“The only people with access to royal documents would be in the palace, my justice. Allow me to conduct interviews with all the staff.”
“And give the spy time to run?” Méndez nearly snarls at Alessandro’s suggestion. “I have other ideas. In the meantime, keep the judges spread out through the palace. Now is not the time to rest.”
So Méndez knows about the Magpie, Illan’s informant. Would they remain here after the king’s display of Lord Las Rosas?
“Yes, my justice,” Alessandro says, and bows one more time before leaving. “I will never rest until I find the traitor and see them executed.”
Not if I find the spy first, I think.
“Is that all? I’m expecting Renata.”
“Yes, of course. That’s what I came to tell you. I found the Robári wandering the halls. I brought her here straightaway.”
A low grumble leaves my throat, but I dart to the front of the chambers where Alessandro deposited me earlier. He was following me to gain better favor. The door to the office swings open and Justice Méndez steps out with Alessandro at his heels. Alessandro gives me a look that says I will see him soon, and then he leaves us alone.
I bow and kiss Méndez’s knuckles. The touch sends a terrible crawl over my skin, and I wish I could scrub my face with a scullery brush. But when he rests a gentle hand on my shoulder, when I see how he softens at the sight of me, my insides twist.
“Renata, I trust you’re feeling better from yesterday.”
This morning, Leo woke me up from a sleep so deep, he had to shake me, as he thought I was dead. I ate a whole bowl of grapes and a loaf of bread drenched in olive oil with poppy seeds and salt.
“Leo works wonders,” I say, touching the cut on my chest, already scabbing over. “Though his hand at healing is not as practiced as yours.”
He seems to like that, and so he holds out his hand for me to take and presses his fingers over my gloved ones. “He’s come a long way. Lady Nuria had him in her employ, but I feel he’ll make a great addition to our ranks one day.”
Does he mean for Leo to become a judge?
I think of his careful warning last night when I asked about the prince. How he sent me to bed and lied about my pallor. Is the same boy supposed to become a hateful soldier in the king’s arsenal?
“Are we going to train, my justice?” I say, realizing that we’ve walked past the courtyard, where I thought he was taking me to practice, and toward a plain wooden door.
“We are, but it isn’t the training you remember.” He says no more, and I know not to ask, as he lets me enter the dimly lit stairwell first.
Knots twist in my gut as my eyes adjust to the darkness. When I was a little girl, Méndez used to teach me how to concentrate on the memories he wanted me to find. I didn’t know that Robári could create Hollows until the day he forced me to keep taking memories from one man until there were no more. Dead green eyes looked back at me from the floor and I was allowed a week on my own. He called it a reward, but I knew it was because I would start crying every time he tried bringing in a new prisoner. And now they want me to do it again, to turn Lord Las Rosas into a Hollow. That will be the end of me. I must find the weapon before the Sun Festival arrives or I will never leave these halls. I will be just like Constantino. Alessandro will find out my lies, and Justice Méndez will carve them out of me with hundreds of jagged knives.
With every step down the stone-walled stairwells, a part of me becomes more certain he’s leading me through a secret passage back to the dungeons or a less glittering cage—that he knows I’m lying.
Finally, five floors down we reach a landing, and I breathe a small sigh of relief at the sight of the alchemy laboratory. A round old man is hunched over vials and blue flames that burn black marks on the bottom of the glass.
Rage fills my throat and strangles my words. I’ve seen this equipment before, in San Cristóbal, the former capital of Memoria. Now our ruins. The Moria apothecuras’ greatest inventions were the distillations of herbs and flowers for medicines. While the people of Puerto Leones were still brewing grass and calling it spiced tea, the people of Memoria were developing alchemy and surgery that would change the way they healed. At least, that’s the story Illan taught us. When King Fernando’s family conquers a region, they destroy the temples and cathedrals first, the libraries second. They rewrite our histories or erase them completely. Who will we be if King Fernado and Justice Méndez employ their weapon?
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Méndez tells me. His gray eyes sweep the large room, the rows of tables and the young and old alchemists who scratch things down on parchment. There’s a girl my age who doesn’t look up when she hears his voice, she’s so focused on pouring liquid from one vial into another and watching the reaction.
I know nothing of alchemy, but I know the pleased expression on her face when she sets the vial down.
“What is all this?” I chance the question, holding my breath. Could this be the source of the weapon?
“Puerto Leones is about to enter the greatest of its ages,” he says. “In order to do that, we have to know everything about our neighboring countries. How they make the things they do and how we can replicate them.”
That’s when I realize what liquid the girl is trying to re-create. The violet color that is too dull in the glass. The dye from Dauphinique, its vibrant purple gathered from the flowers that cannot grow anywhere but their valleys. People have stolen the bulbs and tried to plant them elsewhere, but they will only grow on Dauphinique soil.
King Fernando is trying to cut off trade with his wife’s homeland? Where does that leave the Moria? The empire of Luzou?
“That’s ingenious,” I say, and I feel the daggers I’ve stabbed in my own heart. “But how is this training for me?”
“Eager to get back into the fold,” Justice Méndez says, something like admiration in his deep voice. He continues leading me until we reach a plain back room. My heart has not stopped fluttering, and the hair on the back of my neck bristles as he grips my wrist. I gasp, but only for a moment because I see the key he withdraws from his pocket.
“I won’t hurt you, Renata,” he assures me softly.
Méndez unlocks the heavy door. There’s a narrow empty room. The bricks are stacked at odd angles like it was created to serve as a passage. My stomach tightens and I force myself to keep walking forward instead of running out. At the opposite end of the room is another door secured by a ten-cylinder lock. The justice covers the code as he turns the gears into place.
The strangest thing is that I no longer want to run. My proximity to this door fills me with ease. It settles in my bones and turns to heady excitement. The sensation that glides across my skin is so familiar and somehow new at the same time.
Justice Méndez glances at me once as the lock clicks open and out comes a soft white light.
It can’t be.
But I hurry in beside him and take in the sight.
His eyes are bright with the pulsing glow of alman stones. There are dozens of them in different shapes. Some polished into perfect spheres and others jagged pieces ringed with metal wire. Stones as small as pebbles and as large as boulders. There’s the bottom half of a statue that must have once graced a temple for Our Lady of Shadows. Pillars split in half and pulsing veins of rock still covered in dirt.
Pure alman stone. More than I’ve ever seen in my life.
“I always did love your face when you were surprised, Ren. Do you know what these are?”
I let his words slide over me. If he really knew me he’d know it isn’t surprise, but horror at seeing these crystals. Smiling hurts, but I do it.
“Illan told us all the alman stones were gone,” I say. “Pulverized and thrown into the sea.”
Méndez reaches down to pick one up. It’s shaped like a cube, but too large for dice. Perhaps it was a weight or a decoration on an altar. “He’s not wrong. A few years ago we found one temple that was untouched.”
“Wh
ere?” I ask, before I realize I shouldn’t. I sound too eager.
But Méndez remains fascinated by the pulsing light in the stone. My fingers itch at the concentration of memories in this room. I’ve been around alman stone before, and it’s never been like this. There is so much about my power that I don’t know, still. Would this have been the feeling if I’d gotten to go to a temple?
“It no longer matters,” Méndez says, but the way he avoids my stare suddenly tells me he’s lying. What are they doing with all of this? He gestures to the stone again. “We did manage to carve King Fernando a new throne. Our last Robári found the memories encapsulated within it were gone. Do you know why that is?”
I can’t be sure if it’s a test or not, so I have to answer with the only truth I know. “The brighter ones have the sharpest memory. The ones that have weak pulses have begun to fade over time. Though it is said to take years, sometimes decades, for a memory to fade. The throne must have been stripped of its memories.”
He seems pleased with my knowledge, and I know I’ve answered correctly. With his free hand, he grips my shoulder. “You were always a clever pupil.”
I would laugh at this choice of words if it wouldn’t turn into a sob. “Thank you, my justice.”
“Now I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“You understand that the king was not pleased yesterday.” Méndez’s eyes flick to my hand.
“I’m sorry I embarrassed you in front of the king.”
“As long as you are true to your word, I will protect you.” He cups the side of my face, a gesture he once used to calm me as a child. I was always afraid of the dark. He’d say, There is nothing there, my sweet. There are only shadows. But he was wrong. There were things there. The start of the Gray.
“What do you need of me?”
“The Moria have turned some citizens into traitors. It is imperative that we know who they might be and what they are planning next.”
“A spy?” I am pleased with the surprise in my voice. “Why not use the Hand of Moria? Gather all who live in the palace and have their minds skimmed by a Ventári.”
“The spy will know we’re aware of them. I expect the Whispers to retaliate, and I will not see this kingdom destroyed by them once again. We cannot accuse anyone of noble birth without proof. The other lords are quite troubled by the fate of Lord Las Rosas.”
“But, my justice,” I say, carefully, so as to not provoke doubt in my commitment. “My injuries. How will I take memories?”
“You won’t. Not yet.” He sifts through the collection of alman stone. There’s a crystal the size of a cherry strung on a copper chain. It must have been intended for a Persuári. Now Justice Méndez offers it to me. “You are to be my eyes and ears in the palace. Speak to no one. Do you understand? No one can know of what you’re doing.”
I realize I’m frowning because he asks, “Is this out of your abilities?”
“On the contrary,” I say. I need the freedom to roam the palace. “It’s just—the courtiers and the maids. They’re repulsed by me.”
“You must understand, Renata. Your powers are a sickness. But your guards are there for your protection.”
How can he call my magics a sickness and still use them at his will? Am I a sickness or a weapon? Does it matter as long as I can be controlled?
“I’ll get to work right away,” I say.
Illan’s informant may be long gone. But if they’re still in the palace, perhaps I’ll have at least one ally. I brush back my hair and let Justice Méndez slip the necklace over my head. The alman stone is cold on my skin. I envy the empty bit of rock. It is the only clean slate I will ever get.
He faces me, his sharp features made all the more jagged by the pulsing white light in the room. “I know I can count on you, my sweet.”
And despite my dry tongue and racing heart, I say, “I won’t disappoint you.”
On the way out, he notices my bleeding hand. I have a lie ready if he asks how my stitch reopened, but he doesn’t ask. “I shall have Leo add two stitches here. That boy’s work is seamless.”
Méndez takes my hands in his. I feel a small weight on the center of my gloved palm. A glittering gold stellita. On my way out, I devour it.
When I get back to my room, my thighs ache and my breath is short from ascending the five flights of the tower. Sula returns for me and walks with downcast eyes and folded hands the entire time. I find myself missing Leo’s ramblings. His presence offers something like the peace Dez instilled in me. Thinking of him makes my entire body feel heavy as a ton of lead. I want to let that weight drag me down into the earth. It’s even worse when I remember that Dez will never have a burial. He will never be anything other than gone.
I press on the wound in my hand and the dark thoughts release me. I remind myself that Leo is not my friend and he is nothing like Dez. Leo is loyal to the crown first. As Sula lights the lamps of my dark room, I sit and massage my hand.
Restlessness digs beneath my skin and makes me scratch. Where could Castian have gone with the weapon? I play out different scenarios in my head. Asking Méndez directly would reveal what he knows through his reaction, but it would give me away completely. With every lamp that ignites, I think of the one clear connection I have to the prince: the courtiers. But how to get close to them?
“What are you doing?” I ask Sula.
“It’s laundry day, ma’am,” Sula says.
The girl is stripping my bedsheets. Do they think I’m that dirty, or is this customary? That part I can’t remember from my time here. It’s either in the Gray or I wasn’t paying attention to the maids who took care of me. No one notices the maids, despite their backbreaking work. I bet Castian has never looked twice at his staff. They will know more about the prince than anyone, even his father and the court.
Sula massages her shoulder for a moment. I sympathize with her pain. “Majordoma Frederica asked me to bring these down earlier, but I was sent to clear out the southwest guest rooms.”
I try to cut off her rambling, but there’s no gentle way for me to do it. She’s afraid of me waving my hands. I shouldn’t blame her.
“I’ll do it.”
She sucks in a breath, like I’ve punched her. “Oh, no, ma’am. I can’t. I mustn’t let you do that.”
“Why? I am not a highborn lady. I am just like you.”
“You’re not.” Her scared face goes mean. Of course the worst thing I could tell her was that we are one and the same. Blood and sinew and bone. Magics or no.
If I keep biting my tongue, I’ll snap the tip off completely. “What I meant is, I don’t need you fussing over me and changing my sheets. Get out. I can do it myself.”
She doesn’t move. “Y-you’re not allowed to walk the palace alone.”
Justice Méndez doesn’t want me to reveal myself. Until I see the guards assigned to protect me, I am on my own.
“I won’t be alone. I’ll be with you.”
With a start, Sula relents and lets me help her strip the bed and pillows. Floral. Dainty. Maybe I can ask the laundress not to perfume them. I think of Leo’s words. About how easy it is for me to give orders.
In the gray-and-blue stone courtyard behind the kitchens, a dozen lavanderas are preparing the wash. Cauldrons large enough to boil a full-grown man are strung over firepits. Servants of all ages carry logs, pushcarts full of bedsheets and robes. There’s a station of wooden vats where girls stir hot lye soapy water and use paddles to beat the stains out. Shady verdina trees sway in the early evening breeze.
The sun is getting low in the sky. My stomach growls, but I don’t dare ask for a meal. Sula introduces me to Majordoma Frederica, who is in charge of the palace’s cleaning servants. An imposing woman with freckled white skin and ash-brown hair tied back in a winding braid. A beauty mark dots one of her many chins. When she looks me up and down her gaze lands on my injured hand wrapped in gauze. Her grimace is noticeable.
“You’ll
do yourself lasting injury if you don’t take care,” she says, her rough accent from the southeast provincias.
I was expecting her to react to me the way Sula did moments before. The girl ducks her head and joins the line of lavanderas and other servants.
“I’ve had worse,” I say, and find myself genuinely smiling. “I’m Renata.”
“What’s a miss like you doing down here?” Frederica asks. Her sharp eyes dart to where Sula adds my not-so-dirty sheets into the vat. “I can’t have the justice think I’ve put you up to this.”
There is one way to ingratiate myself with someone like Frederica, and that’s to show her I can work.
“I don’t belong up there,” I say, and that’s the truth. “The courtiers aren’t going to want me to share their supper table. I’m good with my hands. Despite evidence to the contrary.”
The majordoma throws her head back and laughs. This might be the first time at the palace that someone has laughed with this kind of warmth. I’m not a joke to her. I don’t know what I am, but perhaps I’m a girl who wants to be useful. Lost in a place she doesn’t belong. Trying to complete a mission that seems to slip further from her grasp.
“See the firebush there? That’s Claudia. Help her make the lye. Do you know how?”
Lye is awful work, but it’s a good thing I’m wearing at least one glove. “I do.”
“Then why’re you still talking to me? Go on and make yourself useful if that’s what you came down here for.”
I find the redheaded girl Majordoma Frederica crassly pointed to. Her brown eyes flick from my feet to my face, then to my hands. She wipes her own hands on her apron, and I notice an old burn across her forearm, not that it’s hard to come across that in this line of work. Looking around I see many others with similar marks, but the most striking is on a thin older maid.
Everything about her is so drained of color that for a brief moment, my eyes register her as a memory that’s escaped from the Gray and come to life. It’s the vicious red scar that runs from her mouth across her cheek that reminds me that she’s all too real. I can see from her fine bone structure that she was beautiful once. What happened to her? She keeps to herself, the other workers moving around her like a permanent fixture not to be bothered.
Incendiary (Hollow Crown) Page 21