Mercedes leaned close so that she could be heard above the shouting. “He’s at ease in any setting. Have you noticed? He blends in without effort. I wonder why Ulises doesn’t make use of it.”
The commander made a skeptical noise. “Lord Elias isn’t like you, Lady. He isn’t made for intrigue.”
“No?”
“Look at him.” They watched Elias cheer on his bird. One arm was hooked around his friend’s neck, and they were both jumping up and down and hollering like small boys at the bullfights.
“Hmm,” she said.
“You see? Everything he thinks and feels is written on his face for the world to see. A dangerous trait for a king’s . . . emissary.”
She supposed that was true. Elias in a temper was a rare thing, but it was always memorable, and when he learned of the maps, outrage and insult would be within his rights. Not for the first time, she wished Reyna had not gone to the harbor that day and stumbled upon the map. She wished she herself had not traveled to Lunes and found the other. But what use, wishes? They would do her no good today.
Commander Aimon made to signal Elias. She placed a hand on his arm, stopping him. “We might as well wait until he’s finished.”
“Must we?”
Another quick smile emerged at his aggrieved tone. “He’ll learn why we’re here soon enough,” she said. “And I’ve never seen an actual cockfight, have you?”
The commander answered her question with one of his own. “Do you think he can solve it?”
She knew Elias was capable. She wondered only if he would be willing. “It concerns him as much as the king.”
The commander studied her with dark, kohl-rimmed eyes, a common trait among the men and women of del Mar’s native population in the east. His hair was long and straight, black shot through with gray, and pulled back into a queue. He looked more like a pirate than the commander of the king’s armies. “True,” he acknowledged. “But that was not my question, Lady.”
She didn’t answer straightaway, but watched as Elias smoothed the rooster’s feathers and whispered what looked like soothing, encouraging words to it. His hands were beautifully shaped. His fingertips, as always, bore the faintest trace of blue paint. Elias cared little for gloves or for the cleansing potions used by most mapmakers. And why was she standing here admiring his hands? She found herself frowning.
“You underestimate him,” she said finally. “He’s smarter than he looks.”
The commander turned away and went back to his mutterings, this time something about being damned by faint praise. She let his words wash over her. Someone prodded her in the back so hard she fell forward a step. Slowly, she turned her head and gave the man behind her a gimlet-eyed stare. Fair hair, blue eyes, skin peeling from the sun: almost certainly a Mondragan.
“Apologies, miss . . .” His smile turned to puzzlement as he took in her own unusual appearance: black hair, golden skin, but with the green eyes and dreadful freckles that no full-blooded del Marian would ever proudly bear. The man glanced at Commander Aimon and then back at her, and she knew from the stranger’s reaction that she had been recognized. His eyes widened. Prudently, he inched away until he was gone from view.
She watched him go. Stupid to feel this way, this terrible, skin-crawling shame, when there was not a thing to be done about it. She could not change the blood flowing through her veins. Half Mondragan, half del Marian.
A curse.
Turning back to watch the fight, she held herself apart from the crowd, as she always did, and waited.
The opposing bird lay dead on the ground, his master mourning above it. There was laughter and groaning as wagers were paid. As the crowd loosened, the stink of men dispersed into something that was, while not exactly pleasant, at least far more breathable.
Elias brushed the feathers from a shirt that had once been white. A futile effort; they merely fluttered about in the air before settling onto a different part of his person. Beside him, Olivier danced a small victorious jig, his rooster clutched under one arm.
It was a ridiculous sight, and Elias laughed. He heard “Chart maker!” and looked up in time to see a pouch sailing through the air toward him. He caught it with one hand and held it out to Olivier. “Your winnings.”
Olivier took the pouch, unable to hide his relief as he felt the reassuring weight of copper sand dollars and silver double-shells. “You’ll take half? It’s only fair.”
Elias refused. “It’s your bird. Give it to your wife, with my compliments.”
Elias had just disembarked from the Amaris when he’d caught a glimpse of Olivier, a parchment seller by trade, standing at the back of the crowd with a birdcage in his hand. Elias knew desperation when he saw it. He suspected its reason. Olivier’s daughter suffered from a prolonged illness. Keeping his workshop profitable and paying off the leeches could not be a simple thing. Everyone knew these fights were a quick way to make money. Or lose it.
“You’re certain?” Olivier asked.
“Yes, take it. I can’t afford to lose your services. I don’t care for the way Master Hernan prepares his sheepskin.”
Olivier tucked the pouch away, then knelt to place the bird in its cage. “I’m grateful that you happened by, Lord Elias, and that you know so much about gamecocks.” He eyed Elias curiously. “How do you know so much? It’s an odd talent for a geographer.”
“Most of my talents are considered odd. Or worse.”
Olivier laughed. He shut the cage with a snap and, with final thanks, hurried off, the rooster swinging in the cage by his side.
Elias hitched his map carrier higher on his shoulder and glanced up, still smiling. Cortes was the capital city of St. John del Mar. An ancient settlement built on a hill with a round, walled castle at the very top and the parishes, or neighborhoods, spilling downward on slanted streets. The castle was his home. He had not seen it in months.
In his mind, he ticked off all he would do as soon as he reached the tower. First he would bathe, then eat. He would find out if Mercedes was on island, report to Lord Silva, deliver his maps to Madame Vega. Ulises would be in some council meeting or another at this hour of day, but he could visit his mother and the rest of—
He felt her before he saw her, absently touching the back of his neck, then turning fully when he glimpsed pale green silk at the edge of his vision.
Mercedes.
She stood among dust and abandoned feathers, watching him. Dark hair coiled over her ears like ram horns. A belt made of pearls, looped around a slender waist. A silver circlet above her brow. Her eyes, the green of the sea before a storm.
Unfortunately, he also saw Commander Aimon, who hovered behind her like some enormous dour shadow.
With dark humor, Elias looked down at the feathers stuck to his shirt. He saw the caged rooster disappear around a corner. Well. They had seen him do worse.
“Your ship is a month late, Elias,” Mercedes said when he walked up to them. She pronounced his name the del Marian way, EE-lee-us, and she was soft-spoken. Frequently, it lulled strangers into thinking she possessed a sweet nature. “What happened to your face?”
“Mercedes.” He kissed her on one cheek and the next, a ritual practiced on both women and men after a long absence. Most men, he amended after another glance at Aimon. There would be no kisses exchanged with the commander, today or any day. “It couldn’t be helped. Did you worry for me?”
“I prayed for you, if that is what you’re asking.”
He laughed. “It’s not.” He had missed this, this type of conversation, or whatever it was they shared. He had missed her. Looking over her shoulder, he said, “Commander, I’ve just come off the ship. I haven’t had time yet to cause you grief.”
“Don’t disregard your talents so quickly.” Commander Aimon reached out and plucked a feather from Elias’s shirt. He held it up, unsmiling. “And so. You’ve taken up cockfighting for charity?”
They had heard his exchange with Olivier. Elias shrugged. “It’s tr
ue. What are you both doing here? Are you lost?”
The commander’s answer was to bring his fingers to his lips in a sharp, piercing whistle. Elias nearly jumped from his skin. From a side street, three soldiers on horseback appeared and cantered toward them, scattering what was left of the crowd. Like Mercedes and the commander, they wore royal green and silver. Each led a riderless horse. One of them was Pythagoras.
Not a coincidence, then. They had come looking for him, if his horse was here. Elias had been away for months with little news of home. Sharply, he asked, “What’s happened? My family—?”
“Is well, everyone is well.” Mercedes’s hand on his chest was fleeting, but enough to assure him the worst hadn’t occurred in his absence. “Ulises would like a word.”
Relief turned into puzzlement. That was all? The king would like a word? He was distracted for a short time by Pythagoras, who nudged his ear in greeting. “Fine. I’ll get out of these rags and—”
“No time for that.” Commander Aimon was already on his horse. “The Amaris was spotted on the horizon hours ago. The king has waited long enough.”
Elias looked from the commander to Mercedes. They had been watching for him. Why? There was nothing unusual about a ship arriving late. A month’s delay was later than he would have liked, but it should not have caused too much concern. He thought about that as he helped Mercedes onto her horse. Light green skirts spread about a white mare. Keeping one hand wrapped around her ankle, he asked quietly, “Since when is a watch put out on my ship?”
“There wasn’t.”
“No? Since when am I met at the docks with personal escort? What aren’t you telling me, Mercedes?”
Once, they had been close. When they were children, it had been simple to know how she’d felt and what she’d thought. She’d worn her heart on her sleeve for friend and foe to see. Mostly foe. But that was then. In the years since, Mercedes had become very good at hiding her thoughts, even from him.
She looked at him. Beautiful green eyes. Giving away nothing. “I’m not trying to be mysterious,” she said. “It’s simpler just to show you. Will you come? And let go.”
He stepped away before she could kick him. She rode off with Commander Aimon and his men, and Elias was left with no choice but to follow—up toward the castle, up toward his king—at a complete loss, and with a very bad feeling.
Two
T WAS NOT the first time someone had spat at Mercedes, or even the fifth, but it had been some years since Elias had witnessed the insult.
Just before they reached the raised portcullis, Commander Aimon broke off with a salute and rode toward the arena with his men. Elias followed Mercedes into the castle’s courtyard, a large circular space open to the sky. The sea air was faint here, high on the hill, overpowered by bougainvillea and the blood oranges growing in the nearby orchard. An ancient olive tree dominated the center: two hundred feet tall and growing, its thick, gnarled roots bursting from the ground and creeping along the surface.
The ladies of the court strolled about, weaving their way among soldiers and servants and robed scholars deep in conversation. Many called out greetings to Elias, welcoming him home. A few clucked at his appearance. And they swept low in deference to Mercedes, second in line to the throne.
All of them bowed, that is, except one.
The courtyard was surrounded by an arcade three stories high. An old woman stood just inside the ground level, partially concealed by the crimson bougainvillea cascading off an upper balcony. As Mercedes rode past, the woman spat, missing the horse’s rear hooves by a hand’s width.
Anger tightened his stomach. A quick glance at Mercedes dashed any hope that she had not seen what happened. She stared straight ahead, her face composed. But her shoulders had stiffened, and her chin had lifted up, up, in that way he recognized.
This he had not missed. He nudged Pythagoras forward until he had placed himself between Mercedes and the old woman. He did not know her. She was dressed as a tradeswoman. Old enough to have remembered that day eighteen years ago. Bitter enough to blame Mercedes for it, though she had still been in her mother’s womb. He said nothing, only watched and waited and wished it were a man standing there by the bougainvillea. One did not have to be so polite with a man.
Mercedes was King Ulises’s cousin, his only living relative. Her father, Augustin, long dead, had been the old king’s younger brother. Her mother, Alyss, a beautiful noblewoman from Mondrago. Her parents had fallen in love and married long ago, when it was still acceptable for a del Marian to marry a Mondragan. Before the kidnappings and the murders. Before the two kingdoms had gone to war.
Conversation trailed away as others turned to see who it was Elias watched, stonefaced. The old woman must have gained some sense, seeing his expression, because she curtsied, quickly but correctly, and scurried off toward the gates.
Mercedes would not look at him. There was the familiar crush of white pebbles and seashells beneath his boots as he dismounted. He handed his reins over to a groom.
“Who was that, Marco?” Elias asked.
The boy glared after the old woman. “I’ve never seen her before, Lord Elias. Should I find out? I’ll follow her.”
“No, you won’t.” Mercedes handed her reins to the boy and said firmly, “Thank you, Marco.”
The boy looked from Mercedes to Elias and sighed. “Yes, Lady.” He took himself off, leading the horses behind him.
Once the boy was out of earshot, Elias frowned at her. “I didn’t know this still happened. How often, Mercedes?”
“It’s nothing to do with you.” She turned on her heel and marched off toward the door that led to the king’s chambers.
He caught up with her easily. “Does Ulises know?”
“Why would I tell him? So he can punish an old woman?”
“Yes.”
Mercedes threw a dark glance in his direction. “Leave her alone. She’s entitled to her rage.”
She didn’t truly believe that? “No, she isn’t. Not toward you.”
Mercedes stopped directly beneath the archway, ignoring the curious stares turned in their direction. “I don’t need a champion, Elias. And I won’t have you running to the king and telling tales. I can fight my own wars.”
He would have argued his point forever had she not lifted her eyes to meet his. There was the anger he expected, but just beneath, nearly hidden, a bone-deep mortification.
All at once, the fight left him. He said only, “Mercedes. You should not have to.” He motioned for her to precede him, and they made their way through the castle in silence.
The king’s chamber was a vast room dominated by a long table. At the far end, conversation broke off and three pairs of eyes turned in their direction: those of Lord Silva, Royal Navigator; his young granddaughter, Lady Reyna; and Ulises, del Mar’s king of one year.
Ulises was nineteen—only a day older than Elias—and, though the official mourning period for his father had passed months ago, still dressed entirely in black. Black trousers, black boots. Even his crown was black, a thin band of onyx with an emerald at its center. Taller than Elias, but only slightly, with black hair cropped close to his head and a face that could be thought of as melancholy but that Elias had heard more than one lady describe as “poetic.”
Ulises did not look melancholy just now as he shoved his chair back and rose, smiling. “You found him, Mercedes. Good.” His smile faded somewhat as he studied Elias’s shirt front. “Whose blood is that? Not yours?”
“It’s better not to ask, cousin.” Mercedes took a seat. Behind her, a series of doors had been flung open, offering a staggering view of the harbor and, beyond that, the Sea of Magdalen.
“It isn’t mine,” Elias said after a quick bow. “Forgive me for coming in my dirt. I was told to hurry.”
He did not miss the raised eyebrows exchanged between Ulises and Lord Silva. Mercedes and Elias had dragged their tension into the chamber, dampening the air around them like fog.
Ulises said only, “We were starting to worry.” He clasped Elias’s forearms in greeting. A kiss on each cheek, a grin, then, “Old friend, it’s good to see your face, battered though it is.”
“And yours.” Still it gave him an odd feeling to see Ulises as king. To bow and address formally, at least sometimes, the boy he had grown up beside. Ulises returned to his seat as Elias greeted Lord Silva.
His former teacher was nearing seventy, a neatly kept man of middling height with a gray triangle of a beard and pleasant features. He looked like someone’s gentle grandfather. Which he was. But no other grandfather Elias knew could speak a dozen languages. Or sail past the Strait of Cain’s turbulent whirlpools without ever once losing his supper. Or outrun an entire tribe of cannibals with a terrified seven-year-old Elias clinging to his back. Lord Silva was thinner than Elias remembered, but his grip was still strong, his eyes still bright and sure.
“Elias. Welcome home.” Lord Silva reached up and patted Elias’s unmarked cheek. As usual, the pats felt more like a couple of brisk slaps. “What happened to your face?”
“A miscalculation.” Elias didn’t like to think about it: the Amaris and the jutting rocks that had sprung from nowhere.
“That sounds ominous. Is everyone alive, at least?”
Elias smiled. He could always count on Lord Silva to ask the important questions and disregard the rest. “Mostly.”
“Good.” Lord Silva stepped back and examined him. “I don’t want to know about the blood. Or the . . . are those feathers?”
“Ah . . .” Elias saw Mercedes smile despite herself. “You don’t want to know about those, either.”
“Hmph.” Lord Silva returned to his chair.
And Elias turned to Reyna. How old was she now? Nine? Ten? As small as Mercedes was at that age. Why would she be here, at this urgent, mysterious summons?
He asked, “Have you taken up fighting, Lady Reyna? You’ve lost a few more teeth since I last saw you.”
Isle of Blood and Stone Page 2
