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Punishments were different for Élites, but there was no way the Canciller would risk his government with a royal descendant walking around, one who had been raised as an Artista. It wasn’t hard to imagine what Los Fanáticos would do, or to picture rioting in the streets. Looting, destruction and pain would be at every turn.
I was dangerous, and I needed to leave.
My mother crying out to me shortly before she'd died had been the fortifying voice in my head for so long, but Antonio telling me to get revenge had joined hers.
I tried to shake them both away. I was one person. Giving up and walking away was the smartest decision sometimes. There was no way that I could ever get revenge against the most powerful man in the commonwealth.
My chest tightened when I thought of Antonio, dressed in a fine tuxedo, eyes burning with the emotion he failed to conceal, telling me to wait for him. I remember how I felt before he left, all the things I wanted to say.
The sun had spent the morning warming my skin, but nothing warmed me quite like the memory of us dancing. Of our closeness.
I clenched my fists and tightened my jaw. Antonio was a distant memory.
I had lost an entire night to the wolves and Guardias, another to running through the tunnel, and I would pay in frozen tears for the time it would take me to cover lost ground.
Ghosts would not distract me from my goal.
Chapter5
La Cuidad de Rubíes
The wolves did not bother me so long as the sun was out, and I was sure I would reach the city before nightfall.
I hugged my arms to my chest and scoffed. A journey that had taken me a mere two hours in the car had been stretched out over two days on foot. Most of my success could be attributed to the never-ending internal dialogue I had with a memory of Antonio.
“Pay attention to the world around you. There will be others looking for you.”I could hear him chide me so clearly.
Then, after a few hours, I imagined him telling me I should’ve drunk more water when I had the chance. I knew it wasn’t real, but it was comforting.
Either I used my thoughts as tools, or I wallowed in a nightmare. I could think about how much I wished Antonio was here, or I could think about the dead Guardia at the base of the tree.
It wasn’t hard to choose.
Magdalena, my best friend, and I had survived on the streets for nearly three years before being taken in as Flamenco dancers with Las Patrias in Casas Grandes. We stayed away from wandering through abandoned districts where Comerciantes Nocturnos who sold Ash, and sometimes people, did business.
But even then, surviving on the streets was not at all the same as surviving in the wilderness. I had been desperate with Magda, but no one came looking for us after we were gone. We were orphans, and no one cared if we lived or died.
With the most powerful man in Arrebol looking for me, a tournament to put on, and a marriage to be brokered, I couldn’t just disappear anymore.
I would be dead if Antonio hadn't taught me so much... But, then again, I wouldn't be here if I had never met Antonio Armando Castillas Morales. He was either the best thing that had ever happened to me, or the first step on my path to destruction.
Back and forth my mind went, turning in endless circles as the sun made its trek through the sky.
There were no more Guardias patrolling the forest, which made my skin itch with unease. If the Canciller wanted me dead, he would have to tear this place apart. I tried not to let it bother me while I marched.
At last, just as night fell, and the stars came out of hiding, I reached the dirty old district on the outskirts of La Ciudad de Rubíes. The squat, boxy forms of the houses told me Trabajadores lived here. The only light shone from the windows of overcrowded homes, which was good since it decreased the likelihood of discovery.
As I trudged up the cobblestone street with many missing stones, a chill seeped into my bones despite the warmth the uniform had brought me thus far. My feet were sore from walking in shoes too big and my old, musty clothes were stained with time and mud.
La Ciudad de Rubíes. The stories of wealth and beauty had all proved true on the visits I took with Antonio, but now I saw the city’s dark corners, which hid unsightly sores.
I looked up and saw an enormous shrine to Rey José Maria and stopped dead in my tracks. Was he my grandfather? A great uncle?
I let out a cloud of breath, and turned my back on the family I never knew. This nighttime search for salvation led me to the forgotten places—dilapidated neighborhoods housing the people who supported the entire city across their broad, poorly clothed backs. They didn’t know about the pastillas negras which were numbing them to slow deaths.
While putting one foot in front of the other, my throat tightened.
Death.
