Fire and Thorns 00.7: King's Guard (8 page)

Solvaño makes a gurgling noise as he raises his head. He’s trying to say something. His face shows no surprise, no fear of dying. There is only hate.

“How could he,” Isadora whispers. “His own daughter.”

“He was a monster,” I agree, staring at the body twitching on the floor.

“I guess I’ve had my revenge,” she whispers, but she doesn’t sound convinced.

“Yes. Now let’s go. No, wait.”

I crouch beside Solvaño’s body, thinking. Then I grab the dagger, and bile rises in my throat as I place the tip against the still-seeping wound and send the dagger home.

“What—what are you doing?” Isadora says.

I wrap Solvaño’s right hand around the knife grip, then with a grunt and heave, I roll him over onto his stomach. “I’m trying to make it look like an accident,” I explain. I stand and look down at my handiwork, feeling sick. “The king’s advisers can manufacture whatever story they want of this, but it will help if your father’s people find the body this way.”

Isadora laughs again, her laugh dissolving into tears. She stumbles as another spasm takes her, and I rush to her side. We are both sticky with blood as I prop her up to pant through the contraction. I breathe along with her, trying to still my own heart. I’m in deep waters, way over my head. I have no idea what to do next, except to keep moving, so that’s what we do—out the front door, through the gardens and the rusty gate, and down the road toward the docks.

We have just reached the closed-up market stalls when Isadora’s knees buckle. “This is it,” she gasps between breaths. “I can’t go on.”

I panic, turning in a circle, but I don’t even know what I’m looking for. Why did I send Miria away for help?

Isadora grips my hand, her tiny fingers squeezing so hard, I think she will break my bones. They are slick with her father’s blood. “Just get me to someplace where I can lie down,” she gasps again.

I use the handle of my dagger to break the latch on one of the stall doors, and I help her inside.

The ground is hard-packed, with pebbles here and there. At least it’s out of the wind and ocean spray. I pull the queen’s quilt from my pack. I fold it in half once, then spread it out and support Isadora as she lowers herself gingerly on top of it.

Her labored breaths suck at the linen wrapping her face. “Here, let me help you,” I say, reaching for her face.

But she screams at me. “No!”

The contractions are coming fast and hard now, and I have no idea what to tell her, but she seems to know what to do, so I sit and hold her hand and say over and over that things will be all right.

She continues to have trouble breathing through the cloth. Finally, she yells, “Don’t look at me, do
not
look at me,” and she pulls it away from her face.

Of course, I look, but I don’t believe what I see.

Her nose has been sliced off her face, leaving two gaping nostril holes, like those of a skull. Her cheeks have been slashed with a knife and are covered with red, raw scars, where they are still healing.

Solvaño intended to make a monster of Isadora, and maybe, in inciting her killing rage, he did.

I’ve never wanted to murder anyone. Most men go through their whole lives without having to kill, and there is no glamor in it for me. But in this moment, if Lord Solvaño were here, I would kill him all over again.

Isadora is trapped between sobbing and pushing. The baby is eager to be born.

“It is going to be all right,” I tell her. “Everything is going to be all right.”

“Stop lying to me!” she screams.

So I sit and hold her hand and wipe the sweat from her forehead and from her still-healing scars, and I tell her about her cousin the queen, who made this quilt that she’s lying on, and how the commander of the Guard called me a princess for having it. I try to project calm, although I feel anything but calm.

“Oh, God, here it comes,” she cries.

“What do I do?”

“Get it out of me!”

I freeze. I’ve never . . . We need another woman here. Maybe I should go find someone. . . .

“GET IT OUT.”

I’m trembling as I lift the cloak and reveal her naked body. “Oh, God.” She is like a two-headed monster, with that wet, grayish-blue head poking out from between her legs. I reach for it with shaking hands, then cradle it in my palm and help support it as she pushes again. The whole thing slips out in a wave of blood-tinged wetness.

I’ve never seen anything born before, not even a colt or a kitten. Just this squirming boy, his mouth open in a silent scream. He hardly looks like a person, all pale and glinting wet in our meager light. I lift him up, offer him to her, but she shakes her head.

“No, I don’t want it, it’s not mine, I don’t.” She is limp on her back now, spent, her gaze shifted away.

“What should I do?” I say. Just then, the baby shudders, and a great wail fills the empty market stall.

“Leave it to die.”

“No!” I say. “What do I do with the cord?” Determination settles into my core, giving me strength and new energy. If his mother doesn’t want him, that leaves me with only one course.

Because I know whose child this is. And Alejandro will want his son. I must deliver this royal bastard to his father. It’s the right thing to do.

“Still have your knife?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Then tie a knot and cut the cord above the knot.”

“You’ll have to hold him while I do it,” I say.

She looks angry, but she holds out her arms, and I hand her the child. The cord is warm and slick in my fingers and slips when I try to cut it, but I soon have the job done.

“Can you wipe him off?” she says. He is rooting around, trying to get his face at her breasts.

“Of course,” I say. I half cut, half rip two strips from the quilt where it is still mostly clean. We use one piece to wipe him off and the other to wrap him up. By the time that’s done, the baby is feeding, and Isadora is crying, tears running down the furrows between the scars on her cheek.

“You were marvelous,” I tell her, and I mean it. “Getting out of the tower, delivering the baby.” Killing her father.

She shakes her head.

“I didn’t know what to do,” I press. “Not when we ran into your father, not when the baby was coming, but you made the right decisions every step of the way. You’re a warrior.”

She continues to shake her head. “What does it matter? I’ve nowhere to go.”

“Yes, you do.” I know exactly where to take her.

13

M
Y brother’s ship, the
Aracely
—named after his wife—is the most beautiful ship in Joya d’Arena. It’s a tiny
caravela
with three masts and a small crew, but a deep hold for cargo. Its lovely lines are trimmed in mahogany, which the crew keeps burnished through tide and storm. The doors and rail are painted the deep red of sacrament roses.

Though it is still deepest night, the crewman on watch recognizes me when I come aboard. He raises an eyebrow at the sight of a woman and baby, but says nothing. I help Isadora to the captain’s quarters and beat on the door.

Felix yanks it open. He is shirtless, wild hair awry, but instantly alert. “Hector? What are you doing here?”

At that moment the baby cries, and Aracely appears at his shoulder.

Relief floods me. “We need help,” I say.

Lantern light glints against glass beads in Felix’s beard as he starts to speak, but Aracely shoves him out of the cabin. “Get out,” she says to her husband. “Get us something to eat and drink but knock before you enter. And you,” she says to Isadora and me, “inside now.”

She pulls us through the door and closes it behind us. Sumptuous rugs cover the wooden plank floors. A desk sits in one corner, bolted down, and a large bed is built into the other. It is unmade, and the silk coverlet hangs over the edge and drags on the floor. Lanterns hang from the ceiling. They sway with the ship’s gentle rocking, and shadows leap along the wood panel walls.

Aracely is a tall, large-boned woman with a strong chin and rich brown eyes like the mahogany of the ship that is named for her. She dwarfs Isadora as she leads her to the bed and helps her lie back. My sister-in-law is impervious to blood and stink as she pulls up the fine silk coverlet and tucks it around Isadora’s shoulders. “What’s your name, dear?”

“Isadora.”

“That baby’s less than an hour old, or I’ve never midwifed a child.” She pulls down the swaddling with a forefinger to get a better look at him. “Some women can be up and walking right after, but you were already in bad shape, yes? Has the afterbirth passed?”

“Yes,” Isadora says, somewhat stunned.

“Well, that’s one thing done right,” she says, and gives me a withering glance.

“I—”

“Hector de Ventierra.” She’s working up to a full sail of anger, which is not something I want aimed at my horizon. “You foolish, stupid boy, what in seven hells have you done to this poor—”

She stops because she has unwrapped Isadora’s face. The girl’s tears have dried up. Maybe she doesn’t have any more, but she stares back at Aracely, one woman to another, with nothing to hide.

“Who did this?” Aracely says. Her voice is soft, but it snaps like a sail catching the wind, and I realize that I have never seen her so angry.

“My father,” Isadora says.

“Lord Solvaño de Flurendi,” I add. “Keeper of the Fortress of Wind and portmaster of Puerto Verde.”

“I know who he is,” Aracely says.

“He is on his way to the seven hells himself,” I say. “I expect the cry to go up any moment.”

Isadora turns her face away, guilty tears pooling in her eyes. For some reason, I’m a little relieved to see them.

Aracely swears in a language I don’t understand, and then she goes to the door and yanks it open. Felix stands there with a tray of bread and cheeses and a jug of wine.

Aracely takes them from his hands and says, “We’re leaving port at once. Cast off and get us out to sea, quietly as you can.”

“Our cargo is only half sold, so . . .” He pauses, eyes narrowed, then says, “Setting sail for where, my dear?”

“Brisadulce,” I answer.

He nods but stares at me hard. “We’re going to have a talk, you and I.”

“Not until I’m done with him,” Aracely says, and she kicks the door shut and latches it. She turns back to me. “So, this is not your child, after all.”

I hope she doesn’t notice my rising blush. “No.”

She looks at both of us. “Can you say whose it is?”

“No,” I say, before Isadora can answer.

Aracely looks at both of us, at the baby, and then back to my clothes, which are soaked in blood.

The ship rocks as it pushes away from the dock. I’m thrown off balance and stumble, but Aracely shifts her weight and keeps her feet. Outside, oars dip and splash as the pilot boat tows us toward the harbor mouth.

“Do you have a plan?” she asks.

“Yes, I’m going to take both of them to King Alejandro.”

“No!” Isadora says, her voice panicked. “I can’t return to court, not like this. I have no desire to see . . . him.”

I open my mouth to argue, but Aracely says, “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, and if this one, or anyone else, tries to make you, they’ll have to go through me first.”

Isadora grabs Aracely’s hand. “You mean that?”

“I surely do. You’ll have to do something. But it won’t be what any man decides.” She glances at me. “Not even if he is well-meaning.”

I don’t know if Aracely is referring to me or Alejandro—for she has surely guessed whose child this is—but it doesn’t matter because I’m so relieved to let her take charge.

“But what can I do?” Isadora asks.

“Are you educated? Can you read and write and do figures? Are you willing to learn?”

“Yes. . . .”

“Then you have a thousand options. In the temperate mountains around Basajuan, you could farm a small plot of land and grow grapes or dates for winemaking. You could run a tavern in the free villages east of the desert. In the southern isles beyond Selvarica, women keep their faces covered all the time. You could set up as a merchant there and manage trade for us and for other ships.”

“That—” Isadora says.

“Shh, you don’t have to decide now.”

“Where will I get the money?”

“You don’t have to decide that now, either. But we’ll find a way.” The baby stirs from its sleep and roots around her chest again. “Perhaps from the baby’s father.”

“I won’t ask for favors.”

“It’s not a favor he owes you.” She pauses. “What do
you
want to do with the baby?”

Isadora hesitates, gazing down at the baby, a softness in her eyes that wasn’t there before. Then her lips press into a firm line. “That’s Hector’s problem,” she says finally, tilting her head at me. “I didn’t want the child, and he chose to save him.”

The cabin suddenly feels very small and crowded. At least she’s calling him a child now.

“Well, that brings me back to where I intended to start with you,” Aracely says, turning to me. “You are too young to act the father and raise this boy.”

“Not me,” I say. “But if you get me to Brisadulce, I know someone who wants him.”

14

T
HE wind is poor, and it takes us four days to reach the capital. We set anchor, and Isadora gives the baby a final kiss on the forehead, then turns away, refusing to look again.

Aracely gives the baby two drops of duerma leaf tea, which she says will make him sleep. He is so tiny, especially swaddled tight in one of Aracely’s blankets and wrapped in a sling under my cloak. I’ll be able to smuggle him into the palace with no one the wiser.

“He’ll need a nursemaid when he wakes,” she says.

“What about Isadora? She could—”

“Leave her out of it. You promised you would take care of the child. Keep that promise. Felix and I will take care of her.” She sighs, her eyes softening. “What will you do now—try to get back into the Guard?”

“Yes,” I say, although it feels different now. And if I get another shot at it, I definitely want Fernando and Lucio with me.

“If it doesn’t work out, we’ll find something for you. Isadora might need a business partner. If you use the stake I gave you—”

She reads something in my expression and stops, surprised.

“I needed it,” I protest.

She nods. “Well, whatever you get now, you’ll have to earn on your own. Good luck, Hector.” She gives me a good-bye kiss on the cheek.

Felix stands by the gangplank. “We need to talk about this,” he says. “I’m going to take a huge loss on my remaining cargo, now that it’s so late.”

“One day,” I promise. “And thank you.” I hope he’s not too angry or disappointed with me.

But he gives me a single slight nod, and I know everything is all right between us.

I walk to the palace unaccosted. The guards at the portcullis—General Luz-Manuel’s men—wave me through without question, but I feel their eyes on my back as I pass. I hope they are not noticing that it is far too warm for the cloak I wear.

If the Royal Guard at the inner gate are surprised to see me, they don’t let on. Vicenç’s eyes widen when I reach his desk, but he gestures for the pages to remain where they are and motions me through the reception area alone.

My footsteps do not falter until I reach Queen Rosaura’s chamber. The baby stirs beneath my robes. Sweat forms on my forehead. I hope I’ve made the right decision.

A shape moves ahead of me. Alejandro paces in the hall.

“Your Majesty,” I say.

He looks up, startled. Dark circles shadow his eyes, and lines of worry age his face. He rushes forward as if to embrace me. “Hector, I’m so glad you— What’s that?” He pulls up short as I reach under my cloak for the baby.

“We should speak privately, sire,” I say, revealing the now- wriggling bundle.

The door to the queen’s chambers opens, and Dr. Enzo sticks his head out. “The queen requests your attendance, Your Majesty.” He sees me. Then the baby. “Oh. You’d better come too.”

We step inside. Rosaura is propped up near her balcony. Her face is pale and drawn. Her hair is plastered to her head with sweat, and her cheeks are wet with tears. I have seen too many tears in recent days.

Miria stands at her bedside. She still wears her traveling dress, stained with dirt and torn; she has also just arrived.

“Where’s Isadora?” she says when she sees me.

I shake my head. “She refuses to come.”

Rosaura reaches out her hands. “Is this her baby? Let me see.”

Miria must have told her everything. I hand over the boy. He starts to twitch and fuss as soon as he leaves the warmth of my chest. He’s wrapped in remnants of the queen’s quilt, which is freshly laundered but faded from Aracely’s attempts to remove the birthing stains. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but—”

Rosaura isn’t listening. Her entire attention is captured by the baby. She takes him and cradles him gently to her chest. So different from Isadora. As if he is a precious gift. She strokes the swirling dark hair on his head and whispers to him, and then she tucks him under her sweat-soaked shirt and takes him to her breast.

And suddenly I notice the other details—her flaccid belly, the bloody sheets wadded up in a corner, Dr. Enzo’s sleeves rolled up.

Dr. Enzo catches my eye and shakes his head.

I look again and see that her cheeks are not just flushed with tears, but with fever. Something has gone terribly wrong, something even beyond the tragedy of losing her baby.

Alejandro drapes an arm across my shoulders. His gesture is casual, but his breath is jagged, and I get the feeling he’s taking what comfort he can.

“How much has Miria told you?” I ask.

“Not much,” Alejandro says.

“Everything,” Rosaura answers. She presses her lips to the baby’s head as he nurses. “I’m just so glad you’re all back safely.”

But we almost didn’t make it back. Reluctantly, I say, “I know it’s a bad time, but there are some things I have to tell you. You have to know . . .”

“Spit it out, Hector,” Alejandro says.

“An assassin came after us. Only Lord-Commander Enrico and Captain Mandrano knew where we were going.”

The room grows very still.

Alejandro steps away from me. He rubs at his chin, thinking hard. “I believe Captain Mandrano is above reproach in this instance.”

“I agree.” I take a deep breath. I’m about to lay accusations against a superior officer. “I know Enrico is personally ambitious and likes to consider himself a political player. Mandrano is the perfect second-in-command for him precisely because he hates politics and does not have ambition.”

Everyone is staring at me sharply, but I press on.

“I don’t know for sure that Enrico sent a killer after us. I can’t prove it. I do know that during our short time in the training yard, I observed Mandrano’s unquestioned loyalty to you, while Enrico did everything he could to subvert your commands.”

“Such as?” Alejandro prods.

“In your letter, did you specify that Enrico was to send Tomás and Marlo with me?”

“Of course. Just like you asked.”

“He sent two others instead—boys he thought were expendable, that the Guard would be well rid of.”

Alejandro frowns. “We’ll have to decide what to do about him.”

He says it as if the decision is a nebulous, future thing. So very like my friend.

“Or you could decide now,” Rosaura says gently.

“Give him what he wants,” I press.

“Reward him?”

“Give him a title and a small estate somewhere remote. Mandrano is loyal and would mirror your votes in the Quorum for the next few years while you groomed another commander.”

“And who should that be, do you think?” Alejandro asks.

“I have no idea! You’re the king.
You
figure something out. Though this, at least, isn’t a decision you must make right away.”

Alejandro turns away and faces the wall, crossing his arms. Softly, he says, “We received word of Lord Solvaño’s death just this morning. They delivered the weapon that killed him to me. It was a bronze dagger with a bone handle. The kind issued to attendants of the queen.”

“I didn’t—” Miria starts to protest, but I interrupt.

“That’s the other thing I needed to tell you. I killed him.”

Alejandro whirls to face me, and I step back involuntarily. But he’s smiling. “Liar,” he chides. “You’re protecting her.”

I wilt a little in relief.

“I admit, I was stunned,” he says. “But it’s actually not such a bad situation.”

“I . . . I tried to make it look like an accident.”

“Hector!” Rosaura exclaims.

But Alejandro is nodding. “Vicenç can start circulating the story. Rosaura’s father will take over as portmaster. And now”—he brightens visibly—“Enrico can take custody of the Fortress of Wind.”

“The place is in terrible disrepair,” I say meaningfully. “And the staff there has been horribly abused. Everyone there will be glad for new leadership.”

I recognize the mischievous glint in his eye. It used to indicate that he was about to send me to the kitchens to steal pollo pibil. “The fortress is a place of profound historical and architectural value,” he says. “It should be painstakingly restored to its former glory.”

“Such an important task could only be imparted to someone you trust implicitly.”

“Like the retired commander of my Guard.”

“We must find Isadora and do something to help her,” Rosaura interjects.

“Oh, we will,” Alejandro says, and I know by his inflection that the “we” is both personal and royal.

Rosaura grimaces as she tries to lift the baby.

“Here, let me burp him for you,” Miria says, reaching for the child. She lays him across her shoulder and pats his back.

How do women all know what to do with babies? It’s like they have their own special kind of sorcery.

“Who knows the whole story?” Alejandro asks. “About Isadora, the baby, her escape, your return.”

“Only the people in this room. And Isadora. My brother and his wife know of her pregnancy and have probably made some guesses, but you can trust them. Some of Solvaño’s servants knew Isadora was being held captive, but they weren’t allowed to see her. Even Lucio and Fernando, the boys who went with me, know very little.”

Dr. Enzo takes the child from Miria’s arms. “Let me examine him,” he says. Rosaura looks on longingly, as if she can’t wait to have the baby back in her own arms.

“And how is Isadora?” Alejandro asks. “Is she still as beautiful . . .” He gives his wife an apologetic glance.

“She is everything you remember and more,” I say firmly.

Alejandro smiles, an expression tinged with both joy and regret.

“Your Majesty, a word,” Dr. Enzo says. He cradles the baby in his arms, even as he swipes a finger into the gumless mouth.

Alejandro steps over to the corner to talk to him in hushed tones.

“Hector,” the queen calls, and I move to her side. She whispers, “Miria told me
everything
about Isadora. Thank you for your kindness to my husband. And thank you”—tears fill her eyes as she stares after the baby in Enzo’s arms—“for him. You have given me an incredible gift, Hector.”

There are so many things I want to say.
Your husband—my friend—does not deserve you,
being high on the list. I settle for, “You’re welcome.”

She smiles. “You’re learning,” she says. “The less you say, the more your words will matter.”

“What now?” I ask.

“For you, I don’t know,” she says. “A young man who wantonly destroys a quilt handmade for him by the queen of the realm is unlikely to have a promising future.”

Before I can reply, Alejandro turns and says, “The queen and I need some privacy. I probably don’t have to tell you to speak to no one—but I am telling you, speak to no one.”

I cast a final glance toward Rosaura, whose breathing has become weak and shallow. A rock of dread has settled in my gut, and I’m feeling miserable as we leave. I hold the door open for Miria.

“Thank you,” I say to her. “For everything you did.”

“Oh, I don’t know if you want to thank me yet,” she says.

“What does that mean?”

But she walks away without an explanation.