I don’t wait long. Three young men enter, dressed exactly alike, their own items in hand. They’re older than I am, taller and stronger. Probably the army recruits Juan-Carlos mentioned, with two years of formal training already.
They look me up and down, not bothering to mask their surprise. One smirks openly. I don’t know if Juan-Carlos has gotten the word out yet about my “punishment,” so I’m not sure what these young men are seeing—the failed princess from a few days ago, or merely a girl daring to take to the sand.
I’m half tempted to step over and introduce myself, like it’s a perfectly normal day and I’ve every right to be here. I’m not sure why I hesitate.
Another boy enters through the portcullis. He’s half a head shorter than I am and barely fourteen years old, with chub still in his cheeks and huge brown eyes surrounded by luxurious black lashes. He holds a beautiful folded blanket in his arms, dark blue with a black wave pattern and a lavish fringe.
He startles to a stop when he sees a girl in the arena, but then a shy smile overtakes his face, and he heads my way with deliberation. His blanket bulges, attesting to other, hidden items.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning,” I answer, more than a little grateful to be acknowledged politely. “Beautiful blanket.”
“Thank you! Mamá made it for me.” He looks up at the brightening sky. “It’s a good day for some mean-spirited hazing, yes?”
I bark a laugh. “Is that what’s going to happen?”
“Mostly to you and me. You for being a girl. Me for being small but enviably handsome.”
“I do see your point. I’m Red. I’d shake your hand, but . . .” I lift my hands, which are gripping my three small items so that they remain hidden.
“Weird name. You’ll get double the hazing just for that. I’m Aldo. Nice to meet you, Red.”
“Nice to meet you, Aldo.”
“Who are those three?” he says, looking toward the young men.
“Former army recruits, I think. They haven’t stopped smirking since they saw me.”
“Huh. Can you take them in a fight?”
Hector’s words come back to me. Some recruits delay revealing the full extent of their skills and training.
“Look at them!” I say. “They’re huge.”
“Yeah, me neither,” Aldo says.
Another boy enters, as tall as the army recruits but leaner, with broad shoulders and gangly arms that promise more growth, if not more height. He has quick dark eyes and the most perfectly symmetrical cheekbones I’ve ever noticed. Seventeen years old, is my guess. He considers the army recruits, then Aldo and me. I see the exact moment he makes his choice. He heads toward the recruits.
Aldo whistles soft and low. “I think I have competition for the Most Handsome medal.”
“Sorry. But yes, I think you’re right.”
Several more boys drift into the arena, dressed like me in the attire of desert nomads. Queen Cosmé’s contingent from Basajuan, no doubt. They’re the only ones so far who don’t noticeably react to seeing a girl in the sand, but they still choose to keep to themselves, avoiding me and Aldo as well as the others.
The sun is rising, and the walls of the arena are turning from ochre dark to milky sandstone. A crowd begins to form around us, some standing on the wall, others sitting with their legs dangling over the edge: palace guards, servants, city watchmen, more than a few nobles. Annual recruitment is always an event. Sometimes even Elisa and Hector attend.
Maybe Rosario will be here, but a quick scan of the growing crowd does not reveal him. Good. We still don’t know what happened to Captain Bolivar, and I feel better knowing that Rosario is keeping out of sight.
Everyone on the walls is staring at me. Whispering to each other about me. Some are laughing. Others appear deadly serious. Go ahead, I think. Get a good look. I stare back daggers with my eyes.
“You’re . . . popular today,” Aldo whispers.
“It’s you they’re looking at,” I tell him. “They’re overwhelmed by your handsomeness.”
“Understandable.”
Abruptly, the audience’s focus is drawn back toward the portcullis, where another young man strides through, chin held high, shoulders relaxed and easy. He wears loose clothing made of pale blue silk, a popular form of dress among the wealthiest southern nobles. At his back are several other young men, who follow him in formation like baby ducks after their mother. The crowd rumbles with recognition.
I don’t know him by sight, but I’ve no doubt he’s a rich conde’s son with the best training and tutoring money can buy and an already established contingent of lackeys. A crowd favorite. Everyone expects him to make the final cut, me included.
More enter, until I count exactly thirty-two of us. The iron portcullis slams down, barring us in.
A Royal Guardsman strides toward us, red cloak whipping at his back. His shining ceremonial breastplate reflects blinding flashes of rising sunshine, and I can’t help wincing.
“Recruits!” he booms. I don’t recognize his face or voice.
“That’s not Captain Bolivar,” Aldo whispers.
“No.”
“Doesn’t the captain usually oversee training? God, I’m nervous,” he says.
“Line up!” the Guard orders. “From here to here.” He indicates an imaginary line with a sweep of his arm. “Orderly and tight. Now!”
We hurry to comply, scurrying around each other like ants after a dropped crumb.
“I said now, recruits.”
A bit more adjusting and our line is straight, though unevenly spaced. I end up with Aldo on my left, one of the army recruits on my right. The army recruit peers down at me, somehow missing my gaze. It takes a moment for me to realize he’s trying to see down my shirt.
I hope I get to spar with him.
“That was clumsy but serviceable,” the Guard says. “I’m Sergeant DeLuca. You will address me as sergeant or sir. Now, let’s see what riffraff God brought us this year.”
Sergeant DeLuca’s evaluating gaze sweeps the line. He nods to the silken-clad conde’s son with such deference it’s almost a bow. He nods again to the Basajuan contingent. His gaze slides right over everyone else, as if they’re not worthy of notice. Then it snags on me. A slight smile curves his lips, and I’m reminded of a cat that just sighted a sparrow.
He says, “Never in all my years have I seen a little girl take to the sands.”
I stare straight ahead, determined that my face will betray nothing.
“I can’t imagine what the empress was thinking, sponsoring you,” he says.
And I can’t imagine that I’ve never seen this Guard before, though I’ve been at court for eight years. What kind of Royal Guardsman is never allowed into Elisa’s chambers? Never watches over her at major functions? Only the lowest in rank, who manages to be just useful enough to keep from being dismissed.
Sergeant DeLuca is not someone I should trust.
Come to think of it, I recognize very few of the Guards in the arena today. Lord-Commander Dante must have left behind everyone who wasn’t part of Elisa’s inner circle of trust.
They’re still Royal Guard, I remind myself. Maybe not the best of them, but smart enough and capable enough to remain members of the most elite fighting force in the world. I’ll do well to not underestimate any of them.