Isle of Blood and Stone

by Makiia Lucier

  “An orphanage that burned down hundreds of years ago,” Ulises mused. “What does it have to do with anything?”

  That, Elias could not answer. But . . . “Javelin is next to the meadow where your brothers were taken. You see?”

  “Yes.” Beside the forest was another clearing, this one bordered on three sides by a lemon grove, and on the fourth side by a hill covered in black rock.

  Elias said, “It was the only oddity I could find before I lost the light.” And finding more would take time. The images were so small that to study them for any length of time left him with a violent headache. It was almost as if the painter had not intended for anyone to actually see his work.

  Ulises returned to his chair and propped his chin on his fist. “No one with any sense enters Javelin. Unless they have a death wish. Perhaps it is a trick.”

  Isn’t that what Elias had said all along? “I’ll find out.”

  Ulises heard what was not said. He asked carefully, “Then you’ll see it through?”

  Elias sat, weary beyond all measure. He was filthy; he was hungry. This day had gone on forever. “Are you giving me a choice?”

  Ulises looked away, studying the moon for some time. Then, quietly, “I know what is said about me. That my reign is one born of tragedy. That I am king by default, the prince of mischance. Cursed.”

  For the first time, Elias saw a trace of bitterness around his friend’s mouth. “Ulises—”

  “And I know you’ve had your fist bloodied more than once in my defense,” Ulises said. “Don’t think I don’t know what a friend you’ve been to me.”

  When they were boys, a fellow explorer, Luca, had repeated something about this supposed curse within his hearing. Elias had bloodied his nose and made him take the words back. It wasn’t just Luca. He had not known Ulises was aware of what others said. It made him angry to think of it.

  “Who cares what anyone else thinks?”

  “I do,” Ulises answered. “I know my skin is supposed to be thick. But I care what my kingdom thinks of me.”

  “It’s not your kingdom that thinks these things,” Elias said. “It’s only a few, and they can go to the serpents.”

  Ulises looked over with a half smile. “We can’t feed them all to the serpents. But if possible, I would have the truth, one way or the other.” He rubbed his face with both hands. Elias was not the only one who was weary. “How can I look at these maps, see this riddle, and do nothing? They are my brothers.”

  Elias felt a tightness in his chest, even as he said, “They are dead.”

  “It’s likely,” Ulises acknowledged. “Prove it, and we’ll never speak of it again.”

  Elias reached across the table and flicked aside two shells with a fingertip. The map curled into itself. “It’s bound to be a goose chase. You know that?”

  “Or a treasure hunt,” Ulises countered, “and you’ve always been good at those.” A lengthy pause. “I meant no insult to you, or to your lord father. That was not my intent.”

  Elias nodded, saying nothing. And when that did not feel sufficient, he cleared his throat and offered, “I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way, in front of others.”

  Ulises smiled. As an apology to a king, it was a sad, feeble thing. But to a friend? Well. It was good enough.

  Elias returned his smile, the tension easing from his shoulders. A thought occurred to him. “Why did Reyna bring her map to you, and not to her grandfather?”

  Ulises thought back. “He wasn’t in Cortes that day,” he said, then surprised Elias by laughing. “You should have seen her. She didn’t send a note asking to speak to me. She gave her name to the steward and waited in the queue with everyone else.”

  Elias thought of Reyna purchasing the map with her own coin, and he pictured her sitting quietly in the king’s antechamber along with councilors and scribes and merchants, anyone seeking an audience with the king. The chamber was a daunting place for adults, all booming voices and men constantly speaking over one another. Reyna was only nine. Or ten. Whichever. Sitting in one of those chairs, her feet would not have even touched the ground. The image made him smile.

  Glancing at the parchment and the inkpots scattered around the maps, he asked, “What are these?”

  Ulises grimaced. “Everything you can imagine. Land disputes in the north. Tax disputes in the east. The head monk on Valdemossa needs funds for a new hospital. And you should see what our emissaries claim they need. You would think we send them off without a single gold squid to support them.”

  “You’ll sign all of them?” Elias asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Why can’t the scribes do it? Or Mercedes? She’s an excellent forger.”

  “She’s already offered,” Ulises said. “I’d rather do it myself. I want to know what has my name on it.”

  Elias was quiet. They lived by the sea, where the sun shone bright most of the year. Yet Ulises wore the pallor of a full-blooded Mondragan. How much time did he spend trapped in here with his inkpots and his councilors? Elias indicated the stacks of parchment and asked, “You enjoy this? Governing?”

  “Most times I do.”

  “So did your father,” Elias remembered, “but even he took a day for himself now and again. Del Mar would not collapse if you eased off a bit.”

  “An empty day?” Ulises looked baffled by the notion. “I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

  “Do what all kings do. Go to your summer palace. Hunt wild pigs. Lie on the beach and have a pretty girl feed you grapes.”

  Ulises snorted, and Elias said, “No, I’m serious. In Hellespont, King Ari took his afternoon meal on the beach, every day, and grapes were fed to him.”

  “By a pretty girl?”

  “By a man.” Elias frowned at the memory. “He looked like me somewhat. It was disconcerting.”

  Ulises laughed, a generous, rolling sound that was contagious. “Maybe later.” He looked down at the map, his amusement fading. “Javelin, Elias. Of all places. How will you get in safely? How will you get out?”

  Elias had been wondering the same thing, ever since he had spotted the abbess and her faceless wards. And because it was just the two of them, he answered honestly.

  “Old friend, I’m damned if I know.”

  Elias owned two estates: one in the central mountains, the other on the northeastern coast. But when he was in Cortes, he lived in the castle, on the uppermost level of the Tower of Winds. These chambers had been empty for some time before he’d taken them over four years ago. The last person who’d lived here had been Lord Antoni, before his marriage.

  Elias’s work chamber was as he’d left it, filled with globes, sundials, and, to anyone but him, a seemingly endless collection of compasses. Dry compasses and wet compasses. Crude compasses fashioned from halved coconut shells. Another set within an ivory box. There were maps everywhere, framed on walls or rolled into teetering pyramids upon every surface. A single candle burned on a table, but the chamber just beyond, his bedchamber, was brightly lit.

  He found Basilio kneeling beside his open trunk, feeding his clothes into the fire. Elias could not help a laugh. “Those are usable still,” he said in greeting, tossing his carrier onto the bed.

  When Elias had moved from the family home into the castle, Basilio had come with him. Reluctantly. Elias’s mother had known that if left to his own whims, her son would gladly spend his days in what she called his “mapper’s rags,” frayed clothing stained with ancient paint and charcoal dust, and bring her an everlasting shame. Basilio had accepted his new responsibilities with the squared shoulders and stoicism of a man wrongfully condemned.

  Basilio continued to feed the flames. He was several years older than Elias, short and round-faced, as neatly dressed as Elias was not. He said, “There are washerwomen in Hellespont. Seamstresses, menders . . .” He glanced across the chamber at Elias and closed his eyes briefly. “There are people to trim your hair. Surely it did not need to come to this.”

&nb
sp; Elias ran a hand down his face, so rough it could sand driftwood, and offered the same words he used whenever he returned from off island. “Apologies, Basilio. I’ll try to do better next time.”

  Basilio sighed, knowing he was being humored. “Welcome home, Lord Elias,” he said. “Supper or a bath. Which would you like first?”

  At the word bath, Elias raised one arm and sniffed, rearing back in disgust. Basilio was already heading toward the adjacent bathing chamber when Elias said, “A bath.”

  For Elias, the long night was not over. Basilio had long since retired to his own chambers one level below when his master dressed in dark clothing, grabbed his carrier and his dagger, and headed out into the night. Early summer brought with it warmer days, but nightfall still carried a chill, and he was left wishing he had thought to bring a cloak.

  At the castle gates, he ducked beneath the portcullis just as it began a slow, rattling descent. When one of the guards called down a warning, “Lord Elias, the gates will be closed until sunrise,” Elias raised a hand in acknowledgment, said “Then I’ll see you tomorrow,” and continued on his way.

  It was for the best. The angry words he’d thrown at Mercedes bothered him, and even now it was tempting to steal away to her wing of the castle and pound on her door. He kicked at a rock, sent it spinning down the street. Better the gates were locked behind him. Better he stayed away tonight.

  Like most large cities, Cortes’s parishes were shaped by profession. In one quarter, he passed the shuttered storefronts of fabric sellers and purse makers, hatters and glove makers. In another, the goldsmiths and silversmiths. Rings and necklaces would be on proud display in the daylight hours, alongside delicate cups and bowls painted with images of the sea: sirens, serpents, a storm-tossed ship. Near the harbor, merchants catered to travelers by selling maps and compasses and the services of guides and translators.

  He wandered through narrow, mazy lanes, guided by the moon and the flickering of candlelight in the windows. A solitary figure in the night. Or nearly so. As he turned down one street, a dark form held up a wall, eyeing him from the shadows. Elias placed a hand on the hilt of his dagger; he made sure the stranger saw him do it. “I would not try it,” he advised, and after a brief, considering moment, his would-be robber melted back into the stones.

  After a time, he found himself on the edge of town in the parish of St. Medina, home to many of the island’s noble families. The streets were wider here, cleaner, with high sandstone walls shielding the luxury within. He stopped before one wall and ran a hand along the stone. The notches were where he remembered. Grabbing hold, he climbed up and over, dropping lightly to his feet. A large house rose before him, windows shuttered and dark. A fountain trickled quietly in the courtyard. Circling the house, he made his way around to the back and let himself in, expecting to feel his way about in blackness. To his surprise, the kitchen fireplace gave off a faint glow. Immediately, he felt a knife at his jugular.

  “I’m tempted to slice your gullet first, then ask questions second, thief.” The voice was the scraping of a blade against stone. As familiar to Elias as his own.

  “Papa, it’s me.”

  “Elias?” The knife disappeared. “What are you doing, skulking in the dark?”

  “I wasn’t skulking. I didn’t want to wake—” he managed, before his mother’s husband grabbed him up in a bone-crushing embrace.

  Lord Isidore was del Mar’s Lord Exchequer, principal guardian of the royal finances. He was a big man, taller even than Elias and twice his width. A full, bushy beard showed more black than gray. His stepfather was considered a stern, intimidating figure to many. But most did not have the pleasure of seeing him as he was now, dressed in a voluminous white night robe with lace at the sleeves. He had come into Elias’s life when the boy was nearly five, wooing both mother and son with such single-minded determination that Sabine, Lady Isidore, laughingly referred to their courtship as a siege.

  Lord Isidore stepped back and inspected him, frowning. “Your maman is not going to like what’s happened to your face.”

  “I know it. I wasn’t sure I’d find you here.”

  “You nearly did not. We leave in the morning. Are you hungry? Come, help me eat this.”

  This was a feast. In the center of the kitchen was the cook’s worktable. Lord Isidore had pulled from the larder bread, lobster, fish eggs, and crab legs the size of a man’s forearm. So much food that Elias could almost believe he had been expected.

  At the very edge of the table was a straw basket. As he watched, a small, dimpled leg poked straight up in the air before dangling over the side.

  Lord Isidore looked over his shoulder at the basket. “He’s just over a fever,” he said in a low voice. “Let’s speak quietly here.”

  Elias propped his carrier against the table before leaning over Jonas, the youngest of his three siblings, who had passed his first birthday while Elias was on Hellespont. A thumb was planted firmly in his mouth. In the time Elias had been gone, his brother’s cheeks had hollowed out some, so that he looked more child than infant.

  “He looks just like Nieve,” Elias said quietly, with some surprise. Nieve was his sister closest to him in age, at twelve. Lea was six. “He’s twice the size I remember.”

  Lord Isidore had settled comfortably into a chair. He pointed a crab leg at Elias in warning. “Don’t say that to your maman. Please. She’s already hinting at another.”

  Elias grimaced at the thought, then kissed Jonas on the forehead. “You’re both too old to be having babies. I’m embarrassed every time another appears.”

  His comment provoked a low rumble of laughter from Lord Isidore, who said, “Sleep in your old chamber tonight. Don’t argue. You give me gray hairs, wandering the streets at this hour.”

  Elias smiled. Already he was glad to have come here. Almost, he could forget the maps in his carrier with their unsettling riddle. He said, “I’ve wandered through worse.”

  “Don’t remind me.” Lord Isidore gestured toward the food. “Eat, and tell me why you’re a month late returning home. You know your maman worries.”

  Elias was hungry, though he had eaten his fill just hours ago. He was also chilled; the fire was in danger of disappearing completely. A leather tub filled with water and dwarf sea serpents occupied its usual place in the corner. The serpents were about three feet long. One had to be mindful because they resembled the harmless sea worm, but these were malicious, with sharp teeth and nasty dispositions. Delicious, though. Most had drifted to the bottom, where they curled around one another in sleep, blissfully unaware the cook intended them for supper. Only one remained on the surface, jade green in color and swimming the edges of the tub in slow, desultory circles.

  Elias shoved his sleeves past his elbows and reached into the tub, snatching the snake just behind its mouth and grabbing its tail with his other hand. Ignoring his stepfather’s terse “For pity’s sake, boy, have a care!” he strode toward the fireplace. Aiming the snake at the embers, he gave the tail one swift yank and loosened his hold on the jaw, enough so that the snake, riled and indignant, spewed forth a single stream of fire. Instantly the fire crackled and burned with a welcoming heat. Satisfied, Elias tossed the snake back into the tub. It gave off one last resentful hiss before slithering beneath the surface.

  Lord Isidore was torn between consternation and amusement. “You could not use a poker like the rest of us?”

  Elias grinned. “This was quicker.”

  “I’ve missed you, boy.” Lord Isidore shoved the platter of lobster his way. “When does your ship leave next?”

  “Six weeks.”

  They stayed up for a time, sharing their news. Lord Isidore did not live in the city during the summer months but conducted his affairs from the family home outside the northern village of Esperanca. Elias had never been more grateful for its distance. Any news and gossip they received from Cortes would be few and far between. It would be better if his family was away, safe from any whispers that
might stray to their ears.

  A memory came to him, of sitting outside Lord Silva’s chambers for the first time, no older than five, watching the geographers hard at their work and the giant, brooding statue of Saint Cosme.

  The door had been left ajar. From Lord Silva, Elias heard, Of course we’ll see to the child’s training. Nothing would give me greater pleasure. But are you certain, Isidore?

  I am.

  Truly? Elias is your son now, under the law, to follow whatever path you choose for him. It is your right.

  A rueful laugh from his stepfather. That may be, but the boy isn’t meant to live his life indoors, with an abacus. A chair scraped. Do you know . . . he spends his days copying Antoni’s maps? He’s quite good at it. And last week, he disappeared after supper. We turned the parish upside down searching for him. Sabine was frantic.

  Where was he?

  I found him on the roof. He was trying to chart the stars. A brief silence fell before Lord Isidore continued, quieter, so Elias had to lean closer to the door to hear. I have a wife and a son now, Lord Silva. I won’t begrudge Antoni this. Please, I would like you to train the child.

  Very well.

  What would happen to Elias’s family if the existence of the maps became known? Even if nothing were proven, the validity of Lord and Lady Isidore’s marriage would be called into question, as well as the legitimacy of their three children. The world was an unkind place to bastards. His sister’s marriage prospects would suffer greatly. And his mother . . . he looked away from the carrier propped against the table and tried not to think of the maps rolled within. Resenting their very existence.

  Ink and paint and parchment, a threat to his family.

  Jonas stirred in his basket. Elias gathered him up before he could wake the entire household, cradling him against his shoulder and walking the length of the chamber, over and over, until his brother settled. He was comforted just being under this roof, knowing his family was safe within, and passing the small hours of the night with the man who had raised him.