The Empire of Dreams

by Rae Carson

My chest is buzzing, my breath coming in gasps. The magic squirming beneath the earth sings to me, yearning to break free. All it needs is a little blood. . . .

  Blood welled up on her thumb, dripped to the floor in time with her heartbeat. The girl tried to wrench her hand away, but the White Hair gripped her arm too tight. The amulet hanging from his neck began to glow with blue fire. Its heat warmed her face. . . .

  “Red?”

  I lurch back into myself. “I’m sorry. I . . . the animagus. He’s nearby.”

  “You did that thing where you . . . go away.”

  My heart is racing. “Sensing the animagus triggered a memory. Rosario, please let me go call up the recruits on your behalf.”

  One of the guards, either Iago or Efren, says, “A rogue animagus is a serious matter, Your Highness.”

  Rosario looks to me. His borrowed guards. Back to me. “Fine,” he says at last. “Do it.”

  I’m dizzy with relief. “Thank you. I need a letter from you authorizing my entry to the barracks and officially calling the recruits into service.”

  “Bring them back as quick as you can. I’ll be heading to the ballroom soon. Meet me there.”

  As soon as the ink is dry, we roll up the parchment, seal it with red wax, and stamp it with Rosario’s signet ring. With a final admonishment to the guards to keep him safe, I dash from the suite, down the stairs of the Sky Wing, and into the impossibly busy plaza.

  I dodge carriages and horses, pages and hostlers. By the time I reach the Guard barracks, my camel-hair boots are covered in dust and manure. Two Guards stand at attention, holding spears and shields.

  Their steel helmets cover everything but their eyes and mouths. I peer closer. I’m almost certain I don’t recognize them. After months of training, moving through the barracks, three meals per day in the mess, surely I’ve chanced upon every member of the Guard by now?

  “The Royal Guard barracks are off-limits to the public, by order of Her Imperial Majesty,” says one.

  “I have authorization,” I say, waving my rolled parchment with its red wax seal.

  “Who are you?” asks the other.

  Not only do I not recognize them, they don’t recognize me. I say, “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m here on the orders of Prince Rosario himself. Do inspect the seal. But I suggest you allow Sergeant DeLuca or Guardsman Bruno to break it.”

  The first Guard holds out his hand. I give him the parchment. He examines it closely, grunting. Then he hands it back. “You may pass,” he says with obvious reluctance.

  I dash into the tunnel before he can change his mind.

  The sun is not yet touching the rooftops of the Sky Wing, which means the first-year recruits will probably be in the training arena for their afternoon fitness regimen. The barracks are eerily silent as I traverse the long corridor. I’ve been absent only one day, but my heart squeezes to see the familiar rock walls, to peek inside the bunk room and spy Traitors’ Corner at the far end, to pass the mess hall and smell a batch of fresh bread rising in preparation for dinner. When did I become so attached to this place?

  I encounter no one—no Guards, no servants. Which is odd. I slow my pace, listening.

  Laughter, in the distance. Outside, maybe. It pulls me forward, and finally I break into the sunshine of the sandy training arena.

  All the first-year recruits are there, jogging in place with high knees to a count given by Guardsman Bruno. “High, two, three, four!” he urges. “I want to see those knees almost hit your chins!”

  I step forward, and Bruno fumbles his count. He goes silent. One by one, the boys stop jogging in place. They turn to see what he’s staring at.

  Iván’s face lights up.

  “It’s Red!” someone says, and all of a sudden I’m surrounded by sweating bodies and grinning faces. “What are you doing here?” “Are you reinstated?” “We’re going to have a gala celebration of our own tonight.” “You should join us, Red.”

  Then Guardsman Bruno is there too, and he reaches through the mob, grabs my shoulder.

  “You’re not supposed to be here, girl,” he says.

  I hold up Rosario’s letter. “I have authorization, sir. His Imperial Highness is officially drafting all first-year recruits into service for the evening. He has sent me to fetch them.”

  The air goes taut with silence. Bruno takes the letter, breaks the seal, reads.

  I hold my breath. If he’s not loyal to the prince, he might try to stop us.

  “Well,” he says at last. “Everything looks in order.” He rolls the letter back up, hands it back to me. “Lady Red, the first-year recruit class is yours.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Guardsman Bruno wears a slight smile as he turns his back on us and exits the arena, leaving us all alone.

  “Whoa,” says Pedrón. “What just happened?”

  “I think we’re Royal Guards now,” says Rito. “Real Royal Guards.”

  “At least temporarily,” I say. Two palace watch soldiers pass by along the arena wall. “Let’s get back to the bunk room. I’ll explain everything there, in private.”

  “Wait!” says Aldo. “There’s something we need to do first.”

  Everyone snaps to attention at his voice.

  A brass half-moon is now pinned to the shoulder of his uniform. At my questioning look, he says, “Yesterday after you left, the recruits voted me squad leader.”

  “Aldo, that’s wonderful!” I say. “Congratulations.”

  He beams. “Thank you.”

  “If the two of you hadn’t agreed to start the practice group, we wouldn’t have any useful training by now,” Pedrón says.

  “But it was close,” Rito explains. “A tie vote between him and Iván. Sergeant DeLuca had to break the tie.”

  Something about that makes me twitch. But I say, “Well, you couldn’t go wrong with either.”

  “Anyway, once I knew I was squad leader,” Aldo says, “I arranged for a little surprise for everyone to celebrate Deliverance Day. Bruno helped me. He said we’d earned it. Seems like I ought to give it to you all now, before we head off for duty. Is that all right with you, Red? Do we have a few minutes to spare?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  Aldo grins. “Follow me!” As we exit the arena, he says, “I’m really glad to see you, Red.”

  “Nice sword,” says Pedrón. “Can I hold it?”

  “No! Get your own.”

  “Where did you go after you left?” Iván asked.

  “To the monastery. To . . .” I almost say “to pray,” but that would be a bold-faced lie. “To find some peace.”

  He gives me a strange look.

  Aldo leads us to the latrine and gestures for us to go inside.

  “Really?” says Pedrón. “The latrine?”

  “Sorry, but yes,” Aldo says with a sheepish grin. “There wasn’t enough space in the bunk room.”

  We file in. The smell is terrible, way worse than usual, as though the latrine hasn’t been maintained all day.

  “Aldo, what are you talking about?” Rito says. “There’s nothing—”

  The door slams shut behind us. The bar latch thuds down, locking us in.

  23

  Now

  I’M attacking the door, pounding with hands and feet, yelling for Aldo, even as my mind parses what just happened.

  “Aldo, this isn’t funny!” Pedrón calls out.

  “Yes, this is a very bad time for a prank,” yells Arturo.

  “It’s not a prank,” Iván says darkly.

  “Aldo!” I’m practically screaming. “What are you doing?”

  Something heavy scrapes across the stone floor outside, plunks against the door.

  “What was that?” asks Luca.

  I step back from the door. I don’t realize tears are streaming down my face until a drop of wetness hits my collarbone. “He’s blocking us in,” I say. “He’s probably dragging cots and nightstands over, anything he can find. He has betray
ed us.”

  “Why?” says Rito.

  “Why?” I echo, louder, my mouth to the door. “Aldo, why are you doing this?”

  Finally a muffled voice reaches us. “All you had to do was eat breakfast today. But no, you just had to tell everyone not to eat or drink. So I had to improvise.”

  I whirl on Iván. “Everyone heeded your warning?”

  “Most of them.”

  “I’m really hungry,” Pedrón says.

  “What about the rest of the Guard? Second years? Bruno’s people? The barracks were oddly quiet when I got here.”

  “I don’t know,” Iván says. “I suspect that whoever heard the rumor had a choice, and some people made the choice to eat and drink and some didn’t.”

  “The Guards at the entrance,” I say. “I didn’t recognize them.”

  “You think they’ve been replaced?” Iván says.

  “They’ve definitely been replaced,” I say. “But I don’t know what Aldo has to do with it.”

  Arturo is looking back and forth between us. “You’re saying the rest of the Guard might be poisoned? That’s why we’ve seen hardly anyone since lunch? I thought they’d left for the gala already.”

  I turn back to the door and pound on it. “Aldo! This is your last chance. Let us out!”

  “I can’t,” comes the muffled voice. “I’m sorry, Red. I really wish I didn’t have to do this. You’re my friends. If you just stay there and don’t make trouble, I promise this will all be over in a few hours and no one will get hurt. You’re all going to stay in the Guard.”

  “You tried to poison us,” I say. “You don’t poison your friends!”

  “It wasn’t going to be enough to kill you,” he protests. “Just knock you out. Like Valentino.”

  Several of us gasp.

  “Why did you poison Valentino?”

  “He was too good. A favorite. Either you or I would have been cut if I hadn’t eliminated him. I did it to save us both.”

  My ears ring, my face is hot as a desert, and my toe hurts from kicking the door. I liked Aldo. I thought he was my friend.

  If I could get to him right now, I would stab him in the heart.

  “We’re finally called up to do something real,” Rito says, staring at the door. “Something important, and we’re trapped.”

  “Someone will come along,” Arturo says. “They’ll notice the door to the latrine is blocked and let us out, right?”

  “Not if everyone has been knocked out by poison,” Rito says.

  Iván gives me a questioning look. I nod agreement. Softly, so Aldo can’t hear through the door, he says, “We’re not trapped.”

  “What do you mean?” says Pedrón.

  I whisper, “When we’re certain Aldo has left, we’ll show you.”

  Pedrón raises an eyebrow. Then he pounds on the door, yelling, “Aldo!”

  No answer.

  He tries again. Still no response.

  “Pedrón, keep making noise,” I command quietly. “Everyone else, come this way.”

  Pedrón does his job with enthusiasm, yelling and kicking. The others follow me toward the sconce in the wall. I give it a yank, and the section of wall slides away. “Inside, quick,” I say.

  Iván grabs the torch and leads the way. The rest follow, their gazes rapt, their mouths hanging open.

  “All right, Pedrón, your turn.”

  He gives the door one last kick and follows everyone else into the secret tunnel. I’m the last to enter. I flip the lever so the door closes behind us.

  “Now what?” Rito whispers. They’re all in a single-file line in the tight corridor. Pedrón’s shoulders brush the walls. If not for Iván’s torch, it would be too dark to see any of them.

  “We have to reach the prince,” I say. “We move fast and quiet; some of these walls are thin. The passage will take us beneath the Sky Wing, near the entrance to the catacombs. Hopefully, we’ll be able to reach the prince from there. Iván, do you remember the way?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then lead on.”

  “Wait . . . you’ve both been here before?” Rito says.

  “Long story. Let’s get our prince through this gala alive, and then we’ll tell you.”

  The storage room is too small for all of us, so several stay behind in the secret passage while Iván and I peek into the corridor.

  I’ve barely cracked the door open before I yank it shut. A group of men marches by, blocking our way. I glimpse rawhide armor and daggers and the kind of thick-soled sandals worn by people of the southern countships.

  “I heard marching,” Iván whispers. “And armor.”

  “I didn’t recognize a single crest,” I whisper back.

  “What should we do?”

  “What’s going on?” Pedrón whispers from inside the corridor.

  “The only way out from here is blocked by soldiers I’ve never seen before,” I say. “Wait here. After they pass by, I’m going to get a closer look.”

  Iván says, “Red, are you sure—”

  “I’m the only one not wearing a recruit uniform,” I say. “If I get caught, I’ll just say I’m delivering a message.” I wave Rosario’s note in front of his face.

  He frowns. “Be careful.”

  I wait for the sound of marching to fade. Then I crack open the door and slip through into the corridor. I follow the oddly dressed soldiers, sticking close to the wall.

  The sound of marching ceases abruptly. I freeze, trying to disappear into the sandstone.

  “All right, boys,” comes a gruff voice. “No one gets into the Sky Wing. We hold this intersection no matter what. When the bells signal, we attack. Do our jobs right, and there’s a fat purse waiting for us, hear?”

  “Hear!” a dozen voices echo.

  I know this accent. These men are from the southeastern part of the empire. Maybe even the free villages. Which means they’re probably mercenaries.

  I tiptoe back to the storeroom and slip inside.

  “The way is blocked,” I tell the recruits. “Mercenaries. They said something about holding the intersection until the bell signal.”

  “We were right,” Iván says. “It’s a coup.”

  “That’s the only way back to the upper levels,” I say. “The empress had any branching corridors blocked off years ago.”

  “Does that mean we’re trapped down here?” Rito says. “We have to reach the prince. Somehow.”

  “Let’s fight our way through,” Pedrón says. “We’re Royal Guards, right? The best of the best.”

  “They have weapons and armor,” I say. “We don’t.”

  “Then we go through the catacombs,” Iván says. “And up through the Wallows.”

  “We can do that?” says one of the Basajuaños.

  “That’s why Elisa blocked off this passage,” I say. “It might be the most important corridor in the whole palace.”

  “Making it easier to guard also turned it into a potential trap,” Iván points out.

  “It will take more than an hour to exit through the secret hideout and circle back,” I say.

  “Then we’d better get started,” Iván says.

  “What secret hideout?” Pedrón says.

  “You’ll see soon enough,” I say. “Follow my lead. Remember: fast and quiet.”

  I exit the storeroom, all the first-year recruits on my heels. We jog down the corridor on light feet, in the opposite direction from the mercenaries.

  At the entrance to the catacombs, we stop short. A Guard lies on the floor, arm extended at an odd angle, blood pooling beneath his head on the stone floor. The mercenaries took the time to scout the whole corridor before taking up position at the intersection.

  “Holy God,” whispers Rito. “This is serious.”

  If the killing has already begun, Rosario is in grave danger. “Hurry!” I urge. “We’ll come back for him later.” I step over the body and start toward the stairs.

  “Wait,” Iván says in a sharp whi
sper. “Somebody grab his sword. And any other weapon he has.”

  Iván would have been a great squad leader. No wonder DeLuca didn’t let him win.

  Pedrón is nearest to the body. He drops to the floor and searches it. “The sword’s gone. And all his pockets are turned inside out.”

  “Then the looting’s already started,” I say. “Let’s go!” I take the stairs into the catacombs at an unwise pace.

  The boys gasp when we reach the Hall of Skulls. They gape in wonder when I finger the latch that pivots the stone casket aside, revealing the dark well that will lead us to the underground village.

  Iván goes first, and I usher everyone down into the spiral staircase, intending to take up the rear. Rito is the last one. He stares down into the darkness, eyes wide, limbs frozen.

  “Arturito?”

  “We’re going to get killed tonight, aren’t we?”

  “I’m hoping we’ll at least reach the prince first.”

  His eyes dart around as if looking for escape, and I realize this is one of those times when a less candid person would tell him something comforting and false.

  “Will it hurt?” he whispers.

  I find something true to say. “If we survive this, and we keep our prince safe, no one will dare cut us from the Guard. We’ll be heroes.”

  He perks up a little. “You think so?”

  “Heroes know how to weather a storm, right? What do we have when the winds are harsh and the seas are rough?”

  He nods. “Still hearts.”

  “Now go.”

  We catch up to the rest. The tide is in, and we soak our boots wading through ankle-high salt water. Our footsteps squish as we climb the narrow stairs. Pedrón and Iván must duck their heads to avoid the low ceiling.

  The boys want nothing more than to stand and gawk when they see the underground village. Light streams down from fissures above, and the whole place sparkles. The rushing river hugging the cavern’s far edge creates a light breeze.

  A fire pit still smolders, and a few villagers are smoking fish on a rack beside it. But the village is mostly empty. The entire remaining Guard was called up for the gala. I wonder if any of them are still alive.

  “How have I never heard of this place?” Pedrón whispers.

  “You do know what ‘secret’ means, right?” I say.