The King's Guard

14

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.”

Everyone is staring at me sharply, but I press on.

“I don’t know for sure that Enrico sent a killer after us. I can’t prove it. I do know that during our short time in the training yard, I observed Mandrano’s unquestioned loyalty to you, while Enrico did everything he could to subvert your commands.”

“Such as?” Alejandro prods.

“In your letter, did you specify that Enrico was to send Tomás and Marlo with me?”

“Of course. Just like you asked.”

“He sent two others instead—boys he thought were expendable, that the Guard would be well rid of.”

Alejandro frowns. “We’ll have to decide what to do about him.”

He says it as if the decision is a nebulous, future thing. So very like my friend.

“Or you could decide now,” Rosaura says gently.

“Give him what he wants,” I press.

“Reward him?”

“Give him a title and a small estate somewhere remote. Mandrano is loyal and would mirror your votes in the Quorum for the next few years while you groomed another commander.”

“And who should that be, do you think?” Alejandro asks.

“I have no idea! You’re the king. You figure something out. Though this, at least, isn’t a decision you must make right away.”

Alejandro turns away and faces the wall, crossing his arms. Softly, he says, “We received word of Lord Solvaño’s death just this morning. They delivered the weapon that killed him to me. It was a bronze dagger with a bone handle. The kind issued to attendants of the queen.”

“I didn’t—” Miria starts to protest, but I interrupt.

“That’s the other thing I needed to tell you. I killed him.”

Alejandro whirls to face me, and I step back involuntarily. But he’s smiling. “Liar,” he chides. “You’re protecting her.”

I wilt a little in relief.

“I admit, I was stunned,” he says. “But it’s actually not such a bad situation.”

“I . . . I tried to make it look like an accident.”

“Hector!” Rosaura exclaims.

But Alejandro is nodding. “Vicenç can start circulating the story. Rosaura’s father will take over as portmaster. And now”—he brightens visibly—“Enrico can take custody of the Fortress of Wind.”

“The place is in terrible disrepair,” I say meaningfully. “And the staff there has been horribly abused. Everyone there will be glad for new leadership.”

I recognize the mischievous glint in his eye. It used to indicate that he was about to send me to the kitchens to steal pollo pibil. “The fortress is a place of profound historical and architectural value,” he says. “It should be painstakingly restored to its former glory.”

“Such an important task could only be imparted to someone you trust implicitly.”

“Like the retired commander of my Guard.”

“We must find Isadora and do something to help her,” Rosaura interjects.

“Oh, we will,” Alejandro says, and I know by his inflection that the “we” is both personal and royal.

Rosaura grimaces as she tries to lift the baby.

“Here, let me burp him for you,” Miria says, reaching for the child. She lays him across her shoulder and pats his back.

How do women all know what to do with babies? It’s like they have their own special kind of sorcery.

“Who knows the whole story?” Alejandro asks. “About Isadora, the baby, her escape, your return.”

“Only the people in this room. And Isadora. My brother and his wife know of her pregnancy and have probably made some guesses, but you can trust them. Some of Solvaño’s servants knew Isadora was being held captive, but they weren’t allowed to see her. Even Lucio and Fernando, the boys who went with me, know very little.”

Dr. Enzo takes the child from Miria’s arms. “Let me examine him,” he says. Rosaura looks on longingly, as if she can’t wait to have the baby back in her own arms.

“And how is Isadora?” Alejandro asks. “Is she still as beautiful . . .” He gives his wife an apologetic glance.

“She is everything you remember and more,” I say firmly.

Alejandro smiles, an expression tinged with both joy and regret.

“Your Majesty, a word,” Dr. Enzo says. He cradles the baby in his arms, even as he swipes a finger into the gumless mouth.

Alejandro steps over to the corner to talk to him in hushed tones.

“Hector,” the queen calls, and I move to her side. She whispers, “Miria told me everything about Isadora. Thank you for your kindness to my husband. And thank you”—tears fill her eyes as she stares after the baby in Enzo’s arms—“for him. You have given me an incredible gift, Hector.”

There are so many things I want to say. Your husband—my friend—does not deserve you, being high on the list. I settle for, “You’re welcome.”

She smiles. “You’re learning,” she says. “The less you say, the more your words will matter.”

“What now?” I ask.

“For you, I don’t know,” she says. “A young man who wantonly destroys a quilt handmade for him by the queen of the realm is unlikely to have a promising future.”

Before I can reply, Alejandro turns and says, “The queen and I need some privacy. I probably don’t have to tell you to speak to no one—but I am telling you, speak to no one.”

I cast a final glance toward Rosaura, whose breathing has become weak and shallow. A rock of dread has settled in my gut, and I’m feeling miserable as we leave. I hold the door open for Miria.

“Thank you,” I say to her. “For everything you did.”

“Oh, I don’t know if you want to thank me yet,” she says.

“What does that mean?”

But she walks away without an explanation.