Page 46 of House of the Raven
“Your teachers failed you miserably,” Emerito sneers. “God will punish you for your indecency.”
Jago and I exchange a glance and nod. In perfect unison, we start singing. “In a tavern dark and smoky, where tales and spirits flow, there worked a one-eyed barmaid with two huge cheeksbelow—”
Emerito turns bright red. He looks sick and seems ready for an argument, but in the end, he presses his lips together and opts for looking out of the window, stroking his goat’s beard. He knows he can’t win against us.
I look around the compartment and find what I’m looking for, a food basket. They always pack one for long trips and customize it for the traveler, so I expect to find a slice or two of Tarta de Santiago. I’m smiling as I open the double lid, but my excitement evaporates when I notice what’s inside: a jar of olives, pickled sardines, hard-boiled eggs, gazpacho… all things I don’t like.
“Is there another basket?” I look around. Nothing.
I throw a nasty glare in Emerito’s direction and set the basket on the floor. He really set out to make this trip as miserable as possible.
“What? No food?” Jago takes a look inside the basket. “Lentil stew? Whoever ordered this must be constipated. Yuk!”
Emerito sneers, his expression suggesting he truly is constipated.
The last time we took a trip like this one, Father was with us. We sang wholesome songs, told stories, and ate cheese, smoked ham, and bread. It was nothing like this.
Frustrated, I start climbing out the window and send Emerito into a nervous fit.
“What are you doing?” he demands, shrinking into his seat. “You’re going to get yourself killed. You’re nothing but a savage.”
I’m tempted to kick him and pretend it’s an accident, but I resist, and instead, make my way out, climbing dexterously and sitting on top of the carriage’s roof among the luggage. The driver isn’t too surprised. This particular man has seen me do this before. He only glances over hisshoulder and offers me a friendly nod. Jago joins me a couple of minutes later.
“Much better,” he says. “I would get ill if I sit next to that stuffy little man for too long.”
Guardia Bastien pulls his horse next to the carriage and looks up at us.
“Get her down from there!” Emerito demands from Guardia Bastien. “It’s so unseemly.”
The guard’s inscrutable dark eyes evaluate me and the roof around me. “Catch her if she falls?” he instructs Jago.
“Oh, she won’t fall. She’s like a monkey. She can out-climb anyone.”
Guardia Bastien huffs then slows down his horse to take his position behind the carriage. He seems to like this arrangement, probably because he can keep an eye on me. I’ve been riding on top of the carriage since I was little. Father never objected, and if Guardia Bastien had, he would have gotten a piece of my mind.
I’ve been on this road before and know that our trip requires a few stops along the way. The first one is in a town called La Torre. It’s a charming place with cobblestones worn smooth by years of history. Its whitewashed buildings are cozy and adorned with faded wooden shutters and terracotta tiles. Beyond its borders, golden fields of wheat surround it, as well as olive trees and vineyards that stretch for leagues.
There is only one small inn, and its owner must already be expecting us. I’m sure Emerito took care of sending a messenger ahead to prepare all of our hosts along the way. He wouldn’t travel in anything but comfort.
At midday, I complain about being hungry, but Guardia Bastien refuses to stop in any of the villages along the path. So in the end, Jago and I have to content ourselves with Emerito’s poor food choices.
We finally arrive in La Torre as the sun disappears on the horizon. The inn is a lovely little place, and as soon as I climb down from the carriage, my eyes are roving around, marking all the doors and windows, but mostimportantly, the stables where they will keep our horses. Cuervo flies overhead, surely in search of a tree where to rest.
Jago and I discussed our plan in hushed tones when Guardia Bastien wasn’t drilling holes in the back of our heads. Cuervo perched on the edge of the moving carriage, paying close attention. The plan is simple and involves a diversion that will give Jago time to retrieve the horses while everyone is distracted.
For now, a nice meal followed by a warm bath sounds delightful.
Stepping toward the inn, my eyes immediately catch the sight of a prominent black bow above the doorframe. Pausing, I cast a glance along the row of doors lining the street, each adorned with the same somber bows. The sight sends a lance of sadness straight through my heart. Castella is in mourning for the loss of their king, and this is their way of showing it. Meanwhile, I, as the king’s daughter, must press on without the luxury of grieving openly, concealing the pain that gnaws at me.
Shaking myself, I step inside. The first level consists of a tavern and an eatery. The owners are a married couple in their early fifties, whom I remember from a trip some years back. He is jolly, with a wide girth and graying hair. His wife is a still-beautiful woman, curvaceous and strong-boned from much hard work. Her hair is jet black, with only a few gray hairs in sight. They are friendly, much more so than my travel companions. It makes me want to stay here.
They treat us with deference, but not as much as usual, for which I’m grateful. Guardia Bastien advised me not to reveal my identity since it’s being kept secret forsecurity purposes. Whatever that means. No one has ever cared about Princess Valeria. Still, I appreciate the anonymity and the fact that no one seems to remember me. I’m older now, and Amira always gets all the attention. Luckily, I remembered to pack the ground walnut hulls to disguise the white streak in my hair.
The eatery is as cozy as I remember it. The same rough-hewn tables and chairs fill the space, though I don’t remember the beautiful flamencodancer mantillas hanging from the walls. They’re absolute works of art. The most beautiful of the shawls, which the female dancers drape over their shoulders and arms, is made of black silk with an intricate embroidered design of vibrant roses as a focal point.
I sit down with Jago at a table for two. Emerito eats alone and so does Guardia Bastien, who sits in a far corner, never taking his eyes off me.
At first, I’m able to ignore him, but as I dip small pieces of bread in the gravy of my beef stew, I start growing nervous. There’s something dark about Guardia Bastien. I can’t exactly put my finger on it, but as I try to pretend he’s not there, I find the hairs on the back of my arms standing on end.
