14

Now

EVEN though it’s early morning, the sun rains pure fire onto my cheeks when I enter the arena, and heat from the sand seeps through the soles of my boots.

The weapons rack has been filled with wooden swords. Before it stands a tall, lithe man with slicked black hair and a waxed mustache that dangles past his chin. He holds his own sword point down in the sand and leans on it in as though it’s a walking cane—an unforgivable treatment of such a weapon. The steel of his blade glints in the morning light, revealing script etched near the hilt, though I’m too far away to make out what it says.

Sergeant DeLuca storms into the arena. “Good morning, recruits!”

The mustached swordsman pivots at the sound of the sergeant’s voice, revealing that most of his other arm is missing. His sleeve is tied into a knot about halfway past where his elbow would have been.

“Stop gaping and line up!” the sergeant yells.

We scurry to comply.

“Tomorrow and every day thereafter,” the sergeant says, “you will line up immediately upon entering the arena without being commanded. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

DeLuca walks down the line, hands clasped behind his back. “Today we have a very special guest. Please welcome Swordmaster Santiago.”

We applaud obligingly. The name sounds vaguely familiar.

“Master Santiago will begin your lessons in swordcraft. He’s one of the finest swordsmen in the empire and an excellent teacher. Though not an official member of the Royal Guard, he has been a trusted associate of the imperial family for over a decade. Master Santiago served as personal bodyguard to the dowager queen at her estate in Puerto Verde until her death a few years ago. Since then, he has been an instructor for private guard corps all over the empire, even serving a six-month post with Brisadulce’s own garrison. You will accord him the same respect as any senior member of the Guard and obey his orders as if they come from me or the Lord-Commander himself.”

Aldo whispers, “Has the Guard ever brought in an outsider for training before?”

“Never,” I whisper back.

Sergeant DeLuca steps aside and gestures toward the swordmaster. “Master Santiago, the class is yours.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” says Santiago. He lifts his chin and addresses the recruits. “Each of you claim a practice sword, then return to your place in line.”

As one, we rush to the rack and jostle each other to grab a weapon. All the largest swords disappear first. I’m happy to claim a short sword with a thick cross hilt and a nicked wooden blade. Maybe a light weapon will be easier on my aching rib.

After we get back in line, Master Santiago individually directs each of us to new positions until we are in a staggered formation of two lines, all of us standing a full arm’s length apart.

“Look around and mark your position,” says Santiago. “This is how you will line up for forms and exercises.”