Trumpets rend the sky with the first measures of the “Entrada Triunfal.” The carriage passes through a massive wooden gate into a tiled courtyard surrounded by high adobe walls. I brace myself for the inevitable thunder of cheering that always greets me on state visits.
But there is only silence.
The citizens of the castle fill the wide courtyard in neat little groups arranged by status and rank. Directly across from us, the conde and his bride-to-be stand with their stewards, servants, and extended families. Behind them are rows of craftsmen, draftsmen, farmers, and children—their faces scrubbed, wearing their finest clothes.
None of them seem happy to see us.
To our right stand two dozen knights wearing Paxón’s crest—a golden ship on an emerald green background. A hundred liveried soldiers stand behind them. To our left are a dozen armed guards wearing polished armor more in the style of Joya d’Arena, our neighbor beyond the Hinders. The small group of soldiers backing them is made up of battle-scarred veterans.
We are supposedly among allies. But I can’t help thinking that both the crown princess and the bearer of the Godstone are flanked and outnumbered.
“Elisa,” I say quietly, keeping my expression neutral. “I know you don’t feel well. You and Ximena should go to the chapel and pray. I’ll make excuses for you.” Pray that I have misread this situation.
“Don’t be afraid, dear sister,” Elisa says, and for a moment I imagine that she knows exactly what I am thinking. But no, she remains as blind to subtle—and not so subtle—social cues as ever. “I won’t embarrass you. Let’s go meet them.”
She hops down from the carriage and walks straight into the lion’s mouth.
3
THE moment my feet touch ground, everyone in the courtyard kneels. Zito holds out his arm to escort me, and together we move toward the conde in what I hope is a stately and dignified manner. With his other hand, Zito uses his spear like a cane, and the tap-tap echoes throughout the courtyard.
When we reach the conde and his lady, Zito waves back the herald and announces us himself. “Her Royal Highness Juana-Alodia de Riqueza, Crown Princess of Orovalle and the Jewel of the Golden Valley. Her Royal Highness Lucero-Elisa de Riqueza.”
I offer my ring, and the conde kisses it, showing neither eagerness nor reluctance. “Rise,” I say. The conde stands, and everyone with him.
I try to ignore the sounds of armor shifting, the quiet rattle of swords.
“Your Highness,” Zito says. “I present Conde Paxón, Castellan of Khelia, Guardian of Crowborn Crossing, and a First Knight of the Crown.”
The conde is a man of middle age, with pain lines on his face that belie his trim, active-looking figure. A brace imprisons his right leg, the one mauled by a boar. Even so, he noticeably leans to his left, keeping his full weight off it.
“Welcome, Your Highness,” Paxon says. “We are honored that you have come all this way to share in our celebration.”
“The honor is ours,” I reply. He smiles in response, but never have I seen a man who seemed less likely to celebrate. The lady beside him keeps her eyes lowered, but her face is red and blotched. From crying? “And this is?”
“This is Lady Calla de Isodel,” he says. He indicates the older couple standing behind her and adds, “And these are her parents, Lord Jorán and Lady Aña de Isodel.”
Even at a distance, Lord Jorán’s oiled beard reeks of myrrh; he must be very wealthy indeed. His wife is expertly coifed and lightly rouged, though she lowers her eyes and slumps her shoulders, impressively achieving a meek mildness that blurs her beauty.
“I was intrigued by the name Isodel when I saw it on the invitation,” I say. It’s not a place I’d heard of before, which was odd, as I’ve memorized my kingdom’s geography down to every last hillock. Before setting off on our journey, I found it necessary to look up references to Isodel in the monastery archive. I’m curious how the people will represent themselves to the crown. “Do tell me about it,” I say.
My question is directed at the young bride, for I wish to take her measure. But her father steps in front of her and says, “Your Highness, you have not heard of it because Isodel is like a flipped coin, falling sometimes on one side and sometimes on the other, according to chance—”
“Lady Calla?” I interrupt, and I’m not sure which irritates me more: his assumption that I would travel here in ignorance, or his refusal to let his daughter speak.
Lady Calla glances at her father, shamefaced, then back to me. It’s the first clear look I have of her face. She is lovely enough to make other young women insane with envy, but unlike that of her cowed mother, hers is not a sheltered beauty. Her face is tan from the sun, and laugh lines spread from the corners of her eyes, though no trace of a smile touches her features now.
“Isodel is a small holding in the Hinders,” she says at last. “Near the merchant road, surrounded by terraced orchards and herds of sheep. As my father said, sometimes it falls on one side of the border, sometimes on the other. Joya d’Arena currently claims our land, but King Alejandro has not sent his tax collectors our way in many years. That would not be so bad, but he has not sent his soldiers either, and Perditos threaten our trade.” She glances at her betrothed, and Conde Paxón gives her an encouraging nod. “Without a good marriage, it will not matter who claims Isodel—there will be nothing left.”
I’m delighted at her forthrightness and her concise appraisal. But her father glowers, and her mother coughs discreetly into her hand. I’m about to break the awkward silence with an inane observation about the weather when a door slams. An unkempt girl of about ten, sun darkened and wind burned, dashes across the courtyard toward us.
“Tía Calla, Tía Calla!” she cries. A young nursemaid pursues her, but when she sees me, she falls to her knees, muttering apologies.
Not so the girl, who runs to Calla’s side. Her knees are badly scuffed. Nettles cling to her hair and hems, and her slippers are caked with dried mud.
“Lupita!” Lady Calla says with a pointed look. “This is the royal princess Alodia. You must curtsy to her and say ‘Your Highness’ and wait until she bids you rise.”
I expect an ill-behaved protest, but the untidy girl shows extraordinary grace, curtsying swiftly and perfectly. “Your Highness,” she intones with grave seriousness, though mischief dances in her eyes.
“Rise, Lupita.”
She jumps up as swiftly as she knelt, and looks back and forth between Calla and Elisa. “Is she the one? Are you the one? Are you the bearer of the Godstone? Can I see it?”
There are a few nervous titterings, but Elisa addresses the child calmly. “A lady never shows such things in public.”
Lupita nods. “But have you come to save us?”
Elisa’s face freezes, and I squirm with embarrassment for her. The thought of my sister saving anyone is absurd, a fact of which she is too well aware.
I’m dying to ask what they need saving from, but Lord Zito steps forward and says, “Conde, the sun is setting. Perhaps it would be best to continue this conversation inside.”
4
ZITO, Elisa, Ximena, and I follow the conde and his mayordomo to the audience hall, which is dimly lit by grimy clerestory windows. The dry air smells faintly of incense. Dusty tables are scattered haphazardly throughout, covered with cold candles in various states of melt. It feels like a place that suffers human company rarely—a good place for secrets, perhaps.
Zito leans over and whispers, “You shamed Lady Calla’s father.”