Isle of Blood and Stone (Isle of Blood and Stone #1)(12)

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.