Isle of Blood and Stone (Isle of Blood and Stone #1)(5)

Unfortunately, he also saw Commander Aimon, who hovered behind her like some enormous dour shadow.

With dark humor, Elias looked down at the feathers stuck to his shirt. He saw the caged rooster disappear around a corner. Well. They had seen him do worse.

“Your ship is a month late, Elias,” Mercedes said when he walked up to them. She pronounced his name the del Marian way, EE-lee-us, and she was soft-spoken. Frequently, it lulled strangers into thinking she possessed a sweet nature. “What happened to your face?”

“Mercedes.” He kissed her on one cheek and the next, a ritual practiced on both women and men after a long absence. Most men, he amended after another glance at Aimon. There would be no kisses exchanged with the commander, today or any day. “It couldn’t be helped. Did you worry for me?”

“I prayed for you, if that is what you’re asking.”

He laughed. “It’s not.” He had missed this, this type of conversation, or whatever it was they shared. He had missed her. Looking over her shoulder, he said, “Commander, I’ve just come off the ship. I haven’t had time yet to cause you grief.”

“Don’t disregard your talents so quickly.” Commander Aimon reached out and plucked a feather from Elias’s shirt. He held it up, unsmiling. “And so. You’ve taken up cockfighting for charity?”

They had heard his exchange with Olivier. Elias shrugged. “It’s true. What are you both doing here? Are you lost?”

The commander’s answer was to bring his fingers to his lips in a sharp, piercing whistle. Elias nearly jumped from his skin. From a side street, three soldiers on horseback appeared and cantered toward them, scattering what was left of the crowd. Like Mercedes and the commander, they wore royal green and silver. Each led a riderless horse. One of them was Pythagoras.

Not a coincidence, then. They had come looking for him, if his horse was here. Elias had been away for months with little news of home. Sharply, he asked, “What’s happened? My family—?”

“Is well, everyone is well.” Mercedes’s hand on his chest was fleeting, but enough to assure him the worst hadn’t occurred in his absence. “Ulises would like a word.”

Relief turned into puzzlement. That was all? The king would like a word? He was distracted for a short time by Pythagoras, who nudged his ear in greeting. “Fine. I’ll get out of these rags and—”

“No time for that.” Commander Aimon was already on his horse. “The Amaris was spotted on the horizon hours ago. The king has waited long enough.”

Elias looked from the commander to Mercedes. They had been watching for him. Why? There was nothing unusual about a ship arriving late. A month’s delay was later than he would have liked, but it should not have caused too much concern. He thought about that as he helped Mercedes onto her horse. Light green skirts spread about a white mare. Keeping one hand wrapped around her ankle, he asked quietly, “Since when is a watch put out on my ship?”

“There wasn’t.”

“No? Since when am I met at the docks with personal escort? What aren’t you telling me, Mercedes?”

Once, they had been close. When they were children, it had been simple to know how she’d felt and what she’d thought. She’d worn her heart on her sleeve for friend and foe to see. Mostly foe. But that was then. In the years since, Mercedes had become very good at hiding her thoughts, even from him.

She looked at him. Beautiful green eyes. Giving away nothing. “I’m not trying to be mysterious,” she said. “It’s simpler just to show you. Will you come? And let go.”

He stepped away before she could kick him. She rode off with Commander Aimon and his men, and Elias was left with no choice but to follow—up toward the castle, up toward his king—at a complete loss, and with a very bad feeling.





Two





T WAS NOT the first time someone had spat at Mercedes, or even the fifth, but it had been some years since Elias had witnessed the insult.

Just before they reached the raised portcullis, Commander Aimon broke off with a salute and rode toward the arena with his men. Elias followed Mercedes into the castle’s courtyard, a large circular space open to the sky. The sea air was faint here, high on the hill, overpowered by bougainvillea and the blood oranges growing in the nearby orchard. An ancient olive tree dominated the center: two hundred feet tall and growing, its thick, gnarled roots bursting from the ground and creeping along the surface.

The ladies of the court strolled about, weaving their way among soldiers and servants and robed scholars deep in conversation. Many called out greetings to Elias, welcoming him home. A few clucked at his appearance. And they swept low in deference to Mercedes, second in line to the throne.

All of them bowed, that is, except one.

The courtyard was surrounded by an arcade three stories high. An old woman stood just inside the ground level, partially concealed by the crimson bougainvillea cascading off an upper balcony. As Mercedes rode past, the woman spat, missing the horse’s rear hooves by a hand’s width.

Anger tightened his stomach. A quick glance at Mercedes dashed any hope that she had not seen what happened. She stared straight ahead, her face composed. But her shoulders had stiffened, and her chin had lifted up, up, in that way he recognized.

This he had not missed. He nudged Pythagoras forward until he had placed himself between Mercedes and the old woman. He did not know her. She was dressed as a tradeswoman. Old enough to have remembered that day eighteen years ago. Bitter enough to blame Mercedes for it, though she had still been in her mother’s womb. He said nothing, only watched and waited and wished it were a man standing there by the bougainvillea. One did not have to be so polite with a man.