Rae Carson - The King's Guard

Everyone thinks about this for a minute.

“I don’t have any better ideas,” Fernando says.

“It could work,” Lucio says.

“It could work if we had enough money on hand to bribe servants and guards, buy rope and other supplies, and purchase a horse,” Miria says. “That will cost us a small fortune that we don’t have.”

I think of the plaque Aracely gave me, the one that would give me a chance to start over again if I don’t make the Guard.

“I have a small fortune,” I say.

Three sets of eyebrows raise, but no one doubts me.

Buying things with jewels instead of coin is problematic; everyone thinks you’re a criminal, and everyone overcharges. Nevertheless, by sunset we have everything set. Fernando and Lucio wait below the wall with five horses and supplies. I wait in my room, a coiled rope inside my shirt, a loose cloak over my shoulders. I trace the letters of my now-ruined plaque. Harsh winds, rough seas, still hearts.

Miria arrives with a nervous serving girl, the awkward spy who waited on us the first day. We have paid her enough money that she can leave the city and find work elsewhere. Miria has promised her an interview at the royal palace if our plan succeeds.

“Thank you for helping us,” I say.

“She was always nice to me. It’s not right, what he did” is her answer.

“What did he do?” I ask.

“You’ll see soon enough, if you’re successful.” She turns away. “If you’re not, it’s my life if I tell.”

Though I press her, she will not say more.

With the servant girl in the lead, we hurry through the halls and into the tower. Our bribes have made the place eerily silent. There is only the crackling of our torches, the wind whistling against cracked mortar, and the surf pounding relentlessly below. Still, I listen hard for footsteps or the creak of armor. We could not possibly bribe the entire household, and those we did bribe can’t risk being absent from their posts for long.

We wind up the tower stairs and into a storage room. I remember sketching this one. During the day, light filters in as sickly green, for the glass of the window is fogged over with brine and gull droppings.

The servant girl pushes aside an empty crate, revealing a door. No, it’s more like a hatch, which we will have to stoop to pass.

“Wait until I leave before you use it,” she says. “I mean to be far away.”

“Of course,” I say. “And thank you.”

She turns to go, but Miria grabs her arm. “Wait. Who among Solvaño’s staff knows about this place and who is kept here?”

“I don’t know. Not many.” The girl tries to jerk her arm away.

“Give me your best guess,” Miria orders.

“The guard captain, me, the kitchen master. Only those of us who keep watch or prepare and bring food. And none of us are allowed to go inside. My orders were to open the door, slide the food tray inside, and close it right away. Now please let me go.”

“How long until she is missed?” I ask.

“You have until morning.” With that, she wrenches away her arm and slips from the room.

“I hope she makes it to Brisadulce,” Miria says, staring after her.

“I hope we do too.” I lift the bar and swing open the hatch, revealing a dark, damp space. Fetid air washes my face. A rat scurries out of the corner and zips past our feet.

“Isadora?” I whisper.

Chains rattle. “Hector?” comes a weak, muffled reply. “Is that you?”

My eyes adjust to the dark, and I see her for the first time.

“Oh, my dear child,” Miria says, rushing forward.

Isadora is huge with pregnancy. A tattered cloth wraps her face. She sits in a vile-smelling puddle, and she is manacled by the ankles to the wall. Her ankles have swollen around the manacles, like soft dough being squeezed. One bleeds badly. From when she stretched to reach the window, I realize with a sinking heart.

“My God,” I say, striding toward her. The cruelty of it all is too much to think on. I lift the pommel of my dagger above the chain, eager to pound at something.

“The key is over there,” she says, pointing to a ledge beside the door. “He taunts me by leaving it just out of reach.”

I grab it and unlock her manacles. They come away from her ankles with a wet sucking sound, but Isadora does not cry out. Miria helps her to her feet.

“We can’t lower her over the wall,” Miria says.

“I’m strong enough,” I protest. “I can—”

Miria gives me a wilting glare. “It’s not the weight of pregnancy. It’s her health. My lady, can you walk?”

“Show me this wall and I’ll leap, just to be done with it,” Isadora replies acidly.

“Alejandro and Rosaura miss you,” I say, suddenly desperate. It never occurred to me that my mission could be defeated by Isadora herself. “They’ll be happy to welcome your child also.”

Isadora laughs, but it’s not the sweet laugh I remember. It’s cold and sad and more than a little angry. It’s cut off abruptly by a grimace.

“Is the child coming?” Miria asks.

“The contractions are minutes apart now. I managed to keep them from Papá when he visited. I have to get rid of this thing before it falls into the hands of that monster.”

It takes every drop of will to stay focused on my task. “She can’t ride through the night. We need another plan.”

“We need a midwife,” Miria says. “Maybe even a doctor.”

“I’ll lower you over the wall,” I say. “Go with Lucio and Fernando to Brisadulce, tell the king what has happened. Tell him we have proof that Solvaño committed treason by intercepting a royal communication. Alejandro should send the Guard to arrest Solvaño. And Isadora and I might need rescuing if we are caught. It has to be you. You’re the only one he knows and will believe.”

“What will you do?”

I look at Isadora. “We’ll hide in the city, maybe a tavern down by the docks.” I’m making this up as fast as I can. “We’ll stay out of sight until your return.”

“That’s a terrible plan,” Miria says. “Too many things can go wrong.”

“Do you have anything better?”

“No,” she admits. “Here, take my cloak,” she says to the shivering Isadora. “This will attract less attention down on the docks. If we could do something about the smell . . . You’ll have to take everything off and just wear the cloak.”

Isadora hesitates.

“Give us some privacy,” Miria says.

I step out into the storeroom, then peer into the tower well for guards, knowing that each moment we delay increases our risk. But it remains empty for now.

The women emerge from Isadora’s cell. Miria looks both ashen and furious. Isadora has kept her face wrapped—a wise choice, for we don’t want anyone recognizing her.

We leave the storeroom and spiral down the stairs. From the tower, we sneak through the back hall to a door leading to the ramparts. This is the most tenuous part of our journey; if any guards ignored their bribes, they will be patrolling here.

We creep along, hunched over so that our figures are partly obscured by crenellations. I support Isadora as best I can. She stops occasionally, her hand becoming a vise on my arm as a contraction takes her.

At last we reach the southern wall. “Hurry!” Miria whispers.

I pull the rope from beneath my cloak and make two loops—a large one to wrap around my waist and slide the rope through, and a small one for Miria to stand in. Miria slips her foot into the loop, and I brace myself to lower her.

“When the time comes, just let things run their natural course,” Miria tells me. “And be kind. She’s been through a lot.”

“I will treat her as if she is my next queen,” I say.