House of the Raven (The Eldrystone #1)

12. CHAPTER 12

12

VALERIA

“If I regard it just so, it shimmers. See, by that tree branch. What manner of thing is this? Stay here. I shall climb the tree and inspect it more closely.”

Aldryn Theric – King of Tirnanog - 0 BV

N ana gets up early. Her joints get stiff overnight, and she wakes up before the sun comes out to sit by the fire. She says the heat makes her human again. So I’m not worried about waking her up when I rap on her door. Her gentle voice welcomes me inside.

“Hello, Nana.” As expected, she sits on her rocking chair by the fire, her gray hair falling to her shoulders, not yet pinned in her neat chignon.

She spreads her arms wide, and I can’t help it. I crash to my knees in front of her and bury my face in her lap. I thought I didn’t have any more tears, but Nana can always coax my emotions to the forefront with a simple gesture.

She smooths my hair, saying nothing. The chair rocks ever so slightly, a comforting motion. After several long moments, I pull away, dry my face, and rise to my feet.

“I’m sorry, child,” she says, her gentle brown eyes full of sympathy. “Your father was so young. He had so many more years ahead of him.”

I don’t ask what she heard. I know she has been told the lies everyone else has, but I wonder what she would say if she knew Amira is involved.

“Not getting enough sleep, I see.” She points toward the circles under my eyes.

I always stay up late into the night, reading or working on crafts. She hounds me about not getting enough rest. If only my concerns today were as simple as they were a week ago.

“But now, I understand the reason. Why don’t you sit?” She points to the armchair opposite her.

I do as she says. The heat from the fireplace is stifling, the kind I allow in my bedchamber only in the dead of winter. She rocks gently, her fingers flexing on her lap. They are red, every joint nubby with arthritis. I know it hurts her, though she doesn’t complain.

She sighs heavily. “I haven’t seen Amira. How is she taking all of this?”

Many sharp answers fester on my tongue, but I hold them back. Instead, I say, “I’m not sure. She’s very busy.”

“Poor child. No time to grieve for her father.” Nana shakes her head. “If you talk to her, tell her to come see me.”

For the first time, I wonder about what Amira might be feeling if she’s under the spell of that miserable sorcerer. Does she know what’s going on around her? Is she actually grieving behind that mask of cold indifference?

Oh, sister! I’ll free you. I promise.

“I’m not sure I’ll have a chance,” I say. “I’m leaving, and I’ve come to say goodbye.”

She frowns. “Goodbye? Why?”

Gossip travels like the wind in Nido, but it rarely reaches Nana. Everyone knows she despises it.

“Amira is sending me to the Aldalous province. Alsur to be precise.”

Her eyes widen slightly. “I thought that with your father’s passing, you had escaped that fate.”

“I thought so too, but Amira told me some facts that Father left out. Don Justo is threatening to join forces with Los Moros if he isn’t given a chance to elevate his name through a royal marriage.”

“Oh!” She rests a hand on her chest. “I am so sorry.”

When I was little, I used to talk to Nana about marrying a handsome prince whom I loved with all my heart. I wonder if she’s thinking about that innocent girl right now and if that’s the reason her eyes now brim with such profound pity.

But I don’t want her to worry, so I say. “It’ll be all right, Nana. I’m happy to do my duty.”

She reaches out and pats my hand. “I am so proud of you, my little Valeria. You have grown into a remarkable woman. You are willing to sacrifice for the welfare of the people of Castella. When Los Moros last occupied the kingdom, there was much suffering. They persecuted everyone who would not relinquish their religion for theirs.”

My lower lip trembles, and I bite it to keep it from giving me away. I’m nothing like what she suggests. Even if what Amira says is true, I will not marry Don Justo. I don’t possess a selfless heart. I’m not the kind of person who can sacrifice everything for the well-being of people I don’t even know. That was never meant to be my path.

I stand up abruptly and press a kiss on Nana’s wrinkled forehead. She smells of her lavender soap, a scent so familiar and comforting that I have to clench my teeth not to fall to my knees in another fit of tears.

Taking a couple of steps back, I put on my bravest expression. “I hope to be back soon, Nana. I would never let marriage keep me from seeing you.”

She smiles gently, and her eyes tell me she won’t blame me if I can’t come back soon. She knows it might not be up to me once I’m married. Don Justo could easily turn out to be controlling, selfish, jealous, or any number of things that awful husbands sometimes are. The worst part is that the scant knowledge I possess about this man tells me he will be precisely that kind of husband.

An hour later, Jago and I walk out of the palace through a door by the stables. As soon as we exit, I notice one of the big carriages, led by two white horses, with my luggage already strapped to the top. Six guards stand behind the carriage, already mounted. One of them is Guardia Bastien. They’re dressed in blue jackets, not the black of the Guardia Real.

Saints and feathers! Really?

I stare at him, wishing my eyes could shoot little daggers.

Cuervo shakes his feathers, perched on a nearby roof, which makes me notice him. Whenever we leave Castella, he always follows. I like knowing he’s around.

Emerito is already inside the vehicle, waving a fan in front of his face. I refuse to ride with him. Absolutely not. I start toward the stables. I’m taking my mare. No question about it.

“Valeria,” my sister calls behind me, and I’m surprised to see her, and out of the palace, wearing a dress far more regal than she normally does. As she comes closer, she looks Jago up and down. “Come to say goodbye?”

“No,” I say. “He’s coming with me and so is Furia.”

Amira bristles. “That is not what we discussed.”

“It’s also not not what we discussed. I just made a few additions.”

“I give the orders here,” she says. “Get in the carriage.”

I ignore her and keep walking.

“You will not ruin this. You have to be on your best behavior.”

“Exactly. My best behavior. Not yours. ”

Amira follows me into the stables. Furia is eating hay in her stall, looking placid. I point to an attendant. “Saddle my mare as well as your best gelding.”

The attendant, a young boy of no more than fifteen, takes a step to follow my orders, then freezes when my sister says, “Stop, boy. We don’t need those horses.”

As calmly as possible, I turn to face my sister. “I’m not asking for much, Amira. Only the company of my best friend and my mare. You’re sending me away from home to do something against my wishes. Allowing me this small favor is the least you can do. You cannot expect me to ride with Emerito all the way to Aldalous. I will kill him. ”

Amira seems to weigh my request. I try to imagine what she’s thinking. Is she worried that having Jago as my ally will cause trouble?

She turns her back on me and walks outside. Jago is reclining against the threshold, examining his nails. Amira glances to the left, pondering, and after a moment, she faces me again.

“All right,” she says, “I’ll allow it.”

I do my best to hide my relief. My mare is fast, and Jago’s gelding better be too.

An hour later, I’m seething. Guardia Bastien is holding my mare’s reins, and Jago is riding behind the carriage, per the corpse’s instructions. Arms crossed over my chest, I stare straight ahead at the road.

We have left Castellina proper and are on the Alcorcón trail, headed west. The trip will take five days and a hells of a lot of patience.

“This is ridiculous,” I complain for the second time. I get no response from Guardia Bastien. He’s looking straight ahead, his nose pointed slightly up as if he’s scenting the road, but most likely he just has a sharp dagger stuck up his ass.

“Can’t you at least let Jago ride by my side?” I ask. “Your horse is great to look at and offers far better conversation than you, but we have little in common.”

Still no reaction.

“Gods! You’re insufferable.” Even as my mare marches forward, I sling my left leg over her and jump off, landing in a half crouch.

Guardia Bastien pulls on his reins, comes to a halt, and, in no time, is standing in front of me. How can he move so fast?

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demands.

I flip my hair behind my shoulder and skirt around him without answering. If he doesn’t deem talking to me necessary, I don’t see why I shouldn’t return the favor.

As the carriage crawls to a stop, I fling its door open and call Jago. “Come in here with me, cousin. Maybe you can help make this trip bearable.”

He jumps off his gelding, ties it to the back of the carriage, and follows me in. Emerito looks annoyed, more so when Jago collapses next to him and thumps his shoulder.

“Hey, Emer,” Jago greets him. “Got anything to eat? I’m starving.”

“Don’t touch me.” Emerito dusts his shoulder with a sneer.

“Be civil, Emerito,” I say. “You’ll be stuck with us for the next five days. You wouldn’t want us to… oh, I don’t know… start singing bar ditties, would you?”

I’m not proud to admit that I’ve learned a couple of very lewd songs from Jago. He winks at me in approval.

“That one about the one-eyed barmaid is particularly good, don’t you think?” my cousin asks.

“Your teachers failed you miserably,” Emerito sneers. “God will punish you for your indecency. ”

Jago and I exchange a glance and nod. In perfect unison, we start singing. “In a tavern dark and smoky, where tales and spirits flow, there worked a one-eyed barmaid with two huge cheeks below —”

Emerito turns bright red. He looks sick and seems ready for an argument, but in the end, he presses his lips together and opts for looking out of the window, stroking his goat’s beard. He knows he can’t win against us.

I look around the compartment and find what I’m looking for, a food basket. They always pack one for long trips and customize it for the traveler, so I expect to find a slice or two of Tarta de Santiago. I’m smiling as I open the double lid, but my excitement evaporates when I notice what’s inside: a jar of olives, pickled sardines, hard-boiled eggs, gazpacho… all things I don’t like.

“Is there another basket?” I look around. Nothing.

I throw a nasty glare in Emerito’s direction and set the basket on the floor. He really set out to make this trip as miserable as possible.

“What? No food?” Jago takes a look inside the basket. “Lentil stew? Whoever ordered this must be constipated. Yuk!”

Emerito sneers, his expression suggesting he truly is constipated.

The last time we took a trip like this one, Father was with us. We sang wholesome songs, told stories, and ate cheese, smoked ham, and bread. It was nothing like this.

Frustrated, I start climbing out the window and send Emerito into a nervous fit.

“What are you doing?” he demands, shrinking into his seat. “You’re going to get yourself killed. You’re nothing but a savage.”

I’m tempted to kick him and pretend it’s an accident, but I resist, and instead, make my way out, climbing dexterously and sitting on top of the carriage’s roof among the luggage. The driver isn’t too surprised. This particular man has seen me do this before. He only glances over his shoulder and offers me a friendly nod. Jago joins me a couple of minutes later.

“Much better,” he says. “I would get ill if I sit next to that stuffy little man for too long.”

Guardia Bastien pulls his horse next to the carriage and looks up at us.

“Get her down from there!” Emerito demands from Guardia Bastien. “It’s so unseemly.”

The guard’s inscrutable dark eyes evaluate me and the roof around me. “Catch her if she falls?” he instructs Jago.

“Oh, she won’t fall. She’s like a monkey. She can out-climb anyone.”

Guardia Bastien huffs then slows down his horse to take his position behind the carriage. He seems to like this arrangement, probably because he can keep an eye on me. I’ve been riding on top of the carriage since I was little. Father never objected, and if Guardia Bastien had, he would have gotten a piece of my mind.

I’ve been on this road before and know that our trip requires a few stops along the way. The first one is in a town called La Torre. It’s a charming place with cobblestones worn smooth by years of history. Its whitewashed buildings are cozy and adorned with faded wooden shutters and terracotta tiles. Beyond its borders, golden fields of wheat surround it, as well as olive trees and vineyards that stretch for leagues.

There is only one small inn, and its owner must already be expecting us. I’m sure Emerito took care of sending a messenger ahead to prepare all of our hosts along the way. He wouldn’t travel in anything but comfort.

At midday, I complain about being hungry, but Guardia Bastien refuses to stop in any of the villages along the path. So in the end, Jago and I have to content ourselves with Emerito’s poor food choices.

We finally arrive in La Torre as the sun disappears on the horizon. The inn is a lovely little place, and as soon as I climb down from the carriage, my eyes are roving around, marking all the doors and windows, but most importantly, the stables where they will keep our horses. Cuervo flies overhead, surely in search of a tree where to rest.

Jago and I discussed our plan in hushed tones when Guardia Bastien wasn’t drilling holes in the back of our heads. Cuervo perched on the edge of the moving carriage, paying close attention. The plan is simple and involves a diversion that will give Jago time to retrieve the horses while everyone is distracted.

For now, a nice meal followed by a warm bath sounds delightful.

Stepping toward the inn, my eyes immediately catch the sight of a prominent black bow above the doorframe. Pausing, I cast a glance along the row of doors lining the street, each adorned with the same somber bows. The sight sends a lance of sadness straight through my heart. Castella is in mourning for the loss of their king, and this is their way of showing it. Meanwhile, I, as the king’s daughter, must press on without the luxury of grieving openly, concealing the pain that gnaws at me.

Shaking myself, I step inside. The first level consists of a tavern and an eatery. The owners are a married couple in their early fifties, whom I remember from a trip some years back. He is jolly, with a wide girth and graying hair. His wife is a still-beautiful woman, curvaceous and strong-boned from much hard work. Her hair is jet black, with only a few gray hairs in sight. They are friendly, much more so than my travel companions. It makes me want to stay here.

They treat us with deference, but not as much as usual, for which I’m grateful. Guardia Bastien advised me not to reveal my identity since it’s being kept secret for security purposes . Whatever that means. No one has ever cared about Princess Valeria. Still, I appreciate the anonymity and the fact that no one seems to remember me. I’m older now, and Amira always gets all the attention. Luckily, I remembered to pack the ground walnut hulls to disguise the white streak in my hair.

The eatery is as cozy as I remember it. The same rough-hewn tables and chairs fill the space, though I don’t remember the beautiful flamenco dancer mantillas hanging from the walls. They’re absolute works of art. The most beautiful of the shawls, which the female dancers drape over their shoulders and arms, is made of black silk with an intricate embroidered design of vibrant roses as a focal point.

I sit down with Jago at a table for two. Emerito eats alone and so does Guardia Bastien, who sits in a far corner, never taking his eyes off me.

At first, I’m able to ignore him, but as I dip small pieces of bread in the gravy of my beef stew, I start growing nervous. There’s something dark about Guardia Bastien. I can’t exactly put my finger on it, but as I try to pretend he’s not there, I find the hairs on the back of my arms standing on end.

“Are you all right?” Jago asks.

“I’m fine. It’s just I wish he would stop staring at me.”

“Who?” Jago starts to glance around the room, but I put a hand on top of his to stop him from glancing in the guard’s direction.

“Bastien,” I whisper, hiding my mouth behind my napkin, so he can’t see I’m talking about him. “He keeps staring. It’s not like I’m going to evaporate into thin air.”

“Bastien, is it?”

I shrug. I’m tired of calling him Guardia Bastien.

“Ooh, maybe he likes you,” Jago teases.

“Ew, no.” I shake my head adamantly.

“ Ew ? There is no ew , no matter from which angle you look at it, my dear.”

“Speak for yourself. The man is positively corpse-like. There is no emotion in him. I wouldn’t be surprised if his heart is solid rock.”

Jago rolls his eyes. “As well as other parts of his body,” he jokes, then continues, “Clearly, you know nothing about men. The ones who hide their feelings are the worst. The deeper they bury their emotions, the more intense they are. Very dangerous. In fact, that’s the kind of man you need to stay away from. ”

My eyes flick to Bastien for an instant. As they meet his gaze, a tingling sensation travels down my spine.

“Meh,” I say. “I have absolutely nothing to worry about. Not my type.”

“Like you have a type.”

“Can you blame me? Every man who has ever shown any interest in me was only interested in my title. Honestly, if it wasn’t because I’m very curious about,” my gaze dances around the room and I lower my voice, “sex, then I would completely forsake the entire idea of marriage.”

“Fair enough. There’s always sex outside of marriage, you know?”

“You know, I know. Stop bringing that up. You also know it’s not a possibility for me. At least not until I’m considered a spinster.”

He looks up at the ticking clock on the wall and bobs his head from side to side. “Well, I guess you have a few more hours then.”

I slap his arm, even though he’s not far from the truth. It won’t be long before everyone will consider me a spinster. Not for the first time, I find myself wishing I’d been born a man. None of this would be happening if I’d been that lucky.

To my chagrin, I can’t finish my stew. My appetite shrinks and shrinks every time my eyes meet Bastien’s. I set my fork down with a sigh.

“I’m going to my bedchamber,” I tell Jago.

He reclines, crossing one ankle over the other, and nursing a tankard. “I’ll stay up. See what… kind of excitement La Torre has to offer tonight,” he says as he smiles at the pretty blond maid who served us.

I lean close and speak in his ear. “Don’t have too much fun and forget our plan.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” he responds without even looking at me. I try not to let his attitude worry me. Whenever he spots someone he likes, male or female, he usually gets distracted. He has never failed me, though, so I resolve not to worry.

I swing by Emerito’s table. “Please tell the person in charge that I require a hot bath in my bedchamber.”

His eyes go wide, and his expression turns into a how dare you? sneer, but I don’t give him a chance to say anything. Instead, I hurry up the stairs to the second floor, doing my best to ignore the burning sensation in the back of my head, which lets me know Bastien’s eyes are following my every step.

The room assigned to me is called Peineta Dorada and has a golden flamenco hair comb painted on the door. Inside, the space is small, but I’m pleased by how clean and orderly it is. There is a metal tub in one corner, and the bed has a pretty canopy draping from its four posts. My luggage rests at the foot of the bed. I dig out a fresh pair of leggings and a tunic.

Soon, there is a knock at the door. “I’m here to prepare your bath, se?orita.”

Pleased by the efficiency, I call, “Come in.”

I’m expecting someone or several someones carrying pails of hot water, instead, I’m taken aback by the appearance of a slip of a girl, no older than twelve. She wears a simple blue dress with a matching hair cap. She carries no water.

“Hello?” I say.

She curtsies, then walks toward the tub. I had assumed they didn’t have internal plumbing—normally, small towns like this lack such luxuries—but it seems I was wrong. If I’d known, I would have drawn the bath on my own.

I busy myself with retrieving a few toiletries from my luggage, but when I don’t hear the sound of running water, I glance back toward the girl. Her hands are hovering over the tub. Staring, I take a few steps in her direction and notice the water level rising inside the tub.

Espiritu! She’s using magic to fill it .

My eyes flick upward, immediately trying to get a glimpse of her ears, but they’re covered by the cap. I keep on staring and wait until she’s done.

When she pulls away from the tub, she’s surprised to find me watching. Her cheeks turn bright pink. Curtsying, she clasps her hands together in front of her and stares at the floor.

“I hope the temperature is to your liking, se?orita,” she says.

“You’re fae,” I say, stupidly pointing out the obvious.

She takes a sideways step toward the door, looking scared.

I’m half-fae, I want to say, so she doesn’t have to feel afraid of me, but I bite the words down.

“Your talent is really amazing.” I gesture toward the tub. “I wish I could do that.”

A shy smile stretches her lips. It’s surprising that she has espiritu. Her parents must be powerful and full-blooded. Since the veil fell, few of the fae trapped in Castella pass down the gift to their children.

I want to talk to her, want to ask her a million questions about her family. Where did they come from? Are they from the fae capital, Riochtach? Did they ever visit Nilhalari, my mother’s village? And so many more questions that always assault me whenever I’m in the presence of one of the fae. But as always, I must hold back. No one can know my true heritage.

The child’s meek demeanor likely stems from a lifetime of enduring discrimination, consistently treated as an outsider in our lands. No, Castella’s citizens would not respond well to knowing their former queen was a full-blooded fae, and their current one is a half-fae.

I offer the girl my warmest smile to let her know I think nothing less of her because of her heritage, then let her go without revealing any of my questions.

While I luxuriate in my bath, I find immense pleasure in a whimsical notion. Silly as it may be, I imagine the water holds traces of espiritu and pretend it can reach into the depths of my being to rekindle the espiritu I once used to save my mother.

Being able to wield espiritu would be far better than having been born a man. Controlling espiritu would mean I would not be helpless and to the mercy of a meddling little man, a guard with a heart of stone, and a queen who may or may not be my sister.

If only…