The viheulas and dulciáns in the corner go silent. A hush descends.

I hear the prince before I see him. His voice rings out. “Lift up your heads in honor of our Deliverance.”

We are too late.

He begins reciting the Deliverance prayer.

“In you our ancestors put their trust,

They cried out and you delivered them.”

I lose track of Iván and the others as I push through a thick forest of silk and satin. Someone grunts; I’ve stepped on their foot. A large man tries to block my way. I bump the back of his knee so it buckles and slide past him as he teeters off balance.

I can see the prince now. Rosario sits exposed and alone, cupped in the Hand of God, a giant sculpture carved centuries ago by the great artist Lutián of the Rocks. Sitting in the Hand is an annual tradition, to remind us all that God’s righteous right hand delivered our ancestors from annihilation.

“Yea, from the dying world they were saved;

In you they trusted and were not put to shame.

Bless us, O God, as we remember your hand;

Your righteous right hand endures forever.”

“Selah!” the crowd responds in unison. I’m almost there. I scan the high balconies for crossbowmen as Rosario steps down from the Hand with the help of Efren and Iago, and returns to the dais.

The people in front of me have closed ranks, making it impossible to proceed. I spy a possible route to the right, nearer the wall, where fewer people congregate. I edge in that direction, leading with my shoulder.

My sense of urgency fades a little, because now that I’m close enough to see the dais, it’s clear Rosario is surrounded by friends. Lady Carilla has taken Rosario’s arm, and she gazes up at him adoringly. Beside them, Lord-Conde Tristán of the Quorum of Five is holding hands with his lover, Iladro. Iván’s brother Juan-Carlos is there too, whispering something to Songbird, the elegantly attired Invierno ambassador. Father Nicandro stands before them all, leaning on his cane. The priest wears a robe of pure white to mark the occasion.

Conde Astón has a place on the dais as well; as speaker of the chamber of condes, it’s his right. But he stands off to the side, creating a cushion of rejection between him and the others.

Several attendees shift. A path clears, and I dart forward.

A heavy hand descends on my shoulder, grabs me, yanks me backward. A vambraced arm wraps my neck. My back is pulled against an armored body, and hot breath fogs my ear. “Going somewhere, little mule?” says a low male voice.

It’s Beto, one of the boys who attacked me. Now an imposter Guard.

Of course he would be.

I dip my left shoulder, preparing to drop and twist free, but a sharp point sticks into my side.

“Don’t even think about it,” says another male voice. Sancho.

Valentino said these rejected recruits joined the army. So does this mean the army has been compromised? Maybe they’re mercenaries.