“I loved my father. But I hated him too.” His slight grin is self-deprecating. “Those things can be true at once, you know.”
I’m not sure what to say to that.
“He was the worst person I ever knew,” he continues. “And no, I don’t feel like telling you about that. But the day the empress stripped him of his title and exiled him was the best day of my life.”
I blink. “Huh. Well, in that case I’m glad for you.”
“We really should get back to the barracks,” he says. “You think our clothes will dry in the next few hours?”
“Hope so.” I head toward the doorway, and Iván follows.
“I haven’t told anyone that,” he says to my back, “about my father, I mean.”
Without turning around, I say, “Besides you, only Hector and Rosario know about me killing that animagus.”
We enter the hallway and step quietly toward the bunk room. “Meet me after dinner tomorrow,” he says. “We’ll use our free time to investigate Bolivar’s quarters.”
“I still have the key,” I assure him.
“All this confiding and conspiring,” he says. “I hope it doesn’t mean we’re becoming friends.”
“Of course not,” I snap.
Just before being enveloped by the darkness of the bunk room, I note a hint of a smile edging his swollen lip. I turn my head away before he can see any reaction on mine.
I’m prone on my cot, trying to fall back asleep. My stomach is in knots, my lowest right rib feels like shards of glass, and daggers of pain stab my skull in perfect time with my heartbeat.
I reach into the drawer and root around until my hand closes around my Godstone. It’s cool and hard, with faceted edges. I bring it to my chest and run my thumb along one edge, back and forth, back and forth. I give a passing thought to the long-dead animagus this stone once belonged to, then I decide I don’t care about them.
Just like Elisa showed me, I send my awareness deep into the earth, seeking the magic that lives there, swirling beneath the skin of the world. She taught me this as a meditation—because I refused the comfort of prayer—to help quell the maelstrom that comes when I can’t control my fear.
I’m no sorcerer. I can’t bend the magic to my will. Which is just as well; I’m afraid what might happen to my hair.
Magic squirms beneath the crust of the earth, Elisa always says, yearning to break free. I don’t believe in any god, but the power she speaks of is real. When I reach for it, it tingles along my neck, suffuses me with warmth, connects me to everything. And sometimes, when I’m lucky, the magic speeds the healing of my wounds.
I close my eyes, trying to be mindful of all my body’s sensations, like Elisa taught me. Suddenly, everything is too familiar. Lying on a poking straw tick, trying to sleep through unspeakable pain. For a brief moment, I smell damp pinewood smoking on the fire, mixed with the scent of cheap ale on sour breath. But I swallow, and it’s gone. A phantom memory. Not even real.
I clutch the Godstone to my chest and firmly remind myself that I’m the luckiest girl in the world.
Hours later, the brass bell is like a cymbal at the base of my skull. I sense everyone scurrying around me, making their bunks, throwing on their boots. My nose feels like it has swollen to twice its size, and my rib gives me a nasty pinch as I swing my legs over the side of the bed and toss my Godstone back into the drawer.
A quick glance toward Iván’s bunk reveals that he’s already gone, his bed perfectly made. He’s likely eating right now.
“You all right, Red?” Aldo asks. An imprint from a blanket wrinkle is pressed into his left cheek.
“Not bad,” I tell him with forced cheer. I can handle a swollen nose and a nasty rib pinch. Maybe the Godstone worked a little.
“Don’t be too long,” he warns. “You need to make a show of looking strong in the sand today, even if you don’t feel it.”
“Good point.”
“I’ll save a place for you at the breakfast table.”
Aldo, and everyone else, exits the barracks for the mess while I lace my boots. Once they’re gone, I change back into my almost-dry shirt and re-don the vest. I stand and gently stretch, testing my muscles. My bruised rib pulls badly, but it’s not hampering my motion. I got lucky.
I’m heading toward the doorway when my belly cramps, deep and low, and I stop in my tracks, swearing loudly.
The spasms herald my monthly courses, coming several days earlier than I planned, probably because of the beating I took last night. If all else goes normally, the cramping means I have exactly one day to procure supplies.
I have no idea who to ask. And if I did, would they think I was asking for special treatment? Maybe no one will notice if some of the laundry room rags go missing.
On the other hand, getting caught stealing is the fastest way to get kicked out of the Guard.
I hurry to the mess hall to down a quick breakfast. I’ll have to figure it out later.
14
Now
EVEN though it’s early morning, the sun rains pure fire onto my cheeks when I enter the arena, and heat from the sand seeps through the soles of my boots.
The weapons rack has been filled with wooden swords. Before it stands a tall, lithe man with slicked black hair and a waxed mustache that dangles past his chin. He holds his own sword point down in the sand and leans on it in as though it’s a walking cane—an unforgivable treatment of such a weapon. The steel of his blade glints in the morning light, revealing script etched near the hilt, though I’m too far away to make out what it says.
Sergeant DeLuca storms into the arena. “Good morning, recruits!”
The mustached swordsman pivots at the sound of the sergeant’s voice, revealing that most of his other arm is missing. His sleeve is tied into a knot about halfway past where his elbow would have been.
“Stop gaping and line up!” the sergeant yells.
We scurry to comply.
“Tomorrow and every day thereafter,” the sergeant says, “you will line up immediately upon entering the arena without being commanded. Understood?”
“Yes, sir!”
DeLuca walks down the line, hands clasped behind his back. “Today we have a very special guest. Please welcome Swordmaster Santiago.”
We applaud obligingly. The name sounds vaguely familiar.
“Master Santiago will begin your lessons in swordcraft. He’s one of the finest swordsmen in the empire and an excellent teacher. Though not an official member of the Royal Guard, he has been a trusted associate of the imperial family for over a decade. Master Santiago served as personal bodyguard to the dowager queen at her estate in Puerto Verde until her death a few years ago. Since then, he has been an instructor for private guard corps all over the empire, even serving a six-month post with Brisadulce’s own garrison. You will accord him the same respect as any senior member of the Guard and obey his orders as if they come from me or the Lord-Commander himself.”
Aldo whispers, “Has the Guard ever brought in an outsider for training before?”
“Never,” I whisper back.
Sergeant DeLuca steps aside and gestures toward the swordmaster. “Master Santiago, the class is yours.”