by Rae Carson
I wish I could see Rosario’s face during this long silence. I imagine him glowering, so I’m surprised when he says, lightly, “Ambassador Songbird, my compliments to your cook. This soup is delicious.”
The ambassador inclines his head. “It’s an Invierno recipe, modified with Joyan spices. I thought it an appropriate starter for this occasion.”
Servants bring a main dish of red snapper on a bed of greens and lime-soaked radish slices, along with roasted peppers stuffed with cheese. My mouth waters. Nothing I’ve eaten in the last two weeks smells as delicious as this.
As everyone eats, the conversation moves to the increase in wood-based construction projects—which Ambassador Songbird is quick to point out is thanks to new trade pacts with Invierno loggers—and then to the precipitous price drop of Basajuan wool, which Lady Jada believes may affect wardrobe choices for the upcoming Deliverance Gala.
“Do you have a gown picked out for the gala already?” Carilla asks Lady Jada.
“I do!” Jada says. “My designer is piecing it together now. We found an incredible silk, dyed with azure berries. I saw it and simply had to have it.”
The mere mention of azure berries used to make my stomach roil, but as the tattoos on my feet have faded, so has my aversion. I admit they produce an incredible shade of silk.
“I can’t wait to see it,” Carilla says.
“And you? Anything picked out yet?”
Carilla frowns daintily. “Not yet. To be honest, I’m not one for dressing up. I find all the petticoats and corsets and everything . . . just so uncomfortable and, frankly, intimidating.”
“My dear, I could help you find something,” Jada says. “It doesn’t have to be a chore.”
“Really? I mean, I’d like that.”
“I’ve often wondered,” Conde Astón says, “how women manage with so many distractions. The hair and wardrobe and . . . not to be too indelicate, but—other womanly concerns. It would be difficult to go through life so encumbered.”
Carilla’s softness is chased away by a hard edge, and her focus on Astón is suddenly razor-sharp. “And yet, somehow, we’ve always managed,” she says. “Managed well, in fact.”
“Oh, certainly,” Conde Astón says. “I meant no disrespect. But you have to permit that having so many extraneous things to worry about is difficult. It’s why women are unsuited to certain types of work. Very few women attend the university, for instance. Fewer still become master carpenters, or captain merchant ships . . .” He grins slightly. “Or become Royal Guards. And when they do, they often find the challenge too much to bear.”
The dining room is silent for a long moment, save for the scrape of the ambassador’s fork against his plate. He eats blithely, as though unaware that Astón has taken a shot at me. Rosario, on the other hand, stops eating, rests his fork beside his plate, takes a deep breath.
I make my face as bland as I can, even as I watch for any telltale movement, listen for any sound of warning. I’d love the luxury of imagining in great detail and at great length how it would feel to punch the high conde in the face. Instead, I must be fully alert to any possible danger to my prince.
Lady Jada can’t help glancing at me. Carilla’s face is made of ice and fury. Rosario is rigid in the seat before me.
But it is the ambassador who finally breaks the silence.
He dabs his lips with his napkin, sets it on the table, and says, “Knowing what I do of Joyan culture and custom, I must conclude that your words are meant to insult the empress’s most infamous Guard recruit, even though you don’t mention Red by name.”
Conde Astón appears affronted. “I was merely making a general statement about women and their—”
The ambassador laughs, and it’s so startling and delightful that I almost forget to keep my face bland.
“I don’t understand what’s so funny,” Astón says.
“You are, Your Grace,” says Ambassador Songbird. “You get away with deceptive, sideways insults because you are powerful, not because you are clever. You should spend some time in my homeland. Our council of Deciregi can teach you the art of deceiving without lying, of subterfuge with true grace.”
“So you’re saying Inviernos are deceivers?”
“Some of us are,” the ambassador says, unabashed. “Just like Joyans. We merely go about it differently.”
Conde Astón opens his mouth to protest, but Lady Carilla speaks first. “Excellency, I must admit that I find your candor refreshing.”
“If not very diplomatic,” Conde Astón says.
“Where I come from,” Songbird says, “diplomacy is about truth. Surely you can agree that only truth can lay the groundwork for trust.”
In response, Conde Astón shoves a forkful of roasted pepper into his mouth.
Rosario says, “Ambassador Songbird was handpicked for this post by Prince Storm himself, and over the years he has become a good friend to the family. My stepmother values his forthright council greatly.”
The conde swallows. Smiles. Somehow, Rosario has walked into a trap. “So the rumors are true,” Astón says. “Our foreign ambassador is acting as adviser to the empress.”
“That’s not what I—”
“Such an arrangement borders on treason,” the conde says.
Rosario sputters.
The ambassador comes to his rescue. “Your empress is well known for taking in multiple viewpoints before making major decisions,” he says. “I can assure you that my influence is minor. Besides, she only consults me on matters pertaining to Joyan-Invierno relations.”
“Yes,” Rosario says, his voiced tinged with relief. “That’s what I meant.”
Conde Astón’s lips are still curved into a slight smile as he takes a sip of wine.
Servants sweep in to clear dishes and replace them with custard bowls, garnished with mint and orange peel. One reaches as if to set a bowl before Rosario, but I move my body to intercept him. Glaring, I hold my hand out for the bowl. The servant relinquishes it to me, bows in apology, and flees back to the kitchen.
I give the custard a thorough sniff before setting it before my prince, who shoots me a quick look of gratitude.
Lady Jada says, “Lady Red, will you and your fellow recruits be attending the Deliverance Gala? With so much of the Royal Guard traveling in state, you would be welcome as added security.”
“We’ve not yet been given instructions about the gala, my lady,” I tell her, moving back into place behind Rosario.
“I’m sure the palace watch will be sufficient for the task,” Conde Astón says.
“I hear they aren’t nearly as well trained or well vetted as the Royal Guard,” Lady Carilla says. “I’d take a Royal Guard recruit over a palace watch officer, to be honest. It was much the same in Amalur.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that you fostered with Queen Alodia for many years,” Lady Jada says.
“It was a lovely and formative time,” Carilla says. “I learned so much. And the queen’s personal guard is formidable, just like our empress’s.”
“I disagree in part,” says the conde. “Guard recruits are indeed well trained and vetted, but they aren’t issued steel swords until their third year. They can’t be expected to protect the prince without real weapons.”
“I’ve heard,” Carilla says, drawing out her words with slow precision, “that occasionally a recruit comes along who doesn’t need a weapon.”
Jada gives her a startled glance.
The ambassador sips his wine.
The High Conde of Ciénega del Sur places his napkin across the bowl before him and rises from his chair. His face is as hard as a granite block and his voice is dangerously low when he says, “Forgive me; I’m afraid I must excuse myself early. My son, Valentino, was recently injured, you see, and I must tend to him.” He inclines his head toward the ambassador. “Thank you for including me and for this wonderful repast.” To Prince Rosario, he says, “Your Highness.”
He doesn’t bother to acknowl
edge the women as he steps away from the table and strides from the dining room.
I watch him as he walks away: his long legs just like Valentino’s, his huge feet, and—I gasp—his slight inward pronation.
Iván shoots me a look, and I indicate the conde’s feet with a nod of my head, but it’s too late. Astón is gone.
“Well,” Lady Jada says, “this custard is sublime.”
My mind is racing. Is it possible? Was Astón the man who ransacked Captain Bolivar’s bedroom while Iván and I hid under the bed? Why would the most powerful conde in the empire sneak into the Guard barracks? Surely he has lackeys willing to risk themselves on his behalf.
Whoever it was wore Guard-issue boots. How would the conde get access to those boots? Or a key to the bedroom? What was he doing there? Maybe he was looking for something on behalf of Valentino, who was also sickened by poison. Perhaps he was removing evidence.
Or maybe it wasn’t him at all. There are probably half a dozen men on the palace grounds right this moment who have huge feet and walk on their inner arches.
The conversation moves back to the Deliverance Gala as the others finish their custard. Rosario assures everyone that the gala will be well attended as always, even with the empress away. The ambassador indicates his pleasure that more Inviernos than ever have received invitations to this year’s event. Lady Carilla and Lady Jada agree on a time and place to meet for a shopping trip. No one mentions the recently departed conde.
Servants clear the empty custard bowls, and everyone chats a little longer over a final glass of blush-colored wine—a popular Ventierra vintage, Rosario proudly points out, from Hector’s home countship.
Finally the monastery bells ring the eleventh hour, and Rosario stands. Everyone else follows suit. “Some administrative tasks call for my attention,” he says. “The company tonight was so delightful that I’m afraid I put off doing them much longer than I meant to. Thank you so much, Ambassador Songbird, for a lovely evening.”
The prince kisses Carilla on the cheek, clasps Lady Jada’s hand warmly, then turns to the ambassador and grasps his shoulder. “I appreciated your support tonight,” Rosario says.
“Always.” Songbird gives him a slight bow. “Do you need an escort?”
“Not this time.” To us he says, “Red, Iván, with me, please.” With that, the prince skirts the table and exits the dining room, me and Iván at his heels.
He leads us quickly from the ambassador’s quarters, but instead of turning left to return to the barracks, we turn right, toward the monastery. I’m desperate to find out what went so wrong that two first-year recruits served as actual Guards tonight. “Rosario—” I begin, but he hushes me.
“Hold your thoughts,” he orders.
Suddenly, every shadow holds a dagger, and every whisper of sound is a footstep. I hate that we travel alone with our prince, weaponless, untrained. I peer in each doorway, and I note that Iván does the same. When we reach a branching corridor, I step in front of Rosario, forcing him to pause, while Iván checks it. “It’s clear,” he says, and we move on.
Finally we enter the sanctuary, with its beamed ceiling and long wooden benches and smoky air that smells of sacrament roses. People huddle on the benches despite the late hour, for the sanctuary is always open to those needing a quiet place to pray.
I study everyone with suspicion as Rosario leads us past the benches, beyond the altar, and into the archival wing, where the empire’s oldest manuscripts are carefully stored. The chamber is cool, dark, and dry. Shelves reach to the ceiling, crammed with scrolls and parchment sheaths and musty vellum, all looming over a long stone table for study. Light pools around a single oil lamp in the middle of the table.
Rosario closes and bars the door behind us. “We can speak freely here,” he says, taking a seat at the table’s head. “I’ve arranged with Father Nicandro to be undisturbed.”
He’s silent, staring off into the gloom, as Iván and I take seats beside him. I’m not sure where to start, or even if I should. Rosario has been so different the last two times I saw him, nothing at all like the smiling, mischievous boy I grew up with.
Iván is the one to break the silence. “Your Highness,” he says. “What happened? Why didn’t you have a proper Guard tonight?”
Rosario’s lips press tight as he looks down at the table. His impossibly long lashes rest against soft cheeks, and I’m reminded that no matter how hard he pretends confidence and poise, he’s only fifteen years old.
His finger traces an invisible line along the gray surface. “Fernando was hurt,” he says.
“What?” I say. “I mean, is he all right? What happened?” I’ve known Fernando since I first came to this city. He’s a childhood friend of Hector’s. One of Elisa’s most trusted Guards. A friend to frightened little girls.
“It was my fault,” the prince says. “I sent him alone to the kitchens to fetch some coconut milk. He wasn’t wearing steel, just hardened leather. I should have thought . . . I should have . . .”
“Rosario?” I prompt.
His shoulders slump. “Fernando was ambushed in the hall on his way back. Three men, all wearing masks. He drew his sword to fight them off, but all they did was cut him—once across his arm—then they disappeared down the hall. He didn’t give chase; his duty was to return to me and make sure I was safe. We alerted the palace watch, who found nothing and no one.” Rosario takes a deep breath and adds, “By morning, the edges of Fernando’s wound had swollen and . . . puckered . . . and he was running a terrible fever.”
“Poison?” Iván says.
Rosario nods. “Doctor Enzo says he’s seen it before. Not sweet dream; something else. Fernando is in the Wallows right now, beside Captain Bolivar. Enzo isn’t sure if . . . Fernando is very sick.”
First Captain Bolivar, then Fernando. Both close to Rosario. Both charged with keeping him safe.
I say, “Someone is picking off your closest supporters one by one.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Rosario says. “Several people in my spy network have gone missing too.”
“Like the stable hand,” Iván says.
“Yes. People loyal to me who have been with us since I was a little boy.”
Something about that tickles my thoughts, like a scent brought by the breeze and then whisked away before it can be identified.
Iván rubs his jaw. He has the hands of an archer, just like Fernando, with long, slender fingers tipped by calluses. “Let’s think about this,” Iván says. “If someone is picking off your supporters, who will they target next? Maybe Lady Carilla? Everyone knows you’ve been spending time together.”
Rosario shakes his head. “I’m worried it will be Red.”
Iván’s gaze snaps to mine. “That night in the barracks. When the Ciénega del Sur boys attacked you. Do you think someone planned that?”
“Maybe? They blamed me for what happened to Valentino. But . . .”
Rosario leans forward. “I heard you got the best of them, that you weren’t seriously wounded.”
“Yes, but I think they would have hurt me badly if Iván and I had let them.”
“Make no mistake,” Iván says. “They tried to kill you.”
“I’m not sure that’s—”
Rosario says, “Is it possible someone put them up to it? Encouraged them?”
“It’s possible,” I concede. “Though I can’t imagine who.”
“Perhaps it was Conde Astón himself,” Iván says. “He’s their liege lord, right? He hates you, Red. The way he talked about you during dinner made me want to . . .”
I peer closer at him, as if I can make him finish his thought with the force of my will, but he clamps his mouth shut and looks away.
“Speaking of the high conde,” I say. “Rosario, do you know if Astón ever took to the sand?”
“He did. As a young man, he served two years as a recruit under my grandfather, King Nicalao. He was never a serious candidate. Like a lot of inheriting
noble sons, he did it to make connections and acquire extra training.”
“So those could have been his boots after all.”
“Red, what are you talking about?” Iván says.
“The man who walked in on us while we were searching Bolivar’s quarters. I think it might have been Astón.”
Rosario frowns. “Tell me about this.”
So we do. We tell him about finding the tamarind candies, about hiding under the bed while someone searched the room, about trying and failing to get a message to him through the stable hand.
“And you think the person who walked in and ransacked the room was Conde Astón?” Rosario says.
I shrug. “Whoever it was had huge feet, a slightly inward-facing stride, and really old, dingy, Guard-issue boots.”
“We have looked and looked,” Iván says. “No one currently serving in the Guard meets that description. Come to think of it, Sergeant DeLuca would strip the hide off anyone who showed up for duty wearing boots in such bad shape.”
Rosario is suddenly crestfallen. He rubs at the imaginary line on the table with his thumb, over and over, until I worry he’ll rub his skin off.
“Rosario?”
“I was terrible in there!” he blurts. “At dinner. He made me so mad, and I just . . . froze. I couldn’t think of a thing to say, and now it turns out he might be my greatest enemy.”
“You did well!” I protest. “Truly. The conde is the one who made a fool of himself.”
“If you say so.”
“Which you probably remember did not go unnoticed by the ambassador?”
I’m relieved to see a slight grin. “It’s true that Songbird put him in his place. And Carilla.”
“I liked him,” Iván says. “The ambassador, I mean.”
“You seem surprised,” I say.
Iván doesn’t respond.
Rosario stares at one of the shelves. Perhaps he feels the weight of history all around us, neatly piled and painstakingly cataloged. The archive is dry and cool, perfect for preserving ancient knowledge. Still, the priests are in a constant race against time, scribing copies of precious documents before they can disintegrate or fade or mold into oblivion.