One Step Forward . . .
Chapter ten
They walked two hours before Antonio’s leg screamed for a break, even though he’d leaned on the walking stick far more than he would have ever dared—at least in front of witnesses.
Not that the wolf pup counted; he only chased after the stick with each swing of it.
If the pup was older, he might even be useful on patrols around the castle, where instead of walking sticks, the guards carried lances.
In his first year in the guard, Antonio had been assigned the night patrols, but now he was the one receiving the reports and organizing the men.
To varying degrees of respect, insubordination, and success.
Finding a clearing overshadowed by something more robust than a spindly palm tree, he lowered himself to the base of a large jacaranda. The purple-blue flowers fell about him as the wind stirred the fragrant branches.
But even though he sat to catch his breath and drink some water, Lorelle didn’t even move to take a seat on the mossy soil.
Instead, she seemed to be stretching? He drummed his fingers against the ground, drawing Peluche’s attention, and snatched up the pup before he could start getting in her way as she methodically worked through what appeared to be warmups.
Instead of the weapon drills he was accustomed to with the rest of the guard, her drills embodied grace and poise. But both had their own sort of rhythm, and she began to hum as she worked through a few steps, as if following a dance to which only she knew the choreography.
She had taken off her sandals, but even so, her steps were silent as she leapt across the clearing, spinning and twirling like the delicate blue petals of the jacaranda tree twisting in the wind.
With every kick and spin, the petals lifted from the ground around her, and with the sun serving as a spotlight into the clearing, she looked like someone transformed.
Gone was the vulnerability in her gaze, replaced with a dazzling smile that held so much hope, triumph, and strength.
For a moment, he almost wished he could see her in her natural element on stage. But there, her hand would have been hidden, perhaps as part of her costume. Did she ever really feel at home among the rest of the dancers?
She finished her dance, and Antonio clapped.
Startled, her face pinking, she bowed to her one-man audience.
“Now that I see you at work,” he said, “I can see how you were silent in the warehouse. But I’m still not convinced you would go unnoticed, not with that kind of performance you just showed me.”
Her face seemed to redden further, and she went through their pack for food. “It’s easy when you’ve worked your whole life to fit the mold,” she said quietly, so softly that her words seemed just for him. “I haven’t had a choice.”
And when he met her gaze, he saw familiarity there. How hard had he worked the last two years to be back the way he was before? To show no weakness? To fit in not only with the guard but also with his new rank as captain?
She would have fought her own battle, similar in its own way. But instead of in recent history, she would have fought her whole life.
She handed him some alcapurrias de yuca, and he bit into the fried yuca fritter filled with meat.
It was cold and a little rubbery, but filling, and he was glad she’d saved it for now, if only so he would have the strength to keep going to the capital.
By his estimations, they were about halfway there.
If they’d taken the main routes, they might have been able to hire a coach to the next town quickly, but that would have meant explaining their situation to someone, and Antonio wouldn’t have a word of the danger out until he presented it directly to King Jairo.
Besides, he still needed to learn more about the rumors of Sir Thomas, and he doubted anyone would listen to him if he only came with the rumors and not with evidence.
A grappling hook was not enough to convince the king’s guard of the threat.
He’d seen the way the men sneered at him when he gave commands. They’d never done that before his amputation, before he’d been raised up as a “hero.” He was a case to be pitied—for why else had the king promoted him?
The king wouldn’t have, if he’d known of the nightmares and paranoia that seared Antonio’s mind.
They ate in silence, and Lorelle passed little pieces of the meat inside her alcapurria to Peluche, who settled in her lap. The pup was definitely bigger than before, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“Have you been to the capital before?” he asked, breaking the silence with a question he thought might dissolve the tension in her shoulders. The capital, Mar Verde, was large and full of life, which he imagined Lorelle would enjoy if she’d been there before.
But instead of smiling, her lips pursed. “Sí.”
He took another drink of water. Her voice had shot up an octave, but he knew well enough not to ask. After all, he’d all but closed down any kind of conversation with her before.
But to his surprise, she went on. “I was born there,” she said.
“Lived there until I was ten, when my parents died and my aunt and uncle didn’t want me anymore .
. .” She met his gaze, shooting him a shaky grin that didn’t reach her eyes.
“I guess they just didn’t understand.” She waved her hand, the tin fingers catching the light.
Antonio let out a breath. “Cristian did the same thing to me,” he said.
“My older brother,” he clarified. “He’s part of the prince’s select guard, and we were close before .
. . But now he treats me differently, when I thought at least that might be able to stay the same.
” He ran a hand through his hair. “But I guess that’s what happens when I get a medal I don’t deserve. ”
“What do you mean?” She blinked at him, the genuine tone of her question unnerving him, worming into his defenses like a shaft of light penetrating a dark stormcloud.
His fingers went to the medal clasped below his cloak, and he unpinned it, holding it in his palm.
“What does it mean to you?” He held it out.
The four-pointed star glinted silver, the word Valor emblazoned at the top only mocking him.
In English, it meant bravery. In Spanish, worth or valuable.
Either way, that didn’t describe him. He would never be able to face danger in the same way, not if he was so easily unbalanced as to need a walking stick.
Maybe that’s why the king had given him a revolver—because the thought of him fighting with a sword was just begging to let the enemy through their defenses a second time.
He dared to meet Lorelle’s gaze again, and instead of finding pity or scorn, he found a glimmer of understanding. “It means you have mettle, too,” she said quietly. “You were willing to give your life for the kingdom. And you’ve learned to walk again. That’s a strength not many people have.”
He blinked, stunned. The admiration in her eyes warmed his heart, and when she laid a hand over his, he found that he could match her smile.
A growl cut through the air, and Peluche pounced on their joined hands, emerging with the spoils of his attack: Antonio’s medal. The little pup gnawed on one of the points of the star.
Lorelle laughed, and Antonio shook his head, though he didn’t try to hide the chuckle that worked its way out of him.
“Well, are we ready to move on?” Lorelle glanced up at the sky, at the sun now lower, so that their clearing was doused in shadows of late afternoon.
He nodded and stood. Her comment might have been about the sky, but the meaning rang clear: Is it time to move forward?
A careful question, one that seemed to hold more meaning behind her sea-green eyes, as it did also in his heart.
They resumed their trek through the forest, Lorelle and Peluche a few steps ahead as Antonio followed behind, a hand on his sword.
But instead of grabbing his walking stick this time, he pushed forward on his own.
This conversation had shown him one thing: he was not ready to move on, not until he could finally lay his failures to rest.
And for that, he would give up his life if he had to.