Guardsman Bruno says, “Itzal, you are dismissed from training. The empress thanks you for your service.”
I’m dizzy with relief. Then sick with disappointment. Itzal is clumsy, yes. Slow to learn anything physical. But he’s intelligent and earnest. I’ll never forget the day I received my uniform, when Itzal stood before me to create a privacy barrier.
Itzal’s head is down, his shoulders rounded with defeat. “I knew it,” he mutters.
I’m hardly aware of what I’m doing when I break formation and go to him. “Itzal,” I say, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. “You will be missed.”
Suddenly we’re surrounded by recruits, and Itzal is forced to suffer patting on the back and hugs and even a robust hair ruffle from Pedrón.
“Good job, Itzal,” someone says.
“Stay strong,” says another.
“We won’t forget you.”
“Still hearts, my brother.”
Itzal’s eyes are filled with tears as he breaks away, but his head is high, his back straight, as he begins walking toward the barracks to retrieve his things.
“Wait,” Guardsman Bruno calls out. “I’m not finished. The rest of you, back into formation!”
We hurry to comply. Itzal stops where he is and stands tall, though his expression is perplexed.
“Itzal, you have other qualities that have been noted by your teachers,” Bruno says. “And it’s clear you’ve earned the respect and affection of your brothers. Er, and sister.”
Itzal does not respond. He simply waits, calm and poised.
“One of our stewards is soon to retire,” Bruno says. “It’s exceedingly rare for us to offer a staff training position to someone who hasn’t made it beyond the first year of recruitment, but we feel an exception is in order. Recruit Itzal, are you willing to accept an apprenticeship with the quartermaster? It will entail bookkeeping, supply chain, and inventory management.”
“Absolutely yes sir thank you sir with pleasure yes.”
Bruno cracks a small smile. “In that case, gather your things and report to the central storeroom at once.” He pauses. “And now the empress thanks you for your continued service.”
“Yes, sir!”
Aldo starts clapping, and I join him. Soon, everyone takes up the applause, and Itzal flashes us a quick grin as he steps under the portcullis.
“Light feet, recruits!” Bruno yells. “Ten times around the palace tonight. The first five finishers get dessert.”
The Guards hand us packs, which we hitch over our shoulders. Guardsman Bruno gives the signal. As one, we rush for the wall.
I usually finish well, in spite of my shorter legs. Even with the added burden of the pack, I have a good chance at the top five. I’m not sure it’s worth making the effort on such a hot day for a mere dessert, though. Then again, finishing well will shore up my case to survive the next cut.
The key to endurance running is to occupy your thoughts with something else, so I ignore the weight bouncing against my back, pick up my pace, and think of Itzal. I’m glad he found a permanent place with the Guard. I’ll miss him in training, but at least he’ll stick around. In fact, next time I see him, I’ll make sure he knows he’s still welcome in our nightly class.
After the third lap, I let myself fall behind a little, just enough so Iván can catch up. When he does, I whisper about the note I received.
“Still thirty-seven barrels unaccounted for,” he whispers back.
As winter approaches, an unseasonable heat wave turns the arena sand into scorching lava that we feel even through our boots. My nose reddens and peels, then reddens again before it can heal. We are forced to launder dust and sweat from our uniforms every single evening, giving us less time for our unsanctioned class.
But we keep at it, training every night before bed. Tanix and his small group of second years maintain perfect attendance, and their addition is a boon; one is a natural at sword and shield, another knows some grappling throws that are especially useful for taking down a larger opponent. Itzal joins us when the quartermaster allows; a few weeks later, he shows up with one of the cooks and an apprentice blacksmith.
“We are all Guards, even if some of us aren’t fighters,” he says proudly. “And we are all willing to take up arms on behalf of our empress, should the need arise.”
The rest of the class votes to let them stay.
The palace becomes dense with bodies and riotous with noise, for people are arriving from all over the empire for the annual Deliverance Gala. The courtyard plaza is packed with supply wagons and nobles in their carriages, all surrounded by personal guards and servants, camels and horses. Some settle into townhomes just outside the walls, along the famous Avenida de la Serpiente. But plenty of others keep quarters in the palace itself, and out of necessity, our afternoon fitness training is replaced by running errands and messages between them all.
“That happened to us too,” Tanix tells us one night. “We acted as pages to every conde and condesa in the empire for three weeks. Pay attention. It’s good experience. As Royal Guard, you’ll be expected to know every corridor and corner and courtyard of this palace so well you could navigate it blindfolded.”
Three days before the gala, I get another message from Rosario.
Four more barrels destroyed.
Fernando not fit for duty but recovering.
Thirty-three barrels still unaccounted for. And while I’m delighted that Fernando is recovering, he won’t be able to protect the prince throughout Deliverance Week.
The morning before the gala, we have taken our places in the sand and we are performing Eastern Wind when the monastery bells ring out, so startling and crisp and strange that I drop my sword.
The other boys laugh at me. I smile back sheepishly, telling my heart to calm down, the firing nerves in my limbs to settle. I realize that I haven’t had a startle moment like that in a long time. Weeks, for certain. Months, perhaps.
Guard training has changed me.
The bells continue to sing as I retrieve my sword and dust off sand from its wooden blade. The sound is a raucous tumble of joy, so much louder and stronger than its usual marking of time or its weekly call to prayer.
Master Santiago pauses, looking toward the bell tower, his eyes narrowed.
Guardsman Bruno suddenly appears through the portcullis, running toward us, a huge grin spreading beneath his giant nose. “It’s a prince!” he calls out. “The empress has given birth to a prince! Alive and healthy. She has named him Alejandro Hector né Riqueza de Ventierra.”
Cheers erupt from every direction—the palace watchtower, the nearby blacksmith, the entry courtyard, the stables—as word spreads about why those bells are ringing.
Iván is the first to cry out, “Long live Prince Alejandro!” and we quickly take up the cry. Within moments, the entire palace rings with the cheer.
“Long live Prince Alejandro! Long live Prince Alejandro!”
If Elisa were here right now, nothing in the world could stop me from running to her. I want to see that baby more than anything. Kiss his tiny forehead. Tell him how glad I am that he’s here.
Then again, maybe I don’t have a right to any of these things. Maybe this joy is not mine to hold. I’m not his sister.