I pick up my goblet and sit back. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you? You were my only friend while I was a prisoner in your father’s castle. Your castle.”
“I’m not comparing our tragedies. It doesn’t matter who suffered the most because we’re here now. I’m doing the best I can now. Is it enough?”
“It has to be.”
The sun is long set, and the candles are half burned down into puddles of wax. We keep sipping our wine in silence, testing the waters between us. An unfamiliar sensation spreads across my shoulders, my chest. Is this what it feels like to share a burden?
“You have to ask yourself if you truly want to continue this journey with me. I need your help. That hasn’t changed.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say. “What about your informant? Can we trust them?”
“With my life. The search for my brother led us here, but we can’t go much farther without documents. And as I am currently being held captive by the Whispers, I can’t use my usual resources to procure us passage out of the kingdom.”
I raise my glass. “Here’s to the runaway prince of Puerto Leones.”
He tries to suppress a grin but clinks his glass against mine. “I normally wouldn’t celebrate before we’re aboard the ship, but I know the hardest challenge is yet to come.”
“Do you mean the part where we use a decades-old captain’s log to chart our route to a mystical Moria island that supposedly holds this knife?”
Castian leans back languidly, ever the confident prince. “Precisely.”
“You never told me how you discovered that logbook.”
He offers a genuine smile, narrow eyes and all teeth. “It’s a long story for when I’ve consumed less wine. But I won it off Duque Arias.”
“The gambling runaway prince of Puerto Leones,” I amend. “We have a map to Isla Sombras, a secret ally, and threadbare hope.”
“I’m sorry about today,” he says quickly, as if he’s been holding it back. “I don’t hate you.”
I wish that I could say the same thing, but something’s wedged inside my heart. Like a splinter buried so deep the skin just grows around it. “I’m sorry I kissed you like that.”
“I’m not.” Cas’s gaze flickers from my lips to his plate of peas. “What I mean is we have to keep up this ruse for a period of time, but you don’t have to do anything you revile. We can set rules. Boundaries.”
I see the moment again—the laughing girls, the flutter of his eyes. I clear my throat. “For the sake of peace, I will admit that kissing you isn’t the worst thing I’ve done on a mission.”
“High praise.”
“Perhaps we limit our shouting to the safety of our room, the way married people fight?”
“I don’t know. I can’t recall my parents willingly talking or being in the same room together.” His smile falters, but only for a moment. When he looks at me, his sadness is gone, carefully veiled by bright turquoise eyes and that smile. “Did Doña Sagrada leave us dessert?”
“No, but I did.” I fetch the cake wrapped in butcher paper. We clear the dirty dishes onto a tray, and I undo the gold string.
“Is that…?” He doesn’t even finish his sentence before breaking off a piece and biting down.
Frosting from the olive oil cake is smeared across the wrapping where it fell. Castian wipes it and licks his fingertips. Just like that, a memory unfolds like a letter tucked safely in a drawer. I smooth out the creases and watch it:
Castian and I sneak down to the kitchens. He’s barefoot,
and I’ve borrowed a pair of his trousers to run better in
case we’re caught. We cut two giant slices of olive oil cake
and devour them, licking icing off our sticky little hands.
I think about what life would have been like if I’d never been taken from my family and if he’d never grown up trying to craft the reputation of a murderous royal. Perhaps we never stood a chance to be anything other than what we became, and we were always going to be a little bit broken. The memory slips back into my mind, but it isn’t painful like the others.
I watch Castian eat half the cake before I indignantly claim my share. When we’ve eaten every morsel and drunk all the wine, we linger in a comfortable kind of quiet we haven’t been able to find since we began our journey together.
“I’ll leave the tray outside,” he says.
In the bathing room, I change into my sleeping chemise and underbreeches. I brush my teeth and unsnag the tangles in my hair.
When I step back into the room, Castian is carrying two pillows off the bed.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I ask.
He looks up, a deer frozen in the woods. He’s taken off his shirt as he does when he sleeps. His underbreeches hang low on his hips. “I was going to sleep on the floor tonight.”
“Your princely hide will bruise if you sleep anywhere but a feathered mattress.”
“I’ve served in the military since I was eleven, Nati. Believe me, I can take it.”
“Doña Sagrada took every blanket except for this one, and you’ll freeze to death in the middle of the night.” I pull back one side of the bedspread. “Simply stay on your side.”
Tentatively, I crawl under the covers. There’s something in the way—a strange pillow full of beans. It’s warm to the touch. “Why would Doña Sagrada leave us this?”
“It’s a heating pad,” Castian says, scratching the back of his head. “For your—woman—lady—affairs.”
I find myself enjoying his inability to form words. “What do you know of it?”
“Nuria had one,” he says, by way of explanation. Then he climbs into bed with me. We lay on opposite sides, staring at the ceiling.
“I don’t sleep,” he tells me.
“Then what do you do?”
“Listen to you snore or mutter, mostly.”
I reach out to punch him, but the bed is fit for a king, and I only hit mattress. “I do not.”
His eyes flutter. “Tell me about my brother.”
I turn away from him and hug the heating pad to my lower belly. The tight pain there eases, and my eyes flutter. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything. Everything.”
But I can’t get the words out, not without breaking apart. So I close my eyes and fall into the pit of the Gray.
When I wake, the sun is rising, and the room is an oven. I realize the warmth is emanating from Castian. I’m in the crook of his arms, my palm splayed over his heart, his hand on my thigh.
His eyes are shut, and as I slip from his embrace, he remains completely asleep. I would laugh if he didn’t look so vulnerable. A sleeping prince out of a fairy tale.
I push away the realization that we wound up holding each other in the middle of the night. I’ve had to huddle with other people in my unit before, even Margo and Esteban, who hate me. But this is Castian. It can’t happen again. It won’t. I take a step back, and the floorboard groans loudly.
Castian jolts awake, drawing the knife he keeps on the bedside table and breathing hard and fast.
I hold my hands up in defense. “It’s me.”
Is this why he does not sleep? I know that feeling, the one that tells you the nightmares will find you, no matter what. Or in my case, the memories.
Except last night I dreamed of nothing. I saw only black.
“Sorry to wake you, princeling,” I say. “But we have to get ready to meet your informant.”
Outside, music booms, voices shout. The Carnaval de Santa Cariña has begun.
AFTER A QUICK BREAKFAST OF FRIED EGGS, SPICY SAUSAGES, AND BREAD, CASTIAN and I step out of the inn and into the fray. All of Acesteña and people from all over the kingdom flood the market square. There’s a parade of children in matching costumes, bagpipers, and women twirling in bright skirts. A horse-drawn carriage decked in flowers carries a young couple dressed in silver and green. Vendors ring bells to signal their stalls are open for business, offering wine and
food and trinkets.
“How are we going to find your informant in all of this?” I ask Castian.
He runs a hand along the short tuft of his beard. His eyes scan the crowd. “High noon at the seafood stall.”
“That’s hours from now.”
Castian reaches for my hair and removes a bit of dandelion fluff stuck in my braid crown. “We blend in. Walk around the stalls. Watch the parade. If you’re still hungry—”
“You’ll rue the day you threaten me with food.”
Castian smirks and offers me his arm. We’re dressed in the best clothes we have. His cream linen tunic has a high collar and intricate blue embroidery that matches the long bell sleeves of my dress. They’re in the regional style, and the first items he bought when we arrived. I thought it an unnecessary expense, but now the newlyweds we are supposed to be—Wilmer and Marcela Otsoa—don’t stand out.
We buy two slices of olive oil cake from the baker, pinxos of cubed pork and beef, sausages, a sample of cheeses, and two pear ciders. Castian picks a relatively quiet spot near the gazebo where we can spread our blanket and eat with an advantageous view of the crowd.
“I’ve never been to a festival like this,” I say.
“The Carnaval de Santa Cariña is singular to this region. Despite how small the village is, people journey from all over to watch the pageantry. I’d say it’s when the vendors make most of their business for the year.”
“Understandably.” I pick up the wooden pinxo and bite off one of the lamb cubes. “I could eat a dozen of these.”
Castian begins to stand. “I can go get more.”
I grab the hem of his sleeve and laugh. “I wasn’t serious.”
He frowns and points at the remnants of our feast. “The way you’ve eaten more than half of your share is very serious, wife.”
My eye twitches when he calls me that. But then I realize, it is the first morning that I haven’t had an occurrence. My mind is as clear as the blue sky above. I offer Castian the last sliver of cheese I was about to eat, and he devours it right out of my fingers.
“Don’t you two look lovely!” Doña Sagrada says, beaming as she walks up to us. She’s in her festival best—a green dress that matches the emerald gems dangling from her earlobes.
“Join us, Doña,” Castian says.
The innkeeper takes a seat on our blanket and immediately inquires about my health and the food last night. It’s almost refreshing having her take my mind off the impending meeting. Castian’s kept the identity of his informant a secret. As a former Whisper, I understand that too well. I lived and died by the grace of our hidden allies. But after our conversation last night, I wish I had waited before sending out my own letter beseeching a friend for help.
“Will you return to the capital after your honeymoon?” Doña Sagrada asks us.
We look at each other. We never decided on our story after leaving Acesteña, and a mild panic brings a stutter to my lips.
“Perhaps,” Castian says with a dreamy stare. He’s better than I am at coming up with lies, and people like the innkeeper hang on his every word. “There are still places in this great kingdom we long to see. Citadela Crescenti on the southern coast. The Zahara canyons in the north. We have all the time in the world.”
I suppose it does no harm to create such a fantasy. To imagine that we truly do have all the time in the world.
“If you ever find yourselves back in Acesteña, please come back to the inn. There’s so much you haven’t seen. The Sól Abene estates are marvelous. Did you know that Queen Penelope was from here? Bless her soul. Shame what happened to her family’s castle after she died so suddenly.”
I glance at Castian. The anguish in his features overwhelms me because I know what it is like to miss your mother so much it renders you helpless.
“Poor King Fernando,” Doña Sagrada continues. “So much tragedy. I do hope this new marriage to Queen Josephine is fruitful.”
“What’s the story behind this saint?” I ask brightly, switching the subject. “I don’t believe I know anything about her.”
“Well, Santa Cariña was said to have lived near here in Galicia valley. This was centuries ago, when the kingdom of Sól Abene had its dominion, of course. There was a terrible drought. Santa Cariña was an ordinary person then. She and her husband could not stand watching the people suffer, and so they made a bargain with the old gods. They gave her rain, but at a great price.”
“Saints require sacrifices, don’t they?” I ask.
Doña Sagrada nods sternly. “Santa Cariña and her beloved sacrificed themselves into the lake. The old gods were so grateful, their tears became rain. This is the day we celebrate life. Every year, there’s a reenactment in front of the cathedral. Don’t miss it!”
Doña Sagrada stands and quickly joins the revelers in scarves and lace masks. There are bagpipes and flutes, guitars, and tambourines. Children run across the lawn. Tiny crystals in the shape of raindrops line hems and cuffs.
I want to ask Castian whether he’s all right, but his deep frown answers that. We drink our pear ciders and sit side by side until it’s time to meet his informant.
At noon, we buy two briny oysters as big as Castian’s hands from the seafood stand. We wait for a moment, stealthily watching for some signal. An old man compliments my dress, but then takes the hand of his husband and keeps walking. Strangers offer us friendly cheers or tell us we’re blocking the path. High noon comes and goes. We retrace the perimeter of the market square again and again. We buy so many more oysters that all I can taste is salt.
“What if they had trouble at the tolls?” I whisper. “What if they were caught? Perhaps they were expecting to see you alone?”
Castian is tense as the lanterns strung from stall to stall are lit and the reenactment begins. Crowds amass by the flower arch in front of the cathedral. The couple who were in the parade now stand with the priest. Her dress is covered in raindrop crystals, and she wears a golden headpiece that looks like an aura. The young man is dressed in green, a silver scarf around his hips.
The old priest walks as slow as the seasons change, but his voice thunders. He recites the story of Santa Cariña while the lovers representing the saint and her husband dance to his words.
“Hear me, my great sky! Take my heart and soul but spare the people of Sól Abene,” Santa Cariña says.
“Spare us all,” the crowd murmurs. “Blessed be the Father of Worlds.”
The priest leads the revelers in a prayer.
“Excuse me, miss,” a familiar voice says just before I feel a hard shove on my shoulder.
Castian moves quickly between us, reaching for the knife in his boot, when I recognize my friend.
It takes all of me not to scream Leonardo’s name and embrace him. His bright green eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles. His flop of black curls is dusted in beige powder, and his somber servant garb is dirty, but it’s him. I know it is.
“No problem at all, traveler,” I say, squeezing Castian’s hand in mine. “What are you doing here?”
As the priest’s prayer comes to an end, the music resumes, and the three of us move our little cluster just outside the buoyant crowd in the market. Leo eyes Castian from head to toe, but all he sees is a stranger. I try to convey that the stranger is trustworthy. We have much to speak about.
“We must hurry,” Leo says, glancing back at the main road that snakes from the valley into the village green. He opens his simple black vest and reveals a pendant. Three mountain peaks with a sun at the center. The personal crest of Lady Nuria, Duquesa of Tresoros. “A sweep is coming.”
The energy in the air shifts—the Carnaval revelers know something is wrong, too. There’s the thundering sound of horses. Soldiers wearing the scarlet garb of the Second Sweep crest a hill on the main road and encircle the square. Confusion and fear mingle in gasps and whispers.
“Keep going,” I say, but the rearing form of a horse blocks my path. Castian pulls me against his body,
and I barely avoid having my skull cracked by hooves.
“Back in the square!” the soldier demands.
Castian’s fingers dig into my shoulders, leading me back into the fray.
“What do we do?” I hiss. “And do not say we need to remain calm.”
I remember the town of Puerto Dorado. Anyone harboring Moria families and deniers of the Father of Worlds was ordered to be turned over. Every house was searched, and every store cellar was emptied, but all they did was arrest the town drunk and a man who had ancient reliquaries of the old gods. They watched as the justice set fire to the heretic’s house. Following these usual manipulative strategies, the Second Sweep returned two days later to help the citizens and remind them that they would have been peaceful had it not been for the Moria and other dissidents.
Among them was Prince Castian.
I hated him then, and that feeling resurfaces as we watch soldiers corral the villagers in one area. Those on foot drag vendors out of their stalls, mowing over bread rolls and bins of pistachios. The bakery’s pastries and cakes are crushed in the dirt. One of the men takes a bottle of wine from the vintner and yanks the cork free with his teeth. He spits it on the ground and takes a swig.
A moment later, a scream comes from somewhere across the crowd. The soldiers have grabbed the young couple dressed as Santa Cariña and her husband, ripping off their crowns and sashes, their flowers and scarves. A woman beside me sobs, and I feel myself sink into that pitch-black void where my memories live.
The last of the Second Sweep procession gives way to two closed carriages displaying the Sól Abene family seal. A man climbs out of one carriage, flanked by two personal guards. Duque Sól Abene is a severe, bearded man with sharp cheekbones and furry dark eyebrows that frame tourmaline-black eyes. His creamy white skin is flushed. I remember seeing him briefly at the palace, and though he looks the same, the bruised shadows under his eyes are recent.
Illusionary Page 5