The priest in question huffs up the rise, then holds out both hands in greeting, and I grab them. “Dear girl,” he says. “It does my heart good to see you well.”
“Thank you for coming, Father,” I say, squeezing his fingers.
Behind him, my former nurse hangs back, hands clasped before her. She has always appeared innocuous—a rosy-cheeked woman with plump arms and an easy smile. But no longer. She looks fierce, with small black eyes that are sharper than ever, and a puckered scar that now traces the line of her cheekbone. A few months ago she took a glancing arrow to save my decoy. But it didn’t work. The next arrow got the poor girl anyway.
“Hello, Ximena,” I say.
She inclines her head. “Your Majesty.”
“I’m surprised to see you here.”
“Father Nicandro made me an unusual offer,” she says. “And I could not refuse.”
I raise an eyebrow at him.
“And it was lucky she was available,” the priest says, releasing my hands. He hurries over to the camel and begins unloading bundles of undyed woolen cloth tied with twine. “Your Royal Guard chose to go into hiding instead of defending the palace,” he explains, tossing a bundle to each of us. “They were too far outnumbered. But it left their families exposed. Their children. We brought them into the monastery, hoping the general’s men would be less likely to retaliate against them or use them for leverage if they were placed in a house of God.” He tosses the last bundle to me. I untie it and shake it out. It’s a robe, but much too long for me.
“I’ve been looking after them,” Ximena says. “I’m a nurse, after all.”
“A nurse who could kill an intruder with her bare hands,” Nicandro adds with a glint in his eye.
“Yes.”
Hector and I trade robes—his is much shorter—and we pull them on over our regular clothing.
“So,” I say to no one in particular. “Do I look . . . priestly?”
Nicandro’s expression is pained. “You and your Invierno friend . . . well, I say we wait until late evening. The general locks down the city at night. We’ll have to go at dusk, right before they close the gate.”
I did not think it was possible to become angrier at the men who would usurp my throne. A citywide lockdown is a serious matter. The effect on trade, on morale, is immeasurable. I would only consider it in times of plague or siege.
But that’s exactly what they’re worried about. Siege. And I am the invader.
“You’ll take us straight to the monastery?” I ask.
“It would draw attention if we did not,” he says. “But in the morning, we’ll go out as missionaries to the Wallows, to give coins and bread to the poor along with an encouraging word from God.”
“To the Guard,” I say.
He nods. “They’ve been hiding in the underground village for months. There are several people there who will be very, very glad to see you. Conde Tristán is with them.”
My joyous smile dies on my face. If Tristán is in hiding, it means the announcement of his ascension to Quorum Lord was met with resistance.
We sell our horses and tack at a huge loss to a passing merchant caravan, keeping only one as a packhorse. We take turns descending into the desert to trudge around in the sand, the hems of our robes dragging, so it will appear we have been on the road for days. A few rare, early winter clouds roll in from the sea, and the sunset coats their underbellies in blazing pink by the time we set off toward the gate.
“Any word of the prince?” I whisper to Father Nicandro as we walk.
“General Luz-Manuel is desperate to find him,” the priest says in a low voice. “At even the slightest hint of loyalty to the de Riqueza line, he sends his men into homes without warning to search. They’ve been seizing property. As part of their investigation, they say, but they’ve been using it to pay for the war effort.”
If I get a chance, I will kill him. “The citizens of Brisadulce cannot be pleased with this turn of events.”
“Many are not, and his actions have solidified your base of support. But there are plenty who feel the general’s actions are justified. He and the conde have labeled you a traitor and blasphemer, someone who will bring our enemy upon us like a plague. And people are never more atrocious as when they are afraid.”
“But the boy.” I glance around to make sure no one is within earshot. “Rosario. Is he . . . ?”
Nicandro gives me a reassuring smile. “We cannot hide him forever. But he is well for now.”
We continue in solemn formation. Father Nicandro carries an incense brazier that swings back and forth on a chain, curling musky smoke into the air. He chants with each step-swing, and we keep time as best we can. Red takes up the rear. She is dressed in a white acolyte’s robe and holds the reins of our camel and packhorse.
The gate looms above our heads as we approach. The massive doors are open wide. Each has a patched area of lighter wood—the only remaining indication that Invierno sorcerers burned through it only a year past.
Soldiers line the entrance, six on each side, standing at a diagonal so that traffic is funneled to a small, controllable point. Archers and spearman peer down at us from the crenellations above.
We are outnumbered and outweaponed. These are not rough mountain brigands or half-frozen mercenaries exhausted from their trek. These are well trained, well rested, battle-hardened soldiers, and if they do not let us pass, it will be impossible to fight our way out.
I look neither to the right nor the left. I keep my head down in humble supplication but stride unerringly, as if I have every right to be here.
“Halt!” one calls out. “State your business.”
Father Nicandro steps forward. He approaches close enough for the incense to snake up toward the guard’s face. The guard’s nose twitches. “We are about God’s holy business,” Nicandro says.
A different guard steps forward. “Good evening, Holy Eminence,” he says with a sidelong glance at his companion. The first guard blanches. “I didn’t realize you’d left the city.”
“Should I have told you?” I can’t see the priest’s face, but I imagine him looking charmingly confused.
“These are dangerous times. If you share your travel plans with us ahead of time, we can provide an escort if needed, ease your passage through our checkpoints. It’s for your own safety, you see.”
Checkpoints? They’ve set up checkpoints along my highway? My face grows hot beneath my priest’s cowl.
“I do see. Next time I’ll do exactly that.”
No one says anything, and no one moves.
The guard clears his throat. “Would you mind . . . er . . . for our record-keeping, you see, telling us what took you away from the city?”
Father Nicandro gestures toward us. “I received advance word that our guests were arriving, and I left to escort them on the final leg of their journey as a show of hospitality. They are pilgrims, come on behalf of Father Donatzine and Queen Alodia from the Monastery-at-Amalur. They seek spiritual renewal at the site of God’s first monastery, and to exchange translation notes with our scribes.”
The guard rubs at his jaw. He knows he ought to search us. Our pack animals are heavily laden, and our voluminous robes could conceal anything. He is right to be worried.
He steps closer. Not one of us moves or even twitches. I force myself to breath normally. He peers at the person nearest to Nicandro. “Lady Ximena,” he says, with no small amount of surprise. And his voice has an unmistakable note of suspicion when he says, “I would not have expected you to accompany His Eminence on this journey.”
“Oh, yes, Sergeant,” she says brightly. “As you know, I’m originally from Orovalle. I was anxious to see some old friends.”
An awkward moment passes. The guards glance at one another. The sergeant steps toward Belén, eyes narrowed.
“Good sir!” Nicandro says, a little too loudly. “I do hope you won’t detain us much longer. Our guests have experienced an arduous pilgrimage, and I’m anxious to show them the hospitality their rank and purpose deserve.”
I’m praying madly—Please, God, please, please, please let us pass—even as I eye our surroundings, looking for the best escape route. The road south, I decide. Enough traffic that someone on foot would be difficult to track. I don’t stand a chance in a close-quarters fight with so many. I’ve never practiced with my daggers while wearing such voluminous sleeves.
“Have a nice evening, Your Eminence,” the sergeant says, stepping back. Nicandro starts forward, and we follow after. In my peripheral vision, I note the guards staring as we pass. They will remember this unscheduled group of foreign priests. They will certainly send someone to the monastery to inquire after us.
38
THOUGH I itch to take off running, we proceed solemnly up the wide Colonnade toward the palace, within perfect view of the stately townhomes that rise on either side with their hanging gardens and sparkling windows. The light dims with the setting sun, turning the sandstone and adobe buildings a fiery orange. The night bloomer vines that twist through mortar cracks and up the trunks of helpless palms open their glowing hearts to the night. My beautiful, beautiful city.
But I frown at the sight of fortifications along the road—wooden barriers that can be turned to block the road at a moment’s notice, canvas bags filled with sand that will be used to shield spearmen and archers.
We enter the palace courtyard, and my heart sings, Home! for the briefest moment before we turn away from the main entrance toward an adjacent, lower building made of stucco and wood beams. Red hands off our pack animals to a stable boy, then Father Nicandro leads us through a wide foyer and into the sanctuary.
It’s a hushed, sacred place, glowing with candles, swimming with the heady scent of sacrament roses. So Nicandro’s voice rings startlingly loud when he says, “You must be ravenous after such a long journey from Amalur! Come, I’ll have our kitchen prepare something for you.” He ignores the stares of priests, acolytes, and petitioners, and ushers us through a side door into an empty dining hall.
He shuts and bars the door behind us. “You should be safe here for the time being. The dinner hour is long past. Make yourselves as comfortable as you can. I’ll bring refreshments.”
He and Ximena leave for the kitchens, and we settle on the hard stone floor to wait.
“What do you think Ximena is up to?” Hector says, staring after her.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. Ximena has always kept her counsel, made her own plans—even if they were in conflict with my own. “I know she’ll do what she thinks is right.” But isn’t that what we all do? Conde Eduardo believes he’s saving the country by plunging it into civil war. A regrettable course but worth it, if that’s what it takes to put himself on the throne in my place. The Inviernos thought it was right to invade Basajuan, leaving a wake of fiery wreckage in their path, if it meant avenging the wrong done to them millennia ago.
“I don’t trust her to be a true ally,” I admit. “Not after what she did to you. I’m going to ask Nicandro to make sure she doesn’t interfere.”
“But you still love her.”
I reach over and squeeze his hand.
Nicandro returns alone with fresh bread, a round of cheese, cold wine, and honey coconut scones. The scones are a day old, but I’m so delighted he remembered my favorite pastry that I don’t mind.
I screw up my courage and tell him that Ximena must be kept away. “As you wish, Majesty,” he says. “But I think you underestimate her.”
He turns to go, but I grab his sleeve. “Father. There is something else.”
Something in my face causes him to lead me a few paces away, out of the hearing range of everyone else. “What is it, Elisa?”
“My Godstone. It . . .”
“I have not sensed it since you returned.”
“It fell out.”
His eyes grow wide as I tell him about rescuing the fledgling oasis. “You did it,” he breathes. “You completed your act of service.”
“But what does it mean?”
He seems vaguely stunned. “I don’t know. We might never know.”
“Surely you have a theory? Many of your peers would scour the scriptures looking for something even tangentially related to what has happened to me. They would create an entire doctrine out of whatever they found. Declare it a fulfilled prophecy, maybe. And then they would believe it unto death.”
My words are too sharp, too angry, and I’m about to apologize when the priest says, “It is human nature to concoct explanations to fill the great void of the unknown.”
I frown. “Isn’t that what we do whenever we ascribe something to God?” That’s what Ximena always did. “The mind of God is a mystery and none can understand it,” she would say. It felt like she was brushing off my questions.
Father Nicandro’s face turns thoughtful. “I suppose so. Take, for instance, your Godstone. The animagi are born with theirs. But when did you get yours?”
“On my naming day. It appeared as if by magic.”
Nicandro nods. “And so it is with all bearers, once every hundred years. You see, dear girl, the animagi’s Godstones are natural. But yours? Yours is divine.”
“You have just ascribed that which you do not understand to God.”
He grins. “And I will continue to do so. Until I have a better explanation.” He gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Never stop asking questions, Majesty. God honors truth seekers.”