Rae Carson - The King's Guard

“Do you have a problem with my commands?” Enrico asks.

“No, my lord!” I answer.

“Good,” he says. “Mandrano, escort these whelps to their quarters so they can gather their things.”

“My lord . . .” I say, and then hesitate.

Enrico watches me like a hangman doling out rope to his victim. “Yes, princess?”

“It should only take a few days to get there and back. We’ll return to our training immediately after.”

Enrico smiles. “There is no mention here of how long this . . . errand will take. We can’t assume you’ll return before the evaluation is complete. It’s possible you’ll miss so much training that you won’t be able to catch up with everyone. We’ll have to decide what to do with you when you return. Understood?”

My heart sinks. “By my king’s command, my lord,” I say.

“Fernando! Lucio!” Enrico snaps. “Clear the barracks of all your things now .”

As they rush to comply, I realize assassins along the highway are now the least of my worries. Based on the looks Fernando and Lucio are throwing over their shoulders at me, they’ll team up to murder me themselves.

“You too, princess,” Mandrano says, though the barb seems halfhearted. He’s looking up at Enrico, a puzzled expression on his face. “Go get that pretty dress off your cot and pack up.”

THE walk to the stables is fraught with silent, seething anger. “What in seven hells is going on?” Lucio rages as soon as we are out of earshot.

“I’ve told you everything I can,” I say. “The king is sending us as couriers to Puerto Verde. We’ll come back as soon as we’re done.”

“I don’t care if you’re kissing camels to get the favors you get,” he says. “But if you muck up my one chance to get into the Guard—”

“You think this is a favor ?” I fume. “You think I asked for this?”

“If it gets you out of training with—”

“Calm down,” Fernando says. “We’re doing something for the king. That’s why we want to be in the Guard, right, so we can do things for the king?”

He addresses Lucio, but his eyes are on me.

“You heard Enrico,” Lucio says. “He’s going to throw us out like so much trash when we get back.”

“But it’s King Alejandro’s Guard, right?” Fernando says, his eyes still fixed on me. He’s trying to parse his own chances.

“So I’ve heard,” I say.

“It’s the king’s Royal Guard,” Lucio says. “Not Alejandro’s. It was his father’s before, and it’ll belong to whomever comes after.”

“We won’t have to worry about that for a long time,” I say.

“It could be tomorrow or the day after,” Lucio says. “Everyone knows Alejandro would rather chase skirts than chase an enemy. The one time he fought Invierne, he nearly died of fright. Remember? The day King Nicalao took an arrow? They say Alejandro panicked. Cried like a—”

I smash my fist into Lucio’s face. He loses his balance and tumbles into a stall filled with straw. I jump on top of him and throw jabs at his face as fast and hard as I can.

His arms are longer than mine. He absorbs my blows as if they’re nothing while groping for my neck. His thumbs press into my windpipe. I grip the side of his skull and jam my thumbs into his eyes.

Stars swim in my vision, but I have the satisfaction of feeling him twist and buck beneath me, of hearing him squeal in pain.

Something grabs my collar and yanks me off of him. Lucio starts to launch himself after me, but a steel-toed boot pins his chest to the ground.

“Hector! What in the king’s name is going on here?” It’s Felipe, the stable master, and we boys have proven no match for the man who wrangles war chargers all day.

My head swims, and the edges of my vision blur. My throat convulses, trying to suck in air. Felipe knows me well. He’ll assume Lucio is in the wrong, and he’ll likely call the palace watch to have him arrested.

Finally, I’m able to force out the words: “Nothing! It’s fine . . . it’s over.”

Lucio glares at me, angry but confused.

“We had a disagreement,” I add, rubbing my throat. Breathing comes easier now, but I’m going to have nasty bruises. “We worked it out.”

“Is that true?” the stable master says.

Lucio looks at me, then glances at Fernando, who stands silently off to the side, his face a careful blank. “We worked it out,” he mutters.

Without giving details, I explain that we’re on an errand for the king. I ask for Blaze, who was my horse when I was squire, but he was stolen when Raúl was murdered. Instead I end up with Sosimo, a chestnut gelding with a strong temperament and fine bones, who can set the pace for the two other mounts.

Soon we are on our way, our horses swishing their tails against the tiny sand flies that always cloud the air for a few weeks after the rainy season. The day is hot, and both the ocean to our right and the desert to our left are blindingly bright. Neither Fernando nor Lucio say a word to me. Which suits my mood fine, since I’ve got nothing to say back.

We are well into the desert before Miria joins us. She is dressed in rough-spun wool, like a desert nomad. She sits astride a dun mare, just off the road.

“Where are you headed?” she calls.

“Puerto Verde,” I reply.

“May I travel with you? The roads are not safe for a woman alone.”

“Suit yourself,” I answer.

Miria introduces herself by name, but does not mention that she works at the palace. Lucio and Fernando size her up appreciatively; she’s attractive enough, I suppose, with pretty eyes and the healthy, well-fed look of a merchant or higher-class servant. But she is old enough to be our aunt, and after a few minutes, Lucio ignores her. Fernando tries a few jokes, but she doesn’t respond, and soon we are all traveling in silence.

The first day’s journey takes us to a way station consisting of a long feed trough and a tying post for horses and camels, several palm-thatch lean-tos, and a deep well. Miria takes one of the lean-tos, and the rest of us set up just outside, where we have a good view of the highway. After tending our mounts, we share a small, silent meal. As the sun dips into the sea, casting the desert sand in fiery red, I tell Fernando to take the first watch.

“Shout if you see anything unusual,” I tell him. “Anything at all.”

“If I see an extra serving of dinner, I’m keeping it for myself,” he says.

My plan is to stay awake and watch him keep watch, but the lack of sleep from the night before catches up with me.

I’m jerked from sleep by a shout. The twang of a bow. A thump nearby.

By the time I’m on my feet, sword in hand, there’s a body lying at my feet.

FERNANDO’S arrow is buried deep in a man’s chest. A perfect shot.

The dead man is unkempt and rough looking, the kind of man you wouldn’t glance at twice if he were a field hand or part of a deck crew. Good chance he was one or the other for most of his life. White scars, cold in the moonlight, welt along the knuckles that still grip the knife he carries; he probably brawled for money on the side. The blade he clutches is short and sharp, for slitting swiftly and quietly.

“He studied us,” Fernando says. “Then he moved so fast. I didn’t know what to do, and I just . . .”

“Tell me,” I say.

“He stepped into the glow of the firelight, quietly, and I was . . . tired. . . . I thought maybe I was dreaming. He studied us all, even me—he must have thought I was asleep—then drew the knife—”

“You did the right thing,” I say quickly. “This man was sent to kill us.”