“And Recruit Valentino . . . if the little girl hasn’t wounded you too badly, we’ll get you started on broadsword training right away.”

“I’ll be fine,” Valentino says through gritted teeth.

DeLuca grunts, and then he moves on, calling on two other recruits to choose their weapons.

I return the ax to the rack and run back to the line. Valentino sidles over to me and Aldo. “That was . . . unexpected,” he breathes through his pain.

“Unexpected?” Aldo whispers. “That was incredible.”

“I hit you harder than I meant to,” I confess.

“I can handle it,” he says.

“Were you trying to kill me?” I ask.

The question startles him. “No. I didn’t expect DeLuca to let me use the ax. It’s too heavy for safe sparring. But then I was committed in front of everyone.”

“Huh.” I find myself believing him.

“You know . . .” He winces. “This is really starting to hurt.”

Two other recruits are called out to face each other, both of them from Basajuan, and both of them named Arturo, which is the most common name in the east. My attention is half on the Arturos, half on Valentino, when I say, “You might piss blood tonight. Drink as much water as you can and try not to exert yourself for a few days. If you can’t piss at all, be sure to tell someone. Don’t tough it out.”

“Whatever you say, Doctor Red.”

I look up at his face to find him grinning. “I really am sorry,” I tell him.

“I’ll get you next time.”

“I know you will.”

There’s a warmth in my cheeks that has nothing to do with sun and sand. I’ve met two people—Aldo and Valentino—who have the potential to become friends. Not a bad morning at all.

But then I happen to glance beyond the sparring recruits—who are clumsily swinging their wooden daggers—to Valentino’s entourage, the boys who followed him into the arena like ducklings after their beloved mother.

They’re staring at me with such pure, icy hatred that a chill shivers down my spine.

7

Then

THE girl woke to pain so bright and hot she could hardly draw breath. It came from her ankle. She tried to wiggle it, but agony shot up her leg and into her hip.

So she lay as still as she could, just trying to breathe. Gradually she became aware of other things: warmth against her cheeks, dancing firelight, straw poking her back, the scents of burning pine and—wonder of wonders—a baking meat pie.

A little whimper escaped her lips. Her stomach turned over hard, and she couldn’t tell if she wanted to feast or vomit.

Hunger won out.

“Please,” she whispered, almost like a prayer.

A flurry of syllables greeted her, and she almost screamed. It was the monster’s language. They had found her.

But a cool hand pressed gently against her forehead. More words followed—soft, kind, feminine.