Isle of Blood and Stone

by Makiia Lucier

  Until now.

  Elias strode across a different courtyard this time. One smaller than the other, and without an olive tree, but still remarkable. Beneath his feet was an immense compass star constructed of tilework in blues and greens and golds. The compass filled the entirety of the open courtyard. Eight wind points led directly to stone archways that, in turn, led to eight separate doors for the School of Navigation. The Tower of Winds rose directly ahead, its exterior not smooth and curved but octagonal, each side depicting a famed explorer. His father was up there, map carrier strapped to his back, his likeness facing the sea. The courtyard was empty except for a lone servant who swept the tile with a palm frond. Elias had just stomped past the compass’s northern point when he heard Lord Silva calling behind him.

  “Elias! Stop.”

  He did as he was told. Reyna had accompanied her grandfather. Lord Silva said something to her, and after an uncertain look in Elias’s direction, the child took herself off whence she had come.

  When Lord Silva was only a few feet away, Elias said, “I’m done speaking of it.”

  “And I’m not,” Lord Silva said mildly. “Come, let us go where we can talk frankly.” And he walked off into the tower, fully expecting to be obeyed.

  Old habits died hard. Elias followed, trying to ignore the rolled maps Lord Silva had tucked beneath his arm.

  The School of Navigation was housed along the castle’s northern walls. Books on geography, cosmography, hydro­graphy, astronomy, navigation, and foreign kingdoms were stored here. A vast quantity, though, far outnumbered by maps. Scroll upon scroll of rolled parchment could be found, maps and sea charts depicting every part of the known world.

  A marble statue of Saint Cosme stood in the center of the main floor: forty feet tall, head and shoulders bent to carry the heavens on his shoulders. Tables were scattered around him. Mapmakers hunched over parchment, working shoulder to shoulder with the painters and miniaturists. In one corner, Lord Braga’s son Jaime shaved away a length of wood that was beginning to resemble a cross-staff. He grinned as they strode past and returned Elias’s salute with one of his own. Through an open door, Madame Vega instructed a group of boys on the use of an astrolabe.

  Lord Silva’s work chamber was also filled with books and charts. A map of the world dominated one wall, nine feet by twelve feet, framed in gilt. This map had a cartouche. The signature read, Vittor, Tower of Winds, Kingdom of St. John del Mar.

  Elias had never met Lord Silva’s eldest son. Vittor had died the year Elias was born, buried in an avalanche along with most of his expedition. His death had broken his widowed father, who had retreated to his home in Alfonse. Lord Silva had never intended to return as Royal Navigator. His former apprentice Antoni had assumed the role. But when, only months later, Antoni and the two princes disappeared, the king had summoned Lord Silva back to Cortes.

  Lord Silva set the maps on the table. The parchment unfurled slightly; he had not bothered replacing the ribbons. Joints crackled as he lowered himself into a chair. He waited until Elias had paced the length of the chamber before he spoke. “You should not have lost your temper.”

  Elias swung around. “Why not?” he burst out. “He was being absurd.”

  Lord Silva rested his chin on steepled fingers. “He may be absurd if he wishes,” he said with some asperity. “You forget he is no longer just the prince, or just your friend. Elias, he is your king.”

  To this, Elias said nothing. He understood his teacher’s full meaning. He is your king. And that position demands loyalty and respect, at all times. He tried to fight off a twinge of conscience. When that failed, he resumed his pacing.

  “What would you have done in his place?” Lord Silva asked. “Ignored the maps? Could you have?”

  Elias gestured toward the parchment. “You think my father painted those?”

  Lord Silva did not answer right away. In the silence, Elias could hear the boys in the next chamber with Madame Vega, reciting the same chant he had learned long ago:

  “You, adventurer who boasts of being

  quick-witted and a good troubadour,

  would you make me a song

  that the eight winds call?”

  “Levante, Scirocco, and Ostro,

  Libeccio, Ponente, and Maestro,

  Tramontana and Greco:

  Here you have the eight winds of the globe.”

  Levante was the ancient del Marian word for the wind from the east; Scirocco, from the southeast; Ostro, from the south. And the five remaining winds were Libeccio, southwest; Ponente, west; Maestro, northwest; Tramontana, north; and Greco, northeast. Follow the path of the ancient mariners, Tramontana to Ostro, the maps stated. Tramontana to Ostro: north to south. What did that mean? he wondered, and then was angry at himself for wondering.

  “Do I think Antoni painted the maps?” Lord Silva asked with a thoughtful expression. “I can’t say yes. I can’t say no. One possibility leads to another, and my mind is left tangled by the conclusions I draw.”

  Elias did not try to conceal his dismay when he asked, “If he were alive, why would he stay away?”

  “I don’t know.” Lord Silva raised his troubled gaze to Elias’s. “But there’s something strange about those maps. You know it as well as I do. The king knows it. Lady Mercedes, too.”

  Mercedes. His scowl deepened just hearing her name. “And Reyna,” he reminded Lord Silva.

  Lord Silva’s expression turned blank, as if he’d forgotten who Reyna was. “Yes, yes. And the child.”

  The boys in the next chamber laughed, and it occurred to Elias that he should not have been able to hear them. Not with Lord Silva’s heavy door and thick walls. He glanced over, saw that the door had not been shut completely. A crack could be seen, and he thought he heard . . . He was across the chamber in an instant, startling Lord Silva as he yanked the door wide. And groaned.

  Madame Grec’s nose was suspiciously close to the threshold. She jumped a foot when Elias appeared, embarrassed color sweeping her features. “Lord Elias. Welcome home.”

  “Madame Grec.” Elias tried to hide his consternation. The school’s language master was not quite as old as his own mother. One of del Mar’s rare tall women, she stood across from him, nose to nose, eye to eye. Dark hair caught beneath a wimple and a gleam in her eye that said, I have just heard the most interesting things!

  What could she have heard? Elias thought back.

  You think my father painted those?

  If he were alive, why would he stay away?

  There’s something strange about those maps. . . .

  Lord Silva had risen behind his desk. His eyes had narrowed, though his tone was courteous. “Madame Grec, was there something I can do for you?”

  Madame Grec had been staring at Elias’s bruise. She dragged her gaze away and smiled brightly at the Royal Navigator. “My lord Silva, yes. I’d hoped to discuss Hector.” She glanced at Elias, her smile fading slightly. “But if you’re engaged . . .”

  “As you see,” Lord Silva said with some dryness.

  “. . . I’ll return later,” Madame Grec finished reluctantly.

  “Please do.”

  This time, Elias made sure the door shut completely. He looked across the chamber in mute dismay.

  “She heard nothing.” Lord Silva returned to his chair and held up one hand wearily. “And don’t start pacing again. It’s exhausting to watch.”

  Elias stopped before the desk, too restless to sit. “What’s wrong with Hector?”

  Hector was the Grecs’ only son. He had been admitted to the school earlier this year, when he turned five, the youngest age possible for acceptance.

  “Nothing is the matter with Hector,” Lord Silva said. “Only he’s not meant to be an explorer, and his mother will not see it.”

  Elias had not been taught languages by Madame Grec but by a previous language master now retired. The Grecs had returned to del Mar a year ago after living among the Bushidos.

  “Wher
e is Master Grec?” Elias asked.

  “In Caffa. Visiting his brother.”

  A dull pain had worked its way behind Elias’s eyes. He lost interest in the Grecs. “I don’t like riddles. Why don’t people just say what they mean?”

  Surprisingly, Lord Silva smiled. “I know you don’t. And yet your father loved them.” His smile faded. “We could be mistaken. These maps could be nothing more than some fool passing the time. A very skilled fool . . .”

  Elias waited. “But?”

  Lord Silva said, “If there is someone out there who knows a different truth, do you not want to learn of it?” He slid the maps across the desk toward Elias. “Not for me, not even for the king. But for your own sake?”

  Elias rode hard, leaving the walled city in his wake as the afternoon sun beat down upon his shoulders. A farmer with ass and cart approached from the opposite direction. Seeing Elias bearing down on him, he clattered to the side of the road in alarm. The explicit nature of his curses jolted Elias from his reverie. He looked over his shoulder to see the man shaking a meaty fist at him, then turned away, filled with grim humor. Another person upset with him. Well. What was one more?

  The ride did not clear his thoughts as he had hoped. Pythagoras’s mane whipped against him as he rode lower, faster, down the king’s highway, Marinus Road.

  Follow the path of the ancient mariners.

  Ancient mariners.

  Marinus Road.

  Around in his mind the riddle went, until a cluster of cypress appeared to the east. He rode beneath a triple archway that marked the entrance to a graveyard, with its ancient landscape and stone sarcophagi. The chapel doors were shut. There was no one about.

  The graves lay to the right, the dead bordered by spindly columns of cypress. He left Pythagoras by a tree and made his way to the far end of the grounds. The marker he sought rose six feet high, as tall as he, inscribed with nothing more than a name and an image of a compass rose.

  He laid his hand on the marker. Why did he come back to this place? There was no one here beneath the dirt. Only a memorial stone placed by his mother. His map carrier, normally a pleasant weight against his back, felt like a millstone. He took it off and laid it on the grass.

  If there is someone out there who knows a different truth . . . do you not want to learn of it? Not for me, not even for the king. But for your own sake?

  What did he know of Lord Antoni, his father? From his mother, he knew that he had grown up in Antoni’s image, so alike in manner and appearance that he would hear her catch her breath sometimes, and when he turned to face her, she would have her hand pressed over her heart and a look in her eye that said her thoughts were not on her son but on someone else entirely.

  From Antoni’s friend Lord Braga, Elias knew his father had been a man quick to laugh and slow to rile. An explorer with an adventuresome spirit and a curious nature, whose respect for the traditions of others had gained him entry to the world’s mysterious kingdoms: the Pyrenees tribe of the Western Angolas, the Bushidos in the east, and, Lord Braga’s favorite, the unnaturally tall race of women who lived in the forests and swamps of the Inner Jangas.

  From Lord Silva, Elias had learned Antoni had been a gifted mapmaker, a fine artist, and a brilliant man of science, who, at the age of twenty-five, had given up many of his travels to become del Mar’s Royal Navigator so that he could remain close to his wife and son.

  Husband. Friend. Explorer. Father.

  What did Elias know of Lord Antoni? He knew many things.

  And he knew nothing.

  A sound had him looking up. A holy man approached, wearing a black robe and holding rosary beads.

  “Lord Elias,” the priest said, “it has been some time since your last visit. You look well.”

  “Father,” Elias said in greeting. He indicated the marker. “You’ve kept it tended. I’m grateful.”

  The priest gestured toward the chapel. “There’s food inside . . . and counsel, should you need it.” The last was a question.

  Elias hesitated. “No. Not this time.”

  The priest stepped back, beads swaying from long, bony fingers. “Then I’ll leave you to your prayers. Your horse will be tended to.” He left as quietly as he’d come.

  Elias waited until the priest had disappeared into the chapel before kneeling and bowing his head. He stayed there, by his father’s empty grave, for a long time.

  And then he opened his carrier and spread the maps upon the grass.

  Four

  OR THE FIRST time in his life, Elias found himself barred from the king’s chambers. A change of guard had taken place. Clearly, they had heard of the earlier altercation. At any other time, Elias would have simply strolled past. This evening, the guards looked uneasy, but they blocked his path and made him wait while they sought the king’s permission.

  Embarrassment crept along his neck and warmed his ears. He and Ulises had fought occasionally, as friends do, as boys do. But not once had they fought since Ulises had been crowned, after the old king had fallen from his horse and snapped his neck. Elias had not been on island enough in the past year to wonder how a kingship would affect their friendship. Standing here, still covered with the dust and dirt of travel, he had to admit it did not look promising.

  And then he smiled to himself, for within the chamber came a testy “And? Why is he being announced? Do you know something I do not?” followed by the guard’s mumbled apology. Elias was allowed to enter.

  Inside, five of the king’s scribes gathered their belongings and made to depart. Chairs scraped against stone; parchment crinkled. They passed him with murmured greetings—“Welcome home, Lord Elias”—and a few censorious looks. The guard shut the doors behind them.

  Ulises was at the table, quill in hand, scrawling his way across parchment. He did not look up at Elias’s approach. Before the king were stacks of what looked to be very official documents and six inkpots. Six! Through open balcony doors, Elias could see a full moon settled high in the night.

  Silently, Elias pulled the carrier over his head and placed it on the table. Ulises continued to ignore him, so he sat opposite and reached for a fig from a bowl. Then five more figs. He had not eaten since early this morning aboard the Amaris. The minutes ticked by.

  Elias used the time to study his king. With his serious expression and that quill, Ulises reminded him of a scholar or one of those monks who shuffled down from the monasteries in his robe and sandals. With a start, he realized that had Bartolome and Teodor lived, Ulises likely would have made his home in the church, for it was the traditional expectation of a third son.

  Ulises glanced up and caught him staring. “What is it?”

  You forget he is no longer just the prince, or just your friend. Elias, he is your king. Lord Silva’s words. Elias remembered them and shrugged. “I was thinking you would have made a very good monk.”

  Silence, followed by a sour look. Ulises tossed the quill aside. “It’s a good thing you chose to be an explorer. You’d have made a poor diplomat.”

  Elias held up his carrier. “I found something.”

  Ulises’s eyes widened. The scowl vanished. “Show me.”

  Together, they shoved aside the parchment and inkpots. The first map was unrolled, anchored by the shells. Elias said, “We’re told to follow the path of the ancient mariners, north to south. And we’re told to pay attention not to what is there but to what is not.”

  “Yes, I know,” Ulises said, impatient. “What does it mean? It couldn’t be less clear.”

  “Look close. Right there.”

  Javelin Forest was a massive woodland north of Cortes, off Marinus Road. A cluster of green marked its existence. In the center of the forest was a clearing, and within it, the mapmaker had painted a woman seated on a tree stump. She was dressed in white, her hair covered by one of those cone-shaped wimples his great-aunt Fabiana still wore on occasion. If one squinted and strained, one could see the red cross painted over her chest. Clinging to her ski
rts were two children. Their faces were turned outward, toward the viewer, but their features had been left unpainted, so that they were merely blank white circles. It was an unnerving image, one that had sent the hairs dancing lightly along his arms when he’d first spotted them.

  Ulises was frowning. “Javelin? It’s exactly where it should be. He’s even painted in the spirits.”

  He spoke of the children. Centuries ago, the forest had been home to a thriving orphanage run by nuns. The girls were raised to be royal woodcarvers. Once, their work was admired in the intricate carvings of the figureheads that graced del Mar’s royal fleet. Until one summer night a mysterious fire had broken out, destroying the buildings and leaving no survivors. There were some who whispered of the abbess, and a doomed affair, and a rejected lover who had taken his revenge. But no one knew for certain, and there was none left to tell the tale. Since then, very few entered Javelin Forest. It was not a welcoming place for the living.

  Elias prompted, “Look at the trees.”

  Ulises leaned closer, and closer still. He glanced over in surprise. “These are oaks.”

  “And alder,” Elias said. Javelin was an anomaly in the Sea of Magdalen, a dense forest made entirely of palm trees and anchored by white sand.

  Ulises looked skeptical. “It could be an error. It’s a small detail, easy to miss.”

  “It’s not a mistake.” Of this, Elias was certain. He pointed to the inset of Cortes. “See here? He’s painted the exact number of archways in the arena. I counted. Who takes that much care? Who is that obsessive?”

  “You are,” Ulises pointed out.

  A quick grin. “True, but it’s uncommon. And outside the maritime courts, that fat figure there in red. Do you recognize him?”

  After a moment, Ulises said, “It’s Judge Piri.”

  “Yes.” Piri had worked for the maritime courts for decades, most recently as a judge. He was a corpulent man, fond of his meals and wine, and always wore a red robe. Elias continued, “Whoever painted these knows del Mar like the back of his hand. It’s not a mistake he would make.” He could not help feeling a sense of professional admiration for the unnamed mapmaker. He found himself irritated by it.