But she offers it at once, and together we float down the dais in what I dare hope is a show of regal righteousness. We depart the green far more quickly than we came, which is good now that I’m tasting a more acrid version of Mara’s omelet in the back of my throat.
Chapter 12
Hector returns to my suite with the unsurprising news that the Invierno was reluctant to answer my summons and had to be arrested. I take just enough time to lose my crown and change into a simpler gown before rushing out again. I’m glad for the haste—it gives me little opportunity to dwell on the flogging.
I’ve never been inside the prison tower. It’s the highest point of the palace, and I expect that from its topmost chamber, I could see everything from the great sand desert and the walls of Brisadulce, across the merchant’s circle and the Wallows, to the docks and the blue horizon beyond.
The tower is made of gray limestone, a dull and dirty contrast to the coral sandstone of its shorter brothers. It rises like a blight on the sky, and I see how impossible it would be to escape such a place. There is only one way up or down, and that is the stairway inside its walls.
It’s an odd group that accompanies me to interrogate our prisoner: a one-armed priest, an aging nurse, a Quorum lord, and, unexpectedly, a seven-year-old prince. Hector had to cancel their daily swordsmanship lesson, and little Rosario was determined to come from the moment he learned the reason.
Our group is nothing if not memorable, and I curse myself for thoughtlessness. The news that someone of vast import is being kept here will be palacewide by evening.
Before we step through the arched entryway, I bend down and grasp Rosario’s shoulder. “You’re sure you want to come, Highness? There’s an Invierno up there. He looks a lot like . . .” Like the animagi who killed your papa. “Er, like those other Inviernos we saw.”
He puts his hand to the wooden practice sword at his belt. He glares at me, saying, “I’m not afraid.”
I know better than to smile. “Well, I am. Just a little.”
“I’ll protect you. Like Hector does.”
The boy has always idolized my guard, but even more so since his father’s death. “That does make me feel better. Thank you.”
As I straighten, Hector catches my eye and shrugs. I nod in response. If Rosario thinks he is ready to face an Invierno again, it would feel cruel to forbid it.
The moment we leave the sunny courtyard for the shade of the tower, I am hit full in the face by the scents of sweat and urine and moldy straw. The tower guards lurch up from a rough table strewn with playing cards and snap to attention. They are Luz-Manuel’s soldiers, not Royal Guard, and they eye us warily as we pass. I hope they will do as ordered and keep quiet about their latest prisoner.
Hector leads us to the creaking stair that zigzags up one side of the stone wall. The inner structure consists of a series of wooden platforms, with huge beams and smaller wooden trusses to hold each platform in place. The stairway opens up to the platforms at regular intervals, and in the dim light provided by long slits in the wall, I see people, ten or so to a platform. They are barely clothed, scrawny, filthy, hairy. I can’t begin to guess their ages. Each is manacled to the wall, out of reach of the stairway.
One, a woman with wild hair, strains against her bonds and spits at me. The glob lands on the planking near my feet. Ximena moves toward her, but I put a hand to her forearm.
“She suffers enough,” I say.
Another prisoner, a man with a gray beard that swallows his face, gives the spitting woman a swift kick to the ankle. “Some of us remember,” he says to me, and his voice has the harsh accent of the dockworkers. “We remember what you did for us, Your Majesty.”
As Hector hustles me away, I wish I’d had the presence of mind to thank the man, to let him know how much his words of support mean to me.
I can’t help but wonder what they all did to wind up in this awful place. Surely something terrible. By the time we reach the top, I am breathless, nauseated, and wracked by uncertainty. Maybe I shouldn’t have had the Invierno brought here. All he did was refuse a royal summons.
The final, highest platform is the least squalid, with several extra slits for light and air, a small cot, and a slop bucket instead of rushes. But Storm obviously does not appreciate the distinction. He paces back and forth like a restless cat, all lithe grace and hunting fury. Ankle manacles are hidden by his long black cloak, but they rattle with every step.
When he sees us, he growls deep inside his chest, which sends shivers across the back of my shoulders. It’s not a sound I’ve heard a human make before.