Of the two monarchs, Rosaura is the better strategist—we all know it. She is older than Alejandro, wiser. She understands politics and power and secret deals better than Alejandro ever will. And I am not fool enough to believe they’re going to all this trouble to bring in a new lady-in-waiting.
“Brisadulce faces many dangers,” she continues. “Invierne is asking for port privileges, maybe to build a navy. They will attack again in force; if not this year, then soon. But Alejandro also faces danger from within. Many who were loyal to his father do not respect him yet.”
“They’ll learn—”
“Remember what I told you about being a bad liar?”
In this moment, if I could resolve never to speak again, I would. Because I know she is right.
“We don’t know who killed Raúl. I’d be surprised if anyone knew why my husband is sending messages to Lord Solvaño at the Fortress of Wind. Perhaps disrupting the king, exposing his weaknesses, is motivation enough.”
Isadora. The last detail clicks. Alejandro and Rosaura want Isadora at court, because if Rosaura dies, Alejandro can marry her immediately and keep strong ties to the Flurendi family.
Rosaura nods as if she can read my thoughts. “I know Isadora and Alejandro were . . . fond of each other. It would be a good match.”
I don’t know what to say. The pity on my face must be apparent, because finally her serene composure dies, and her face turns hard, her mouth set with frown lines. “The king must have a wife who can provide an heir. If Alejandro dies without one, I count at least four powerful condes who would claim distant ties to the throne. An ambitious man could even convince himself it was the right thing to do, that fighting for the throne would make the kingdom stronger. There would be civil war. And Invierne stands ready to sweep in and clean up the pieces.”
“You think someone has an eye on the throne,” I whisper. “Who?”
She smiles and shrugs. “Does it matter? Alejandro will be just as dead.”
She suspects someone; I can see it in her face.
“Alejandro has asked you to find her, yes?” she says.
You may remember a certain ring, with a ruby as large and red as a cherry. “Yes.”
“When you speak to her, let her know that she is dear to me and that I want her happiness and position assured even before my own.”
“I will,” I promise. What must it be like, I wonder, to orchestrate a potential marriage for her own husband?
“You may find it harder to deliver your message than Alejandro indicates. My uncle, Isadora’s father, is very devout and cloistered, and he rules his keep with iron control. Isadora has not been seen at public functions since she returned home after the royal wedding. There are concerns that her father, having intercepted our letters to her, is keeping her in isolation.”
“But why?”
“Perhaps he has convinced himself it is the right thing to do. No one sets out to do evil, you know. We just do our best and let history judge.”
History. As if her decisions are already in the past and she is already gone. The lump in my throat vies with the knot in my chest. This situation requires delicacy. It should be attended to by a diplomat, someone wiser in the ways of court and experienced in intrigue.
Rosaura’s expression turns sympathetic. “I’m sending Miria with you. She’ll be able to go places in the fortress that you can’t go.”
“Into the women’s quarters,” I suggest.
“There and elsewhere,” says Miria. Her face is firm with resolve, and I find myself warming to her.
Rosaura says, “She’ll meet you outside the city gate after you leave. Agreed?”
“It’s not safe,” I say. “Squire Raúl—”
“I trust you to protect her,” the queen says.
“On my word,” I promise again. “But she can’t tell anyone, not even her husband, where she’s going.”
Miria glowers. “My husband would never—”
Rosaura puts up a hand. “He’s not accusing anyone of anything, Miria. He’s doing his best to keep all of you safe—not from friends, but from the enemies we don’t know. Can you obey?”
She hesitates a moment. “I can.”
The door adjoining the royal suites opens, and Alejandro strides through, bearing a folded piece of parchment sealed with red wax.
“This should get you what you nee—” His gaze shifts between Rosaura and me. “Everything all right?”
“Of course,” the queen says, her usual serenity back in place. “Hector was concerned for our health, but I have assured him that everything is well and going as expected.”
She sounds utterly convincing, as bright and genuine as one of her smiles. She’s right: I’ll never be able to lie so well.
I take the order from Alejandro’s outstretched hand. The wax is still warm. “The sooner I leave,” I say, “the sooner I can return.”
“I’ll pray for you, my friend,” Alejandro says, and I can only nod in response.
At least no one suggests that I might not return.
7
IN the training yard, Mandrano is putting the other recruits through basic exercises, seeing how they handle a sword, their fists, an opponent. Their wild swinging and unsteady legs speak to their exhaustion. I suppose I should feel lucky to miss it all, but the clack of wooden weapons, the grunt that follows a hard blow, the smells of sweat and dust call out to me. It’s everything I had hoped to be doing.
When Mandrano spots me, he turns deliberately away and makes a show of correcting Fernando’s form as the boy skewers a straw dummy with a wooden sword.
I move into his line of sight, and when that doesn’t work, I circle around and get right in his face. “A command from His Majesty,” I say, holding out the sealed parchment. “He requires my aid, along with that of Tomás and Marlo.”
“Why not call upon his own Guard?” Mandrano asks, snatching it from my hand.
“I gather that his Guard is needed for more important duties.”
Mandrano tears it open and reads. “This is horse muck.”
“What’s horse muck?” Commander Enrico strides toward us from the barracks. He pins me with a gaze, and a breeze brings me the lingering sweet-smoke scent of Selvarican cigars.
The other recruits have stopped training or even pretending to train. All attention is now squarely focused on me and the two commanding officers.
Mandrano obediently hands Enrico the parchment. I watch the commander’s eyes. He reads it carefully twice, then feigns continued reading while he considers.
“The needs and decisions of kings are beyond the question of the Guard,” Mandrano says at last.
“Yes, yes,” Enrico says, though I’m not sure he’s convinced.
“A Royal Guard obeys his king instantly and without question,” Mandrano says louder, speaking now to the recruits more than to his commander.
Enrico glowers, but he nods.
“And we trust that he has an excellent reason for giving us this command,” Mandrano adds.
“Indeed we do,” Enrico says, and a wicked smile suddenly curves his lips. “Fernando! Lucio!”
The archer and the bully step forward.
“The two of you go pack. His Majesty requires you to run an errand for him with Hector.”
“That’s not right,” I blurt. “It’s supposed to be Tomás and Marlo!”
Tomás and Marlo exchange an alarmed glance.
I reach for the note and stop just short of snatching it from Enrico’s hand.
He holds it up in a way that’s almost taunting. “His Majesty says I’m to send two other recruits. In my judgment, Fernando and Lucio are best qualified to aid you.”