But Zito does not smile. “What do you see here, Your Highness? Look around you.”
His voice is high-pitched and girlish. During the last war with Invierne, he was barely more than a boy when his service brought him an injury that left him a eunuch. But it also brought him the king’s favor, which resulted in his appointment as my steward. I haven’t had a nurse since Elisa was born. Papá knew by the time I could walk that I would be like a son to him, and only a personal steward would do.
I look around, trying to see what Zito sees. Though he is prone to these impromptu teaching moments, he has never been so graceless as to instruct me within hearing of my entire entourage. Whatever he has noticed must be very important indeed.
The fields are plowed but barren, with only a few sickly sprouts poking from the soil. The pastures are still brown from winter. On the terraced slopes that rise beyond, orchards that should be covered in blossoms show only stunted blooms. The trees covering the hills are a web of bony branches, yet to bud.
“Spring is a tardy guest to its mountain home,” I say.
“Spring does not arrive this late,” he says, and his words would not alarm me were it not for the deadly seriousness in his voice.
“A drought?” I say.
He straightens and brushes the dirt from his hands, then holds his palms out so I can see the muddy streaks. It is far from drought-dusty.
“The last time I saw fields like this, it was damage of my own doing,” he says. “I salted a village the Inviernos settled on our side of the mountains. But there is no taste of salt here.”
“So what is causing it?”
He shrugs, but I know it is not the casual gesture it appears. “We should discuss it later,” he says. Privately, he means.
My gaze sweeps the mountainsides again, and now the rocky outcrops and dense stands of naked trees seem ominous.
Zito remounts and gestures the column forward, commanding them toward Khelia Castle with all haste. I sit back on the bench, lost in thought. No wonder the people seem so desperate and distrustful. How long have their fields been bare? Perhaps they’ve been feeling the sting of the king’s neglect even more than I realized. And maybe open carriages, which provide access even to small children, were a bad idea after all.
2
WE have only a single league left to travel, but it takes hours over these poor roads. I’m so eager to reach Khelia and ask the conde about the blight on his land that I would abandon the carriages and supply wagons to ride ahead if I could. Alas, my sister fears horses and would rather cut off an arm than ride any distance.
We have not gone far when a great crack sounds. I twist in my seat and watch horrified as Elisa’s carriage tips dangerously and one of its wheels tumbles down the mountainside. Guards grab the carriage and strain to keep it from toppling after. A trunk slips its ties and slides off the luggage shelf to bounce down the rocky slope, spilling garments as it goes. I breathe relief when Elisa and Ximena scramble out of the carriage to safety.
The guards work quickly to divest the carriage of its remaining cargo and divvy it up among the packhorses. Still, it’s too long before we’re ready to proceed, and I want to scream with frustration over the delay.
I scoot over on my bench to make room, and Elisa and Ximena climb into my own carriage, which Zito surrounds with a thicket of guards. Most are devout followers of the path of God, and I saw how quick they were to defend her from a potential mob, how quick to grab her carriage and get her to safety. If danger comes to us both, I wonder, would they be more ready to protect their chosen one than their crown princess?
Elisa settles across from me and leans back against the thin cushions. Strands of hair have escaped her braid; they curl around her face, which is damp from sweat. Her plump cheeks are blotched red as apples. Ximena tirelessly fans Elisa with a browned palm leaf. After a while, the dry rustling is like an itch on my brain. I despair of ever being free of the sound.
“Will we be there soon, do you think?” Elisa says wearily.
“I asked Papá to loan us his winged carriage, but it was at the coach wright’s for repairs,” I answer.
“There’s no need to be mean,” Elisa says. “I’m not complaining.” She closes her eyes, turning her sweating face to take the best advantage of Ximena’s fanning. “This blight on the countryside worries me,” she adds. “If we get there early enough, I can spend some time praying for the conde and his bride before we are whisked away for formal appearances. I’ve tried to in the carriage, but it’s just too hot. My Godstone . . .” She opens her eyes and regards me steadily. “You know how it warms when I pray.”
She seems to have an endless supply of subtle and creative ways to remind me that even though I will be queen someday, she is God’s chosen one. The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them: “Oh, I know better than to expect you to do anything once we arrive. Just hurry off to pray or rest. Let me handle the business of representing Papá.”
Elisa flinches. Nurse Ximena gives me a sharp look.
I turn my head, guilt pricking my chest. Fury is like a monster inside me, the one thing in my life I’ve been unable to master. I send up a quick prayer of apology. I know you don’t listen to me the way you listen to my sister. But I’m sorry just the same. And then, because I am me and not my sister, I add: Of course if you would help me see the strength in her, or nudge her to be a little more useful, then I wouldn’t have to be sorry.
Very likely this is why my prayers are seldom answered.
When the castle finally comes into view—much later in the day than I had hoped—I stare in astonishment. Lord Zito’s descriptions have not prepared me for the sight.
Khelia rises on a huge spur of granite that overlooks the confluence of two rivers: the Hinder, which pours from the jungle-choked mountains to the south, and the Crowborn, a rocky spine twisting down from the Sierra Sangre that flows wet only three seasons out of the year. The castle walls come together in a point—like the prow of a ship cresting the green waves of the jungle canopy. Three towers rise up in a line behind it, like the ship’s mast stumps.
Elisa is as wide-eyed as I am. “According to legend,” she says, “Khelia was built thousands of years ago by a rich admiral around the wreck of his warship when a great sea dried up.”
That’s my sister. Fond of useless knowledge. “Just stories,” I reply. “Repeated by simple people to explain the castle’s unique profile.”
“Perhaps. But the foundations are ancient, much older than the walls. Some say the Inviernos built it. Even the name of the castle is thought to come from an Invierno word.”
I shrug. “The importance of Khelia is that it watches over a crossroads. To the east lies Invierne—”
“And to the south,” Elisa interrupts, “in the jungle of the Hinders, the Perditos crouch like vultures, ready to strip anyone or anything to the bone. The walls of Khelia, and the soldiers stationed here, guard Orovalle from these threats. I am not stupid, Alodia.”
Whisk, whisk, whisk. Ximena waves the fan, giving no indication that she witnesses yet another argument. She has become adept over the years at turning a deaf ear to them.
As the carriage winds up the long road to the peak, the castle wall looms over us, seemingly impregnable. It is lucky this castle stands guard on Orovalle’s behalf. I intend to make sure it continues to do so.
Papá, you have been foolish to neglect Paxón for so long.