A guard takes my spot beneath Zito’s other arm, and I follow behind, aided by Lupita. As we shuffle back to the castle in the least royal, most awkward procession of my life, I stare at my sister’s back. By not involving Khelia’s or Isodel’s soldiers, she has salvaged my plan.

Espiritu is dead. The blight on the land will fade soon enough. And no one will be able to deny that it was the crown princess and her people who made it happen.

Chapter 11

11

THE wedding is delayed for two weeks to give Zito and me some time to recover. Within days, the land begins to bloom again, like new growth forest after a cleansing fire. People call it a miracle.

I do not correct them. I haven’t decided what to do with my knowledge that the Perditos have allied with Invierne, that magic was used to sicken our land. I say only that Zito and I rescued each other from bandits, that we killed Espiritu and scattered the Perditos. I order my guards to spread the idea that maybe the Perditos were the ones causing God’s wrath, that the land heals itself because we chased them away.

When Conde Paxón presents Zito with a new spear—sturdier than his old one and carved with swirling jungle vines—I remember the animagus’ broken staff. I’m sure Father Donatzine at the Monastery-at-Amalur would love to study such a talisman. If nothing else, the jewel on the end of it might be of value. But my ankle is too fragile to retrieve it myself, and I’m not sure who to send in my place without raising questions I’m unwilling to answer. I decide to let it go. The jungle will claim it soon enough, with creepers and detritus and thick ferns. It will never be found.

In the days leading to the wedding, Conde Paxón and Lord Jorán share hunting escapades and late-night dessert wines like they’ve been friends for decades. Soldiers from Khelia and Isodel cheerfully practice together in the yard. Lord Jorán even pulls me aside one day and expresses a sincere hope that Isodel will once again come into the fold of Orovalle, that he is prepared to swear himself as my vassal.

Papá will be proud of everything I have accomplished here.

But Zito says nothing. He refuses to talk about what happened, even to me.

The day of the wedding dawns more beautiful than anyone anticipated. Lady Calla is a lovely bride, and Conde Paxón an endearingly nervous mess. After the ceremony, Zito and I are seated on a dais apart from the others, because of our injuries and my station. He wears a red cloth over his eyes, tied at the back of his head. He leans into his new spear, his ear turned to the sounds of celebration.

“Describe everything to me,” he says.