“I guess I’m lucky most people can’t see the magic.” A test she’d done with Vasco and Brites before, revealing that those without blessings couldn’t see the light of others’ gifts.
“We had to have some way to defend ourselves,” Faty said. “Otherwise, many of us would’ve been dead before adulthood.”
“I’ve always hated the peace that came after. The relief. How could I feel such a thing when my touch brought nothing but beautiful waste?” Yzabel shook her head, and the Moura’s fingers caught on the back of her neck, grazing the golden net and jewels of the crespinette. “I see, now, how I was misguided. I was always meant to own this.”
“You were.” Soft touch of lips touched Yzabel’s forehead, spreading comfort and chaos all at once. “Because once you do, you will be able to better the lives of thousands.”
“You’re so sure that I will, but… Do we even know how to reverse the magic?”
“Trust me. Once you go through the ritual, it will be like instinct. Practiced instinct, but still…”
A knock on the door. “Your Majesty?” Matias called roughly from the other side. “The king is asking what’s taking you so long.”
Behind her, Fatyan quivered, then tensed, green eyes fixed in Matias’s direction. Yzabel wondered why a gift to sense danger flared at Matias’s nearness, but that was a question Faty herself had no answer to. It pained Yzabel to know she could do nothing to ease how Faty felt around Matias other than to take him as far away as possible.
“I’ll be there in a moment.” She stood, looking at herself in the mirror; there was no helping the thick bridge of her big nose, but with the rouge giving life to her lips and the crespinette hiding most of her big forehead, she had to admit she looked presentable.
She turned to Fatyan one last time, flashing a smile. “I know I’m always saying this, but… Thank you. For everything you’ve been doing.”
Fatyan smiled back.
It was small, but it brought a rush of victory to Yzabel’s heart.
…
Silent prayers filled her head as she marched across the solar to Denis’s room, where her betrothed already waited at the table, shoulder-length hair neatly combed back behind both ears. “Evening, Yzabel,” he said as she took a seat across from him.
Without the magic running rampant, dinner with Denis became less charged. It brought her great relief that they could finally have a nice meal together, without fear hanging over her and flowers blossoming in her mouth. Her stomach couldn’t hold much yet, but she made it through enough spoons of lamb and peas that he looked at her with amazement wide in his eyes.
“I think this is the first time I didn’t need to remind you to eat,” he mused out loud.
“I am trying to be better about it,” she said, choosing not to elaborate any further. Denis probably figured it wouldn’t gain him anything to press her, either, and soon the subject of their conversation moved on to the lewd notes the steward had scribbled all over the margins of his documents.
“And they’re so…bad. Even I can write better poetry than that.” In the span of a few seconds, Denis went from giggling at the poems, to covering a yawn, to sipping on his wine; the red on his eyes and the dark circles around them marked his bad sleeping habits—Yzabel doubted he’d caught a wink between Aldonza and the steward’s books. “Dom Domingos made me swear I would start ignoring them because I kept laughing.”
Yzabel nibbled at her cheese tartlet, the sweet crumbs so bright on her tongue even her belly wanted to make room for more. “It might make a good parlor game if you want to get everyone drunk.”
“What, take a sip every time it doesn’t rhyme?”
An excited chuckle. “And every time he misspells, and every time he counts the times he’ll—”
Her lips stopped working as an idea struck thunder in her head. Slowly, her eyes drifted to Denis’s and found him frowning.
“What?” he said.
“It’s code.” Yzabel left the dinner table for the desk, returning with one of the many leaves of parchment Denis had brought to his rooms. “See, here, for instance. ‘À caputa disse/mete quinze ameixas no culis/e vai pagar ao Benzedor…’” At Denis’s boisterous laughter, Yzabel crossed her arms over her chest. “Could you stop? You may be a young king, but you’re still a king. Not a blushing squire.”
“I never imagined your lips capable of speaking such words! I wish I could be there when you inevitably confess this to Domingos.” His chuckle died before her exasperated scowl, and he made room on the table for the sheet of parchment. “Fine, fine. Tell me about the plums.”
“The plums aren’t plums, but something else. And the Benzedor…” She looked through more papers before bringing them over to Denis. “Look. When the poems aren’t referring to the writer, they invoke someone else. The Benzedor. The Olhapim. The Rosemunho, offered something to appease them, and there’s always a quantity of something—breasts, fruit, erm…parts.”
“They’re code for what was taken from the stores, and to whom it was delivered,” Denis finished for her, brown eyes wide with wonder. “Yzabel, if this is right…”
“We have the players, and we have the game.” Not enough, if they were to remove them from power. “But it won’t be anything without hard proof. They have to be hiding their profits somewhere.”
Denis traced the small notes on the margins. “The inquisitors we sent beforehand haven’t found anything. It’s possible they’ve already traded everything for a profit.” He looked at her from the corner of his eye. “Just as it’s possible this is just bad poetry.”
“But Denis…it was working. You said it yourself, it was terrible to the point you stopped paying attention to it.” She twined her fingers behind her back, standing tall next to him. “A secret stash of something exists. All we have to do is look hard enough and I’m sure we’ll find it.”
“I’m glad to see you so determined.” He rose to place a heavy hand on her shoulder, his thin lips curled in a smile. “And to see you finally eat. The country needs you at full strength.”
With their similar heights, all she had to do was look ahead to see the genuine affection in his expression. Yzabel searched for a flutter in her chest, a pleasant tightness in her stomach, for the overwhelming need to kiss him.
All she felt was a sputtering pleasantness touching happiness and pride to her heart, the same kind she’d felt when her brother would compliment her on French well spoken. That strange enthrallment that enraptured her where Fatyan was concerned was nowhere to be found with her betrothed.
Yzabel leaned forward, brushing her lips to his on a whim, hoping to ignite the spark she’d felt with Fatyan. Denis, shocked into stony stillness at first, had just begun leaning into her when she pulled away and stepped back, thoroughly confused and underwhelmed.
“I’ll try to be the princess the country needs, too,” she said, struggling not to scratch at her upper lip, where she could still feel the specter of his mustache. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Do try to get some sleep.”
Her feet hurried back to her rooms, her body attempting to flee the terrible thoughts that nipped at her heels.
Chapter Twelve
Danger in the Night
Controlling her wayward imagination proved more of a challenge than it ought to, and as Fatyan undid the buttons on the back of Yzabel’s dress, she made herself think of serious matters. Such as where the prelates could be hiding the profit of their misdeeds.
“When you lived here, did you have any secret passages or rooms?” Yzabel asked as she put on her nightshirt. “Some place to hide valuable treasure, perhaps?”
“You mean aside from my stone?” Fatyan joked as she folded the evening gown. “There were some, but from what I’ve seen, the Portuguese built over them.”
“I need you to take me there.” The crespinette’s mesh and jewels caught on he
r hair, causing Yzabel to hiss as she tried to pull it off her head. Fatyan took it from her, carefully prying it loose.
“After the ritual, all right?”
Faty seemed so confident they’d succeed, but Yzabel failed to summon the same. She’d accepted the blessing, true, but what if it wasn’t enough? What if she died tomorrow, never fulfilling the contractual obligations her papá had set for her? Not just her marriage—Yzabel’s death would exact its toll on two bargains. Faty would return to the stone if this ritual failed. Her future hinged on it, too.
Yzabel pushed the negativity away, and said, “All right.”
They lay down in bed, and even though they weren’t touching, Yzabel’s stomach knotted with bittersweet agony. Quietude fell over her as the mattress dipped behind her, her throat tightening as Fatyan’s warmth reached her cold skin.
“Are you worried?”
Yzabel licked her suddenly dry lips. “Yes.”
Not quite true.
Not quite false.
“Yza, look at me.”
Begrudgingly, she turned to her other side and came face-to-face with Fatyan, their noses almost touching. Yzabel’s heart thumped in her throat, and the air froze in her nose when Fatyan traced her prominent cheekbone with the back of her hand, leaving her torn between shrinking away or giving in.
Her eyes slid shut as Faty palmed the side of her face. She feared if she kept them open, she’d keep looking at her lips. Everything that should’ve been present for Denis was here, with someone she barely knew but who’d already become a friend.
“Everything will go well.” Fatyan’s whispered words drowned out the crackling fire, the howling wind. “We’ll both be free soon.”
Not trusting herself to speak, Yzabel nodded. Faty began to shimmy back, retreating to her half of the bed. Her absence left room for a draft to slip into the sheets, the cold chattering Yzabel’s teeth, sending her hand forward to hold onto Fatyan’s.
When Yzabel turned around, Faty followed, draping one arm over Yzabel’s waist and closing the space between them. It was cold. Fatyan was warm against her back. She told herself that was just it, that the quickening low in her belly was from settling into comfort.
This was friendship. Kinship between two people with magical gifts. Two souls reaching through time to meet in a mutual beneficial arrangement.
Nothing else.
…
The following night, Brites brought everything Fatyan had asked for the ritual, naming every item as she placed it on the table.
“Chalk, dry basil, laurel, and calendula.” She fished a tiny pouch from her pocket. “The cinnamon was harder to get, but I managed.”
Fatyan turned to the window and the raindrops hitting the glass. “We’ve a problem, though. The ritual has to be conducted under the light of the full moon—if it’s to reach Yzabel, there can be no clouds or rain.”
“Let me worry about that,” Brites reassured. “Calling or driving away rain is my specialty.”
Yzabel had no doubt the woman could handle it. Fatyan had explained how Brites’s gift differed from theirs. Carajus like Brites were taught their gifts, not born with them, and required no ritual to increase their control. So long as they were connected to the earth, all they needed were the right words to bend its forces to their will. When the moon closed on its highest point, Vasco and Brites escorted Yzabel and Fatyan to the empty garden next to the eastern wall.
“I slipped valerian into the guards’ stew,” Brites whispered as she unlocked the last door standing between them and the open sky of the garden. “With that and the storm, no one should bother us.”
Nevertheless, worry gnawed at her. So many things could go wrong. Sleeping herbs didn’t work on everyone the same way, and a guard or servant could walk in on them. More than that, Denis could be coming to Yzabel’s rooms, a first brought on by her sad attempt to kiss him. Ill-begotten as that choice had been, she had initiated it, and there was no telling when she’d reap the consequences.
“And Denis?” Yzabel asked.
“Sleeping. I told Matias you wanted to know if more women were coming to visit your betrothed in the middle of the night. He needed no more convincing to stay behind and watch Denis’s door.” Brites looked beyond the threshold, where the relentless melody of rain hitting stone and trees filled the air, before turning to Fatyan. “You’ll have to be fast. I won’t be able to hold back the rain for long.”
Beyond them, cobblestones made a path between two large patches of earth, where stalks of parsley and sage, thyme, and mint swayed in the wind, and the tree branches, heavy with lemons, persimmons, apples, and olives, rattled their shadowy arms and leafy fingers.
At Fatyan’s nod, Brites rushed ahead, coming to a halt in the middle of the garden. A brief hint of steel as she drew a small knife from her apron and held it to the palm of her hand. One sharp motion and blood sprung forth, mingling with the rain.
Yzabel stiffened, made to run to her maid, but Fatyan held her back with a hand on her shoulder. A slow hum filled Yzabel’s ears and every hair on her body prickled as Brites’s sahar swelled along with her voice.
“Vento, vem!
Vento vem!
Arrasta p’ra fora as nuvens!
Leva a chuva também!
E das brumas pesso eu um véu,
Das gotas de água espelhos,
P’ra nos guardar de ouvidos,
E de olhos alheios!”
Brites chanted the same eight sentences over and over, each time louder, each time more commanding.
The clouds above swirled. Thunder cracked, a bolt of pure energy piercing the sky to hit Brites’s raised hand. Yzabel screamed, her screech echoing through the air as the lightning flashed blinding white. Many times she’d seen Brites’s magic, but never to this effect. Was this supposed to happen? Was she going to find her lady’s maid lifeless on the ground once the brightness cleared from her eyes?
Fatyan hissed, burying her head in the back of Yzabel’s head, holding her in place.
Brites’s voice rose higher still, stronger than ever, repeating the rhyme one last time. She was unharmed, and the sky now clear above her. Ears ringing, Yzabel breathed again, not realizing she’d stopped.
“I’ll be damned,” Vasco breathed, drawing the sign of the cross.
Yzabel glared at him. “Do you also bless yourself whenever I turn bread into roses?”
“Your magic doesn’t let you take a bolt of lightning and walk away unharmed!”
Fatyan pursed her lips, but whatever she was picturing must have been too comical to resist, and she let out a snort.
But Yzabel didn’t find the situation amusing. “It’s magic nonetheless. For all you know, it does let me survive lightning.”
Vasco opened his mouth, only to close it immediately after and look away. At least he had the decency to look guilty. His wide eyes went back to Brites, but his voice didn’t shed its fearful coat. “I never knew she could do this.”
“What are you doing standing there?” Brites asked. “Hurry!”
Fatyan rushed into the night, tying a long ribbon around the stick of chalk. “Step on it,” she told Brites as she slipped the fabric underneath the maid’s foot. Keeping it stretched, she drew a perfect circle. “Paint it white. I’ll get the rest ready.”
While the Moura lined the circle with cinnamon and spread herbs over it, Vasco laid a heavy hand on Yzabel’s arm. “Please. I beg you to reconsider—there has to be a way that doesn’t invoke yet more sorcery.”
“There’s no more sorcery to this than there is to my touch.” Yzabel shook off his grip, only for him to tighten it.
“Your sorcery is holy—but this?” Vasco bit his lower lip, eyes flashing with feverish conviction. “Look at what they’re doing, Yzabel. Their chants, and herbs, and powders. They’re opening a doorway to the Devil hims
elf!”
Jaw set and eyes narrowed, Yzabel yanked her arm free. “They’re not.”
“How can you be sure?”
She couldn’t explain, and even if she could, Vasco wouldn’t understand. She could tell him Brites’s and Fatyan’s magic was as divine as nature itself, that there was no darkness to Brites’s chants or Fatyan’s knowledge, that if this was indeed devilry, she would feel wrongness oozing in the air and not the magical wonder of a storm gone silent.
“I just am,” she said, already moving before Vasco tried to stop her again.
Fatyan pointed to the circle, instructed her to step inside and kneel. She flipped the bag open, surrounding Yzabel with bits of bread and remnants of dried herbs. “After I light the circle, you need to use your gift on the bread.” She held Yzabel’s gaze as she produced a flint from her pocket and took the knife from Brites. “Ready?”
Yzabel breathed in. Out. She had no choice but to be ready. This was the only way.
“Ready.”
The flame sputtered a few times before catching, spreading across the dry herbs to fill her nose with the scent of basil, laurel, and cinnamon. A scream soared up her throat as the fire rose around her, and in her head, the voice of doubt rung in protest.
“Turn the bread!” Fatyan urged from outside the circle.
An anxious wound festered in her breast, but she did as she was told. Roses bloomed under her fingers, the tendrils of magic spreading hot across her body, her skin thrumming as it glowed, hotter and hotter. Akin to how it’d behaved in the springs, only with the intensity of ten midday suns at the height of summer.
Her chest readied to burst, and when Yzabel tried to take one hand to see if it had cracked open, she found herself unable to move. Her ears captured no sound other than her blood, pumping wildly through her veins; a force brought her to stand, tilted her chin up toward the hypnotizing full moon, and then…
Her toes scraped the floor as she floated upward. Pain raged, tearing at her gut, ravaging the breath out of her lungs. The magic within her roared, a beast unleashed, clawing at her eyes, making her see. A feral wail ripped past her lips—it was hot, so hot, her tongue an ember, her throat full of smoke, her heart—
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