The prince crouches before the sobbing Ariña, tilts her chin up. “Who hired the mercenaries? Was it you?”

Ariña says nothing.

“How you answer me right now will determine whether your son lives or dies,” Rosario says.

Ariña swallows. Then she says, “Me. And Conde Astón. It was both of us.”

“Ariña!” Astón exclaims.

“How do we get them to lay down arms?” Rosario presses.

“Tell them . . . tell them the deal is off. No payment is forthcoming. We were going to pay them with dream syrup. Fighting men will do anything for dream syrup, you know. It’s hidden in the empress’s quarters. Take it out. Burn it.”

Of course. King Alejandro’s former mistress would definitely know secret ways into the Sky Wing. And Rosario would never think to search there.

“And this creature?” Rosario says, nudging the dead sorcerer with his boot. “Did you hire him too?”

“He was . . . a pet of sorts. Addicted to the dream syrup. He played his part, freezing everyone but my son. He did not know he would die today, though.”

“Thank you,” Rosario says. “If everything you say proves true, I will ensure that your son is not executed.”

The prince stands, strides toward Conde Astón. Valentino still holds a blade to his throat, but it wavers. Tears stream down the boy’s face.

“You, on the other hand, will most certainly be executed,” Rosario says to the high conde. “And the Scriptura Sancta tells us that the sins of the father shall be visited upon the children, from generation to generation.”

Rosario pauses to glance at Valentino.

In a softer voice, he adds, “But I don’t believe that. I believe that children should never pay for their father’s sins. Surrender now, Astón. Get word to the mercenaries to lay down their arms, that payment will not be forthcoming. If you convince them, I swear by God’s righteous right hand that your family name will not be stricken from history, and your son Valentino will be named your heir by royal decree and declared a loyal subject, respected and beloved, until he passes the name to his own heirs.”

Conde Astón blinks. “I have two older sons,” he says.

“And they will all live and keep your name. But Valentino is the one who has proven himself. He will be lord of Ciénega del Sur.”

Conde Astón looks to Ariña. Then to the boy who holds a sword to his throat. His hand goes up to cup Valentino’s cheek. “My son,” he says.

Valentino’s eyes are wet with tears. “Why did you do this, Papá? Why?”

“To make a better future for you. For all of us.”

“You were wrong.”

“It doesn’t matter now.” To Rosario, he says. “I will do it. By God’s righteous right hand.”

Rosario steps aside. “Then go. Spread your message. Your three sons’ lives and futures depend on you keeping your word.”

Astón rises, dusts himself off, and flees the ballroom.

“What if he escapes?” I ask, staring after him. “What if he never comes back?”