I ground my feet to the earth, feeling the warmth of the sand through my boots. I breathe deep through my nose, relax my shoulders. Harsh winds, rough seas, still hearts.
Someone in the crowd above us yells, “Olé, Ciénega del Sur!” Ah, that’s it. That’s where I’ve heard Valentino’s name.
“You’re the son of Conde Astón, yes?” I say aloud. “Of Ciénega del Sur.” The speaker of the chamber of condes, who so gleefully announced my failed adoption to the entire court. Valentino is his third son, and therefore in little danger of inheriting.
Valentino says, “But we leave all that behind to become Royal Guard, right?”
“Right.”
“Are you going to gossip like little girls?” DeLuca says, “Or are you going to fight?”
“You haven’t told us to begin,” I point out.
“Begin.”
Valentino moves so fast it’s a blur, slicing at a diagonal as if to cleave me from shoulder to opposite hip.
But I’m faster. A diagonal blow must be dodged at the highest point, and I barely manage it, swiveling to the side so that the ax meets air.
“Nicely done,” Valentino says, already back in place.
“You spoke true about not softening your blows,” I say. His weapon would have shattered my collarbone if it had landed. Maybe he’s trying to kill me.
He grins, casually whirling his weapon. It seems light in his hand, as if it’s made of nothing.
His shoulders reveal his next move a split second before the blow comes, and I’m already throwing my head back as the ax blade sings through the air a finger’s breadth from my nose.
I’ve been drilled in this maneuver so many times that I’m not even thinking, just reacting with muscle memory as my dodge becomes a leg sweep. I twist to the side as I fall. My hands hit the sand as my foot arcs out, crashes into Valentino’s ankles, knocks them out from under him.
The crowd gasps.
I’m on my feet in an instant, but so is Valentino. He wipes sand from his silk tunic.
“You’re fast,” he says.
“You too. Almost got me.”
“You’ve had training,” he accuses.
“Maybe as much as you.”
He whirls his ax again, eyes narrowed. There’s nothing more dangerous than an opponent who thinks, Elisa always says.
I have to end this soon, on the off chance that the son of Elisa’s most powerful rival really is trying to kill me. He’s bigger and stronger, and I can’t dodge every blow, even with all my training.
Valentino shifts the ax into his right hand only, leaving his left hand free. He’s about to try a feint, see if he can trick me into dodging into his blow. It’s what I’d do.
He sweeps toward my head with the ax, enticing me to dodge right, but his other shoulder is priming to ambush me with a punch.
I duck down and slightly left, barely missing the ax blade. While his torso twists into his useless swing, I dart forward and slam my elbow into his kidney.
His flank is soft with surprise. My elbow hits harder than I expect, and he crumples to the sand.
Valentino struggles to find his feet, but I dash forward and stomp on his wrist. His fingers release the ax handle. Quick as a blink, I grab the ax and scurry out of reach.
I give the weapon an experimental swing, watching as Valentino manages to get his knees beneath him. The weapon is even heavier than I anticipated.
I advance on him, trying to figure out a way to draw blood and end the match without hurting him too much more, but DeLuca says, “Halt!”
The arena is as still as night. I just defeated a young man twice my size, disarming him in the process, but no applause or cheering greets me.
“Well,” DeLuca says. “I see a bit of Lord-Commander Hector’s fighting style in you.”
I open my mouth to tell him that Dante is Lord-Commander now, not Hector, who gave up command when his daughter was born. But I think better of correcting him.
Everyone is staring. I go to help Valentino up, the way Pedrón helped Aldo, but he waves me off. DeLuca says nothing. Valentino finally gets to his feet, but he remains bent over.
At last, a single applause sounds. A clap of pity, come too late. I glance around.
It’s Iván, Juan-Carlos’s brother, the boy who refused to fight a girl. Then Aldo joins him, grinning ear to ear. A few other recruits begin to clap. And finally, distantly, comes a smattering of applause from the audience lining the edges.
But not everyone approves, and the sound fades fast, leaving us in silence once again.
“You still have a lot to learn,” DeLuca says, frowning.
“Yes, sir, I do.” And it’s true. I’ve spent so much time learning how to defend myself, how to stay alive and survive, that I know little about attacking. It’s a weakness that will become obvious to everyone soon enough.
“And Recruit Valentino . . . if the little girl hasn’t wounded you too badly, we’ll get you started on broadsword training right away.”
“I’ll be fine,” Valentino says through gritted teeth.
DeLuca grunts, and then he moves on, calling on two other recruits to choose their weapons.
I return the ax to the rack and run back to the line. Valentino sidles over to me and Aldo. “That was . . . unexpected,” he breathes through his pain.
“Unexpected?” Aldo whispers. “That was incredible.”
“I hit you harder than I meant to,” I confess.
“I can handle it,” he says.
“Were you trying to kill me?” I ask.
The question startles him. “No. I didn’t expect DeLuca to let me use the ax. It’s too heavy for safe sparring. But then I was committed in front of everyone.”
“Huh.” I find myself believing him.
“You know . . .” He winces. “This is really starting to hurt.”
Two other recruits are called out to face each other, both of them from Basajuan, and both of them named Arturo, which is the most common name in the east. My attention is half on the Arturos, half on Valentino, when I say, “You might piss blood tonight. Drink as much water as you can and try not to exert yourself for a few days. If you can’t piss at all, be sure to tell someone. Don’t tough it out.”
“Whatever you say, Doctor Red.”
I look up at his face to find him grinning. “I really am sorry,” I tell him.
“I’ll get you next time.”
“I know you will.”
There’s a warmth in my cheeks that has nothing to do with sun and sand. I’ve met two people—Aldo and Valentino—who have the potential to become friends. Not a bad morning at all.
But then I happen to glance beyond the sparring recruits—who are clumsily swinging their wooden daggers—to Valentino’s entourage, the boys who followed him into the arena like ducklings after their beloved mother.
They’re staring at me with such pure, icy hatred that a chill shivers down my spine.
7
Then
THE girl woke to pain so bright and hot she could hardly draw breath. It came from her ankle. She tried to wiggle it, but agony shot up her leg and into her hip.
So she lay as still as she could, just trying to breathe. Gradually she became aware of other things: warmth against her cheeks, dancing firelight, straw poking her back, the scents of burning pine and—wonder of wonders—a baking meat pie.