Isle of Blood and Stone

by Makiia Lucier

  At the bottom of the staircase was a chamber bare of any furniture. The dust lay thick beneath their feet. To the right were three smaller chambers. No, not chambers. Cells. The doors had been torn from their hinges and left in a mangled, splintered heap in a corner. Beside the heap was an axe, also covered in dust.

  Mercedes entered the first cell. She turned full circle, said quietly, “I can scarcely breathe in here.”

  It was the same for him. He entered another cell, identical to the last. A high window barred with iron allowed a sliver of light in. All those years. His father painting maps in such a place. After only a few minutes, Elias felt the stones closing in, the dust threatening to choke him.

  “Elias.”

  In the first cell, Mercedes was on her knees in the grime with a palm pressed flat against the wall. “Look.”

  He crouched beside her. Someone had carved deep into the rock, one word only.

  Bartolome.

  Brother Francis said, “It’s difficult, sometimes, to say goodbye.”

  “I’ll come back. Will you tell him that for me?” They had waited for some time for Lord Antoni to appear. Commander Aimon had finally put his foot down. They were going now. Elias hated that his last conversation with his father had been a hurtful one.

  “I will tell him,” Brother Francis promised.

  They stood outside Elias’s cottage. The rowboat was down the beach, waiting for its last passenger. For weeks, all he had wanted was to leave Valdemossa, and now that he could, his feet had turned to lead.

  “She’s lovely, your lady,” Brother Francis said. He had met Mercedes within Brother Lorenz’s hearing, and for that reason, the introduction had been formal and impersonal, a monk thanking a member of the royal family for honoring the colony at Valdemossa with a visit. Lorenz could never know of the blood ties between Mercedes and the man he called Francis.

  “She is,” Elias said, hearing the slight wistfulness in the monk’s voice. Perhaps the cousins would meet again one day, forge some sort of bond. Only time would tell. “How do I thank you, Brother? I don’t know where to start.”

  “You don’t. I’m glad to have met you, Elias of del Mar.”

  “I’m glad to have met you. If there is ever anything you need . . .”

  “I’ll send word with the supply ship,” the monk promised, and smiled. “Or with blue fire, if I’m in a hurry.”

  Elias returned his smile and started down the beach, stopping when Brother Francis called his name.

  “I meant to say . . .” Brother Francis trailed off. Elias was not used to seeing the monk at a loss for words. “. . . that I, too, wish it were different. But I’m grateful that you are there for my brother, and my cousin. I’m thankful there is someone there, to love them.”

  After a minute, Elias bowed. “Brother Francis.”

  “Lord Elias.”

  There was nothing more to be said. Elias passed one last glance over his cottage and the people gathered by it. And then he turned and walked away.

  Twenty-Seven

  HE CELL WAS a pleasant one, as far as cells went. Through iron bars, Mercedes saw rugs on the floor and maps on the walls. A bed, a chair, a table covered with books. Two fat candles gave off a warm glow. Commander Aimon had not been stingy with the light. She was astonished, and then immediately ashamed of her astonishment. But she had not expected such graciousness from the commander. Not for this prisoner. Not even if the king had ordered it so.

  “I’ll wait here,” she murmured to Elias and leaned against a rough stone wall directly opposite the cell. Elias was outwardly calm, but she knew how much he had dreaded this visit. Obligation had driven him to this prison south of Esperanca. A secret prison, hidden deep underground beneath the ruins of an old fort. This was where the kingdom’s more inconvenient captives lived. Often, it was where they died.

  Elias waited as Lazar produced a ring of keys and unlocked the cell door. It swung inward on creaky hinges. Mercedes held out a hand as the soldier passed her by; he gave her the keys and left. He would join the commander and Ulises, who had gone to inspect other parts of the prison. Ulises had not confronted Lord Silva since his capture, not yet. She wondered if he ever would. Or was it enough for her cousin to know that Lord Silva would remain underground always? It wasn’t enough for her. She bitterly resented the comforts this man had been granted. He did not deserve it.

  Lord Silva had risen from the chair when he saw them through the bars. He stood rooted in place. Shock rippled over his features. He had thought Elias dead. Food for the fish and the water snakes.

  “Elias,” he breathed. “Elias.”

  And along with shock, she saw relief, and hope. How dare he feel these things? As if Elias’s affection was something always to be expected. No matter what Lord Silva had done. Despite all he had destroyed.

  Elias stood just inside the cell. Lord Silva had not missed the slight hitch to his walk. The doctor had said Elias would recover fully. Still, it would be some time before he could walk without being reminded constantly of a serpent’s tooth slicing through his leg.

  Elias said, “Commander Aimon insisted you were being treated well. I wanted to see for myself.” He shifted, so that Mercedes could see his profile. Unhappy, a muscle pulsing along his jaw. “I see now I should have trusted him.”

  The disgraced Royal Navigator was dressed simply—a white shirt and dark trousers—but the clothing was clean and of good quality. He looked terrible, of course. Dark circles under his eyes, lines of grief and defeat etched deep into his skin. But he did not look malnourished. He was being fed regularly. Allowed to wash. Another unexpected mercy from the commander.

  “Elias, please.” Lord Silva stepped forward, freezing at the sound of keys clinking together. Mercedes had moved away from the wall, the ring of keys in one hand, her dagger in the other. Their eyes met. He knew Elias would not hurt him, but Mercedes was a different matter. Not too close, her expression warned. Anger flashed in Lord Silva’s eyes before he turned to his former apprentice. “Please. I cannot stay here.”

  “Are you being mistreated?” Elias asked, his tone distant.

  “There are no windows!” Lord Silva gestured toward a solid wall, growing visibly agitated. “I’m not allowed outside. I can’t breathe in here. I can’t see the sky.”

  Elias said, “I’m sorry for it.”

  “You could ask the king—”

  “For what?” Elias demanded, very softly. “What favor would you have me ask him, on your behalf?”

  “Exile.” Lord Silva gripped the back of his chair. “Banishment. I’ll leave del Mar, and no one will ever see me again. I swear it.”

  Mercedes cursed this hateful old man. Lord Silva did not know it, but Elias had already gone to the king. Having re­considered his initial impulse, Elias had begged for imprisonment, not death. For mercy, not torture. He’s an old man, Elias had reasoned. Let him live out the rest of his days in a cell, alone. It will be punishment enough. Elias had argued hard for these concessions. Ulises had not wanted to give it. Bitter words had been exchanged. But in the end, Lord Silva had been brought here to live out his sentence in relative comfort.

  Elias repeated thoughtfully, “Exile.”

  “Yes,” Lord Silva said. “The king is your friend. He would do this for you, if you asked him.”

  “But mine is not the only family you’ve harmed,” Elias reminded him. “I came to tell you this: You were returning to Cortes on horseback when you were attacked by brigands. In your shock over Madame Vega’s death, you traveled carelessly. Alone, without escort. The brigands robbed you of your coin and burned your body in a ravine. What was found was nearly unrecognizable. Your funeral was a splendid, somber affair.” He watched as Lord Silva lowered himself into his chair. “This story was not invented for your sake, my lord Silva, but for Reyna’s.”

  Lord Silva had blanched as Elias relayed the details of his death. His head was bowed; his arms hung between his legs.

  Elias said
, “You’ve not asked about Reyna. Not once.” Lord Silva’s only reaction was a stiffening of his shoulders. “Tell me, when Madame tried to poison her, was she following your orders? Or was it her own decision?”

  Lord Silva lifted his head. “Her own. Of course I would never harm the child—”

  “You’re lying,” Elias said quietly. “And I’m done with it.”

  Elias left the cell without looking back. Mercedes turned the key in the lock. They walked away as Lord Silva shook the iron bars behind them and cried, “Come back! Elias, please! You cannot leave me here!”

  They sailed for Cortes on a galley with a minimum of crew. Men capable of both manning the smaller oars and guarding the king. Commander Aimon had remained behind at the prison, but Ulises spoke with Lazar on the opposite side of the galley. It was late, the moon and stars bright against the night sky. Mercedes heard the oars slapping against the water, felt the galley surge beneath her feet.

  She joined Elias at the steering oar as he guided the boat from harbor. He smiled when he saw her, made room between himself and the oar.

  “Do you know what I think?” she asked after settling in, her back against his chest.

  His answer was to press a kiss against her hair. “Tell me.”

  “I think if he had not tried to harm Reyna, we would not be here tonight,” she said. “The commander would have gone to Lord Silva’s cell and found it empty. He would have escaped in some mysterious, improbable way.”

  Elias was quiet for a time, until they had left the harbor behind them. “I can steer this ship home blindfolded,” he said finally. “I can steer it in my sleep, Mercedes. And I know every inch of this kingdom like the back of my hand. I know these things because . . .”

  “He taught them to you,” she finished softly. She could feel his sadness and his anger.

  “He’s two different people, almost. Even when I’m standing in front of him, and I know he’s lying to me—” His hands on the oar tightened. “I can’t forget the good he’s done. Am I a fool?”

  “You’re not. We can’t help who we love.”

  “I suppose not.” A small silence. “We? Who can’t you help but love? Don’t say Ulises.”

  She smiled. Perhaps it was easier to say because she was not looking at him but out at the sea and the night sky covered with stars. “I love you, Elias. I’ve loved you all my life.”

  Elias tipped her chin, looked into her face. He was smiling, the first real smile she had seen in a long time. Very quietly, he asked, “How much do you love me?”

  “Not that much,” Ulises said.

  Mercedes jumped, her head cracking the underside of Elias’s chin. He cursed. Ulises had appeared from nowhere, six feet away with his elbows on the railing, looking out at the water. She moved hastily out of Elias’s arms.

  Elias rubbed his chin. “You’re always around,” he accused.

  “Do not forget it,” Ulises advised. And, “We’re going the wrong way.”

  Elias said, “I’m going south. To Cortes.”

  “But Esperanca is north. Your family is still there, are they not?”

  Understanding, Mercedes smiled at her cousin. She did not think she could love him any more than she did right now. Even with all that had transpired, and the angry words exchanged regarding Lord Silva’s imprisonment, Ulises had proven himself a friend. He knew what would help Elias most of all, quickest of all.

  She said to Elias, “Your mother has been expecting you all summer. And Jonas is probably riding a horse by now, he’s growing so fast. You should go.”

  Elias looked north. As though he could see through the darkness and the distance to his family home. Excitement crept into his voice, replacing the melancholy. “She’s expecting you, too,” he reminded her. “Come with me. Both of you.”

  “I’ve things to take care of,” Ulises said. “But we’ll drop you off, and I’ll see you in Cortes before the ships leave.”

  “What things?” Mercedes asked her cousin.

  “Many important things,” Ulises said, a smile in his voice. “That I can manage without you. Go with him.”

  “Come with me,” Elias said.

  Mercedes laughed. It was not such a hard decision after all. “I’ll come.”

  And she was glad she’d said it. Because Elias grinned and looked almost like his old self. He called out orders to the men at the smaller oars before steering the boat north, toward Esperanca, and home.

  Twenty-Eight

  HERE ARE HIS companions?” Brother Francis asked.

  “Dead,” Ulises answered.

  They had gathered in the hold of a ship near Valdemossa’s boundary rock: Ulises, Commander Aimon, and Brother Francis. At their feet was Lord Silva. A sack had been tossed over his head. The disgraced Royal Navigator lay on his side, hands and feet bound with rope.

  Commander Aimon yanked the sack off. Lord Silva flinched at the sudden brightness, though it was only a single torch in an otherwise dark hold. He had fallen far in the days since Elias had last spoken to him, in his comfortable cell with his precious maps on the walls. Hair and beard shorn off. Clean clothes replaced by something the commander must have dug out of a rag heap.

  Lord Silva struggled to a sitting position. His gaze darted around the cramped hold. Looking for mercy, Ulises suspected, but there was none to be found with the commander. None to be found with himself. And then Lord Silva spotted Brother Francis in his monk’s garb. A holy man. Ulises forced himself not to look away from the hope he saw in Lord Silva’s eyes.

  Brother Francis crouched before Lord Silva without expression. “Do you know who I am, old man?”

  Not a very pious or respectful question, for a monk. A moment of confusion passed before Lord Silva’s eyes widened; his head swung from Brother Francis to Ulises and back. Even with the monk’s beard, the resemblance was a disconcerting one. Silva opened his mouth; what emerged was a strange gurgling sound, like a man choking.

  Startled, Brother Francis asked, “He can’t speak?”

  Ulises’s gaze flicked right, to an unrepentant Commander Aimon. He had been tasked with guarding Lord Silva while Ulises saw Elias and Mercedes to Esperanca. When Ulises had returned, Lord Silva had no longer been in possession of his tongue.

  “No,” was all Ulises said.

  He had lied to Elias. Made a promise he had no intention of keeping. He despised himself for it, but not enough to stay his hand. How long had it taken Bartolome to carve his name so deep into the stone?

  “You’ll say nothing to Lady Mercedes?” Commander Aimon had asked when Ulises had shared his true plans for Lord Silva.

  “No,” Ulises had said. “If I do, she won’t be able to tell Elias. She’s kept enough secrets for us, Commander.”

  “True. But I don’t think she would keep this one from him.”

  “Mmm.” It had been his thought as well. “Then there’s that.”

  Now Brother Francis asked, “He’s to be killed, then?” They ignored the sudden thrashing his words provoked. “It’s just as well, I suppose, for death pays all debts.”

  “Not always,” Ulises said. “And not this time, Brother.”

  Brother Francis rose slowly. “What will you do?”

  Lord Silva had stopped gurgling to hear the answer. Commander Aimon was a forbidding statue with a torch in one hand, an empty sack in the other.

  Ulises did not take his eyes from his brother’s face. His brother, whom he did not know. His only living brother, because of what Lord Silva had done. Even now, the thought left him breathless with rage. “Elias spoke of a prison here.”

  Shock registered. Brother Francis was beginning to understand. “It’s for our violent criminals.”

  “That will do,” Ulises said.

  “It . . . would be kinder to kill him.”

  “Kind?” Ulises repeated. “Yes. But I would have him live, as my brothers once lived. I would have him remember his crimes for many years. As a leper, or not.” His voice did not tremble, b
ut his hands, clasped behind his back, did. “But I’ll see him dead, quickly and painlessly, if that is your wish.”

  The silence was broken by a low, keening moan from Lord Silva. Brother Francis watched him, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides.

  “Teodor, is that your wish?” Ulises held his breath, until Brother Francis stepped back, out of the torchlight and into the shadows.

  “No, my king. It is not.”

  Twenty-Nine

  HERE WAS COMFORT in tradition, in the rituals and words that bind one to a people. Like the mariner’s blessing, given by the king in the castle’s great hall.

  It began with the drums. And the drummers, twelve men in del Marian green and silver with their backs up against the wall. A steady beat, soft at first, then louder, and joined by the rhythmic clapping of hands and pounding of feet upon the stone. This went on for some time, until Elias could feel the thrumming within his entire being.

  As del Mar’s newest Royal Navigator, Lord Braga held a place of honor beside Ulises. Mercedes was also seated at the high table, her dress the green of seafoam, her hair loose around her. Half the city was here, it seemed, the hydrographers, astronomers, and geographers packed in beside the sea captains, instrument makers, and navigators. Elias and Reyna were among them. Most wore black, in formal mourning for Lord Silva. But today was not one for grief, only celebration.

  Tomorrow, five ships would sail west past the Strait of Cain on expeditions expected to last anywhere from six months to three years. The Aldene, the Amaris, the Nina, the Palma, and the St. Clementina. On every ship, in addition to captain and crew, would be a pilot major to navigate the vessel and a geographer to survey the coastlines and interiors.

  Ulises stood, a signal for the drums to slow and stop. He spoke the mariner’s chant; his deep voice carried easily across the hall: