The Shadow Cats (2 page)

2

W
E 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.

Trumpets rend the sky with the first measures of the “Entrada Triunfal.” The carriage passes through a massive wooden gate into a tiled courtyard surrounded by high adobe walls. I brace myself for the inevitable thunder of cheering that always greets me on state visits.

But there is only silence.

The citizens of the castle fill the wide courtyard in neat little groups arranged by status and rank. Directly across from us, the conde and his bride-to-be stand with their stewards, servants, and extended families. Behind them are rows of craftsmen, draftsmen, farmers, and children—their faces scrubbed, wearing their finest clothes.

None of them seem happy to see us.

To our right stand two dozen knights wearing Paxón’s crest—a golden ship on an emerald green background. A hundred liveried soldiers stand behind them. To our left are a dozen armed guards wearing polished armor more in the style of Joya d’Arena, our neighbor beyond the Hinders. The small group of soldiers backing them is made up of battle-scarred veterans.

We are supposedly among allies. But I can’t help thinking that both the crown princess and the bearer of the Godstone are flanked and outnumbered.

“Elisa,” I say quietly, keeping my expression neutral. “I know you don’t feel well. You and Ximena should go to the chapel and pray. I’ll make excuses for you.”
Pray that I have misread this situation.

“Don’t be afraid, dear sister,” Elisa says, and for a moment I imagine that she knows exactly what I am thinking. But no, she remains as blind to subtle—and not so subtle—social cues as ever. “I won’t embarrass you. Let’s go meet them.”

She hops down from the carriage and walks straight into the lion’s mouth.

3

T
HE moment my feet touch ground, everyone in the courtyard kneels. Zito holds out his arm to escort me, and together we move toward the conde in what I hope is a stately and dignified manner. With his other hand, Zito uses his spear like a cane, and the
tap-tap
echoes throughout the courtyard.

When we reach the conde and his lady, Zito waves back the herald and announces us himself. “Her Royal Highness Juana-Alodia de Riqueza, Crown Princess of Orovalle and the Jewel of the Golden Valley. Her Royal Highness Lucero-Elisa de Riqueza.”

I offer my ring, and the conde kisses it, showing neither eagerness nor reluctance. “Rise,” I say. The conde stands, and everyone with him.

I try to ignore the sounds of armor shifting, the quiet rattle of swords.

“Your Highness,” Zito says. “I present Conde Paxón, Castellan of Khelia, Guardian of Crowborn Crossing, and a First Knight of the Crown.”

The conde is a man of middle age, with pain lines on his face that belie his trim, active-looking figure. A brace imprisons his right leg, the one mauled by a boar. Even so, he noticeably leans to his left, keeping his full weight off it.

“Welcome, Your Highness,” Paxon says. “We are honored that you have come all this way to share in our celebration.”

“The honor is ours,” I reply. He smiles in response, but never have I seen a man who seemed less likely to celebrate. The lady beside him keeps her eyes lowered, but her face is red and blotched. From crying? “And this is?”

“This is Lady Calla de Isodel,” he says. He indicates the older couple standing behind her and adds, “And these are her parents, Lord Jorán and Lady Aña de Isodel.”

Even at a distance, Lord Jorán’s oiled beard reeks of myrrh; he must be very wealthy indeed. His wife is expertly coifed and lightly rouged, though she lowers her eyes and slumps her shoulders, impressively achieving a meek mildness that blurs her beauty.

“I was intrigued by the name Isodel when I saw it on the invitation,” I say. It’s not a place I’d heard of before, which was odd, as I’ve memorized my kingdom’s geography down to every last hillock. Before setting off on our journey, I found it necessary to look up references to Isodel in the monastery archive. I’m curious how the people will represent themselves to the crown. “Do tell me about it,” I say.

My question is directed at the young bride, for I wish to take her measure. But her father steps in front of her and says, “Your Highness, you have not heard of it because Isodel is like a flipped coin, falling sometimes on one side and sometimes on the other, according to chance—”

“Lady Calla?” I interrupt, and I’m not sure which irritates me more: his assumption that I would travel here in ignorance, or his refusal to let his daughter speak.

Lady Calla glances at her father, shamefaced, then back to me. It’s the first clear look I have of her face. She is lovely enough to make other young women insane with envy, but unlike that of her cowed mother, hers is not a sheltered beauty. Her face is tan from the sun, and laugh lines spread from the corners of her eyes, though no trace of a smile touches her features now.

“Isodel is a small holding in the Hinders,” she says at last. “Near the merchant road, surrounded by terraced orchards and herds of sheep. As my father said, sometimes it falls on one side of the border, sometimes on the other. Joya d’Arena currently claims our land, but King Alejandro has not sent his tax collectors our way in many years. That would not be so bad, but he has not sent his soldiers either, and Perditos
threaten our trade.” She glances at her betrothed, and Conde Paxón gives her an encouraging nod. “Without a good marriage, it will not matter who claims Isodel—there will be nothing left.”

I’m delighted at her forthrightness and her concise appraisal. But her father glowers, and her mother coughs discreetly into her hand. I’m about to break the awkward silence with an inane observation about the weather when a door slams. An unkempt girl of about ten, sun darkened and wind burned, dashes across the courtyard toward us.

“Tía Calla, Tía Calla!” she cries. A young nursemaid pursues her, but when she sees me, she falls to her knees, muttering apologies.

Not so the girl, who runs to Calla’s side. Her knees are badly scuffed. Nettles cling to her hair and hems, and her slippers are caked with dried mud.

“Lupita!” Lady Calla says with a pointed look. “This is the royal princess Alodia. You must curtsy to her and say ‘Your Highness’ and wait until she bids you rise.”

I expect an ill-behaved protest, but the untidy girl shows extraordinary grace, curtsying swiftly and perfectly. “Your Highness,” she intones with grave seriousness, though mischief dances in her eyes.

“Rise, Lupita.”

She jumps up as swiftly as she knelt, and looks back and forth between Calla and Elisa. “Is she the one? Are you the one? Are you the bearer of the Godstone? Can I see it?”

There are a few nervous titterings, but Elisa addresses the child calmly. “A lady never shows such things in public.”

Lupita nods. “But have you come to save us?”

Elisa’s face freezes, and I squirm with embarrassment for her. The thought of my sister saving anyone is absurd, a fact of which she is too well aware.

I’m dying to ask what they need saving from, but Lord Zito steps forward and says, “Conde, the sun is setting. Perhaps it would be best to continue this conversation inside.”