The Empire of Dreams

by Rae Carson

  The girl didn’t know what a mula was, but it sounded nice, and she was hungry, so she nodded. Yes, she would be a mula.

  The monster woman’s smile changed, and the girl thought of beautiful, bright summer clouds right before they burst with deadly hail.

  “We must tattoo your feet,” the monster-woman said.

  The little girl, whose name was now Mula, had done nothing but sleep and eat for three days. But now the monster woman wanted her to start contributing.

  “What’s a tattoo?” Mula asked.

  “A special mark,” the woman said. “It’s very pretty. Bright blue like the sky.”

  Mula liked the color blue. It was her second-favorite color, after red. “Like jewelry?” Mula asked.

  “Yes, like jewelry. For your feet. You won’t be able to walk for a few days while the color sets, but you can’t walk on that ankle anyway. I’ll find simple tasks for you at first. Can you peel turnips? Mend? Scrub dishes?”

  Mula nodded. She was a big girl, and big girls knew how to do all those things.

  “Good. That’s good.”

  Mula beamed. She was happy to please the monster woman.

  “If you turn out to have clever fingers, I’ll teach you about glassmaking. That’s what I do, you see. Blow glass and sell it. Mobiles, figurines, ornaments, wind chimes. Do you want to learn how to make glass, Mula?”

  “Yes.”

  “You must address me as ‘my lady.’ Say ‘Yes, my lady.’”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Good girl.”

  The next day, a man came to the hut. The girl called Mula noticed his hands—calloused and cracked, with fingers stained bright blue. He carried a leather satchel, and inside were packets of things, all wrapped in parchment or dried leaves, along with several long pointy tools that looked like writing quills, except so, so much sharper.

  The monster woman helped Mula hobble to the table and sit, while the blue-fingered man poured some dark berries from a packet into a gray stone mortar and used a pestle to crush them, adding a bit of liquid that smelled like mead gone sour.

  The monster woman instructed Mula to sit with her feet up on the table. It was awkward, and it hurt her healing ankle, but she knew better than to complain.

  The mixture in the mortar turned bright blue like the sky. “Azure berries,” the man explained cheerfully. “Very rare, very expensive. That’s why not everyone can afford to have slaves. The tattoos cost too much.”

  Mula gave the monster woman a puzzled look. What did he mean by “slaves”?

  The man dipped one of the sharp quills into the bright ink.

  “Now hold still,” the monster woman ordered. “No matter what.”

  “Heels are very hard to tattoo,” the man said. “The skin is so thick. They will need a deep application.”

  “I understand,” the monster woman said. “Whatever it takes.”

  Mula was still puzzling their words when the man brought the quill tip to her heel, and pure fire shot into her skin. She screamed.

  8

  Now

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What now?” Aldo whispers.

  “No idea.”

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

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

  “Yes, sir!” we answer in unison.

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

  “Yes, sir!”

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

  “YES, SIR!”

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

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

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

  “Yes, sir!”

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

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

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

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

  “She is aptly named,” Valentino says.

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

  “I’m not an Invierno,” I snap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Guardsman Bruno says, “Go claim a bed.”

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

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

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

  “Do you snore?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think—”

  “I’m glad to have you as a bunkmate.”

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

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

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

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

  “I’ll figure it out.”

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

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

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

  “The Badlands,” I suggest.

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

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

  Aldo nods. “I like it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Smells like piss,” someone says.

  “Is this rat meat?” says another.

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

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

  I shrug. “I never turn down a meal.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “She definitely thrashed me,” Valentino says.

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

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

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

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

  “I’m not an Invie
r—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Red, are you all right?”

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

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

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