“Still thirty-seven barrels unaccounted for,” he whispers back.

As winter approaches, an unseasonable heat wave turns the arena sand into scorching lava that we feel even through our boots. My nose reddens and peels, then reddens again before it can heal. We are forced to launder dust and sweat from our uniforms every single evening, giving us less time for our unsanctioned class.

But we keep at it, training every night before bed. Tanix and his small group of second years maintain perfect attendance, and their addition is a boon; one is a natural at sword and shield, another knows some grappling throws that are especially useful for taking down a larger opponent. Itzal joins us when the quartermaster allows; a few weeks later, he shows up with one of the cooks and an apprentice blacksmith.

“We are all Guards, even if some of us aren’t fighters,” he says proudly. “And we are all willing to take up arms on behalf of our empress, should the need arise.”

The rest of the class votes to let them stay.

The palace becomes dense with bodies and riotous with noise, for people are arriving from all over the empire for the annual Deliverance Gala. The courtyard plaza is packed with supply wagons and nobles in their carriages, all surrounded by personal guards and servants, camels and horses. Some settle into townhomes just outside the walls, along the famous Avenida de la Serpiente. But plenty of others keep quarters in the palace itself, and out of necessity, our afternoon fitness training is replaced by running errands and messages between them all.

“That happened to us too,” Tanix tells us one night. “We acted as pages to every conde and condesa in the empire for three weeks. Pay attention. It’s good experience. As Royal Guard, you’ll be expected to know every corridor and corner and courtyard of this palace so well you could navigate it blindfolded.”

Three days before the gala, I get another message from Rosario.

Four more barrels destroyed.

Fernando not fit for duty but recovering.

Thirty-three barrels still unaccounted for. And while I’m delighted that Fernando is recovering, he won’t be able to protect the prince throughout Deliverance Week.

The morning before the gala, we have taken our places in the sand and we are performing Eastern Wind when the monastery bells ring out, so startling and crisp and strange that I drop my sword.

The other boys laugh at me. I smile back sheepishly, telling my heart to calm down, the firing nerves in my limbs to settle. I realize that I haven’t had a startle moment like that in a long time. Weeks, for certain. Months, perhaps.

Guard training has changed me.

The bells continue to sing as I retrieve my sword and dust off sand from its wooden blade. The sound is a raucous tumble of joy, so much louder and stronger than its usual marking of time or its weekly call to prayer.

Master Santiago pauses, looking toward the bell tower, his eyes narrowed.