Rae Carson - The King's Guard

“But it’s not a lighthouse anymore,” Fernando says.

“No,” I say. “The queen’s great-grandfather dredged the port and built a jetty, which made him a very rich man. This castle stayed in the family, though.”

Lucio adds, “Lord Solvaño charges a small berth fee to ships in port. All captains are required to use local crew to load and unload cargo, and he takes a small tax. It’s how he maintains his wealth.”

I give Lucio a sharp look. I hadn’t known that.

It takes an hour to navigate the warren of docks and warehouses that makes up Puerto Verde and reach the other side. Up close, the Fortress of Wind is wholly at odds with the wealthy reputation of its keeper. It seems to be crumbling under its own weight and is all the more imposing for its overgrown walls and wild gardens and tattered banners. The front gate is rusted orange and smothered with purple bougainvillea. Two sentries regard us coldly, but I show them the king’s seal, and they wave us through.

Then we are forced to wait in a cold hall, where dust motes gray the air and a nearby hearth sits ashy and dead. Finally, Lord Solvaño comes to receive us.

I’ve seen him many times before at court. He’s a man who seems to simultaneously grow larger and smaller, swelling in girth but shrinking in sympathy and character until only anger remains.

He crosses his arms and glares. “What are you doing here?”

Solvaño does not have a reputation for delicate diplomacy.

“We have a message for your daughter from the king,” I say, handing him a missive with Alejandro’s orders—but not the message itself. “Could we see the lady Isadora, please? We’ll deliver His Majesty’s message, take her reply, and be on our way.”

“She’s not here,” he says. He holds the missive as if it was a jellyfish, a repulsive thing that might sting him.

“Where did she go?” I ask. “Our orders are to deliver the king’s message to its recipient, wherever she may be. “

Lord Solvaño frowns. “I cannot tell you.”

“Why not? The king will order a search.” I don’t know if he will or not, and the slight deception does not sit well. I shift uncomfortably, imagining Rosaura’s disapproving look.

“No, no,” he insists. His eyes twitch like a pair of dice coming to rest. “She asked me not to tell.”

“So you have a way of communicating with her, then?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then tell her that the king’s messengers await, and she will come to us.”

“I’ll send her the message,” he says. “I’ll convey her reply directly to the palace at Brisadulce. If she replies, that is. She has always been disrespectful and irresponsible.”

The last statement is the first he’s said that he actually believes, but it does not at all fit with my impression of the warm, intelligent woman with whom I arranged correspondences and meetings for so many months.

“We’ll wait here until she responds,” I insist.

“You don’t want to do that,” he says with a polite smile. “My daughter is not worth the king’s trouble.”

“It’s not for me to decide who is, or is not, worth His Majesty’s trouble. We’re happy to wait.” And I can’t help adding, “We’ve heard such nice things about the lovely hospitality of the Fortress of Wind.”

“It will be several days before I can get a message to her. I’d hate to waste your time.”

“Our time is the king’s to waste, and he asked us to personally collect her reply. We’ll stay until we hear from her. Of course, if it would be faster for us to go to Isadora ourselves, we’re happy to do so.”

His face goes cold and hard. “I’ll have my staff find rooms for you.”

“Thank you,” I say. I wait until he’s turning away, and then, because I wish to discomfit him further, I reach inside my jacket and pull forth the book. “Oh, Lord Solvaño, one other thing.”

“I’m at your service,” he snaps impatiently.

I hold up the book. “I’ve a personal interest in architecture, and I recently read Master Jinto’s seminal paper on the Fortress of Wind. I’d consider it a great favor if I could tour the original tower.”

It also might give me access to parts of the fortress I wouldn’t otherwise have.

He hesitates a breath too long. “Of course,” he says. “My staff will show you whatever you wish. You!” He indicates a young serving woman with a lift of his chin. “See to our guests.”

She flinches away from him, almost imperceptibly. “Yes, my lord.” Her skin is sallow, and a large bruise purples her forearm.

The rest of Solvaño’s staff follows as he sweeps from the hall. The servant girl stares after him. Is she meant to spy on us?

Gently, Miria asks her, “Could I have mint tea, please? Double-steeped?”

The servant gives her a clumsy but grateful curtsy, then scurries away. Miria has given us a chance to talk privately.

The four of us bend our heads together.

“He’s lying,” Miria whispers.

“Agreed,” I say. “Wherever Isadora is, she is not far. Her father does not strike me as a man who would let her out of his sight. I’m surprised he allowed her to come to court.”

“He sent her to win King Alejandro’s hand,” Miria says. “He instructed her to do whatever necessary to become queen.”

“I didn’t know that.” Poor Isadora. My mother always said that forced marriages are a tragedy—no one should have to marry someone they don’t love. Though, looking back, I’m certain Isadora held some kind of affection for Alejandro.

“So what do we do?” Lucio asks.

I hesitate, feeling unsure. This is where we could use a statesman. A tried-and-true commander.

“I can talk to the servants,” Miria says. “See if they know anything. Servants are more likely to talk to other servants.”

“Yes, good idea,” I say, relieved to have any kind of suggestion at all. “Lucio,” I say. “Wander the docks and the market, ask for stories about the tower.” Lucio is from distant, rural Basajuan and will seem like the perfect yokel to these people. They may tell him things they wouldn’t tell the rest of us.

“I’m to play the ignorant outlander, yes?” he says.

A grin sneaks onto my face before I can stop it.

“I suppose I have no choice but to indulge in a flagon of wine. To complete the part.”

“I’m glad you’re willing to make such sacrifices for your king,” I say, and he nods solemnly.

“Fernando?”

He jumps as if he’s been shot with an arrow.

Perhaps Fernando is still not over killing a man. If so, I need to distract him. “We must be prepared,” I say. “You’ve proven yourself an able guard, so I need you to stick with me or Miria, watch our backs at all times. Can you do that?”

I’m not sure it’s the right thing to do, but during the summer I crewed on my brother’s ship, Felix’s response every time I showed even a hint of nervousness or hesitation was to keep me busy.

“Yeah, I can do that,” Fernando says. The deep breath he takes seems like his first in many long days.

“You don’t care if something happens to me ?” Lucio says.

I open my mouth to say something scathing, but wisdom, for once, wins out. “I think that, of all of us, you are most able to take care of yourself.”

“Oh.” Anger plays across his features, warring with acceptance. Acceptance wins. He puts a hand to the dagger at his belt, and his features harden with determination.

Miria’s expression is harder to read, but I feel as if she’s watching, judging. She’ll report back every tiny detail of this trip. It might even be the real reason she is here. But I can’t think about that too much, not until after we find Isadora.