The underground river curves along the back wall, hugging a small beach area. The river is crystal clear and deceptively smooth, hiding a strong current. This close to the sea, it’s a bit brackish, mixing with ocean water during high tide.
Sitting on the beach is a bearded, barefoot man, mending a fishing net. Others are about as well, in spite of the late hour—cooking over the bonfire, sharpening blades, scraping scales from a fish.
“I had no idea this was here,” Iván says. “No idea at all. A whole village. Underground.”
“Rosario was in hiding here for a long time,” I say. Looking him dead in the eye, I add, “During your father’s coup of the palace.” I’m satisfied by a small wince.
“There are gaps in the ceiling,” he says, looking up. “That one ladder leads to . . . where?”
“The Wallows. To a hut with a trapdoor—all under heavy guard. The surrounding yard is a bit porous. During the day, enough light filters down that torches are unnecessary.”
“The Wallows is the most dangerous district in Brisadulce.”
“Which makes it a good place for a hideout, don’t you think? Enough gawking. Let’s go find Rosario.”
“I see him—right up there.”
A quiet shape waits just ahead in the shadows, where a niche has been carved into the stone. He’s dressed in drab servants’ clothes, not even those of palace servants—but I recognize the stance, the peculiar tenseness, at once. I am afraid for him.
Rosario sees us on the path at the same moment. He steps from the shadow, his shoulders slumping with relief. “Red. Iván. I’m so glad you’re here.” Before I can respond, he grabs me, hugs me tight, doesn’t let go. “Little sister,” he says in my ear. “It’s been a really long day.”
I squeeze him back. “For us too, little brother. Is something wrong? Are you all right?”
Rosario releases me, steps away to clap Iván on the back. “Come with me,” he says. “I have to show you something.”
He leads us to the very edge of the village, where a hut cozies up to the cavern wall. A curtain embroidered with red sacrament roses covers the doorway. Rosario sweeps the curtain aside and ushers us inside.
An oil lamp hangs from the ceiling, illuminating a round space with a dirt floor. On the floor is a single bed pallet of palm fronds and sheepskin. A man lies there, his back to us. Gray peppers his black hair, along with a fair amount of cavern scree.
“I’ve brought some friends,” Rosario says to the man on the floor.
The man turns over—slowly and painfully—revealing days-old stubble, bloodshot eyes, and a pallor so blanched and sickly I almost don’t recognize him. When I do, I gasp.
It’s Bolivar, the missing captain. The man who was supposed to speak for me at my adoption ceremony.
“Lady Red,” he says, his voice cracked and aching.
“Captain! You look awful.”
“That’s her way of saying she’s really glad to see you,” Rosario amends.
The captain’s smile is weak. “I know how she is. And who are you?” he says to Iván.
“This is my friend Iván,” Rosario says. “He’s the younger brother of Lord-Conde Juan-Carlos.”
“Ah, yes, the traitor’s son.”
Iván’s face is as cold and lifeless as the grave, and I feel a twinge of something uncomfortable.
Softly I say, “Iván is not his father, apparently.”
Iván gives me a quizzical look.
“Of course not,” the captain says. “I just . . . this blasted illness has made me tired and . . . uncouth.” He closes his eyes a moment and breathes deeply through his nose, as though summoning strength.
“So, what happened?” I ask. “Rosario, are you in danger?”
“I’m fine. For now. Have a seat,” Rosario orders, and we comply, sitting cross-legged on the dirt floor beside the captain’s sleeping pallet. Once we’re situated, the prince says, “This is not a natural illness. The captain was poisoned.”
It’s like a punch to the gut. Ramifications hit me from all sides, coming so hard and fast it’s hard to sort through them. But one thought crystallizes, clearer than all the others and as sharp as glass.
“This was done so he couldn’t speak for me at the ceremony,” I say in a choked voice.
“Yes, probably,” Rosario says.
“Even though whoever orchestrated this had the votes to stop it.”
“They wanted to be doubly certain the adoption would not go through. No one expected me to speak up for you. And the awkwardness of it all . . . I wouldn’t be surprised if it swayed a few voters in the end.”
Iván leans forward. “Where was the poison administered?” he asks the captain. “Were you in the barracks? The monastery? In your own quarters?”
Good question. We all look to the captain.
“Quarters,” the captain says. “I think . . . my tea.” He’s not up for this conversation. Every response is a major effort.
“His quarters are in the Royal Guard barracks,” Rosario says meaningfully. “He does not keep chambers in the palace, like the lord-commander does. And the only way to access his quarters is through the barracks. No one but Royal Guards, the empress, and her family are allowed inside.”
Iván and I exchange a startled look.
“You’re saying the Guard was infiltrated,” I say.
“Yes,” Rosario confirms. “We have an assassin among us. That’s why I called you here. I need the two of you to find out who it is.”
Hearing there’s an assassin in the Royal Guard is like hearing that the sun is purple or that camels fly. It takes a moment for my thoughts to catch up to the idea, accept it, and finally, to face it head-on.
I say, “Tell me everything you can about the poison that was used.”
“That’s as good a place to start as any,” says Iván.
“I . . .” Bolivar begins. “Duerma . . . in my tea.”
Rosario places a hand on the captain’s shoulder. “I’ll tell them. You just rest.”
Bolivar gives him a grateful look. He pulls his wool blanket up to his shoulders and closes his eyes.
“We think it was sweet dream,” Rosario says.
Iván says, “That stuff made from the duerma plant.”
“So you’ve heard of it,” Rosario says.
“I haven’t,” I say.
Rosario explains, “It first appeared in Brisadulce a few years ago. Sailors are using it a lot. They say it dulls pain, eases seasickness, aids sleep. And it causes a general sense of euphoria in certain doses.”
“We’ve started seeing it in our countship too,” Iván says. “Just this year. A little bit makes you forget your troubles. But too much, and you’ll never have any troubles again.”
“Everyone has a little duerma leaf once in a while,” I say, thinking of the many times Mara put some in my tea to help me sleep. It gives the drink a spicy taste, almost like cinnamon. “But this is different?”
“Definitely different. Much stronger,” says Rosario. “With a stronger taste and a stronger scent. Someone figured out how to distill it into a syrup from the duerma berries themselves, using a process that remains a mystery. They also figured out how to make very large quantities. Whoever they are, they’re becoming wealthy beyond imagining.”