by Carson Rae
A startling thought. “How can that be?”
He shrugs. “Maybe they lived far from a monastery, raised in superstition, ignorant of their destiny. Maybe they died—or were killed—before they could complete their service. Who really knows?”
“So it is possible.” My greatest fear realized. Destiny is too fluid a thing to ensure with a mere stone. “It’s possible to die before completing the service.”
“Oh, yes. Of these names”—he waves an arm above the list—“fewer than half performed recognizable acts of service. And most of them died young. And brutally. Like Hitzeder the bowman, who died with an arrow in his heart.”
Not very good odds.
A sharp ache is forming behind my eyes, the ache of worry and unshed tears. I pinch the bridge of my nose and say, “Why are you telling me this? My nurse . . . she is, that is—”
“She’s your guardian. The lady Ximena would give her life for you.”
“She’s my nurse.” She’s more than that, of course, but I’m tired and surly.
“A guardian is selected by the nearest monastery to watch over the bearer. In Orovalle, I’m sure her job included seeing to your ignorance on certain prophetic matters. Actually—” He looks away, into the dark. “I’d prefer she not know about this conversation. As head priest of the Monastery-at-Brisadulce, it’s my duty to instruct you, to prepare you in any way I can. But a Vía-Reforma would see things very differently.”
She’s done more than watch over me. “She killed a man once. Because he learned I bear the stone.” I watch him closely for a response, but his sharp face is stolid. “With a hairpin,” I add, and am satisfied with a telltale twitch.
“Lady Ximena is a formidable woman.” His voice holds both respect and fear.
It was very kind of him to meet me at this horrid hour and instruct me at risk to himself. I reach forward and take his hand. “My nurse will not know of this meeting.”
He squeezes back, needing assurance as much as giving it. In spite of the night’s revelations, I am filled with the warmth of knowing I have a friend.
“God always chooses well, my child. I will help you any way I can.”
I take a deep breath to still the fear that vibrates in my chest. “If he chooses so well, why have so many bearers failed? Why does he sometimes ignore my prayers?”
“I don’t know, Elisa. There are many things about the Godstone and its bearers that we do not understand. But God knows. He knows more than we can imagine.”
Aneaxi’s words, before God let her die. Though I have enough control to keep from rolling my eyes at him, I can’t force the proper platitudes to my lips. Would he still believe me a worthy bearer if he knew of the doubts always sneaking into my thoughts?
The stool creaks as I rise. “Thank you, Father. I have more questions, but I’m tired, and I . . . well, I need to think about all this for a bit.”
He stands and grabs my upper arm. “I have something for you, before you go.”
As he disappears again into the dark, I stretch and yawn. I hope it’s a copy of Homer’s Afflatus. I’d dearly love to study it myself. Ximena could not know I possessed it, of course, and different hiding places compete in my mind for viability while I wait.
He’s gone a long time. I hear ruffled parchment, the click of a key and lock, a grating sound. When he reenters our meager pool of candlelight, he holds a fist-size leather pouch with long drawstrings that dangle between his fingers.
Not the Afflatus. I try not to seem disappointed. “What is it?”
He upends the pouch. Three small, sparkling items clatter onto the table. I lean closer. They are faceted jewels the size of my thumbnail, mostly dull in the dark but with hints of fire where the candlelight catches them just right. Deep blue. Familiar. I pick one up; it’s cold and hard in my palm.
“Godstones,” Father Nicandro says.
I catch my breath. It’s so different outside of the body, heavy and lifeless.
“This monastery had the privilege of overseeing three bearers. When they died, their Godstones detached. That one”—he points to one on the table—“is twelve hundred years old.”
It’s a strange feeling to hold my history in my hand. And as the stone in my navel pulses a warm greeting in contrast to the cold thing in my palm, I realize it’s my future too. My death.
I drop it next to the others and wipe my hand on my robe.
Nicandro gathers them into the leather pouch and pulls the drawstrings tight. “No one but a bearer can harness the power of a Godstone. I don’t know if any power remains in the old ones, but you might find them useful.” He hands it over with a shrug.
I’m not ready to take it from him just yet. “And if I die? Before doing some kind of service?”
“Then I’ll take them back. Along with your own stone.”
It’s his candor that convinces me to grab the little bag. He has frightened me with his forthrightness, but it makes me feel as though I can trust him. I shove it in the pocket of my dressing robe.
“Anything else I can do for you tonight, Highness?”
My stomach growls just then, and I flinch, embarrassed.
He chuckles. “We priests keep odd hours, and our kitchen is never closed.”
So it is laden with two pomegranate scones—one in my pocket, one in hand—that I creep back to my suite. I’m buzzing with new knowledge as I walk the quiet, torchlit corridors, nibbling on a scone: Homer’s Afflatus, the failed bearers before me, the guardian in the guise of a nurse.
The gates of the enemy.
I went to the priest seeking an advantage, something that would help me play the game of power here in Joya d’Arena and make me significant to Alejandro. Instead, my path is more shadowy than ever.
Like a pig to the slaughter.
Now, it would be enough simply to survive.
I round the corner that leads to my suite and stop short, just quick enough to keep crumbs from getting on the rough cotton robe that looms before me.
“Elisa!” Ximena wraps me in an embrace, and I mash crumbs all over her robe anyway. She grabs my shoulders and thrusts me backward. “Where were you?” Her voice is harsh with anger and fear.
I hold up the half-eaten scone. “I was hungry.”
“Oh, Elisa. My sky. I woke up and thought I’d try and finish your skirt and I went to the atrium to get everything and I couldn’t hear you breathing and . . .” She takes a ragged breath. “You should have awakened me. I’d have gone with you.”
My guardian.
I know that watching over me is her duty, that her passion is fueled by centuries of a religious fervor I’m only beginning to understand. But the way her eyes caress my face and the way her hands rub up and down my arms with desperate relief are testament to something deeper.
My nurse.
“I’m sorry.” I reach into my pocket for the second scone, and my fingertips brush the leather pouch. It feels so huge and bulky there, and I worry that Ximena will see its shape through the fabric. “I . . . um . . . brought you a scone.”
She takes it from me, a soft smile curving thin lips. “Thank you.” She turns and links a companionable arm in mine to escort me back.
Ximena is tall and sturdy and strong. As we walk together, arm in arm, I lean my head against her shoulder, taking comfort in her solid familiarity.
Later that night, when I am certain Ximena again sleeps, I creep out to the balcony and bury my dead Godstones at the root of my potted palm tree.
Chapter 10
DAYS later, Ximena and I are in the kitchens—avoiding the dining hall yet again—lunching on soft venison with piquant currant sauce. The kitchen master is more ragged than usual, hardly acknowledging me in his rush to get a huge batch of pollo pibil just right. I chew contentedly and watch him spice the chicken breast with garlic and cumin, then drizzle it with soured orange juice and wrap it in packets of banana leaves.
“Are we expecting guests?” I ask through a mouthful of meat.
I swallow half-chewed food and wince at the lump in my chest. “You mean he’s back?”
He carries packets of meat to the coals for burying. “Got back last night.”
The venison weighs in my gut like a rock. Alejandro returned. And he didn’t even tell me.
I drag my nurse back to our suite so I can freshen up and don my new skirt. Ximena crafted it to flow around my legs rather than stick to them like a wet blanket. I want to brush my hair, rub a little carmine onto my lips, maybe.
Cosmé is out on the balcony when we arrive. She’s hanging my sheepskin rug over the edge and beating it with a wooden club. She doesn’t look up as we enter, but calls out, “His Majesty came by while you were out.”
“Oh?” I don’t want to gratify her with too much interest.
“He wants you to attend the prince’s reception tonight.”
I don’t know of any reception.
It’s odd. I’ve never been one to enjoy a feast or ball or even the yearly Deliverance gala. Still, it rankles to know a celebration is being planned that I knew nothing about. I feel so disjointed and out of place. My undefined status here is partly my fault, I know. Perhaps if I dined with the rest of Alejandro’s household, or showed a tiny interest in palace affairs, things would be different.
Cosmé pushes the potted palm aside to give herself more room to flip the rug. I wince, thinking of the Godstones now buried in the soft soil.
“Where will the reception be held?” I ask to distract her from the palm.
“The king said there will be an official grand entrance in the receiving hall. You’re to stand on the dais with the Quorum of Five. I’ll show you where to go.”
Standing on a dais sounds frightfully conspicuous. “Thank you, Cosmé.”
“Hmph.” She curtsies, her face expressionless.
Alejandro’s receiving hall shines with gaudiness. It’s long and rectangular, with a high arched ceiling painted in curling roses and exaggerated thorn spikes. Chandeliers drip an even line of crystal from dais to double doors. The thrones are especially excessive with their gilded lines and plump velvet and backs that reach twice the height of a man.
The king does not rise to greet me, but he smiles and kisses my hand, and my face flames. I take my place on the dais along with the members of the Quorum, slightly behind Alejandro’s throne, looking over his dark head at the milling nobility. A favored position, I assume, until I see Condesa Ariña reach out and rest a casual hand against the empty throne beside him. Her claim looks real and right somehow. Maybe because she is the only thing of true beauty in this repellent place, with her corsetless gown of simple ivory that hangs like gossamer from a gather beneath her breasts. She gazes down at the king, her eyes soft and luminous. It’s the look of someone pleasantly drowsy after eating an enormous piece of mango pie.
Alejandro ignores her, just stares out across his buzzing throng of subjects.
Lord Hector is a tall pillar beside me. I feel his soft breath against my ear. “As a princess of Orovalle,” he whispers, “you needn’t kneel when His Highness comes through the doors.”
I smile up at him gratefully.
A hush settles over the swarm, and it seems as though a wave passes through the people as bodies turn toward the towering double doors. Faintly at first, I hear the first chords of Vieira’s “Entrada Triunfal.” The vihuelas crescendo, the doors open.
A group of people enters, backlit and indistinct at this distance, and the multitude drops to one knee en masse. The music intensifies as they approach. A boy leads them. He’s small and sulky and profoundly interested in the tassels that flutter with each step of his pertly red-dyed slippers. I fight the urge to giggle.
He makes his way forward in an approximation of a straight line. A skinny, pinched-faced woman offers encouragement by way of regular nudging. At last, he draws near enough that I can see his face clearly; little Rosario is a model of his father, with the same cinnamon eyes, the same dark, curling hair. But there is a cast to his features, something delicate in his chin and cheekbones that speaks of other blood. I wonder what Alejandro sees when he looks at his son, whether it’s a shadow of himself, or a reminder of the woman he loved and lost.
A movement catches my attention. Next to the empty queen’s throne, Condesa Ariña has risen from her kneeling position. She clasps her hands to her breast and gazes at the boy with such maternal longing that I want to smack her.
Rosario is nearly to the dais when Alejandro reaches out his arms. In a flash, the little boy tumbles up the steps and launches onto the king’s lap. The reception hall echoes with soft amusement as they embrace. Alejandro rises, the boy’s arms hooked firmly about his neck, and intones, “My son, Prince Rosario de Vega, heir to the throne of our great nation.”
As the crowd roars, I try to remember if Papá ever made such a fuss over me, or even Alodia. If so, I was too young to recall. Or maybe fuss is reserved for sons.
Alejandro introduces the boy to the members of the Quorum sharing his dais: General Luz-Manuel, Condesa Ariña, Lord Hector, Conde Eduardo. At last it’s my turn. Alejandro balances the boy on one knee as he twists to face me. “And this is Princess Elisa. She is here on behalf of her father, King Hitzedar of Orovalle.” A simple introduction for a child.
Prince Rosario looks up from his father’s lap. Such a sweet face with gentle lines, wide eyes, and spider-leg lashes. He looks me over, his eyes grow rounder, and he says in a high voice clear as monastery bells, “You’re fat.”
Sharp intakes of breath. Then silence, taut and heavy. Alejandro’s face is frozen, and the hand clutching his son’s tiny shoulder whitens. Surely the entire nobility can hear my heart beating, my every breath. For a brief moment, I consider fleeing, but even in my shocked state, I know things would be worse for me if I did.
So I do the only thing I can.
I laugh. I laugh like it’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard. The sound is too loud, too forced, but after a moment it doesn’t matter because the dam of silence bursts and the crowd’s relieved laughter joins mine.
The sitting cushions are absent from the dining hall that night, for there is room only for standing. Everyone mills about, pinching bits of the kitchen master’s pollo pibil from blackened banana leaves and drinking sweet late-harvest wine.
Several people approach me, smiling and at ease, to chatter and inquire about my well-being. They’ve never taken an interest before, and I realize a barrier between us is gone, ripped away by the words of a child. I can’t decide whether or not I’m glad for it.
I’m blissfully chewing on shredded chicken, savoring the tang of cumin and garlic across my tongue, when Condesa Ariña sidles next to me, wineglass in hand.
“Highness.” Her voice is as high and clear as Rosario’s.
“Condesa.”
“Are you enjoying yourself?”
Alejandro’s court eddies around us. I want to flee to my suite and bury myself in blankets. “Oh, yes. I’m having a lovely time. Prince Rosario is quite charming.”
“He is.” She lifts the wineglass to pink lips but only pretends to sip. Does she ever eat anything?
“And of course, the pollo pibil is excellent,” I say. “Alejandro chose well. You should have some.” I’m deeply satisfied by the hint of a question in her brow. Maybe she knows nothing about the king’s food preferences. Maybe she doesn’t like hearing me refer to him with such familiarity.
“I had some earlier. It was delicious.” Of course I don’t believe her. “You know,” she continues, and the way she looks at me with those startling honey-gold eyes makes me feel like a mouse in a trap. “What Rosario said. In front of everyone. No one really thinks that about you.”
I stare at her, a little disappointed at her lack of subtlety. I know I’m just a girl, but I expected better from her. I shrug and say, “‘From the mouths of innocents flows truth . . . ’”
She looks at me blankly. “Oh. You’re quoting something. Everyone just adores how devout you are. I’ve considered studying the scriptures more. So much wisdom to be gained. If only I had more time.”
It’s possible that her words are a peace offering, however slight. But her benevolent gaze is too self-aware, her wineglass too full. “I highly recommend it, even for those not suited to the complexity of in-depth scriptural study.”
I see the precise moment she extracts the poorly veiled insult from my words. She curtsies, graceful as always. “Well, enjoy the rest of the evening, Highness.”
As she drifts away in her gossamer gown, a deep voice at my ear says, “Don’t underestimate her, Princess.” Startled, I look up at Lord Hector. His handsome face is very close, and as always, the wheel of thought spins beneath his placid surface. “She is more formidable, more intelligent, than she seems.”
I nod, swallowing the unexpected lump in my throat as he slips away.
I continue to graze while performing the parrying dance of polite conversation. My eyes never stray far from Alejandro’s lanky form. He circulates among his guests with captivating ease. After a while, I can eat no more.
The light shafts slipping through high windows narrow, then disappear. Servants bring torches and sconce them at regular intervals along the sandstone walls. They clear the serving tables of pollo pibil and replace it with platters of iced melon and peeled grapes.
I catch a glimpse of Ximena. She leans against the wall, her face shadowed. She has been close by since the prince’s grand entry, a silent companion. It would be nice to be invisible like she is, and I wonder what she has observed this night.
I follow the focus of her gaze, across the heads of overdressed nobles to where Alejandro stands, his arm linked in Ariña’s. They chat with General Luz-Manuel. The king laughs at something he says; the sound carries over the general din and makes me shiver. Ariña rises on tiptoes and kisses his cheek. He leans into the kiss.
The spicy meat churns in my stomach, telling me I’ll have trouble sleeping tonight. Still, the iced melons, golden with honey glaze, are too delightful to resist. Their chilly sweetness bursts across my tongue. I eat another, and another.