Pedrón nods enthusiastically. “That’s really smart,” he says, and starts heading for the door.
I grab him and pull him back. “We can’t yell that. It will draw all the mercenaries and everyone else who’s part of the plot to come and stop us. We need to delay that as long as possible to give us the best chance of reaching Rosario.”
“So what’s the plan?” Iván asks. He bounces on his feet. We’re all anxious.
I take a deep breath and motion for everyone to come in close. “Pedrón, you, Luca, and Andrés are the biggest. You form a wedge and lead the way. Iván, Arturo, and I will be right behind them. The rest of you crowd in behind us.”
Everyone nods, so I continue.
“We don’t know what we’ll find when we get inside. If we get separated, everyone make their own way to Rosario. We’ll surround the steps at the bottom of the dais, so no one can attack him.”
Iván adds, “But if trouble starts, you find the nearest mercenary or fake Guardsman, anyone we don’t know and trust, and you take their weapon.”
He means “Dispatch them,” but there’s no need for me to clarify. By the looks on their faces, everyone understands. I might be the only one here who has ever had to kill someone, and even I don’t feel prepared.
I’m suddenly as scared for all of them as I am for Rosario. The prince is so determined to be brave, to go through with the ceremony; I’ve no doubt he’ll proceed even though we’re not there to protect him. And once he begins, he’ll be completely exposed.
“Everyone knows what to do,” I say, shoving Pedrón toward the door. I try not to let anyone hear the words catching in my throat. “Let’s go!”
Crushed in the middle of this mob, I can’t see a thing as we surge forward, but I hear all the protests and ultimatums that Pedrón predicted. I hold on to Pedrón’s belt as I’m jostled and stepped on. But we do not wait our turn, we do not care if anyone complains to the Guard, and we do not stop shoving.
The moment we are through the door, we get separated. The army boys surge ahead, leaving me behind. I reach after Iván, but I get bumped aside by a group of southerners who followed us through the door.
I spot the tops of Iván’s and Pedrón’s heads, and start weaving my way toward them, but I’m not moving fast enough.
The ballroom is massive, even longer than our training arena. The air is rich with flower scent, for rose garlands sweep from crystal chandeliers, running the entire length of the hall. Candelabras are aflame in high balconies, and vases overflow with night bloomers just now opening their glowing stamens to mark the night. Tables clothed in bright silk line the walls, laden with silver platters heaped with appetizers. Men in Royal Guard uniforms stand along the wall at regular intervals, but I don’t recognize a single one. They are all imposters.
I’ve attended galas over the years as the empress’s ward, but never have I seen such a crowd. There must be a thousand people here, all milling about in their annual finery, laughing and chatting and displaying themselves just so. Servants dart everywhere, clearing empty platters and picking up spilled crumbs. We weave through them all, trying to avoid the gazes of the imposter Guards, trying to reach the Hand of God, where Rosario will officially open the festivities.
The viheulas and dulciáns in the corner go silent. A hush descends.
I hear the prince before I see him. His voice rings out. “Lift up your heads in honor of our Deliverance.”
We are too late.
He begins reciting the Deliverance prayer.
“In you our ancestors put their trust,
They cried out and you delivered them.”
I lose track of Iván and the others as I push through a thick forest of silk and satin. Someone grunts; I’ve stepped on their foot. A large man tries to block my way. I bump the back of his knee so it buckles and slide past him as he teeters off balance.
I can see the prince now. Rosario sits exposed and alone, cupped in the Hand of God, a giant sculpture carved centuries ago by the great artist Lutián of the Rocks. Sitting in the Hand is an annual tradition, to remind us all that God’s righteous right hand delivered our ancestors from annihilation.
“Yea, from the dying world they were saved;
In you they trusted and were not put to shame.
Bless us, O God, as we remember your hand;
Your righteous right hand endures forever.”
“Selah!” the crowd responds in unison. I’m almost there. I scan the high balconies for crossbowmen as Rosario steps down from the Hand with the help of Efren and Iago, and returns to the dais.
The people in front of me have closed ranks, making it impossible to proceed. I spy a possible route to the right, nearer the wall, where fewer people congregate. I edge in that direction, leading with my shoulder.
My sense of urgency fades a little, because now that I’m close enough to see the dais, it’s clear Rosario is surrounded by friends. Lady Carilla has taken Rosario’s arm, and she gazes up at him adoringly. Beside them, Lord-Conde Tristán of the Quorum of Five is holding hands with his lover, Iladro. Iván’s brother Juan-Carlos is there too, whispering something to Songbird, the elegantly attired Invierno ambassador. Father Nicandro stands before them all, leaning on his cane. The priest wears a robe of pure white to mark the occasion.
Conde Astón has a place on the dais as well; as speaker of the chamber of condes, it’s his right. But he stands off to the side, creating a cushion of rejection between him and the others.
Several attendees shift. A path clears, and I dart forward.
A heavy hand descends on my shoulder, grabs me, yanks me backward. A vambraced arm wraps my neck. My back is pulled against an armored body, and hot breath fogs my ear. “Going somewhere, little mule?” says a low male voice.
It’s Beto, one of the boys who attacked me. Now an imposter Guard.
Of course he would be.
I dip my left shoulder, preparing to drop and twist free, but a sharp point sticks into my side.
“Don’t even think about it,” says another male voice. Sancho.
Valentino said these rejected recruits joined the army. So does this mean the army has been compromised? Maybe they’re mercenaries.
It doesn’t matter. All they are is an obstacle.
“Just wait,” Beto says, twisting my arm up behind my back and turning me toward the stage. “You’re going to love this.”
Sancho grins wolfishly and presses his knife harder into my side.
I scan the crowd, looking for my fellow recruits—Iván or Pedrón, anyone who can help—but the crush of people is too thick.
The air turns taut and prickly, as though a massive thunderstorm is gathering. My limbs start to tingle; a knot forms in my gut. It’s the Invierno sorcerer. He’s here, and he’s reaching for his well of magic.
Rosario raises his hand to signal the musicians to begin playing. His hand freezes midair.
The crowd collectively gasps, then goes eerily still.
The tip of Sancho’s knife is cutting my skin. Blood seeps down my side, thick and warm against my skin. But I can’t flinch away from it. I can’t move at all.
We stand in silence—no rustling of fabric, no murmured conversation, no creak of armor. I try to twitch my finger, but I can’t. Like everyone else, I’m frozen in place, an invisible barrier clenching tight around my body.