6

Now

ON the dawn of the empress’s departure, a ribbon of clouds along the eastern horizon masks the rising sun, keeping the air cool and dim. The city’s earliest risers are already awake; the scent of warm yeast permeates everything as palace bakers set out their bread for the day, and distant ship bells herald departures into coastal fishing waters.

The giant carriage house is bustling as I enter. Stable hands check and double-check traces, horses kick up their knees with impatience, and Royal Guardsmen load supplies onto pack camels. Five carriages are ready to go, all lined up. Dead center of the procession is the royal carriage itself, rich with mahogany and gilded scrollwork, littered with plush cushions, windowed to let in the breeze. Elisa will ride in it one-fifth of the time. For safety, she’ll rotate carriages regularly, and only a handful of Guards will know where she is at any given moment.

The empress herself stands before the carriage, dressed in simple traveling clothes, her long hair wrapped around her head in a crown of braids. She’s giving last-minute instructions to one of her Guards, but when she sees me, she smiles and waves me over.

“Did you choose three items to take with you to the Guard?” she asks with forced cheer.

“Yes. It was an easier choice than I thought.”

Recruits who aren’t princes give up everything else, Rosario reminded me this morning before leaving my chamber. Title, property, loyalty to anyone other than Elisa—for the privilege of joining. Which sounded funny at the time. I’m already loyal to Elisa. I hold no title or property aside from her indulgence anyway. I’m giving up nothing.

You’re giving up a luxurious life as the empress’s ward, Rosario said candidly, and I’m not quite sure how I feel about that yet.

“Good,” Elisa says. “That’s good.”

We stare at each other. I shift awkwardly on my feet. Neither of us has ever been disposed to offer up what we’re feeling.

“Do you . . . need anything? From me?” she asks.

“No. I’m fine. I just came to say goodbye.” We are of equal height, and I can’t escape her dark gaze. I should be taller, being half Invierno, but Doctor Enzo says a rough start in life made it hard for me to grow.

The empress gives me a look I can’t read and says softly, “You never ask for anything, do you, Red?”

“I . . . don’t want to be a bother.”

I’m almost certain her answering glare is mocking. “Ask me for something,” she orders. “Right now. Anything. It’s an imperial command.”

I glare right back. “I ask that you have a safe journey and take good care of yourself and that baby.”

Her lips twitch. “A nimble deflection,” she says. “But don’t think I’ll let this go. I’ll ask you again when I return, so consider hard.”

I’m not sure what to say to that.

“Your Majesty, we are loaded and ready,” calls one of her Guards.

“I have to go,” Elisa says. Her hand comes up to stroke my hair. “Be well, Red. I’m so proud you’re taking to the sand today.”

Moments later, she is bundled into her carriage, and Lord-Commander Dante gives the order. Wheels creak, camels grumble, and footsteps march forward in a steady one-two. I linger, watching as the procession files out of the carriage house and into the gloomy dawn.

I exit the dark arched corridor and enter the arena. The morning sun is still low, the arena cloaked in shadow, the air crisp with residual night. I’m the first to arrive, and I stand in the sand all alone, dwarfed by the stone walls around me.

This will be my last moment alone for a very long time.

I’m dressed like a desert nomad, in a loose linen shirt, a leather utility belt, and comfortable pants that tuck into my camel-hair boots. I’ve cut my black hair short, and without the extra length, it curls slightly at my temples and nape.

I carry my three chosen items. All recruits are allowed exactly three possessions from their previous lives, and mine are sure to provoke mockery and scorn. But they are precious to me, and I will have them, no matter what.

The training arena is a massive oval, two hands’ deep in sand. Opposite the iron portcullis where I entered are straw practice dummies and archery targets. Beside the targets is a weapons rack, filled mostly with wooden swords and daggers, but also a few steel weapons. Blunted, I hope.

I’ve attended my share of recruitment days, and every year the Guard comes up with a creative way to test the new recruits’ mettle. During Hector’s year, recruits were given the ridiculous task of washing the entire arena with scrub brushes and dirty water. The recruits never see weapons on the first day. It means they’re breaking with tradition this year. I can’t help but wonder if it’s because of me.

I don’t wait long. Three young men enter, dressed exactly alike, their own items in hand. They’re older than I am, taller and stronger. Probably the army recruits Juan-Carlos mentioned, with two years of formal training already.

They look me up and down, not bothering to mask their surprise. One smirks openly. I don’t know if Juan-Carlos has gotten the word out yet about my “punishment,” so I’m not sure what these young men are seeing—the failed princess from a few days ago, or merely a girl daring to take to the sand.

I’m half tempted to step over and introduce myself, like it’s a perfectly normal day and I’ve every right to be here. I’m not sure why I hesitate.

Another boy enters through the portcullis. He’s half a head shorter than I am and barely fourteen years old, with chub still in his cheeks and huge brown eyes surrounded by luxurious black lashes. He holds a beautiful folded blanket in his arms, dark blue with a black wave pattern and a lavish fringe.

He startles to a stop when he sees a girl in the arena, but then a shy smile overtakes his face, and he heads my way with deliberation. His blanket bulges, attesting to other, hidden items.

“Morning,” he says.

“Morning,” I answer, more than a little grateful to be acknowledged politely. “Beautiful blanket.”

“Thank you! Mamá made it for me.” He looks up at the brightening sky. “It’s a good day for some mean-spirited hazing, yes?”

I bark a laugh. “Is that what’s going to happen?”

“Mostly to you and me. You for being a girl. Me for being small but enviably handsome.”

“I do see your point. I’m Red. I’d shake your hand, but . . .” I lift my hands, which are gripping my three small items so that they remain hidden.

“Weird name. You’ll get double the hazing just for that. I’m Aldo. Nice to meet you, Red.”

“Nice to meet you, Aldo.”

“Who are those three?” he says, looking toward the young men.

“Former army recruits, I think. They haven’t stopped smirking since they saw me.”

“Huh. Can you take them in a fight?”

Hector’s words come back to me. Some recruits delay revealing the full extent of their skills and training.

“Look at them!” I say. “They’re huge.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Aldo says.

Another boy enters, as tall as the army recruits but leaner, with broad shoulders and gangly arms that promise more growth, if not more height. He has quick dark eyes and the most perfectly symmetrical cheekbones I’ve ever noticed. Seventeen years old, is my guess. He considers the army recruits, then Aldo and me. I see the exact moment he makes his choice. He heads toward the recruits.

Aldo whistles soft and low. “I think I have competition for the Most Handsome medal.”

“Sorry. But yes, I think you’re right.”

Several more boys drift into the arena, dressed like me in the attire of desert nomads. Queen Cosmé’s contingent from Basajuan, no doubt. They’re the only ones so far who don’t noticeably react to seeing a girl in the sand, but they still choose to keep to themselves, avoiding me and Aldo as well as the others.

The sun is rising, and the walls of the arena are turning from ochre dark to milky sandstone. A crowd begins to form around us, some standing on the wall, others sitting with their legs dangling over the edge: palace guards, servants, city watchmen, more than a few nobles. Annual recruitment is always an event. Sometimes even Elisa and Hector attend.

Maybe Rosario will be here, but a quick scan of the growing crowd does not reveal him. Good. We still don’t know what happened to Captain Bolivar, and I feel better knowing that Rosario is keeping out of sight.

Everyone on the walls is staring at me. Whispering to each other about me. Some are laughing. Others appear deadly serious. Go ahead, I think. Get a good look. I stare back daggers with my eyes.

“You’re . . . popular today,” Aldo whispers.

“It’s you they’re looking at,” I tell him. “They’re overwhelmed by your handsomeness.”

“Understandable.”

Abruptly, the audience’s focus is drawn back toward the portcullis, where another young man strides through, chin held high, shoulders relaxed and easy. He wears loose clothing made of pale blue silk, a popular form of dress among the wealthiest southern nobles. At his back are several other young men, who follow him in formation like baby ducks after their mother. The crowd rumbles with recognition.

I don’t know him by sight, but I’ve no doubt he’s a rich conde’s son with the best training and tutoring money can buy and an already established contingent of lackeys. A crowd favorite. Everyone expects him to make the final cut, me included.

More enter, until I count exactly thirty-two of us. The iron portcullis slams down, barring us in.

A Royal Guardsman strides toward us, red cloak whipping at his back. His shining ceremonial breastplate reflects blinding flashes of rising sunshine, and I can’t help wincing.

“Recruits!” he booms. I don’t recognize his face or voice.

“That’s not Captain Bolivar,” Aldo whispers.

“No.”

“Doesn’t the captain usually oversee training? God, I’m nervous,” he says.

“Line up!” the Guard orders. “From here to here.” He indicates an imaginary line with a sweep of his arm. “Orderly and tight. Now!”

We hurry to comply, scurrying around each other like ants after a dropped crumb.

“I said now, recruits.”

A bit more adjusting and our line is straight, though unevenly spaced. I end up with Aldo on my left, one of the army recruits on my right. The army recruit peers down at me, somehow missing my gaze. It takes a moment for me to realize he’s trying to see down my shirt.

I hope I get to spar with him.

“That was clumsy but serviceable,” the Guard says. “I’m Sergeant DeLuca. You will address me as sergeant or sir. Now, let’s see what riffraff God brought us this year.”

Sergeant DeLuca’s evaluating gaze sweeps the line. He nods to the silken-clad conde’s son with such deference it’s almost a bow. He nods again to the Basajuan contingent. His gaze slides right over everyone else, as if they’re not worthy of notice. Then it snags on me. A slight smile curves his lips, and I’m reminded of a cat that just sighted a sparrow.

He says, “Never in all my years have I seen a little girl take to the sands.”

I stare straight ahead, determined that my face will betray nothing.

“I can’t imagine what the empress was thinking, sponsoring you,” he says.

And I can’t imagine that I’ve never seen this Guard before, though I’ve been at court for eight years. What kind of Royal Guardsman is never allowed into Elisa’s chambers? Never watches over her at major functions? Only the lowest in rank, who manages to be just useful enough to keep from being dismissed.

Sergeant DeLuca is not someone I should trust.

Come to think of it, I recognize very few of the Guards in the arena today. Lord-Commander Dante must have left behind everyone who wasn’t part of Elisa’s inner circle of trust.

They’re still Royal Guard, I remind myself. Maybe not the best of them, but smart enough and capable enough to remain members of the most elite fighting force in the world. I’ll do well to not underestimate any of them.

“I expect you’ll wash out within a week,” DeLuca adds. “Maybe even today.”

I expect he’ll be surprised.

“Why are you smiling?” he demands, leaning in so that his breath is hot in my face.

A direct question, so I must respond. “Just glad to be here, sir.”

“We’ll see how you feel later. Name?”

As if he doesn’t know. “Red.”

The army boy beside me chuckles.

“Ah, yes, the half-breed who failed to become a princess. And what three items did you bring with you, Recruit Red?” Not Princess Red. Not Lady Red. He’s reminding me that I’m no one.

I’ve been dreading this moment. I open my hands and show him my items.

He peers at my right hand. “What is that?”

“A pot of black dye.”

“What for?”

“It has sentimental value.”

His eyes narrow; he knows I’m lying. “And this here? This is a baby rattle. Are you going to tell me it has sentimental value too?”

“Naturally.”

He grabs the rattle from my left palm and lifts it high for the crowd to see. “Recruit Red is going to protect the empress with a baby rattle!” he says, and a wave of polite laughter sweeps over us.

But the recruits aren’t laughing. They’re staring at my hand. Because by lifting away the baby rattle, the sergeant revealed my third item: a thumb-sized gemstone of glorious sapphire blue. But it is no mere sapphire.

“Holy God,” Aldo says.

A recruit down the line whistles appreciatively.

DeLuca spins back around, my rattle clattering in his hand. His confused look is quickly replaced by shock. “Is that . . . ?”

“A Godstone,” I confirm. “A gift from a friend.”

The Inviernos would call it an anima-lapis. The most valuable commodity in the world. And Empress Elisa is the only person known to have a collection of them.

The Guard takes a step back.

“It’s not going to hurt you,” I tell him, which must be the worst possible thing to say, because something hot and angry flits across his face. Like maybe he hates me.

Slowly, carefully, he places the baby rattle back into my palm, covering up the Godstone. He says, in a voice so low only my fellow recruits can hear, “She is not here to help you now.”

It’s a threat, clear as day. I can’t let it go.

“She is not, sir. And even if she were, she would not help me. I’m to succeed or fail on my own, like any other recruit.”

He blinks. “A pretty speech.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He dismisses me with a shrug and moves down the line, pausing at each recruit to level mild insults and intimidation. Aldo is too small, even smaller than “the little girl.” The boy with quick, dark eyes is the son of a traitor, and DeLuca will be watching him. The army recruit who tried to look down my shirt brought a soft coral blanket with a fringe as one of his three items; the sergeant tells him it’s fit for a real princess.

If I were Elisa, I’d listen closely to every single one, get to know my fellow recruits, evaluate them silently and begin to strategize. But I’m not Elisa, and DeLuca isn’t clever with his slurs, and I find the whole thing tedious.

When he’s at the opposite end of the line, I can barely hear him talking, which is a small relief. The sun is starting to beat against my skin. Sweat dampens the nape of my neck.

“You shouldn’t have brought a Godstone,” Aldo whispers.

He might be right. I should have brought a warm blanket, like Aldo and the army boy did. “Why not?” I whisper back.

“DeLuca has sworn his life and honor to the empress. And you’ve just proven that you’re closer to her than he’ll ever be.”

“So?”

“You’ve made him feel bad. And look bad. He’ll take it out on you.”

“Why is it my job to make him feel good about himself?”

Aldo is silent a moment. “Huh. Good point.” He stares at my hand as though the Godstone it holds might grow legs and scuttle away.

“What?” I say. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s weird thinking how that . . . thing . . . used to be lodged in some sorcerer’s navel.”

Which is why the Inviernos have so many names for it. Life stone, soul spark, umbilical stone, anima-lapis, Godstone. A living material that grows as hard as a gem before falling out at age three or four. But like bones, Godstones last long after the body’s death. “Definitely gross,” I agree.

“Shut up, you two. You’ll get us into trouble,” says the army recruit boy.

“I think I’m already in trouble,” I tell him, and he surprises me by chuckling.

At last DeLuca finishes his tour of torpid abuses. He centers himself before us, hands clasped behind his back. “As many of you know, Her Imperial Majesty is not in residence. She travels in state to Amalur, the capital of Orovalle. A highly trained and trusted contingent of the Royal Guard was left behind to protect her interests here at home.”

I barely choke back a laugh.

The rich conde’s son raises his hand.

“Yes, recruit?” says Sergeant DeLuca.

“I expected to see Captain Bolivar here today. Is he not overseeing recruitment this year?”

DeLuca’s right eye gives a slight twitch. “The captain is otherwise occupied.”

Which is a bold-faced lie. I don’t blame him for it; I wouldn’t want Elisa’s enemies to know that the captain of her Royal Guard is missing either.

DeLuca continues, “Because of our reduced manpower, we’ll be training recruits to take on responsibilities as quickly as possible. Those who show themselves loyal and competent will be assigned official Royal Guard duties within the year, starting with watch shifts, commissary, and supply routes. We’ll add to these responsibilities as recruits demonstrate potential.”

At this, a few boys shift in place, and excited murmurings filter down the line. I understand their eagerness, but uneasiness tickles the back of my neck. It usually takes years for the Guard to vet its recruits for loyalty and discretion, even for simple duties like escorting supplies and standing watch. It’s the only way to keep Elisa and her family safe.

“I see you’re all eager to get started,” DeLuca says. “Fine, then. To the weapons rack, ladies!”

I grit my teeth as I follow everyone to the other end of the arena, wondering if DeLuca hates women in general or if it’s just me.

“You!” the sergeant says, pointing to the boy who tried to look down my shirt. “Tell me your name again?”

“Pedrón.”

“Pick a weapon, Recruit Pedrón.”

“Yes, sir.” Pedrón obediently sets his pretty coral blanket on the ground and peruses the weapons—swords, daggers, spears, shields, a maul, a longbow, a crossbow, a single-bladed ax, a double-bladed ax. He reaches for the crossbow.

“No projectiles!” DeLuca calls out. “Today we are evaluating your close quarters combat aptitude.”

Which is a questionable idea. Many of these boys have had training, for true, but several haven’t had a lick. Any good teacher knows that the best way to determine someone’s aptitude is to try to teach them something.

The boy selects a wooden longsword. A good choice. He’s tall enough to make use of it.

“Now you,” DeLuca says, gesturing to Aldo. “Choose your weapon.”

“What?” I say, before I can think better of it. “Pedrón has four years and a full arm’s length on Aldo!”

DeLuca rounds on me, fury in his eyes. “Do you think the empress’s enemies give a roach’s ass if they’re fairly matched or not?”

“I . . . no, of course not.”

“Interrupt a training session again, and you’re short a ration.”

I’m about to protest further, but Aldo catches my eye and gives me the barest nod of his head. “Yes, sir,” I say weakly.

Aldo steps to the weapons rack. He chooses two wooden daggers.

“That’s two weapons, not one,” Sergeant DeLuca says.

Aldo’s expression reveals nothing as he returns one of the daggers to the rack.

“Make a circle, everyone!”

We do, and Aldo and Pedrón face each other, wooden weapons brandished.

“The match lasts until first blood—or until I call a halt, understood?”

“Yes, sir!” we all respond.

“We know that not everyone has prior training. Just do your best, and trust in our expertise to evaluate you according to your current skill level.” This was one of Hector’s reforms, and it’s good to hear DeLuca repeat it, even if I don’t trust him to follow through. “Understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Begin.”

Pedrón lunges with his sword, creating a perfect straight line from shoulder to blade tip. It’s a pretty bit of choreography, but it’s too slow, and Aldo dodges easily.

“Saw that coming from way down south of Ventierra,” Aldo taunts.

Pedrón shrugs and gives Aldo a wry smile. Then, quick as a scorpion, he whips the sword around and whacks Aldo in the shoulder with the blunt side.

Aldo yelps as the momentum from the blow spins him, and he tumbles to the ground, landing hard on his stomach.

He groans, clutching the sand with his fingers, like he’s trying to get up but can’t.

Other recruits lean in, worry marking their faces. Not worried for Aldo, I’m sure. Worried for themselves. They see this exact punishment and humiliation in their very near futures.

But they didn’t see what I did. Aldo exaggerated everything. The flat of Pedrón’s blade barely hit him. It was a perfectly executed bit of theater for a boy who wanted out of a mismatch as quickly as possible.

Pedrón steps forward as if to deal a killing blow.

“Halt!” DeLuca calls. “Now help your fellow recruit to his feet,” he orders, and Pedrón does as commanded, reaching for Aldo and yanking him up.

Clutching his side, Aldo staggers over to stand beside me.

“Well done,” I whisper.

Aldo tries very hard not to grin.

“Recruit Pedrón,” DeLuca says, “you have good power and adequate speed for your size, but you can be better. We’ll work on that. Recruit Aldo, you have better speed and extraordinary spatial awareness. We’ll teach you some real fighting skills so you won’t have to rely on deception.”

My eyes widen. Perhaps DeLuca is not the idiot I took him for. Off to the side, a few other Guards are discussing something quietly among themselves, though their eyes remain on the recruits. Maybe they really are evaluating us.

“Next up, Recruit Iván.”

The handsome boy with quick, dark eyes steps forward. The son of a traitor. Which makes him Juan-Carlos’s younger brother.

“And Recruit Red.”

I’m stepping forward even as Iván says, “I won’t fight a girl.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you,” I tell him.

“It wouldn’t be fair,” Iván says. “And I don’t want to get into the habit of pulling my punches or weakening my blows.”

“It’s clear you have great respect for women,” I say gravely, and Iván gives me a puzzled look, unsure how I just managed to insult him.

DeLuca considers. “Fine,” he says.

Weird that he’s not pressing the matter. Maybe Iván holds some status with DeLuca, being the brother of a Quorum lord. We’re supposed to leave status behind to come here, but such things are never true in practice.

“Any volunteers to fight a girl?” DeLuca calls out.

Several boys appear uncomfortable, looking everywhere but at the sergeant, lest they catch his eye. But there’s no shortage of hands raised.

The crowd on the walls is as thick as I’ve ever seen it. People are leaning forward, eyes wide, chatting excitedly. This is the best spectacle they’ve seen all year.

“You,” the sergeant says, pointing to the rich boy with fine silks. “Recruit Valentino.”

Valentino. Where do I know that name?

The rich boy steps forward. “I won’t pull my punches or soften my blows,” he says, heading toward the weapons rack. The look he gives me is not unfriendly.

“Thank you,” I tell him, and he smiles.

Valentino moves like a dancer, all grace and power and exquisite control, with not a single wasted movement. He is well trained and fully come into his own body. A man, not a boy.

He chooses the double-bladed ax. It’s wooden, like most of the practice weapons, but it’s by far the largest and heaviest of them.

“Recruit Red? You must choose a weapon.”

I stare at them all, remembering Hector’s words. Should I reveal my skills and training or save them for later? Should I look for an easy way out of this match like Aldo did? Valentino seems to be a worthy adversary. Losing to him wouldn’t be too humiliating. I’d get a black eye out of it maybe. A bloody nose. And a whole lot of sympathy.

Then again, I just declared my close relationship to the empress with my Godstone. People already hate me for that.

“Recruit Red?” the sergeant prompts.

All eyes are on me, the failed princess. From the crowd, faintly at first, comes a chant: “Choose, choose, choose . . .”

The spear would give me reach. The dagger would complement my speed. The short sword would be a decent compromise between the two.

“Choose, choose, choose.”

I reach for the dagger. My hand freezes midair.

“Choose, choose, choose!”

I turn to Valentino, clasping my hands behind my back.

The crowd goes still.

“Recruit Red! Are you refusing to fight?” DeLuca asks.

“No, sir!”

“Then choose a weapon.”

“No, sir!”

My opponent’s mouth parts slightly, understanding dawning.

Sergeant DeLuca says, “What do you think you’re—”

Loud and clear so everyone can hear, I say, “I don’t need a weapon.”

My declaration somehow fills the space, and the other boys shift away from Valentino and me, enlarging our fighting circle. The arena is deadly quiet.

“I meant it,” Valentino says. “I won’t soften my blows. Even if you refuse a weapon.” As if to emphasize the point, he whirls the ax around, testing its weight and balance. His forearm is corded with muscle, and his ax, though wooden, is hefty enough to break my bones.

I ground my feet to the earth, feeling the warmth of the sand through my boots. I breathe deep through my nose, relax my shoulders. Harsh winds, rough seas, still hearts.

Someone in the crowd above us yells, “Olé, Ciénega del Sur!” Ah, that’s it. That’s where I’ve heard Valentino’s name.

“You’re the son of Conde Astón, yes?” I say aloud. “Of Ciénega del Sur.” The speaker of the chamber of condes, who so gleefully announced my failed adoption to the entire court. Valentino is his third son, and therefore in little danger of inheriting.

Valentino says, “But we leave all that behind to become Royal Guard, right?”

“Right.”

“Are you going to gossip like little girls?” DeLuca says, “Or are you going to fight?”

“You haven’t told us to begin,” I point out.

“Begin.”

Valentino moves so fast it’s a blur, slicing at a diagonal as if to cleave me from shoulder to opposite hip.

But I’m faster. A diagonal blow must be dodged at the highest point, and I barely manage it, swiveling to the side so that the ax meets air.

“Nicely done,” Valentino says, already back in place.

“You spoke true about not softening your blows,” I say. His weapon would have shattered my collarbone if it had landed. Maybe he’s trying to kill me.

He grins, casually whirling his weapon. It seems light in his hand, as if it’s made of nothing.

His shoulders reveal his next move a split second before the blow comes, and I’m already throwing my head back as the ax blade sings through the air a finger’s breadth from my nose.

I’ve been drilled in this maneuver so many times that I’m not even thinking, just reacting with muscle memory as my dodge becomes a leg sweep. I twist to the side as I fall. My hands hit the sand as my foot arcs out, crashes into Valentino’s ankles, knocks them out from under him.

The crowd gasps.

I’m on my feet in an instant, but so is Valentino. He wipes sand from his silk tunic.

“You’re fast,” he says.

“You too. Almost got me.”

“You’ve had training,” he accuses.

“Maybe as much as you.”

He whirls his ax again, eyes narrowed. There’s nothing more dangerous than an opponent who thinks, Elisa always says.

I have to end this soon, on the off chance that the son of Elisa’s most powerful rival really is trying to kill me. He’s bigger and stronger, and I can’t dodge every blow, even with all my training.

Valentino shifts the ax into his right hand only, leaving his left hand free. He’s about to try a feint, see if he can trick me into dodging into his blow. It’s what I’d do.

He sweeps toward my head with the ax, enticing me to dodge right, but his other shoulder is priming to ambush me with a punch.

I duck down and slightly left, barely missing the ax blade. While his torso twists into his useless swing, I dart forward and slam my elbow into his kidney.

His flank is soft with surprise. My elbow hits harder than I expect, and he crumples to the sand.

Valentino struggles to find his feet, but I dash forward and stomp on his wrist. His fingers release the ax handle. Quick as a blink, I grab the ax and scurry out of reach.

I give the weapon an experimental swing, watching as Valentino manages to get his knees beneath him. The weapon is even heavier than I anticipated.

I advance on him, trying to figure out a way to draw blood and end the match without hurting him too much more, but DeLuca says, “Halt!”

The arena is as still as night. I just defeated a young man twice my size, disarming him in the process, but no applause or cheering greets me.

“Well,” DeLuca says. “I see a bit of Lord-Commander Hector’s fighting style in you.”

I open my mouth to tell him that Dante is Lord-Commander now, not Hector, who gave up command when his daughter was born. But I think better of correcting him.

Everyone is staring. I go to help Valentino up, the way Pedrón helped Aldo, but he waves me off. DeLuca says nothing. Valentino finally gets to his feet, but he remains bent over.

At last, a single applause sounds. A clap of pity, come too late. I glance around.

It’s Iván, Juan-Carlos’s brother, the boy who refused to fight a girl. Then Aldo joins him, grinning ear to ear. A few other recruits begin to clap. And finally, distantly, comes a smattering of applause from the audience lining the edges.

But not everyone approves, and the sound fades fast, leaving us in silence once again.

“You still have a lot to learn,” DeLuca says, frowning.

“Yes, sir, I do.” And it’s true. I’ve spent so much time learning how to defend myself, how to stay alive and survive, that I know little about attacking. It’s a weakness that will become obvious to everyone soon enough.

“And Recruit Valentino . . . if the little girl hasn’t wounded you too badly, we’ll get you started on broadsword training right away.”

“I’ll be fine,” Valentino says through gritted teeth.

DeLuca grunts, and then he moves on, calling on two other recruits to choose their weapons.

I return the ax to the rack and run back to the line. Valentino sidles over to me and Aldo. “That was . . . unexpected,” he breathes through his pain.

“Unexpected?” Aldo whispers. “That was incredible.”

“I hit you harder than I meant to,” I confess.

“I can handle it,” he says.

“Were you trying to kill me?” I ask.

The question startles him. “No. I didn’t expect DeLuca to let me use the ax. It’s too heavy for safe sparring. But then I was committed in front of everyone.”

“Huh.” I find myself believing him.

“You know . . .” He winces. “This is really starting to hurt.”

Two other recruits are called out to face each other, both of them from Basajuan, and both of them named Arturo, which is the most common name in the east. My attention is half on the Arturos, half on Valentino, when I say, “You might piss blood tonight. Drink as much water as you can and try not to exert yourself for a few days. If you can’t piss at all, be sure to tell someone. Don’t tough it out.”

“Whatever you say, Doctor Red.”

I look up at his face to find him grinning. “I really am sorry,” I tell him.

“I’ll get you next time.”

“I know you will.”

There’s a warmth in my cheeks that has nothing to do with sun and sand. I’ve met two people—Aldo and Valentino—who have the potential to become friends. Not a bad morning at all.

But then I happen to glance beyond the sparring recruits—who are clumsily swinging their wooden daggers—to Valentino’s entourage, the boys who followed him into the arena like ducklings after their beloved mother.

They’re staring at me with such pure, icy hatred that a chill shivers down my spine.