17

Now

ROSARIO plunks back down in his seat and hunches over, hands on his head, as though pressed down by a crushing weight. More than anything I want to go to him, put my arms around his shoulders. But maybe that would be more of a comfort to me than to him.

I whisper, “I’m so, so sorry, little brother.”

“Any word on Fernando?” Iván asks the priest.

“No change to his condition,” Nicandro says. He turns to me, peering close. “Lady Red, I do not sense your Godstone, the one Elisa gave to you.”

“I left it in the Guard barracks,” I tell him.

“You should carry it with you at all times, my girl. It’s special. More powerful than most. Elisa acquired it on the hidden isle, in a place of power, and she gave it to you for a reason.”

“Yes, Holiness,” I say, though I have no way to carry it.

He waves a hand in the air. “Stop with that holiness nonsense. There has never been formality between us.” He turns to Rosario. “Sweet boy, I know how much you loved Bolivar. I regret that we will be unable to honor him in death right away; I think it’s best that everyone still believes him missing. But I promise you that his body will be tended to with dignity and respect, and when your family returns from their travels, we will bury him in state, as he deserves.”

“Thank you,” Rosario chokes out.

“Does he have a family?” Iván asks. “Does he leave behind a widow or children? If so, we should—”

“The Royal Guard was his family,” the priest says. “Now, come, all of you. Four trusted acolytes have volunteered to help escort you. They are not fighters, but they’ll make a fine living shield for our prince.”

Father Nicandro gestures us up and out of the archive, where three young men and one young woman in black robes wait, backs straight, arms crossed and muffled by their voluminous sleeves. The acolytes, Iván, and I all surround the prince, like he’s the center of a meat pie, and begin our trek out of the monastery.

“Wait!” Father Nicandro says, and our strange little procession pauses. “I almost forgot.”

He hurries back into the archive and returns a moment later carrying a book with a metal clasp. “Red, this is for you,” he says, plopping it into my arms.

I run my hand across the cover. It’s hardened leather, stamped with the rose and crown of the de Vega royal crest.

“What is it?” I ask.

“A copy of the Articles of the Empire. There’s something inside you should see. Or rather, there’s something not inside you should see.”

“What do you mean?” Bound books are valuable and rare. This is a royal gift, no matter what it contains.

“Just read it. If your heart is ready, you will see.”

I have no idea what he’s talking about. “I . . . thank you.”