House of the Raven (The Eldrystone #1)

18. CHAPTER 18

18

VALERIA

“What is the true religion, Padre? Should I worship our saints? Or Los Moros’ one god?”

Marcio Hidalgo - Human Blacksmith - 50 BV

T he troop travels much slower than we did with Bastien. It should wear on my nerves, not getting to Castellina faster than this, but oddly, it doesn’t.

In fact, I’m enjoying myself.

We make stops whenever the mood strikes and spend longer than necessary eating, singing alegrias while attempting to mimic the moves of flamenco dancers, watching the kids play hide and seek with no boring lessons to interrupt their fun, lying on the grass under the stars, while the fire crackles and whispers the night’s secrets, like we’re doing now.

This is real freedom , I think with a sigh. No one wants anything from me. No one tries to tell me what to do or not to do.

“Have you always been with this troop?” I ask Esmeralda, who lies next to me.

“Yep. I was born into it. My ma joined it when she was carrying me. She never told me where she came from, another troop, is what I think. But I imagine she was running from my pa, who was probably a bastardo. Ooh, look at that?” She points at the sky, and I catch a glimpse of a shooting star before it disappears.

At the sight, a smile comes to me on its own and goes on unapologetically, almost as if I’ve had a glimpse of true happiness.

“I’ve been on the road since I was a babe,” Esmeralda goes on. “Ma took me everywhere. She also taught me everything I know about healing, like binding broken bones and sprains.” She gestures toward my wrist. “Gaspar taught me the rest.”

She turns her head toward me and winks. The grass tickles her cheek. She’s a true beauty. Those bright green eyes of hers could spellbind anybody.

The next day we arrive in Syvilia. The place is nearly as bustling as Castellina. The sun casts a warm, golden glow upon the cobblestone streets that wind through the heart of the city. The air is filled with the rich, earthy scent of market stalls offering exotic spices and herbs, while people from all walks of life go about their many endeavors.

Many of the buildings are adorned with intricate carvings that tell tales of battles fought and legends born. Towers and turrets rise majestically above, reaching towards the heavens. Cuervo flies from one to the next, keeping a wary eye on me.

Once they find a spot near the busy market, the troop works like a perfectly constructed timepiece, every part of the mechanism doing its job. Even the children have specific tasks they must perform to get everything in place.

Esmeralda assigns me simple responsibilities, similar to those of the children. I have to sweep the area where each stall will be set up. There’s a space for El Gran Místico’s wagon, and another for a long table where a woman named Prina will sell her pretty jewelry. I’ve been admiring some of her pieces, wondering how she puts them together. She certainly possesses a unique talent. I wouldn’t mind learning a few of her secrets in the trade. I have always enjoyed creating things: drawings, paintings, jewelry, even embroidery. Maybe I’ll get a chance to ask her later once she’s not so busy.

Esmeralda’s stall is a curious one. She sells a variety of ingredients in tiny bottles that she says are medicine.

“Snake oil salespeople, that’s what they are,” Father whispers in my ear .

To my chagrin, I have to admit I wouldn’t take the remedies in those bottles without concern, though this doesn’t seem like a problem to the Syvilia residents. They easily part with their coin as she bats her dark eyelashes and smiles with more charm than a cooing babe.

Gaspar also does good business. People go in and out of his wagon at a steady pace. Some walk out wearing smiles on their faces, while others seem discouraged by whatever news he gave them.

I stay out of the way, sitting on a low wall across the street, watching it all unfold with tremendous interest. Their lives are so different from mine. They are constantly moving, talking, gesticulating, charming anyone who comes near, all while remaining in a good mood, whether or not their customers purchase their offers.

At twelve hours, they cover their stalls and leave the children in charge of watching them.

Esmeralda walks up to me, shaking a small bag of coins in her hand. “Want to get something to eat?”

“I do.” My stomach has been rumbling for a full hour now.

“Let’s go explore. See what’s new.”

“Do things change much between your visits?” I ask, curious.

“Sometimes.” She points toward a narrow cobbled path. “I know a place that sells the best stuffed cochinillo. We’ll eat first, and then we’ll explore. How does that sound?”

“Perfect! Cochinillo is my favorite.”

We walk side-by-side. I admire the quaint, colorful homes as we move along the winding path. Many have black bows pinned to their doors, mourning my father. After a while, I’m quite turned around, lost actually. Ten minutes later, we arrive at a small tavern and find a table. No one pays us any attention.

“They didn’t even have a proper funeral for Rey Plumanegra,” a woman in a yellow dress says to her companion at the table opposite ours.

I stare at the table, my shoulders tensing.

“I know,” her interlocutor responds. “It’s an embarrassment. Unheard of.”

“Perhaps Queen Amira isn’t of sound mind. Imagine witnessing such a tragedy.”

I try to ignore the conversation, but it’s difficult, so I’m relieved when the two women begin talking about hat fashions instead.

Esmeralda orders two servings of cochinillo, which are accompanied by braised potatoes, a basket of bread, and a jar of wine. She pays in advance, and I get the impression the owner wouldn’t service us otherwise.

“They’ll take anything that isn’t theirs if it isn’t nailed to the floor,” Father’s voice says. “That includes the food on your plate and the fruits of anyone’s labor, including inn owners, farmers, street vendors, anyone who can fill their stomachs for free.”

“What’s the matter now?” Esmeralda asks when she notices me frowning at the floor.

My eyes lift to meet hers. “Nothing, just…” I whirl a hand in the general direction of my head.

“You get lost in your mind a lot, huh?” she asks, though she doesn’t give me any time to answer. “It’s not good, you know? Constantly letting your mind turn ‘round and ‘round with your own troubles.”

“Why is that?” I’m interested to hear why she thinks this.

“Thoughts go sour. Actions are better. If something is eating at you, do something about it.”

I frown. “What if you can’t do anything about it?”

“Then it’s not a problem. Problems have solutions. ”

“Not always.” I interlace my hands on top of the table and stare at them.

“Death is the only problem you can’t solve.”

Our food gets delivered, and I attack it with the intensity of someone bent on changing the subject.

“Who died?” Esmeralda asks, mid-chew.

My spoon freezes over the wooden bowl. The food is really good: the meat juicy, the vegetables tender, the bread freshly baked, but each bite I’ve taken suddenly turns to lead in my stomach.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” My words come out chopped like axe blows.

“Might help,” she mumbles and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

I say nothing. If she thinks thoughts go sour, I think words go putrid. I don’t need to tell her how tragically I lost my father, how much I miss him, how fearful I am for my sister, how lost we all are if Orys is controlling Castella’s queen, or how I can’t seem to remember anything positive about my father.

Since Mother’s passing, the only person I’ve truly confided in has been Amira. Even Jago remains unaware of my mother’s fae heritage. And although Cuervo is my friend, it’s not like I can have real conversations with him.

Naturally, I lay the blame squarely on Father’s shoulders. He warned me not to trust anyone with my secrets and planted the seed of fear and distrust in my heart. He impressed upon me that if the truth were ever revealed, it would not only bring harm to our family but to Castella itself.

I set my spoon down as an idea hits me. What if his negative talk about the fae, Romani, crooked and ambitious court members—in essence, anyone who wasn’t Amira or himself—was solely to keep me from divulging the one momentous truth that would have condemned us all? What if he did it to protect us all? He loved a fae female deeply, after all .

But what could he gain by trying to shape my entire character around mistrust and fear?

“Fearlessness isn’t a laudable character trait, Valeria,” His voice is in my head again, providing the answer.

Father, did I always misunderstand you? Were you only trying to curb my impetus?

“Are you done?” Esmeralda asks.

I find that my appetite is gone, so I nod. She grabs the last piece of bread from the basket as her eyes track somebody behind me. A moment later, the bell above the tavern’s door tinkles.

Jumping to her feet and going for the exit, she urges me to follow her. “C’mon, let’s go.”

She’s out the door before I can even get out of my chair. When I join her outside, she grabs my arm and drags me along the sidewalk.

A heavyset man dressed in a tunic that reaches his ankles walks ahead of us. He carries a cane that taps with every step. When the man turns the corner ahead, Esmeralda makes me wait a moment before we turn too.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Following him?”

“Why?”

“He’s our first mark.”

“Mark? What do you mean?” I ask, fearful of the answer.

“I need you to distract him,” she whispers close to my ear.

“You aren’t going to—”

“Shh.” She presses a finger to her lips. “Don’t ruin this. Don’t forget you said you would do anything to pay back for our help.”

“I did say that, but—”

“All you have to do is distract him. You want to get back to Castellina under our protection, don’t you?”

Is she threatening to leave me here if I don’t help her?

“Go.” She makes sweeping motions with her hands.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, think of something.” She shoves me forward. I stagger and put out my arms for balance. My heart is pounding, and my mind produces one question after another.

Does Esmeralda want to kidnap this man? No, that’s stupid. We couldn’t carry him. Kill him? Not in broad daylight, and in front of passersby. Rob him? Yes, rob him. That has to be it. He looks like a well-to-do kind of man, the perfect target.

“What are you waiting for?” Esmeralda hisses behind me.

I can’t be part of this. It’s wrong. But if I don’t do it, I have no doubt the troop will leave me behind, and then what? I have no money to pay for a horse or carriage ride back to Castellina, so in the end, I may end up a thief no matter what. The difference? I wouldn’t have Gaspar’s protection, and I might easily be captured by Bastien and brought back to Alsur. And that is definitely not an option, and Esmeralda knows that.

Swallowing my shame and honor, I hurry my step and catch up with the man.

“Gentle Don,” I say, tapping his shoulder.

He jumps a little and turns around to fully face me. Beady eyes scan me up and down. His nose wrinkles and his upper lip twitches. I hadn’t stopped to wonder about my appearance, but seeing his reaction makes me realize I’m a mess.

I haven’t had a bath in two days, my clothes are filthy from sleeping on the ground, my hair is in tangles… I must look like… what? A Romani? A poor fae?

Undoubtedly, he’s asking himself the same questions because he tries to catch a glimpse of my ears, but they are hidden under my messy hair.

The unwavering look of disgust on his face eases my guilt regarding my role in whatever scheme Esmeralda is concocting.

“I am new here,” I say, “and I was wondering if you know a nice place to stay? A cheap inn, maybe?”

He looks scandalized, as if knowing about the existence of such a place would be a contaminant to his every thought.

“Go pester someone else,” he sneers.

The way he looks at me and the venom in his words make a part of me recoil. No one has ever talked to me this way. I’m used to deference—too much of it—accompanied by smiles and bows. Despite myself, his treatment makes me bristle.

“I’m not pestering you. I’m just asking a question,” my voice is haughty, dripping with entitlement, though that isn’t all.

There’s so much about this situation that rankles me. No one should treat anyone without respect only because they’re different or because they have less than they do. Nana did her best to teach me as much.

I doubt this man even earned his own wealth and has a true reason to be so full of himself. He likely inherited everything from his father, like I did—not that I have more than the clothes on my back at the moment.

So who does he think he is?

For all he knows, he’s talking to a princess of Castella, someone whose boots he’d bend down to kiss if he recognized it to be in his best interest.

I open my mouth to say something to that effect when Esmeralda comes toward us. Stumbling like a drunk, she crashes into the man’s side. He lurches and prevents a fall by using his cane. His face disfigures into a mask of anger and repulsion.

Using all his strength, he shoves Esmeralda backward and sends her flying against the adjacent wall. She hits it with force and crumples to the sidewalk.

I’m stunned silent by the violence of the man’s actions, and by the unadulterated disgust that drips off him. He looks as if he suspects Esmeralda has infected him with an incurable disease that will turn his skin to boils and his gold coins into lumps of coal .

“Filthy gitana !” he spits.

Blood trickles down Esmeralda’s forehead.

I rush to her side. “Gods, you’re bleeding! Are you all right?”

Sliding an arm around her waist, I help her stand. She leans her back against the wall for support, looking dazed.

I turn to the man, bent on dragging him and his mother through the mud with the most colorful language I can muster. But I find no words because he’s sneering and patting his pocket, eyes wide.

“Thieves!” He comes at us, shouting at the top of his lungs.

Recovering remarkably fast, Esmeralda grabs my wrist and hauls me down the sidewalk, while the man runs after us calling us thieves over and over again.

By the time we round the corner, Syvilia’s Guardia is after us.