The Empire of Dreams

by Rae Carson

  “No!” Mula said, scrambling to her feet. “He’ll say it’s my fault! He’ll . . . If you stay, you can bleed me. Right now. For free.”

  “What?” said the tall woman.

  Before Mula could explain, the eye-patch man grabbed her shoulder. “You’re staying right here until we’re packed up, with everything accounted for.”

  “Careful, Belén,” said the tall woman. “She’s just a little girl.”

  “I’m not! I’m big!” said Mula, squirming, but the eye-patch man held her fast.

  They gathered and sorted and organized with incredible efficiency. Within moments, they were cloaked and booted, packs slung over their shoulders. Together, they hurried down the stairs, Mula trapped in the middle like a sausage in a blanket.

  The common room had filled with villagers coming in for their evening ale. The air was wet and hot with hard-worked bodies. Two men Mula recognized from the market stood in the corner, playing their vihuelas. A few people clapped along.

  Orlín wove through the crowd toward them, a wide, false grin on his face. Mula knew that grin. It meant he was on the edge of rage. He just needed a little push.

  “Some ale for you all?” he asked cheerfully, but his eyes roved their full packs. “I also have dandelion wine in the cellar, which we save for our higher class of customer.”

  “We’re leaving,” said the fine lady.

  Mula didn’t see the blow coming, but suddenly, she was on the floor, blood leaking into her eye from a gash on her forehead. The room swam. She clutched for the nearest bench, trying to make sense of the world.

  “What did you do?” Orlín advanced on her. “Were you caught stealing again, you filthy little rat—”

  The music ceased. The laughter was whisked away as if by a wind. Stools scraped. Embers popped in the hearth.

  “Leave her be,” said a quiet, deadly voice.

  Mula peered at the innkeeper, blinking. It took a moment to parse what she was seeing: the tall woman, her lips at Orlín’s ear, her dagger at Orlín’s throat.

  The plump woman in fancy braids looked on, horrified. She whispered, “Oh, Mara, what have you done?”

  The knob in Orlín’s throat bobbed against the dagger. “It’s the height of rudeness,” he said calmly, “to threaten a man in his own home.”

  “It’s worse to beat an innocent child,” said the tall woman named Mara.

  “The mule is mine,” the innkeeper said. “I can do whatever I wish with it. Do you tell the cook to be gentle with the turnips?”

  Mara pressed the dagger into his skin. Blood welled at the tip.

  Mula wanted to run, as far and fast as she could. She’d seen enough common-room brawls to know it was always the littlest ones who got hurt. The weakest. The ones who tried to hide under the table. The ones who couldn’t get away because their heads were pounding and their vision was blurry.

  Besides, Mula knew something no one else did. The fancy braided lady had a sparkle stone. If she wanted to, she could burn the whole place down.

  The silence grew long.

  Finally the plump lady said, “Mula! How much did this man pay for you?”

  The girl had no idea. The day she was sold to Orlín was one of the gaps in her memory. She thought hard. Did she imagine that she remembered the glint of copper as it clinked into the monster lady’s hand?

  Just a few coppers, then. She was sure of it. Pride made her say, “Three . . . three silvers.”

  The fancy lady turned to Orlín. “I’ll buy her from you.”

  Mula gasped. Everyone in the common room began to murmur.

  Carefully, the woman named Mara lowered her dagger. A slow smile spread across Orlín’s face.

  He said, “I fed the mule, raised it, clothed it. I can’t let it go for less than eight silvers.”

  The fancy lady frowned. “I need to do some trading to come up with that much coin. How about I give you three silvers now, to feed her and care for her tonight, and seven more when I fetch her in the morning?”

  Ten silvers! It was an unheard-of price for a slave, even one who could be bled for a few coppers once in a while.

  “Deal!” Orlín said.

  They spat into their hands and shook on it.

  The fancy lady crouched down and peered into the girl’s face. Even though the room was spinning, the girl saw gentleness in her eyes.

  “You bought me,” Mula said, her voice full of wonder. “You bought me!”

  “No! I didn’t buy . . . just . . . stay strong. I’ll be back for you in the morning.”

  The fancy lady and her companions swept out of the common room, into the cold night. Mula stared after them. Light filled her soul. The vihuelas picked up where they left off, and it felt like they were singing just for her.

  Finally she could bear it no longer, and she yelled to anyone who might listen, “Did you see that? A fine lady bought me! I’m going to be the slave of a fine lady!”

  Mula did not sleep one bit that night. She gave up eventually, sat on her bedroll, brought her knees to her chest, and went over that moment again and again in her head. A pair of kind eyes looking deep inside her, really seeing her, telling her to stay strong. I’ll be back for you in the morning.

  Orlín did not keep his word, refusing to feed her breakfast. Then he demanded that she remove the shift she was wearing. She didn’t care. As soon as it was light, she bounced naked out the door to wait on the stoop. She saw them in the distance, at the edge of the trading square. They were checking over the horses, strapping packs to their saddles, talking among themselves.

  Fear shot through her like an arrow. Maybe they had forgotten about her. Or maybe it had all been a lie, and they didn’t intend to take her with them at all. Joyans are known for lying, Orlín always said.

  Her legs twitched to run after them, to beg them to take her away, and she was just about to give in when the fine lady and her companions began walking toward her.

  “Where are your clothes?” the lady demanded.

  “You bought me,” Mula said. “You didn’t buy my clothes.”

  The fine lady took a deep breath. She sent the eye-patch man into the inn to settle their agreement with Orlín.

  The tall woman, Mara, said, “I’ll go fetch her something to wear,” and she hurried off.

  The Invierno man stared down at the girl, and Mula stared right back. She’d once killed a man who looked very much like him.

  He’d cut the false black out of his hair, and now it was close shorn and yellow-white. “Are you a . . .” She almost said “White Hair,” but then she remembered the Invierno word. “An animagus?” He had a sparkle stone too, she was almost sure of it, but it didn’t sing to her the same way as the one the fine lady was hiding. “You look like an animagus. But your hair is ugly.”

  The Invierno bristled. “I am a pr—”

  “Storm!” the fine lady snapped. More gently, she said to Mula, “Storm is my dear friend, and you will mind him always.”

  “Oh, yes,” Mula said. “I will mind perfectly. You are going to be so glad you bought me.”

  The woman just stared down at her. She obviously didn’t believe the girl.

  “I can cook a little!” she said, quick before the lady could have any regrets. “I can clean, scrub laundry. I’m good at changing rushes, fetching water. I’m big, so I can carry a lot of firewood.”

  “How old are you?” the fine lady asked.

  Mula shrugged.

  “Do you have a name besides Mula? I don’t want to call you that. No one should call anyone that.”

  “Sometimes Orlín calls me Rat.”

  “What about before you were with Orlín? You had a mother, yes? What did she call you?”

  Mula was sad to disappoint her new master so soon, but she said the truth anyway: “I don’t remember.”

  The fine lady frowned deeply. “A little girl ought to have a proper name.”

  “Like what?”

  “How about you name yourself?”


  Mula’s mouth dropped open. “For true?”

  “For true.”

  “Anything?”

  “Anything you want.”

  The Invierno called Storm leaned forward. “A name is a grave matter.”

  Mula nodded. “I will think hard about it.”

  The fine lady smiled. She had a beautiful smile, soft and kind and wise. “Just let me know when you’ve decided.”

  Mara returned with a blouse for her, which fell all the way to her knees. They lifted her onto one of the horses—a giant near-black creature that danced in place—and the girl was too filled with wonder and amazement to be even a little bit scared.

  They rode east, away from the village.

  The girl dared to ask, “Where are we going? Joya d’Arena is west. . . .”

  “A very good friend of mine is missing,” said the fine lady. “We have to find him. His name is Hector, and you will like him very much.”

  “I’m big,” the girl said solemnly. “I can help.”

  “I’m sure you can,” said Mara, riding beside them.

  “By the time we find him,” the fine lady said, “we can introduce you using your new name.”

  She was going to have a name! A true name. A perfect name. Something a little bit Joyan, but a little bit Invierno too, just like her. It would be the most beautiful name she could think of. The strongest name she could think of.

  Mountain jays called after them, and a crisp breeze whisked the clouds through a cornflower sky, heralding a crystal-sharp winter. The girl who would never be called Mula again felt the hollow space inside her filling up, with hope and warmth and maybe even her very own self.

  21

  Now

  THE day before the gala dawns bright and hot, and as usual we are training with Master Santiago. Guardsman Bruno observes us this morning, perhaps to discover why our training is taking so long.

  Master Santiago has become extraordinarily creative in his ability to find fault with our forms. I make a game of anticipating what imagined flaw he’ll focus on next—maybe the way Arturo grunts.

  Santiago opens his mouth to berate someone, but Sergeant DeLuca barrels through the portcullis and into the arena.

  “Sergeant,” says Master Santiago. “What a pleasant surprise. Are you here to inspect these wretched recruits? They persist in evading proficiency, but they are not as shameful as they were.”

  “Not at this time,” the sergeant says. “I’m here for two quick pieces of official business, and then you can resume your training.”

  Santiago bows his head and steps back, ceding the arena floor. “The class is yours, Sergeant.”

  Guardsman Bruno peers at his superior, eyes narrowed. Something about this isn’t part of the usual routine. Well, nothing about our class is part of the usual routine. But DeLuca seems as pleased as a well-brushed pony, and for some reason, this fills me with dread.

  DeLuca says, “The time has come for the first years to choose your squad leader. It should be someone with proven competence, with the ability to inspire and make good decisions. Someone who has helped make the rest of you better, someone you trust to lead you for the next three years.”

  No one says anything, but it feels like a ripple passes through our group. We’ve known this was coming. I’ve already decided to vote for Iván, whose quiet intelligence has made us pay attention more than once. He’s had just as much training as I’ve had, but he’s so much smoother when talking to people.

  “So consider who you will elect while we take care of the second item of business,” he says.

  Something about the way he says it causes everyone to go very still.

  He folds his hands behind his back. “I’ve received disturbing reports about the behavior of some of our recruits,” he says. “As a result, I’m afraid I have no choice but to make another cut today.”

  Guardsman Bruno’s mouth parts in surprise.

  I can’t imagine what the sergeant is talking about. Since Valentino’s ducklings were cut, everyone has been on their best behavior. We’re doing everything they ask of us. And more.

  Beside me, Aldo shifts in place. I hope it’s not him. He’s the smallest and youngest of us, true. But also the cleverest and quickest.

  “Recruit Red, step forward,” DeLuca barks, so much louder than necessary, and my stomach drops into my toes. “Pack your things and go. Her Imperial Majesty thanks you for your service.”

  “What?” says Iván.

  I try to step forward, but my legs won’t budge. I can’t even look at anyone. I don’t want them to see my face.

  “What reports are you talking about?” says Guardsman Bruno.

  DeLuca rounds on Bruno. “I do not have to explain myself.”

  Bruno doesn’t back down. “I thought my input on the recruits meant something. I’m usually consulted on these decisions.”

  “This ruling was handled by those above your rank and station,” DeLuca counters. “And above mine. But if you want to do this here, we’ll do it here. If you want to embarrass your recruits, fine. The fact is, it has come to our attention that having a young lady in the Guard is an insurmountable distraction.”

  I can barely hear his words for the blood rushing past my ears.

  Bruno inhales deeply, considering his next words. Finally: “Red is one of the best in this class. And this whole class is better than average.”

  “You’re out of line, Guardsman,” DeLuca says coldly. “And you’re wrong. For blessed sakes, man, the recruits are still practicing their forms. We’ve never have a class take so long to make so little progress.”

  “Sir—” Bruno begins.

  “Guardsman,” DeLuca interrupts, “if you contradict me one more time, the only thing you’ll change my mind about is your fitness for duty. Report to my office after class today.”

  Bruno snaps to attention. “Yes, sir.”

  DeLuca addresses the recruits, though he avoids looking at me. He says, “You don’t understand this now, but one day it will be clear to you. One cannot expect boys your age to learn and grow when there is such a lovely young woman in your midst. It’s our job as your teachers and mentors to shelter you from distractions as you mature into the young men we expect and know you can be.”

  I finally find my voice. “I am not a distraction.”

  “What?” DeLuca says, apparently surprised that I’m still here.

  My face is hot with fury. My fists shiver with an overwhelming need to bash something. “I am not a distraction. I am a Guard recruit, just like the others.”

  “Dear girl,” says DeLuca. His indulgent smile makes my skin crawl. “It’s meant as a compliment. Of course you’re not like the others. You’re beautiful and charming. Most young ladies in the palace wish they had half your qualities. You should be proud.”

  “Red is not a distraction,” Iván says.

  “She’s an asset,” says Arturo.

  “You can’t tell us to pick our squad leader and then kick her out!” says Pedrón.

  DeLuca turns on them with the same open fury that he showed Bruno. “You are all speaking out of turn, and you’ll run the walls tonight after dinner. It will give you time to consider your words, and how you’ve let this young lady manipulate and deceive you. You wanted proof that she’s a distraction—well, there it is! Your training would be much farther along by now if she had never taken to the sand.”

  I stare daggers at him, my fists clenched at my sides. He would never dare cut me for such a ridiculous reason if Elisa were around. I can’t believe he dares it now. Something happened. Or someone got to him. And the only person I can think of with the power to make him cut me, the ward of the empress, is Conde Astón of Ciénega del Sur.

  It hits me all of a sudden: He wants me out of the way for the Deliverance Gala. He wants to make sure Rosario is as exposed as possible.

  I’m already cut. The worst thing that could possibly happen to me has happened. So I have no hesitation saying, “You
are going to regret this, DeLuca. You have my word on it.”

  If my threat lands, he gives no indication. “Gather your things and go.”

  Suddenly I’m surrounded by recruits. “We won’t forget you, Red,” someone says. “This is wrong,” says another. Hands pat my shoulders. One grabs my hand and squeezes.

  All at once, the space around me is taken up with Iván. He leans down and whispers in my ear, “Get to Rosario. We’ll figure this out.”

  “Get back in line right now,” DeLuca says. “Or there will be further cuts!”

  Before Iván can step away, I grab his collar and whisper back, “Make sure no one eats or drinks tomorrow. Especially during the annual Deliverance toast.”

  Hands grab me. My eyes are locked with Iván’s as DeLuca drags me away.

  Iván nods once, slightly.

  DeLuca shoves me through the portcullis. “Guardsman Bruno,” he says. “Escort this civilian out of the barracks by the quickest route possible.”

  Bruno watches over me as I gather my baby rattle, my Godstone, and Father Nicandro’s book from the drawer. I leave the broken shards of my dye pot where they are. They’re useless now.

  “Ready,” I tell him.

  “You must change out of your uniform too.”

  I stare at him.

  “I’m sorry, Red,” he says. “I don’t agree with DeLuca’s decision, but . . .”

  “But you have to follow orders.”

  He nods.

  “Can you at least give me a little privacy?”

  “Don’t make me regret this.”

  He turns his back, and I quickly shuck shirt, vest, belt, boots, and pants, and re-don the desert garb I wore the day I first took to the sand.

  I stare at Bruno’s back a moment, wondering if there’s something else I ought to do while his back is turned, something sneaky that might help me. . . .

  But of course I can’t think of a single thing.

  I shove the Godstone and the baby rattle into my pocket, then grab the Articles. “Now I’m ready.”

  Bruno looks me up and down. His gaze lingers on my bound book, but he chooses not to make an issue of it. “Follow me.”