Rosario sits straight up. “You’re saying it’s someone who used to be familiar with them. Someone who was part of the king’s inner circle nine years ago, before Elisa came to power.”
“I don’t know. Maybe? If so, the only person I can think of is Iván’s father.”
Iván glares at me. “Impossible.”
“Are you sure he’s not making a play for the throne again?”
“I’m sure. Last I heard, he was rotting in an Invierno mine.” Then, softly, he mutters, “Please let him be rotting in an Invierno mine.”
Rosario is shaking his head. “It’s not Conde Eduardo. We’ve kept a very close watch on him over the years. We know where he is and what he’s doing at all times.”
“Then who?” I ask.
“I’ll give this some thought. In the meantime, I need to get you back to the barracks before anyone gets suspicious.”
“No,” Iván says. “We need to get you safely back to your quarters. We’ll find the barracks on our own.”
Rosario nods once and rises from the table.
Someone bangs on the door.
“Who goes there?” Rosario says.
“Nicandro.”
Rosario lifts the bar and opens the door. A small, hunched man in gray robes and a walking cane hurries inside and shuts it behind him. His dear, familiar face is grave, and he leans heavily on the cane with both hands. I haven’t seen him since he presided over my failed adoption ceremony.
“Father,” Rosario says. “We were about to . . . What’s wrong?”
“Your Highness,” he says, his voice thin with age. “I received news from Doctor Enzo. Captain Bolivar is dead.”
17
Now
ROSARIO plunks back down in his seat and hunches over, hands on his head, as though pressed down by a crushing weight. More than anything I want to go to him, put my arms around his shoulders. But maybe that would be more of a comfort to me than to him.
I whisper, “I’m so, so sorry, little brother.”
“Any word on Fernando?” Iván asks the priest.
“No change to his condition,” Nicandro says. He turns to me, peering close. “Lady Red, I do not sense your Godstone, the one Elisa gave to you.”
“I left it in the Guard barracks,” I tell him.
“You should carry it with you at all times, my girl. It’s special. More powerful than most. Elisa acquired it on the hidden isle, in a place of power, and she gave it to you for a reason.”
“Yes, Holiness,” I say, though I have no way to carry it.
He waves a hand in the air. “Stop with that holiness nonsense. There has never been formality between us.” He turns to Rosario. “Sweet boy, I know how much you loved Bolivar. I regret that we will be unable to honor him in death right away; I think it’s best that everyone still believes him missing. But I promise you that his body will be tended to with dignity and respect, and when your family returns from their travels, we will bury him in state, as he deserves.”
“Thank you,” Rosario chokes out.
“Does he have a family?” Iván asks. “Does he leave behind a widow or children? If so, we should—”
“The Royal Guard was his family,” the priest says. “Now, come, all of you. Four trusted acolytes have volunteered to help escort you. They are not fighters, but they’ll make a fine living shield for our prince.”
Father Nicandro gestures us up and out of the archive, where three young men and one young woman in black robes wait, backs straight, arms crossed and muffled by their voluminous sleeves. The acolytes, Iván, and I all surround the prince, like he’s the center of a meat pie, and begin our trek out of the monastery.
“Wait!” Father Nicandro says, and our strange little procession pauses. “I almost forgot.”
He hurries back into the archive and returns a moment later carrying a book with a metal clasp. “Red, this is for you,” he says, plopping it into my arms.
I run my hand across the cover. It’s hardened leather, stamped with the rose and crown of the de Vega royal crest.
“What is it?” I ask.
“A copy of the Articles of the Empire. There’s something inside you should see. Or rather, there’s something not inside you should see.”
“What do you mean?” Bound books are valuable and rare. This is a royal gift, no matter what it contains.
“Just read it. If your heart is ready, you will see.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. “I . . . thank you.”
To Rosario he says, “I light a candle every night and pray for your safety. Be well, dear boy.”
The barracks are silent with sleep when Iván and I finally make it back. Or so it seems. I store my book in the bedside table and shuck my boots. When next I look up, I’m surrounded by recruits. Aldo’s head hangs over the top bunk. Itzal plunks down beside me. Pedrón and the Arturos stare at me with expectation.
“So,” Itzal says. “What was it like? Did you see the prince?”
“I bet there were beautiful girls in beautiful gowns,” Pedrón says dreamily.
Iván says, “You know we can’t tell you anything.”
“Not even a hint?” Aldo says. “Where did you go? Was it a grand ballroom?”
“I can tell you one thing,” I say.
Everyone leans forward into my space.
“It was boring,” I say, and they wilt with disappointment. “You just stand there, not able to say anything or eat anything. But you can’t let your mind wander to pass the time, because you’re watching everyone and everything for any possible threat.”
“Red’s right,” Iván says. “It was boring.”
“You’re lying,” Itzal says, peering into my face, though I’m not sure what he thinks he’ll see in this gloom.
Pedrón says, “Moneybags here just wants to hear about all the fine things. He says the ambassador has a flower vase that’s worth three times my father’s annual wage.”
I lie down and push Itzal off the bed with my foot. “You’ll find out yourself. It will be your turn soon enough. Now let me sleep.”
The next morning at breakfast, someone I don’t recognize mans the cauldron, and we line up so he can ladle porridge into our bowls. He is short and slight with sharp features, barely older than the recruits. When I reach the head of the line, he says, so softly that only I can hear, “My name is Luz-Daniel. Please come to me if you need anything.”
I refuse to make eye contact as I whisper my thanks. This is Rosario’s spy, who can get a message to the prince should the need arise.
The morning training session brings more practice with sword forms. And the morning after that. Our nightly class continues, and everyone’s technique improves greatly. Even boys like Itzal, who came to the Guard with no training and hardly knowing left from right, can now be counted on to keep a strong grip while flowing through the poses like water.
Autumn begins to cool the air, bringing the occasional light rain, and we all become restless and frustrated with our routine: sword forms all morning, followed by fitness training in the afternoon, and more sword forms before bed. The boys are eager to learn how to fight, and I don’t blame them one bit. We’re ready. I know we are.