Page 38 of Kingmakers, Year One

Just like Matteo warned,the water gets rougher as we draw closer to Kingmakers. Long before we spot the island, the ship is pitching and tossing, and I can tell the crew is approaching in a kind of zigzag, to avoid rocks or sandbars beneath the surface, or maybe just because of the way the currents run.

More of the students succumb to seasickness, and I can smell the vomit even from up in the net. I must be turning green myself, because Anna says, “You better not puke on me.”

Ares looks completely undisturbed.

“I used to go out in fishing boats all the time,” he says. “Boats a lot smaller than this. You bob around like a cork.”

When we finally spot the island, it juts out of the water like an accusing finger pointing up toward the sky. The limestone cliffs rise up for hundreds of feet in a sheer pale sheet, with waves crashing against their base, sending up so much spray that wecan feel it all the way over on the ship. Far up on the cliffs I spy the stone walls of Kingmakers itself.

Part castle, part fortress, Kingmakers is built directly into the cliffs, so it rises up in three levels hewn out of the rock. Constructed in the 1300s, it has most of the gothic elements you’d expect, including six main towers, a portcullis, military-style gates, and a winding German-stylezwinger,which forms an open kill-zone between the defensive walls.

The limestone walls are white as bone, and the steeply pitched roof is black. The pointed archways and the stained-glass windows are dark as well, as if there’s no lights on inside. To divert rainwater off the roof, the drainage spouts are carved in the shape of grotesque gargoyles, demons, and avenging angels.

The students fall silent below us, gazing up at Kingmakers just as Anna and I are doing. The school has us all transfixed. Even in the Mediterranean sunshine, there’s nothing bright or welcoming in its towering stone walls.

Our ship has to skirt the island to approach on the lee side. Even then, it takes our Captain several attempts, doubling back and trying over again, to shoot the narrow gap into the harbor.

We pull up to the only dock, the crew throwing down their ropes with obvious relief.

As they unloads our bags, the students climb into open wagons with bench seats running along both sides. Each wagon is pulled by two massive Clydesdale horses who stand even taller than me at the shoulder, thick tufts of hair hanging down over hooves the size of dinner plates.

“Are we going on a hayride?” One of the girls in our wagon laughs.

“I don’t think they have any cars on the island,” Anna says to me. “Look . . .”

She nods her head toward the unpaved road winding through the tiny village clustered around the bay. Sure enough, I don’t see so much as a moped anywhere.

Once the wagons are loaded up, the drivers climb up on their tall bench seats and flick the reins to tell the horses we’re ready to go.

Our driver is a skinny, deeply tanned man wearing suspenders and a pair of trousers that are more patches than pants.

“Do you work at the school?” I ask him.

“Yup.” He nods.

“How long have you worked there?”

He glances over at me, squinting in the bright sun.

“Feels like a hundred years.”

“Did you go there yourself?”

He snorts. “You writin’ a book, kid?”

“Just curious.”

“You know what curiosity did to the cat.”

I grin at him. “I’m not a cat.”

“No,” he says. “I didn’t go to Kingmakers. I was born on this island. I’ve lived my whole life here.”

“Do you ever go to Dubrovnik?”

“What’s Dubrovnik?”

He says it so drily that it takes Anna stifling a laugh for me to realize that he’s fucking with me. I laugh, too, and the man grins, showing teeth that are surprisingly white next to his tanned face.

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