by Rae Carson
The rest of the crowd has pressed itself into the walls, as far away from swinging blades as they can get. Tristán and Juan-Carlos have killed their initial attackers and have leaped from the dais. Tristán holds a sword to Ariña’s throat. Juan-Carlos and Carilla crouch before the prince, ready to engage anyone who approaches.
Aldo circles me, his sword at the ready. “I know how well trained the first years really are,” he says. “But they’re outnumbered. You can’t win this fight.”
“But we can still fight this fight,” I say. “And you will still die.”
“You would never kill one of your friends,” he says, but for the first time, fear flashes in Aldo’s eyes. Fear can make adversaries even more dangerous. He advances on me.
His right shoulder lifts, and I ready my own sword to parry . . . but it’s a decoy move, meant to lure me into position.
I register my mistake a split second before a second blade, a small dagger, arcs toward my belly. I dodge, but I’m not fast enough; the tip swipes my shirt, slices it. Blood wells, and a blink later, pain screams through my abdomen.
I’m wounded but not gravely. If I had not dodged, Aldo would have carved me open.
I resist the urge to clutch my side, to keep my lifeblood from dripping to the floor, before I remember that it doesn’t matter anymore; the sorcerer is dead.
So I focus on Aldo instead, who is circling again, just out of reach. He means to wear me down, frustrate me into making another mistake.
I won’t make another mistake.
Just like Hector taught me, I feel the solid earth beneath my feet, breathe deep through my nose. My sword is an extension of my arm, which must be mighty and fast.
Aldo attacks with a flurry of swipes, but I counter them all. I am speed and light. I am power. He dances back, attacks again. I defend only, letting him bring the fight to me. He’s the one who will wear down, the one who will make a mistake.
But the chaos of battle is always the greatest enemy, and something impacts my shoulder, sending me reeling toward Aldo. He reacts instantly to the opportunity, lifting the point of his blade to skewer my gut. I barely knock his blade aside with my own as the momentum carries me past him, exposing my back.
I fall on purpose, rolling away and flipping to my feet. I lift my sword just in time to block his downward, arcing blow. The impact rings in my ears, shudders all the way down through my hips.
“You don’t have enough training in how to attack,” Aldo says. His breath comes in gasps now.
He’ll get no retort from me, because Elisa’s voice in my head is the only one that matters. There is nothing more dangerous than an opponent who thinks.
Aldo advances, lifts a shoulder. . . .
I am the opponent who thinks. I dodge the opposite direction of his feint. His dagger finds air.
He spins, trying to dance away, but I’m wise to this now too, and I swipe low with my sword—Slit the Rope—right across his hamstrings.
He shrieks, crumples to the ground, rolls around in agony.
“Alejandro!” his mother screams.
I kick his sword out of the way and raise my arm for the killing blow, but something stays my hand.
What would Hector do? Kill Aldo? Or hold him for questioning? There’s still so much we don’t know.
When I don’t allow my blow to fall, his mother rushes to his side, crouches down. Tears stream from her cheeks.
“Mamá,” Aldo gasps out. “They hate me. Why do they hate me?”
Still not sure what to do, I take a moment to take stock. Tristán is still on his feet, though his left arm hangs limp from its socket. Juan-Carlos seems uninjured, but his chest heaves, and bodies litter the ground, attesting to his effort. Carilla whirls, a hairpin in one hand, a dagger in the other. She is like a dust devil, small and fast and wondrous as she forces back anyone who dares to approach her prince.
Rosario himself has drawn his ceremonial sword, and a cut on one cheek indicates that someone got past Carilla and the condes before being dispatched. Behind them all are Iladro and Ambassador Songbird, huddled together, trying to stay low.
Valentino hovers over his father. He has taken up someone’s fallen sword and holds it to Conde Astón’s throat. Valentino is not yet in fighting form, but at least he has eliminated his father as a threat to the rest of us.
Clusters of combat are all around me. The air smells of blood and rings with battle cries. A quick head count indicates we’ve probably lost at least one recruit, though I can’t tell who. The scuffles are getting closer, though. We’re being gradually forced to retreat, herded toward the prince.
Aldo was right. We’re going to lose. Soon we’ll be corralled, with nowhere to go.
I turn to Aldo. Maybe if I kill him, his men will stop fighting. Or maybe the men are Astón’s. Or are they the condesa’s? Which one should I kill?
Maybe I’ll kill them all. Aldo raised a weapon before the prince, which means I can kill him with impunity. But the others . . . executing nobles without a trial is something I could hang for. But if I don’t, we’ll all die anyway.
I raise my sword, ready to bring it down on Ariña’s neck.
The doors to the ballroom fly open. Someone shrieks. Nobles flee the ballroom like a receding tide, emptying the space. Others pour in, taking their place. They are armed with wooden swords and kitchen knives, pitchforks and blacksmith tongs. It’s Itzal and Tanix, along with the stable hands, the cooks, the stewards, and anyone else they could find.
Arturo is backing toward me, chased down by two imposter Guards. They swing their swords and he’s dodging as best he can, but he’s starting to slow with fatigue. I step in front of him, parrying with my sword. The impact wrenches my shoulder.
“Get back, Arturo. Find a weapon if you can. Help protect the prince.”
He scurries back as I parry another blow, then another. If we make it out of this alive, I’m going to make sure we recruits practice defending against two attackers at once.
They come at me from opposite directions; dodging one blow will send me right into the other. So I drop to my belly, roll away as their swords barely miss impacting each other.
I leap to my feet, guard up, only to find they have both been dispatched. A stable boy stands over one with a bloodied pitchfork. Itzal has walloped the other’s head with the pommel of his wooden sword.
“We took the bell tower,” Itzal says. He breathes heavily, and a bruise is beginning to purple his left cheek. “You could see the whole ballroom light up like a torch from there.”
The sorcerer’s fire was supposed to be the signal to ring the bells.
Itzal adds, “Rito is there with Guardsman Bruno and a few of the second years, holding it.”
“Guardsman Bruno helped!”
“He’s the only fighting Guard who heeded the warning. The rest are passed out in their quarters, some in the mess. Sergeant DeLuca fell asleep in the officers’ latrine, pants around his ankles.”
“The sergeant was poisoned?”
“The barracks were ransacked for uniforms. Red, it’s awful over there.”
The clashes around us are dying down. We’re going to be victorious after all.
“Itzal, great work. You and Rito, you saved us.”
He grins. “I think we all saved each other.”
Only a few small pockets of fighting remain, and our Guards, our real Guards, seem to have them well in hand.
“It’s not over yet,” says someone at my shoulder. Iván is propping up his brother, Juan-Carlos, who has sustained an injury to his knee. “We saw all those mercenaries in the Sky Wing, remember?”
“Right,” I say. “And others were looting estates outside the palace.”
“What do we do?” Itzal asks.
I have no idea. I’m about to say as much when Rosario steps down from the dais, Carilla once again like a burr in his side.
The prince crouches before the sobbing Ariña, tilts her chin up. “Who hired the mercenaries? Was it
you?”
Ariña says nothing.
“How you answer me right now will determine whether your son lives or dies,” Rosario says.
Ariña swallows. Then she says, “Me. And Conde Astón. It was both of us.”
“Ariña!” Astón exclaims.
“How do we get them to lay down arms?” Rosario presses.
“Tell them . . . tell them the deal is off. No payment is forthcoming. We were going to pay them with dream syrup. Fighting men will do anything for dream syrup, you know. It’s hidden in the empress’s quarters. Take it out. Burn it.”
Of course. King Alejandro’s former mistress would definitely know secret ways into the Sky Wing. And Rosario would never think to search there.
“And this creature?” Rosario says, nudging the dead sorcerer with his boot. “Did you hire him too?”
“He was . . . a pet of sorts. Addicted to the dream syrup. He played his part, freezing everyone but my son. He did not know he would die today, though.”
“Thank you,” Rosario says. “If everything you say proves true, I will ensure that your son is not executed.”
The prince stands, strides toward Conde Astón. Valentino still holds a blade to his throat, but it wavers. Tears stream down the boy’s face.
“You, on the other hand, will most certainly be executed,” Rosario says to the high conde. “And the Scriptura Sancta tells us that the sins of the father shall be visited upon the children, from generation to generation.”
Rosario pauses to glance at Valentino.
In a softer voice, he adds, “But I don’t believe that. I believe that children should never pay for their father’s sins. Surrender now, Astón. Get word to the mercenaries to lay down their arms, that payment will not be forthcoming. If you convince them, I swear by God’s righteous right hand that your family name will not be stricken from history, and your son Valentino will be named your heir by royal decree and declared a loyal subject, respected and beloved, until he passes the name to his own heirs.”
Conde Astón blinks. “I have two older sons,” he says.
“And they will all live and keep your name. But Valentino is the one who has proven himself. He will be lord of Ciénega del Sur.”
Conde Astón looks to Ariña. Then to the boy who holds a sword to his throat. His hand goes up to cup Valentino’s cheek. “My son,” he says.
Valentino’s eyes are wet with tears. “Why did you do this, Papá? Why?”
“To make a better future for you. For all of us.”
“You were wrong.”
“It doesn’t matter now.” To Rosario, he says. “I will do it. By God’s righteous right hand.”
Rosario steps aside. “Then go. Spread your message. Your three sons’ lives and futures depend on you keeping your word.”
Astón rises, dusts himself off, and flees the ballroom.
“What if he escapes?” I ask, staring after him. “What if he never comes back?”
“He will,” says Valentino, wiping his cheeks. “My father is many things. But most of all, he is proud. He will not let his family name be extinguished.”
Next Rosario turns to Aldo, who lies gasping on the floor, blood pooling beneath his legs. “You stupid, stupid boy,” he says.
Aldo sneers at him. “You would not be saying that if our plan had succeeded.”
Rosario shakes his head in disbelief. “Do you have any idea how happy Red and I would have been to learn we have a brother? All you had to do was come to me, tell me who you were. You could have been a prince of the empire. I would have shared everything with you.”
“It’s my birthright,” Aldo gasps out. “I was born for it. I deserve—”
“No,” Rosario says. “One of the most important things I learned from my stepmother is that no one deserves to rule. Anyone who believes otherwise will make a truly terrible monarch. You made your choices. So be it.”
“That’s not . . .” Aldo pleads, transfigured into a small child, heartbroken and lost.
But Rosario has already turned his back.
“Conde Juan-Carlos, are you well enough to take these pieces of trash to the prison tower?” Rosario says, indicating Aldo and his mother.
“With pleasure, Your Highness,” he says, retrieving Father Nicandro’s cane. “May my brother accompany me? I seem to have misplaced a kneecap and could use a little help.”
“Of course. You,” Rosario says, indicating Itzal. “Fetch Doctor Enzo and all his staff. We have lots of wounded. And you—it’s Pedrón, right?”
“Yes, Your Highness.” Pedrón’s right arm hangs limp from his shoulder; I can’t tell if it’s out of its socket or broken or worse.
“Inform the monastery that their head priest has fallen.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
Rosario crouches beside Father Nicandro’s broken body. He reaches down and brushes his eyelids closed. “Rest well, old friend. You will lie in state, with my true family.”
He looks up at me. “Red?”
He is my brother, but he is also my liege. I snap to attention, the way I’ve been taught. “Your Highness?”
“I need you to . . . please just stay by my side while we clean up this mess.”
26
Now
THE next few days are a blur. Rosario reinstates me to the Guard, but instead of training, we are tasked with cleaning up. In the ballroom, we find two of the Basajuan boys. The Arturos insist on carrying their bodies out to the desert and burying them in the sand. “From sand we come, to sand we return,” they intone.
Only eleven first-year recruits remain.
Next, we retrieve the remaining barrels of dream syrup and destroy them. Pedrón’s right arm was badly injured, and he is forced to carry it in a sling. Doctor Enzo says his upper arm was broken in three places, that it might take a year of care to rehabilitate. Still, Pedrón does the work of ten men, lifting and dragging and tossing with his left arm.
Condes Tristán and Juan-Carlos lead the effort to root out any remaining mercenaries. The General opens an investigation into his army’s recruitment practices to make sure no one like Beto or Sancho remains, who might have been compromised by Conde Astón and Condesa Ariña.
Conde Astón makes good on his word. After he releases the mercenaries from service, and returns to the palace, Rosario holds him in the tower, in a cell far, far away from either Aldo or Aldo’s mother. Rosario tells me that Astón answers questions openly and without reserve, even confesses to poisoning Captain Bolivar and searching his quarters. His execution will wait until the empress returns, so that she and Lord-Commander Dante can question him themselves.
Sergeant DeLuca is also held for questioning. He maintains his innocence, insists that he was acting in good faith, and that if he betrayed his empress at all, he did so because he was deceived by Conde Astón into believing a traitor had infiltrated the first-year recruits. The conde himself verifies the sergeant’s story, confirming that he manipulated DeLuca, playing on his deep desire to win the notice of the empress, along with his intolerance for all things Invierno. The sergeant had no idea who Aldo was, or about their greater plan. He assumed I was the traitor.
Soon after, Sergeant DeLuca is found hanging in his tower cell, his face swollen and blue, his Guard-issue belt cutting into the skin of his neck.
His loss makes me ill. I disliked him, almost as much as he disliked me, but he was still a Royal Guard, and he didn’t need to kill himself. He was a fool, not a traitor, and Elisa would have been merciful. I’m sure of it.
A few days later, I’m in the barracks, running errands for Guardsman Bruno, who is in charge of everyone who remains, when Rosario sends for me. I meet him in his receiving room. He sits behind his desk, regal in satin, a small golden diadem circling his head. As always, Lady Carilla stands at his shoulder. It’s the first I’ve seen her since the chaos ended.
“You’re a warrior,” I say to her, and it sounds more accusatory than I intend. “Trained for it, just like me
. Except I think you’re better.”
Carilla smiles. It’s a smile that says, “Much better,” but without rubbing my nose in it. I appreciate her restraint. “You know I fostered in Amalur, yes?”
“Of course. With Queen Alodia.”
“That’s where I trained.”
I blink, understanding dawning. “You were trained to be a guardian, by the warrior priests at the Monastery-at-Amalur.”
“Yes.”
“Elisa had a guardian for many years,” Rosario says. “She thought I ought to have one too. Anyway, that’s not why I called you here. You’re a hero, Red. You saved me. You saved the empire.”
“It would have been really embarrassing if Elisa and Hector returned and we had misplaced it for them.”
Rosario’s look becomes pointed. Like that of a prince instead of a brother. “I do not consider this a humorous matter.”
“It was a group effort,” I say quickly. “Iván . . .” I have no idea what I want to say about Iván. There’s too much, and yet all of it seems inadequate.
“I have already met privately with Iván,” the prince says.
“But it’s not just him. Every single first-year recruit helped, even some who got cut, like Itzal and Valentino. With the exception of DeLuca and Aldo, your Guard remained true down to the last nonfighting man.”
He nods. “I’m glad to know it.”
“Some died in the process. If a single one of them had failed, if a single one of them had not answered the call to duty, we could have—would have—lost.”
“Their contributions are noted and will be recognized. And yet, from my position here, sitting at this desk instead of lying dead on the floor of the ballroom, it appears to me that our entire victory hinged on one moment: when you came to me and asked to activate the Guard recruits. Activating recruits is unprecedented. You pushed beyond tradition and expectation to come up with an idea that could help us, and you pestered me until I gave you permission. Without that one decision, you and I and many others would most certainly be dead by now. And the country would be in the midst of a civil war.”