The mixture in the mortar turned bright blue like the sky. “Azure berries,” the man explained cheerfully. “Very rare, very expensive. That’s why not everyone can afford to have slaves. The tattoos cost too much.”
Mula gave the monster woman a puzzled look. What did he mean by “slaves”?
The man dipped one of the sharp quills into the bright ink.
“Now hold still,” the monster woman ordered. “No matter what.”
“Heels are very hard to tattoo,” the man said. “The skin is so thick. They will need a deep application.”
“I understand,” the monster woman said. “Whatever it takes.”
Mula was still puzzling their words when the man brought the quill tip to her heel, and pure fire shot into her skin. She screamed.
8
Now
EVERYONE takes a turn sparring. The Arturos from Basajuan show some talent, as does the darkly frowning boy Iván. The three army recruits are all brawn and no finesse—Pedrón is definitely the best of them. A few boys demonstrate little to no training, though I know this will not automatically disqualify them, especially the young ones. Everyone will be given a chance to learn.
One boy, though, ends up flat on his back in the sand and is deathly still for several breaths. We all lean forward, some with concern, others with unnerving eagerness. Get up, get up, get up, I plead silently, while Aldo whispers, “Is he dead?”
The boy moves, digging furrows in the sand with his heels and groaning. Several Guardsmen rush forward and huddle around, so that all I see are his still-kicking legs. After a moment, they heft him from the sand and carry him from the arena.
“Well,” Aldo says. “I guess we have our first wash.”
The mood is somber after that, the remaining sparring matches half-hearted.
The sun is high, the skin of my face and arms hot, before everyone is done. Sergeant DeLuca lines us all up again.
“What now?” Aldo whispers.
“No idea.”
Sergeant DeLuca steps back and faces us. “It’s time to take the oath. Your answers will be binding, so respond only if you are certain.”
He allows time for his words to soak in, gazing at each of us in turn. Then he draws his sword and raises it to the sky. His voice booms: “Do you have what it takes to be Royal Guard?”
“Yes, sir!” we answer in unison.
“Will you work harder than you’ve ever worked, through pain, through pride, through exhaustion, to become something more?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Do you give up everything you own, everything you are, and swear to protect Elisa né Riqueza de Vega, Queen of Joya d’Arena and Empress of the United Joyan Empire, along with her family and her interests—even unto death?”
“YES, SIR!”
I am prepared to speak the real Guard’s Oath. It is poetic and powerful, and I have already memorized it. But the true oath will have to wait; we aren’t allowed to swear that until we’ve successfully completed our training and formally joined the Guard.
“Then let me be the first to welcome you to Royal Guard recruitment training,” DeLuca finishes. He re-sheathes his sword, slamming it home in his scabbard. He beckons to a Guard standing near the portcullis, who hurries over.
“Guardsman Bruno will be your nursemaid for the remainder of the day. He’ll get you situated with bunks and show you around. You’ll obey his orders as though they come from the empress herself, or risk being dismissed. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir!”
Guardsman Bruno steps forward. He’s an intense fellow, with eyebrows like caterpillars hovering over a magnificently broken nose.
Looking down that crooked nose at us, he says, “This way to quarters. Follow in an orderly fashion.”
We do as asked. It’s such a relief to pass under the portcullis and leave the sun-scorched arena for the cool dark of the barracks. The heat has always been a challenge for me. It will be one of my greatest disadvantages.
“Your face is really red,” Aldo says as we file through the stone tunnel toward our quarters.
“She is aptly named,” Valentino says.
“You Inviernos,” someone says at my back, and I turn to find Iván frowning at me. “With your light skin and light eyes; too soft for this desert. It’s a wonder your people were worthy foes for so long.”
“I’m not an Invierno,” I snap.
“You’re not Joyan either,” he says with a shrug.
“At least I’m not a traitor,” I say, which is cruel, but he struck first.
The effect is immediate. Iván’s eyes have so much fire I feel like he wants to burn me alive. “I am not my father,” he says in a low, dangerous voice. His older brother uttered the exact same words a few days ago in the Quorum chamber.
I round on him and stick a finger in his chest. “I’m not my father either, you ridiculous goat,” I say.
He stares down at me, then at my finger, which I quickly remove. Provoking him was foolish. He’s twice my height and carries at least as much rage. Everyone around us is silent and still with anticipation, waiting—maybe hoping—for us to come to blows.
I can’t back away now. “I’m a loyal Joyan,” I say, “and I would protect Eli . . . the empress with my life. Would you?”
Guardsman Bruno senses that the recruits are not at his heels and turns around, but he does not call us to task. Maybe he’s as curious as everyone else to see what happens.
At last Iván says, “I just said I would, same as everyone.” His tone is wary, calculated.
Not exactly a yes, but I say, “Good” and turn away from him.
I’m filled with misgiving as we all hurry to catch up to Bruno, who continues on as though nothing has happened.
We turn left and find ourselves in a squat, windowless chamber, filled with bunked cots. The walls are made of hardened earth, buttressed by massive ceiling beams. Three oil lamps hang from the center beam, providing meager orange light. The room is cool and slightly damp, and it smells faintly of rat feces.
Guardsman Bruno says, “Go claim a bed.”
Everyone rushes forward. I dart to the farthest end of the room and grab the bottom bunk. It would be wiser to sleep near the doorway, allowing myself a quick escape, not to mention fresher air. But I like the way this bunk is tucked into the corner. It feels like a cave.
Beside each bunk is a small chest with two drawers, one drawer for each of us. I place my three precious items in the bottom drawer. I’ll have to come up with a better hiding place soon. Hector told me that thieving is rare in the Guard and harshly punished, but I’d rather take precautions.
“Do you mind having me for a bunkmate?” says a voice at my shoulder. It’s Aldo.
“Do you snore?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think—”
“I’m glad to have you as a bunkmate.”
His grin is sheepish as he drapes his beautiful blanket over the top bunk and stashes his other two items—a gold ring with the crest removed, and a small perfumer’s vial—into the drawer above mine. Maybe they’re remembrances of home and family. But he’s not asking about my items, so I won’t ask about his.