Isle of Blood and Stone

by Makiia Lucier

  “Do you think you can?” She did not sound skeptical, only curious.

  “Absolutely.” He offered up the lie with a smile.

  He plucked one of the disks from a step. The instrument, with its scales and symbols etched onto the brass, gleamed. She was thorough. A thought occurred to him. “Reyna, did you see anything else on the map? Something out of place?”

  She rubbed a stubborn smudge from the brass before answering. “The forest at Javelin . . . there’s a mistake.”

  She had seen the trees as well. He didn’t know why the thought pleased him so much. “The oak and alder.”

  She returned his smile with a tentative one of her own. “Yes.”

  “Anything else?”

  She looked apologetic. “I didn’t have it for very long.”

  That, at least, he could do something about. “Do you know where my work chambers are?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll leave one of the maps there. Your map. And I’ll tell Basilio that you’re free to come and go as you please. If you’ve time, I could use your eyes.”

  The map would be safe in his chamber. No one entered except Basilio. He trusted his steward without question.

  “I’ll try, Lord Elias.” She still looked worried, and he could no longer ignore the dull throbbing behind his eyes. It had been with him, off and on, since yesterday. Maybe they both needed a distraction from their thoughts. Something normal and familiar, something that made sense.

  Luca hummed while he worked. Contrary to Elias’s earlier remark, Luca was a diligent worker. Also the fastest painter Elias knew. Even so, Madame Vega had given him considerable work. His friend would be working late into the evening for several nights to come.

  Elias asked Reyna, “How precise are your sea monsters?”

  “Madame says they give her nightmares. It was a compliment, I think.”

  Amused, he assured her, “It was. Madame’s tightfisted with her praise.” He set the disk aside and stood. “The maps from Hellespont need to be copied. There’s no time for color, but that doesn’t mean they have to be dull. You can add the embellishments.”

  Reyna brightened. “These will be real maps? Not just for lessons?”

  “You can deliver them to the captains yourself, if you want,” he said, and was rewarded with a smile. Over his shoulder, he called, “Master Luca?” using full address for Reyna’s benefit.

  “Lord Elias?” Luca responded amiably enough.

  “Do you need some help?”

  At that, Luca looked around and smiled. “The lead’s over there.”

  Elias helped Reyna gather the astrolabes and return them to a large chest set against the wall. He placed his carrier beneath the table, pulled on an apron, and adjusted his sleeves. And for a short while he was able, slowly, to return to himself. To forget everything but the work itself.

  He remembered every instant of that first morning in the tower. When he was a boy. Beams of light through the windows, dust motes gathered around Cosme’s head like a crown. The painters, four to a table, quietly at their work. Madame Vega, unsmiling but not unkind: And so you are Elias. You are most welcome here. Luca sweeping the wood shavings from the floor. And Lord Silva leading him around the tower and answering every question Elias asked. Patiently, as though there were nowhere else for him to be. Elias had not known most of their names. Not then. But he had known who they were, what they were. Mapmakers and artists and navigators. These were his people, a different kind of family.

  Now he drew the compass stars onto the sheepskin. He cast rhumb lines across the parchment. Gradually, the chamber filled with others returning from their meal, and he stopped often to greet them and exchange news. Beside him, Reyna knelt on a chair and leaned over one map, her brows knit in concentration. With painstaking care, she sketched in the most vicious-looking sea monsters he had ever seen, in person or on a sea chart.

  “That is terrifying,” he commented. When she smiled at him, he asked, “Have you seen the finned lion in person?” Her drawing was very realistic and macabre for someone still wearing double braids. The creature bore the head of a lion, a spiked fin on its back, and a long, curving serpent’s tale. An unlucky shipman dangled from the lion’s jaws, his mouth opened in a scream and his ropy innards spilling onto Elias’s shoreline in black ink.

  “Only a baby one. Grandfather and I saw it from the cliff tops in Alfonse.”

  Luca reached around her for some lead. “Have you traveled beyond del Mar, Reyna?”

  “No, sir. Never.”

  Elias caught Luca’s eye. They had both heard the wistful note in her voice, and on her face was a look they both recognized and understood. How could they not? They had felt it themselves, all their lives.

  Wanderlust.

  Once, Lord Silva had three sons living on del Mar. The eldest, Vittor, was killed in that long-ago avalanche. The second, Ginés, sailed off as a young man and chose never to return, the occasional letter home proof he still lived. Silva’s youngest son, Tomas, had been Reyna’s father. Reyna’s parents had died three years ago when their ship was lost in the ferocious whirlpools along the Strait of Cain. Leaving her an orphan and in her widowed grandfather’s care. She was the only female enrolled in del Mar’s School of Navigation, but there had been others before her. Girls received a nearly equal education to the boys, on land. Geography, history, painting, mathematics, astronomy, linguistics. But to join an expedition, one must be selected formally as an apprentice by a master geographer. Of course, girls were never selected. Most went on to marry and have children. Others became royal painters, copying maps that the male geographers brought home. Or teachers; Madame Grec served as language master. And then there was Madame Vega, Lord Silva’s assistant.

  Elias found himself curious. He asked Reyna, “If you could sail off today, where would you go?”

  She set aside her lead as she thought about his question. Her face took on a dreamy quality, and her answer, when it came, did not surprise him.

  “I would go everywhere.”

  To enter the stairwell that led to his tower chambers, Elias first had to pass Madame Vega’s open doorway. He walked quickly, with his head down, in the hopes he would not be seen.

  “Just because you hide does not mean I do not see you, Lord Elias.”

  Sheepish, Elias stepped back into view. Del Mar’s geography mistress eyed him from just inside the chamber, where she stood on the top step of a ladder. She was small in stature—on solid ground, her head reached the pit of his arm—and wore a midnight-blue robe with black lace at the collar. Like most del Marian women, her hair was elaborately done. Thick braids coiled above her head, embellished with silver plum-sized pins shaped like the moon and the stars. He’d found her reshelving scrolls. Her arms were full of them.

  “Madame Vega,” he said, “forgive me. My mind was elsewhere.”

  The look she gave him said she’d been lied to by better men. “Then it’s a good thing I watched for you.” She studied his bruise. “I heard about the rocks. Is that your only injury?”

  “Yes, Madame.”

  “Good.” Because her arms were full, she pointed to her desk with her chin. “Bring those charts here, if you please. The ones by the pilots.”

  Madame Vega’s work chamber, a fifth the size of Lord Silva’s, was a stone cave lined with bookcases and hung with maps. A small round window offered a blurred, distorted view of the harbor. Elias swept up the requested scrolls and glanced at the pilot book she was copying. He could just make out the sailing instructions, though they were upside down: From Santequer to Donille is twenty miles east-northeast, quarter east. Santequer is a good port-facing town where you may anchor. In case you come from the east, take care of a shoal that is close to the point. From Donille to . . . He found himself smiling. The words were his, written during a brief excursion to the Outer Islands last fall. It gratified him to see them here, being copied, where they would be used officially for the crown. It was only in the last year
that his work had been judged skilled enough to be distributed throughout the fleets.

  When he returned to the ladder, he made sure to set a boot on the lowest rung to hold it steady. It would be worse for him if Madame Vega were to fall and crack her head open on the stone. For him, and for every other geographer and apprentice within these walls. Lord Silva was the head of the school, its public face, but Madame Vega was its backbone. Its spine. Nothing would get done without her.

  She took the scroll he held up to her. “Lord Silva tells me you’ve been given a special task by the king.” Before he could think what to say, she added, “There’s no need to explain. It’s no concern of mine. I’ve been assured it won’t interfere with your placement on the expedition.” This last was a question.

  Just the thought of the Amaris sailing without him turned his stomach. “It won’t.”

  “You’re certain? King’s task or not, you’ll be expected to prepare for the journey. See to your own trunks, charts, et cetera, et cetera.”

  He knew what needed to be done. “I understand. I don’t expect a problem.”

  “Good,” she said. “Now, there’s another matter to discuss, one we both know you’ve been avoiding.”

  “Of course.” He cast a longing glance at the open door. “I’ll need more time to consider—”

  “That time has passed.” She shook a scroll at him before placing it on a shelf. “You were awarded master status months ago. Your duties in Hellespont caused an understandable delay, but it’s time for you to choose an apprentice.”

  “With the utmost respect, Madame, I’m not sure I’m meant to have an apprentice. I work better alone.”

  She said evenly, “With the utmost respect, Lord Elias, you were an apprentice, as were your father and grandfather and many generations before them.” She snatched the scroll from his grip. “Would you say your instruction under Lord Silva was invaluable?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Good. Then you cannot now say ‘I work better alone’ and break five hundred years of tradition. You must give back. This expedition will be an opportunity for you to train one of the boys, and train him thoroughly.”

  Every word she spoke was reasonable. “I understand my responsibility,” he said. “I know I’ve been lagging. It’s just . . . an apprentice is . . .” He groped about for the right words. “A nuisance.”

  Something— it might have been amusement—flickered in her eyes before she said, “And you were not?”

  He had the grace to smile. “A fair point.”

  She continued, “Men are not born brilliant explorers. That will be your task. To mold them into someone del Mar can be proud of. What of Jaime? He’s a good boy. A rough diamond perhaps, but there’s hope there.”

  Jaime? Lord Braga’s son? Her words had barely settled when he heard a sharp cry from the hall and what sounded like a stampede growing closer. A mass of children erupted into the chamber like dervishes, all of them speaking at once. The youngest was the Grecs’ son, Hector, age five, who clutched his nose and looked panic-stricken.

  “What happened?” Madame Vega demanded, at once off the ladder and in the middle of the fray.

  “There’s a rock in his nose,” Reyna explained, one arm protectively around Hector’s shoulders.

  Another boy, Mateo, added, “Jaime dared him to shove a leading stone up his nose, and now it won’t come out.”

  “I didn’t think he would do it! Why would anyone do it?”

  “Why would anyone dare it?” Reyna glared at Jaime, who had sprouted several inches in the months Elias had been gone. “You’re a lump, Jaime.”

  “Reyna! Language!” Madame Vega’s scold was lost beneath Hector’s piercing wail. Now would be a good time for Elias to leave. The matter of an apprentice could be put off yet again, maybe even until after he returned from the expedition. He looked at Hector with his nose the color of rubies and tears streaming from his eyes.

  And sighed. “There now, Hector,” Elias said. “Let’s have a look.” He lifted the boy onto a ladder step and tipped his head back for inspection. Gray eyes like his mother’s. Arms and legs like twigs. The children gathered around in a tight circle, Reyna on one side of Hector and a shamefaced Jaime on the other.

  Madame Vega peered around Elias. “How far back is it?”

  The stone was lodged good and tight. He was not about to say so in front of poor Hector. “I’ve seen worse.” A leather pouch hung from Elias’s belt. He fished around inside it before producing a small round tin and a slim iron pincer.

  Reyna eyed him curiously. “You carry pincers and sheep fat with you?”

  “Don’t you?” He smiled at her, then uncapped the tin. Scooping a pea-sized amount with his little finger, he held it up for Hector to see. “This won’t hurt, but try not to move, hmm?”

  Hector’s response was a dry, shuddering breath. There was a snicker in the crowd, silenced quickly as Madame Vega’s head whipped around.

  “Sheep’s fat,” Elias explained, working the lard into Hector’s right nostril and ignoring the chorus of giggles that followed, “can be used as a balm for scrapes, burns, bites, rashes, whichever. An explorer learns quickly never to be without it.”

  There was a whimper from his patient.

  “Courage, Hector,” Reyna soothed.

  Elias shared a glance with Madame Vega and looked away before he laughed. He used the pincers to rotate the stone within the nostril in order to spread the balm around.

  “What is the meaning of this?” a female voice demanded, so loud and so unexpectedly that Elias nearly pierced Hector’s brains with his pincer. Madame Grec stood inside the doorway with Lord Silva. The children scattered, making way for her to loom, incensed, over her son.

  “Maman,” Hector said in a small voice.

  “Perfectly still, Hector, remember?” Elias said. “It’s a small stone only, Madame. I nearly have it.”

  “A stone! Who put it there?” Madame Grec glared at the other children. They had gone mute and terrified. Her gaze narrowed on Jaime, who had sidled over so that he was half hidden behind Lord Silva.

  Madame Grec pointed an accusing finger at Jaime. “You—”

  “Genevieve,” Madame Vega said, exasperated, “leave the boy alone.”

  And Hector said, “I put it there, Maman. It’s my fault.”

  Hector had not tattled. Lord Silva turned his gaze heavenward and said nothing.

  Elias said, “As I was saying, pincers are excellent for slivers and . . .” He plucked the stone from Hector’s nostril with an audible sucking noise, which brought forth cheers. Elias offered it to Jaime. The boy grimaced but took the stone. “. . . removing stones from peculiar places.”

  Madame Grec did not have a chance to do more than bristle. Madame Vega took over, sending Hector off with his mother and the rest to their lessons in mixing paints. Lord Silva held Jaime back long enough to deliver a mild admonishment: “Be kind to the younger ones; they look up to you. And stay away from Madame Grec for a day or two. There’s a good boy.” To Madame Vega, he asked, “Lena, have you seen my pilot book on Caffa? The one with the illustrations?”

  Madame Vega didn’t have to think before answering. “It’s in your work chamber, on the ledge by the silver globe.”

  “What about my pipe? It seems to have gone missing. I’ve looked everywhere.”

  “I’ve sent it to be repaired, remember? There’s a crack in it. I left another by your bed.”

  They were like an old married couple, Elias thought, together forever. Though Madame Vega was decades younger, the same as Madame Grec. Not for the first time, he wondered . . . and then he stopped wondering. The romantic lives of his elders were never something he wished to consider.

  Lord Silva’s expression had cleared. “Ah. Thank you, my dear.” He turned to Elias. “Stones in noses. You’re a man of rare talent.” And when Elias laughed, he added, “I’d like a word.”

  “Yes, sir.” Elias turned to follow him out but was s
topped at the door when Madame Vega called his name.

  She had taken up a quill behind her desk. “It’s settled, then. I’ll have your answer a week before you depart and no later.”

  “I . . .” He looked to Lord Silva, who spread his hands. Elias was on his own.

  “These are the rules,” she said firmly, “if you wish to board that ship. If I change them for you, I must change them for everyone, and that is unacceptable. Every master has an apprentice, Lord Elias. That includes you.”

  Eight

  HE RED ONE or the yellow one?” Mercedes asked. “Which is best?”

  “Yellow,” Reyna answered. “I’ve never worn it before. We should offer something new, shouldn’t we?”

  They were in Reyna’s small bedchamber in the Tower of Winds. It was nearly time for supper, and Mercedes had come here, thinking to rummage through the child’s clothing chests for a dress that would please, or at least placate, a young female ghost. Reyna had been more than obliging when Mercedes had explained her mission, and now they stood at the foot of the bed, eyeing the assortment of dresses that covered every inch of bedspread.

  “The yellow, then,” Mercedes decided. “You’re certain you don’t mind?”

  Reyna spoke with all seriousness. “You can have them all, if you think they’ll keep you safer.”

  Mercedes found herself smiling as she gathered up the dress, lemon cotton with white lace trimming. Had she ever been as sweet at this age? As kind? She thought back, over years past, and then decided no, not ever.

  “Should I go with you tomorrow?” Reyna had climbed onto the edge of the bed, watching as Mercedes folded the dress and wrapped it in linen. “I could help.”

  What had Master Mori said? A girl would be preferable, but a woman should do. You cannot enter that forest without a female presence. We would never see you again.

  Mercedes set the package aside. “You’re brave to offer. But not this time.”

  “I—”

  “I won’t risk you. And neither will your grandfather, or Lord Elias, or the king.”