by Rae Carson
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.
14
Now
EVEN though it’s early morning, the sun rains pure fire onto my cheeks when I enter the arena, and heat from the sand seeps through the soles of my boots.
The weapons rack has been filled with wooden swords. Before it stands a tall, lithe man with slicked black hair and a waxed mustache that dangles past his chin. He holds his own sword point down in the sand and leans on it in as though it’s a walking cane—an unforgivable treatment of such a weapon. The steel of his blade glints in the morning light, revealing script etched near the hilt, though I’m too far away to make out what it says.
Sergeant DeLuca storms into the arena. “Good morning, recruits!”
The mustached swordsman pivots at the sound of the sergeant’s voice, revealing that most of his other arm is missing. His sleeve is tied into a knot about halfway past where his elbow would have been.
“Stop gaping and line up!” the sergeant yells.
We scurry to comply.
“Tomorrow and every day thereafter,” the sergeant says, “you will line up immediately upon entering the arena without being commanded. Understood?”
“Yes, sir!”
DeLuca walks down the line, hands clasped behind his back. “Today we have a very special guest. Please welcome Swordmaster Santiago.”
We applaud obligingly. The name sounds vaguely familiar.
“Master Santiago will begin your lessons in swordcraft. He’s one of the finest swordsmen in the empire and an excellent teacher. Though not an official member of the Royal Guard, he has been a trusted as
sociate of the imperial family for over a decade. Master Santiago served as personal bodyguard to the dowager queen at her estate in Puerto Verde until her death a few years ago. Since then, he has been an instructor for private guard corps all over the empire, even serving a six-month post with Brisadulce’s own garrison. You will accord him the same respect as any senior member of the Guard and obey his orders as if they come from me or the Lord-Commander himself.”
Aldo whispers, “Has the Guard ever brought in an outsider for training before?”
“Never,” I whisper back.
Sergeant DeLuca steps aside and gestures toward the swordmaster. “Master Santiago, the class is yours.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” says Santiago. He lifts his chin and addresses the recruits. “Each of you claim a practice sword, then return to your place in line.”
As one, we rush to the rack and jostle each other to grab a weapon. All the largest swords disappear first. I’m happy to claim a short sword with a thick cross hilt and a nicked wooden blade. Maybe a light weapon will be easier on my aching rib.
After we get back in line, Master Santiago individually directs each of us to new positions until we are in a staggered formation of two lines, all of us standing a full arm’s length apart.
“Look around and mark your position,” says Santiago. “This is how you will line up for forms and exercises.”
I’m in the middle front, with Aldo to my right, Pedrón to my left, and Iván staggered behind us. Itzal is on the far left end, after Luca and Andrés.
Santiago says, “Now grip your sword hilts, and raise your blades to the sky.”
We do as asked, raising our wooden weapons. My rib screams in protest.
“Hold them there.”
I’m glad I picked a small sword.
Santiago paces before us. “You’re holding light practice blades. Children’s toys made of pine. Nothing at all like real steel swords. Yet some of you are already struggling. Your shoulders burn. Your wrists tremble. No, don’t drop them; keep them raised high.”
He weaves through our staggered line, and I watch as he inspects each of us in turn. When he gets to Itzal, he reaches up and adjusts his grip on the hilt, moving the boy’s thumb so it wraps toward his fingers.
Santiago steps back to observe us all. His gaze lingers on me. My bruised rib is making each breath a torture, but I refuse to let my blade waver.
“I’ve never trained a girl before,” he says.
“You’ll find it uncannily similar to training any other person,” I tell him, and now I wish I hadn’t spoken, because my words have revealed my ragged breath. Pain makes black spots flit in my vision. Maybe my rib is broken after all.
His eyes narrow. “Are you injured?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Maybe you should rest. Leave the training to the boys.”
“No!”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes!”
He smiles. “Good.”
Master Santiago lifts his own sword, whips it around as though it’s as light as a feather.
Addressing us all, he says, “Most of you are not fit to learn sword work. Don’t worry; I will make you fit. For the next few weeks, you will practice forms, and forms only. You will strengthen your shoulders, your arms, even your fingers. You’ll perfect your grip. You’ll learn to find and keep your center of balance, no matter where your sword is or how you’re holding it. Now, follow my lead.”
He turns his back to us, dips into a deep right lunge, and extends his sword out, parallel to the ground. “Assume this position!” he yells.
We mimic him, some with more success than others. I recognize the form; it’s called Eastern Wind, and Hector taught it to me long ago. Pain rips my side, but my thigh muscles find the motion easy and natural.
“Now move as I move,” the swordmaster says. He slowly, gently transitions through a series of forms—arcs his sword around in Path of the Sun, whips it diagonally downward in Slit the Rope, thrusts it high in Salute the Sky, then brings it down—elbow out, heels together, blade at his nose—in Bulwark. His movements are graceful and efficient, more like that of a dancer than a weapons master.
He turns back around. “How did that feel?” he says.
Beside me, Pedrón is breathing hard. Aldo isn’t even breaking a sweat. My rib throbs, and my bruised nose and eye socket are somehow making the sunshine seem like daggers of light in my face. But the forms are familiar to my muscles and so, so much easier than sparring. If we do this for the next two weeks, my injuries might have a chance to heal.
“Again!” Santiago booms. “This time, I will watch.”
We move through the forms again—Eastern Wind, Path of the Sun, Slit the Rope, Salute the Sky, Bulwark.
“That was horrific,” the swordmaster says. “An assault to my eyes. If you must have a reference, watch these two”—with the point of his sword, he indicates Aldo and me—“whose forms are merely dreadful. Now do it again.”
My shoulders itch with the sure knowledge that I’m being closely watched as we move through the forms another time.
“What was that?” the swordmaster says, striding toward Pedrón. He waves his amputated arm under the boy’s nose. “It’s called Salute the Sky, not Pummel the Sky in the Face like a Clumsy Sack. Now do it again.”
We do it again. And again. And over and over until my shoulder burns and my thighs ache. Sweat dribbles down my forehead and stings my eyes. A sunburn heats the back of my neck.
Then, the swordmaster orders us to switch hands and start all over again.
“Hardly fair,” Pedrón whispers. “Being one-handed himself.”
I glare up at him. Injuries like the swordmaster’s are common, especially after the war.
As though he overheard the boy, Santiago says, “I know what you are thinking, yes, I do. But if you are injured in the line of duty, for instance”—he waves his arm stump in the air—“by taking a poisoned Invierno arrow to the elbow, your duty does not end. You must still protect our beloved empress, yes? So you will learn to use either hand with skill and confidence, as I once did.”
The muscles in my sides are beginning to protest and the sunburn on my neck is fire by the time Santiago calls a halt. “Stop, stop, I can take no more of this misery,” he says. “It is clear you are nowhere near ready to learn fighting skills. You will master these forms before I teach you even the simplest block. I expect it will take a month or more. Of course I’ll be delighted if you surprise me and master them all sooner, but . . .” He sighs dramatically. “I never bet on such improbable odds.”
With that, he releases us back into the care of Sergeant DeLuca, who thanks him with a deferential nod. Swordmaster Santiago strides from the arena without looking back.
“After the midday meal,” says the sergeant to us, “those of you who earned free time may do as you please until the dinner bell. Everyone else will remain in the mess to be assigned some afternoon chores.”
Several boys groan.
“You are dismissed,” the sergeant says.
Everything about this feels wrong to me—an outsider brought in for training, the classic forms detached from their practical application. But it could just be tiredness and injury whispering to me. We return our wooden swords to the rack and flee the hot arena for the cool barracks.
Today’s lunch is an oat mash mixed with shredded coconut and drizzled with honey. It’s not exactly a coconut scone, but I’m grateful for it anyway. I find a seat beside Iván.
“To Bolivar’s quarters after this?” I whisper, settling on the bench.
He nods, spooning mash into his mouth.
“How’d you like those forms?” I ask, to make conversation.
“Fine. I’ve done them before, though I was taught a slightly different variation of Slit the Rope.”
“Same here. Hector does a more sideways motion. I like the diagonal version just fine, though.”
“I’ve never done just forms before,”
Iván says. “They were always accompanied by actual swordwork.”
“It’s a little odd,” I agree.
A moment later, we are joined by Aldo, then Itzal, then Pedrón and the army recruits.
“You seemed to handle those forms all right,” Pedrón says.
I ignore him, taking another bite of oat mash.
“That swordmaster is a hypocrite,” Pedrón carries on. “Asking us to learn everything with both hands. I bet he’s not even very good.”
Pedrón is an ignorant fool. “And I bet he could thrash all you army boys at once, even with only one hand,” I say.
“It’s in your best interests to become adept with either hand,” Iván says. “That way, if you get injured, you can still keep your job.”
Pedrón shrugs. “Maybe.”
“Go on,” says Luca, nudging Pedrón with his elbow. “Ask her.”
“Ask me what?” I say, dread filling my gut. I’m fully expecting another question about parts—or worse.
Pedrón puts his elbows on the table and leans forward. “See, my boys and me, we spent some time in the army barracks before transferring here. So we’ve done some sword training. We are ready to learn more.”
“Master Santiago says we’re not,” Aldo says.
“That’s my point. He won’t teach us until we learn those stupid forms. So, will you do it, Red?”
“Do what?”
“Teach us the forms. You and Aldo, I mean. If we practice a little every night, maybe we can get to the fighting stuff faster.”
I blink. He’s asking for my help.
“She’s not going to do it,” says Andrés. “I told you she wouldn’t. She wants us to get cut.”
“Of course I’ll do it,” I say.
“You will?” Pedrón says, a surprised grin forming.
“I can’t speak for Aldo, but I’m happy to help anyone who wants it.”