Aldo and I exchange an amused glance.
In the training arena, Master Santiago puts us through the forms again, this time adding Sandstorm and Sleeping Heron.
After a few sequences, he steps back, appraising us all. One side of his mustache is not as thoroughly waxed as the other; it drifts below his lip with the slight breeze.
“I did not expect to say this,” he says, frowning, “but some of you made minor improvements compared to your previous tragedy.” He walks over to Pedrón and sticks his mustache in the boy’s face. “Did you consume a magical elixir? Sell your soul to an evil trickster?”
“Er . . . no, sir?”
“And you,” Master Santiago says, moving toward Itzal. “You have suddenly learned the difference between left and right, like a serviceable three-year-old. How is this possible?”
“Got a good night’s sleep, sir.”
“I’m so glad to hear it. Since you slept so well, please step forward and lead your fellow recruits in the next set.”
Itzal opens his mouth to protest, closes it, glances at me in panic. I give him what I hope is a subtle nod of encouragement.
He forces himself to walk to the front of our formation. Itzal says, “Begin with Bulwark!” and demonstrates with his sword.
Without a reference, Itzal is once again terrible. Gradually, with some correction from Master Santiago and some snickering from the direction of the Basajuan boys, we make it through the entire sequence.
My shoulders tremble with effort by the time Santiago releases us, saying, “Even with your trifling improvements, all my hope dies when I look upon you.” He shakes his head in seeming despair and waves a hand at us. “Go. Be gone from my sorrowful eyes, for I can endure no more.”
That night, the Arturos and their fellow Basajuaños join our class.
During the next few days, we fall into a routine. Mornings begin abruptly with a clanging brass bell, followed by an uninspiring breakfast, then sword forms with Master Santiago. After lunch comes fitness training, occasionally accompanied by the second years, which consists of log lifting or sprints through the sand or—on one glorious day—drawing various sizes and types of bows. We don’t get to shoot anything, but the repetition of pulling back on the string and bending the wood is enough to make my neck and shoulders burn and puts a large blister on my finger.
After dinner, we either do an assigned chore, like cleaning the mess or unloading supplies, or we run the walls.
We’re allotted free time before lights-outs for laundry and ablutions, and that’s when we head back out to the arena and practice our forms by torchlight. We’re getting better. Master Santiago becomes less scathing in his criticism. By the end of the week, he announces that some of us are no longer an assault to his eyes, and if everyone made such marked improvement, he might consider beginning our sword training soon. That night, every single first-year recruit joins our class.
I can’t be sure whether or not the Godstone is helping, but my rib heals fast.
I’m not the strongest or fittest of the recruits, but I do myself proud, especially with running and forms. I love the burn in my muscles that attests to hard work. I love pushing my body to find out exactly what it can do. I love feeling exhausted and accomplished each night when I finally fall into my bunk.
But as each day passes, and we don’t hear from Rosario, Iván grows quieter and darker until his face displays a constant glower. He hardly speaks to me, won’t even meet my gaze as we ready for bed in Traitors’ Corner. I fear he’s right to be angry, that I made a terrible decision and this agonized waiting might get our prince killed.
Finally, one evening as we’re eating shredded chicken in a sauce of tomatoes and chilies all scooped up with corn tortillas, Sergeant DeLuca storms into the mess. He wears bright ceremonial armor and a sweeping red cloak.
The room goes silent.
“Two of you have a special assignment tonight,” he says.
Several of us exchange puzzled glances.
“The Invierno ambassador is holding a soiree for His Imperial Highness Prince Rosario and several friends. Because it’s an intimate affair attended by trusted confidants, our threat assessment is low. Still, the Royal Guard will be in attendance, as always. Since these types of events pose little risk to the imperial family, they are considered training opportunities for Guard recruits.”
Itzal leans forward on the bench. Pedrón sits up straighter than a flowering agave. Suddenly, everyone seems to beg the sergeant with their eyes, saying, “Please pick me.”
“When assigned to one of these events, you are to observe as silently and unobtrusively as possible. Be alert for any threat. Report anything suspicious to the nearest attending Guard, but do not act. You are to comport yourself with quiet decorum at all times. Do not speak unless spoken to. Do not eat or drink anything set before you. When you return to the barracks, you will say nothing of what you have heard or seen to your fellow recruits, as a test of your ability to be loyal and discreet. Am I clear?”
We respond with a pattering of “Yes, sirs.”
Sergeant DeLuca says, “Recruit Iván, Recruit Red, please stand so I can inspect your uniforms.”
We do as ordered. All eyes are on us, and the sergeant looks us over carefully, from the tops of our heads all the way down to the toes of our boots. He frowns, peering closer at me. “Recruit Red, I think you have something in your hair.”
Suddenly everyone in the room is staring at me. Of its own accord, my hand moves toward my head. Maybe food got stuck somewhere. Maybe someone put something in my hair as a joke. Maybe—
“Oh.” The sergeant recoils from me as if startled. “Never mind. It’s nothing.”
Someone behind me chuckles. I let my hand fall to my side. I keep my face neutral, my breathing calm, even as sure knowledge sets in: My magic mark is showing again. And I have no dye left for covering it up.
To everyone else, the sergeant says, “Don’t worry about being overlooked this time. Plenty of opportunities await, and everyone will get a chance.” He gestures for Iván and me to follow him.
As I’m leaving the table, I quickly lean down and say to Aldo, “Can you run the class tonight?”
“Of course. Have fun.” His words are cheery, but his gaze is not. The others stare at us with a mix of wonder and envy. Some of them are ogling my hairline.
Iván and I follow Sergeant DeLuca from the barracks. My face feels hot, and I resist the urge to finger my hair for the telltale change in texture that indicates it’s growing out a soft, magical white.
I force myself to put it from my mind. We have more important things to worry about tonight, because this is what we’ve been waiting for. Rosario must have specifically requested Iván and me.
Somehow, tonight, Rosario plans to speak with us. Maybe he’ll get us alone. Or perhaps he’ll disguise his message in casual table conversation. Iván and I will have to be careful—and alert to the prince’s cues.
The sergeant leads us through a series of corridors, past the royal apartments where I used to live, beyond the monastery, into the oldest wing of the palace. This giant, sprawling edifice is more like a small city. It was quilted together over centuries, and it shows in the way the walls change from sandstone to river rock and finally to crumbling adobe that the palace architects despair of ever keeping properly patched. Naturally, this area of deferred maintenance is where the Invierno ambassador and his staff are housed.