by Rae Carson
Sancho grins wolfishly and presses his knife harder into my side.
I scan the crowd, looking for my fellow recruits—Iván or Pedrón, anyone who can help—but the crush of people is too thick.
The air turns taut and prickly, as though a massive thunderstorm is gathering. My limbs start to tingle; a knot forms in my gut. It’s the Invierno sorcerer. He’s here, and he’s reaching for his well of magic.
Rosario raises his hand to signal the musicians to begin playing. His hand freezes midair.
The crowd collectively gasps, then goes eerily still.
The tip of Sancho’s knife is cutting my skin. Blood seeps down my side, thick and warm against my skin. But I can’t flinch away from it. I can’t move at all.
We stand in silence—no rustling of fabric, no murmured conversation, no creak of armor. I try to twitch my finger, but I can’t. Like everyone else, I’m frozen in place, an invisible barrier clenching tight around my body.
A white-haired Invierno steps forward from his hiding place behind the Hand. An animagus. He’s a head taller than almost everyone else in the room, with limbs so thin and cheeks so gaunt he is like a skeleton with skin. The whites of his eyes are bloodshot, shadowed by dark circles. He is not well.
The sorcerer mounts the dais. The Godstone at the tip of his staff glows with blue fire. When he speaks, his voice sounds magnified, either by the shape of the room or by some sorcery I am unfamiliar with. “Lucero-Elisa, Queen of Joya d’Arena, Empress of the United Joyan Empire, Bearer of the Godstone, the Sorcerer-Queen . . . the Queen of Joya . . .”
He stumbles over his words, pauses, and then smiles.
“Empress Elisa sends her blessings.”
I want to shout, to call him a liar, but I can do nothing except move my eyes. On scattered faces all around me, I see the stricken look of people who have had their worst fears realized.
“On behalf of the empress Elisa and the ambassador of Invierne, I welcome you. Today we celebrate a new Deliverance. Beginning today, your young empire and the ancient empire of Invierne will be forever joined as one.”
Rosario’s eyes widen in protest, but he can do nothing. He can’t even speak.
“Let all those who would oppose this union consider the wisdom of their choices.”
A stream of fire bursts from the sorcerer’s staff, exploding against a serving table. Dishes clatter to the floor. Flames lick the banners hanging from the wall.
Either the sorcerer is not powerful enough, or he is well and truly ill, for he is unable to hold everyone frozen while performing fire magic. A murmur of fear and despair passes through the crowd. My limbs release; the dagger at my side shifts slightly in surprise, and I don’t even think, I just react. My heel crashes down on Beto’s instep. Bones crunch. He screams.
Movement around us as others are released. Panic.
I drop to the floor before Sancho can gut me with his dagger. When I shoot up, my palm smashes into his chin. His head snaps back, cracking against the wall; then he slides down, head at an odd angle, as he crumples to the floor.
The crowd is too thick, too frantic, for me to draw my sword, so I grab Sancho’s dagger and thrust it deep into Beto’s neck. He topples over, blood spilling everywhere.
Too late, I realize my mistake.
Blood soaking into the earth will make the animagus stronger.
A woman screams as another banner goes up in flames. Everyone mills about, trying to get away. Tristán and Juan-Carlos have drawn their swords; they close ranks before the prince and Carilla and Iladro. I press forward, trying to get to them, using knees and elbows, but I keep getting pushed back by the panicked crowd.
A great boom reverberates through the ballroom, and I startle so badly that I trip over someone’s gown and almost fall to my knees. The double doors have been slammed shut, closing us in. “We’re trapped!” someone yells.
My heart feels like it’s leapfrogging out of my chest. I don’t have time to panic. I don’t have time to stop and do the breathing exercises Hector taught me. I have to be fine right now. Still hearts, I tells myself. Still hearts, still hearts.
People pound on the door with their fists. The fire spreads to another table.
“Silence!” the Invierno yells, and the air goes taut once again.
This time I’m frozen midstep, my knee raised. Ahead of me, close but so, so far away, Father Nicandro turns his head to look at the sorcerer.
The priest can move. Not much, but it gives me hope.
I remember what he said about my Godstone. My instinct is to grab it, but of course I can’t.
Instead, I do exactly what Elisa taught me: I hold an image of the Godstone in my head, and focus on it. I pretend my feet are one with the earth. I reach down mentally, grasping for the well of power, the magic that lives beneath the skin of the world.
My step lands. It’s working. I concentrate harder.
“The empress Elisa will be merciful to those who obey her,” the sorcerer intones. “But she is not here today. I am. And I have no mercy for the disobedient.”
I’m not too terrified for my prince, nor too caught up in my efforts to shake the freezing spell, that I don’t recognize a bit of terrible theater when I hear it. “No mercy for the disobedient?” This is a staged crisis. And someone wanted as many people as possible to witness it.
Someone wants everyone to blame Elisa.
The sorcerer raises his staff again. This time, he aims for the crowd.
I’m able to take another step, but I won’t reach him in time. A stream of flame, as swift and white-hot as lightning, shoots from the staff, crashes into a huddled group. The brightness sears my eyes. The scent of burning hair and flesh chokes me. I recognize the mayor and Lady Jada just before their agonized faces are melted away.
My vision clears, revealing Father Nicandro hobbling toward the sorcerer, raising his cane as though to wallop the animagus in the back. The priest has shaken off the spell, and if he can do it, so can I.
Just a few more steps. I clench my teeth, continuing to draw on the well of power even as I begin to draw my sword.
The sorcerer is about to attack the crowd again, but Nicandro’s cane whacks him in the back. He whirls on the priest, spins his staff in the air, sends it crashing into Father Nicandro’s temple. The priest drops his cane, crumples to the floor. His wide-open eyes stare lifelessly at my feet.
The animagus turns on Rosario.
I’m almost there, but I’m moving too slow, as though wading through date syrup. My legs are lead. My sword arm is weighed down by a millstone.
Rosario and Carilla stare wide-eyed, unable to react as the animagus raises his staff. His Godstone is suddenly brighter than the sun.
A body flies up the steps out of nowhere. I catch a spark of steel, a flash of purple fabric, as someone throws himself at the sorcerer, whisks a dagger across his throat.
The animagus chokes, head lolling, then plops to the ground in a heap of robes. His Godstone winks out.
It’s as though a switch has been flipped, for everyone is released, suddenly able to move. One woman collapses to the floor, quietly sobbing. Flames continue to lick at the food tables.
A boy in golden armor and a purple cape stands over the body of the Invierno. His dagger drips with blood.
It’s Aldo.
25
Now
EVERYONE looks on in panic and confusion. I push through the crowd, and finally break into the open just in front of the dais. Aldo looks down at me, notes my sword. Smiles triumphantly.
Then he lifts his head and smiles at the crowd.
He raises the bloody knife in the air.
People cheer.
This theater is not yet over, but for a split second I’m too confused to act.
Conde Astón, however, is not. He walks across the dais and places a hand on Aldo’s shoulder. In a loud, clear voice, the speaker of the chamber of condes says, “Thank you, my prince. You saved us all.”
C
onfused murmuring comes from all sides. My prince?
The reaction is perhaps not quite as universal as he hopes. Many people are still crying, from fear or injuries. Some call for help. Groups have organized to put out the fires. Fists still beat against the doors.
This does not slow down Conde Astón.
“I see an introduction is in order,” he says, smiling magnanimously to the still-terrified crowd. “It pleases me greatly to present Prince Alejandro né Basajuan de Vega, son of our late king, Alejandro de Vega, nephew to Queen Cosmé of Basajuan.”
I stare at the boy who used to be my bunkmate.
“Prince Alejandro is the true heir to the imperial throne,” Astón says, his voice booming through the chamber.
Aldo. Alejandro. He’s the son of one of the king’s many mistresses. Rosario’s secret half-brother. I should have realized. Those same delicate features. Those same impossible eyelashes.
The bastard prince eyes me as I skirt the bodies of Father Nicandro and the animagus, to take my place before my prince.
“Red?” Rosario whispers. “What’s happening?”
Nothing good. It appears as though Aldo has saved us all, but I’m not so sure. The drama has yet to play out.
It occurs to me that in all the chaos, I have not heard the monastery bells ring out any kind of signal. It gives me hope.
Lord-Conde Tristán says, “His Imperial Highness Prince Rosario is the true heir, named so by Empress Elisa herself, ratified by the chamber of condes.”
“The empress is a traitor!” shouts a high female voice. A figure comes forward, the crowd parting for her in a way it never would for me. She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, with golden skin and eyes like honey, only a shade or two darker than my own. I have seen her once before. Standing next to Lady Malka, on the day that my adoption was rejected. She wears a sleeveless gossamer gown the color of champagne. Her armbands and bracelets drip with jewels.
“Hello, Mamá,” says Aldo.
“Condesa Ariña!” says Conde Astón. “It’s a delight to see you here.”
She inclines her head slightly. “Thank you for commuting my exile,” she says. “I have yearned for my friends here in the capital.”
“You suffered long enough,” the conde says. “The chamber was only too happy to grant your request.”
I’m not sure what to do. This is some form of treachery; I’m certain of it. But I can’t just start attacking people. Or maybe I should.
Others push through the crowd. Relief fills me to see Iván’s face, then Pedrón’s. Valentino is inching forward as well. He still looks wan, but he no longer uses a cane. He has eyes for no one but his father.
The weeping and the cries for help subside. Smoke obscures the ceiling, but the flames have been suppressed.
“Many of you are already acquainted with Condesa Ariña,” Conde Astón says. “The longtime paramour of King Alejandro, and the choice for many of us to become our next queen.” To the beautiful woman, he says, “If we had known that you had borne his child, a prince, we never would have allowed the usurper to exile you. Please accept my apologies on behalf of the kingdom and all who are loyal to the memory of our true king.”
“This is an outrage,” yells Conde Tristán. “Rosario is the true heir, beloved by all. This boy is a stranger! He could be an urchin from the streets of the Wallows, for all we know.”
“Oh, I have proof of my son’s lineage,” says Condesa Ariña, and she holds aloft an item for all to see. It’s a baby rattle, golden just like the one Rosario gave me. Except the one she displays is engraved with the de Vega seal.
Some people gasp. Others hold their tongues.
“A gift from his father, upon news of his birth,” Ariña says. “We kept my darling boy hidden, until such time as we married and I became Alejandro’s queen. But the usurper changed everything. She stole the throne for herself. Threw me out of the capital. Forced us all to accept treaties with our greatest enemies.”
Rosario finds his voice. “You were exiled because you conspired to betray my father. You were stripped of title, your sister Cosmé made heir to your lands and titles. You got exactly what you deserved.”
Condesa Ariña smiles. “I’m sure that’s what you’ve been told. But as you say, my sister retained my lands and titles. She is now queen of Basajuan. That means my son, Alejandro, is not only your half-brother, he is nephew to Queen Cosmé. His claim to the imperial throne is even greater than yours.”
Even though such a claim is ridiculous, everyone in the ballroom is rapt. This was the plan all along. Discredit Elisa and Rosario. Infiltrate the Royal Guard. Lock down the palace with mercenaries. Present Aldo as a heroic, patriotic alternative.
I have no idea what to do. I’ve been training to guard someone’s life, not shore up their political support.
“Empress Elisa invited that animagus here,” Conde Astón says. “You heard him. They were longtime friends. And now innocent people lie charred on the floor of this very ballroom.”
“You lie!” Rosario protests.
“Even I have never seen him before,” Ambassador Songbird says.
“We are so lucky Prince Alejandro was here to save us,” Conde Astón continues, unabashed. “The Inviernos bring nothing but duplicity and death. How many of you lost fathers, brothers, sons to the Inviernos in the war? There can be no treaty with duplicity. There can be no peace with treason.”
“Enough of this!” Rosario shouts. “Red, seize the pretender.”
I react instantly, leaping toward Aldo, my sword raised high.
Aldo is already spinning on me, drawing his own sword. Steel clangs against steel as he parries neatly.
He thrusts for my belly, but I twist my abdomen, and his blade sails past. With a flick of my wrist, I knock the blade aside and move inside his guard, priming my fist to bludgeon his face.
“Stop, or Rosario dies!” someone yells.
I freeze. Someone has Rosario pinned, a knife to his throat. Efren and Iago, the prince’s borrowed guards, are dead at his feet.
Aldo’s grin of triumph falters as he lifts his blade, presses the tip to my heart. “Surrender, Red,” he says. “You are my friend. Truly. And I want you as part of my own Royal Guard. As I told all of you, when I locked you up for your own safety, you can still be in the Guard.”
I gape at him. Does he really believe there can be friendship between us, after what he’s done?
From the corner of my eye, I see Valentino edging closer. Aldo notices, but does nothing. After all, Valentino is weak. The son of his greatest ally.
On the dais, the knife presses deeper into Rosario’s throat. I have to do something. I can’t watch him die. But there’s no way I’ll reach him before that blade slits his throat.
“Well, Red, what’s it going to be?” Aldo says. To Condesa Ariña, he says, “Mamá, please relieve her of her sword.”
Ariña steps forward, and I allow her to take my weapon. It clatters as she drops it to the ground, then kicks it aside.
Beside Rosario, Carilla lifts her hand to her hair. It’s a slow, subtle gesture.
“Why did you join the Guard?” I say, buying time.
“I needed a way inside. Also I really wanted to meet you and Iván, and all the empire’s brightest sons.”
“Why did you pretend to be our friend?”
“I didn’t pretend! You are my . . . I knew that once you realized I was the true heir, you would . . .” He glances toward his mother.
“What were the barrels of sweet dream syrup for?”
“You’re trying to get me to say something unwise in front of everyone, aren’t you?” He puts pressure on the blade. The tip parts my skin, bringing searing pain.
Carilla pulls a hairpin from her hair, which loosens it, toppling her black curls to her shoulders. The pin is half the length of my forearm.
“Aldo,” I say to keep his attention on me. “I’m going to kill you now.”
Carilla spins, thrusts th
e hairpin up, under the chin of Rosario’s captor and deep into his brain.
I throw myself backward, turn in midair to land on my hands while my feet arc out and sweep Aldo’s legs out from beneath him. He rolls away and is back on his feet before I can blink.
He whips his sword around. “I should have been ready for that move, after seeing you fight Valentino.”
Carilla has a dagger in her hand now; where it came from I have no idea.
Tristán and Juan-Carlos advance on Condesa Ariña. Aldo sees his mother is in danger and yells, “Guards! Seize them! Kill anyone who dares raise a weapon to your prince!”
Three imposter Guards rush forward. Tristán and Juan-Carlos are forced to retreat back, toward Rosario and Carilla.
Conde Astón starts to duck behind the Hand, but suddenly Valentino is there, blocking his way. “If you try to hide from this war you’ve started, I will kill you myself,” the boy says to his father.
Aldo whips his sword toward my head, and I duck, dancing out of the way. But several false Guards have made it through the crowd and are suddenly at my back, giving me no quarter. As one, they lift their swords, aiming for my throat. Aldo says, “If you will not join me, there is only one choice left to you. Do you want it in the heart, the throat, or the head?”
I’m trapped. My prince is trapped. Nothing to do now but die fighting.
Rosario, I’m sorry I couldn’t save you.
I take a deep breath. If I’m very fast and very lucky, I can take out one or two before a sword pierces my throat.
The guard closest to my side grunts. He topples over, a cheese knife sticking out of his back. It’s Pedrón.
Before anyone can react, Pedrón punches another guard in the face, felling him with a single blow. Aldo is swinging at me again, but Pedrón has opened up some space for me to maneuver, and I dodge, rolling out of the way.
The sword of a fallen Guard lies at my nose. I grab it, leaping to my feet.
The Guards are occupied now, for my fellow recruits have engaged them, weaponless though they are. I catch a glimpse of Iván dodging a downward stroke like someone who has practiced the move a thousand times. He dashes past his opponent’s guard, then rams an elbow into his kidney, exactly the way I did with Valentino months before. The imposter Guard drops to his knees, and Iván easily disarms him.