The horses pulling Elisa’s carriage swish their tails and toss their heads nervously, which makes it difficult for me to discern if she’s all right. I crane my neck, rising up from my seat.

Our eyes meet. She gazes at me sullenly, as if daring me to scold. Slowly, deliberately, I turn away from her and settle back onto my bench.

She’s wrong—I don’t want to scold her. Now that I know she’s unharmed, I want to smack her. Of all the stupid things to do.

Papá insisted she come along, that a wedding celebration would get her away from the musty books and rotting manuscripts she loves so much, give her a chance to see more of the kingdom. “She is your heir, after all,” he said. “Until you produce one of your own. She could use the experience of a diplomatic journey.”

But Elisa has shown as much interest in ruling as the team of horses pulling her carriage, and Papá is at a loss about what to do with her. No matter that she is God’s chosen, the first in a hundred years to bear his sacred stone. God nested it in her belly, like a berry shoved into a soft muffin, as a sign that she will one day perform an act of heroic service.

It’s laughable. And a little bit sad. People like the ones we’ve seen on this journey, who have been harried by poor harvests and enemy skirmishes, could use a hero. The servants mutter that maybe God picked the wrong sister.

These thoughts swim in my head as our procession continues, eating away at my heart and mind like deadly poison. I must get them under control. This state visit is the important thing, and I have to be at my best.

I search my entourage for Lord Zito, the man who taught me much of what I know about the conde and this region, for he has not returned to my side after leaving it to aid my sister. His horse is easily recognizable by the spear jutting from a guidon cup attached to his saddle, and I spy it off to the side in a plowed field. I watch, puzzled, as Zito dismounts and crouches in a furrow. He grabs a handful of soft dirt, crumbles it between his fingers, sniffs it, tastes it.

“Stop,” I tell my driver. The command echoes up and down the line. The stamp of boots ceases, and the wheels of the carriage creak to stillness.

“Lord Zito,” I call out. “Does mountain dirt taste better than dirt in the capital?”

But Zito does not smile. “What do you see here, Your Highness? Look around you.”