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Why did women do this to each other?
In the end, it didn’t matter. Antonio was already detailing what we would be discussing, and I didn’t want to make him more upset. So I straightened my back, took my elbows off of the armrests and listened closely to what the others wanted to say.
Alvaro Martinez, a handsome man with salt and pepper hair and a neatly trimmed beard, leaned over, and produced a leather briefcase from under the table. He placed it on the table, clicked it open, and withdrew a folder.
“Well, then,” he said. “I think it best if I start. Since Renata is virtually unknown by everyone except for this… Well, let’s call it a riotous phenomenon among the masses for being La Chica Dorada, I think it would be helpful to give a review of her history before we discuss all of our other details. To be clear, we stand with the Canciller in his statement about Renata having no royal blood. The last thing we need right now is a real princess.”
I blinked and inched forward. Riotous phenomenon? Real princess? I desperately wanted to know what kind of false story had been woven about me. Señor Castillas had already revealed that I had lived abroad for some time. Our borders were meant to be closed from places like Eskosia, and little more than their fairytales lived on with us now.
My mentor hummed. “Excellent to hear. After consulting with a few people, I believe her gold magic is likely related to a mutation. However, if anyone asks, politely decline to comment.”
I blinked. Mutation?
Alvaro pored over his documents for a few moments. “Renata Valarde Bordón was born in Puerto Dolores to Sal Valarde and Angelica Bordón. She grew up in a very liberal household. Her parents were killed in the bombing during Señor Castillas’ victory tour, and she was sent to finishing school in a neighboring country before returning back to stay with her distant cousins in the esteemed Quinta Isla. She has been uniquely blessed with our revered golden-glow, and she is going to be the first female Blood Tournament champion.”
As the man spoke, he wove his story with his hands as well as his words. My throat constricted as he spoke of my parents. My palms sweat as I thought of Puerto Dolores. I had once heard that the best lies were mixed with kernels of truth, and I grateful for Maestra Cecelia’s foresight. Would the family hate me for pretending to be their dead daughter?
If they had died, they would have been in the majority. Sadly, there had been at least one bombing at every isle on the same day, and Puerto Dolores had not been the one with the most casualties.
I had lost friends. Friends close enough to be blood relatives.
It had been mere days since I’d thought of the bombings, yet I was surprised at how much it affected me. Tears pricked my eyes and my brain lost its ability to focus on the words being spoken.
“Renata.” Señor Castillas’ voice sliced through my thoughts. He was studying me with a wary expression. “Are you all right?”
I blinked, and a tear that had been gathering precariously on my lashes slid down my cheek. “Yes. Forgive me. The bombing brings up unpleasant memories.”
“Ladies do not cry in public,” Ana interjected sternly.
I cleared my throat and flicked away the tear. “Yes, of course.”
Alvaro had been talking, apparently, because he continued as if nothing had happened. “I’ve taken great measures to secure all of your appropriate documents.”
I wondered exactly how he had gotten them for a person who didn’t exist. I had lied about being a cousin of Doña Ayesa, and never needed to account for parentage of any kind. I knew they weren’t real. Perhaps Puerto Dolores had been enough of a throw-away location that it didn’t matter.
He removed another folder from his briefcase and stood up halfway to pass it to me across the table. As soon as I opened it, I found an identification card with my name on it. It was edged with gold flecks and my false name stuck out like a naked man dancing through the main square.
It wasn’t right. I was not that person.
Under social class, a flowery “Élite” was printed. It was so alike the one Cecelia had forged. The familiarity that had blossomed between us that day was a stark contrast to the severe woman casting me out of her presence.
I quickly moved on from the card, and looked at the other papers. I found a marriage certificate from my false parents’ wedding, a fraudulent birth record, a diploma in studies I’d never had. The last page took my breath away.
I slid it out and held it up. “What is this?” I demanded.
Alvaro looked taken back by my harsh tone.
“That would be the title to your family’s estate in La Quinta Isla. You won’t have access it to it until after the tournament, of course. That’s one of the reasons it’s so vital you do well. If you don’t earn enough points across the three portions of the event, the estate will be absorbed by the commonwealth and given to someone else.” Alvaro smiled at me, and it looked genuine.
He was a bit over the top, but at least he was kind.
“Three stretches?” I asked and Joaquín chuckled.
“Yes. The production team tends to shroud the Blood Tournaments with vague details in order to make them have that extra level of mysticism for the lower classes.”
I watched him speak, trying not to appear at all bitter.
“The tournament is typically a week long. It begins in the forests around el Cinturón del Fuego. All two hundred or so competitors will be positioned there, key bearers on the sidelines, while they make a mad dash to the mountain. The distance is short, but the wolves in that forest are quite ravenous, and they are sprayed with a frenzy gas one week prior to the tournament, making survival no small feat.”
