Isle of Blood and Stone

by Makiia Lucier

  Katalin stepped back. “Yes. An interesting assortment.”

  Madame Grec’s birth name was Genevieve. It was a simple thing to forget when one rarely heard the name used. She pushed her questions to the back of her mind. So many of them; so few answers. For now she would concentrate on riding south and try to pick up Elias’s trail.

  A soldier on horseback stopped beside her. “When you’re ready, Lady.”

  “I’m ready now.” Mercedes reached behind her and tucked the scroll into her bag. To Katalin, she said, “I won’t forget this,” and left to find Elias.

  Rough hands pulled Elias from the water. He landed on his side, his leg burning, coughing up an endless amount of sea­water. Above him was a confusion of voices, loud and flapping, like warblers bursting from the trees.

  “Did you see that? Boy jumped right off the cliff . . .”

  “Helped along, from what I saw,” was the grim response. Someone jostled Elias’s leg, and he cried out.

  Another voice broke in, sharp-like, “Have a care with that leg, Fermin.”

  “That’s a nasty bite. And look, it left a tooth behind. Shall I pull it out, Brother?”

  A brief, considering silence. “Leave it in for now or he’ll bleed to death all over this boat.”

  It was the last thing Elias heard before he lost consciousness.

  When Elias came to, his mind was a muddle, but he could see the sun low in its descent. And palm trees. Someone had tossed a blanket over him. He was on dry land, being carried on a stretcher by four people. Three wore forest-green robes with their hoods pulled low, so he could not see their faces.

  The fourth man, hoodless, glanced down at him. “I don’t know who you are, or why someone was tossing you from a cliff, but friend, you must have the luck of the devil.”

  Elias saw black hair and a full, bushy beard. Older than he, but not old, and dressed in the plain brown robes of a monk. He said, “Ulises?”

  The stranger stiffened. A warning look came into his eyes before he reached beneath the blanket and pressed down on Elias’s injured leg.

  Elias screamed. Two palm trees swam before him, then four, six, and, once again, he knew nothing at all.

  Elias smelled the sea air before his eyes were fully open. He found himself in a strange bed in an unfamiliar chamber. Light flooded in through the open door, causing him to turn away from its painful glare. It was then that he saw the bearded stranger sitting by the bedside, observing him. Elias struggled to sit up. His bones felt like water. Something was wrong with his leg.

  “Best to go slow,” the stranger advised, and reached out to help him. Elias stopped him with a black look.

  The stranger retreated. “My apologies for before.” He indicated Elias’s leg. “I couldn’t risk your words being heard by others, Elias of del Mar.”

  “What words?” Cold sweat dried on Elias’s skin. He would have flung the covers off, but he wore nothing underneath except a tight linen binding around one leg. The stranger offered a cup. This Elias would not refuse, for his mouth felt like a dry desert road. Once the water was gone, he demanded, “How do you know my name? Where am I? Alfonse?” Shielding his eyes, he turned once again to the open door.

  And froze.

  Not far beyond the doorway was a sandy beach and the Sea of Magdalen. In the distance, he could see the southern cliffs of Alfonse and, off to the side, the Peninsula del Sud. If the peninsula was there, and he was here, then . . .

  “I see you’ve worked it out for yourself,” the stranger said quietly.

  A shadow fell across the doorway, followed by a woman holding a tray. She wore a green robe, her dark hair braided and wound atop her head. Sores covered her face.

  Elias reared back, cracking his head against the wall. The cup hit the floor and rolled away.

  The bearded stranger got to his feet, sighing. “Thank you, Mari. Put it there. I’ll see to our guest.”

  “Forgive me,” the woman murmured, and disappeared.

  Once she’d gone, the stranger said, “Be still. Before you undo my hard work.”

  Elias burst out, “Valdemossa! How long—” Lightheaded, he felt the bile rise sharp within him. The man snatched a bowl from the table and held it out. Elias swung—​the bowl went spinning across the chamber, and he went tumbling off the bed in a tangle of sheets. Face-down on the floor, his leg in agony, breathing through his mouth. When he was certain he would not be sick, he rolled onto his back, groaning.

  The stranger did not try to help him up. “You’re on Valdemossa; it’s true. We pulled you from the water just before a sea serpent tried to eat you for breakfast. I’m not a leper, and I have been the only one caring for you. Mostly.”

  Elias felt a crawling along his skin, but when he lifted his arms, there was nothing there. Even Rafael’s scratch on his wrist had vanished, healed completely.

  “You’re right to be concerned.” The stranger sat on the bed and eyed Elias on the floor. “You should not be here. But you must grow stronger before we can think how to move you. You’re as safe as you can be, under the circumstances.”

  Elias’s eyelids felt suddenly heavy. Difficult to keep open. The stranger’s face wavered above him. “What did you put in my drink?”

  “Nothing harmful. Your leg would hurt worse without it.”

  His eyes had fallen shut. “How long have I been here?”

  “Ten nights,” the stranger answered. “The cut on your leg is not deep, but there was poison in the tooth.”

  Elias’s eyes snapped opened. Ten nights. So long. Lord Silva would have returned to Cortes by now. Mercedes, too. He had promised her he would take care. “How do you know my name?”

  “One of the residents here recognized you. He said you were kind to him some weeks ago. In Cortes.”

  Rafael. The leper in the alley. “Who are you?”

  There was a brief silence. “I’m known here as Francis of Valdemossa. I’m a Brother of the Order of Saint Lazarus, a monk and the caretaker of this island. But a long time ago . . . I was known as Teodor.” He knelt by Elias’s side just as his eyes fluttered closed and said softly, “Teodor of del Mar.”

  Twenty-Two

  LIAS WAS ALONE the next time he woke. He found he could sit up without feeling lightheaded, and when he inspected his wound, there was only a dull throbbing along his leg, rather than the blinding pain he remembered. How much time had passed since he’d last spoken to . . . Brother Francis? Prince Teodor? Had he even been real? Or had the man in the monk’s robe with the face of a king merely been part of a bad fever dream?

  Clothes lay folded on a chair. Not his own. A loose shirt and sand-colored trousers, both soft from use. Uneasy, Elias wondered who had cleaned them, who had handled the cloth that would touch his body. But what use, wondering? What had Mori said? No one knows how the leper’s curse is spread, and for every claim, there’s argument against it. And . . . There’s no use in worrying. Unless you wake up one day and your arms and legs have gone numb. Then I would start to worry plenty. The only other choice would be to wander the island naked. He struggled to his feet, placing most of his weight on his good leg, and dressed with a painful slowness. No shoes had been left; there was no sign of his boots. He went barefoot.

  Food had been placed on a table by a window. He stuffed himself full of bread, cheese, honey, and berries until there was nothing left on the plate. Through the window, he saw Brother Francis standing at the water’s edge with his back to the cottage. He wore a brown robe, his hands clasped behind him in a way that reminded Elias of Ulises. Not a dream, then.

  A walking stick leaned against the wall with a smooth cradle to rest his arm. He made use of it. A story lay before him, all that he had been searching for since he’d learned of the maps. And now he felt as he did standing alone on the cliff top, uncertain he wanted that knowledge.

  He stepped out into the crisp morning. And went perfectly still. His cottage was the first in a row of cottages that lined the beach. To his right,
wraithlike figures in hooded green robes went about their day. Most huddled on stoops outside their doors, alone or in groups. The silence was eerie, given the number of people about. At least fifty, and as Elias looked on in consternation, the hoods turned as one to watch him.

  Only three had dispensed with their hoods. At the cottage nearest his, a woman stood in her doorway, watching two children play in the sand. All three displayed signs of the leper’s curse. The youngest child was a boy about six years of age. Unsettled, Elias thought about his sister Lea, who was the same age, safe at home and healthy. He recognized the woman who’d brought the tray to his cottage when he’d first woken. She glanced over at him, her expression having turned wary.

  He already felt like a horse’s ass for his behavior, and when he attempted a bow with a walking stick, he felt like a clumsy horse’s ass, too. “Apologies,” he said, and gestured toward his leg. “Fever, you know.”

  Surprise flickered on her face, and then a shy smile emerged. She dropped into a low, formal curtsy. “I do. I’m pleased to see you’re better, Lord Elias.”

  She knew who he was as well. The boy and girl had stopped playing and stared at him as if he were the oddity among them, which he supposed was true. And he wondered again if it was already too late for him. He had been on this island, mostly unconscious, for more than ten days.

  He asked, “Are these your children?”

  “Not by blood. We care for them now because their parents cannot.” She made a shooing motion with her hands. The children turned from Elias and resumed sand building. “I’m Mari. Wife of Fermin of Valdemossa.” She stopped before adding, “Daughter of Piri of Cortes.” The last sounded like a question.

  Elias nearly dropped his walking stick. “Judge Piri?”

  “Is he a judge now?” A pleased look came into her eyes. “He was an officer when I was a girl. Do you know my father? Is he well?”

  Elias pictured the judge holding the silver miniature, a portrait of his lost family. “He is, though it’s clear you’re missed. And your maman?”

  Mari’s expression turned grave. “She passed on seven years ago.”

  “I am sorry.”

  Mari glanced past Elias toward Brother Francis, then smiled again and said goodbye. She called the children in and closed the door to her cottage.

  Elias hobbled over to the monk. He would have fallen over without the stick. They looked across to the big island, where the beacon was a lone sentinel outside Alfonse.

  “I’m grateful to you,” Elias said. The waves lapped at his bare feet.

  Brother Francis dipped his head, once. “You have questions, I imagine.”

  “Hundreds.”

  “I’ll do my best to answer them.” Brother Francis gestured toward the long stretch of beach. “We’ll walk, if you’re able. It will help you grow stronger.”

  They walked for a time in silence, past more cottages. Ulises’s elder brother was well-liked here, whatever name he chose to answer to. Every leper they passed called out in welcome to Brother Francis. Or lifted a hand in greeting. Some hands were mere stumps. Through an open cottage door, another monk knelt before a woman, wrapping her arm in white bandaging. Elias looked away quickly, feeling like a voyeur.

  “I’ll not drag at the truth, Lord Elias. Your father is dead.”

  Elias stopped. He had known it in his heart, for if Lord Antoni were alive, would he not be here? Prince Bartolome, too? Still, the monk’s words, so simple and direct, were a knife to the gut. Blinking rapidly, Elias looked at the beacon across the water.

  Brother Francis followed his gaze. “He died nine years ago, just after that beacon was completed.”

  Elias wavered. The monk grabbed him, holding him upright. “I’m fine,” Elias said, though he was not. When he was five years old and his mother remarried, his blood father had been alive. He straightened, and Brother Francis dropped his hand.

  “Prince Bartolome?” Elias asked.

  “My brother is dead.” The monk’s face was expressionless. “Shall I start from the beginning?”

  “Please.”

  “Then sit. You look as though you’re about to fall over.”

  They found a dry patch of sand. And Brother Francis began his tale. Some parts familiar; some parts not. He spoke of Bartolome’s interest in navigation and of his adoration of Lord Antoni. He spoke of the picnic. Elias kept silent and let the story unfold.

  “I had no interest in maps and compasses.” A smile flickered across the monk’s face. “But I wasn’t about to be left behind while they went on their adventure. I badgered our nurse, Lady Esma, until she agreed to take me along.

  “Someone had poisoned the common barrels. I’d taken a sip, just enough to sicken me, before the others started falling. My brother realized and knocked the cup from my hand. Still, I lost consciousness. And when I woke, the three of us were on a boat, gagged, our hands bound, headed here.”

  Elias asked, “What do you mean? They just left you on shore?”

  A half smile, with not an ounce of humor in it. “Not on shore.” Brother Frances pointed behind them. “There’s a keep through the palms there. A simple structure, but the locks on our doors were sound. That’s where I lived for years.”

  King Andrés had searched everywhere for his sons. They had been here all this time, a day’s journey from their city of birth.

  “Our jailer was a man named Hugo. It’s not how you imagine,” Brother Francis added. “We were placed in separate cells, but we were allowed to visit on occasion. Hugo did not beat my brother or me.”

  Elias heard what the monk had left unsaid. “He beat my father?”

  “In the early years, yes. When he tried to escape.”

  Elias looked away, and after a time, the monk continued. “We were treated differently from Lord Antoni. We weren’t shackled. Our meals were decent. . . .”

  His father had been shackled. His father had been starved.

  “. . . We were allowed books. It did not feel like someone wanted to punish us. It was more . . .”

  “Someone wanted to punish my father,” Elias finished.

  A pause. “Yes. Later, even Lord Antoni was allowed his paints and parchment. We had been here a year when Bartolome first showed signs of the leper’s curse.” Brother Francis turned aside from what he saw on Elias’s face. “He grew weaker and died several years later. It was your father who kept me in my right mind during that time.” He stopped. “I don’t wish to speak of Bartolome. You may imagine what you will.”

  Elias tried very hard not to imagine it: a small boy, a future king, dying a leper. “You’re not behind a locked door now.”

  “No. The lepers at Valdemossa are cared for by the monks of the Order of Saint Lazarus. The monastery is just over there.” He pointed. “The three brothers who lived then knew of the strange recluse who lived in the keep. Sometimes, they would see Hugo walking near the water. He never sought their company, which didn’t surprise them, for their calling was to care for the lepers. They left him alone.”

  “Who was he, your jailer?” What could Lord Silva have possibly offered to entice someone to spend years as a guard on a leprosarium?

  “I’ve no notion.” Brother Francis lifted a handful of sand and allowed it to drift between his fingers. “Eventually, the monks noticed that Hugo no longer roamed the shores. One brother went to look in on him. Hugo had died in his sleep. When he searched further, he discovered us.”

  Elias found he’d been holding his breath. “Did he know who you were?”

  “Oh, he knew.”

  It made no sense to him. “Then how were you not returned home?”

  Brother Francis turned to look at him. “What reason had I to return home? To claim my place in the castle? I grew up in a prison, Lord Elias, on a leper colony.”

  “That wouldn’t have mattered.”

  “Oh, no?” Both eyebrows rose in skepticism. “What sort of prince would I have made? What sort of king? Not one del Mar would have been
proud of, I assure you.”

  Elias heard the awful truth of his words. “And my father?”

  Brother Francis looked away. “It was the same for him. We do get news here when the supply ship comes. It’s how we heard what happened at Mondrago. How your father learned of your mother’s marriage to Lord Isidore, and of their daughter. He would not have the charge of bigamy laid at her door, or have her child branded a bastard. Even if it meant giving you up.” Several moments passed in silence. “Lord Antoni remained at the keep. He died soon after.”

  “How?” Elias steeled himself for the answer. Already he felt a sickening weight at the thought of it.

  “It was his heart,” Brother Francis said quietly, understanding. “He showed no signs of leprosy. I promise you.”

  Elias covered his face with his hands. His father had been allowed that small dignity, at least. The monk sat beside him for a long time, not saying a word, until Elias’s shoulders stopped shaking and he lifted his head.

  Brother Francis said softly, “I lived with the monks, learning all that I could. They were old men, gone now, and others have taken their place. To everyone here, I am Brother Francis.” He looked over his shoulder. “This island is my responsibility. No one knows my secret except you.”

  Elias dashed his tears away with the back of his hand. “What about the maps?”

  “What maps?”

  Elias explained, and watched as the monk’s calm demeanor turned to astonishment. “Is that how you found me?”

  “Yes.”

  Brother Francis unearthed a pebble, skipped it viciously across the shallows. “I never knew about the riddles. Your father asked if he could be allowed paint and parchment to pass the tedium. He suggested that Hugo send the maps off to foreign markets through the supply ships. They could be sold, and Hugo could keep the coin. Hugo agreed. There was little risk to him, since they were unsigned. Two maps, you said?”

  “Yes.” Both lost now, one to theft, the other somewhere in these waters when he’d jumped from the cliff. His map carrier was gone.