The conde is a man of middle age, with pain lines on his face that belie his trim, active-looking figure. A brace imprisons his right leg, the one mauled by a boar. Even so, he noticeably leans to his left, keeping his full weight off it.

“Welcome, Your Highness,” Paxon says. “We are honored that you have come all this way to share in our celebration.”

“The honor is ours,” I reply. He smiles in response, but never have I seen a man who seemed less likely to celebrate. The lady beside him keeps her eyes lowered, but her face is red and blotched. From crying? “And this is?”

“This is Lady Calla de Isodel,” he says. He indicates the older couple standing behind her and adds, “And these are her parents, Lord Jorán and Lady Aña de Isodel.”

Even at a distance, Lord Jorán’s oiled beard reeks of myrrh; he must be very wealthy indeed. His wife is expertly coifed and lightly rouged, though she lowers her eyes and slumps her shoulders, impressively achieving a meek mildness that blurs her beauty.

“I was intrigued by the name Isodel when I saw it on the invitation,” I say. It’s not a place I’d heard of before, which was odd, as I’ve memorized my kingdom’s geography down to every last hillock. Before setting off on our journey, I found it necessary to look up references to Isodel in the monastery archive. I’m curious how the people will represent themselves to the crown. “Do tell me about it,” I say.

My question is directed at the young bride, for I wish to take her measure. But her father steps in front of her and says, “Your Highness, you have not heard of it because Isodel is like a flipped coin, falling sometimes on one side and sometimes on the other, according to chance—”

“Lady Calla?” I interrupt, and I’m not sure which irritates me more: his assumption that I would travel here in ignorance, or his refusal to let his daughter speak.

Lady Calla glances at her father, shamefaced, then back to me. It’s the first clear look I have of her face. She is lovely enough to make other young women insane with envy, but unlike that of her cowed mother, hers is not a sheltered beauty. Her face is tan from the sun, and laugh lines spread from the corners of her eyes, though no trace of a smile touches her features now.