Incendiary Series, Book 1

by Zoraida Cordova

  When I pull back the curtains, golden morning light filters through in thick stripes. The immense windows are barred on the outside with black iron, and a cylinder lock on the latch keeps the glass panes closed. My throat tightens. I shouldn’t be this surprised, but I am. As a child, I had free rein of the grounds. Méndez doesn’t think of me as that naive seven-year-old anymore. I will have to regain his trust and find where the weapon is being kept in the palace. I have dozens of old safe houses I can give them. It would thin the justice’s forces and allow the Whispers to smuggle out more refugees. I can stay for more, like Lozar said.

  From up here, we’re so high that I can see the entire city center, the familiar maze that seems to have only grown more complicated since I last saw it. Just beyond, there are the green treetops of a forest beginning to grow anew.

  Foolishly, I let my eyes drop, falling onto the square below. The memory of the Whispers’ Rebellion rears again, everything crashing back at once: the sticky streets, smoke in my nose, ash on my skin. Bodies shoving and crushing and burning.

  “Awake, O Scarlet of the Sands!” an alto voice singsongs cheerfully behind me.

  I let out a startled cry and reach for my knife—only for my fingertips to graze silk. Of course. These aren’t my clothes. This isn’t my room. This isn’t where I belong.

  “Who in the Six Heavens are you?” I pull my flimsy robe tighter as I take in the man now standing in my room. He’s young, maybe older than me but not by much. Tall with a gleaming head of brown curls that frame a handsome oval face and light brown skin. The king’s jeweled seal catches the morning light on his right jacket pocket.

  “Me? I am the royal sun who comes to shine his light on you,” the boy continues to sing, his voice a pleasantly surprising ring. For the first time, I notice a bundle of scarlet in his fine hands, the hands of someone who’s never done manual labor.

  I frown. “I don’t know that play.”

  He holds the dress out for me to see. I don’t look at it. I already know it’s ridiculous.

  “Then we must educate you about the theater if you are to be the lady in my care.”

  “Not a lady.” I take the dress from him and, remembering the way the other attendants acted toward me, am surprised when he doesn’t flinch away. The dress is in a choke hold in my leather-clad fist. “I can dress myself. There’s no need for you to be here.”

  “I only just took an iron to that, Lady Renata,” the boy tells me, gently removing the dress from my hands.

  “I’m not a lady,” I say again.

  “That may be so, but I must still treat you as one.”

  “Because Justice Méndez asked you to.”

  The boy gives a little shake of his head. One of his curls falls out of place and lands over his forehead like a tendril of smoke, or a very tiny snake. “You must know more than anyone that Justice Méndez doesn’t ask for anything. Now, please, let us dress before we feast. You must look your best for the king.”

  He takes long, sure strides away from me and through a door leading to the dressing room where he’s already set out perfumes, combs, and brooches. Did I really sleep through the rattle of keys and the heavy tread of his boots? Margo might’ve been right. I have no business being a spy.

  “What are you doing?” I say, impatiently following him.

  “You see, Lady Renata,” he starts. “There is most certainly a need for me to be here. Your injured hands leave you practically indisposed. The justice has entrusted me, Leonardo Almarada, with your care. You wouldn’t want him to be upset with me, would you?”

  “Actually, I’m wondering what you did wrong that you’d be sent to attend someone like me.”

  His mouth twitches and his jaw muscles tighten. His sharp green eyes hone in on me. “I’ll have you know I am quite good at my job. I have an incredible amount of patience. When I was a stage actor, I trained a dozen larks to sing to accompany my musical number. Pity there’s not much work these days.”

  “I don’t sing,” I say, and do my best to frown. To put him off and scare him away like the girls last night.

  “I’m sure that is best for us all,” he says. “Now, let’s get to it.”

  He holds the dress by the shoulders, a ridiculous smile playing on his lips because he knows I can’t do this on my own. There are at least two dozen unnecessary buttons on the back, and my wretched hand is still swollen and red. A voice that sounds remarkably like Dez’s whispers in my head. Think of the advantage. If Méndez chose him to attend me, then that means he trusts him. The justice might not know he’s given me a gift. Even if he does sing this early in the morning.

  “Fine, Leonardo.”

  He gives me a small bow. A warm, devastating smile. “You can call me Leo.”

  I keep my eye on the sun traveling across the sky while Leo works to ready me for an audience with King Fernando. There are pots of powders and glistening liquids that make my cheeks rouged and lips blushed. He finishes it all by spraying a pungent perfume that reminds me of bitter oranges. The nobles pay a high price for these scents, imitations of a world they experience at a distance, but one I know all too well. It makes me miss the fields behind the cloisters. The smell of earth in the hot springs. Dirt under my fingernails. The forest before and after the rain. Grass on sweet, sweaty skin.

  “There we are,” he says, most pleased with himself.

  Who are you? I want to ask the reflection looking back at me. She’s cleaner, more polished than I’ve been in years. The silk skirt ripples on the ground like the ruby lake in the middle of Citadela Tresoros. The red corset makes me look longer and digs into my ribs. The black velvet cloak feels like wings at my back.

  “Do you like it?” Leo asks from behind me, smoothing out a wrinkle.

  I meet his eyes in the mirror. Leo’s thick lashes seem impossibly long and dark, and there’s a slight flutter there. Why would he care if I like it or not?

  When I don’t say anything, Leo continues, “I’ve highlighted your best features to please the king and the justice.”

  He is very good at filling the air with his words. I bet he can make anyone feel at ease. He and Dez would have been fast friends. I panic at the thought of Dez, fearing it’ll make me spiral again.

  And for that reason, I ask, “And what, pray tell, are my best features?”

  “It’s hard to choose,” Leo says, without a trace of irony. “You’re tall but too bony to be in fashion at court. Justice Méndez says the wretches who kidnapped you starved you. If I were writing you for a play—”

  “Are you a scribe, then?”

  “I was a stage actor. But don’t interrupt me while I’m being brilliant. I’ve turned you into the Maiden Cuerva, who flew on black wings over Mountain Andalucía to guard the kingdom.”

  I know this story a little differently. For the Moria, the Maiden Cuerva was a guardian of the underworld. She carried the souls of the dead to rest. A troubled feeling stirs in my stomach. He’s too friendly to someone like me. He keeps talking about birds. Could he be Illan’s Magpie?

  “I thought that myth was not allowed to be performed?” I say, and meet his eyes in the mirror.

  He gives me an easy smile. “What could be harmful about an opera? It was performed in front of the king himself. As I was saying. You’d be the Maiden Cuerva. The thing about you—well, really everything about you is so dark. The way you stare at people, your eyes, your hair. Someone else would have put you in something bright and garish to hide the very thing that makes you you.”

  It’s a good answer. Almost too prepared. I make a mental note to be aware around Leo. “I’m not sure if you’re insulting me or complimenting me.”

  “You’d know if I were insulting you. Now, for your hair.”

  Sitting in front of a vanity mirror in the dressing room is strange. Everything here seems designed to be pleasant to look at, delicate. I only see it as breakable. Glass boxes filled with oils and lotions and soaps rendered to pearlescent liquid forms. He brushes
my tangled black mane and I frown every time he hits a snag. He braids a crown around my head and dabs oils in my hair to smooth the waves into curls over my shoulders.

  When he’s finished, Leo sifts through the drawers until he finally pulls out a tray of sparkling baubles.

  My fingers reach for a bright hairpin. The flowers are wide and red, made of a thick silk meant to imitate the real things, with yellow beads woven at the center. It’s eye-catching, but I’m more focused on the steel clip it’s sewn to. I press the end of it on my leather glove, feel the metal end, sharp enough that it could rip through the fabric and follow through into my finger.

  “This one?” I ask.

  Leo looks away from the tray of jeweled combs. “You don’t want to wear that. Those are last season. This season, it’s all crystal gems and pearls.”

  “I don’t care about court fashions. I haven’t worn a dress since I was nine. Are you sure I can’t wear trousers? I thought they were becoming more fashionable.”

  In the mirror, I see Leo duck his head. “The king prefers his ladies to wear dresses befitting their stations.”

  “And did the king outlaw flower hairpins?”

  Leo stares at me and then bursts into laughter. I’m oddly proud that I’ve made this boy of light and song laugh. A terrible pang hits me when I think about how much he resembles Sayida.

  “Fair enough, Miss Renata,” he says, and fastens the flower clasp on the right side of my hair, nestling into the intricate braid of loops and curls. His smile broadens in the mirror, and he pushes my hair over my shoulders.

  “Perhaps there’s hope for you yet.”

  I let myself smile back, but it feels empty. I don’t need hope. When the time is right, I need true aim, and the strength to drive this pin through Prince Castian’s heart.

  The palace in Andalucía is said to have been King Fernando’s greatest creation. Four towers that glimmer in the distance like jewels. Each one ends in a point, as if to show how close to the Six Heavens the king is. The palace can be seen from miles away. The four towers connected by sky bridges. Eight years ago, half of it was burned to the ground during the siege of the Moria and the days following the Whispers’ Rebellion. They failed to defeat King Fernando, swinging for a deathblow but only putting a nick in the man’s armor. Still, they managed to free prisoners in the dungeons and rescue me along with a couple of others.

  The memories gather at the edges of my mind. The Gray is always there, a winding dark that, today, looks more and more like the tunnels beneath the palace. I can’t repeat what happened in the bathtub last night. Today, I push back with everything I have. I touch the flower clasp in my hair again, the pointed edge sharp enough to keep my mind focused.

  Leo locks the door as we leave, standing in front of it to hide the combination, a sobering reminder that he is no friend of mine. I swallow a strange swell of hurt and hurry down the hallway. Once again we pass the plain wooden door, and once again it gives me pause—this time it’s slightly ajar.

  The smell of old books and dust wafts from the opening, more powerful than any memory. I remember reading books on a long chaise against the tallest window. The only friend I had in the palace, a young boy, would sneak in and pass the time by rolling dice across the floor. I take in a sharp breath and place my hand on the open door. My heart races in my chest. I need to remember, need to see, and yet the memory of this room is suffocating.

  But before I can peer inside, Leo is with me.

  “My, you are in a hurry now, Lady Renata.” His green eyes glide toward the door but he doesn’t appear fazed at the idea that someone is in there. “Shall we?”

  A headache threatens at my temples, and so I give a quiet nod.

  We take the sky bridge that leads to the new northeast tower. Here, the design is different. The colors vibrant and blue, as if dedicated to the nautical and river towns and villages of Puerto Leones. Real shells and pearls embedded in the stone.

  I stop for a moment in front of the pillars that mark the entrance of the northeast tower. I have a sweeping sense that I’ve been here before. Unlike the adjacent pillar covered in deep blue mosaic tiles, this one has muted, softer blues, as if it once belonged elsewhere. Perhaps I’m wrong. Perhaps it’s part of the design. The feeling prickles my skin.

  “A word of advice, Lady Renata. Always address King Fernando before anyone else, even the prince,” Leo rattles off. “Prince Castian likes to be addressed as Lord Commander, not Your Highness or even Your Grace. Don’t look at him directly in the eye unless you’re ready for the longest staring contest of your life. Understood?”

  Without waiting for my response, Leo tugs my gloved hand around the pillar and back on course. It’s strange to have someone I don’t know holding my hand like this, but I force myself to not pull away.

  I see the massive doors at the end of the corridor and my heart flutters at my throat because I can see myself in their mirrored surface.

  “That’s a new design,” Leo says as I stare ahead. He leans into my ear as if to fix a tendril. “He can see you from the other side.”

  I keep one hand on Leo’s arm and the injured one rests over my stomach, where everyone can see. I wonder, who is behind those doors other than the king and the justice? There are no guards posted. No need—not when they can see you coming.

  “Ready?” Leo whispers. He reaches for the door handles, a set of lions with open mouths, bodies midpounce.

  I shut my eyes for a moment and see Dez instead, clear as glass, backlit by hundreds of stars. My heart thrums in my chest. I’m back here for him. I’m back here so his death matters. I can feel the pin against my scalp like a branding iron. Opening my eyes, I nod.

  Leo yanks the door open.

  The small court that’s gathered ceases its chatter. Whispers are traded from across the room. The sound of it is like wasps gathering around my head, ready to sting.

  I keep my eyes on the ground because I’m afraid my feet are going to give out beneath me. There’s something equally unnerving about the sound of my heels, clack clack clack, echoing in the deadly silence of the room. The sound of a sword hacking away at bone. The sound of a mallet crushing a skull open. I think of terrible things to keep my mind sharp because when I stare into Prince Castian’s eyes, it’ll take all of my willpower not to immediately slit his throat. First, find the box.

  I do as Leo instructed and keep my hands clenched in front of me. He stops a few paces ahead. My cue to look up.

  I feel myself sway, but Leo subtly steps close, using his body to keep me upright. It gives me the split second needed to compose myself.

  There, surrounded by Justice Méndez, other judges, and a gaggle of young courtiers, is King Fernando. He sits so straight it’s like he’s tied to the back of his throne. To his right sits Queen Josephine, the king’s young third wife and princess of Dauphinique. Her elegant features and polished black skin make her youth stand out against her husband. To the king’s left is an empty seat. Prince Castian is nowhere to be found.

  I breathe to steady my heartbeat. He should be here. Where is he? Did he take the wooden box with him or leave it with Méndez? Dread runs cold through me. What would my unit do if they were in my shoes? They wouldn’t have come here alone, clearly. Margo would find out everything she could about where the prince went. Sayida would be patient and stay close to Méndez. Esteban would befriend the palace guards and find secrets that way. He learned that from Dez.

  My heart sinks with disappointment, but the feeling is quickly replaced with uneasy wonder as I take in the display before me. The throne room is narrow, as if streamlined to get a look at whoever is approaching on the other side of the mirrored doors. Arched windows depict the history of the Fajardo conquest of Puerto Leones, each a splash of color that filters prisms of light into the room and leads right to where the king sits on a throne made of alman stone.

  Pure, solid, carved alman stone.

  Before this palace was destroyed, I remember flashes of a
different room. The walls were a gray granite and there were no windows. The king’s throne then was an intricate weaving of gold. The armrests each had the head of a lion. This is less ostentatious but a statement nonetheless. This is cruel in a way only I can feel.

  Where did they find so much alman stone in a single form? Stolen, my mind answers. My fingers twitch to put my hands on it. It glows faintly as if there’s a small light coming from the center. I know I should be doing something—speaking, pledging my allegiance, asking for forgiveness. I know I should be doing more. But I’m mesmerized because I’ve never seen the stone in such quantity or so whole. It was only used to build statues of Our Lady of Whispers, which means the king must’ve found some untapped source or a temple that was left intact. What secrets could be trapped within?

  I must tell Illan, I think instinctively. But I can’t do anything to compromise the reason I’m here.

  The sound of wasps gets louder. I look to Leo, who is on the floor, kneeling. He turns his head only to give me a stare that screams incredulity.

  I drop into my curtsy so quickly I fall to my knee. The sound of it is a hard smack on the floor. The men look embarrassed for me, and the courtiers snap their colorful fans open to hide chuckles and smirks.

  “Your Majesty,” I say, hardening my voice to silence those who are laughing. “I am Renata Convida, and I have returned to the service of the king and the justice if Your Grace will allow it.”

  “Forgive her,” Justice Méndez says, stepping forward. Why do I feel a traitorous relief when his gray eyes settle on me? When he’s at my side, I breathe a little easier. “The girl is unrefined in the ways of her superiors.”

  “Rise,” King Fernando says, and I look up in time to see the flourish of his hand.

  Keeping my face emotionless is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. King Fernando inspires a different fear than his son. Where Prince Castian has a patient arrogance and a calm as deceptive as a serpent lying in wait, King Fernando is brusque, his hatred for me—perhaps for all things—radiating like a torch. He doesn’t react to the titters from the court or Méndez’s apology. He simply stares at me with infinitely black eyes. He doesn’t dress extravagantly like Castian. His clothes are black from head to toe like someone in mourning.