Isle of Blood and Stone (Isle of Blood and Stone #1)(2)

“Thank you, Esma.”

With one last warning look aimed at Teodor, she strolled off, calling for a servant.

Teodor made sure his nurse was well out of earshot before he kicked at the grass. “I hate cider,” he grumbled. “Why shouldn’t I drink the wine? It’s only grapes, after all.”

“Because it will stop your growth.” Antoni repeated the lie told to del Marian children for a thousand years. “And we can’t have a prince who is only three feet tall.”

Offended, Teodor glared up at Antoni. “I’m already taller than three feet.”

“Oh, yes?” Affectionately, Antoni tousled the boy’s hair. “Never mind, then. Plenty of time for wine when you’re older.”

“When?”

Always so impatient, this one. “Later.”

Bartolome eyed his brother with disfavor. He pointed toward the edge of the meadow. “Master Ruy is tending the horses. Go and be useful.”

One injustice after another. It was too much for the king’s second son. “I will not!” Teodor cried. “You can’t order me about. You’re not king yet.” He ran off in the direction opposite the one Lady Esma had taken, sidling around the wine barrels and disappearing from sight.

Bartolome watched him go. “He is my burden,” he said with such weary resignation that Antoni had to laugh. His own boy was a year old, only a day younger than the king and queen’s third son, Ulises. What manner of child would Elias be at Bartolome’s age?

After Bartolome followed his brother across the meadow, Antoni considered the supplies he had set out earlier on the blanket. A small wooden bowl, squares of sheepskin the size of his thumbnail, a tinful of needles. And now the leading stones. All he needed to show Bartolome how to make a compass was water.

A serving girl appeared and offered a drink. Her eyes were red, and the cups on her tray performed a precarious dance, the result of a trembling hand. She could not be more than fifteen or sixteen. A decade younger than he. Antoni thought he knew all the servants in the castle, at least by sight, but she was un-familiar.

He steadied the tray. “What is the matter?”

Her gaze was fixed firmly on his boots. “A speck of dust in the eye only, my lord Antoni. May I bring anything else?”

A blood-red vintage filled his cup. Not cider. She had brought wine. “Some water, please.”

The girl curtsied. Before he could think to ask anything more, she was gone.

Troubled, he kept watch as she dispersed drinks among the soldiers. Had one of the men been too free with his hands? Too coarse with his compliments? But no, they barely acknowledged her, grabbing at mugs without looking up from their game, and within moments her tray was empty.

Well, there were a thousand reasons for a woman’s tears. He would not try to untangle that riddle today. He caught a glimpse of blue skirts disappearing into the lemon grove. Esma, presumably gone to answer nature’s call, for the trees offered the only measure of privacy in these parts. He had just raised the mug to his lips when he heard the first scream.

Seconds passed. A servant was on his knees, clutching his middle as he vomited onto a blanket. Horse Master Ruy convulsed on the ground. The soldiers at their dice game spun in their seats. One broke from the group and ran toward the horse master before stopping dead in his tracks. His eyes bulged; he clutched at his throat, then collapsed facefirst onto the grass and was still. Soldiers and servants fell, one by one, and as the cup tumbled from Antoni’s limp fingers, he saw Bartolome at the far side of the meadow. The prince knelt with his brother in his arms. He was looking directly at Antoni and crying for help.

Antoni raced across the meadow. Shock sped his feet, along with a terrible, hideous fear. God blind me. The wine. Teodor was not moving. The screams engulfed him, along with the sad, piercing cry of a warbler. He had nearly reached the boys when he heard the horses in the distance.

A mad thundering of hooves.

Coming closer.





Eighteen Years Later





One





N THE SQUARE, just off the harbor, Mercedes heard the cockfight long before she saw it. A crowd of men gathered in a circle. Thirty deep, they occupied nearly the whole of the small plaza, their shouts reverberating off gray stone buildings. All around them was seawater: salty, pungent, and a little bit rotten, mixed with the smell of fish frying and bodies gone too long without a wash. And rising above the din was the distinct, high-pitched crowing of a rooster.

Dubious, she turned to the man standing beside her with his arms crossed, his expression darkening as he surveyed the scene before him.

“You’re certain we’re in the right place, Commander?” she asked. “He cannot be here.” But even she heard the lack of conviction in her voice. This square, so near to the harbor, was a favorite haunt for pickpockets, charlatans, and travelers lured by cheap lodging and strong drink. They were in an ill-favored part of her cousin’s kingdom, surrounded now by the lowest form of men. Mercedes had known Elias all her life. It was likely they were in exactly the right place.

Apparently, Commander Aimon agreed. “Oh?” was his reply. He pulled her aside as a man stumbled out of the throng, cheeks flushed, reeking of spirits. After the inebriate tripped past them, he released her arm. “You are all diplomacy, my lady Mercedes. But let’s not fool ourselves.” With his face the picture of resignation, he added, “Stay close. Follow me.”