Conde Tristán steps forward on the dais until he stands parallel to Elisa’s throne. He’s a member of the Quorum of Five, and the most delicately beautiful man I’ve ever seen. He’s also one of Elisa’s dearest friends.
“By my word and honor, I vouch for the candidate!” Tristán says.
“By my word and honor, I vouch for the candidate!” comes a voice from the crowd. The mayor of Brisadulce, no doubt. I don’t know him well, but he owes Elisa a favor.
A pause stretches into awkward silence. Rosario is stiff in the space beside me, and I force my gaze to remain steady, not to look desperately around for help. The next person to vouch was supposed to be Captain Bolivar of the Royal Guard. That is the tradition: a member of the court, a member of the commons, a member of the military. But now that I think of it, I don’t remember seeing Captain Bolivar at all during our procession.
Elisa and Hector exchange a worried glance.
Suddenly, a voice booms in my ear. “By my word and honor, I vouch for the candidate!” It’s Rosario, coming to my rescue. I give him a quick look of gratitude.
Conde Astón hesitates a moment. “Prince Rosario is not yet an adult, and as a member of the royal family he should not—”
Elisa stands.
“All hear, all hear,” the seneschal booms. “Her Imperial Majesty addresses this royal chamber.”
The Conde presses his mouth closed, and for the first time I see a crack in his composure as he shifts his feet uncomfortably.
Elisa says, “If anyone would deny Crown Prince Rosario as a member of this court, or reject his right to speak in this chamber, let them do so now, before all assembled.”
Silence stretches over the audience hall like the string drawn on an assassin’s bow.
Elisa likes to boast that even her enemies love Rosario. He’s the son of their former king, after all. For many, he’s the exemplar of everything they want in a ruler—someone born to their nation, from the highest possible rank of their nobility, a hero in the old war against the Inviernos, a man.
No one speaks. The bowstring of silence relaxes without firing a single shot.
“Let the ceremony continue,” Elisa says, and she takes her seat.
“Let the ceremony continue!” the seneschal says.
Conde Astón can’t keep the disappointment from his voice. “Very well. The candidate has been vouched for thrice by members of this distinguished assemblage. We shall now move to ratify. All in favor of the adoption of Lady Red Sparkle Stone to the imperial line, with all the rights, privileges, and duties thereof, up to and including full inheritance according to legal succession, please raise your hand and say ‘Aye.’”
I don’t dare turn around to look, but a chorus of ayes hits my back. Maybe I imagine that the vote is not as full-bodied and enthusiastic as we’d hoped. Then I see Elisa’s narrowed eyes, and I’m forced to conclude that I am not imagining it.
Princess Mena presses against her father’s leg, her chubby fingers clutching as much fabric of his pants as she can manage. Her brow knits as she looks back and forth between me and the speaker of the chamber.
My upper lip has grown damp.
Finally the speaker allows himself the barest beginning of a smile. He says, “All against, raise your hand and say ‘Nay.’”
The nays hit me loud and fierce, like a thunderclap.
Members of the audience begin to titter with amusement. Conde Astón gazes steadily at me, looking like a cat that just found a bowl of cream. His eyes remain fixed on my face as he announces, “The imperial petition is denied.”
Princess Mena’s huge brown eyes fill with tears.
The ground is opening beneath me. Were it not for Rosario’s hand on my elbow, the earth would suck me into darkness and swallow me whole. Maybe I want it to.
The amused tittering at my back has become a buzz of excited conversation. I don’t dare turn to face them all. I can’t.
“God will judge!” someone yells.
“Burn the Treaty of Basajuan!” yells another.
The audience hall becomes chaos. Everyone mills about, either trying to escape the press of bodies or get a better look. The empress appears furious. Beside her, Prince Hector comforts his daughter, but his right hand is at his scabbard and calculation whirls in his eyes. No one saw this coming. Most especially me.
“Red, let’s get you to safety,” says a voice in my ear. It’s Rosario, reminding me of all my royal training. I’m a target now. A failed princess. Every member of court who only pretended kindness to me because of my eventual position is now free to be openly hostile.
The Royal Guards close formation around me, both protecting me and conferring a modicum of remaining status—a small mercy.
Empress Elisa stands from her throne, hands clasped, face serene. Her gaze fixed on me, she lifts her chin ever so slightly in the direction of the side door. I’m to follow her.
“Court is adjourned!” booms Conde Astón unnecessarily, and his announcement barely penetrates the din.
Rosario’s hand is almost painful on my elbow, and the Royal Guards press so tight I can hardly breathe as I’m herded around the dais, through the door, and away, away from the imperial court that has just rejected me.
3
Then
IF Horteño the blacksmith, or the wise woman, or any of the other children were forced to flee through the woods pursued by enemies, they would choose to flee toward the village. Toward other people. Toward safety.
But the village would not be safe for the girl.
She and Mamá lived on the outskirts, as far from everyone else as they could. They went to the village only on market day, to trade chickens or eggs, herbs they’d gathered, or firewood they’d cut for the things they needed—meat, thread, chicken feed.
The girl was little, but she wasn’t stupid. So she understood that when people spat on her mamá and called her a whore and gave them the worst prices . . . that somehow it was all her fault. She was the girl with strange golden eyes and skin blanched the color of fever.
“They mostly tolerate you,” her mamá had said once, “and they will so long as you’re a little girl.”
“I’m not stupid!” the girl had snapped. Because “mostly tolerate” was just a polite way to say “hate.”
So even though the village beckoned with cozy snow-covered rooftops and familiar faces and pine-sharp smoke curling up from hot chimneys, the girl ran in the opposite direction, toward the mountain peaks and the tree line. It would be colder, harsher, hard to travel, impossible to find food . . . but it wouldn’t be hateful.
Besides, she had an idea.
A month ago, she’d chanced upon a tree squirrel, a particularly bold fellow who hadn’t run away from her. She was hungry. They were short on supplies. So she’d picked up a rock and threw it at the squirrel as hard as she could.
The rock hit the rodent square in the head, leaving a gash where one eye used to be, but not hard enough to kill it. The squirrel careened away, dizzy and concussed, crashing into trees, barreling through underbrush as it fled.
The girl remembered the sick feeling in her tummy. She never, ever would have thrown a rock at the poor creature just to hurt it. But it had been so close, and she had been so hungry.