Rae Carson - The King's Guard

“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.”

THE 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.”