They rode east, away from the village.

The girl dared to ask, “Where are we going? Joya d’Arena is west. . . .”

“A very good friend of mine is missing,” said the fine lady. “We have to find him. His name is Hector, and you will like him very much.”

“I’m big,” the girl said solemnly. “I can help.”

“I’m sure you can,” said Mara, riding beside them.

“By the time we find him,” the fine lady said, “we can introduce you using your new name.”

She was going to have a name! A true name. A perfect name. Something a little bit Joyan, but a little bit Invierno too, just like her. It would be the most beautiful name she could think of. The strongest name she could think of.

Mountain jays called after them, and a crisp breeze whisked the clouds through a cornflower sky, heralding a crystal-sharp winter. The girl who would never be called Mula again felt the hollow space inside her filling up, with hope and warmth and maybe even her very own self.

21

Now

THE day before the gala dawns bright and hot, and as usual we are training with Master Santiago. Guardsman Bruno observes us this morning, perhaps to discover why our training is taking so long.

Master Santiago has become extraordinarily creative in his ability to find fault with our forms. I make a game of anticipating what imagined flaw he’ll focus on next—maybe the way Arturo grunts.

Santiago opens his mouth to berate someone, but Sergeant DeLuca barrels through the portcullis and into the arena.

“Sergeant,” says Master Santiago. “What a pleasant surprise. Are you here to inspect these wretched recruits? They persist in evading proficiency, but they are not as shameful as they were.”

“Not at this time,” the sergeant says. “I’m here for two quick pieces of official business, and then you can resume your training.”

Santiago bows his head and steps back, ceding the arena floor. “The class is yours, Sergeant.”

Guardsman Bruno peers at his superior, eyes narrowed. Something about this isn’t part of the usual routine. Well, nothing about our class is part of the usual routine. But DeLuca seems as pleased as a well-brushed pony, and for some reason, this fills me with dread.

DeLuca says, “The time has come for the first years to choose your squad leader. It should be someone with proven competence, with the ability to inspire and make good decisions. Someone who has helped make the rest of you better, someone you trust to lead you for the next three years.”

No one says anything, but it feels like a ripple passes through our group. We’ve known this was coming. I’ve already decided to vote for Iván, whose quiet intelligence has made us pay attention more than once. He’s had just as much training as I’ve had, but he’s so much smoother when talking to people.

“So consider who you will elect while we take care of the second item of business,” he says.