Isle of Blood and Stone (Isle of Blood and Stone #1)(11)

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.

“Where 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 . . .”