The Shadow Cats (fire and thorns ) Read online

  3

  THE 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.”

  4

  ZITO, Elisa, Ximena, and I follow the conde and his mayordomo to the audience hall, which is dimly lit by grimy clerestory windows. The dry air smells faintly of incense. Dusty tables are scattered haphazardly throughout, covered with cold candles in various states of melt. It feels like a place that suffers human company rarely—a good place for secrets, perhaps.

  Zito leans over and whispers, “You shamed Lady Calla’s father.”

  “He shamed himself,” I whisper back. “But I don’t care about him. Unless he is the reason everyone seems so anxious? Or is it the blight on the land that has the castle on edge?”

  “Maybe His Grace will tell us.”

  “His Grace will tell you what?” We turn at the sound of the conde’s voice. He has edged closer to us, using his cane for support.

  Zito says, “I observed that your father-in-law seems tense and unhappy, and Her Highness asked me why this might be.”

  “It’s a complicated situation,” Paxón says.

  The mayordomo leads us all to a mahogany table with matching chairs that creak their age as we sit.

  Paxón asks the mayordomo to fetch refreshments. He stretches out his bad leg, then takes a deep breath and says, “This wedding was intended as a bold stroke, princess, a way of strengthening my countship’s border. With the Perditos to the south and the Inviernos to the east both growing audacious, I hoped to acquire a strong ally in the Hinders. I had also hoped . . .” His face turns sheepish. “That such a bold move would gain the attention and interest of your father. I want him to understand that we continue to take our duty of guarding Orovalle’s border quite seriously.”

  A surge of triumph fills me, but I tamp it down. Such a gesture will require something in return from the crown, something to assure Paxón that he remains a valued vassal. One thing is certain: I will see this wedding done. It fits so neatly into my plans to shore up the region in preparation for my own reign.

  The conde has fallen silent and thoughtful. “But?” I prompt.

  “But . . . ever since Lady Calla and her family have arrived here, so that we might get to know one another before we wed, we have been cursed. We have lost God’s favor.”

  I try not to gape at him. “Strong words. The Scriptura Sancta says, ‘It is not for man to know the intent of God.’” I glance over at Elisa to see if she notices my thinly veiled message, but if she does, she hides it well.

  “And yet the signs are there,” the conde says. “We’ve plowed our fields and planted our seeds, but nothing sprouts. The trees refuse to blossom.”

  Elisa leans forwar
d. “Many things affect the arrival of God’s bounty,” she says. “Rain, cold, and so on.”

  Paxón shakes his head. “We have been touched by neither late frost nor early drought. Indeed, the weather this year has been just short of perfect. But nothing grows. Almost everything that sustains this castle comes from within a league of its walls, but everything within a league is dead, save for the wild, uncultivated jungle that abuts our southern wall.”

  “It does seem unnatural,” I concede.

  Paxón winces at the word, but he does not deny it. “Lord Jorán has expressed doubts about going through with the wedding. He fears God’s wrath. Thus far Isodel remains untouched, but if it is some kind of blight, it is bound to spread. Besides that, all these extra guests have depleted our stores, which we expected to replenish with early crops. Fights have broken out between Lord Jorán’s soldiers and my own. And then . . .” He pauses, runs a hand through his hair.

  I exchange a worried look with Zito. “And then?” I say.

  “There is Espiritu,” he says.

  “Espiritu?” Elisa asks. “What is that?”

  “He appeared about a month ago,” Paxón says. “They call him Espiritu for the way he slips into sheep pens and chicken coops and melts away with his prey. He makes no sound, leaves no mark save for an occasional drop of blood or a scattering of feathers. But they hear him in the night, screaming at the moon in rage and heartbreak. Our soldiers have searched the hills for him, but they find only empty cottages, marked with signs of blood and violence.”

  “A jaguar, maybe?” Elisa says. “Man-eaters are rare, but not unknown. There was a pair that worked together, terrorizing the northern holdings for several years before they were hunted down and killed.”

  “How do you know about the shadow cats, Your Highness?” says Paxón, and I don’t appreciate the mockery in his tone. “Have you hunted them yourself?”

  “I . . . I’ve read about them. I read a lot.”

  “Then let me tell you some things that you will not find in books. Our seamstress was working just the other night, sewing a flounce onto Lady Calla’s wedding terno by candlelight. Espiritu screamed, sending shivers through her heart. When she awoke in the morning, she discovered the flounce’s seam had gone crooked, the stitches slipped, as if even the terno could not bear Espiritu’s jagged grief.”

  “Well, perhaps she should not sew by candlelight,” Elisa says. But my skin prickles.

  Paxón continues, undeterred. “And two nights ago, when the ostler was oiling the tack for my mount, the one I’ll ride in the wedding procession, the great cat screamed again and panicked the horses. It took half the night to soothe them. In the morning, the ostler discovered that rats had fouled the last of the oats and the barrel of apples had gone to rot.”

  “How can the cry of a great cat do that?” Elisa says. “It is more likely caused by the same thing that poisoned your fields.”

  I wince. Elisa possesses all the subtlety of a cudgel. “My dear sister,” I say. “Let us respect their wisdom in these matters. Perhaps Espiritu is the instrument of God’s judgment.”

  Ximena lays a hand on Elisa’s arm, but my sister ignores her. “But what is being done here that God would wish to cast judgment on?” she says.

  “The wedding, maybe?” says the conde. “Though why—”

  The door cracks open, and Lady Calla and Lupita enter, followed by the little girl’s nurse, who is anxiously wringing her hands.

  “Please join us, Lady Calla,” I say, indicating an empty chair.

  Calla pushes the little girl ahead of her. She has donned a clean dress, and most of the wildness has been brushed from her hair, though she still wears the mud-covered slippers. I smile to think of the many times Zito or my attendants tried to clean me up in a hurry, only to discover later that they had missed a bit of bramble or a pair of slippers.

  “We are sorry for interrupting you,” Calla says. “Guadalupe-Esteva, go on now. Apologize to the princess.”

  I fold my hands in front of me, bemused. Maybe I will ask her to serve as my personal page while I am here.

  She walks over to Elisa and drops into a curtsy.

  “I’m very sorry that I asked you personal questions, Your Highness,” Lupita says. “It was . . .” She looks up at Lady Calla and gets a nod of encouragement. “It was disrespectful and inappropriate,” she finishes.

  “You are forgiven,” Elisa tells her graciously, with no reprimand and no instruction.

  Just like that. My jaw clenches. It is well and good to be so indulgent, to never demand recriminations or consequences, when one does not have to consider the responsibilities of ruling.

  “Are you excited about the wedding?” Elisa asks the little girl.

  “I was supposed to be a flower girl, but there are no flowers.”

  “We’ll find some dried flowers for you to carry,” Calla says, resting her hand on the girl’s head.

  “They aren’t the same,” Lupita says.

  “No, they aren’t,” Elisa says, pulling something from the little girl’s hair. “Where did this nettle come from?”

  “By the creek,” Lupita says.

  “And I bet there were red flowers on those stems,” Elisa says. “Scarlet hedge nettle is so tough that nothing can stop it from blooming. I saw huge clumps of it on our way here.”

  “It’s just a weed,” Lupita says.

  “It’s a beautiful weed,” Elisa answers. “And the perfect flower for you to carry, for it is like the people of Khelia, strong and unstoppable, capable of blooming and thriving where nothing else can grow.”

  I study my sister thoughtfully. I didn’t even notice the flowers she speaks of.

  “You may gather some tomorrow,” Calla says. “Now it is time for bed.”

  She gestures for the nurse to lead Lupita away. The girl practically bounces out the door, listing all the places she has seen scarlet hedge nettle.

  “Thank you for your kindness to my niece,” Calla says, addressing both of us. “Her mother, my sister, died several years ago. Lupita has become very special to me.”

  “To both of us,” Paxón says softly. The look they exchange is one of understanding and affection. Rulers rarely get to marry those they care for. There is certainly no love match in my future, and I am a bit envious of them. It leaves me feeling even more determined to see this wedding through.

  The mayordomo returns with a tray of savory pastries: small puffs filled with diced mushrooms, cheese and chive scones, and tiny quiches with red pepper. Elisa downs a handful of the mushroom puffs before I’ve made my first selection, and I glance around, a bit embarrassed, but no one else seemed to notice.

  We speak of small, safe topics for a while, such as last winter’s unusually low snowline, the growing price of lumber, and whether or not Ventierra wine is the finest in the world. I’m glad for the opportunity to ignore the tension around us and be merely pleasant together. As a child, I found such exchanges tedious and awful, but lately I’ve come to appreciate the power of a seemingly senseless conversation to establish trust and heal relationships. I’m about to ask how Paxón and Calla first met when Elisa rises from her chair.

  “I’d like to spend some time praying tonight,” she says. “If you’ll all excuse me . . .” Everyone stands when she does, and I’m torn between frustration at her gracelessness and relief that she will soon be gone, leaving me to finesse everything without her interference.

  I’m leaning forward to give her a formal kiss on the cheek when the cat screams.

  It’s high-pitched and wild, like breaking glass and deepest anguish. My whole body turns to gooseflesh, and my heart kicks at my ribs like a panicked horse trying to break from its stall. I’m not the only one so affected. We all stand frozen for the span of several heartbeats.

  Paxón is the first to collect himself, and his face is pale as a ghost’s as he says, “It came from the eastern garden. Inside the—”

  A woman screams.

  5r />
  THE conde rushes us through the halls. We are joined in our dash by household staff and watch soldiers. Paxón shouts at everyone to move aside and let us pass.

  The walled garden is perfectly square and small, not much larger than my private suite at home. In the center looms an enormous tree whose canopy shades the entire garden. It’s the kind of place where I would have played as a little girl, especially during the hottest days of summer, when Zito forbade me to absorb too much sunshine lest it darken my skin.

  Tucked against the wall is a stone sculpture of a crouching jaguar. The flickering torchlight casts random shadows, making it seem as if the tail moves, as if the cat is ready to pounce. The sight sends another chill up my spine, even before I realize that the wet blotches on the head and paws are blood.

  Lupita’s nurse is on her knees bawling, begging someone, anyone to help. She grasps a tiny muddy slipper in her left hand.

  Calla looses a sob, and Paxón wraps her in his arms. A servant gestures wildly, explaining that he saw the shadow cat escaping as he rushed into the courtyard. A black-pelted demon, he says, that skimmed the wall with ghostly grace. Whispers of “Espiritu!” swirl around us.

  “This makes no sense,” Elisa mutters. She stares at the blood, eyes glazed. “This is not how jaguars act.” My sister has never seen so much blood, so much violence. It must be even more of a shock to her than the rest of us. Before I realize what I’m doing, I lift an arm to drape around her shoulders. But she stiffens, and I let the arm drop.

  The men are organized by their captains and prepare to search in the dark. Several of our own guards look to Zito, asking permission to join up, and he grants it. Paxón shouts that there will be a reward for anyone who returns Lupita to her aunt.

  Lord Zito grasps my shoulder. “Are you all right, Highnesses?” he asks, looking into each of our faces.

  “Nothing here is right,” I say, shaking my head. The pool of blood at the foot of the sculpture is smeared by footprints, the wall above it streaked with crimson. “So much blood,” I murmur.