Page 3 of Of Might and Mettle

The boy gave a deferential nod of his head and slipped into the darkness, his stride as quiet as the wind. Antonio could trust the boy to be stealthy, loyal. Even if he couldn’t trust himself and his leg, creaking now as he walked down the steps to the courtyard.

The castle courtyard was a large expanse, holding the theater, the queen’s garden of tropical flowers and fruits, and the maze. Lanterns flickered as a few guards patrolled along the edges of the courtyard, but their lights disappeared as they continued, and Antonio felt—not for the first time—that the courtyard was far too big to be overseen by just a half a dozen guards. It was, after all, where the king and his advisors had met to plan Monte Rico’s secession from the Empire. That was when King Jairo had gone from being a figurehead for the Empire’s taxing decrees to a voice for the people.

The music of the orchestra had stopped, overshadowed by a grating voice barking orders, and he winced, this time for the dancers facing that woman’s wrath.

Antonio started back toward his post. His hip ached with each step. Even two years later, he was still trying to adjust to walking in a way that would pass for an able-bodied guard in the darkness. Even if the revealing sunlight would always give him away, he didn’t need the darkness to be a danger, too.

Gabriel rushed back, his face red. “Capitán,” he said. “I know who made this. It’s the blacksmith in Rio Celeste.”

Suspicion tore through Antonio. That was fast. “How did you know that?” It could be that the boy was one of them, that despite his kind and honest expression, he could be a snake.

“Mi prometida, eh, she lives in Rio Celeste, a ways south of the capital.” The boy flushed, as if embarrassed to talk about his betrothed with his superior, but Antonio waved him on. “I go to visit her every few months, and last time, she gifted me a new dagger. Look.” He unstrapped a dagger from his belt and angled it in the light, reflecting the emblem. “You can take it if you need it, sir.”

“Did anyone see you with this?” Antonio snatched the hook and the dagger, stowing them quickly as footsteps echoed from the patrol passing by. The worry about the boy’s loyalty had released its grip on his throat, but too many unanswered questions filtered through his mind.

The lad shook his head vehemently, lowering his voice even after the patrol had passed and was out of earshot. “No.”

And even if Gabriel had been spotted with the hook, Antonio trusted him. Maybe it was foolish, but he saw something of himself in the boy’s stride and demeanor—a kind of strength that he had lost—and he would do his best to protect Gabriel if he could. He saw Gabriel more than he saw his own brother, who was always off and about on the king’s business for weeks at a time.

Cristian was more than six years his senior, but the age had never felt like a distance. No, Antonio had always kept pace with his brother before, in dueling, sword fighting, racing, and riding. Perhaps that was why Cristian had hardly spoken to him since the incident. Perhaps the secondhand embarrassment of being associated with an invalid would be enough to put a mark on his perfect record. Even if Antonio was a decorated soldier.

“Gracias, Gabriel,” he said. “You can return to your post.” As the boy left, Antonio’s mind whirred with thoughts louder than the gears that groaned in his artificial knee when he walked.

Tomorrow, he would get a boat, inspect the place where the intruder had been hidden. See if any information could be gleaned, any small clue of what the figure had been after—and worse, whether they had succeeded. And after that, he would row downstream to Rio Celeste as Gabriel had mentioned. It was small, tucked away between two main ports on the coast, but it produced strong laborers and farmers to till the land. Surely they would be loyal to the kingdom and not the Empire.

But whatever he did, he would do it alone. At least if he unbalanced himself and flipped the boat, no one would see. His weaknesses would be hidden. And he didn’t trust his fellow guards. Even if they weren’t loyalists, they might not hesitate to shove him out of the boat and watch him drown anyway.

If he let any harm come to the royal family, he deserved it.

Chapter three

Dancing on the Waves

Lorelle carried her shoes in her hand as she padded down the slick marble walkway to the theater. Another clap of thunder shook the earth. The hibiscus flowers that had once been lifted to the smiling sun now drooped, sagging beneath the warm rain.

If Lorelle had had any time, she might have paused and lifted her nose to the air, breathing in the familiar scent of salt and earth—and dug her toes into the soft grass. Ahead of her, a few girls rushed down the walkway, shrieking as gusts of wind sent rain far too close to their snow-white costumes. A few stagehands off rotation laughed when the rain came their way.

Jesus’s words flitted through her mind: And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not: for it was founded upon a rock.

She did her best to build her life on Him, and that was all she could do. Walk each day, thankful for the morning and the sun and the air and the strength to dance, and weather the storms with as much grace as she could. Even if her biggest storm would rage every day of her life, she would take it in stride, with joy, clinging to the peace that only God could give. Even if His arms were the only ones that ever held her up when she fell.

And what was a little thunderstorm if she was used to life’s hurricanes?

The theater was abuzz with activity when she entered. She smiled at a few familiar faces among the stagehands who carried a ladder to reach the highest ornaments on the giant tree, the backdrop of the toy kingdom. On the stage, the principal roles, Maria and the wooden soldier, practiced the scene where the kingdom was under siege, whirling and kicking to keep the circle of mice and their vicious teeth at bay.

Though she’d have loved to sit and watch, Lorelle still had to put her shoes on, and her eyes scanned for a small room where she could hide. She would have done it earlier, but she had had trouble finding her costume, and by that point, it was worse to be late than to show up without her shoes on.

Before she made it farther down the aisle, a voice cried out, followed by a thump. Lorelle winced. One of the ballerinas had taken a fall—maybe one of the newer corps girls as a mouse, unaccustomed to having a tail to account for. But when she looked up, she saw the girl playing Maria, Isabel, cradling her knee to her chest, her ankle gripped in her hands.

La directora was distracted, arguing with the conductor, and didn’t notice until one of the mice tapped her shoulder. She waved the girl away, gesturing to the stage. “Again,” she snapped, not breaking her glare from the conductor. “Without the music. Practice the timing. The music is only throwing you off.”

Lorelle didn’t hear the conductor’s furious answer, but she turned to the stage.

One of the mice made to offer a hand up, but Isabel flinched away. “You pushed me,” she snapped.

She tried to stand, testing her weight on her leg. It held, but when she went on pointe, her ankle wobbled and she went down again with a cry of frustration.

“¿Qué está pasando?” La directora finally glanced over. “Get up. What’s going on?”