The King's Guard

9

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.”

“What?” Lucio says.

“He was matching our descriptions. Someone told him we were coming this way.”

I let the information sink in, then I add, “We may still be in danger. Fernando, keep that bow ready. You and Lucio go check the road. See if our assassin has company. If he does, try to take him alive so we can question him. Now go!”

It must be the rush of blood in their veins, because they jump to obey. I dash to the nearby lean-to and shake Miria awake. She is on her feet instantly, and I explain as we head back to the campsite.

“Quick, help me search him,” I whisper. “He may carry something we would not want the others to see.”

She does not flinch from the blood as she goes through his jacket, checking the pockets and linings and seams, while I check his trousers, then pull off his boots. Miria and I exchange a glance and both shake our heads. He carries nothing that would identify him.

This may be our only chance to talk, so I blurt, “Is Rosaura really dying?”

Miria glances around to make sure we are truly alone. “Dr. Enzo thinks it likely.”

She is only confirming what I already knew, but the sadness inside me is suddenly a physical pain. “And Isadora . . .”

“The women are first cousins,” she says. “And close friends. I’m not sure why the king ultimately chose Rosaura, but he loved Isadora first.”

Footsteps startle us. Fernando and Lucio return with a horse.

“This is all we found,” Lucio says.

I leap up, hoping the horse will be Blaze, proof that this is the same man who killed Raúl, but we have no such luck; the beast is as unidentifiable as its late owner. Fernando can’t take his eyes off the assassin’s body. I hope it is the moonlight giving the boy a sickly sallowness, that he will not vomit up his meager dinner. Lucio’s jaw is set, grim and serious, when he sees the pockets turned out and the seams ripped open.

I make up my mind.

“There is more I must tell you,” I say. “But first, tie the horse to the post, as if he were staying here overnight. Then pack up your gear.”

They nod and go to it.

“Here, help me,” I say, rolling the body over. Miria braces the body up, and I snap the arrow and remove the pieces. I throw them down the well, where they won’t be found.

Fernando and Lucio return a moment later. “What’s going on here?” Lucio demands.

“I carry a secret message from the king to someone in the Fortress of Wind,” I say.

“That’s Lord Solvaño de Flurendi’s castle,” Lucio says.

“Yes. The king has sent messages through official channels, including his Guards, but has received no response. So he sent someone he personally trusted—his squire—who was murdered.”

“That’s why he came to you,” Lucio says. “You’re his last resort. Must be a damned important message.”

Lucio is smarter than I’ve been giving him credit for. Fernando remains silent.

“There is one other thing you must know.” I work as I talk, saddling my own horse, cinching up Rosaura’s quilt onto the back like a bedroll. “Miria is one of the queen’s servants.”

“My lady,” Lucio says with a slight bow. He’s had some practice.

Fernando grows paler.

“I’m just a servant,” Miria says. “Not a lady.” She glares at me. “His Majesty told you not to tell them anything.”

“He also said to use my judgment. I don’t want them endangering themselves or our mission through ignorance.”

She pauses, then says, “Fair enough.”

I help saddle her horse.

“Are we just going to leave him here?” Fernando says, still staring at the body.

“A victim of robbery,” I say. “Robberies are not unheard of at these way stations. Let’s get rid of any sign we passed this way. With luck, whoever hired him won’t find out what happened for some time.”

We’re back on the road an hour before dawn, but I can’t imagine any of us wanting to sleep. Wind has swept sand onto the road, which muffles the steps of our horses. In the dark, an assassin could sneak up on us easily.

The silence is finally broken by Fernando, just as the eastern sky is turning from black to blue. “I’ve never killed anyone before.”

“You did the right thing,” Miria says swiftly.

“It was a quick decision and an accurate shot,” I say. “You did well.”

Another silence. Then Lucio speaks. “I’ve killed someone.”

I’m not surprised. I give him what I hope is an encouraging look.

“When I was six years old.”

Now I’m surprised.

“I was at my aunt’s wedding. My cousin, who was only four, was chosen over me to throw petals along the bridal walk. He got a special suit of clothes made, and at the wedding, he danced with the bride, even had a sip of wine. It all seems so stupid now, but I remember shoving him. His head hit the corner of a table. It cracked his skull open. He bled all over my aunt’s wedding terno.”

My stomach sinks.

“I brought shame on the whole family. My mother shunned me. My father fostered me in other houses.”

“I’m sorry,” Miria says. “That must have been very hard for you.”

“If I don’t make the Guard, I don’t know where I’ll end up.”

“You’ll make it,” I tell him, though I’m not sure I believe it.

The desert air is turning hot with daylight before Lucio speaks again.

“Have you ever killed anyone, Hector?”

“Not exactly,” I say. It’s not something I like to talk about, but now I owe Lucio a story. “I failed to save a man’s life last summer. We were aloft in the rigging of my brother’s ship. A rope snapped and a block came loose—it hit Juan in the head and he fell into the sea.”

There had been so much blood, a crimson arc of it, trailing him as he slipped off the tilting spar and dropped unconscious into the waves.

“On the next roll of the ship I leapt from the mast into the water, but the sails had already carried us away. I swam as fast as I could. He was sinking. . . . I got to him, eventually, and held his head above the water until they could send a boat back to pick us up. But I didn’t get there fast enough. He never regained consciousness, and he died the next day. My brother said the water killed him, not the blow to the head.”

Fernando still has said nothing. Lucio reaches over and clasps his shoulder.

“Cheer up,” he says. “You killed one man who deserved it and saved four lives. That makes you better than Hector and me combined. If any of us makes it into the Guard now, it should be you.”

Fernando’s smile is weak, but grateful. For the first time, I feel a spark of gladness that Enrico chose these two to send with me.