Isle of Blood and Stone (Isle of Blood and Stone #1)(6)

Mercedes was King Ulises’s cousin, his only living relative. Her father, Augustin, long dead, had been the old king’s younger brother. Her mother, Alyss, a beautiful noblewoman from Mondrago. Her parents had fallen in love and married long ago, when it was still acceptable for a del Marian to marry a Mondragan. Before the kidnappings and the murders. Before the two kingdoms had gone to war.

Conversation trailed away as others turned to see who it was Elias watched, stonefaced. The old woman must have gained some sense, seeing his expression, because she curtsied, quickly but correctly, and scurried off toward the gates.

Mercedes would not look at him. There was the familiar crush of white pebbles and seashells beneath his boots as he dismounted. He handed his reins over to a groom.

“Who was that, Marco?” Elias asked.

The boy glared after the old woman. “I’ve never seen her before, Lord Elias. Should I find out? I’ll follow her.”

“No, you won’t.” Mercedes handed her reins to the boy and said firmly, “Thank you, Marco.”

The boy looked from Mercedes to Elias and sighed. “Yes, Lady.” He took himself off, leading the horses behind him.

Once the boy was out of earshot, Elias frowned at her. “I didn’t know this still happened. How often, Mercedes?”

“It’s nothing to do with you.” She turned on her heel and marched off toward the door that led to the king’s chambers.

He caught up with her easily. “Does Ulises know?”

“Why would I tell him? So he can punish an old woman?”

“Yes.”

Mercedes threw a dark glance in his direction. “Leave her alone. She’s entitled to her rage.”

She didn’t truly believe that? “No, she isn’t. Not toward you.”

Mercedes stopped directly beneath the archway, ignoring the curious stares turned in their direction. “I don’t need a champion, Elias. And I won’t have you running to the king and telling tales. I can fight my own wars.”

He would have argued his point forever had she not lifted her eyes to meet his. There was the anger he expected, but just beneath, nearly hidden, a bone-deep mortification.

All at once, the fight left him. He said only, “Mercedes. You should not have to.” He motioned for her to precede him, and they made their way through the castle in silence.



The king’s chamber was a vast room dominated by a long table. At the far end, conversation broke off and three pairs of eyes turned in their direction: those of Lord Silva, Royal Navigator; his young granddaughter, Lady Reyna; and Ulises, del Mar’s king of one year.

Ulises was nineteen—only a day older than Elias—and, though the official mourning period for his father had passed months ago, still dressed entirely in black. Black trousers, black boots. Even his crown was black, a thin band of onyx with an emerald at its center. Taller than Elias, but only slightly, with black hair cropped close to his head and a face that could be thought of as melancholy but that Elias had heard more than one lady describe as “poetic.”

Ulises did not look melancholy just now as he shoved his chair back and rose, smiling. “You found him, Mercedes. Good.” His smile faded somewhat as he studied Elias’s shirt front. “Whose blood is that? Not yours?”

“It’s better not to ask, cousin.” Mercedes took a seat. Behind her, a series of doors had been flung open, offering a staggering view of the harbor and, beyond that, the Sea of Magdalen.

“It isn’t mine,” Elias said after a quick bow. “Forgive me for coming in my dirt. I was told to hurry.”

He did not miss the raised eyebrows exchanged between Ulises and Lord Silva. Mercedes and Elias had dragged their tension into the chamber, dampening the air around them like fog.

Ulises said only, “We were starting to worry.” He clasped Elias’s forearms in greeting. A kiss on each cheek, a grin, then, “Old friend, it’s good to see your face, battered though it is.”

“And yours.” Still it gave him an odd feeling to see Ulises as king. To bow and address formally, at least sometimes, the boy he had grown up beside. Ulises returned to his seat as Elias greeted Lord Silva.

His former teacher was nearing seventy, a neatly kept man of middling height with a gray triangle of a beard and pleasant features. He looked like someone’s gentle grandfather. Which he was. But no other grandfather Elias knew could speak a dozen languages. Or sail past the Strait of Cain’s turbulent whirlpools without ever once losing his supper. Or outrun an entire tribe of cannibals with a terrified seven-year-old Elias clinging to his back. Lord Silva was thinner than Elias remembered, but his grip was still strong, his eyes still bright and sure.

“Elias. Welcome home.” Lord Silva reached up and patted Elias’s unmarked cheek. As usual, the pats felt more like a couple of brisk slaps. “What happened to your face?”

“A miscalculation.” Elias didn’t like to think about it: the Amaris and the jutting rocks that had sprung from nowhere.

“That sounds ominous. Is everyone alive, at least?”

Elias smiled. He could always count on Lord Silva to ask the important questions and disregard the rest. “Mostly.”

“Good.” Lord Silva stepped back and examined him. “I don’t want to know about the blood. Or the . . . are those feathers?”