Conde Tristán is staring at me, his eyes wide. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone set up a tent so fast. I didn’t know you could do that.” Other tents are going up around mine, including a larger one to be shared by Belén and Alentín.
My grin is smug. “Did you think I spent my days as leader of the Malficio embroidering? Composing odes to the desert sunset, maybe?”
He runs his hand through his hair. “No. I guess I just imagined more . . . administrative tasks.”
“I can also start a fire, skin a rabbit, forage for edible plants, tend minor wounds.” It feels good to brag shamelessly. “Oh, and I can definitely scare something off by flinging a rock in its general direction with a sling.”
Several paces away, Hector has removed the saddle from an antsy bay gelding and is toweling him down. He looks up from his work and catches my eye, a smug look on his face. Hector, at least, is unsurprised to find me so capable. He might even be a bit proud. It makes me feel warm all over.
Later as we sit around the campfire sipping Mara’s soup—not jerboa, but a light broth made with lentils and dried vegetables—the sun dips into the distant sea. I’m not paying attention to see if the sky flashes red on the opposite horizon because I’m staring north instead. Though we are too far from Brisadulce to see its walls, a soft sphere of radiance against the black sky marks the spot. I think of the thousands of lanterns and candles now brightening my capital city. And I think, with a twist of despair, how I feel so much happier, safer, abler away from it.
But we haven’t gone far the next day when Hector mutters, “I think we’re being followed.”
I snap my head up to look at him, then force myself to stare straight ahead. If indeed we are being followed, then it wouldn’t do for the queen’s Guard to be seen talking to a maid who looks uncannily like the queen.
I say, “Are you sure? This road is highly traveled.”
“No. Just something to watch for now. But a group of riders has kept a steady distance behind us since we set off. They don’t have carriages, and no one is on foot. So they should be traveling much faster than we are.”
“Everyone knows I journey south. Maybe someone is curious. In fact we may attract quite a caravan along the way.”
“Maybe.” But his tone is unconvinced.
“Would it help for me to walk in front of the queen’s carriage instead of behind it?” I say hopefully. I’m choking on dust, and I’ve had to tie my shawl across my nose on several occasions.
“It might,” he says. “Though I hate to give up the advantage of having you covered in filth. No one would recognize you like that.”
I can’t help turning to glare at him. His lips twitch, but the amusement fades quickly. “We’ll keep an eye on them,” he says.
“No.” I’m in the desert now. I know exactly what to do. “We’ll do better than that.”
“Oh?”
“If they’re still behind us when we camp tonight, I’ll send Belén to scout them.”
“You’ve decided to trust him, then?”
“I trust his ability to scout.” I think back to the day of Iladro’s poisoning. It felt so natural to call on Belén for help. The moment required it, and we slipped back into our old roles as if nothing had happened. “And I dare hope the other kind of trust will come in time.”
When we make camp, the riding party Hector spotted is still there, tiny black figures near the horizon. Other travelers come and go, but these riders stop when we do, make camp when we do. Their campfire glows as dusk fades to night.
I order everyone to forego campfires tonight, and we dine on jerky, dried dates, and flatbread. I don’t want anyone to see us from a distance, to know that we hold council.
We sit in a rough circle with only the moon and stars for light. There are almost thirty of us, including Tristán’s people, all of whom were personally vouched for. Even Storm dares exit the carriage to join us. The others eye him warily but make a space for him. He does not remove his cowl.
I stand and say, “Belén, come here.”
He approaches without hesitation and drops to one knee.
I ask, “Do you still wish to swear fealty to me?”
His soft indrawn breath is the only indication that I’ve taken him by surprise. “I do,” he says evenly.
“Then I would accept you into my service.”
He reaches up with both hands and clutches the fabric at my waist, quickly, as if he’s afraid I’ll change my mind. It’s intimate and unnerving, especially when the side of his thumb brushes across my Godstone, and I hear the whisper of drawn daggers somewhere nearby. But it’s the traditional gesture of a newly sworn vassal, and it must be allowed.