She brushed the mare’s nose with an affectionate smile, and just like that she was gone, hurrying to the front of the queue. Heads turned as she passed. She had not bothered to tuck her braid back into the cap, and she was quite clearly a pretty girl in men’s clothing. A guard stepped forward at the gates. He was too far away for Cas to see his expression, but there was no mistaking how he stopped midstep, as if surprised, and the deep bow that followed. The guard bent his head, listening as Lena spoke. In no time at all, two horses were produced. Lena and the guard mounted them and rode through the gates, leaving Cas to wonder just who he had escorted to his city.
Two baby ibex poked their heads from the wagon’s slats, bobbing their noses at Cas, who smiled. He led the horse forward, listening as the fees were called out:
One civet for a man on foot!
One lynx for a horseman!
Half a lynx for a packhorse!
Two stoats for a cart!
The tolls had gone up. No surprises there. They never went down. The line moved briskly and before long it was his turn.
“One lynx,” the toll keeper informed him, a small man wearing the king’s blue. His wispy mustache drooped and his voice carried the high, nasal twang of the southern border towns.
Cas eyed the blue tunic. “Where are the city guards?”
“Nowhere you need to know.” The toll keeper thrust out an open palm. “One lynx. Pay the toll or piss off.”
“Ass.”
It was not Cas who had voiced the insult. Mere feet away, a soldier leaned against the outer wall, ankles crossed, head bent as he inspected his fingernails.
A soldier in red.
Cas’ relieved grin fell away as quickly as it had come. The soldier’s name was Thiago. He had guarded the walls of Palmerin as long as Cas had known him. Cas could see every inch of stone behind him, stone that would have been invisible behind any normal living thing. Just as Thiago lifted his head, Cas turned away.
Cas fumbled with his pouch and tossed a silver lynx at the irritated toll keeper. Hurrying through the gates, he did not turn back once. Not even when he heard Thiago call his name. “Lord Cassia? Is that you? But how . . . Lord Cassia!”
Cas headed home. Up the warren of streets, some so narrow he could spread his arms and touch the walls with his fingertips. Pomegranate flowers bloomed everywhere, deep orange, hanging from baskets and bursting from clay pots. They would bloom until frost and again in the spring. He found himself stopping several times just to look about in wonder. Overwhelmed by all familiar things.
Others brushed by and hurried in the direction of the main square, where the sounds of cheering could be heard. Curious, he followed, leading the mare behind him. The closer he came to the square, the louder the cheering grew, and when he stepped into the plaza, packed tight with onlookers, he saw why.
An old stone church rose to his left. A procession made its way out the doors. The guards first, dressed in polished chain mail and royal blue. Following were the lords and ladies of Oliveras. Lady Rondilla, High Councilor Amador, Lady Sol. Faces he knew. Cas searched them in vain. There was no sign of Ventillas. His brother was not among them.
Directly after the nobles came a woman holding an infant. She wore the plain white robes and matching wimple of a nurse. The baby was dressed far more elaborately in a gown made of cream-colored lace that trailed inches above the ground.
Was this a baptism? Who was the child? As far as he knew, the last baptism to draw such a spectacle here had been his own, eighteen years ago. Peering over hats and heads, Cas turned back to the open doors of the church and found his answer.
Two figures stepped over the threshold. A man and a woman. Cas would recognize King Rayan anywhere, dressed in formal robes the deepest shade of blue. He was the same age as Ventillas, ten years older than Cas, broad and muscular with brown hair and a trim, pointed beard. His skin, bronze in the summer, less so in the winter, had been passed down from his late mother, born and raised on the eastern archipelago. Beside the king was his queen, whom Cas had never met. At this distance, only her cream-colored robes and furred white hood were visible. Cas did not know her face. But even he, so far away at the time, knew her story.
A year ago, Princess Jehan of Brisa had sailed to Oliveras to marry her father’s enemy, young King Rayan. A sizable entourage had accompanied her. Soldiers to guard her. Musicians to amuse her. Diplomats to offer wise counsel. Months of preparation had preceded the journey, and all had gone according to plan.
Until plague struck.
When Princess Jehan arrived in the capital city of Elvira, it was in the dead of night with no ceremony. Frightened, bedraggled, accompanied by a handful of people, no more. Everyone else had died or fled along the way. The marriage had taken place immediately. More important, a treaty had been signed, ending a half century of war between the two kingdoms. Cas had heard nothing of what came after. Had not heard about the birth of this prince or princess. That was who the child must be. And now the royal family was here, in Palmerin. Why?
At the sight of the queen, Cas felt a change come over the spectators. Still cheering, but beneath it a watchfulness. Curiosity mixed with resentment.
“So that’s her,” a man beside Cas muttered. “Jehan, the foreign witch.”
Cas stiffened. He had no love for her either, or anyone else who came from that hellish kingdom beyond the mountains. If the whole of Brisa were to fall into the sea, or burn to its roots, he would not shed a single tear. But King Rayan was a different matter. Cas would not see his bride insulted, no matter who she was. He turned a frown on the man who had spoken. He was tall but spindly, the whites of his eyes a peculiar shade of yellow. The woman with him might have been a sister.
Cas said quietly, “I would watch my words among strangers.”
“Or else what?” The man sneered at Cas, then peered closer, brows knit in confusion. “Do I know you?”
“Do you want to?”
“Be quiet, you fool!” The woman grabbed his arm, hissing, “He looks like he could snap you in two. Come on!” The man grumbled as he was pulled away, disappearing into the mass.
The procession headed toward an ornamental lake. Cas led the mare to the water’s edge. From this vantage point, he would have a better view as the procession crossed the bridge. Next to him was a man dressed in black, his stiff white collar crushed by the little girl who sat on his shoulders, gripping his hair with two fists.
“What is happening?” Cas asked him. “Is this a baptism?”
The stranger eyed Cas incredulously. He was a stout, clean-shaven fellow, five or so years older than Cas. The picture of a sober government official if not for the small child causing havoc with his hair. “What do you mean? Have you been living in the hills?”
“Farther.” Cas craned his neck for a better view.
The man looked from Cas to his horse and back. Shaking his head, he explained, “That’s the little prince.”
Cas took his eyes off the bridge. “A boy?”
“Three months old.” The stranger’s smile turned to a wince. “Let go of Papa’s hair now. Too tight,” he said to the girl before informing Cas, “Today’s his naming day.”
A naming ceremony, not a baptism. Cas did not understand. Why was the ceremony being held here in Palmerin and not in the capital? He asked.
“Where else would they have it? The king and queen live here. They have for a year, since the wedding.”