weapon in the world. His name and his deeds will be remembered for centuries, long after yours have been forgotten.”
“Weapon?” Faleiro sat up. “What weapon?”
Stop, stop, stop! Qhora smiled coldly at the man’s plain-faced eagerness. “Good day, commander.” She stood and left, still smiling to herself.
She spent the rest of the afternoon walking the grounds. With her shoulders aching under the weight of her coats and her breath steaming like a locomotive’s funnel, she trudged up and down the frozen muddy lanes around the old Diaz estate where Lorenzo had established his school. She passed through the dead remains of the apple orchard where the trees slumbered in anticipation of their two months of summer sun, and she crunched along the edge of the pond where the young boys liked to chop holes in the ice to fish with thread and wire. For months, she had stubbornly clung to this ritual of pacing around the yards, insisting to anyone who asked that with enough time she would grow accustomed to the Espani climate to the point at which she might wear as few as one coat. But she was still wearing two, in addition to her shawls and knit pullovers.
More often than not, she skewed her schedule later in the afternoon when the sun was already low and bleak shadows stretched across the snowy hills. Enzo had told her that the walking dead might be glimpsed only in the deepest cold and only in the dimmest light. But she also knew that the spirit had to choose to visit, and so far none had chosen to visit her. Not even Sister Ariel. She had no great desire to meet a ghost, but it was the one truly intriguing aspect to this foreign land. And yet that too seemed to be denied to her.
The sky was black as jet when she returned to the house by way of the stables. Beneath the brilliant winter stars she glanced over the horses and then entered the pen in the rear through the heavy leather curtain. Inside she found Atoq sleeping on a thick bed of hay, twisted and rolled mostly onto his back with his great furry belly exposed. He was all soft browns and warm blacks flecked with the odd patch of white, his hide wrapped tightly over layers of heavy muscle, most of it concentrated on his huge shoulders and neck. The enormous fanged cat had curled up against the wall opposite the stabler’s stove for warmth and the glistening red stain on the floor told her that Atoq had been fed within the last hour. Whatever regret she had about confining the hunting beast faded when she saw him sleeping contentedly on his bed. After all, his life back in the Empire would have been no more or less comfortable.
But across from the cat stood her feathered mount, the hatun-anka Wayra. The massive bird hovered by the narrow window, gazing out over the hills, her talons clicking softly on the stone floor, tiny chirps and hisses escaping through her hatchet-like beak. Her head and neck rustled with blue-green plumes, but her eyes were ringed in bright red feathers, and in the darkness she appeared as a bloody-eyed demon. She held her short wings tight against her sides and stood in a wide-legged stance, tensed as though ready to sprint through the jungles as she once had. Wayra turned and blinked at her mistress, then shuffled around and dipped her plumed head to receive Qhora’s gentle caresses.
Atoq may have been content to lie on the floor and bask in the glow of a full belly and a warm bed, but Wayra needed more than food and water. She needed to run. Time and again, Qhora had tried to find roads or trails where they might ride alone, far from the people of Madrid. But there was always someone on the road who would see them and run away screaming, to be followed by a visit from the local constabulary who required endless promises from Enzo that the bird would be kept under lock and key. And they couldn’t travel cross-country, at least not in the snow. Wayra had learned to run on the rocky mountain slopes and dense jungle floors, but the slippery ice and unreliable snow mounds made her uncertain, which made her angry, which made her dangerous.
“Shhh, my love.” Qhora stroked the beast’s head between the eyes. “Soon it will be summer again and we’ll go running over the hills and through the forests. I promise.”
By the time she returned to the house, supper was nearly over. Not that the evening meal was a formal affair, indeed she preferred to avoid too much familiarity with Enzo’s students. They may have been only a few years younger than she was, but they acted like children. They were in turns boastful and shy, awkward and smarmy, anxious and proud, and generally thoughtless, though Enzo insisted these youths were no different from any others in Espana. Qhora allowed him his fantasy.
As the diestros-in-training filtered out of the dining room, she sat beside her husband and smiled at him as he wiped the last of the sauce from his plate with a crust of black bread. He raised an eyebrow. “If you stare long enough I might start to think that you like me.”
“Can’t I admire the finest swordsman in the country? I have to do it now, before the novelty wears off and I have to find someone else to admire.”
He winked at her. “How are your walks coming along?”
“Still cold.” She frowned at the crumbs and stains on the old table. “And lonely.”
“Mm.” He patted her leg. “Well, I wouldn’t worry. Most Espani don’t spend their time standing around in empty fields hoping to make conversation with passing strangers, so there’s really no need for you to put in so much practice at it.”
“Thank God for that.” It still felt strange to say. God. One god with three faces. Father, Mother, and Son. The triquetra medallion around her neck, however, was far less uncomfortable than the words. After all, it was only a piece of jewelry. That was the price of marriage in this country, and she had paid it willingly, if not happily.
Lorenzo pushed back from the table and stood up with his plate in his hand and a frown wrinkling his forehead. “Have you seen the commander? Faleiro? The Medici boy scampered down for a quick bite before running back to his room to sulk, but I haven’t seen Faleiro since the match this afternoon. He must have fallen asleep. I guess I should go see if he wants anything to eat.”
Qhora felt a small knot in her belly. Her little victory over the naval officer suddenly felt hollow and foolish. It was difficult to remember that politics and honor and gossip were more powerful in Espana than actual strength or reputation, and that the wrong word to the wrong person might hurt her Enzo’s future. Still, I was more honest than boastful and I didn’t stab him at all. Surely an important man like Faleiro wouldn’t bother with a tiny fencing school over a few angry words.
She was just about to go to the kitchen and put together a plate of something less greasy than the men’s fare, perhaps yesterday’s soup of red peppers, eggplant, onions, and peas, and a handful of almonds if she could find them. But Enzo strode back through the room and cast her a worried glance. “He’s not in his room. And his things are gone, if he ever put them there. I think he’s left.” And the hidalgo swept down the hall toward his study.
For a moment she debated whether she wanted food in her hands when she explained to her husband what she had said to the fat man from the navy, and she finally decided against it. Better to enjoy her meal later, in peace. When she stepped into the doorway of his study, she found him frozen in place standing over his desk, his hands hovering over his papers. He looked at her, his eyes tense. “It’s gone. My journal with all my notes, everything Ariel told me, it’s gone. The maps. The drawings. Everything was in that journal. It was right here.” He patted the corner of the desk.
“You think Faleiro took it?” she asked innocently.
“You talked to him, didn’t you?” He narrowed his gaze at her. “You told him about the stone.”
“What do you mean?” She swallowed, wondering whether it was helpful to play the naive housewife for a few moments while he calmed down or whether she should just tell him and get this little scene over and done with.
“Or was it someone else, sometime earlier?” He rubbed his eyes. “In Tartessos last month, wasn’t it? You told one of your new friends about the stone. Of course you did.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back for a moment. “I told you, I asked you, to keep this private. I told you there were people who might try to get to the stone first. Treasure hunters, thieves. And you told some officer’s wife, and she told her husband, and he told his commander. And that’s why Rui Faleiro was here today.” He turned to stare out the window.
“He didn’t come for the skyfire stone, Enzo,” Qhora said, mildly annoyed at the strange tangent of her husband’s logic. “He came to recruit you to train his sailors to fence. He told me so right after your little match with the Italian brat.”
Lorenzo turned. “What? Why didn’t he say anything to me?”
“He came to me first to feel you out. He asked me what you might say.”
“I hope you told him I’d say no.”
“That’s exactly what I told him.” Qhora’s stern look melted a bit and she felt her resolve to win this pseudo- argument fading quickly. “And then he insulted you a little, so I insulted him a little.”
