Isle of Blood and Stone (Isle of Blood and Stone #1)(13)

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 skirts 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.

“An orphanage that burned down hundreds of years ago,” Ulises mused. “What does it have to do with anything?”

That, Elias could not answer. But . . . “Javelin is next to the meadow where your brothers were taken. You see?”

“Yes.” Beside the forest was another clearing, this one bordered on three sides by a lemon grove, and on the fourth side by a hill covered in black rock.

Elias said, “It was the only oddity I could find before I lost the light.” And finding more would take time. The images were so small that to study them for any length of time left him with a violent headache. It was almost as if the painter had not intended for anyone to actually see his work.

Ulises returned to his chair and propped his chin on his fist. “No one with any sense enters Javelin. Unless they have a death wish. Perhaps it is a trick.”

Isn’t that what Elias had said all along? “I’ll find out.”

Ulises heard what was not said. He asked carefully, “Then you’ll see it through?”

Elias sat, weary beyond all measure. He was filthy; he was hungry. This day had gone on forever. “Are you giving me a choice?”