“It’s a good plan,” Hector says.
“I prefer it to sewers,” Mara says.
“It could be dangerous for the girl,” Belén says. “Her Invierno blood is strong.”
“I’ll do it,” Red says with a lift of her tiny chin. “It’s just my eyes that make people mean. I have lots of practice hiding them.”
“You’re certain, Red?” I ask. “Brisadulce is a very big, noisy place.”
She shrugs. “I can do it.”
“All right, then.” I crouch down before her. “I’m not going to write this down, in case it’s intercepted, so you must memorize it.”
She nods gravely.
I give her specific directions to the monastery and ask her to repeat them back to me. She does, flawlessly, and I silently vow to find the best possible tutor for the girl and her quick mind. “When you get to the monastery, ask for Father Nicandro. Insist that you have a message for him. He is the head priest, and not everybody has access to him. So whoever you speak with will ask you to tell them the message. Don’t. Your message is for Father Nicandro only. If pressed, say it’s a message from Ambassador Alentín and must be delivered in private.”
Alentín’s name should get her an audience. He is a priest in his own right, as well as the head of Queen Cosmé’s foreign delegation.
“When you are with Father Nicandro, and only then, you will tell him about us and about our need to sneak into the city.”
Her eyes are wide with focus. She mutters to herself, committing what she has heard to memory. On the chance that the priests try subterfuge to get information out of the girl, I add, “I want you to ask Father Nicandro a question to verify that it is him. Say this: ‘You once met with the queen in the dead of night, in the scribing room, after the watch rang the first hour. How did you make arrangements for this meeting?’ Now repeat it back to me.”
She does, making only one small mistake, so we go over it once more.
I smile. “I snuck a note to him during the sacrament of pain, right before he pricked my finger. He shoved it into his sleeve.” My smile fades. “If the person you speak with does not mention it, he is not Nicandro.”
Red shifts, avoiding my gaze. “It will be hard to hide my eyes once I start talking to people,” she says, and her tone is so apologetic that I bend down to hug her.
“If they notice, they notice,” I say. “Tell them anything you want. Tell them you are island bred and all your brothers have the same eyes, maybe. And I swear to you, Red, after this, if we are successful, you’ll never need to hide your eyes again.”
She hugs me back fiercely, then disengages, draws herself to full height—which is no height at all—and says, “I’m ready.”
Everyone else hugs her next, and no one says it, but we all know it’s for just in case.
She shoulders her pack and trudges down the hill toward the road. We watch her tiny form merge with traffic, and then I only catch glimpses here and there as she weaves her way toward the city entrance.
Hector raises his hand to shadow his eyes and says, “She’s at the gate.”
She is barely a mote in my vision, but Hector has the eyes of a hawk.
“There’s a carriage in the way . . . oh, there she is. The guards have stopped her.” He puts his other hand to his scabbard, as if he can protect her from a distance. “They’re talking to her.”
Mara and I exchange an alarmed glance. “She’s clever,” Mara says. “She’ll think of something, right?”
I nod, my heart in my throat. She’s just a little girl. A sweet, precious child as ardently innocent as my own little prince. Why did I send her on this dangerous errand?
“Still talking,” Hector says. “Lots of back and forth. One just grabbed her pack. He’s looking inside.”
“If they hurt her . . .” Belén says.
“Her hands are on her hips,” Hector says. “I think she’s yelling at them.”
Oh, God. I can just imagine. “I am Lady Red Sparkle Stone, handmaiden to the queen, and you had better let me pass!” No, she’s cleverer than that. She knows better. Doesn’t she?
“She’s in!” Hector says, and relief floods me. “They let her go. One of the soldiers snagged her food pouch, though. I’ll kill him.”
We settle down to wait on our hillside overlooking the road and the desert beyond. The sun burns the air until it shimmers, but none of us moves up the hill to take advantage of the shade provided by a few stunted palms there. We stare toward Brisadulce’s massive gate, as if we can summon Red back to us with the force of our collective gaze.
But she does not return. The sun sinks huge and orange behind the outline of the Sierra Sangre, and the temperature drops so low that my breath frosts in the air, but there is no sign of her.
Belén traps a few jerboas and deftly fillets them. Mara gets a soup going while Hector climbs a nearby date palm and shakes the ripe fruit to the ground. After a meal of jerboa soup and fresh dates, we sit in silence, watching the road. Storm gets up, yawning, and says, “She will either return, or she won’t.” He crawls inside his tent and is softly snoring in moments.
I sit shoulder to shoulder with Hector. He puts an arm around me and I lean into him, absorbing his solid strength as comfort. It seems like only a moment passes, and suddenly I’m blinking awake to brilliant sunrise.
“Good morning,” he says, pressing his lips to my hair.
I roll my neck to work out the kink. “Did you stay awake all night?” I ask.
“I dozed. Traded watches with Belén.”
He gets to his feet and stretches. I stand beside him and wrap my arms around his waist. His fingers tangle in my hair as we gaze across the desert.
“It’s Red!” Mara says, pointing up the road. “She’s back.”
Storm barrels from his tent, then stops short and collects himself until he appears as haughty as ever. “She brought people with her,” he observes coolly.
I squint against the rising sun. Red is followed by two others. One leads a camel piled high with lumpy cargo.
“I hope that’s Father Nicandro,” Hector says. Keeping an eye on the road, he buckles his gauntlets and checks his blades.
Both wear priests’ robes. One is slight, barely taller than a child. The other . . . my heart begins to pound. I know that frame, that heavy but inexorable stride.
“Ximena,” I whisper.
Hector looks at me sharply. “Didn’t you tell her to go back to Orovalle?”
I nod, unable to speak. I dismissed my nurse months ago for taking important matters pertaining to my life and reign into her own hands. But I love her still. Maybe she found a post with Father Nicandro. It makes sense—she is a student of the holy scriptures and a scribe of some renown.
“Well, this should be interesting,” Mara says.
Red’s face shines with triumph as they approach. And then she can’t contain herself any longer; she runs forward, kicking dust up with her heels, and flings herself at Mara, who hugs her tight. “It was just like Elisa said!” she gasps out. “They tried to trick me. But I didn’t say anything. Not a word, until I knew for sure it was Father Nicandro.”
The priest in question huffs up the rise, then holds out both hands in greeting, and I grab them. “Dear girl,” he says. “It does my heart good to see you well.”
“Thank you for coming, Father,” I say, squeezing his fingers.
Behind him, my former nurse hangs back, hands clasped before her. She has always appeared innocuous—a rosy-cheeked woman with plump arms and an easy smile. But no longer. She looks fierce, with small black eyes that are sharper than ever, and a puckered scar that now traces the line of her cheekbone. A few months ago she took a glancing arrow to save my decoy. But it didn’t work. The next arrow got the poor girl anyway.
“Hello, Ximena,” I say.
She inclines her head. “Your Majesty.”
“I’m surprised to see you here.”
“Father Nicandro made me an unusual offer,” she
says. “And I could not refuse.”
I raise an eyebrow at him.
“And it was lucky she was available,” the priest says, releasing my hands. He hurries over to the camel and begins unloading bundles of undyed woolen cloth tied with twine. “Your Royal Guard chose to go into hiding instead of defending the palace,” he explains, tossing a bundle to each of us. “They were too far outnumbered. But it left their families exposed. Their children. We brought them into the monastery, hoping the general’s men would be less likely to retaliate against them or use them for leverage if they were placed in a house of God.” He tosses the last bundle to me. I untie it and shake it out. It’s a robe, but much too long for me.
“I’ve been looking after them,” Ximena says. “I’m a nurse, after all.”
“A nurse who could kill an intruder with her bare hands,” Nicandro adds with a glint in his eye.
“Yes.”
Hector and I trade robes—his is much shorter—and we pull them on over our regular clothing.
“So,” I say to no one in particular. “Do I look . . . priestly?”
Nicandro’s expression is pained. “You and your Invierno friend . . . well, I say we wait until late evening. The general locks down the city at night. We’ll have to go at dusk, right before they close the gate.”
I did not think it was possible to become angrier at the men who would usurp my throne. A citywide lockdown is a serious matter. The effect on trade, on morale, is immeasurable. I would only consider it in times of plague or siege.
But that’s exactly what they’re worried about. Siege. And I am the invader.
“You’ll take us straight to the monastery?” I ask.
“It would draw attention if we did not,” he says. “But in the morning, we’ll go out as missionaries to the Wallows, to give coins and bread to the poor along with an encouraging word from God.”
“To the Guard,” I say.
He nods. “They’ve been hiding in the underground village for months. There are several people there who will be very, very glad to see you. Conde Tristán is with them.”
My joyous smile dies on my face. If Tristán is in hiding, it means the announcement of his ascension to Quorum lord was met with resistance.
We sell our horses and tack at a huge loss to a passing merchant caravan, keeping only one as a packhorse. We take turns descending into the desert to trudge around in the sand, the hems of our robes dragging, so it will appear we have been on the road for days. A few rare, early winter clouds roll in from the sea, and the sunset coats their underbellies in blazing pink by the time we set off toward the gate.
“Any word of the prince?” I whisper to Father Nicandro as we walk.
“General Luz-Manuel is desperate to find him,” the priest says in a low voice. “At even the slightest hint of loyalty to the de Riqueza line, he sends his men into homes without warning to search. They’ve been seizing property. As part of their investigation, they say, but they’ve been using it to pay for the war effort.”
If I get a chance, I will kill him. “The citizens of Brisadulce cannot be pleased with this turn of events.”
“Many are not, and his actions have solidified your base of support. But there are plenty who feel the general’s actions are justified. He and the conde have labeled you a traitor and blasphemer, someone who will bring our enemy upon us like a plague. And people are never more atrocious as when they are afraid.”
“But the boy.” I glance around to make sure no one is within earshot. “Rosario. Is he . . . ?”
Nicandro gives me a reassuring smile. “We cannot hide him forever. But he is well for now.”
We continue in solemn formation. Father Nicandro carries an incense brazier that swings back and forth on a chain, curling musky smoke into the air. He chants with each step-swing, and we keep time as best we can. Red takes up the rear. She is dressed in a white acolyte’s robe and holds the reins of our camel and packhorse.
The gate looms above our heads as we approach. The massive doors are open wide. Each has a patched area of lighter wood—the only remaining indication that Invierno sorcerers burned through it only a year past.
Soldiers line the entrance, six on each side, standing at a diagonal so that traffic is funneled to a small, controllable point. Archers and spearman peer down at us from the crenellations above.
We are outnumbered and outweaponed. These are not rough mountain brigands or half-frozen mercenaries exhausted from their trek. These are well trained, well rested, battle-hardened soldiers, and if they do not let us pass, it will be impossible to fight our way out.
I look neither to the right nor the left. I keep my head down in humble supplication but stride unerringly, as if I have every right to be here.
“Halt!” one calls out. “State your business.”
Father Nicandro steps forward. He approaches close enough for the incense to snake up toward the guard’s face. The guard’s nose twitches. “We are about God’s holy business,” Nicandro says.
A different guard steps forward. “Good evening, Holy Eminence,” he says with a sidelong glance at his companion. The first guard blanches. “I didn’t realize you’d left the city.”
“Should I have told you?” I can’t see the priest’s face, but I imagine him looking charmingly confused.
“These are dangerous times. If you share your travel plans with us ahead of time, we can provide an escort if needed, ease your passage through our checkpoints. It’s for your own safety, you see.”
Checkpoints? They’ve set up checkpoints along my highway? My face grows hot beneath my priest’s cowl.
“I do see. Next time I’ll do exactly that.”
No one says anything, and no one moves.
The guard clears his throat. “Would you mind . . . er . . . for our record-keeping, you see, telling us what took you away from the city?”
Father Nicandro gestures toward us. “I received advance word that our guests were arriving, and I left to escort them on the final leg of their journey as a show of hospitality. They are pilgrims, come on behalf of Father Donatzine and Queen Alodia from the Monastery-at-Amalur. They seek spiritual renewal at the site of God’s first monastery, and to exchange translation notes with our scribes.”
The guard rubs at his jaw. He knows he ought to search us. Our pack animals are heavily laden, and our voluminous robes could conceal anything. He is right to be worried.
He steps closer. Not one of us moves or even twitches. I force myself to breath normally. He peers at the person nearest to Nicandro. “Lady Ximena,” he says, with no small amount of surprise. And his voice has an unmistakable note of suspicion when he says, “I would not have expected you to accompany His Eminence on this journey.”
“Oh, yes, Sergeant,” she says brightly. “As you know, I’m originally from Orovalle. I was anxious to see some old friends.”
An awkward moment passes. The guards glance at one another. The sergeant steps toward Belén, eyes narrowed.
“Good sir!” Nicandro says, a little too loudly. “I do hope you won’t detain us much longer. Our guests have experienced an arduous pilgrimage, and I’m anxious to show them the hospitality their rank and purpose deserves.”
I’m praying madly—Please, God, please, please, please let us pass—even as I eye our surroundings, looking for the best escape route. The road south, I decide. Enough traffic that someone on foot would be difficult to track. I don’t stand a chance in a close-quarters fight with so many. I’ve never practiced with my daggers while wearing such voluminous sleeves.
“Have a nice evening, Your Eminence,” the sergeant says, stepping back. Nicandro starts forward, and we follow after. In my peripheral vision, I note the guards staring as we pass. They will remember this unscheduled group of foreign priests. They will certainly send someone to the monastery to inquire after us.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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38
THOUGH I itch to take off running, we proceed solemnly up the wide Colonnade toward the palace, within perfect view of the stately townhomes that rise on either side with their hanging gardens and sparkling windows. The light dims with the setting sun, turning the sandstone and adobe buildings a fiery orange. The night bloomer vines that twist through mortar cracks and up the trunks of helpless palms open their glowing hearts to the night. My beautiful, beautiful city.
But I frown at the sight of fortifications along the road—wooden barriers that can be turned to block the road at a moment’s notice, canvas bags filled with sand that will be used to shield spearmen and archers.
We enter the palace courtyard, and my heart sings, Home! for the briefest moment before we turn away from the main entrance toward an adjacent, lower building made of stucco and wood beams. Red hands off our pack animals to a stable boy, then Father Nicandro leads us through a wide foyer and into the sanctuary.
It’s a hushed, sacred place, glowing with candles, swimming with the heady scent of sacrament roses. So Nicandro’s voice rings startlingly loud when he says, “You must be ravenous after such a long journey from Amalur! Come, I’ll have our kitchen prepare something for you.” He ignores the stares of priests, acolytes, and petitioners and ushers us through a side door into an empty dining hall.
He shuts and bars the door behind us. “You should be safe here for the time being. The dinner hour is long past. Make yourselves as comfortable as you can. I’ll bring refreshments.”
He and Ximena leave for the kitchens, and we settle on the hard stone floor to wait.
“What do you think Ximena is up to?” Hector says, staring after her.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. Ximena has always kept her counsel, made her own plans—even if they were in conflict with my own. “I know she’ll do what she thinks is right.” But isn’t that what we all do? Conde Eduardo believes he’s saving the country by plunging it into civil war. A regrettable course but worth it, if that’s what it takes to put himself on the throne in my place. The Inviernos thought it was right to invade Basajuan, leaving a wake of fiery wreckage in their path, if it meant avenging the wrong done to them millennia ago.