We settle down to wait on our hillside overlooking the road and the desert beyond. The sun burns the air until it shimmers, but none of us moves up the hill to take advantage of the shade provided by a few stunted palms there. We stare toward Brisadulce’s massive gate, as if we can summon Red back to us with the force of our collective gaze.
But she does not return. The sun sinks huge and orange behind the outline of the Sierra Sangre, and the temperature drops so low that my breath frosts in the air, but there is no sign of her.
Belén traps a few jerboas and deftly fillets them. Mara gets a soup going while Hector climbs a nearby date palm and shakes the ripe fruit to the ground. After a meal of jerboa soup and fresh dates, we sit in silence, watching the road. Storm gets up, yawning, and says, “She will either return, or she won’t.” He crawls inside his tent and is softly snoring in moments.
I sit shoulder to shoulder with Hector. He puts an arm around me and I lean into him, absorbing his solid strength as comfort. It seems like only a moment passes, and suddenly I’m blinking awake to brilliant sunrise.
“Good morning,” he says, pressing his lips to my hair.
I roll my neck to work out the kink. “Did you stay awake all night?” I ask.
“I dozed. Traded watches with Belén.”
He gets to his feet and stretches. I stand beside him and wrap my arms around his waist. His fingers tangle in my hair as we gaze across the desert.
“It’s Red!” Mara says, pointing up the road. “She’s back.”
Storm barrels from his tent, then stops short and collects himself until he appears as haughty as ever. “She brought people with her,” he observes coolly.
I squint against the rising sun. Red is followed by two others. One leads a camel piled high with lumpy cargo.
“I hope that’s Father Nicandro,” Hector says. Keeping an eye on the road, he buckles his gauntlets and checks his blades.
Both wear priests’ robes. One is slight, barely taller than a child. The other . . . my heart begins to pound. I know that frame, that heavy but inexorable stride.
“Ximena,” I whisper.
Hector looks at me sharply. “Didn’t you tell her to go back to Orovalle?”
I nod, unable to speak. I dismissed my nurse months ago for taking important matters pertaining to my life and reign into her own hands. But I love her still. Maybe she found a post with Father Nicandro. It makes sense—she is a student of the holy scriptures and a scribe of some renown.
“Well, this should be interesting,” Mara says.
Red’s face shines with triumph as they approach. And then she can’t contain herself any longer; she runs forward, kicking dust up with her heels, and flings herself at Mara, who hugs her tight. “It was just like Elisa said!” she gasps out. “They tried to trick me. But I didn’t say anything. Not a word, until I knew for sure it was Father Nicandro.”
The priest in question huffs up the rise, then holds out both hands in greeting, and I grab them. “Dear girl,” he says. “It does my heart good to see you well.”
“Thank you for coming, Father,” I say, squeezing his fingers.
Behind him, my former nurse hangs back, hands clasped before her. She has always appeared innocuous—a rosy-cheeked woman with plump arms and an easy smile. But no longer. She looks fierce, with small black eyes that are sharper than ever, and a puckered scar that now traces the line of her cheekbone. A few months ago she took a glancing arrow to save my decoy. But it didn’t work. The next arrow got the poor girl anyway.
“Hello, Ximena,” I say.
She inclines her head. “Your Majesty.”
“I’m surprised to see you here.”
“Father Nicandro made me an unusual offer,” she says. “And I could not refuse.”
I raise an eyebrow at him.
“And it was lucky she was available,” the priest says, releasing my hands. He hurries over to the camel and begins unloading bundles of undyed woolen cloth tied with twine. “Your Royal Guard chose to go into hiding instead of defending the palace,” he explains, tossing a bundle to each of us. “They were too far outnumbered. But it left their families exposed. Their children. We brought them into the monastery, hoping the general’s men would be less likely to retaliate against them or use them for leverage if they were placed in a house of God.” He tosses the last bundle to me. I untie it and shake it out. It’s a robe, but much too long for me.
“I’ve been looking after them,” Ximena says. “I’m a nurse, after all.”
“A nurse who could kill an intruder with her bare hands,” Nicandro adds with a glint in his eye.
“Yes.”
Hector and I trade robes—his is much shorter—and we pull them on over our regular clothing.
“So,” I say to no one in particular. “Do I look . . . priestly?”
Nicandro’s expression is pained. “You and your Invierno friend . . . well, I say we wait until late evening. The general locks down the city at night. We’ll have to go at dusk, right before they close the gate.”
I did not think it was possible to become angrier at the men who would usurp my throne. A citywide lockdown is a serious matter. The effect on trade, on morale, is immeasurable. I would only consider it in times of plague or siege.
But that’s exactly what they’re worried about. Siege. And I am the invader.
“You’ll take us straight to the monastery?” I ask.
“It would draw attention if we did not,” he says. “But in the morning, we’ll go out as missionaries to the Wallows, to give coins and bread to the poor along with an encouraging word from God.”
“To the Guard,” I say.
He nods. “They’ve been hiding in the underground village for months. There are several people there who will be very, very glad to see you. Conde Tristán is with them.”
My joyous smile dies on my face. If Tristán is in hiding, it means the announcement of his ascension to Quorum Lord was met with resistance.
We sell our horses and tack at a huge loss to a passing merchant caravan, keeping only one as a packhorse. We take turns descending into the desert to trudge around in the sand, the hems of our robes dragging, so it will appear we have been on the road for days. A few rare, early winter clouds roll in from the sea, and the sunset coats their underbellies in blazing pink by the time we set off toward the gate.
“Any word of the prince?” I whisper to Father Nicandro as we walk.
“General Luz-Manuel is desperate to find him,” the priest says in a low voice. “At even the slightest hint of loyalty to the de Riqueza line, he sends his men into homes without warning to search. They’ve been seizing property. As part of their investigation, they say, but they’ve been using it to pay for the war effort.”
If I get a chance, I will kill him. “The citizens of Brisadulce cannot be pleased with this turn of events.”
“Many are not, and his actions have solidified your base of support. But there are plenty who feel the general’s actions are justified. He and the conde have labeled you a traitor and blasphemer, someone who will bring our enemy upon us like a plague. And people are never more atrocious as when they are afraid.”
“But the boy.” I glance around to make sure no one is within earshot. “Rosario. Is he . . . ?”
Nicandro gives me a reassuring smile. “We cannot hide him forever. But he is well for now.”
We continue in solemn formation. Father Nicandro carries an incense brazier that swings back and forth on a chain, curling musky smoke into the air. He chants with each step-swing, and we keep time as best we can. Red takes up the rear. She is dressed in a white acolyte’s robe and holds the reins of our camel and packhorse.
The gate looms above our heads as we approach. The massive doors are open wide. Each has a patched area of lighter wood—the only remaining indication that Invierno sorcerers burned through it only a year past.