The Empire of Dreams Page 8

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Begin.”

  Pedrón lunges with his sword, creating a perfect straight line from shoulder to blade tip. It’s a pretty bit of choreography, but it’s too slow, and Aldo dodges easily.

  “Saw that coming from way down south of Ventierra,” Aldo taunts.

  Pedrón shrugs and gives Aldo a wry smile. Then, quick as a scorpion, he whips the sword around and whacks Aldo in the shoulder with the blunt side.

  Aldo yelps as the momentum from the blow spins him, and he tumbles to the ground, landing hard on his stomach.

  He groans, clutching the sand with his fingers, like he’s trying to get up but can’t.

  Other recruits lean in, worry marking their faces. Not worried for Aldo, I’m sure. Worried for themselves. They see this exact punishment and humiliation in their very near futures.

  But they didn’t see what I did. Aldo exaggerated everything. The flat of Pedrón’s blade barely hit him. It was a perfectly executed bit of theater for a boy who wanted out of a mismatch as quickly as possible.

  Pedrón steps forward as if to deal a killing blow.

  “Halt!” DeLuca calls. “Now help your fellow recruit to his feet,” he orders, and Pedrón does as commanded, reaching for Aldo and yanking him up.

  Clutching his side, Aldo staggers over to stand beside me.

  “Well done,” I whisper.

  Aldo tries very hard not to grin.

  “Recruit Pedrón,” DeLuca says, “you have good power and adequate speed for your size, but you can be better. We’ll work on that. Recruit Aldo, you have better speed and extraordinary spatial awareness. We’ll teach you some real fighting skills so you won’t have to rely on deception.”

  My eyes widen. Perhaps DeLuca is not the idiot I took him for. Off to the side, a few other Guards are discussing something quietly among themselves, though their eyes remain on the recruits. Maybe they really are evaluating us.

  “Next up, Recruit Iván.”

  The handsome boy with quick, dark eyes steps forward. The son of a traitor. Which makes him Juan-Carlos’s younger brother.

  “And Recruit Red.”

  I’m stepping forward even as Iván says, “I won’t fight a girl.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll go easy on you,” I tell him.

  “It wouldn’t be fair,” Iván says. “And I don’t want to get into the habit of pulling my punches or weakening my blows.”

  “It’s clear you have great respect for women,” I say gravely, and Iván gives me a puzzled look, unsure how I just managed to insult him.

  DeLuca considers. “Fine,” he says.

  Weird that he’s not pressing the matter. Maybe Iván holds some status with DeLuca, being the brother of a Quorum lord. We’re supposed to leave status behind to come here, but such things are never true in practice.

  “Any volunteers to fight a girl?” DeLuca calls out.

  Several boys appear uncomfortable, looking everywhere but at the sergeant, lest they catch his eye. But there’s no shortage of hands raised.

  The crowd on the walls is as thick as I’ve ever seen it. People are leaning forward, eyes wide, chatting excitedly. This is the best spectacle they’ve seen all year.

  “You,” the sergeant says, pointing to the rich boy with fine silks. “Recruit Valentino.”

  Valentino. Where do I know that name?

  The rich boy steps forward. “I won’t pull my punches or soften my blows,” he says, heading toward the weapons rack. The look he gives me is not unfriendly.

  “Thank you,” I tell him, and he smiles.

  Valentino moves like a dancer, all grace and power and exquisite control, with not a single wasted movement. He is well trained and fully come into his own body. A man, not a boy.

  He chooses the double-bladed ax. It’s wooden, like most of the practice weapons, but it’s by far the largest and heaviest of them.

  “Recruit Red? You must choose a weapon.”

  I stare at them all, remembering Hector’s words. Should I reveal my skills and training or save them for later? Should I look for an easy way out of this match like Aldo did? Valentino seems to be a worthy adversary. Losing to him wouldn’t be too humiliating. I’d get a black eye out of it maybe. A bloody nose. And a whole lot of sympathy.

  Then again, I just declared my close relationship to the empress with my Godstone. People already hate me for that.

  “Recruit Red?” the sergeant prompts.

  All eyes are on me, the failed princess. From the crowd, faintly at first, comes a chant: “Choose, choose, choose . . .”

  The spear would give me reach. The dagger would complement my speed. The short sword would be a decent compromise between the two.

  “Choose, choose, choose.”

  I reach for the dagger. My hand freezes midair.

  “Choose, choose, choose!”

  I turn to Valentino, clasping my hands behind my back.

  The crowd goes still.

  “Recruit Red! Are you refusing to fight?” DeLuca asks.

  “No, sir!”

  “Then choose a weapon.”

  “No, sir!”

  My opponent’s mouth parts slightly, understanding dawning.

  Sergeant DeLuca says, “What do you think you’re—”

  Loud and clear so everyone can hear, I say, “I don’t need a weapon.”

  My declaration somehow fills the space, and the other boys shift away from Valentino and me, enlarging our fighting circle. The arena is deadly quiet.

  “I meant it,” Valentino says. “I won’t soften my blows. Even if you refuse a weapon.” As if to emphasize the point, he whirls the ax around, testing its weight and balance. His forearm is corded with muscle, and his ax, though wooden, is hefty enough to break my bones.

  I ground my feet to the earth, feeling the warmth of the sand through my boots. I breathe deep through my nose, relax my shoulders. Harsh winds, rough seas, still hearts.

  Someone in the crowd above us yells, “Olé, Ciénega del Sur!” Ah, that’s it. That’s where I’ve heard Valentino’s name.

  “You’re the son of Conde Astón, yes?” I say aloud. “Of Ciénega del Sur.” The speaker of the chamber of condes, who so gleefully announced my failed adoption to the entire court. Valentino is his third son, and therefore in little danger of inheriting.

  Valentino says, “But we leave all that behind to become Royal Guard, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Are you going to gossip like little girls?” DeLuca says, “Or are you going to fight?”

  “You haven’t told us to begin,” I point out.

  “Begin.”

  Valentino moves so fast it’s a blur, slicing at a diagonal as if to cleave me from shoulder to opposite hip.

  But I’m faster. A diagonal blow must be dodged at the highest point, and I barely manage it, swiveling to the side so that the ax meets air.

  “Nicely done,” Valentino says, already back in place.

  “You spoke true about not softening your blows,” I say. His weapon would have shattered my collarbone if it had landed. Maybe he’s trying to kill me.

  He grins, casually whirling his weapon. It seems light in his hand, as if it’s made of nothing.

  His shoulders reveal his next move a split second before the blow comes, and I’m already throwing my head back as the ax blade sings through the air a finger’s breadth from my nose.

  I’ve been drilled in this maneuver so many times that I’m not even thinking, just reacting with muscle memory as my dodge becomes a leg sweep. I twist to the side as I fall. My hands hit the sand as my foot arcs out, crashes into Valentino’s ankles, knocks them out from under him.

  The crowd gasps.

  I’m on my feet in an instant, but so is Valentino. He wipes sand from his silk tunic.

  “You’re fast,” he says.

  “You too. Almost got me.”

  “You’ve had training,” he accuses.

  “Maybe as much as you.”
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  He whirls his ax again, eyes narrowed. There’s nothing more dangerous than an opponent who thinks, Elisa always says.

  I have to end this soon, on the off chance that the son of Elisa’s most powerful rival really is trying to kill me. He’s bigger and stronger, and I can’t dodge every blow, even with all my training.

  Valentino shifts the ax into his right hand only, leaving his left hand free. He’s about to try a feint, see if he can trick me into dodging into his blow. It’s what I’d do.

  He sweeps toward my head with the ax, enticing me to dodge right, but his other shoulder is priming to ambush me with a punch.

  I duck down and slightly left, barely missing the ax blade. While his torso twists into his useless swing, I dart forward and slam my elbow into his kidney.

  His flank is soft with surprise. My elbow hits harder than I expect, and he crumples to the sand.

  Valentino struggles to find his feet, but I dash forward and stomp on his wrist. His fingers release the ax handle. Quick as a blink, I grab the ax and scurry out of reach.

  I give the weapon an experimental swing, watching as Valentino manages to get his knees beneath him. The weapon is even heavier than I anticipated.

  I advance on him, trying to figure out a way to draw blood and end the match without hurting him too much more, but DeLuca says, “Halt!”

  The arena is as still as night. I just defeated a young man twice my size, disarming him in the process, but no applause or cheering greets me.

  “Well,” DeLuca says. “I see a bit of Lord-Commander Hector’s fighting style in you.”

  I open my mouth to tell him that Dante is Lord-Commander now, not Hector, who gave up command when his daughter was born. But I think better of correcting him.

  Everyone is staring. I go to help Valentino up, the way Pedrón helped Aldo, but he waves me off. DeLuca says nothing. Valentino finally gets to his feet, but he remains bent over.

  At last, a single applause sounds. A clap of pity, come too late. I glance around.

  It’s Iván, Juan-Carlos’s brother, the boy who refused to fight a girl. Then Aldo joins him, grinning ear to ear. A few other recruits begin to clap. And finally, distantly, comes a smattering of applause from the audience lining the edges.

  But not everyone approves, and the sound fades fast, leaving us in silence once again.

  “You still have a lot to learn,” DeLuca says, frowning.

  “Yes, sir, I do.” And it’s true. I’ve spent so much time learning how to defend myself, how to stay alive and survive, that I know little about attacking. It’s a weakness that will become obvious to everyone soon enough.

  “And Recruit Valentino . . . if the little girl hasn’t wounded you too badly, we’ll get you started on broadsword training right away.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Valentino says through gritted teeth.

  DeLuca grunts, and then he moves on, calling on two other recruits to choose their weapons.

  I return the ax to the rack and run back to the line. Valentino sidles over to me and Aldo. “That was . . . unexpected,” he breathes through his pain.

  “Unexpected?” Aldo whispers. “That was incredible.”

  “I hit you harder than I meant to,” I confess.

  “I can handle it,” he says.

  “Were you trying to kill me?” I ask.

  The question startles him. “No. I didn’t expect DeLuca to let me use the ax. It’s too heavy for safe sparring. But then I was committed in front of everyone.”

  “Huh.” I find myself believing him.

  “You know . . .” He winces. “This is really starting to hurt.”

  Two other recruits are called out to face each other, both of them from Basajuan, and both of them named Arturo, which is the most common name in the east. My attention is half on the Arturos, half on Valentino, when I say, “You might piss blood tonight. Drink as much water as you can and try not to exert yourself for a few days. If you can’t piss at all, be sure to tell someone. Don’t tough it out.”

  “Whatever you say, Doctor Red.”

  I look up at his face to find him grinning. “I really am sorry,” I tell him.

  “I’ll get you next time.”

  “I know you will.”

  There’s a warmth in my cheeks that has nothing to do with sun and sand. I’ve met two people—Aldo and Valentino—who have the potential to become friends. Not a bad morning at all.

  But then I happen to glance beyond the sparring recruits—who are clumsily swinging their wooden daggers—to Valentino’s entourage, the boys who followed him into the arena like ducklings after their beloved mother.

  They’re staring at me with such pure, icy hatred that a chill shivers down my spine.

  7

  Then

  THE girl woke to pain so bright and hot she could hardly draw breath. It came from her ankle. She tried to wiggle it, but agony shot up her leg and into her hip.

  So she lay as still as she could, just trying to breathe. Gradually she became aware of other things: warmth against her cheeks, dancing firelight, straw poking her back, the scents of burning pine and—wonder of wonders—a baking meat pie.

  A little whimper escaped her lips. Her stomach turned over hard, and she couldn’t tell if she wanted to feast or vomit.

  Hunger won out.

  “Please,” she whispered, almost like a prayer.

  A flurry of syllables greeted her, and she almost screamed. It was the monster’s language. They had found her.

  But a cool hand pressed gently against her forehead. More words followed—soft, kind, feminine.

  The girl’s heart steadied. Voice wavering, she tried again. “Please. Food?”

  “Do you not speak the Lengua Classica?” said the woman’s voice, in the girl’s own language.

  “No.” The girl blinked.

  Her vision had been slow to clear, but she could see the monster woman now. She was beautiful, maybe the most beautiful creature the girl had ever seen, with delicate, chiseled features, hair that shone reddish brown, and eyes green as grass, shaped like a cat’s. How could the woman see with such eyes?

  “You must drink first,” the woman said. “See how your belly handles it before introducing food.”

  The mere mention of drink made the girl swallow hard. Her throat was parched and aching, and she suddenly wanted water more than anything in the whole world. The girl remembered her manners and said, “Yes, please, thank you, please, yes.”

  A hand reached beneath the base of her head and tilted her up. A cup was set against her lips, and cold, perfect, beautiful water slid down her throat.

  The cup was pulled away, and the girl tried to chase after it, lunging up from the poking straw mattress. Cool hands held her down.

  “More soon,” the monster woman said. “Patience, sweet thing.”

  The girl laid back and tried to have patience.

  Something sparkled at the woman’s earlobes, something that clinked softly every time she moved—jewelry made of glass, almost like tiny sparkle stones. “I found you in a snowdrift, when I was fetching water,” the monster woman said. “You must be from one of the villages to the north. I think you fell off the cliff.”

  The girl didn’t remember falling. Just running and hiding and more running and . . . flying? Or maybe that part had been a dream.

  “Your ankle is broken, but I’ve splinted it, and I expect it to heal perfectly. The snowdrift may have saved your life.”

  The girl said nothing. The monster woman seemed so kind, but the girl knew better. You couldn’t trust monsters. They said perfectly reasonable things and then burned your turnips.

  In a trembling voice, the girl asked, “Do you have a sparkle stone? Are you going to burn me?”

  The monster woman laughed, and her glass earrings tinkled. “Not all Inviernos are animagi,” she said. Her voice turned bitter. “If I were a sorcerer, I wouldn’t have to make my living here, in one of the godforsaken free villages.” She tipped t
he cup to the girl’s lips once again, and the girl drank greedily.

  “So, no,” the woman continued. “I don’t have an anima-lapis, or a Godstone, as the Joyans sometimes call them.”

  Relief flooded the girl. She turned her head toward the hearth. Glass figurines rested on the mantel, shiny and sparkling with firelight—a deer with elaborate antlers, a tiny rabbit, and one that made her gasp with its beauty: a heron lifting into flight, dripping glass water behind it.

  Below, a lidded black pot hung from a rotating spit just outside the flames’ reach. The best smell she had ever smelled was coming from inside. A potpie, if she didn’t miss her guess, filled with bubbling dough and chunks of moist chicken meat.

  “Before I give you food,” the monster woman said, “you must tell me something.”

  Saliva filled her mouth. “What?”

  “What village are you from? Where are your parents?”

  The girl knew better than to tell the monster woman anything, but there was a potpie. “Mamá is dead,” she said.

  The words dislodged something inside her, something that roiled around in her belly for a moment and then came exploding out of her body in a wracking sob. Mamá is dead. Mamá is dead.

  “There, there, sweet thing, I’m so sorry to hear. And your village?”

  The village she and Mamá had lived outside of had a name, but she couldn’t remember it. And she didn’t care to. No one there wanted her anyway. She said, through gulping tears, “No village. I’m from nowhere.”

  “Oh, good,” the woman muttered. “That’s good.”

  The girl didn’t understand what was good about that, but she could hardly think beyond the potpie scent. It had actual salt in it, she was certain. And oregano.

  “You’re a pretty thing,” the monster woman said. Her soft hand came up to caress the girl’s cheek. The girl couldn’t help herself; she leaned into this feeling of kindness as tears continued to pour down her cheeks. The woman said, her voice as satiny and exquisite as butterfly wings, “You’re not really an Invierno, are you? I couldn’t tell at first; you’re so pale and skinny. But I see it now. You’re a half-breed. A mula.”