Incendiary Series, Book 1

by Zoraida Cordova

  My blood pools between us, and I answer, “I am.”

  LEO AND I WALK IN SILENCE DOWN THE CORRIDOR, THROUGH THE TWO-WAY mirrored doors, and across the sky bridge. My nose is assaulted by the scents of the palace—warm bread wafting from the kitchens, wood burning in fireplaces, soap from sheets drying in a courtyard. How can such a dangerous place feel so comforting? To my right I hear tinkling laughter of what could be attendants having a moment of peace from their daily work or court ladies who spent the days taking sun in the labyrinthine gardens below. The day is too bright, and in this light the citadela to my left can’t hide the dirt that permeates its seams. Not even the rain can wash it away.

  “Here,” Leo says, not breaking his stride.

  I don’t want to look at him just yet, but I can see the handkerchief he holds out to me from the corner of my eye. It’s a useless gesture, as if a small square of fabric could mop up my blood-covered dress, but the kindness behind it is hard to dismiss.

  A part of me so wants to like him, but the way the king asked for his advice was too familiar. I know that whatever I say to Leo is being reported back.

  We take the grand winding stairs, and he fishes inside his pocket for the key. His body isn’t simply straight, it’s rigid, like he’s hiding something. He hasn’t looked at me since we left the throne room, and he hasn’t spoken a word other than here until now.

  “Lady Renata,” Leo says. I’m in the center of this cavernous room filled with hand-carved tables, imported rugs and lace, crystal chandeliers, and fine silk sheets from worms in the Sól Abene provincia, and I’m dripping blood on the carpet.

  “I told you not to call me that.” I hate how soft my voice sounds, like dust drifting across a beam of sunlight.

  “I didn’t know—”

  “Let’s not speak of this. I know the way back to my cage. You may go.”

  “You don’t want to be called a lady, but you certainly command like one,” he says, attempting a crooked smile. Crooked smiles for crooked hearts, Sayida liked to say. “Now, please, we must get you bathed and dressed.”

  “I took a bath yesterday,” I say, the thought of wasting more water absurd. I haven’t even run in muck or broken a sweat, and blood comes off easily enough.

  “Justice Méndez has given me orders. You are to report to him for supper and training.”

  I feel myself sinking. It’s like I’m not in control of my body. The weariness has seeped into my bones. For the second time today, Leo catches me.

  “You don’t let people take care of you, do you?” he says sweetly.

  Suddenly, I am that same child in the palace, that stupid, greedy girl, ignorant of what was happening around her. I don’t want to be that girl. I don’t want to be anything. How long am I supposed to keep up the ruse of not being able to use my power? Maybe I wasn’t made for this. Maybe I should give up or give in, because all roads I take will lead to my ruin.

  Leo helps me undress carefully. I don’t even feel him touch my skin, only my clothes, and he holds out a robe for me to step into. I’m too tired to object. I sit in front of the vanity while he runs the water to fill the tub. I wonder what Margo or Esteban would say if they saw this water system. In the cloisters there are only cold baths in the ponds and lakes, and the hot springs are half a day’s walk north.

  I rip the flower from my hair and shove it in my robe pocket while Leo selects bottles of soaps and oils and a sponge instead of a stable brush. He empties out two of the bottles, and the tub fills with bright blue-and-yellow foam that turns the water a shimmering peacock green.

  Enough of this. A stranger’s voice pops out of a memory.

  I take a deep breath and push away the melancholy that is stitching itself in my skin like the thread on my hand. I step into the tub, the heat a comfort to my tired muscles.

  “That went better than I expected, all things considered,” Leo says.

  “Yes, splendid,” I say dryly. “For a man who conquered the entire continent, he’s a generous soul.”

  Leo’s eyes widen, and I know I’ve spoken too freely. He lathers a white foam into my hair. “Don’t ever repeat that, Renata.”

  I scramble to take it back. “I’m sorry, I forget myself,” I say. What is it about Leo that makes me lower my guard? Is it the loneliness that clings to me like a shroud? Did the king send him to me for this very reason?

  Leo shrugs one shoulder and dabs an oil on his hands. He holds his palms up. “Have you ever had your shoulders massaged? There’s a Zaharian bathhouse in the lower district. Your body is a rock.”

  I shake my head. “I doubt Justice Méndez would approve.”

  “You’re right. But it is divine.” He nods and hands me a sponge. “Here.”

  Most of the blood has washed away in the bath, but some dried spots remain on my clavicle. I don’t want to enjoy this. The easy friendship Leo offers, even if I can’t trust him, or the access to things I haven’t had in a long time.

  I wash under my arms and my stomach as Leo busies himself putting away the glass bottles. He talks about this lord and that lady. How Lord Las Rosas was a shock to the entire court, especially because the ports are monitored by the king’s men. No one knows how he possibly could have managed it.

  His voice becomes pleasant background noise.

  I touch my hand to the knobs that release the water into the tub. A memory slams into me. It slips out from the Gray without warning: my father’s face. The way he worked with metals and how his hands were always covered in ash.

  I push it away. It hurts too much to remember love. I choose rage. Sea-blue eyes. My heart speeds up when I think of the prince who was missing from court.

  “Why wasn’t Prince—the Lord Commander—beside his father?” I ask, punctuating the question with my attempt at doe eyes. Sayida was always so much better at this.

  Leo hums thoughtfully. “If you want my unsolicited advice, Lady Renata, it’s best to not wonder about the prince too often or speak his name in public.”

  I gather bubbles into my injured hand to buy myself time to answer. The bubbles dissipate, collapsing into one another. “We’re in private now, aren’t we?”

  Leo gives a dismissive laugh, but his eyes betray something like fear. “Within these walls, just between us, Prince Castian comes and goes at his leisure. When he’s here, he only attends court to select which lady might, well, accompany him on any given night. I suspect he does it because it infuriates the king. But the Sun Festival is soon. Even the prince won’t risk his father’s anger by not attending, especially after missing it the year past.”

  I sink into the tub once more before I’m ready to come out. Leo is there waiting with the robe for me to step into.

  “Careful, Miss Renata. You almost look as disappointed as the courtiers.”

  I twist my face into an ugly frown. My reaction is visceral. “I am not.”

  “Let’s speak no more of this. Forgive me for saying, but you look a bit green. I will bring you a tea tray, and you are not to move until tomorrow.”

  “But Justice Méndez is expecting me.”

  “I will go to him. He, most of all, needs you well.” Leo ushers me out of the washroom and into the bedchamber to dress me. I catch my reflection in the mirror, and I don’t see the green pallor he’s referring to, but I feel the ache in every muscle, the stiffness in my right hand, and the burning from the slash on my chest. I know that if he weren’t here, I’d sink into a puddle of my own misery and weakness.

  I dry my hair on a towel and get into bed. I realize, with the prince absent, his chambers will be empty. He wouldn’t leave the weapon somewhere anyone could find, but there could be clues. Now, to get there alone without Leo or an escort will be my challenge.

  As Leo adjusts the bedding, I take hold of his hand, and he seems almost surprised when I say, “Thank you.”

  He pats my gloved hand, wet despite how hard I tried to keep it out of the bathwater.

  As I drift off to sleep, I don’t kno
w if the voice comes from Leo or from the tunnels of the Gray, but it is as clear as cathedral bells. “Don’t thank me just yet.”

  I jerk awake at the sound of heavy footsteps. The sky is still dark.

  I slip out of bed and listen at the door of my room. There’s a lock barring me from getting out. I kneel in front of the doorknob to see if there’s a way to pick it open. Cylinder locks are only for prisoners, and that’s what I am. Then I see a shadow. And another. Footsteps. Two sets of them pacing back and forth in front of my door.

  Guards.

  Now, are they to stop me from getting out or someone else from getting in? Perhaps both. I hold my breath, try to be as silent as I can, and get back into bed, reminding myself that no matter how comfortable and decadent everything in here is, it is still a cage.

  A DIFFERENT ATTENDANT COLLECTS ME IN THE MORNING AFTER LEO GETS ME ready for the day. He calls the girl Sula. Her brown hair is neatly parted with braids pinned at her nape. She walks as if her clothes are made of wood, her arms tight against her sides. I can practically smell her fear. For a moment, I consider asking her about Prince Castian, but I notice her grip a circular wooden pendant that is sold in market stalls everywhere. It is nothing but a bit of verdina wood carved and polished with holy oils. It couldn’t ward off a mosquito bite, but ever since a merchant claimed it would protect the Leonesse from Moria magics, they’ve come into fashion.

  I’ll have to find another way to get to the prince’s rooms, with her hovering close by.

  We cross the sky bridge toward the southwest tower on the way to Justice Méndez’s office. In the early sunlight, the green-and-gold mosaics glitter like sunshine on dewy petals. The archway is etched with vines and heart-shaped leaves. No doubt this tower is meant to resemble the green forests that cut across the center of Puerto Leones.

  A cluster of five courtiers turns the corner and halts when they notice me. They gather behind their lace fans. Their snickers travel even across the bridge. I think of what Leo said last night. Does the prince truly only attend his father’s court to pick lovers? How can anyone want to be touched by him?

  “We must wait for our betters to pass,” the attendant says in a small, high-pitched voice. She folds her hands over her stomach and lowers her head.

  I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to bow. Obedient is not the same as clever. But Margo has never been in the palace. She doesn’t know that sometimes it is in the long run.

  The girls glide across the bridge. I already know what they’re going to do before the first one reaches me. Sula is invisible to them and, as much as I wish, I am not. When they reach me, the first girl shoves me aside, like she’s clearing a path in a crowd. Her round hips knock me off-balance, and I grab for her with my right hand. Stitches pull against my tender skin, but when I make contact, my magics rise from deep within me. Anger bubbles up and I lash out, plucking a memory from her.

  He would never notice her. But she has to try.

  The orange-and-gold ballroom is lit by torches and fat white candles that illuminate the floor-to-ceiling mosaics. It isn’t the best lighting for her face, or so her mother reminded her before she was sent to Queen Josephine’s court.

  A troupe of musicians plays in the center of the room, where the crowned prince watches with a bored pout. The prince hasn’t danced a single time, no matter who approaches to congratulate him on his capture of the rebel leader. He gestures and his majordomo runs over with a covered wine goblet that he places in the prince’s capable hand.

  She takes a breath, gathers her skirts, and strides across the ballroom. If she wants to stand out among the others, she has to be bold. Future kings want bold queens, don’t they?

  Prince Castian looks at her with blue eyes that seem to glisten. When he blinks they’re a bit green. Her tongue is thick as she loses courage. He’s so beautiful. So beautiful her heart gives a painful squeeze.

  “Lovely night, isn’t it, Lady Garza?” His voice is smooth, like thick crème cake. It skims against her body.

  “Yes, Your Grace. Much safer now, thanks to you.”

  His brow furrows, and she dips low into a curtsy. So low that she can’t hold her balance and she falls, her hands smacking the cold mosaic floor.

  Prince Castian takes a drink from his goblet and hands it back to his majordomo. He does not speak. Does not acknowledge her fall. He steps over her dress and walks away and into the twisting gardens outside the great hall doors.

  She stands, and keeps her teary eyes on the brass of her shoes as she runs away from the cruel smiles and crueler gossip.

  I slink out of the memory, but the courtier’s delicate hurt clings to me like wet cloth. I breathe to shake it off, but all I can think is that Prince Castian held a ball to celebrate capturing Dez. Coppery blood stings my tongue where I bite down to stop myself from screaming.

  “You clumsy imbecile!” one of the other girls shouts.

  “She scratched me!” Lady Garza hisses as they scurry across the sky bridge. “Look! Look! I’ll get rabies. I’ll get the plague!”

  “I’ll see to it she’s declawed like the feral bestae she is,” her friend says. But they keep moving, their fans fluttering like petals in the breeze.

  I rush over to the side of the bridge and take long, deep breaths. I shouldn’t have done that. The memory was short, but there were so many girls around us. What if they’d noticed?

  “You’re late,” says a familiar voice.

  I snap up to see Judge Alessandro marching across the bridge. He snatches up my hand, and I yank away because he doesn’t get to touch me this way. “You’re hurting me.”

  I hate the weakness in my voice, the way my heartbeat is erratic with his cold, clammy hands splaying my fingers open. That’s when I realize that he saw. He must have seen because his dark eyes are searching my hands for something. Magics. Anything.

  A red welt appears on my bandage and blood runs freely from a fresh tear. I cradle my hand against my chest and force him to meet my eyes. “Look what you’ve done. I’ll need new stitches.”

  The young judge stutters and flaps his hands like a lost fowl. “Wretched Lady Garza. I’ll be sure to tell the justice. Follow me.”

  Even Sula starts at Alessandro’s lie. But she keeps her head down, rubbing her warding pendant the entire way to where the justice is waiting.

  Méndez has a weakness for beautiful things.

  His apartments within the southwest tower of the palace are as large as any of the ones belonging to the royal family. I still remember the first time I was here. I was given an attendant who was younger than I am now, fifteen perhaps. I don’t remember her name, but I liked her because she reminded me of my mother with her peachy skin and ruddy cheeks, her hair dark and plaited in braids to keep it out of her face. My attendant brought me to these same chambers, where Justice Méndez and his council sorted through our powers and gave us shiny new clothes and stellitas by the fistful.

  For two years, I reported to this same place. A thick wooden door with the special cylinder locks Méndez had designed during his creation of the Arm of Justice. A study with leather couches and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Cloth- and leather-bound volumes that date back to the first age of Puerto Leones, when the peoples migrated there from the seas that surround the great island. Maps with faded edges, lines of a continent drawn and redrawn to suit the victors. Globes with tiny swords plunged into the lands where the king and crown have made a conquest. I push it, watching it spin before I make my way through an archway that leads to his prayer room.

  It’s been updated to fit the palace’s change of taste to a Dauphinique aesthetic of lace and shimmering embroidery, but some things remain the same. There’s a sword within a circle on the far wall, depicting the symbol for the Father of Worlds. An altar surrounded by candles and incense that was just lit. He was praying. I wonder what a man like Méndez can pray for, but there he is, with his head bent toward the altar, his hands holding open a slender book.

  �
�Wait here,” Alessandro says.

  “But the justice is waiting for me.”

  “How dare you question me. I said wait here. You, attendant. You may go.” He doesn’t even glance at Sula before dismissing her. When she runs out, I remember Margo and Dez instructing me on my footwork. I wish I could tell them how much easier it is to be silent when I’m not wearing heavy leather boots.

  That wish is gone as I press myself against the door, where I can hear their voices. I can picture Alessandro’s dark fluttering robes as he talks.

  “Alessandro,” Justice Méndez says, genuine surprise in his voice. Was he not expecting the young judge? Worry pricks at my sides that Alessandro had been following us all along. Was he at my room? How did he know I was late? “I did not expect you back today. Do you have news?”

  “Regrettably, no.” Alessandro’s nasal voice grates on my senses. He’s so eager to please. “But we are still searching. We have the forged letters with the royal seal.”

  Méndez makes a thinking sound, the way he does when he tugs on the silver wisps in his beard. “It’s not enough. Lord Las Rosas did not act alone. I wouldn’t trust him to find his way out of an open hedge, let alone smuggle a shipful of bestaes.”

  “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.”