I study everyone with suspicion as Rosario leads us past the benches, beyond the altar, and into the archival wing, where the empire’s oldest manuscripts are carefully stored. The chamber is cool, dark, and dry. Shelves reach to the ceiling, crammed with scrolls and parchment sheaths and musty vellum, all looming over a long stone table for study. Light pools around a single oil lamp in the middle of the table.
Rosario closes and bars the door behind us. “We can speak freely here,” he says, taking a seat at the table’s head. “I’ve arranged with Father Nicandro to be undisturbed.”
He’s silent, staring off into the gloom, as Iván and I take seats beside him. I’m not sure where to start, or even if I should. Rosario has been so different the last two times I saw him, nothing at all like the smiling, mischievous boy I grew up with.
Iván is the one to break the silence. “Your Highness,” he says. “What happened? Why didn’t you have a proper Guard tonight?”
Rosario’s lips press tight as he looks down at the table. His impossibly long lashes rest against soft cheeks, and I’m reminded that no matter how hard he pretends confidence and poise, he’s only fifteen years old.
His finger traces an invisible line along the gray surface. “Fernando was hurt,” he says.
“What?” I say. “I mean, is he all right? What happened?” I’ve known Fernando since I first came to this city. He’s a childhood friend of Hector’s. One of Elisa’s most trusted Guards. A friend to frightened little girls.
“It was my fault,” the prince says. “I sent him alone to the kitchens to fetch some coconut milk. He wasn’t wearing steel, just hardened leather. I should have thought . . . I should have . . .”
“Rosario?” I prompt.
His shoulders slump. “Fernando was ambushed in the hall on his way back. Three men, all wearing masks. He drew his sword to fight them off, but all they did was cut him—once across his arm—then they disappeared down the hall. He didn’t give chase; his duty was to return to me and make sure I was safe. We alerted the palace watch, who found nothing and no one.” Rosario takes a deep breath and adds, “By morning, the edges of Fernando’s wound had swollen and . . . puckered . . . and he was running a terrible fever.”
“Poison?” Iván says.
Rosario nods. “Doctor Enzo says he’s seen it before. Not sweet dream; something else. Fernando is in the Wallows right now, beside Captain Bolivar. Enzo isn’t sure if . . . Fernando is very sick.”
First Captain Bolivar, then Fernando. Both close to Rosario. Both charged with keeping him safe.
I say, “Someone is picking off your closest supporters one by one.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Rosario says. “Several people in my spy network have gone missing too.”
“Like the stable hand,” Iván says.
“Yes. People loyal to me who have been with us since I was a little boy.”
Something about that tickles my thoughts, like a scent brought by the breeze and then whisked away before it can be identified.
Iván rubs his jaw. He has the hands of an archer, just like Fernando, with long, slender fingers tipped by calluses. “Let’s think about this,” Iván says. “If someone is picking off your supporters, who will they target next? Maybe Lady Carilla? Everyone knows you’ve been spending time together.”
Rosario shakes his head. “I’m worried it will be Red.”
Iván’s gaze snaps to mine. “That night in the barracks. When the Ciénega del Sur boys attacked you. Do you think someone planned that?”
“Maybe? They blamed me for what happened to Valentino. But . . .”
Rosario leans forward. “I heard you got the best of them, that you weren’t seriously wounded.”
“Yes, but I think they would have hurt me badly if Iván and I had let them.”
“Make no mistake,” Iván says. “They tried to kill you.”
“I’m not sure that’s—”
Rosario says, “Is it possible someone put them up to it? Encouraged them?”
“It’s possible,” I concede. “Though I can’t imagine who.”
“Perhaps it was Conde Astón himself,” Iván says. “He’s their liege lord, right? He hates you, Red. The way he talked about you during dinner made me want to . . .”
I peer closer at him, as if I can make him finish his thought with the force of my will, but he clamps his mouth shut and looks away.
“Speaking of the high conde,” I say. “Rosario, do you know if Astón ever took to the sand?”
“He did. As a young man, he served two years as a recruit under my grandfather, King Nicalao. He was never a serious candidate. Like a lot of inheriting noble sons, he did it to make connections and acquire extra training.”
“So those could have been his boots after all.”
“Red, what are you talking about?” Iván says.
“The man who walked in on us while we were searching Bolivar’s quarters. I think it might have been Astón.”
Rosario frowns. “Tell me about this.”
So we do. We tell him about finding the tamarind candies, about hiding under the bed while someone searched the room, about trying and failing to get a message to him through the stable hand.
“And you think the person who walked in and ransacked the room was Conde Astón?” Rosario says.
I shrug. “Whoever it was had huge feet, a slightly inward-facing stride, and really old, dingy, Guard-issue boots.”
“We have looked and looked,” Iván says. “No one currently serving in the Guard meets that description. Come to think of it, Sergeant DeLuca would strip the hide off anyone who showed up for duty wearing boots in such bad shape.”
Rosario is suddenly crestfallen. He rubs at the imaginary line on the table with his thumb, over and over, until I worry he’ll rub his skin off.
“Rosario?”
“I was terrible in there!” he blurts. “At dinner. He made me so mad, and I just . . . froze. I couldn’t think of a thing to say, and now it turns out he might be my greatest enemy.”
“You did well!” I protest. “Truly. The conde is the one who made a fool of himself.”
“If you say so.”
“Which you probably remember did not go unnoticed by the ambassador?”
I’m relieved to see a slight grin. “It’s true that Songbird put him in his place. And Carilla.”
“I liked him,” Iván says. “The ambassador, I mean.”
“You seem surprised,” I say.
Iván doesn’t respond.
Rosario stares at one of the shelves. Perhaps he feels the weight of history all around us, neatly piled and painstakingly cataloged. The archive is dry and cool, perfect for preserving ancient knowledge. Still, the priests are in a constant race against time, scribing copies of precious documents before they can disintegrate or fade or mold into oblivion.
“Do you have anything else to report?” he says at last.
“Just that we have a new swordmaster,” I tell him.