The Empire of Dreams Page 12

  I hate this place. Rows of votive candles are supposed to create a warm and sacred glow, but it just feels fiery and cruel, a reminder that death is too harsh, too final. Strangely, Elisa loves it here. She says it reminds her that death is an important foundation of her great city, and that something of the dead can last forever.

  I guess I want my legacy to be more than a pile of ashen bones.

  In the center of it all stands an altar of white marble veined in black. On it are three fresh long-stemmed roses. They are the holy variety, with the sharpest and hardest of thorns, just in case a supplicant wishes to prick a finger and offer a drop of blood in the holy sacrament of pain.

  Arched doorways on either side open to dark tombs. “This way.” I lead Iván into the third doorway on the right.

  Inside are several caskets resting on giant pedestals, each covered in a silken banner. Some of the banners are old and tattered and moth-eaten. One is barely a decade old and in excellent condition.

  “Is that . . . ?”

  “King Alejandro,” I confirm. “Elisa’s first husband and Rosario’s father.”

  Iván stares at the casket, unblinking, for the space of several breaths.

  “Iván?”

  “Rosario always says the sins of the father shall be visited upon the children, from generation to generation.”

  “That’s from the Scriptura Sancta,” I say. The holy text is full of horrible things like that. It’s one of the reasons I could never believe in a god.

  “I liked him,” Iván says. “The king, I mean. Everyone says he was a weak monarch, an inattentive father. But he was kind to me.”

  “You met him?”

  “When I was very little. Six or seven.” I remind myself that Iván’s father was a member of the Quorum of Five and a part-time resident of this palace, before he turned traitor and tried to start a civil war. So it makes sense that Iván would have met the royal family at a young age.

  “He must have made an impression,” I say.

  Iván shrugs. “I guess. Where to next, bossy girl?” He’s trying to pass it off like it’s no big deal, but once again shadows veil his eyes, and he refuses to meet my gaze.

  “Over here. There’s a small latch beneath the base of the casket. Help me find it? I’ve never come this way alone before.”

  Together, we crouch to run our fingers along the base of the pedestal. The floor is gritty here, and slightly damp against my fingertips.

  “I’ve got it,” he says. I leap backward to make room as the casket pivots to the side, revealing a deep stairway spiraling down into blackness.

  “Holy God,” Iván says.

  “Be very careful. Sometimes these steps are covered in a really gross slime.”

  “Slime?”

  “Algae, maybe? It’s very wet, where we’re going.”

  “This is the weirdest night of my life,” he mutters to himself.

  The stairway leads deep into the earth, and the going is agonizingly slow. I’m always hesitant to place my hand on the wall for balance, lest I risk shoving slime beneath my fingernails. Finally it levels off, and the tunnel opens to an irregular, cave-like chamber. Sand covers the floor, rippled from being underwater at high tide. Barnacles climb the walls to knee height.

  “This room gets flooded!” Iván says.

  “You figured that out all by yourself?”

  “Red,” he says, coming to an abrupt halt.

  I whirl back around, ready to lay into him for slowing us down.

  “Please stop insulting me,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Threatening me. Questioning my intelligence. Calling me a daft dung beetle.”

  “Don’t forget ‘ridiculous goat.’”

  He sighs. “You’re being petty and mean.”

  I open my mouth, but my protest dies. Hector would be so disappointed in me. You’re a member of court and a favorite of the empress, he always says. Your actions have meaning; your words have power. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “You are?” He seems taken aback.

  I’m angry and scared. Scared for Rosario, angry at everyone who voted against my adoption . . . maybe I’m even a little angry at Hector and Elisa for leaving me here all alone, even though it was mostly my own idea. It’s making me lash out at Iván, an easy target because of his own questionable parentage. “I won’t do it again.”

  I turn back around to continue our journey.

  “Well, that went better than I expected,” he mutters.

  “It doesn’t mean I like you.”

  “I would never presume.”

  The cavern narrows to a tight corridor of rough limestone, and we squeeze inside.

  “I can hardly see a thing,” Iván says.

  “We’re almost there.”

  Our path ends at a stair, rough-hewn, damp with water, and aiming steeply upward.

  “It smells like fish,” Iván observes.

  “Yes.”

  The top of the stair opens onto a high stone plateau. When Iván’s head crests the stair, he gasps.

  I know how he feels, because even though I’ve been to this secret place dozens of times, my first sight always takes my breath away.

  We’re inside an immense cavern, lit by lanterns and torchlight. Spread below us is a small village with thatch-roofed huts surrounding a massive bonfire. Rope ladders and swinging bridges connect the village to smaller caves high in the walls, along with a few additional huts that have found precarious purchase on plateaus like the one we stand on. Lush vines drip from cracks in the ceiling. A cool night breeze teases the torch flames, so that the light in the cavern is constantly shifting. Something in the limestone walls catches the light just so, causing the entire cavern to glisten.

  The underground river curves along the back wall, hugging a small beach area. The river is crystal clear and deceptively smooth, hiding a strong current. This close to the sea, it’s a bit brackish, mixing with ocean water during high tide.

  Sitting on the beach is a bearded, barefoot man, mending a fishing net. Others are about as well, in spite of the late hour—cooking over the bonfire, sharpening blades, scraping scales from a fish.

  “I had no idea this was here,” Iván says. “No idea at all. A whole village. Underground.”

  “Rosario was in hiding here for a long time,” I say. Looking him dead in the eye, I add, “During your father’s coup of the palace.” I’m satisfied by a small wince.

  “There are gaps in the ceiling,” he says, looking up. “That one ladder leads to . . . where?”

  “The Wallows. To a hut with a trapdoor—all under heavy guard. The surrounding yard is a bit porous. During the day, enough light filters down that torches are unnecessary.”

  “The Wallows is the most dangerous district in Brisadulce.”

  “Which makes it a good place for a hideout, don’t you think? Enough gawking. Let’s go find Rosario.”

  “I see him—right up there.”

  A quiet shape waits just ahead in the shadows, where a niche has been carved into the stone. He’s dressed in drab servants’ clothes, not even those of palace servants—but I recognize the stance, the peculiar tenseness, at once. I am afraid for him.

  Rosario sees us on the path at the same moment. He steps from the shadow, his shoulders slumping with relief. “Red. Iván. I’m so glad you’re here.” Before I can respond, he grabs me, hugs me tight, doesn’t let go. “Little sister,” he says in my ear. “It’s been a really long day.”

  I squeeze him back. “For us too, little brother. Is something wrong? Are you all right?”

  Rosario releases me, steps away to clap Iván on the back. “Come with me,” he says. “I have to show you something.”

  He leads us to the very edge of the village, where a hut cozies up to the cavern wall. A curtain embroidered with red sacrament roses covers the doorway. Rosario sweeps the curtain aside and ushers us inside.

  An oil lamp hangs from the ceiling, illuminating a
round space with a dirt floor. On the floor is a single bed pallet of palm fronds and sheepskin. A man lies there, his back to us. Gray peppers his black hair, along with a fair amount of cavern scree.

  “I’ve brought some friends,” Rosario says to the man on the floor.

  The man turns over—slowly and painfully—revealing days-old stubble, bloodshot eyes, and a pallor so blanched and sickly I almost don’t recognize him. When I do, I gasp.

  It’s Bolivar, the missing captain. The man who was supposed to speak for me at my adoption ceremony.

  “Lady Red,” he says, his voice cracked and aching.

  “Captain! You look awful.”

  “That’s her way of saying she’s really glad to see you,” Rosario amends.

  The captain’s smile is weak. “I know how she is. And who are you?” he says to Iván.

  “This is my friend Iván,” Rosario says. “He’s the younger brother of Lord-Conde Juan-Carlos.”

  “Ah, yes, the traitor’s son.”

  Iván’s face is as cold and lifeless as the grave, and I feel a twinge of something uncomfortable.

  Softly I say, “Iván is not his father, apparently.”

  Iván gives me a quizzical look.

  “Of course not,” the captain says. “I just . . . this blasted illness has made me tired and . . . uncouth.” He closes his eyes a moment and breathes deeply through his nose, as though summoning strength.

  “So, what happened?” I ask. “Rosario, are you in danger?”

  “I’m fine. For now. Have a seat,” Rosario orders, and we comply, sitting cross-legged on the dirt floor beside the captain’s sleeping pallet. Once we’re situated, the prince says, “This is not a natural illness. The captain was poisoned.”

  It’s like a punch to the gut. Ramifications hit me from all sides, coming so hard and fast it’s hard to sort through them. But one thought crystallizes, clearer than all the others and as sharp as glass.

  “This was done so he couldn’t speak for me at the ceremony,” I say in a choked voice.

  “Yes, probably,” Rosario says.

  “Even though whoever orchestrated this had the votes to stop it.”

  “They wanted to be doubly certain the adoption would not go through. No one expected me to speak up for you. And the awkwardness of it all . . . I wouldn’t be surprised if it swayed a few voters in the end.”

  Iván leans forward. “Where was the poison administered?” he asks the captain. “Were you in the barracks? The monastery? In your own quarters?”

  Good question. We all look to the captain.

  “Quarters,” the captain says. “I think . . . my tea.” He’s not up for this conversation. Every response is a major effort.

  “His quarters are in the Royal Guard barracks,” Rosario says meaningfully. “He does not keep chambers in the palace, like the lord-commander does. And the only way to access his quarters is through the barracks. No one but Royal Guards, the empress, and her family are allowed inside.”

  Iván and I exchange a startled look.

  “You’re saying the Guard was infiltrated,” I say.

  “Yes,” Rosario confirms. “We have an assassin among us. That’s why I called you here. I need the two of you to find out who it is.”

  Hearing there’s an assassin in the Royal Guard is like hearing that the sun is purple or that camels fly. It takes a moment for my thoughts to catch up to the idea, accept it, and finally, to face it head-on.

  I say, “Tell me everything you can about the poison that was used.”

  “That’s as good a place to start as any,” says Iván.

  “I . . .” Bolivar begins. “Duerma . . . in my tea.”

  Rosario places a hand on the captain’s shoulder. “I’ll tell them. You just rest.”

  Bolivar gives him a grateful look. He pulls his wool blanket up to his shoulders and closes his eyes.

  “We think it was sweet dream,” Rosario says.

  Iván says, “That stuff made from the duerma plant.”

  “So you’ve heard of it,” Rosario says.

  “I haven’t,” I say.

  Rosario explains, “It first appeared in Brisadulce a few years ago. Sailors are using it a lot. They say it dulls pain, eases seasickness, aids sleep. And it causes a general sense of euphoria in certain doses.”

  “We’ve started seeing it in our countship too,” Iván says. “Just this year. A little bit makes you forget your troubles. But too much, and you’ll never have any troubles again.”

  “Everyone has a little duerma leaf once in a while,” I say, thinking of the many times Mara put some in my tea to help me sleep. It gives the drink a spicy taste, almost like cinnamon. “But this is different?”

  “Definitely different. Much stronger,” says Rosario. “With a stronger taste and a stronger scent. Someone figured out how to distill it into a syrup from the duerma berries themselves, using a process that remains a mystery. They also figured out how to make very large quantities. Whoever they are, they’re becoming wealthy beyond imagining.”

  “This doesn’t narrow things down at all,” I say. “Anyone could have gotten hold of some and given it to Captain Bolivar.”

  “Anyone in the Guard,” Rosario clarifies.

  We are silent a long moment, contemplating. The oil lamp sputters, casting odd shadows against the hut’s palm thatching. Captain Bolivar startles in his sleep. He wrenches his blanket down, muttering, but does not awaken. Sweat now sheens his brow.

  Rosario whispers, “He almost died.” I hear his unspoken words too. He might still die.

  “I’ll be honest,” Iván says. “I have no idea where to start. Even with most of the Guard traveling with the empress, the group remaining is huge—servants and support staff, the Guards who oversee training, four years’ worth of recruits. . . .”

  “Rosario, you could order a search of the barracks,” I suggest. “See if anyone is in possession of sweet dream poison.”

  “I’ve considered it. I just don’t have the staff. Think about who Elisa would normally use for such a task.”

  “The Royal Guard,” I say glumly.

  “Exactly. If I started searching with my remaining contingent of trusted bodyguards, the assassin would hide the evidence long before they reached him.”

  Iván asks, “How do we know the assassin isn’t traveling with the empress? I mean, Captain Bolivar was poisoned before she left, right?”

  “It’s possible,” the prince says, “but highly, highly unlikely. Everyone accompanying the empress is a trusted longtime confidant. Most have been with us since before the Second Battle of Brisadulce. And why attack the captain? Why not the empress herself? No, it was someone who has access to the Guard barracks—but not to Elisa.”

  “You think there’s something bigger going on here,” I say.

  “Yes. Well, I’m not sure. If this were an isolated event, I’d think the poisoner was a rival of the captain’s. Or it was a prank gone horribly wrong. But the way it coincided with the sabotage of your adoption ceremony . . .” Rosario shakes his head. “It feels like an opening volley. Like it heralds something else. Something worse.”

  “Maybe it’s Red’s Invierno blood that has someone so riled up,” Iván suggests.

  “I’m not an In—”

  “You keep saying that,” he says. “And I get that you’re Joyan in your heart of hearts, but people just don’t see you like that. Besides, you deny your parentage so stridently, one has to wonder what you’re ashamed of.”

  My fists ball up of their own accord. I’d love nothing more than to give that beautiful face the bloodiest nose. Through clenched teeth I say, “I’m not ashamed of anything about myself.”

  “Oh? Then why do you hide that white streak in your hair? White like the hair of an animagus, I’m told. A magic mark.”

  I rise to my feet. My fists are thunder, my breath is fire as I advance on him.

  “Stop it!” Rosario yells. “Both of you, just stop. Red, sit down.”


  I turn my fury on Rosario.

  A wave of sadness passes across his face. Softly, commandingly, Rosario says, “Recruit Red, as your prince, I order you to sit down at once.”

  It’s like a slap to the face. In eight years of growing up together, Rosario has never pulled rank on me. Not once.

  I make my face blank as I obey. But as I sit, I clasp my hands together in my lap to hide the fact that they’re trembling just a little.

  The ruckus has roused Captain Bolivar, who peers at us blearily.

  “I can’t believe you made me do that,” Rosario says. “You two are my most trusted friends.”

  I say, “Him?” even as Iván says, “Her?”

  “I said stop it.” I’ve never seen Rosario like this, so frustrated, so angry, so frightened. “I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but get over it, grow up, and get along.”

  I open my mouth to insist that Iván started it, but I realize how petulant it will sound and wisely keep quiet. Instead, I stare at the hands clasped in my lap and concentrate on my breathing. I imagine Hector’s voice in my head. In four counts, out four counts.

  When I’m certain I have control of my temper, I address Bolivar as though nothing has happened: “Captain, do you remember who brought your tea?”

  “Made it myself,” he mumbles.

  “So you have your own stash of tea,” I clarify.

  “Yes.”

  “Did someone bring you water for it?”

  “No. Boiled that myself too.”

  Iván says, “The captain has quarters to himself, I assume.”

  “He does,” Rosario says.

  “With a locking door?” I ask.

  “Yes,” the captain says.

  “So it would not be easy to waltz into your quarters and poison your stash or kettle.”

  “He told me he took his tea the night before the adoption ceremony,” Rosario says. “As is his habit. He started to feel odd as he was readying for bed, suspected poison, and forced himself to vomit. Then he passed out on the floor of the latrine. When he woke, he found himself inside the secret passage; he vaguely remembers dragging himself inside when he was barely conscious.”