Page 68 of Echoes of the Raven
We’ll be on one of those roads along with the Romani troop, which the guardias will spot without a problem. I’m counting on them searching the wagons. I’m also counting on Gaspar’s protective espiritu to hide us from their prying eyes. His skill kept me safe before, and it’d better do it again.
Our advantage lies in cutting across the hills behind the palace. It’s a steep route, and my thighs burn as I push up the rocky terrain. My heart beats fast, and my lungs pump at an accelerated pace. I’m fit, but Rífíor makes me look like Nana walking up a short flight of steps.His thighs are twice as thick as mine, all lithe muscle with a dusting of dark hair. What in all the hells? I shake my head to erase the uninvited image.
Not soon enough for my taste, we crest the hill and start our descent on the other side. I breathe a sigh of relief as do my legs. Going down, it gets easier to navigate the slope and keep up with Rífíor.
The westbound road out of Castellina meanders across the city, avoiding the hills to create a smooth passage for carriages and the like. In doing so, it adds several miles to the journey, miles that we have shortened by tracking over the rocky terrain. It will take any guardias headed that way at least twenty more minutes to catch up to the Romani troop, which got a head start and now waits for us.
When we reach the bottom of the hill, it takes no time to spot the silhouette of Gaspar’s wagon sitting under the shadows of a heavy tree. A dark shape pulls away from the trunk at our approach. Rífíor, who has been holding the sword he took from the library in his hand, lifts the weapon.
“No need,” I say. “They are here for us.”
As the dark shadow approaches, it resolves into my cousin. “Thank the Saints you’re here!” he exclaims. “The wait was driving me out of my mind.” He envelops me in a tight hug. When he pulls away, his honey-colored eyes flick to Rífíor. They’re full of contempt as well as a warning. Jago hates him as much as I do for what he did to me.
“You better behave yourself, fae, or I swear I’ll kill you and bury you under Castellan soil that I’ll then turn into a latrine for every human to shit in.”
Rífíor seems more amused than anything else. Clearly, he doesn’t think my cousin would stand a chance against him, but he shouldn’t take him for granted. Jago trained at the Academia de Guardias, raised by my father for a military career and the post of Capitán de la Guardia Real—whether or not Jago wanted it.
Jago returnshis attention to me. “The rest of the troop has moved ahead… at a slow pace, so we’ll catch up to them quickly. Um…” He scratches his head. “I feel like there’s something else I’m supposed to tell you but…”
I wait.
He shakes his head. “I forgot. It mustn’t be important. At any rate, let’s get going.” He walks up to the wagon and opens the back door, which groans on its wooden hinges. El Gran Místico’s painted sign sits above the door.
A gas lamp much like the one we left behind illuminates the interior, which seems a lot smaller than I remember.
Odd.I frown.
Climbing after me is a disgruntled-looking Rífíor. It’s clear he doesn’t like to turn his back on anyone, much less a man who just threatened him with an eternity of shit upon his grave.
Jago climbs in last and closes the door, latching it securely. He knocks twice on the ceiling, and the wagon starts moving. Sitting next to me on a narrow side bench, he ends up directly in front of Rífíor. They stare at each other, and the tension inside the small space quickly mounts to a deadly level, making me wonder if we’re going to make it to Tirnanog’s border in one piece.
We sit quietly for a long time. I stare at the wood planks at my feet, praying. I wish it were possible to ride on separate horses, but we need to remain hidden. Either one of us would be recognized by the guardias when they inevitably stumble upon us.
A sudden sound of wood sliding against wood startles me. I jump back, while Jago and Rífíor attempt, but fail to draw their long swords inside the cramped space. Through instincts alone, my dagger finds its way into my hand, and I hold it up, ready to attack.
A wood panel in front of the wagon finishes sliding to one side, and none other than Gaspar climbs out of a makeshift compartment.
“Ta-da.” He strikes a pose worthy of El Gran Místico.
“What in the name of all the gods?!” I blink repeatedly, watching him stretch, though not to a full height—the wagon isn’t tall enough for that.
Jago snaps his fingers. “That’s what I was supposed to tell you, that Gaspar modified the wagon and made a hidey-hole.”
I blink some more as if that will clear my hazy thoughts, but it accomplishes nothing.
Rífíor looks at Jago and me as if we’re a couple of idiots with the sense of two nails. He looks Gaspar over, nostrils flaring. “I recognize your stink.”
“Much obliged.” Gaspar smirks.
“You were in the catacombs.”
“The princess needed my help.”
Slowly, as I try very hard to wrangle my scattered thoughts, I begin to rememberweasked Gaspar to create a hiding place in his wagon. But it seems we forgot. Why? The answer strikes me… Gaspar’s espiritu! I never quite understood how it works, but it seems it addles your mind and makes you forget and not notice whatever it is he wants you to overlook.
In Alsur, the day I was running from Don Justo’s villa, I stumbled upon El Gran Místico’s wagon and climbed inside without an invitation. While I was there, Bastien searched for me right outside the door and never thought to look inside.
“Surprise,” Gaspar says with a wink. “It’ll be tight in there, especially for this one,” he eyes Rífíor sideways, “but it’ll do.”
