House of the Raven (The Eldrystone #1)

14. CHAPTER 14

14

VALERIA

“I know Castella is where I was born, but I want to see Tirnanog, Mother. Do you think I ever will?”

Lenna Rogetorei - Fae Child - 10 AV

D awn comes quickly, and after a short rest, Cuervo seems like his old self and jumps from the bed to the night table, looking up at the window. I open it and let him out, glad to see his wing beats are as strong as ever.

I get ready, go downstairs, and join Jago, who’s already there. The guards watch us, and my food tastes like sawdust in my mouth. There is contempt in their gazes as they whisper in each other’s ears. I know they think I’m nothing but a spoiled brat, unwilling to make any sacrifices for our realm and oblivious to the trouble I cause them.

But what do they know?

Soon, we’re on our way. The sun is barely out, but Bastien seems determined to get us to Aldalous in the shortest amount of time possible. I’m sure they’re all eager to deliver me to my supposed betrothed and get back to Castellina.

Well, I have five more days to try to escape .

The days are long, and the nights longer still as I try and fail to find a way to escape. Bastien watches me closer than ever, as if his life depends on it. After the third day of travel, I come to the conclusion I will have to wait until I get to Aldalous. I may not be able to fool Bastien, but Don Justo will be caught unawares. I may not know much about him, but one thing is for sure… he can’t watch me every hour of the day.

While on the road, I hate riding inside the carriage with Emerito, but I hate looking at Bastien’s dead-fish expression even more so I endure it. Jago despises the stuffy cabin too, but he stays with me out of solidarity.

We play cards while Emerito watches in disapproval. He thinks cards are a sin, even if there are no bets involved.

“Games of luck are the devil’s workshop,” he says multiple times.

To me, card games are harmless and fun, certainly more so than Emerito, who only knows how to disparage those who are different than him. I can only imagine what he would think and do if he found out his precious Amira is half-fae.

For hours, I fan myself with a fan the inn owner’s wife gave me in La Torre. It’s made of light wood and lace, and I imagine it once belonged to a flamenco dancer, and she used it to enhance her fiery emotions as she twirled and stomped across a worn wooden floor. The fan isn’t much help, however. Inside the carriage, the air is oppressive, charged with the stench of Emerito’s heavy cologne. It isn’t all bad, though. The little man provides endless entertainment.

Like on the second day, when he entered the carriage wearing a fake beauty mark on his left cheek. Since, he keeps rubbing it off with his handkerchief, and it takes him several minutes to put it back in place. During one of his efforts, the mark ended on the tip of his nose, and Jago and I exploded into laughter, while he demanded to know what was so funny.

For some much-needed relief, I sometimes stick my head out of the window. The breeze feels good as does the change of scenery. I search the skies for Cuervo but don’t see him. He’s trying to avoid Bastien, I’m sure.

On the fifth day, nearly lulled to sleep by boredom, I feel the carriage veer abruptly to the right. Blinking, I look out of the window and find that we’re passing a small caravan. My curiosity piqued, I climb out, position myself on the roof, and watch the procession—Jago quickly following my lead.

Our guards give the travelers a wide berth as if they’re infected with a disease. I can see from their wary but resigned expressions that they are used to this type of treatment, though no less hurt by its quotidian nature.

Much like the fae, the Romani are treated as if they don’t belong in Castella.

Their troop consists of three wagons, one in the shape of a rectangle, built from wood, with only one door in the back. The other two have cloth tops that have seen better days. Three starved-looking horses pull the derelict vehicles.

Among the people that I can see are an older man, a middle-aged couple, two young men, a couple of children, and a beautiful woman around my age. There may be others inside, but I can’t be sure.

They are dressed in a rainbow of colors. The women wear long, flowing skirts adorned with intricate patterns, and blouses embroidered with sun-bleached threads. The men, with their strong and weathered faces, wear vests and matching trousers crafted from sturdy fabric. All wear layers of scarves, shawls, and jewelry, as if each piece tells a tale of a distant place they once visited.

The beautiful young woman glares at me as we pass by. She has long ebony hair that cascades in curls down to her waist. Her eyebrows are thick and just as dark. Under them, heavily kohled eyes seem to hold a vast array of feelings: mischievousness, cunning, slight, anger, curiosity, and so much more.

I imagine she’s surrounded by her family and has traveled all over the realm, free as a raven, able to see all the wonders Castella has to offer. I imagine nobody ever tells her what to do or who she should marry. All decisions are her own and for her sole advantage. Briefly, I wonder if she hates her life as I hate mine.

We leave them behind, and an hour later all I see is the dust their caravan stirs into the air.

“Do you think they would trade places with us?” I ask Jago.

“Who?”

“The Romani.”

“Probably.”

I wrinkle my nose. “But they’re free.”

“In one way, but not all.”

I ponder his words and try to imagine in what ways they aren’t free. They are bound to the road, to wander endlessly, I suppose. There is no rest or reprieve from their travels. I’ve seen them in Castellina, performing, trying to scrape a few coins in order to survive. They aren’t free from everyone’s stares and side-eyes, or the ignorance and hatred of those who think they’re better than everyone else.

Jago is right.

“Since when did you become such a wise man?” I ask him.

He blinks and turns his eyes from the road. “Huh?”

I shake my head. Maybe he just knows what to say and when to say it.

The rest of the journey is tedious with nothing to offer any distraction besides fields of crops, expansive vineyards, and the occasional scarecrow.

The next day, we arrived in Aldalous province well after sundown. The town where Don Justo’s villa is located, Alsur, is similar to La Torre with its cobblestone roads, whitewashed buildings, and terracotta roof tiles. However, the place has a different feel to it.

As we traverse the streets, I can feel the presence of the ocean to the east. Though the water remains hidden from view, its essence permeates the air. The salty tang in the breeze teases my senses, a reminder of the vast expanse of water that lies just beyond sight: the Eireno Ocean. Every building, every alleyway, is touched by the magic of the sea. Even the walls seem to breathe with the ebb and flow of the invisible waves.

I imagine a tranquil bay where ships gently sway at anchor. Or is it a tempestuous sea, its waves crashing against rugged cliffs? This will remain a mystery. I will not stay here to find out.

Don Justo’s villa is located on the northern edge of the town, with many acres of wheat, extending from his backyard as far as the eye can see.

The villa is surrounded by an extensive white wall that keeps the interior from view. The wide wooden gates in the front are heavily guarded by four men who appear to have just been part of a tavern brawl. They are unkempt, their faces and arms scarred, their teeth missing. What isn’t missing, however, is a wide array of swords and daggers strapped to their bodies.

A shiver goes down my spine, and I exchange a glance with Jago. They can’t possibly mean to leave me here.

Even Emerito stares out the window with caution.

“Emerito,” I lean forward and try to appeal to the wariness brewing in his eyes, “this place doesn’t look safe. Are you sure you know what we’re getting into?”

He swallows thickly but manages to compose himself and act as if he’s perfectly in control. “The queen was clear in her instructions. You have a duty here, and she expects you to perform it.”

“Are you really this cruel?”

He stares back from so high up his horse he might get a nosebleed. I hope he does and stains his ridiculous white and gold doublet.

Once the awful sentries have established who we are, they make us get out of the carriage. Without asking, they bring down our luggage and throw it on the ground to inspect it. Emerito’s mouth falls open, but he says nothing. One of the men leers at me, wearing a twisted smile under a ridiculously long mustache. He smells of overripe cheese with a dash of spoiled fish.

I take a step closer to Jago. He places an arm around my back. The man grunts, then takes a step toward my cousin and shoves him.

“No one touches El Jefe’s woman.”

Jago staggers back and hits the side of the carriage.

“What is wrong with you?” I demand. “He’s my cousin.”

“More reason for him to keep away,” the ogre growls.

I open my mouth to say something, but Bastien appears as if he has peeled away from the shadows.

“You will not mistreat anyone in my party,” he says in an unequivocal tone.

The man turns slowly to face Bastien. There is a glint in his eye that suggests this is exactly what he wants: conflict. He must thrive on it, the way vultures thrive on carrion. He’s a head taller than Bastien and twice as thick, but something tells me that’s not an advantage.

“You don’t give orders around here,” the man spits.

“Perhaps, but I’m sure your boss would love to hear how you ogled his future wife the moment she got out of the carriage.”

“That’s a lie,” he bellows as he steps forward to grab Bastien by the throat.

Instead, what happens is something completely different. In a flash, Bastien steps aside, hooks the man’s foot with his own, and sends him sprawling to the ground like a fallen tree.

Our guards as well as Don Justo’s laugh heartily.

“I’ve been saying you’re getting clumsy in your old age, Bartolo,” one of his fellow guards says between loud cackles.

Bartolo clambers to his feet, his eyes as incensed as those of an angry bull. Opposite him, Bastien stands calm, ice running through his veins. He has confronted worse challenges than this. I have no doubt in my mind.

Bastien and Bartolo face each other. The latter evaluates Bastien for a split second, judging the best way to attack. He takes several short steps to reduce the distance between them, then lunges forward, a massive fist directed at Bastien’s jaw. Once more, my guard moves impossibly fast. He has ample time to trip Bartolo once more. This time, the big man doesn’t fall but staggers, arms windmilling in an effort to keep his balance and what little is left of his dignity.

Huffing with rage and exertion, Bartolo clenches his fists. His upper lip pulls back, trembling. Straightening, he takes a deep breath. The effort to let this go is clearly monumental. However, judging by the vindictive look in his eyes, he will hold a grudge. If I were Bastien, I would watch my back every second of the day while in Alsur—not that I would be opposed to Guardia Corpse getting the beating of his life. As a kidnapper, he deserves everything Bartolo can give him. Not likely, I know, but I can hope.

After all the male posturing, we’re allowed past the gate. Jago and I walk in rather than get back in the carriage like Emerito. Bastien follows close behind us, as well as one of Don Justo’s guards assigned to the task by Bartolo.

“You’re fast on your feet,” the new guard tells Bastien.

As usual, Bastien offers no answer, unless a grunt qualifies.

“Bartolo’s bark is worse than his bite,” the man continues undeterred. “My name is Felipe, by the way. Welcome to Villa de la Paz.” There is a slight note of sarcasm in his voice that makes me glance in his direction. Paz means peace in Castellan, and he doesn’t think the name fits. He offers me a thin smile and bow. “Welcome, Princess Valeria.”

I exchange a worried glance with Jago, then glare at Bastien. From his slight frown, I can tell he picked up on Felipe’s tone. I already don’t have the best opinion of Don Justo, and if not even his men can provide a good endorsement, maybe it’s worse than I suspect. Or maybe I’m just reading too much into an innocent comment. Maybe this place is heaven on earth. Funny how that doesn’t make me want to stay, not even a little.

“This way.” Felipe guides us toward the front door of a sprawling one-story building. The walls are squat and perfectly white. The terracotta roof tiles are a vivid red and staggered in perfect rows. The doors and windows arch with grace and are adorned with wrought iron shaped into vines. Real vines around the metalwork enhance its beauty.

A woman dressed all in white waits by the door. Her hands are interlaced in front of her. Her hairstyle is severe, pulled tightly into a high bun, but her eyes are warm, even if slightly guarded.

She bows deeply. “Welcome to Villa de la Paz, Princess Valeria.”

“Thank you.”

“My name is Ynes Ayala. I am the ama de llaves .” It’s an old term for housekeeper that translates to the mistress of keys.

“She’s my sister,” Felipe puts in, which earns him a narrow-eyed glance from Ynes.

I’ve seen such glances before. She thinks her brother isn’t behaving properly in front of me. The thing is… she doesn’t know me. I don’t care much for the stiff formalities offered in the name of my royal lineage. I love being a Plumanegra. I’m proud of my heritage and what my family and my ancestors have done for Castella, but I haven’t earned the respect they bestow upon me. I have done nothing, and now my sister is pushing me onto a path where doing nothing is exactly what I’m supposed to achieve. That’s not what I desire for myself, and I’ll continue to resist the chains of a loveless marriage and a life without purpose.

“I regret to inform you that Don Justo is not here, Your Majesty,” Ynes explains. “He had to ride further south to attend to some business. He left his deepest regrets and said you should make yourself at home.”

A sigh of relief escapes me. Ynes’s dark eyes don’t seem to miss a thing, but I don’t care. I don’t plan to make things easy for Don Justo. If I ever see him, I will let him know right away that I don’t want to be here. The more people know about it, the better.

I open my mouth to let her know as much when Emerito’s rushed steps sound behind me. His handkerchief swings from side to side as he holds it aloft. He walks on tiptoes to keep his heels from sinking into the gravelly path.

Both Ynes and Felipe regard him as if he’s a strange, exotic animal from a faraway land. He might as well be with all his finery. People out here aren’t used to the likes of him. They wear homespun fabrics and work in the fields or boats, day in and day out. What do they know of velvet doublets and beauty marks?

“Your Excellency,” Ynes bows deeply and throws a sidelong glance at her brother, who quickly mimics her. She repeats the information she just gave us.

“How unfortunate.” Emerito dabs his forehead with the handkerchief, embroidered with his initials. “When will he be back?”

“Tomorrow evening at the latest.”

My heart sinks. I’d hoped his business would keep him away longer. But no matter, that simply means I have twenty-four hours to figure out an escape.

Ynes guides us inside the villa. It’s a very nice place, clean, smelling of roses, and decorated with items belonging to the region: pottery, ship wheels, seashells, and carved furniture. She guides us through the middle courtyard, where beautiful rose bushes fill the ample flowerbeds. Artfully painted azulejos line the walls and arched entryways. The architecture is clearly influenced by Los Moros’, as it’s evident in the many ornate columns. The air is cool, perfect for sitting under the moonlight, reading a book while the sweet scent of roses tickles one’s nose.

Except beauty is no substitute for freedom.

Ynes leads me to a large bedchamber with pristine white linens and a body-length gilded mirror. A copper tub sits in the middle of the room, already steaming with hot water and swimming with red petals. The pleasant scent of aromatic oils wafts in the air.

It’s obvious that extra care has been placed into making the bedchamber perfect, but I would rather have a cot and a pail of water in a humble room, if it meant I could have a say in my own life.

I immediately let my eyes travel through the room, noting every window and door. There are plenty of exits, but there is the outer wall and Don Justo’s guards as well as my own to contend with. Things look grimmer with more potential eyes watching, but I don’t let that bring me down. I will find a way.

“I can send a few of the maids to help you bathe, Your Majesty,” Ynes says.

I shake my head. “No, thank you. I will be fine on my own.”

She seems about to object, but in the end, she asks, “What about some dinner? I can have anything you would like prepared for you.”

After the first day of travel, our food options were limited, so this sounds like a lovely offer. “If your cook knows how to prepare saffron rice, that would be wonderful. If not, anything savory would do.”

“Our cook is excellent, and she can indeed prepare that. She can add shrimp if you wish.”

“Oh, that would be divine.”

“Is that your preferred dish?” Ynes inquires with a warm smile, her demeanor so kind that I can already sense how easy it would be to grow fond of her if I were to remain here.

“No. My favorite is cochinillo, but I wouldn’t make your cook go out and find a suckling pig. Perhaps, you can make sure my cousin, Jago, also gets some of the rice.”

“Indeed, Your Majesty.” Ynes starts walking backward toward the door.

“How is life here, Ynes?” I ask.

Her eyes open wide, and she appears a bit panicked at the question .

I elaborate, hoping to ease her into trusting me with what she knows. “How is the town? Is there a lot to do?”

She seems relieved, as I suspected, and has no trouble sharing. “If you like the outdoors, yes, there is much to do. The plains and hills are beautiful, especially in the spring and autumn. Fish are plentiful in the ocean, and there is ample game for those who enjoy hunting.”

“Is that all?”

“There is a fair every April, and folk come from smaller towns to watch the dancers and bullfighters and to enjoy good food and drink. It’s a very happy time for everyone.”

I incline my head to one side, demanding more, but Ynes seems at a loss.

“We ran into a small troop of Romani on our way here. Are you expecting a visit from them? They always offer good entertainment.”

“Romani do stop here every now and then,” she says, sounding less enthusiastic about this subject.

“Are they not welcome?”

“El Jefe considers them lawless.”

“And you? Do you think the same?”

She thinks for a moment, and I can tell she’s pondering whether or not to be honest. In the end, I think she decides on the former. “Some are, but that isn’t a trait exclusive to the Romani. There are many dons, lords, and kings who also partake.”

“Well spoken, Ynes. I couldn’t agree with you more. Thank you for the information.”

She inclines her head. “I will be back with dinner in an hour to give you time for your bath.”

“Perfect.”

As soon as she’s gone, I test every door and window. One door leads to a large empty closet, and the second one to a washroom. As I throw open the windows, I curse under my breath. Wrought iron bars cover them, leaving only a small gap toward the top, where the bars end in what look like spearheads. The windows face the inner courtyard, so why the bars? My eyes rove over the flowerbeds outside, then drift toward the windows beyond… windows without bars.

My stomach sinks. Maybe Father or Amira told Don Justo to expect a reluctant wife. I shake my head, not wanting to believe that they would willingly and knowingly put me in the charge of a man who would lock me up.

I rush to the door and test the handle. I sigh in relief when I find that it isn’t locked. Would it be locked if Don Justo was here? Will I still be a prisoner when he comes back and I refuse to marry him?

Securing the door from the inside, I decide that I don’t want to find out what that man will do. I will get out of this villa before he returns.

I take a quick bath and change into another tunic and a pair of leggings. My skin smells of roses and feels soft. I squeeze the dampness from my hair, enjoying how clean the strands feel.

Ynes comes back accompanied by a teenage girl carrying a tray with my dinner. The delicious scent of saffron and shrimp makes my stomach rumble.

“That smells amazing,” I say.

“I hope it is to your liking, Your Majesty.” Ynes guides the girl toward the door, ushers her out, and is about to leave too, but remains when I call her name. “What more can I do for you?”

“Can you tell me why my bedchamber is the only one with bars in the windows?” I ask, never taking my eyes off her face in order to examine her expression.

She seems to choke, and it takes her several hard swallows before she can answer. “I don’t know, Your Majesty.”

“Please, don’t lie.”

“It’s not a lie.” She closes the door and comes closer. “Don Justo had them installed a month ago. I don’t know why. ”

A knot forms in my throat. A month ago?! Is it possible that Father knew then this would be my fate?

“Perhaps,” I say tentatively, “Alsur is dangerous, and Don Justo only aims to protect me?”

Ynes winces slightly, which makes me think this conjecture is wrong.

I shake my head and swallow thickly, fighting back the anger that rises inside of me. It is directed at my father.

The housekeeper moves closer still, and when she speaks, she does so in a whisper. “Don Justo is extremely jealous and overprotective. That may be the true reason.”

Her explanation makes sense, but her quiet delivery does not—not unless the jealousy and overprotectiveness she’s referring to is the irrational kind, what should instead be called mistrust and possessiveness.

“I think I understand.” I nod slowly, holding Ynes’s gaze.

She smiles, satisfied that she got her message across.

When she leaves, I eat my rice, chewing carefully. I still can’t forgive Father for arranging this marriage and concealing it from me, but at least he had decided to let me go. Amira on the other hand… she wants to ensure I find no escape from this distasteful duty.

Too bad!

I have a different duty in mind, and it involves avenging Father and bringing Amira back to her senses. One way or another.