“The Royal Guard barracks are off-limits to the public, by order of Her Imperial Majesty,” says one.

“I have authorization,” I say, waving my rolled parchment with its red wax seal.

“Who are you?” asks the other.

Not only do I not recognize them, they don’t recognize me. I say, “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m here on the orders of Prince Rosario himself. Do inspect the seal. But I suggest you allow Sergeant DeLuca or Guardsman Bruno to break it.”

The first Guard holds out his hand. I give him the parchment. He examines it closely, grunting. Then he hands it back. “You may pass,” he says with obvious reluctance.

I dash into the tunnel before he can change his mind.

The sun is not yet touching the rooftops of the Sky Wing, which means the first-year recruits will probably be in the training arena for their afternoon fitness regimen. The barracks are eerily silent as I traverse the long corridor. I’ve been absent only one day, but my heart squeezes to see the familiar rock walls, to peek inside the bunk room and spy Traitors’ Corner at the far end, to pass the mess hall and smell a batch of fresh bread rising in preparation for dinner. When did I become so attached to this place?

I encounter no one—no Guards, no servants. Which is odd. I slow my pace, listening.

Laughter, in the distance. Outside, maybe. It pulls me forward, and finally I break into the sunshine of the sandy training arena.

All the first-year recruits are there, jogging in place with high knees to a count given by Guardsman Bruno. “High, two, three, four!” he urges. “I want to see those knees almost hit your chins!”

I step forward, and Bruno fumbles his count. He goes silent. One by one, the boys stop jogging in place. They turn to see what he’s staring at.

Iván’s face lights up.

“It’s Red!” someone says, and all of a sudden I’m surrounded by sweating bodies and grinning faces. “What are you doing here?” “Are you reinstated?” “We’re going to have a gala celebration of our own tonight.” “You should join us, Red.”

Then Guardsman Bruno is there too, and he reaches through the mob, grabs my shoulder.

“You’re not supposed to be here, girl,” he says.

I hold up Rosario’s letter. “I have authorization, sir. His Imperial Highness is officially drafting all first-year recruits into service for the evening. He has sent me to fetch them.”

The air goes taut with silence. Bruno takes the letter, breaks the seal, reads.

I hold my breath. If he’s not loyal to the prince, he might try to stop us.

“Well,” he says at last. “Everything looks in order.” He rolls the letter back up, hands it back to me. “Lady Red, the first-year recruit class is yours.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Guardsman Bruno wears a slight smile as he turns his back on us and exits the arena, leaving us all alone.

“Whoa,” says Pedrón. “What just happened?”

“I think we’re Royal Guards now,” says Rito. “Real Royal Guards.”

“At least temporarily,” I say. Two palace watch soldiers pass by along the arena wall. “Let’s get back to the bunk room. I’ll explain everything there, in private.”

“Wait!” says Aldo. “There’s something we need to do first.”

Everyone snaps to attention at his voice.

A brass half-moon is now pinned to the shoulder of his uniform. At my questioning look, he says, “Yesterday after you left, the recruits voted me squad leader.”

“Aldo, that’s wonderful!” I say. “Congratulations.”

He beams. “Thank you.”

“If the two of you hadn’t agreed to start the practice group, we wouldn’t have any useful training by now,” Pedrón says.

“But it was close,” Rito explains. “A tie vote between him and Iván. Sergeant DeLuca had to break the tie.”

Something about that makes me twitch. But I say, “Well, you couldn’t go wrong with either.”

“Anyway, once I knew I was squad leader,” Aldo says, “I arranged for a little surprise for everyone to celebrate Deliverance Day. Bruno helped me. He said we’d earned it. Seems like I ought to give it to you all now, before we head off for duty. Is that all right with you, Red? Do we have a few minutes to spare?”

“I think so, yes.”

Aldo grins. “Follow me!” As we exit the arena, he says, “I’m really glad to see you, Red.”

“Nice sword,” says Pedrón. “Can I hold it?”

“No! Get your own.”

“Where did you go after you left?” Iván asked.

“To the monastery. To . . .” I almost say “to pray,” but that would be a bold-faced lie. “To find some peace.”

He gives me a strange look.

Aldo leads us to the latrine and gestures for us to go inside.

“Really?” says Pedrón. “The latrine?”

“Sorry, but yes,” Aldo says with a sheepish grin. “There wasn’t enough space in the bunk room.”

We file in. The smell is terrible, way worse than usual, as though the latrine hasn’t been maintained all day.

“Aldo, what are you talking about?” Rito says. “There’s nothing—”

The door slams shut behind us. The bar latch thuds down, locking us in.