The Empire of Dreams

by Rae Carson

  “Hear,” Mula whispered. She wasn’t lucky, no matter what the cook said. She had never been lucky.

  “Anyway, get back to work. Come up quick with a full basket, and I’ll find work for you in the kitchen, out of sight.”

  “Thank you!”

  The cook disappeared up the stairs.

  Mula worked fast, gathering turnips and meat strips, wiping them with her clothes, picking out the most stubborn flecks of dirt. Her basket was only half-full when the cook returned. His eyes were wide, and he was breathless.

  “Come now,” he said gesturing.

  The girl couldn’t move. Fear rooted her to the earthen floor.

  “Now!” he practically shouted. “Leave the basket. Orlín wants you right away.”

  Mula forced her feet to tackle the stair steps, though it seemed like an invisible force was dragging her back into the cool safety of the cellar. No, no, not up there.

  “Hurry!” the cook said, and when she was near enough, he grabbed her arm and yanked her the remaining distance.

  He held her fast before the hearth, which was bright with long flames. “You’re filthy,” he said, and he smacked at the dust on her pants and wiped a spot on her cheek with a rag. “That will have to do. Now come.”

  His grip on her upper arm was iron strong as he dragged her from the kitchen, into the busy common room.

  Dining tables were scattered throughout, some long with benches, a few round with stools, all stained from ale and spilled stew. A stone fireplace climbed the wall at one end, with fresh-cut pinewood stacked beside it. Rushes covered the floor, sour with ale and urine, and a single window looked out over the snowy rooftops of the village.

  At the long table nearest the hearth sat a group of monster people, and even their thick woolen coats and fur stoles could not disguise their tall slenderness. Their hair was a riot of color—one had black hair, just like a Joyan, another the bright copper of a late sunset, still another had hair of polished chestnut.

  The sorcerer sat at the head of the table, slightly apart from the others. His eyes were the deep blue of a high mountain lake. His cloud-white hair was pulled back into a long braid that wrapped around his neck and dangled down his chest. Mula didn’t see an amulet there. Maybe it was hidden beneath his fur stole.

  Then she saw the staff leaning against the table beside him, made of twisted oak. Embedded in the very top, gripped by sculpted wooden claws, was a bright blue sparkle stone. The girl loosed a single, sharp sob.

  Orlín the innkeeper approached, wiping his hands on a rag. His nearly bald head shimmered with sweat. “There you are,” he said. “Come with me.”

  The cook returned to the kitchen as the girl was yanked forward by the innkeeper, toward the sorcerer.

  “No,” Mula said. “Please! I don’t want to go over there. I’ll do anything. I’ll clean chamber pots for a month. I’ll boil all the sheets. I’ll—”

  “You’ll do whatever I tell you, Mula. I own you.”

  They stopped before the table, and the sorcerer looked up from his bowl of stew. The tingling inside her was ferocious now. She hadn’t eaten all day, but maybe she would vomit anyway.

  “Thisss is the bleeder?” asked the sorcerer. She hated the way monster people hissed when they spoke the Lengua Plebeya. Like snakes hiding in the grass.

  “Yes, my lord,” said Orlín.

  “She is a mula.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Have you bled her before?”

  Orlín hesitated. He settled on the truth. “No, my lord. This will be her first time.”

  The sorcerer grunted. “I guess we’ll sssee. Come here, mule girl.”

  The innkeeper shoved her forward. The sorcerer reached out with his long spider fingers and touched her cheek. His fingers were warm and dry. Bile rose in her throat.

  “Sso young,” he murmured. He turned to one of his companions. “Needle,” he commanded.

  His copper-haired companion rummaged around in a pack for a moment, retrieved a leather fold with ties, and set it on the table. He untied it, flipped it open, revealing sewing supplies—needles, thread, a thimble. He pulled out the very largest needle and handed it to the sorcerer, who took it gingerly.

  “Give me your finger,” the sorcerer said.

  If Mula refused an important customer, Orlín would beat her, then make her sleep outside, tied up in the sheep pen. Still, she was slow about lifting her hand.

  “Mula, do as the lord commands, hear?” Orlín growled.

  “Hear.” She lifted her forefinger toward the sorcerer. It hovered in the air before him, fragile and trembling like a baby bird.

  The sorcerer grabbed her hand, shoved the needle deep into the flesh of her fingertip. Pain zinged all through her hand and up her arm.

  “Now we shall see,” the sorcerer said. He angled her hand downward. Blood welled around the needle, which throbbed so badly it felt like her heart had departed her chest and taken up residence in her fingertip.

  A single fat drop of crimson slipped down the needle and fell to the floor.

  The sorcerer grabbed his staff, closed his eyes, muttered something. The gem in the staff’s tip began to glow. The tingling in Mula’s limbs became a maelstrom of sensation, like a thousand black flies were buzzing around inside her, trying to break free of her skin.

  “Oh,” the sorcerer breathed. “Oh, yes. God lovesss your blood, mule girl. Yours in particular.”

  His lake-water blue eyes flew open. “Look how my anima-lapis responds! It is ssso eager to do magic.” To Orlín he said, “Where did you acquire this creature?”

  “From the glassblower. She has a booth in the market, if you want to speak to her.”

  The sorcerer yanked the needle out of the girl’s fingertip. Two large drops of blood followed, splatting onto the stone floor. The sparkle stone flared brighter. Mula was about to see magic done, for true.

  But then the sorcerer set the staff against the table and leaned back in his chair. The light in the gemstone faded. Mula remembered how to breathe.

  He said, “I’ll pay you five coppers for a jar of her blood.”

  “Seven coppers,” said the innkeeper.

  The sorcerer frowned. “Six.”

  “Done.”

  The sorcerer’s red-haired companion removed a glass jar from his rucksack. It wasn’t a large jar; it would barely hold a mugful of ale. “I don’t have a hollow needle or a bleeding tube,” the sorcerer said to no one in particular. “So we’ll have to cut her thumb.”

  “No . . .” Mula tried to step back, but Orlín was in the way. He grabbed her shoulders and held her fast as the copper-haired man pulled out a dagger and a whetstone. He spat on the stone, rubbed the blade across it. Swick, swick. Then he reached forward and slipped the blade’s edge across the fleshiest part of Mula’s thumb.

  Blood welled immediately, and the pain came a split second after. The redheaded man held the jar beneath her thumb and caught the blood as it fell; he had cut deep enough to provide a steady drip-plop. The blood slipped down the inside edge of the glass, coating it in thick scarlet. The room began to spin.

  “Let her sit,” the sorcerer said. “She’s going to faint.”

  They guided her to the bench and she sank onto it gratefully.

  “It helps to look away from the blood,” the copper-haired man said. “Think about something else.”

  Mula didn’t want to cry in front of all these awful men, but she hardly knew up from down and her life’s blood was leaving her body and she had just seen a sparkle stone go bright with power. Her lips trembled; her eyes filled with liquid.

  So she thought hard about the other side of the world. What it must be like. She imagined a desert, the sun shining on snowless mountains of orange sand. Warmth blanketing her skin. More sky than a single person ever knew existed. If she got to see the great desert for true, she’d know she was lucky after all.

  “There we go,” said the copper-haired man. “That wasn’t so bad,
yes?” He wrapped her finger in a strip of cloth and tied it off. “Put pressure on that for a few minutes until the bleeding stops,” he said.

  She cradled her thumb in her hand. It throbbed so badly she could hardly stand it.

  The red-haired man stoppered the jar and slipped it into the rucksack. The sorcerer counted out six coppers and handed them to Orlín. “You’ve got a good bleeder here. My countrymen will be coming through soon, and they’ll pay you decent money to bleed her so long as you keep her well fed and watered.”

  Orlín was staring at the coppers in his palm. “I will. Thank you, my lord.” To Mula he said, “Go back to the kitchen. Cook needs your help.”

  The girl was weak and dizzy, distant from her own body, and her thumb throbbed like a drum. But she wanted more than anything to get away from the sorcerer, so she turned and fled, careening into tables and chairs as she went.

  16

  Now

  ALL day long, at every meal, at every pause in training, Iván insists that we must do something to reach Rosario immediately. He seems certain that I can conjure some secret passageway to take us directly to the prince.

  And I keep telling him that we must have patience. Rosario is no fool. He will reach out to us again.

  I hope I am right.

  By the end of the day, Iván is so frustrated with me, I’m worried that he’s going to sneak off to try something stupid on his own.

  But as I head to the arena for informal practice, I’m hoping that if he does do something stupid, he will succeed.

  Pedrón and the other former army recruits are already in the sand when Aldo and I arrive. We are soon joined by Itzal. Finally Iván comes, looking sullen and worried. I’m both relieved and disappointed.

  “Is this everybody?” he asks.

  “It appears so,” I reply. Only seven recruits in total, but a low number of students makes for a manageable class. The moon is high, and torches are sconced at the entrance to the barracks, casting pools of orange onto the sand. It’s plenty enough light to see by. “Let’s get started.”

  Aldo grabs a wooden sword from the rack, and we all follow his lead.

  “So, what do we do?” Pedrón says.

  Aldo shrugs. I say, “Er . . . I guess we should line up the way Master Santiago showed us?”

  Everyone shifts around in the sand until we’re in two staggered lines of four and three.

  “Now what?” Pedrón says.

  Everyone is looking to me for guidance. Little do they know that I’ve never taught anyone anything before. But I had Hector, and Hector was a great teacher. “Go through the forms Santiago has shown us so far. Keep an eye on Aldo for a reference if you forget what comes next. I’m going to watch you all and see if I can figure out what’s made Santiago so surly.”

  Aldo says, “Let’s start with Bulwark!” and he clicks his heels together, striking the pose. Everyone follows his lead, and I weave among them, eyeing their stance, posture, and grip.

  “Now Eastern Wind,” Aldo says.

  The recruits go through them all, holding each pose for several seconds, which allows me to evaluate. Pedrón is all power and no finesse, as though he’s trying to pummel the sky to death. Itzal has little body awareness and tends to move in the wrong direction. Iván is near perfect, and I have no idea why he decided to join us.

  Once everyone settles back into Bulwark, Pedrón says, “So, can you fix us?”

  “Not a chance,” I blurt, before I realize this is one of those moments when a lot of good people would choose to tell a harmless lie.

  Pedrón tosses his wooden sword in the sand. “What a waste of time.”

  “Wait!” I say, before Pedrón can storm out of the arena.

  He gives me a skeptical look, but he stays.

  “You might be able to fix yourself, though. Give it a try, all right? I’ll tell you what I see, and you decide if I’m worth listening to. One thing’s for sure; you can’t get worse.”

  His fellow army recruits snicker, and somehow this softens him instead of making him angry. He bends to retrieve the sword.

  I size him up—his brick of a jaw and his rampart shoulders and his bulky, clumsy hands—wondering how to help him. What would Hector say?

  “Pedrón, it might help you to think of your sword as a beautiful girl.”

  He grins. Lifts the blade to his mouth. Kisses it, long and slow.

  “Er . . . that’s not what I meant.”

  Iván mutters, “That poor sword.”

  I try again. “What I meant was, you need to treat the sword like an equal partner, not a tool. You need to dance with it, not bludgeon the air to death. Pretend like the two of you belong together.”

  Pedrón holds the sword out and stares at it. “I don’t understand.”

  “Let me see you Salute the Sky.”

  He raises his sword in a furious thrust. It lists slightly leftward.

  “Now do it again, but slower. Make sure your sword makes a perfect line upward; don’t let it tilt to either side.”

  He tries again, slower this time.

  “That’s better. Don’t fight so hard with it. The stabbing and slashing will come later. For now, think of your sword as a dance partner, not a weapon.”

  “I hate dancing,” he says, lowering his sword to his side.

  “And your enemy loves you for it. It makes you easy to kill.”

  Which is exactly what Hector said to me once, in different circumstances. “Let me show you something. Go back into Salute the Sky.”

  When he lifts his sword, I swing mine at him, slowly but aimed squarely at his chest.

  Immediately, he swings his blade down to block me. The sharp smack of wood rattles my arm.

  Pedrón is as startled as I am. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine! But you see why we learn Salute the Sky. You can defend yourself from that position, but you can also attack. If your form is wrong, your block will miss. If your form is wrong, your attack will fail. And then what?”

  He hesitates. “And then I’m dead?”

  The other recruits have stopped practicing to watch us. “And then you’re dead.” I turn to the others. “Every one of these forms is designed to save your life. Every one of them is a way to take advantage of an opening or to counter an attack.”

  “She’s right,” Aldo says. “I’ll show you. Iván, Eastern Wind.”

  Iván takes up the proper stance and Aldo swings his sword at him, shouting, “Path of the Sun.”

  Iván moves into the form and deflects Aldo’s blade, so Aldo counters with an attack from the opposite direction. “Slit the Rope!”

  Iván’s blade slashes downward and sweeps Aldo’s sword aside. Aldo is already shouting, “Salute the Sky!”

  Iván raises his blade and stands wide-eyed, panting. “What next?”

  Aldo whirls his sword around, grinning like a boy receiving his Deliverance Day gift. He loves this. He may be smaller than the other boys, but he has an ease and grace with his body that will make him a dangerous opponent in any fight. “What’s next is you’re ready to attack if I leave myself open, or ready to block my next attack, just like Red said.”

  I nod to Aldo.

  Pedrón says. “Fine, I get it. But once we master these forms, we can get to the fun stuff, right?”

  “Pedrón, these forms are the fun stuff.”

  We go through them again, slowly. We’ll have to speed them up, but for now, slowing down the movements allows the recruits time to think and adjust and feel their limbs in motion.

  Aldo moves them into Slit the Rope, and Itzal swipes the wrong direction, whacking Pedrón’s thigh with his wooden blade.

  “Ow! What did you do that for?”

  “Sorry!”

  I step over to Itzal, grab his wrists, and gently guide him through the correct motion. “Like this,” I say. “Concentrate on how that feels.”

  The next time they move through Slit the Rope, Itzal starts to go in the wrong direction but c
atches himself and corrects. The third time, he gets it right.

  At the end of the third pass, everyone looks at me expectantly. They suck air. Andrés is shimmery with sweat.

  “You’re already getting better,” I assure them. “Take a moment to catch your breath, then we’ll go through it again.”

  Pedrón smiles in triumph.

  But a strange frisson slips down my spine, like the ghost of an unwelcome thought. I watch the boys as they breathe deep and stretch their shoulders. These exercises shouldn’t be difficult. I don’t understand why such simple, controlled movements would be so foreign to them.

  Itzal gives his sword an experimental swipe, clumsy but almost serviceable.

  The earth tilts.

  I was in a cellar with a butcher’s knife, swiping diagonally at the hanging carcass of a skinned dog. Blood and offal soaked the dirt floor. Footsteps on the floor above set my carcass to swinging. Still, my swipes were perfect, creating flawless cuts of meat for Orlín the innkeeper to sell to customers as beef.

  My swipes were perfect because they had to be. Orlín stood beside me, skinning another animal. If I jostled him in the slightest, I’d earn myself a blow to the ear.

  I was good at this, making myself as tiny as possible. Aware of every part of my body at all times. I could feel his skin beside mine, a heat aura of dangerous space I would never, ever touch.

  “Red?”

  I slip back into myself. The warmth of the sand is a grounding force, and I say, without even a hitch, “Let’s go again.”

  I watch them as they follow Aldo’s lead through the forms. What must it be like to bludgeon your way through life without a care for anyone else? Some of them can’t do the forms well, not because they’re inherently clumsy, but because they’ve never had to control themselves or consider their blundering bodies in relation to someone else’s space. The world has always made space for them.

  Maybe this is a thing that only happens to boys.

  My body is vibrating now, like it always does after a vivid memory. I step into formation and do the next few sets along with the others, needing a release for the sudden surge in my limbs.

  A Guardsman enters the arena to snuff the torches. He gives us a long glance before returning to the barracks.