“Look at them!” I say. “They’re huge.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Aldo says.

Another boy enters, as tall as the army recruits but leaner, with broad shoulders and gangly arms that promise more growth, if not more height. He has quick dark eyes and the most perfectly symmetrical cheekbones I’ve ever noticed. Seventeen years old, is my guess. He considers the army recruits, then Aldo and me. I see the exact moment he makes his choice. He heads toward the recruits.

Aldo whistles soft and low. “I think I have competition for the Most Handsome medal.”

“Sorry. But yes, I think you’re right.”

Several more boys drift into the arena, dressed like me in the attire of desert nomads. Queen Cosmé’s contingent from Basajuan, no doubt. They’re the only ones so far who don’t noticeably react to seeing a girl in the sand, but they still choose to keep to themselves, avoiding me and Aldo as well as the others.

The sun is rising, and the walls of the arena are turning from ochre dark to milky sandstone. A crowd begins to form around us, some standing on the wall, others sitting with their legs dangling over the edge: palace guards, servants, city watchmen, more than a few nobles. Annual recruitment is always an event. Sometimes even Elisa and Hector attend.

Maybe Rosario will be here, but a quick scan of the growing crowd does not reveal him. Good. We still don’t know what happened to Captain Bolivar, and I feel better knowing that Rosario is keeping out of sight.

Everyone on the walls is staring at me. Whispering to each other about me. Some are laughing. Others appear deadly serious. Go ahead, I think. Get a good look. I stare back daggers with my eyes.

“You’re . . . popular today,” Aldo whispers.

“It’s you they’re looking at,” I tell him. “They’re overwhelmed by your handsomeness.”

“Understandable.”

Abruptly, the audience’s focus is drawn back toward the portcullis, where another young man strides through, chin held high, shoulders relaxed and easy. He wears loose clothing made of pale blue silk, a popular form of dress among the wealthiest southern nobles. At his back are several other young men, who follow him in formation like baby ducks after their mother. The crowd rumbles with recognition.

I don’t know him by sight, but I’ve no doubt he’s a rich conde’s son with the best training and tutoring money can buy and an already established contingent of lackeys. A crowd favorite. Everyone expects him to make the final cut, me included.

More enter, until I count exactly thirty-two of us. The iron portcullis slams down, barring us in.

A Royal Guardsman strides toward us, red cloak whipping at his back. His shining ceremonial breastplate reflects blinding flashes of rising sunshine, and I can’t help wincing.

“Recruits!” he booms. I don’t recognize his face or voice.

“That’s not Captain Bolivar,” Aldo whispers.

“No.”

“Doesn’t the captain usually oversee training? God, I’m nervous,” he says.

“Line up!” the Guard orders. “From here to here.” He indicates an imaginary line with a sweep of his arm. “Orderly and tight. Now!”