Rae Carson - The King's Guard

“Wait!” Isadora says. “I need a weapon.”

Miria takes a dagger from her belt and offers it, handle first. “May God watch over you both,” she says. Isadora grabs the knife, and I let Miria’s rope slide through my fingers.

My shoulders burn with the effort. We’re taking too long. But suddenly the burden eases. Fernando and Lucio have steadied her from below. Then come two quick tugs on the rope—my signal to let go.

I toss the rope over the side of the wall. Hushed voices drift up, and then the sound of hooves, which gradually fade away.

“The only way out is through the front door,” I say. There might be a little time left before the guards resume their patrols, but we’ll have to be fast. “Ready?”

Her fingers close tight about my wrist, and she pants into another contraction. “Just get me out of here,” she says breathlessly.

The bribes work. The way is clear, and we make it into the servants’ wing, down the back stairs, and into the main hall. Our exit looms large when a door slams behind us. I whirl. Lord Solvaño bears down on us.

I throw my cloak around Isadora and pull her head to my chest. I keep my body angled to block his view. My heart pounds and my palms sweat as I quickly consider my options, which range from knocking him down and running out with Isadora in my arms to simply running. . . .

“I was just coming to find you, Squire Hect— What’s the meaning of this?” he says. “Who do you have there?”

Isadora giggles, a sound that comes across as half mad, and reaches around my side to squeeze my rear.

“You’ve brought a lady of the docks into my home?” he says. Surely, he is not that stupid. Surely, he has heard reports by now of our scouting of the tower. Then I notice that he sways unsteadily, and his eyes shift as if struggling to find focus.

“I assure you no money has been exchanged,” I say, because I’m not sure what else to say. Isadora has another contraction, and her suggestive hand turns into a hard squeeze that makes my eyes water. I brace us to keep us both from collapsing. She presses her face against my chest and fights for control, but still looses a choked-off grunt that makes my heart ache for her.

Her father’s face turns red. “If you weren’t the king’s envoy, I’d beat you both out into the street this instant.” He gesticulates wildly as he says it, which throws him off balance, and he staggers.

Isadora’s contraction eases, as does her grip. She straightens, looks me in the eye, breathes deep. Though her eyes are rimmed with red and sunken, they are still beautiful. “We were just leaving,” I say gently to her. I back us both away, keeping myself between him and his daughter. Thank God he is drunk.

“You both should be stripped and lashed and . . . God, what is that smell? Even a lady of the docks should have some pride.”

Isadora plants herself, stopping us.

“What are you—?”

She rips away from my grasp. Before I can stop her, before I can even breathe, she whips Miria’s dagger out from beneath her cloak and bears down on her father.

“Isadora!” Solvaño gasps. “You whore . I should have—”

I reach for her, but she is lightning fury. “How dare you!” she cries. “I did everything you asked. Your ambition made me this way. You did this.” She gestures emphatically with the dagger; its blade winks in the torchlight. “And you dare call me a whore?”

“Isadora, let’s go,” I plead. “Your father has committed treason. He’ll pay for what he has done. But we need to get away.”

“You were supposed to become queen,” Solvaño says. Spittle edges his mouth now as he steps forward, seemingly unaware of Isadora’s dagger. “How you failed so utterly, I’ll never—”

“He picked her because of you! He couldn’t bear the idea of you as a father-in-law.” The hand holding the dagger wavers, then drops to her side. “I couldn’t blame him, even when he broke my heart.”

His grin is smug. “You’re a whore and a liar. And now no one will want you. I’ve made sure of that.”

A cry of anguish bubbles up from somewhere deep inside her as she raises the knife and plunges it into her father’s belly.

“Isadora!” Oh, God, what has she done?

She yanks out the knife. Blood bubbles up from the wound as she raises it again, but I grab her elbow. “Let’s go, my lady. Before the alarm goes up.”

She drops the dagger. It clatters to the stone floor, and droplets of blood sprinkle around it.

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.