Echoes of the Raven (The Eldrystone #2)

26. CHAPTER 26

26

VALERIA

“She’s still young, but I can already tell. She will be a great queen.”

Rey Simón Plumanegra (Casa Plumanegra) - King of Castella - 6 AV

W e walk uphill for an hour. From our vantage point, we’re able to monitor all activity around the palace. Four times, mounted guards have left Nido, each group galloping in different directions. Two of them headed into Castellina, while the others broke ranks and dispersed on outbound paths. They’ll be monitoring the main roads out of the capital, no doubt, acting as scouts that can later inform of our position.

We’ll be on one of those roads along with the Romani troop, which the guardias will spot without a problem. I’m counting on them searching the wagons. I’m also counting on Gaspar’s protective espiritu to hide us from their prying eyes. His skill kept me safe before, and it’d better do it again.

Our advantage lies in cutting across the hills behind the palace. It’s a steep route, and my thighs burn as I push up the rocky terrain. My heart beats fast, and my lungs pump at an accelerated pace. I’m fit, but Rífíor makes me look like Nana walking up a short flight of steps. His thighs are twice as thick as mine, all lithe muscle with a dusting of dark hair. What in all the hells? I shake my head to erase the uninvited image.

Not soon enough for my taste, we crest the hill and start our descent on the other side. I breathe a sigh of relief as do my legs. Going down, it gets easier to navigate the slope and keep up with Rífíor.

The westbound road out of Castellina meanders across the city, avoiding the hills to create a smooth passage for carriages and the like. In doing so, it adds several miles to the journey, miles that we have shortened by tracking over the rocky terrain. It will take any guardias headed that way at least twenty more minutes to catch up to the Romani troop, which got a head start and now waits for us.

When we reach the bottom of the hill, it takes no time to spot the silhouette of Gaspar’s wagon sitting under the shadows of a heavy tree. A dark shape pulls away from the trunk at our approach. Rífíor, who has been holding the sword he took from the library in his hand, lifts the weapon.

“No need,” I say. “They are here for us.”

As the dark shadow approaches, it resolves into my cousin. “Thank the Saints you’re here!” he exclaims. “The wait was driving me out of my mind.” He envelops me in a tight hug. When he pulls away, his honey-colored eyes flick to Rífíor. They’re full of contempt as well as a warning. Jago hates him as much as I do for what he did to me.

“You better behave yourself, fae, or I swear I’ll kill you and bury you under Castellan soil that I’ll then turn into a latrine for every human to shit in.”

Rífíor seems more amused than anything else. Clearly, he doesn’t think my cousin would stand a chance against him, but he shouldn’t take him for granted. Jago trained at the Academia de Guardias, raised by my father for a military career and the post of Capitán de la Guardia Real—whether or not Jago wanted it.

Jago returns his attention to me. “The rest of the troop has moved ahead… at a slow pace, so we’ll catch up to them quickly. Um…” He scratches his head. “I feel like there’s something else I’m supposed to tell you but…”

I wait.

He shakes his head. “I forgot. It mustn’t be important. At any rate, let’s get going.” He walks up to the wagon and opens the back door, which groans on its wooden hinges. El Gran Místico’s painted sign sits above the door.

A gas lamp much like the one we left behind illuminates the interior, which seems a lot smaller than I remember.

Odd. I frown.

Climbing after me is a disgruntled-looking Rífíor. It’s clear he doesn’t like to turn his back on anyone, much less a man who just threatened him with an eternity of shit upon his grave.

Jago climbs in last and closes the door, latching it securely. He knocks twice on the ceiling, and the wagon starts moving. Sitting next to me on a narrow side bench, he ends up directly in front of Rífíor. They stare at each other, and the tension inside the small space quickly mounts to a deadly level, making me wonder if we’re going to make it to Tirnanog’s border in one piece.

We sit quietly for a long time. I stare at the wood planks at my feet, praying. I wish it were possible to ride on separate horses, but we need to remain hidden. Either one of us would be recognized by the guardias when they inevitably stumble upon us.

A sudden sound of wood sliding against wood startles me. I jump back, while Jago and Rífíor attempt, but fail to draw their long swords inside the cramped space. Through instincts alone, my dagger finds its way into my hand, and I hold it up, ready to attack.

A wood panel in front of the wagon finishes sliding to one side, and none other than Gaspar climbs out of a makeshift compartment .

“Ta-da.” He strikes a pose worthy of El Gran Místico.

“What in the name of all the gods?!” I blink repeatedly, watching him stretch, though not to a full height—the wagon isn’t tall enough for that.

Jago snaps his fingers. “That’s what I was supposed to tell you, that Gaspar modified the wagon and made a hidey-hole.”

I blink some more as if that will clear my hazy thoughts, but it accomplishes nothing.

Rífíor looks at Jago and me as if we’re a couple of idiots with the sense of two nails. He looks Gaspar over, nostrils flaring. “I recognize your stink.”

“Much obliged.” Gaspar smirks.

“You were in the catacombs.”

“The princess needed my help.”

Slowly, as I try very hard to wrangle my scattered thoughts, I begin to remember we asked Gaspar to create a hiding place in his wagon. But it seems we forgot. Why? The answer strikes me… Gaspar’s espiritu! I never quite understood how it works, but it seems it addles your mind and makes you forget and not notice whatever it is he wants you to overlook.

In Alsur, the day I was running from Don Justo’s villa, I stumbled upon El Gran Místico’s wagon and climbed inside without an invitation. While I was there, Bastien searched for me right outside the door and never thought to look inside.

“Surprise,” Gaspar says with a wink. “It’ll be tight in there, especially for this one,” he eyes Rífíor sideways, “but it’ll do.”

“What is he talking about?” Rífíor asks in his deep voice and that tone that assumes everyone should stop whatever they’re doing to answer him. It’s infuriating.

“Big, but not too bright, eh?” Gaspar wrinkles his nose, and I love him for the comment because it clearly infuriates Rífíor, though he tries to hide it.

Jago snorts, which only adds to Rífíor’s aggravation .

To disguise his annoyance, he cocks his head to one side and narrows his eyes as he examines Gaspar’s ears. “Your glamour is weak. Your ears are showing.”

“Bah,” he bats a hand in the air, “you can see it ‘cause you’re fae. Human eyes never see past the spell. Me, I’m just a quarter fae. That’s where my espiritu comes from, along with these fancy points.” He gestures to his ears, then switches his attention to me. “Did you make it out smooth-like?”

“Not as smooth as I would have liked,” I say. “Guardias were alerted about us sooner than anticipated.”

Gaspar scratches his beard. “That isn’t good. I was hoping we’d have a chance to put some ground between us and Castellina.”

“I know.” I nod. “But I guess it’s all the same. They would’ve come after us one way or another, and sooner or later, we would be making use of…” The words slip away, and it takes me a moment to wrangle them. “Um… your hiding place.”

“What hiding place?” Rífíor asks.

I glare at him in the same way he did earlier, suggesting that he’s an idiot, dumber than a nail.

“That one, right there.” I point out the sliding panel, which is still open.

Rífíor rubs the back of his neck, a deep frown cutting across his forehead. He’s surely wondering how he forgot about it so quickly, and I see the moment he understands the way Gaspar’s espiritu works.

Proving he’s no dumb nail, Rífíor asks something I hadn’t thought about. “How are we going to know to hide when we keep forgetting the place even exists?”

“That’s why you have me.” Gaspar taps his chest.

Rífíor looks skeptical. “Who is to say you are always going to be around?”

“You better hope I am. ”

“Esmeralda can help, too,” Jago puts in.

“And so can everyone else in the troop, once they catch wind that you three are here. My espiritu is trained to not affect the troop,” Gaspar says. “I reckon it’s time for you to slap on that glamour, Rífíor of the Veilfallen. Best keep it hush-hush that we’re sheltering Castella’s most wanted fae.”

There is a slight change in Rífíor’s expression at the mention of his glamour. Is it because he thinks seeing him as Bastien will send me into a fit of hysterics?

“Also, hide the scar,” Gaspar adds, pointing at the right side of Rífíor’s face.

We all wait for him to don his glamour, but as we stare, nothing happens.

“Oh, so you’re going to be difficult?” Jago asks. “Fantástico!”

Reluctantly, Rífíor opens his mouth to speak. “I can’t put on a glamour. I have no magic.”

We all exchange confused glances. Fae always have enough magic for a glamour. Besides, we already know he can disguise himself. What’s the point of lying?

“What kind of bullshit is that?” my cousin asks.

“I don’t have magic, all right?” Rífíor growls, loud, angry. “Calierin used her skill to round my ears and make my scar disappear.”

“Who the hell is Calierin?” Jago asks.

“His torturing bitch,” I reply.

My cousin’s hand tightens into a fist, making his leather glove creak.

Gaspar shakes his head. “I’m only part fae and still got enough espiritu to pull off a glamour and more. Never heard of a fae without the knack for changing their looks.”

“Well, now you have.” Rífíor’s tone is final, indicating he’s done with the subject.

“What is wrong with you?” Gaspar sounds truly puzzled .

“Nothing is wrong with me.” Rífíor’s glare makes the Romani whither visibly.

It’s clear this is an extremely touchy subject for Rífíor. Curiosity sinks its claws into me, and I want to know the reason for his inability to conjure a glamour.

My mother didn’t have much espiritu. She could communicate with plants, knew what they were feeling, what they needed. It wasn’t a strong sort of skill, and yet she was always able to conjure a glamour. In fact, she was able to keep her glamour on all day long without effort.

So why is Rífíor unable to change his semblance? Does he really possess no espiritu at all? If it’s true, it might explain why he stole The Eldrystone from the Fae King. The lack of a skill common to all fae would certainly become a sore spot for anyone, perhaps even a source of shame.

We sit in silence for a long time, the rocking motion of the wagon luring me into uneasy drowsiness. I feel bone tired. The last few days have been full of stress and sleepless nights as I fought with the decision to betray my sister. And now, it’s done, and I know I’ve broken her heart into a million pieces. I heard the pain in her voice as she asked Renata why I took the amulet.

“By the saints! I never thought she would betray me like this.” Her words echo in my lethargic mind.

I’m exhausted now, and sleep will be possible because my body demands it. In nights to come, however, I’m not so sure my festering guilt will allow me such luxury. It doesn’t matter how logical and worthy my intentions are, reason can’t override the deep shame I feel in the center of my soul.

A ringing in my ears yanks me away from the edge of sleep, and I snap my eyes open. My heart is beating fast for no apparent reason. Rífíor is tense and listening intently, his head cocked to one side.

“What is it? Jago asks .

“Horses,” Rífíor replies. “At least seven of them.”

“I hear them too,” Gaspar says. “It’s time for you three to disappear.” He stands and starts gesticulating toward the hiding place he created for us.

Rífíor lifts a thick black eyebrow, looking as though he has no intention of squeezing into the confined space.

“If you don’t,” I threaten, “you’ll find yourself back in a dank cell for the rest of your miserable life, so get your haughty ass in there.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw, and I can tell he wants to give me a piece of his mind, but maybe our earlier conversation had the desired effect. He restrains himself and rises slowly to his towering height. Hunching to avoid banging his head on the low ceiling, he scrutinizes the compartment with a critical eye. The space is approximately four feet tall, with a depth of no more than three feet.

Irritation etching his face, he climbs inside the space, setting his back against one side of the wagon and gathering his legs to his torso.

Gaspar closes the sliding panel to hide Rífíor, then opens a second one on the other side and points at Jago. “You’re next.”

He gets in the same way Rífíor did, and the tips of their boots end up only a few inches apart. There’s no way I will fit in there.

“Curl up tighter,” Gaspar says. “Make room for the princess.”

“This is it for me,” Jago says.

“How about you, Rífíor?”

His only answer is a grunt that makes it clear he can’t make himself any smaller.

“Shit, I can hear the horses now,” Jago says. “We need to hurry!”

“Saints and feathers!” Gaspar exclaims. “Um… um… Jago, get out.”

My cousin scrambles out. “Now what?”

Gaspar says, “Rífíor, stretch your legs.”

He does, his boots appearing and reaching all the way to the wall.

“All right, now Jago, sit on top of his feet. ”

Jago makes a face. “That won’t be comfortable for either one of us.”

“Getting snatched up and having our journey cut short before it even starts won’t be no better,” Gaspar points out.

“I must say, for the record,” Jago puts in, “that this goes against every fiber in my body.”

He climbs back, and his backside ends up on top of Rífíor’s ankles.

“Stretch out your legs, too,” Gaspar tells Jago. And Val, sit on your cousin’s lap. With any luck, you won’t be cooped up in there for too long.”

I certainly hope so. I might have gotten the better end of this deal by ending up on top, but being in such close quarters with Rífíor will still be unpleasant. In the scheme of things, it’s a small price to pay to gain the freedom of the fae folk trapped in Castella.

A moment later, when angry voices order the wagon’s driver to a stop, this narrow hiding place is the least of my worries.

Please, Niamhara, don’t let them find us.