“Only two,” the monk said. “He painted hundreds. Why would he do it? He knew I wouldn’t have left here.”
Elias did not think he was expected to answer the question. He kept silent.
The monk said, “To this day, I don’t know why we were taken.”
“I know a little. Not all of it.”
Elias told him everything, starting with his return to del Mar from Hellespont. Brother Francis interrupted several times. Lady Esma lived in Javelin? All this time? And I know that story. But Lord Vittor was killed in an avalanche. An accident.
“That’s what I thought, too,” Elias said. “Lord Silva blamed my father, and he blamed yours for not punishing him. He said he wanted to show them what it would feel like to lose a son. Did my father ever speak of it?”
“Never.” The monk’s only sign of emotion came from the pulsating vein at his temple. “What it would feel like to lose a son. Two sons, in my father’s case. My poor, poor brother.”
He meant Bartolome.
“You have another brother,” Elias reminded him. “And Mercedes, your cousin. You have family.”
Brother Francis stood. His closed expression warned Elias to tread lightly. “I’ve tired you out, Lord Elias. You need your rest.”
He was tired, and heartsore, but there was something he needed to do first. “May I see their graves?”
Brother Francis said nothing at first. And then he held out his hand to help Elias to his feet. “Of course.”
“This is where you were kept?” Elias asked.
“Yes.”
Deep within a cluster of palms was a stone keep surrounded by yellow oleander trees. A figure at a window stepped from view.
Elias asked, “Does someone live here?”
Brother Francis followed his gaze to the window. “No, it’s empty.”
“I thought—”
“The graves are just there.” Two crude wooden crosses had been erected nearby. While the monk knelt in prayer before his brother’s grave, Elias stood beside his father’s. This marker was far simpler than the memorial on the outskirts of Cortes. Sorrow filled him, and something else.
Rage.
“Why aren’t you angry?” Elias asked.
Brother Francis looked over. “What good would it do? It harms us more than our enemies.”
“Not always.”
“Lord Elias, sometimes we must simply forgive for our own sakes.” Brother Francis looked at the crosses. “They’re at peace now.”
“That may be.” Elias turned away from the cross. “But I am not.”
Twenty-Three
S SOON AS they left the graves, Elias said, “I need to get off this island.”
Brother Francis was in agreement. “You’re not safe here,” he said as they retraced their steps along the beach, making their way toward Elias’s cottage. “No one knows why some are afflicted and others are not, and every hour you’re here puts you at risk. But as to how . . .”
To Elias, the solution was simple. “All I need is a boat.”
“A boat will do you no good.” Brother Francis pointed to the beacon across the water. “The guards are there to keep intruders out. That includes us.”
“No, it will be fine,” Elias assured him. “They know who I am.”
“You’ll not make it close enough for them to recognize you,” Brother Francis explained patiently. “There are rules that must be followed. We’re allowed to fish our waters, including serpents, but our vessels must not pass beyond the boundary rock.” A large triangular stone jutted out from the sea halfway between Valdemossa and Alfonse. “When the supply ship arrives, we meet it at the rock. Our supplies and any new arrivals are lowered into our boats.”
Elias was distracted by the mention of the water snakes. “You’re allowed to hunt serpents?”
“Yes. Within our boundaries.”
“Did you lose one recently? And a harpoon?”
Brother Francis stopped in his tracks. “How could you know that?”
“Your serpent turned up near a beach in Cortes. Still alive.” Even then, there had been a connection. Plenty of time to reflect on that later, when he was off this island.
Brother Francis was aghast. “Was anyone hurt?”
Elias shook his head. “There were children swimming in the cove,” he said, deliberately adding, “but your cousin, Mercedes, was there. She killed it with an arrow.”
Brother Francis resumed walking, leaving Elias to follow. The row of cottages came into view, along with their quiet inhabitants robed in green. Seeing them only intensified his desire to escape.
As if he could not help himself, Brother Francis asked, “A single arrow?”
Elias heard the skepticism and shrugged. “I would not lie to a monk.”
A sideways glance, amused. “I’ve heard she’s an unusual lady.”
Elias smiled involuntarily. “That is one way to describe her.” Mercedes. He needed to find his way back to her. He asked, “How often do the supply ships come by?”
“The first week of every season. We’ll not see another until autumn.”
Elias was dismayed. “I’m not waiting until autumn, I assure you.” He considered his options. “What happens if you sail past the rock? Has anyone tried?”
“More than once.” A crease appeared between the monk’s brows. “The Order cares for its people, Lord Elias. They are clothed and fed and given the opportunity for a decent life, despite their afflictions. But don’t forget that most were forced to live here, separated from their loved ones. Not everyone is content.”
No. He imagined not. “What happens when they try?”
“Archers,” Brother Francis said. “Once a boat crosses the boundary, fire arrows are launched from the beacon, and whoever is on board is burned to death. If they jump, they either drown or are eaten.”
Elias was nearly silenced by the horror of it. “I’ll sail at night. No one will see me.”
“It’s been attempted. They have wolf eyes, those archers. We must find another way for you to leave.”
Elias was starting to feel desperate. They had reached his cottage. He lowered himself onto the stoop outside his door, glad to rest his leg. “What if I were to leave from another part of the island, out of sight of Alfonse? I’ll sail out, toward deep sea, then make my way around del Mar, bypassing the archers.”
Brother Francis dashed that plan, too. “Soldiers are stationed on each of the outer islands. Cali, St. Carlo, and Olivos. A boat can be seen departing from every point on Valdemossa.”
Feeling thwarted, Elias flung his stick to the sand. Hoods swiveled in their direction. He repeated, “I’m not waiting until autumn. There must be another way.”
Someone called for Brother Francis. Another monk from down the beach. Brother Francis waved back in acknowledgment. He said to Elias, “If there is, I think you’ll be the one to find it. I must leave you.” He nudged Elias’s walking stick with his sandal, moving it within reach.
Elias raised a hand in wordless farewell. In one of the cottages, someone coughed endlessly. A painful, hacking sound. He quelled the instinct to seek the person out, to offer any assistance. He must keep his distance here.
Soon after, a school of sea serpents appeared in the waters. There were at least ten of them dipping and gliding past the boundary rock in blues and reds and greens and golds. One of the serpents, a red one, lifted its head high and turned toward shore. Almost, it felt as though it looked directly at him. A forked tongue slithered out and flapped one long, lazy flap before the creature’s head dipped beneath the surface and the school swam past. The lepers watched silently. More than a few crossed themselves.
Elias did not want to become serpent food. He’d escaped that fate twice. Foolish to tempt it a third time. And he had no wish to be pierced by a fire arrow, or to drown. He would have to think of something else. He dropped his chin onto his fist.
And brooded.
Midday found Elias scavenging among the palm trees
behind his cottage when he heard Brother Francis call his name.
“I’m here!” he called back.
The monk appeared. He watched as Elias hobbled around the trees, pausing before one shrub, then moving on to another. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for something,” Elias answered, distracted. “Does the indigo plant grow on this island?”
Brother Francis looked blank. “Which plant?”
“Indigo,” Elias repeated. “It’s a shrub, about this high”—he demonstrated—“with small blue flowers.”
“Why do you need it?” When Elias explained, Brother Francis looked thoughtful. “I’ve no notion if it does. But I know someone who might. I’ll ask, if you’ll stay off that leg. You’re not at full strength.”
“I will. My thanks to you, Brother.” Elias caught Brother Francis’s smile and wondered at it. It was only after he returned to the cottage that he realized it was the first time he’d referred to the monk by his holy name. By any name. He had avoided using either King Teodor or Brother Francis, utterly ignorant as to what to call a king who did not want to be a king but chose instead to be a monk.
Brother Francis had left him a meal. Elias ate, waiting impatiently for his return. But the day’s exertions had tired him out, and within a half hour of his meal, he had crawled into bed and fallen asleep.
By early dusk, Elias had begun to wonder if Brother Francis had forgotten him when he appeared in the doorway.
“Is this what you’re looking for?” Two indigo bushes were presented, dirt clinging to the roots.
Elias snatched up his stick, delighted. “Where did you find them?”
“Not far inland,” Brother Francis said with a smile. “One of the men here knows of plants and herbs. He knew what you asked for.”
Grinning, Elias took one of the plants. Dirt rained all over the floor. “You’ll give him my thanks?”
“Of course. There’s more where they came from.” Brother Francis glanced outside. “Do you need anything else?”
“Yes. Please. I need fire.”
They built a fire on the beach directly outside his cottage. Elias worked in a frenzy, piling driftwood and sticks gathered from the woods. He ignored the monk’s orders to rest and let him take care of it. The lepers stood in the gathering shadows of dusk, watching. He felt their curiosity. Such a fire? In the middle of summer? Brother Francis set it ablaze, and when the flames were at their highest, Elias flung the two bushes into its midst.
Nothing happened.
The bushes crackled and crumbled, and Elias felt a terrible doubt. Had he been mistaken about the indigo? Could the Caffeesh have used another plant for their beacon fire? He’d been so sure. After a time, Brother Francis glanced at him, saying nothing. Just as Elias was about to admit failure, the flame changed color.
Slowly, from a vibrant orange-red to a brilliant vivid blue. Elias looked at Brother Francis; they grinned at each other. Elias could just make out three royal guards atop the watchtower. Were they turned toward Valdemossa? Wondering at the strangely colored fire? Would they ignore it, or would a diligent sort at least send word to Commander Aimon? Elias would know one way or another. One day on horseback to Cortes; one day back. Surely Ulises or Mercedes would remember their conversation about beacon fire in the forest of Javelin.
As the days passed, life took on a steady, predictable pattern. When Elias woke, Brother Francis was there to share his breakfast and tend to his wound. It made Elias uncomfortable to have Brother Francis serve him, and he told him so. He might look like a monk and speak like a monk, but that did not change the blood that flowed through his veins. Elias could manage to spear his own fish from the shallows. Or slingshot fruit from a tree. Francis had agreed when Elias suggested it, and then continued to do as he always did. Stubbornness—the trait ran strong in that family. Afterward, the monk disappeared for a day of prayer, solitude, and service. Elias started another fire and kept it burning throughout the day.
As for his neighbors, Elias nodded in greeting, and they nodded in greeting. Everyone kept their distance. He had asked after Rafael, whom he’d met in Cortes, and learned he was being cared for on the opposite side of the island. Elias did not seek him out. Supper was a simple meal with Brother Francis.
He learned that Valdemossa was home to more than two hundred lepers. The monastery consisted of sleeping quarters for the monks, as well as a school, a chapel, a graveyard. There was even a prison, for the few who were violent and could not be trusted to live among others. It was a strange thought—what must it feel like, to be considered a leper among lepers?
“Do the monks ever get sick?” Elias asked one morning over breakfast. It was his fifteenth day on Valdemossa.
“Since I’ve lived here, no,” Brother Francis answered. “In the last hundred years, there have been four.”
Elias didn’t know how anyone could be so calm about it. “You’ve managed this long to escape it. Have you never thought of leaving?”
“My place is here.” At Elias’s disbelieving look, Brother Francis smiled slightly. “Is it so hard to understand? That I could be content here?”
“Yes,” Elias said bluntly.
Another smile. “When I first studied to become a monk, I was taught that each of us is exactly where we should be, that life unfolds for us precisely as it is supposed to.”
Elias didn’t believe him. No man could be so at peace with himself, not after what he’d endured. He said, “Lord Silva is not where he should be.”
Brother Francis reached for the bread. He broke it in two, offered half. “Was he a good teacher to you?”
The wound was still too raw. A betrayal Elias could not yet understand, let alone forgive. But he answered honestly. “He was.”
No butter on the monk’s slice, only a drizzle of honey. “Then can you not remember his goodness, and forgive his . . . shortcomings?”
Elias stabbed a grape with his knife. “Why would I?”
Brother Francis was quiet for a time. “Do you consider what would have happened if Lord Silva had not done what he did?”
Elias spoke around the grape in his mouth. “What do you mean?”
“You would have known your father, yes,” Brother Francis said. “But not your stepfather. Not your brother and sisters. They would not exist. Would you wish them away?”
Silence. Elias’s answer was to stab another grape. “It’s too early for philosophy, monk.”
Brother Francis smiled. “Then we’ll speak of something else. Tell me about your travels.”
The next morning, Elias woke to a sound outside his cottage. He dragged himself from bed, pulled on trousers, and poked his head out. A heap of indigo plants had been left beneath his window. Newly uprooted, for he smelled the soil, sharp and pungent, and saw the worms wiggling among the roots. A figure in a green robe was on the beach, walking away.
“Hello!” Elias called out.
The figure paused but did not turn and, after a moment, hurried off.
When Brother Francis arrived at breakfast, he looked at the indigo plants, frowning. “When did you gather those?”
“I didn’t,” Elias said. “One of your people left them at dawn. He didn’t stay to talk.”
Brother Francis looked down the beach. An odd expression crossed his face.
“What is it?” Elias asked.
“Nothing. It’s nothing.”
Sleep eluded him that night. He found himself tossing and turning and thinking of Mercedes. Worrying for her. Wondering where she was. By dawn, he had given up on sleep. He was dressed, his bandage wrapped, waiting impatiently for the time when he could light the fires.
When he heard the indigo plants falling outside the door, he was off the bed and across the chamber. He flung open the door. The hooded figure froze on the stoop, outlined by the dawn sky, then spun around and walked away. The disease hadn’t yet crippled his lower limbs. His stride was fast and sure.
“Wait,” Elias said.
The stranger ignored him.
Elias grabbed his stick and went after him, slow and clumsy on the sand. “I said stop!” he ordered, breathless.
The stranger stopped ten feet away and turned halfway toward Elias. Dark gloves shielded his hands. “What will happen if I don’t?” His voice was like gravel, rough, older than the trees in the forest. “You’re hardly in a position to give chase, my lord Elias.”
Elias was mystified by the man’s unfriendliness. “I only wanted to say thank you. To offer my respects, Grandfather.”
The stranger made a sound that might have been a laugh. “I’m not so old as that.” A pause. “Though maybe soon. I would not know.” He looked at the pile of sticks waiting to be set alight. “Brother Francis told me of your plan with the fire. You’ve put much faith in your friend.”
“She’ll find me.”
A pause. “She?”
“He,” Elias corrected, and felt his face grow warm. The stranger had been referring to the king. “Ulises will come. As long as he’s told of it. I don’t know if they’ve sent word.”
A small silence. Then, “You’ve traveled to Caffa?”
Elias was startled. The stranger recognized the origins of blue fire. “Many times. Have you?”
“Oh, many times.”
“Are . . . were you a shipman?” Elias asked.
But the stranger was done talking. His answer was to walk off. He stopped almost immediately. “You’re overusing the plants,” he informed Elias without turning. “One should be enough for four hours. You don’t need to throw in more.” He continued walking.
“My thanks . . .” Elias trailed off. The stranger was too far away to hear, striding down the beach and disappearing around a copse of palms.
Curiously, Brother Francis never asked after his younger brother. Until one night over supper, on Elias’s twentieth day on Valdemossa, he said, “What sort of king is Ulises?”
“A good one,” Elias said immediately. “I think he’ll be a great one, in time. He’s still feeling his way since his . . . since your father’s passing.”
Isle of Blood and Stone Page 24