Isle of Blood and Stone

by Makiia Lucier

  Luca’s sigh lasted a full five seconds. “There’s an empty chamber next to mine. I’ll find your Mondragan. I suppose he can use it.”

  Elias smiled down at his friend. “I owe you one.”

  “You owe me twenty,” Luca corrected, but there was a smile in his voice.

  Elias turned to go, then stopped. “Do you know Judge Piri?”

  The change in topic took Luca a moment. “The harbor judge?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sure,” Luca said, “My father makes his shoes. I used to go with him to the judge’s house when I was a boy. His left foot is larger than his right. Did you know that?”

  “No,” Elias said. “Did you ever meet his wife? Or his daughter?”

  Luca frowned, shook his head. “They were already gone.”

  “How? Was it fever? An accident?”

  A strange expression crossed Luca’s face. “They’re not dead, Elias. Why are you asking?”

  “He said they were . . .” In his mind’s eye, Elias was back at the harbor. He saw the miniature, set in silver, of a woman and a child.

  They are very beautiful, Elias had said.

  They were.

  What had Piri meant, if not death?

  “Luca, what happened to them?”

  Luca told him. And just like that, the truth caught up with him. He stood there, on the bottom step in the Tower of Winds, conscious only of a great spiraling horror.

  Elias told no one where he was going. To Basilio, he said only that he was riding south, that he would be back when he was back. Basilio had time enough to throw some clothing in a pack before Elias snatched it from him and left.

  The journey would take all night. For that reason, he left Pythagoras behind. His horse was fast, but riding him the whole way meant they would have to stop and rest. Quicker to take one of the castle horses and replace it with fresh ones along the way.

  It was dusk when he rode beneath the castle portcullis and tore down streets lined with palms. He caught a glimpse of Madame Vega leaving a church. He nearly ran over Commander Aimon and Lazar. He heard his name shouted but did not stop. Later, he would see how foolish his actions had been. To go off without telling a soul where he was bound. But in the shocked turmoil of his mind, it made sense that he should stay quiet. He could not speak to anyone of what he suspected until he was certain. And though he knew what he would find at the end of his journey, there was a desperate need in him to see it.

  He reached behind him for his carrier, assuring himself that the map was safe, and rode on.

  The landscape flashed by him in a blur. Bustling city gave way to towns and villages that grew fewer and farther between as he rode south. Night brought the mosquitoes in droves. He took the shortest route he knew, at times bypassing Marinus Road in favor of the coastal roads, which were less crowded and not as popular with thieves. Supper was a hurried affair at an inn. His horse was exchanged. And later, when exhaustion threatened to topple him from his saddle, he snatched a few hours’ sleep under an outcropping of rock with a view of the sea. Sometime in the hours before dawn, he remembered where he had first seen Reyna’s attacker. He felt cold inside.

  Another piece of the puzzle, suddenly clear.

  He arrived at Alfonse in the early morning hours. Rather than enter the gates, he rode past until he reached the very tip of the island, where the cliffs dropped straight into the sea. Exhausted, sore, he slid from his horse. He left the animal by a tree and walked as close as he dared to the cliff’s edge. He was utterly alone here. The wind was at his back. The surf churned below. To his right was the southern beacon, only ten years old.

  He unrolled the map onto the dirt. South of del Mar, a cluster of islets had been painted. Cali, St. Carlo, Olivos. He looked up, eyes traveling south, and felt his heart break all over again. How had he not seen it?

  A fourth island was visible, though it had not been painted on either map.

  Adventurer, two princes lost but not gone.

  Follow the path of the ancient mariners, Tramontana to Ostro.

  Look not to what is there but to what is not.

  The answer had been there all along, hidden in plain sight. He heard a low moan and realized it came from him.

  Where could you hide two royal princes and a lord of del Mar without fearing their discovery? Where could you condemn someone to death without killing them? You hid them, across the waters, on a desolate land, a place where even the great sainted angels feared to tread.

  Valdemossa.

  The Island of the Lepers.

  Twenty-One

  LIAS DID NOT know how long he stayed there by the cliff’s edge, weighing what few choices he had. What was he to do? Return to Cortes with his suspicions? For as long as he stayed here, the sea separating him from Valdemossa, that was all they were: suspicions, theories. Nothing proven, as insubstantial as the air.

  Or keep silent? Tell no one. Take his thoughts to the grave, and why not? He no longer wished to know. The three were dead in everyone’s eyes: Antoni, Bartolome, Teodor. Why not keep them that way? Dead and whole and beloved.

  His conscience called him an unpleasant word. It stared at him wide-eyed, appalled that he would even consider it. His conscience looked like Mercedes.

  He argued with her.

  The truth would bring no one peace, Mercedes. The answers would make things worse. For Ulises, for del Mar. If they are alive, they will be horrors, men who exist in a living, breathing death.

  And what of his own family? His maman and Lord Isidore labeled bigamists, his brother and sisters scorned as bastards. There were many excellent reasons to hold his tongue.

  Mercedes argued back. Elias, they are people still, and they have begged for your help through these maps. Would you turn your back on them now? And then she fell silent, her voice replaced by the sound of approaching riders.

  He did not rise, did not turn to see who it was riding through the copse of trees behind him. He knew who led them. The others mattered not at all.

  But he listened. To the horses that came to a stop, their nickers low and rumbling. Only one man dismounted and walked toward him, slowly, the crunch of stone beneath boots nearly drowned out by the surf below.

  The footsteps stopped.

  “You should not turn your back on an enemy,” Lord Silva said quietly. “I must have taught you that, once or twice throughout the years.”

  The sound of the Royal Navigator’s voice sent a tremor through Elias. Of rage, and grief, and the small part of him that had believed a mistake had been made died a quick, silent death. He rose and turned in one fluid motion, pulling his dagger free of his belt.

  Lord Silva stood twenty feet away. Not in his robes, but dressed for travel in browns and greens, the cape at his back fluttering in the wind. He looked terribly old and tired. Keeping pace with Elias had taken its toll. Behind him, three men remained on their horses, blocking any possibility of escape. They were younger than Lord Silva, strong, well-built men his stepfather’s age. Two were only vaguely familiar, but the third was Belos, Lord Silva’s steward from his home in Alfonse.

  With difficulty, Elias asked, “Is that what you are to me, my lord Silva? My enemy?”

  Lord Silva’s gaze dropped to the dagger in Elias’s hand. “I wish I could say no.”

  Even now, Elias found he could never harm this man. Shoving the dagger back in his belt, he said, “I’m not.”

  “Can I trust you to keep silent?” Lord Silva asked. “Not a word to your lady or the king? Not a hint to Commander Aimon?” He studied Elias’s expression. “I did not think so.”

  Elias’s mind spun as he tried to find a way out of this predicament. Never in his life had he been so aware of his surroundings. The cliff’s edge behind him, the sheer drop into the churning waters below. “What am I, then? Another loose end to be tied up? Like Lady Esma?”

  “Do you think I wish to be here?” There was a harshness to Lord Silva’s question. “I’ve done everything possible to k
eep you safe—”

  “Safe?” Elias repeated, scornful. “Is that what you call it? Look where we are!”

  “Yes, safe! My quarrel has never been with you. I’ve given you warning after warning—”

  Lord Silva broke off as one of the horses sidestepped nervously and whinnied, picking up on the tension, and had to be soothed. Deliberately, Elias called to its rider, “Hello, Belos.”

  The steward’s head came up quickly, though his voice was even as he returned the greeting. “My lord Elias.”

  “You’ll give my regards to your lady?” Elias kept his voice pleasant, even as the anger burned inside him. He had known this man and his family since he was five years old. “And Rosamund? I heard she was recently married. My felicitations.”

  This time, Belos looked away and said nothing. A dull flush crept up his neck.

  “Enough,” Lord Silva ordered softly.

  “No,” Elias said in agreement. “I would not want to embarrass your fellow assassins. You’ve kept them close, I see. But you’re missing one of your tenant farmers.”

  That is where he had remembered seeing the yellow-eyed stranger from the harbor. A chance encounter when he was twelve or thirteen, riding along the eastern edge of Lord Silva’s estate with Luca. The man had returned their greeting with a scowl, and when Elias had glanced back, the farmer had spat in their wake.

  From that memory came others. Lord Silva encouraging him to solve the riddle, but not for very long. Only until he discovered the first clue. The map stolen from his chambers when very few knew of its existence. A hooded figure in the corner who never spoke because Elias would have known his voice. Lord Silva speaking to the king, worrying for Elias’s safety. Looked at on their own, they meant nothing. Together, they had given him pause. Made him consider things too horrible to consider.

  Surprise had registered on Lord Silva’s face. “I did not realize you’d crossed paths.” He was quiet, then, “You’re young, Elias. And to the young, there is only good and bad and never anything in between. I am not a bad man—”

  “You can say that without choking on your words?” Elias could no longer pretend any sense of calm. “You slaughtered the king’s guards.” He jabbed a finger toward the sea. “You sent two boys and my father to rot on a leper colony. You started a war. Show me what a bad man looks like, my lord Silva, if you are not one.”

  “Don’t stand there and shout at me,” Lord Silva snapped, “when you don’t know the truth of it! The great sainted Antoni.” His voice was filled with a bitter loathing. His eyes blazed. “I loved that boy. I took him in, trained him. And he killed my son!”

  Elias stared at him. What, in the name of every saint who ever lived, did Lord Vittor have to do with any of this? “An avalanche killed your son.”

  “You know nothing,” Lord Silva replied, contemptuous. “I went to the king, who would not punish Antoni. He did the opposite. He commended him for his bravery, for bringing home Grec and Braga. So I showed them both . . .” He trailed off, gazing across at Valdemossa.

  Elias felt physically ill. “What did you show them?”

  Something bleak moved across Lord Silva’s face. “I showed them what it felt like to lose a son.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “And you won’t. There’s no point in speaking of it. Belos?” Lord Silva beckoned. All three men dismounted and approached with their swords drawn.

  Elias tried desperately to buy time. “Do you really think you’ll be able to walk away from this? Mercedes will find—”

  “Nothing.” Lord Silva’s gaze never left Elias’s. “There won’t be anything left for her to find. Forgive me.”

  Elias stepped back; pebbles fell away at his heels into air. He could try to fight his way, though he had only a dagger. And the odds were against him, four to one. He glanced behind him at the deadly, churning surf.

  Deadly, but not unfamiliar.

  He had mapped this coastline as part of his apprenticeship, by boat. He knew the jagged rocks were present, but most did not press up against the island, and they were far below the surface. If he jumped, he might be able to avoid impalement. And if he could manage that small miracle, it was a matter of swimming around the tip of the island to the beaches along the southeastern edge. It could be done.

  As long as the waters were free of serpents.

  Lord Silva said, “Elias, there’s nowhere else for you to go. Do you think I want you to feel pain? Take the sword; it will be quick, I promise you. Or will you end up food for the water snakes?”

  Elias pulled his gaze from the waters below. His heart was pounding. “An excellent suggestion.”

  Lord Silva frowned. “Which one?”

  “I’ll take my chances with the snakes.” Elias saw the shocked realization on Lord Silva’s face as he stepped back, into nothingness.

  Elias hit the water feet-first, the impact felt within his entire being. The Sea of Magdalen called him deeper into its depths, but as he sank lower and lower still, relief filled him. He’d escaped the rocks. Just then, a hazy image formed in the distance. Serpentine and growing larger. He kicked in the opposite direction, but his efforts were in vain. Something coiled around him, tightening, loosening, and pain sliced up his leg. His silent cry was met by a powerful rush of water. As the serpent pulled him farther out to sea, and his lungs filled with water, he thought, Mercedes.

  “What do you mean, he’s gone?” Mercedes demanded, still in her dusty traveling dress. She had not been home half an hour. “Gone where?”

  Ulises shoved the crown onto his head. “No one knows.” They were in his private chambers. Her cousin wore pale green robes hemmed in ermine, an enormous emerald ring on one hand. More emissaries had arrived, this time from Caffa, and he was already delayed in meeting them. “He left three days ago, alone. He didn’t tell anyone where he was going. Basilio knows only that he was heading south and that he looked . . . upset.”

  There was an odd note to his voice.

  “I’ve not been gone a week. What has happened?” she asked, and then covered her mouth with both hands when he told her.

  “Reyna will be fine.” Ulises answered her wordless question. “I thought Elias would just need time to himself after . . . but something else is wrong—Where are you going?”

  She was halfway to the door. “To find him. What else?”

  “Cousin.”

  She looked over her shoulder, ready to argue if he told her not to go. But Ulises asked, “Where is Lady Esma?”

  The details of the last few days were not something she wanted to dwell on. Not ever again. “We buried her with her mother.”

  Ulises studied her. “There were no difficulties?”

  She shook her head. “I know the priest who watches over the crypts. He owed me a favor.”

  “Good.” He crossed the chamber, kissed her on both cheeks. “Take men. Be safe.”

  “I will.”

  Mercedes delayed leaving long enough to change into fresh clothing, question Basilio, and visit Reyna.

  Who was awake, but not alone. Across the chamber, the language master, Madame Grec, played a game of chess with Lord Braga. By the sound of it, Madame was winning and Lord Braga was not taking it well. Her son, Hector, had given up his place by Reyna’s bedside when Mercedes appeared. He sprawled about the window seat with parchment and lead, drawing in a patch of sunlight.

  Even knowing what had happened to Reyna at the harbor, Mercedes was unprepared for what she saw. The bandages, the bruises, one eye blackened. Anger was a white-hot coiling of serpents inside her. Reyna looked so small and helpless lying in that bed.

  “It doesn’t feel as bad as it looks,” Reyna said, reading her thoughts. “At least I don’t think it does. No one will give me a looking glass.”

  Mercedes slid a hand onto the bed, palm up. Reyna placed her right hand in hers. Her left was wrapped in bandages. “You’ll look like yourself again soon,” Mercedes said. “Better to save the looking glass for th
en.” She eyed the catapult on the bedside table, recognized Commander Aimon’s work, and took in the flowers filling the room. “You’ve had many visitors.”

  “There’s always someone here. Madame Vega makes sure of it.” In a much quieter voice that did not carry across to the others, Reyna said, “Lady Mercedes, where is he?”

  The worry in Reyna’s eyes matched her own. “I don’t know, dearest. I’m going now to find him.”

  “It’s not like him to leave without telling anyone. Something is wrong.”

  A glance across the chamber, but no one paid them any attention. Mercedes said, “I’ve known Elias since we were very young. Younger than you, younger even than Hector. And do you know how many times he’s found himself in some sort of trouble?”

  A small smile emerged. “A hundred?”

  “Oh, more than that,” Mercedes assured her. “More like a thousand. And of that thousand, do you know how many times he has walked away perfectly safe?”

  Reyna said, “Every time?”

  “Every time.” Mercedes squeezed her hand. “This will be no different.” She glanced up, startling Madame Grec, whose ears were very clearly straining. Quickly, the language master dropped her gaze, her cheeks coloring slightly as Lord Braga groused, “Stop daydreaming, Genevieve. It’s your turn.”

  Mercedes was back in the stables within the hour, along with the six soldiers who would be accompanying her. She had just swung onto her horse when she heard her name called.

  Katalin the tax collector hurried over. “I know this is important, Lady,” she said, holding up a scroll tied with red ribbon. “I thought to find you before you left. But I can deliver it to your chambers if you prefer.”

  “No, I’ll take it with me.” Mercedes took the scroll. “Eves?”