by Rae Carson
He leads me through the tunnel, past the latrine, to the side gate where they take deliveries for the barracks. When he opens the pass-through door, I step into the alley between the barracks and the stables. The sun is cruel on my face.
“Farewell, Red,” Bruno says. “I wish you every blessing.” Then he ducks back inside. I hear the heavy bar slam down, closing off the barracks to me. The guards standing at this entrance couldn’t let me back in even if they wanted to.
Now what?
The alley is busy with gala traffic. It feels like everyone is staring at me, the girl who just exited the barracks empty-handed. I’m well known here, the former ward of the empress, the half-human hybrid. And now that my hair has grown back to my shoulders, my white streak has surely grown to my ear.
Get to Rosario, Iván said.
I hurry through the plaza to the main entrance of the Sky Wing, where I’m stopped by a pair of unfamiliar guards.
“I’m the ward of the empress,” I tell them. “Lady Red Sparkle Stone. I live here.”
One snickers at my name. Someone is always ready to snicker at my name. But the other says, “Do you have a pass signed by Sergeant DeLuca of the Royal Guard?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t live here, at least not until after Deliverance Week is over. We have strict orders to let no one into the Sky Wing without a written pass from Sergeant DeLuca.”
Someone wanted to be sure I was unable to get in to warn Rosario.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” I tell the guards. Glumly I add, “Happy Deliverance Day.”
There has to be another way inside.
I could access the monarch’s quarters through a secret entrance in the city, but I’d still have to traverse several corridors of the Sky Wing to get from there to Rosario’s suite. If they caught me, I’d see the inside of the prison tower before I ever saw Rosario.
The monastery bells ring the hour. Which gives me an idea. The sanctuary is always open to the public, night or day, all year round. I’ll start there.
I hurry through the plaza, dodging carriages and supply wagons and teams of horses. A few merchants have set up stalls on the outskirts, those who could acquire a coveted palace vendor license. They do quick business this time of year, with so many visitors in need of extra items. I pass a saddler, a counter full of steaming meat pies, even a jeweler.
Halfway past the jeweler, I pause. I dig into my pocket and fish out the baby rattle.
“Lady Red,” the merchant says, trying not to stare at my white mark. I don’t recognize him, but it’s not unusual for people to recognize me. “I thought you were . . . er, how can I help you?”
Carefully, so that I don’t drop anything, I find the tiny latch at the base of the rattle and flick it open, just like Rosario showed me months ago. The ball of the rattle dislodges from the base with a pop, and I upend the contents into my palm.
Four gemstones wink up at me, small but lovely. A sapphire of royal blue, an emerald with one noticeable inclusion but still beautiful. A tiny ruby with a slight pink cast. A golden tiger’s-eye. “How much will you give me for these?”
The merchant’s eyes widen. He lowers his head to peer closely at my palm. “Hmmm,” he says. “Interesting. I don’t know. . . . Maybe that one . . .”
“Sir?” I prompt.
“I don’t have enough coin on hand to purchase them all,” he says. “But I can give you three gold crowns and eight silvers for the tigereye and the emerald.”
I don’t know much about gemstones, but that price hardly seems fair. Alas, I’m in too much of a hurry to haggle much. “Throw in that silk amulet bag,” I say, pointing to a tiny bag of blue silk embroidered with green vines and leaves. “And you have a deal.” It hangs on a silken tie and closes tight with matching drawstrings. Ladies wear them to keep locks of their children’s hair close to their hearts, or fill them with their favorite scent. It will be perfect for carrying my Godstone.
“Deal,” says the merchant, and we make the exchange.
I slip the Godstone into my new amulet pouch as I move to the next stall, a weapons seller with several items on display, including a crossbow, a few swords, and several daggers. Showpieces for noble scions. Most of the daggers are fairly useless, with their ornate hilts and tiny blades, best for breaking seals on correspondence.
“Let me see that sword,” I say to the merchant, a younger man with day-old stubble and a blacksmith’s apron.
He hands me the one I indicate. It’s smaller than the others, but it comes with a belted scabbard, and when I hold it out straight, the light hits the steel blade with perfect evenness and clarity. “A nice piece,” I tell him.
“I made it myself!” he beams. “That’s Basajuan steel too, so you’ll never have to worry about it shattering.”
“How much?”
“Five golden crowns.”
I set the sword back on the counter, disappointed. “I don’t have that much.”
“Well, make me an offer I can’t refuse,” he says.
I fish out my baby rattle again, and retrieve the ruby. “Three crowns and this ruby.”
“Done!” he says, so quickly that I’m sure I’ve overpaid.
But if danger is coming for Rosario, no price is too high. Now I have a sword, a safe way to carry my Godstone, and enough silver to eat for several weeks. Buoyed by my success, I head toward the monastery entrance.
Five paces away, I stop short. My throat itches. My limbs twitch. There’s a buzzing inside me, like something is about to burst from my skin. I look around frantically, because I know this feeling.
An animagus is nearby. In the palace complex. During Deliverance Week.
“Out of the way!” someone calls, and I realize I’ve blocked his horse cart. I step aside, still studying my surroundings, racking my memory for anyone who might have brought an animagus along with them. Ambassador Songbird does not have a sorcerer among his staff. None of the condes or condesas I know of keep one for an adviser. The only animagus who is allowed unfettered access to the palace is Storm, Elisa’s brother-in-law, and he is far, far away.
I hurry into the monastery, more desperate than ever to reach Rosario.
22
Now
THE sanctuary is more crowded than usual, with stable boys in work frocks sitting side by side with noble ladies in fine silks. The altar reeks of burned blood and rose petals, for many choose to perform the Sacrament of Pain during Deliverance Week.
I search the faces, my gaze lingering on anyone in priest’s robes, hoping to see Father Nicandro. But he is not here.
I’m almost to the archival room when a priest steps in front of me, blocking my way. “Can I help you, child?” he says.
I don’t recognize him, so I have no idea if I can trust this man, but time is short and I’m desperate, so I say, “Where is Father Nicandro?”
“Father Nicandro is unavailable at the moment.” Meaning, He’s the head priest and you seem like no one, so go away. “Perhaps—”
“Tell him Lady Red Sparkle Stone is here to see him on a matter of grave urgency.”
He opens his mouth, closes it. Ponders the white streak in my hair. “Very well,” he says. “Have a seat on the bench.” He turns before I can reply.
I adjust my new sword and sit. The bench grows hard beneath my rear. It feels as though an eternity passes, though I’m sure it’s only a few moments, before Nicandro comes shuffling my way, aided by his cane.
“Red,” he says, voice low. “I did not expect to see you. Please come. Hurry.”
He guides me past the archives and into a private prayer chapel. Candles line the walls. Kneeling cushions litter the floors. The arched ceiling is low, trapping heat and the scent of the rose petals that are scattered everywhere. This is where the priests themselves come to pray, when they need a respite from their flock. For now, at least, we are alone.
“Now tell me,” says Nicandro.
“I was cut from the Guard for being a �
��distraction’ to the boys.”
The priest frowns. “That reeks of political maneuvering.”
“Yes. Someone got to Sergeant DeLuca, convinced him that cutting me was a good idea. Rosario’s supporters have been eliminated one by one. I fear for him.”
“I’ll get a message to him at once.”
“Thank you.”
“Wait here.” He turns to leave.
“One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“There’s an animagus in the city. Maybe right here in the palace.”
Father Nicandro’s eyes narrow. “I thought I might have sensed something earlier this morning, but then it was gone, like a breeze.”
“I’m certain of it.”
“I believe you, dear girl. Unlike you, I can only sense Godstones when they are drawing magic. You’ve always been more sensitive than I, and I’m an old man besides.”
“Do you know of anyone attending the gala who would retain the services of a sorcerer?”
“I do not. Is your Godstone with you?”
I reach for my amulet and lift it toward him.
“Good. Keep it safe. It may keep you safe.”
“How will my Godstone help?”
“I don’t know that it will . . . though in the past, the empress achieved some immunity to the magic of others with her own Godstone. In any case, now is not the time to discuss the finer points of theology.” His shoulders slouch, and he suddenly seems ten years older. But when I peer into his face, his eyes are full of fire. “I’ll get a message to the prince as quickly as possible.”
Getting a response from the prince could take hours, so I pick one of the largest cushions and settle in for a long wait. After a few minutes, though, I’m twitching to move around, to do something. So I stand, kick all the cushions to the side of the room to clear a space, and draw my new sword.
I haven’t worked with a real sword in months, and it feels foreign and cold in my hand as I start moving through the forms. But my wrist and forearm adjust. I’m stronger now, thanks to endless practice with Master Santiago, and the sword is so well balanced that by the time I hit Bulwark, I’m grinning. I feel so fluid. So powerful.
I whip the sword through the air, performing some swipes that Iván taught us during our nightly class. Then a few thrusts. Careful of my footwork, I move through some parrying positions I learned from Aldo. The sword sings.
My blood is warm, my forehead damp with sweat, by the time Rosario himself enters, accompanied by two fully armored guards.
“Little sister,” he says.
“You shouldn’t have come yourself!” I tell him. “It’s not safe for you to . . .” The look on his face silences me.
“I just . . . wanted to see you.”
I sheath my sword and wrap my arms around him, hugging him close. “It’s good to see you too, little brother.”
He clings a little tighter than usual, then disengages, saying, “Nice sword.”
“I thought it might come in handy.”
“Father Nicandro says you were cut from the Guard.”
“Yes,” I say, avoiding his gaze. His two accompanying guards wear breastplates trimmed in blue steel, marking them as knights of the Eastern Reaches. “I’m glad Juan-Carlos was able to lend you some men.”
“Efren and Iago have proven themselves invaluable,” Rosario says. “I’m so grateful to them and to Juan-Carlos. You may speak freely in front of them.” He sighs deeply. “I really wish you hadn’t been cut.”
“I’m so sorry. I know I failed—”
“It wasn’t your fault! I’m more concerned that DeLuca was convinced to cut you at all, because it means someone beside the empress has undue influence on him.”
“That’s what I’m worried about too.”
“Do you still think he’s the traitor?”
I shake my head. “Or at least he’s not the traitor. He gives orders like a man who’s been taking orders, and he talked about how the command came from someone who was ‘above his rank and station.’”
“That’s what happens when you teach blind obedience,” Rosario says. “Sometimes it doesn’t matter who the orders come from anymore.”
“But he’s not innocent. He still had—has—a part in this. Someone gave the intruder a key to Bolivar’s quarters, right?”
“Right.” His face falls, and he stares off at nothing in particular. He has the longest, prettiest eyelashes I’ve ever seen, and even though he’s grown tall and lanky, those long-lashed eyes make him seem as vulnerable as a babe. “Red,” he says. “What do I do?”
“Oh, Rosario, I wish I knew.”
“We only found seven of those barrels.”
“What about the ship itself? The Kestrel?”
“Now that was interesting.”
“What do you mean?”
“The ship is long gone, left port more than a week ago. But we tracked down its records . . . it belongs to one of my father’s former mistresses.”
“That is interesting.”
“I have no idea what it means, though.”
“Rosario, maybe you shouldn’t attend the gala. If anything happens, it will be then.”
He straightens, trying to look royal. “I have to. It’s my responsibility. I have to give the annual blessing, show myself around, assure everyone that all is normal. People come from all over the empire to be in the same room with their empress. There’ll be no empress this year, of course, but at least we can give them a prince.”
I’m shaking my head. “It’s not worth it. Not if your safety is at risk. Rosario, I sensed an animagus nearby.”
He draws in breath, but collects himself quickly. “If I don’t go, our adversaries will use my absence to their advantage. ‘See how he doesn’t take his responsibilities seriously?’ they’ll say. ‘See what a coward he is?’” When I don’t respond, he adds, “Besides, I have Efren and Iago to keep me safe.”
“And me.”
He brightens. “And you. I’ll give orders that you’re to be allowed full palace access. Want to stay in my room tonight? You can have the floor.”
I’m so relieved to have somewhere to go. “Yes, please.”
Even though I’m snugged up in the space between the wall and Rosario’s bed, nested into the softest pillows and the most luxurious quilt in the whole empire, I can’t make myself sleep.
I roll everything around in my head: my failed adoption. Captain Bolivar dead, possibly poisoned by the most powerful conde in the empire. Fernando ill, unable to protect Rosario. Barrels of dream syrup hidden somewhere here in the capital. Training for Royal Guard recruits inexplicably stalled. I wish I knew what it all meant.
One thing is certain, Efren and Iago and I cannot protect the prince all by ourselves. He needs a small army if he’s going to get through the gala alive.
Sunrise brings warmth and light into Rosario’s suite. I stand and stretch, glad the long night is over, and look down at my sleeping prince. He always sleeps spread-eagle, taking up his entire giant bed with his gangly limbs. His mouth is open, and a puddle of drool soaks his pillow.
I try to be silent as I fold up my quilt, but he stirs anyway and sits up in bed. “That’s the best I’ve slept in a long time,” he says, following it with a huge yawn.
“Rosario.”
He’s suddenly trying very hard not to laugh. “Now that your hair is shorter,” he says, “your sleephead is spectacular.”
I’d love nothing more than to pretend nothing is wrong and joke around the way we always do. Instead I place the folded quilt across the foot of his bed and say, “We need more protection for you.”
“Every fighting man in the Royal Guard will be at the gala. I’ll be fine.”
“The Royal Guard that Sergeant DeLuca is currently in charge of? That Royal Guard?”
He frowns.
“You know we can’t trust him.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Send me to retrieve the recruits. They’re not
fully fledged Guards, but we’ve been training so hard. Surely they’re better than nothing.”
He considers this. “First-year recruits aren’t even issued swords.”
“No, but they have bodies. Bodies that can be barriers between you and an enemy.”
“I hate that idea.” He runs a hand through his mussed hair. “Using the recruits as human shields.”
“They took an oath to die for you.”
“For Elisa, you mean.”
“Elisa won’t be empress forever. When she steps down, they’ll be your Guard. Everyone who takes to the sand understands this.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t think too long. In the meantime, be careful what you eat or drink.”
His smile is sad and resigned. “I already took the liberty of securing some trail food—jerky, a canteen of water, some dried coconut. It’s all I plan to eat today.”
“Gross,” I say.
He nods. “It’s going to be the worst Deliverance Day ever.”
Rosario spends the morning suffering a final fitting for his formal gala outfit, which I’m happy to see includes a layer of light armor beneath a silk jacket. Early in the afternoon, he settles into the receiving room of his suite, where he endures visits from the seneschal, the mayordomo, and an unending stream of lords and ladies who have come a very long way just to say hello. He is polite and gracious to everyone.
Efren and Iago search every single person who enters the receiving room for weapons, no matter their station. Even so, I glare at anyone who dares come too close to the prince, all the while keeping my hand ready on my scabbard.
Finally Rosario’s receiving schedule is complete for the day. He breathes deep, scrapes his chair back, and puts his feet up on the desk. “It’s getting harder and harder to smile at everyone.”
“You’ll have to do even more of it tonight.”
“Promise you’ll dance with me at least once,” he says. “I’ll need a break from everyone else.”
“I won’t be dressed for dancing,” I say, indicating my desert garb.
“I don’t care. I just want . . . Red, are you all right?”