Fire and Thorns 00.7: King's Guard (4 page)

6

“P
REGNANCY suits you, Your Majesty,” I say to her, and then wince at yet another awkward compliment.

It’s a stretch. She was beautiful when she first became pregnant, glowing like the dawn, as happy as the song of a lark. But as the months have passed, it has worn her down. She still smiles with unrelenting cheer, but there is a heaviness to her, as though she has borne a painful wound for a long time.

“Thank you,” she says. “But you are a terrible liar, and I think you always will be.”

I start to protest, but she rests her hand on my wrist, and I feel how clammy her skin is. I say lightly, “My incapacity for dishonesty troubles you?”

I mean it as a joke, but she nods. “If you want to serve your king well, then you must learn not to speak at all. It may be the only thing that will prevent you from revealing your secrets.”

“I can keep—”

She interrupts my protest with a deep frown.

One does not ignore one’s queen’s admonition. I pause, and then, finally—wisely, I hope—nod wordlessly.

“Quickly, now, before you go, I must tell you a secret,” the queen says. “I must know first if you have the will to stay silent about it, because it could mean your life—or Alejandro’s—if you do not.”

“I’ll not say a word,” I promise earnestly.

She removes her hand from my arm and places it on her belly. “My pregnancy does not go well. The child inside me is weak. Doctor Enzo says my own life is in danger.”

With those words, something inside me shrivels. Everything suddenly makes sense: Dr. Enzo’s false cheer, Alejandro’s worry, the queen’s pallor. I glance up at Miria, hoping for a denial, but I see my own anguish mirrored in her face.

“Can’t Doctor Enzo do something?”

“He is doing everything he can, and it may yet turn out well. Many difficult pregnancies do. But I wish to have my beloved cousin Isadora at my side in this time of distress.”

Of the two monarchs, Rosaura is the better strategist—we all know it. She is older than Alejandro, wiser. She understands politics and power and secret deals better than Alejandro ever will. And I am not fool enough to believe they’re going to all this trouble to bring in a new lady-in-waiting.

“Brisadulce faces many dangers,” she continues. “Invierne is asking for port privileges, maybe to build a navy. They will attack again in force; if not this year, then soon. But Alejandro also faces danger from within. Many who were loyal to his father do not respect him yet.”

“They’ll learn—”

“Remember what I told you about being a bad liar?”

In this moment, if I could resolve never to speak again, I would. Because I know she is right.

“We don’t know who killed Raúl. I’d be surprised if anyone knew
why
my husband is sending messages to Lord Solvaño at the Fortress of Wind. Perhaps disrupting the king, exposing his weaknesses, is motivation enough.”

Isadora.
The last detail clicks. Alejandro and Rosaura want Isadora at court, because if Rosaura dies, Alejandro can marry her immediately and keep strong ties to the Flurendi family.

Rosaura nods as if she can read my thoughts. “I know Isadora and Alejandro were . . . fond of each other. It would be a good match.”

I don’t know what to say. The pity on my face must be apparent, because finally her serene composure dies, and her face turns hard, her mouth set with frown lines. “The king must have a wife who can provide an heir. If Alejandro dies without one, I count at least four powerful condes who would claim distant ties to the throne. An ambitious man could even convince himself it was the right thing to do, that fighting for the throne would make the kingdom stronger. There would be civil war. And Invierne stands ready to sweep in and clean up the pieces.”

“You think someone has an eye on the throne,” I whisper. “Who?”

She smiles and shrugs. “Does it matter? Alejandro will be just as dead.”

She suspects someone; I can see it in her face.

“Alejandro has asked you to find her, yes?” she says.

You may remember a certain ring, with a ruby as large and red as a cherry.
“Yes.”

“When you speak to her, let her know that she is dear to me and that I want her happiness and position assured even before my own.”

“I will,” I promise. What must it be like, I wonder, to orchestrate a potential marriage for her own husband?

“You may find it harder to deliver your message than Alejandro indicates. My uncle, Isadora’s father, is very devout and cloistered, and he rules his keep with iron control. Isadora has not been seen at public functions since she returned home after the royal wedding. There are concerns that her father, having intercepted our letters to her, is keeping her in isolation.”

“But why?”

“Perhaps he has convinced himself it is the right thing to do. No one sets out to do evil, you know. We just do our best and let history judge.”

History. As if her decisions are already in the past and she is already gone. The lump in my throat vies with the knot in my chest. This situation requires delicacy. It should be attended to by a diplomat, someone wiser in the ways of court and experienced in intrigue.

Rosaura’s expression turns sympathetic. “I’m sending Miria with you. She’ll be able to go places in the fortress that you can’t go.”

“Into the women’s quarters,” I suggest.

“There and elsewhere,” says Miria. Her face is firm with resolve, and I find myself warming to her.

Rosaura says, “She’ll meet you outside the city gate after you leave. Agreed?”

“It’s not safe,” I say. “Squire Raúl—”

“I trust you to protect her,” the queen says.

“On my word,” I promise again. “But she can’t tell anyone, not even her husband, where she’s going.”

Miria glowers. “My husband would never—”

Rosaura puts up a hand. “He’s not accusing anyone of anything, Miria. He’s doing his best to keep all of you safe—not from friends, but from the enemies we don’t know. Can you obey?”

She hesitates a moment. “I can.”

The door adjoining the royal suites opens, and Alejandro strides through, bearing a folded piece of parchment sealed with red wax.

“This should get you what you nee—” His gaze shifts between Rosaura and me. “Everything all right?”

“Of course,” the queen says, her usual serenity back in place. “Hector was concerned for our health, but I have assured him that everything is well and going as expected.”

She sounds utterly convincing, as bright and genuine as one of her smiles. She’s right: I’ll never be able to lie so well.

I take the order from Alejandro’s outstretched hand. The wax is still warm. “The sooner I leave,” I say, “the sooner I can return.”

“I’ll pray for you, my friend,” Alejandro says, and I can only nod in response.

At least no one suggests that I might not return.

7

I
N the training yard, Mandrano is putting the other recruits through basic exercises, seeing how they handle a sword, their fists, an opponent. Their wild swinging and unsteady legs speak to their exhaustion. I suppose I should feel lucky to miss it all, but the clack of wooden weapons, the grunt that follows a hard blow, the smells of sweat and dust call out to me. It’s everything I had hoped to be doing.

When Mandrano spots me, he turns deliberately away and makes a show of correcting Fernando’s form as the boy skewers a straw dummy with a wooden sword.

I move into his line of sight, and when that doesn’t work, I circle around and get right in his face. “A command from His Majesty,” I say, holding out the sealed parchment. “He requires my aid, along with that of Tomás and Marlo.”

“Why not call upon his own Guard?” Mandrano asks, snatching it from my hand.

“I gather that his Guard is needed for more important duties.”

Mandrano tears it open and reads. “This is horse muck.”

“What’s horse muck?” Commander Enrico strides toward us from the barracks. He pins me with a gaze, and a breeze brings me the lingering sweet-smoke scent of Selvarican cigars.

The other recruits have stopped training or even pretending to train. All attention is now squarely focused on me and the two commanding officers.

Mandrano obediently hands Enrico the parchment. I watch the commander’s eyes. He reads it carefully twice, then feigns continued reading while he considers.

“The needs and decisions of kings are beyond the question of the Guard,” Mandrano says at last.

“Yes, yes,” Enrico says, though I’m not sure he’s convinced.

“A Royal Guard obeys his king instantly and without question,” Mandrano says louder, speaking now to the recruits more than to his commander.

Enrico glowers, but he nods.

“And we trust that he has an excellent reason for giving us this command,” Mandrano adds.

“Indeed we do,” Enrico says, and a wicked smile suddenly curves his lips. “Fernando! Lucio!”

The archer and the bully step forward.

“The two of you go pack. His Majesty requires you to run an errand for him with Hector.”

“That’s not right,” I blurt. “It’s supposed to be Tomás and Marlo!”

Tomás and Marlo exchange an alarmed glance.

I reach for the note and stop just short of snatching it from Enrico’s hand.

He holds it up in a way that’s almost taunting. “His Majesty says I’m to send two other recruits. In my judgment, Fernando and Lucio are best qualified to aid you.”

I’m fuming, and it must show, because a subtle smile plays across Enrico’s lips. He’s taking advantage of the opportunity to get rid of three of us at once. I don’t care about Lucio—he’s only getting what’s coming to him—but Fernando doesn’t deserve this. His only fault is not knowing anyone to whom Enrico owes a favor. I don’t deserve this either.

“Do you have a problem with
my
commands?” Enrico asks.

“No, my lord!” I answer.

“Good,” he says. “Mandrano, escort these whelps to their quarters so they can gather their things.”

“My lord . . .” I say, and then hesitate.

Enrico watches me like a hangman doling out rope to his victim. “Yes, princess?”

“It should only take a few days to get there and back. We’ll return to our training immediately after.”

Enrico smiles. “There is no mention here of how long this . . . 
errand
will take. We can’t assume you’ll return before the evaluation is complete. It’s possible you’ll miss so much training that you won’t be able to catch up with everyone. We’ll have to decide what to do with you when you return. Understood?”

My heart sinks. “By my king’s command, my lord,” I say.

“Fernando! Lucio!” Enrico snaps. “Clear the barracks of all your things
now
.”

As they rush to comply, I realize assassins along the highway are now the least of my worries. Based on the looks Fernando and Lucio are throwing over their shoulders at me, they’ll team up to murder me themselves.

“You too, princess,” Mandrano says, though the barb seems halfhearted. He’s looking up at Enrico, a puzzled expression on his face. “Go get that pretty dress off your cot and pack up.”

8

T
HE walk to the stables is fraught with silent, seething anger. “What in seven hells is going on?” Lucio rages as soon as we are out of earshot.

“I’ve told you everything I can,” I say. “The king is sending us as couriers to Puerto Verde. We’ll come back as soon as we’re done.”

“I don’t care if you’re kissing camels to get the favors you get,” he says. “But if you muck up my one chance to get into the Guard—”

“You think this is a
favor
?” I fume. “You think I asked for this?”

“If it gets you out of training with—”

“Calm down,” Fernando says. “We’re doing something for the king. That’s why we want to be in the Guard, right, so we can do things for the king?”

He addresses Lucio, but his eyes are on me.

“You heard Enrico,” Lucio says. “He’s going to throw us out like so much trash when we get back.”

“But it’s King Alejandro’s Guard, right?” Fernando says, his eyes still fixed on me. He’s trying to parse his own chances.

“So I’ve heard,” I say.

“It’s the
king’s
Royal Guard,” Lucio says. “Not Alejandro’s. It was his father’s before, and it’ll belong to whomever comes after.”

“We won’t have to worry about that for a long time,” I say.

“It could be tomorrow or the day after,” Lucio says. “Everyone knows Alejandro would rather chase skirts than chase an enemy. The one time he fought Invierne, he nearly died of fright. Remember? The day King Nicalao took an arrow? They say Alejandro panicked. Cried like a—”

I smash my fist into Lucio’s face. He loses his balance and tumbles into a stall filled with straw. I jump on top of him and throw jabs at his face as fast and hard as I can.

His arms are longer than mine. He absorbs my blows as if they’re nothing while groping for my neck. His thumbs press into my windpipe. I grip the side of his skull and jam my thumbs into his eyes.

Stars swim in my vision, but I have the satisfaction of feeling him twist and buck beneath me, of hearing him squeal in pain.

Something grabs my collar and yanks me off of him. Lucio starts to launch himself after me, but a steel-toed boot pins his chest to the ground.

“Hector! What in the king’s name is going on here?” It’s Felipe, the stable master, and we boys have proven no match for the man who wrangles war chargers all day.

My head swims, and the edges of my vision blur. My throat convulses, trying to suck in air. Felipe knows me well. He’ll assume Lucio is in the wrong, and he’ll likely call the palace watch to have him arrested.

Finally, I’m able to force out the words: “Nothing! It’s fine . . . it’s over.”

Lucio glares at me, angry but confused.

“We had a disagreement,” I add, rubbing my throat. Breathing comes easier now, but I’m going to have nasty bruises. “We worked it out.”

“Is that true?” the stable master says.

Lucio looks at me, then glances at Fernando, who stands silently off to the side, his face a careful blank. “We worked it out,” he mutters.

Without giving details, I explain that we’re on an errand for the king. I ask for Blaze, who was my horse when I was squire, but he was stolen when Raúl was murdered. Instead I end up with Sosimo, a chestnut gelding with a strong temperament and fine bones, who can set the pace for the two other mounts.

Soon we are on our way, our horses swishing their tails against the tiny sand flies that always cloud the air for a few weeks after the rainy season. The day is hot, and both the ocean to our right and the desert to our left are blindingly bright. Neither Fernando nor Lucio say a word to me. Which suits my mood fine, since I’ve got nothing to say back.

We are well into the desert before Miria joins us. She is dressed in rough-spun wool, like a desert nomad. She sits astride a dun mare, just off the road.

“Where are you headed?” she calls.

“Puerto Verde,” I reply.

“May I travel with you? The roads are not safe for a woman alone.”

“Suit yourself,” I answer.

Miria introduces herself by name, but does not mention that she works at the palace. Lucio and Fernando size her up appreciatively; she’s attractive enough, I suppose, with pretty eyes and the healthy, well-fed look of a merchant or higher-class servant. But she is old enough to be our aunt, and after a few minutes, Lucio ignores her. Fernando tries a few jokes, but she doesn’t respond, and soon we are all traveling in silence.

The first day’s journey takes us to a way station consisting of a long feed trough and a tying post for horses and camels, several palm-thatch lean-tos, and a deep well. Miria takes one of the lean-tos, and the rest of us set up just outside, where we have a good view of the highway. After tending our mounts, we share a small, silent meal. As the sun dips into the sea, casting the desert sand in fiery red, I tell Fernando to take the first watch.

“Shout if you see anything unusual,” I tell him. “Anything at all.”

“If I see an extra serving of dinner, I’m keeping it for myself,” he says.

My plan is to stay awake and watch him keep watch, but the lack of sleep from the night before catches up with me.

I’m jerked from sleep by a shout. The twang of a bow. A thump nearby.

By the time I’m on my feet, sword in hand, there’s a body lying at my feet.