The Empire of Dreams

by Rae Carson

  “What is it?” Iván asks.

  “A shipping manifest,” I say. “For a ship called the Kestrel, which sailed to Brisadulce from the southern border. Looks like supplies for a long haul. Valentino, why . . . ?”

  “Keep reading,” Valentino says.

  I continue to skim.

  Three coils rope, one barrel pitch, one box iron nails . . .

  Finally, near the end, something snags my attention:

  Forty barrels date syrup

  “This is odd,” I mutter.

  “So you see it too,” Valentino says.

  “What?” Iván demands, coming to read over my shoulder. “See what?”

  I point. “Forty barrels date syrup.”

  “Why is that odd?” Iván asks. “I mean, that’s a lot of date syrup, but . . .”

  “Date palms grow around the edges of the great desert and in the oases. They don’t grow down south in the jungles. The countships there—the Southern Reaches, Isla Oscura, Ciénega del Sur—they all harvest coconut palms.”

  Iván stares at the shipping manifest in my hand for the space of several breaths. To Valentino, he says, “Is the Kestrel one of your father’s ships?”

  Valentino shakes his head. “It belongs to an independent merchant. However, my father has contracted with the ship on several occasions.”

  “And this caught your eye because you don’t think it’s really date syrup.”

  Still holding his cane, Valentino plunks down into the desk chair. His thumb caresses the brass of the viper’s head, gently traces the curve of one shining fang. “My father has never shipped date syrup from anywhere. And forty barrels! I know the empress likes her sweets, but that’s enough syrup for ten years’ worth of deserts.”

  “Date syrup doesn’t keep that long,” I point out.

  “Exactly,” Valentino says.

  “So what are you saying?” Iván asks him. “That your father is smuggling something else into the city?”

  “All I’m saying is I don’t think it’s really date syrup, and . . . that’s all. I’ve done my duty. I don’t care to speculate what it might actually be.” Valentino slumps over, putting his head in his hands.

  Iván says, “But what if it’s—”

  I put a hand on Iván’s arm, silencing him. “Thank you for bringing this to our attention, Valentino. I know this wasn’t an easy choice for you.”

  “It could be nothing, right?” Valentino mutters. “It’s probably nothing.”

  Iván is looking at me, and his eyes are wide with sure knowledge, as he says, “Of course, Valentino. It’s probably nothing.”

  The door to the parlor flies open. I spin to face whoever is coming, shoving the manifest behind my back.

  It’s Conde Astón, resplendent in royal-blue brocade. The golden medallion that marks his station as speaker of the chamber of condes hangs from his neck on a rope-thick chain.

  “Hello, Papá,” Valentino says smoothly.

  The conde’s face is emotionless, like he’s made of marble. “You should have told me you were planning to receive visitors today,” he says. “I would have had the receiving room set up with refreshments.”

  “Your son’s hospitality was more than adequate, Your Grace,” Iván says.

  The conde’s composure cracks just enough to let a bit of anger leak through. “Shouldn’t you be in afternoon training? I thought it was a disqualifying offense to leave the Guard barracks without permission.”

  “We earned free time,” I tell him. “Naturally, we wanted to see how our friend was doing.”

  “Naturally.”

  The parchment in my hand burns like fire. Surely he can tell I’m hiding something? Surely he’s noticed how awkwardly my hand is being held behind my back?

  “Well,” Astón says after too long a pause. “I’m afraid my son needs his rest.”

  “Thank you for coming,” Valentino says.

  “We’ll come again as soon as we can,” Iván assures him.

  “I’d like that. And Red, I’m sorry for—”

  Astón interrupts: “What I meant was, you are both dismissed. I’d like to speak privately with my son now.”

  “Of course, Your Grace,” I say hurriedly. “Please pardon the intrusion.”

  The conde steps aside, allowing us to pass him on our way to the door. As we do, I very carefully lower the shipping manifest to my side, keeping it out of sight.

  The door slams—too loudly—at our backs.

  Quickly I roll up the manifest and shove it in my pocket.

  “I hate that we’ve just left Valentino alone with him,” Iván says.

  “Me too. Do you think he’ll be punished for receiving us? It’s not like he planned it or anything.”

  “If it were my father, I would have been punished.”

  “Oh.” We leave the suite and step into the hallway. “I’m sorry.”

  We walk in silence for a while, passing squires with messages, servants with cleaning buckets, a minor conde surrounded by guards.

  “The gala is more than a month away, and the palace is already filling up,” Iván says.

  “It’s the busiest time of the year. I used to hide in my suite as much as possible until everyone went back home.”

  We leave the Sky Wing and angle toward the throne room. Beyond it is the central green, though it’s usually muddy with traffic this time of year, and the entrance to the Guard barracks.

  Just as we step outside into the sunshine, Iván yanks me aside into the shade of a wide date palm. One of the sharp fronds needles into my shoulder.

  “Careful!” I say.

  “Sorry. I just wanted to see that manifest one more time before we go back to the barracks.”

  I pull it from my pocket and hand it to him. His eyes narrow as he reads. His long body is very close to me, shielding the parchment from any onlookers.

  He says, “I don’t know a lot about sailing. But the only thing on this manifest that looks like trading cargo is the forty barrels of date syrup. Everything else is standard sailing supplies for a large crew on a long haul.”

  “Yes.”

  “Red.” He looks me dead in the eye. “I don’t think those barrels are full of date syrup.”

  “No.”

  “They’re full of sweet dream syrup.”

  “Yes.”

  “Enough to poison an army.”

  “Or a gala full of nobles.”

  He gasps. “You think poisoned food will be served up at the Deliverance Gala?”

  “I don’t know. I do know that the gala would be a really good time for a coup.”

  “We need to let the prince know about this.”

  “And we need to do it right now. Let’s go find that assistant cook.”

  We have nothing to write with. So I pull the last shards of my dye pot from my drawer. One curved shard still shelters a small dollop of dye, with just enough moisture that I’m able to dip my finger and make a large X on the manifest, beside the line item for date syrup. After it dries, I fold it up small and tight and shove it into my pocket.

  At dinner, we are served caramelized onions and garlic-spiced lentils on a bed of spinach.

  Normally, my mouth would be watering with anticipation over such a meal. Instead, my stomach roils as I stand in line, waiting my turn, my palm turning damp with sweat as it clutches my plate and the folded manifest along with it.

  I reach the head of the line. The assistant cook gestures for me to hand him my plate, and I stretch my arm out carefully, hoping beyond hope he’ll see the parchment poking out from under the plate’s edge.

  “Here you go, girl,” he says, and sometime between a tong full of spinach and a ladle full of lentils, the parchment disappears, so smoothly that I barely feel it slide out of my fingers.

  I’m so relieved as I find a seat that when Pedrón insists on sitting beside me, I actually smile at him.

  “How did afternoon training go?” I ask him.

  “Not well,” he says
. “Itzal is right. He’s going to get cut unless he gets some extra help. I could use some help too.”

  “We’ll practice those escapes in our class tonight. You’re big enough that I can teach you different techniques that wouldn’t work for me or Itzal, more than just the five basic escapes.”

  Pedrón beams. “I am big.” He waggles an eyebrow. “I’m big everywhere.”

  “Gross.” I grab my bowl, rise from my seat, and go find Aldo to sit beside. Aldo has never once been gross with me.

  We practice escapes in our unsanctioned class and Pedrón is right; Itzal is hopeless. He might be the clumsiest person I’ve ever seen. But that doesn’t stop him from trying. If anyone can succeed in the Guard on sheer determination, it’s him.

  After the oil lamps are blown out and everyone settles into their cots, I lie awake, worried for Fernando, hoping Rosario will receive and understand our message, thinking about the upcoming Deliverance Gala. Finally I give up on sleeping, and I grab the book Father Nicandro gave me and sneak into the latrine. By torchlight, I read.

  The Articles of the Empire is a massive document, detailing all sorts of matters pertaining to governance, specifically laying out the powers and rights of the chamber of condes, the Quorum of Five, and the imperial throne. Thirty pages alone are devoted to the proper procedure for raising or lowering taxes. If this tome doesn’t put me to sleep, nothing will.

  Finally I reach article fifty-seven, section eight, which outlines inheritance law. A single paragraph addresses the adoption of non-genealogical children as inheritors of land, wealth, and power. Taking on wards from other families is such a common practice among the nobility—including among the three queens of the empire—that it’s no wonder some enterprising conde insisted this clause be included. I read it carefully. Then I read it again.

  There’s nothing here I don’t know. All adoptions resulting in inheritance of rulership must be approved by a vocal majority of the chamber of condes. So what? What did Father Nicandro want me to see?

  No, there’s something not here that he wanted me to see.

  I read it again, understanding dawning. I read it yet again to be sure. I read it five more times.

  My pulse quickens. My face feels warm. Hope is unfurling inside me, even as I try to tamp it down. Hope is frightening. Hope is risky.

  The seed of a precious idea has formed, but I dare not consider it too deeply. I slam the book shut and return to my bunk. I have other things to worry about. Like keeping my prince alive until the empress returns.

  18

  Then

  WAR was coming.

  Mula didn’t know what that meant when the cook had first said it, but she soon learned. Over the next few months, thousands of Inviernos marched through the free villages on the way to the great desert, cutting a swath through the forest as they went, turning the trading square to trampled mud. Once the spring thaw hit, the air began to stink of feces. Soon after, six villagers died of sour gut.

  The army was ravenous, demanding more stew and ale than Orlín the innkeeper could provide. Everyone in the village reported missing livestock—horses, goats, chickens, pigs. People were going to starve come winter, for true.

  “It’s all because of that new queen rising in the west,” the cook told the girl one day as he was sinking his fist into a batch of bread dough. He sneered out the word “west” like it was the most contemptible place in the world. “I just hope the White Hairs kill her quick, get this blasted war over with before the land is dead and our village starved.”

  “For true,” Mula said. She hoped the White Hairs killed the new queen quick too. Because Orlín was selling her blood every day now. Sometimes more than once a day. Her thumbs and fingertips were crisscrossed with cuts that didn’t have time to heal before the next dagger came along. She walked around in a dizzy haze, so tired and thirsty she thought she might die of it.

  Then one time, a sorcerer came to the inn with a hollow bone needle and a bleeding tube. He took so much blood that she toppled over and crashed onto the floor, knocking the needle from her vein, soaking the rushes with crimson.

  She woke in the kitchen, the cook standing over her. “Poor little thing. That lump on your forehead is something else. Here, drink this.” He tipped up her head and set a mug of warm mare’s milk to her lips, which she lapped up obediently.

  “Orlín is a greedy goat,” the cook said. “Little girls your age ought to grow faster than a summer sequoia, but not you. You’re tiny as a sprout, and you’re going to stay that way if he keeps taking your lifeblood. Take this.” He shoved a heel of bread into her hand. “Eat every bit of it, hear?”

  “Hear,” she whispered, and forced the bread into her mouth, even though the lump on her forehead throbbed so hard it was making her tummy squishy.

  During the next few months, the cook kept her busy in the kitchen or the smokehouse as much as possible to keep her out of sight. He even sent her to the creek for water or to the market for supplies. He gave her extra mare’s milk and the occasional strip of jerky—all under Orlín’s nose.

  The innkeeper still sold her blood, but thanks to the cook, she occasionally skipped a day or two, and she had a little extra food and drink besides. She grew a tiny bit, just enough that her pants barely reached her ankles, and her pinky toe wore a hole in her right shoe.

  The flood of White Hairs through their village shrunk to a trickle. Mula grew a little more; her shoes became unwearable, and she could no longer pull her pants over her bony hips. Even though Orlín had made a small fortune selling her blood, he refused to buy her new shoes or new clothes. Instead, he gave her two stained, tattered burlap sacks and told her to make a shift out of them, which she did.

  With summer came word that the queen in the west had won, against all odds, and the few surviving sorcerers were trudging home, tails tucked between their legs like whipped mongrels. Mula wasn’t very good at sleeping. So she often lay awake at night wondering about the western queen, marveling that any person in the world could defeat an army led by blood sorcerers with magic stones.

  The end of summer brought chilly nights. The White Hairs stopped coming at all, and somehow, Orlín seemed to think this was her fault. He cuffed her more often, tied her nighttime bonds tighter, made her fetch water when the air crackled with cold and the creek iced over—even though she had no shoes and only a burlap shift to wear.

  It was going to be the worst winter many of them had ever known, everyone said so. A girl like Mula, with her bare feet and fleshless limbs and a sleeping roll in the back storeroom as far away from the hearth as it could be, might not even survive such a winter.

  One day in autumn, after the poplar tree had coated the inn’s roof with dry leaves and all the merlins had flown west to warmer weather, Mula felt it again. That little jump in her chest, followed by a steady buzzing in her limbs. It meant a sorcerer was approaching.

  She was in the common room, gathering filthy rushes to replace them, and she paused, eyes darting around in panic. Orlín was there, serving mugs of ale from a tray; he would notice if she fled to the outhouse or into the kitchen. She was trapped.

  The brass bell on the door rattled. Four people walked in, and Mula gasped. The tallest was clearly an Invierno, with long, slender limbs, eyes like emeralds, and badly dyed black hair that was growing out yellow-white at the roots. His three companions were Joyan, with hair of true black and deep brown eyes and dusky skin. One man wore an eye patch. The other two were women—one tall for a Joyan, the other shorter and generously plump.

  It was the plump woman Mula couldn’t stop staring at. She was young, with shining black braids wrapping her head like a crown. She wore the clothing of desert nomads: an undyed linen shirt tucked into a utility belt, all over woolen pants and camel-hair boots. The fabric may have been undyed, but it was still the prettiest fabric Mula had ever seen, with a fine, soft weave and decorative brown stitching at the hem. The plump woman was a fancy lady, no doubt about it.

&nb
sp; But the thing that made Mula stare, that stopped her in her tracks, was the fact that the itching in the girl’s throat, the buzzing in her limbs, the feeling of something inside her yearning to burst free—it all came from her, the short Joyan woman.

  As the group settled at a table and called for stew, Mula realized she was sensing something from the Invierno too, just a little. But it was nothing like the riot of feeling inside her every time she looked at the woman with the crown of braids. She was a sorcerer, just like the White Hairs. She didn’t have an amulet around her neck or a magic staff, but she was hiding a sparkle stone somewhere. Mula would bet her evening bread crust on it.

  “Mula!” Orlín yelled. “Venison stew for our guests. And be quick about it, or you’ll feel the back of my hand.”

  Mula dropped the rushes. As she fled to the kitchen, she felt the strangers’ eyes boring into her back. Quickly she ladled dogmeat stew into four bowls, balanced them on her forearm, and returned to the common room.

  She slipped the first three bowls onto the table with practiced ease. But as she neared the plump woman, something leaped inside her, and the fourth bowl met the table too hard and fast. Dogmeat stew sloshed over the side, onto the planking.

  Mula stared at the mess in horror. “Lady,” she whispered. “Please don’t tell that I spilled.”

  The plump woman regarded her thoughtfully. She was probably wondering how much blood she could take, wondering how much it would cost. Mula ought to be afraid of her, but she wasn’t, because her hidden sparkle stone felt different. Louder. Joyous. Like it was greeting her.

  Finally the woman said, “I see no spill.”

  Mula flashed her a quick grin. Then she dashed back to the kitchen.

  Beside the hearth, Orlín was head-to-head with the cook. “They’re fine lords and ladies, mark my word,” Orlín was saying. “Finest I’ve ever seen.”

  “It’s the second group this week with Joyans and Inviernos traveling together,” the cook observed.

  “These are strange times,” said Orlín.