Quintana of Charyn

Chapter 41

Froi began each day counting the moments that made his life breathable. The feel of soil in his hands. The colours of autumn in Lumatere. The murmuring between Lord August and Lady Abian on the porch each night. The sight of their eldest son Talon relieving one of the village women of the hay bale she carried. The Priestking’s belly laugh. The sound of Vestie’s voice when she asked about Kintana of Charyn. And then the next count would begin. Of everything that made his life unbreathable. And each time, it outnumbered the first.

It had been four months since he had arrived back in Lumatere, and most days he was able to put aside the ache and complete his work on Lord August’s farm. But today was different. It was the curse day. Their birthday. Charyn’s day of weeping. Let her be happy. Perhaps this would be the first of the birthdays she’d enjoy, for she had his son in her arms. The image of the two was etched in Froi’s memory and although they had only those few moments together in the valley that day, he missed Quintana more than ever. And try as he might, Froi couldn’t get the scent of the boy off his hands. He began to understand Lirah and Gargarin, and the way they had coated their hearts with ice, so they wouldn’t feel.

As if Finnikin had sensed his pain that morning, he came riding by with Jasmina.

‘I’m going to teach her to swim,’ Finn said. ‘Come with us. I’ll enjoy the company.’ By the look on Jasmina’s face, the invitation was not extended to Froi, but he agreed all the same.

Trevanion joined them later. He kept a river cottage in Tressor, which was beginning to look like a village now after all these years of grieving the Tressorians who were slaughtered in Sarnak. Froi watched the three from the riverbank and even found himself chuckling once or twice to see the authority the Princess had over her father and Trevanion. Later, when the Captain left, Froi and Finnikin lay on the grass under the last moments of the afternoon sun, Jasmina asleep in Finnikin’s arms.

‘How is she?’ Froi asked and they both knew he was speaking of Isaboe.

‘Bad days. Good days. Bad days.’

Finnikin looked at his daughter, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

‘She doesn’t want Jasmina to see the bad days.’

Froi saw the dark circles of weariness under Finnikin’s eyes.

‘You’re not trying to do it all on your own, are you, Finn?’ he asked. ‘You should ask the women for help. Lady Beatriss would understand, and Lady Abian.’

‘Oh, I’m not against begging,’ Finnikin said. ‘I went to see Tesadora, you know. Me?’ He laughed. ‘We’ve rarely exchanged a civil word. But I asked her if she would come to the palace and stay a while.’ Finnikin shrugged and smiled. ‘And she said yes. And then Celie returned, as you’d know. For this week anyway … especially for the feast tonight. And I asked her to stay too and she said yes.’

Tonight would be Isaboe’s first public outing since the death of the child, and Lady Abian had been preparing for weeks, demanding that those most loved by the Queen attend. The whole week’s talk in the village had been about the feast and Celie’s return.

‘Lord August thinks that Celie is spying for you in Belegonia,’ Froi said quietly.

Finnikin glanced at him. ‘Celie is spying for us in Belegonia.’

‘Don’t tell Lord August,’ Froi said with a sigh. ‘Thinking is one thing. Knowing for sure is another. And then there’s the matter of the castle castellan searching Celie’s room when he suspected that she stole a chronicle from the library and Lord August remembered the castellan of the Belegonian spring castle as a portly older man with a lot of facial lumps and of course when he visited Belegonia three weeks past, he met the new castellan.’

‘No facial lumps?’ Finnikin asked.

‘None at all. Nor was he old. Nor was he portly, and now Lord August is questioning how he would dare be in Celie’s room.’

‘Ah,’ Finnikin said, nodding. ‘No wonder Isaboe and Celie were locked up in our chamber all the day long when she arrived. They weren’t talking about Belegonian fleece. They were talking about the castellan.’

‘According to Lady Celie, no,’ Froi said. ‘She wants to out-smart him, not bed him.’

‘And you?’ Finnikin asked softly.

‘No, Finn, I don’t want to bed the castellan of the Belegonian spring castle.’

Finnikin laughed, but soon his expression was serious.

‘We don’t speak of it,’ he said, ‘but I can’t imagine it being easy for you, Froi.’

Froi shrugged. He had received a letter from Lirah. It came via the valley one day, out of what seemed nowhere. Froi had opened it with shaking hands. Lirah had sketched him an image of Quintana and his son. And one of Gargarin. He knew it was his father and not Arjuro. Not because of his solemnity, but because of the look in his eyes. Froi would always recognise the desire in Gargarin’s eyes when he was looking at Lirah.

‘It’s hard to explain … what they mean to me,’ Froi said.

Finnikin’s smile was faint. ‘I can imagine.’

‘Can you?’

‘Froi, you have my wife’s name etched on your arm, and the only thing that stops me from skinning you are the other two names.’

Froi gave a laugh, shook his head ruefully.

‘Not many men can read the words of the ancients, my lord. I’ll have to remember that next time.’

They rode together until they reached the village of Sayles. The beauty of his home village always forced Froi to think of Gargarin. What would Gargarin think of the Flatlands? Would he be impressed by the water pipe that ran from the river into the fields? Would he ever share his plans for a waterwheel with Lord August? How would the two men get on? But with all those questions came bitterness. Not once had Gargarin attempted correspondence. And Froi couldn’t understand why. When Scarpo of Nebia had passed on Gargarin’s orders for Froi to stay behind that day at the stream, Froi hadn’t questioned it. Because Gargarin had once begged Froi to trust him and Froi had. But these days he felt like a beggar each time he visited the palace, asking if anything had arrived for him.

‘Don’t forget the Priestking tonight,’ Finnikin reminded.

‘Why does everyone presume I’m going to forget the Priestking?’ Froi said, irritated. He’d been feeling like the village idiot lately. His only chore for the night was to collect the Priestking and if it wasn’t Lady Abian or Lord August or Trevanion reminding him, it was Finn.

‘I’m just saying,’ Finnikin said.

In the royal residence, Isaboe watched Tesadora pour more water into the tub.

‘What say we wash that hair, beloved?’ Tesadora said, her voice gentle but firm as she began to lather it. Tonight was special, Isaboe reminded herself. She would make the effort.

‘Finnikin says he hasn’t seen it out for months,’ Tesadora said practically, ‘and hair such as this should never be hidden.’

Isaboe tried not to think of her hair, because then she’d have to remember the red-gold strands of her son’s.

‘I miss the colour of mine,’ Tesadora admitted. ‘Sagrami punished me for being so vain. It was brown and gold. Do you remember that, or were you too much of a child?’

‘I don’t remember you,’ Isaboe said. ‘I wish I did, but I know you’re somewhere there in my memories. I remember your mother, of course, but you were Seranonna’s mysterious half-wild daughter living alone in the forest of Lumatere.’

‘Put your head back,’ Tesadora said and Isaboe felt the warm water blanket her head. She closed her eyes a moment.

‘My brother Balthazar said he saw you once,’ Isaboe said. ‘When he tried to describe you to my mother, he wept and she asked him why. He said it made him ache inside and my sisters teased him for days. He would have been a romantic, my brother. Unlike Finnikin and Lucian. He would have worn his heart on his sleeve and we would have found him sitting with the women and listening to their woes.’

‘Yes, he would have been a romantic and a kind, kind man,’ Tesadora said. ‘But this kingdom needs a great leader and you, beloved, are a great leader.’

Isaboe swallowed hard. ‘My people are in despair,’ she said, trying to conceal the break in her voice. ‘I sense it in their sleep.’

Tesadora brushed a strand of hair out of Isaboe’s eyes. ‘Your people can be selfish, indulgent grumblers at times, Isaboe. And you may feel the hardship of their sleep, but you are the reason they sleep at night. Because they know that their queen will never forsake them. And they grieve that little babe for more reasons than losing a future king. Your people are sad, beloved, because they know your sorrow and they feel helpless. “How can we help?” I hear them ask throughout the kingdom.’

Isaboe looked away to the corner of the residence where the cot would have stood.

‘Sometimes I think I can bear it,’ she said, ‘and then Jasmina will look at me with so much confusion and she’ll touch my belly and ask me where it’s gone. “Where’s baby?” she cries. She looks for it everywhere we go.’ Isaboe felt the tears bite her eyes. ‘On the mountain just the other day, we went to visit Yata and one of the girls had just birthed and Jasmina threw the mightiest of tantrums and insisted we take the babe home, because she believed it to be ours. In her sweet mind, I went to the mountain to have a baby and I came home with none. So she believes we left it behind.’

She looked up at Tesadora in anguish. ‘And later that night I heard him weeping. My king is not one for tears. I only saw him cry once when we came across the fever camp in Speranza. But that night on the mountain, he wept and it broke me to hear it.’

Isaboe stepped out of the tub and Tesadora helped her dress, securing the ties of her gown at her wrist.

‘You are strong and young and you will find a way out of this darkness. But that path will belong to you. No one else.’

They heard a sound at the door and Isaboe quickly wiped her tears and turned to the entrance where Finnikin stood watching her with Jasmina drowsy in his arms.

‘And don’t let me ever have to admit this out loud,’ Tesadora said in an exaggerated whisper, walking towards the door, ‘but you lead this kingdom with a good man by your side … as stubborn and annoying as he is. A man who has proven himself to have courage and compassion. The Charynite valley dwellers believe that if they could find a man as good as yours to marry Quintana of Charyn, their kingdom would stand a chance.’

Isaboe watched Finnikin grip Tesadora’s hand as she passed him, pressing a kiss against it.

Jasmina woke up, sleepy and shy, and looked up from her father’s shoulder.

‘Tell Mama what you did today,’ he said, approaching Isaboe. Jasmina hid her face in his neck and he chuckled and whispered in her ear until she looked up again.

‘Tell Isaboe,’ he urged. ‘Go on.’

Isaboe leaned closer to hear Jasmina whisper, ‘I put my head in the wiver.’

Isaboe gasped with delight. ‘Do I not have the bravest girl in the kingdom? Did Fa tell you that I didn’t put my head in the river until I was a grown girl in Yutlind Sud?’

Jasmina was pleased by the attention and held her arms out to Isaboe, and then Rhiannon was at the door.

‘She put her head in the river,’ Isaboe told her.

Rhiannon gasped on cue and held out a hand to Jasmina.

‘Then I think Miss picks out her own dress for tonight.’

Isaboe watched them leave and felt Finnikin’s eyes on her. Sometimes she felt as shy as Jasmina with this man. Grief stripped her of a veneer. Sometimes she wanted it back.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he said and it surprised her to hear those words. She always felt his love when he was present, but Finnikin wasn’t one for words of endearment. It was because he came from the Rock. People there were practical and very contained.

They heard Jasmina’s laughter from down the hall and she caught Finnikin’s smile at the sound of it. Isaboe pressed fingers to his lips. He didn’t smile enough and the sight of it always caught her breath.

‘What if she’s all I give you in this life of ours, my love?’ she asked quietly.

‘Then I’ll shout at the Goddess in fury,’ he said fiercely. ‘I’ll beg to know why I’ve been given so much when other men have so little.’

‘We’re going to be late,’ Froi told the Priestking, trying to shuffle him quickly out the door of what was now the shrinehouse of Sennington.

But the Priestking was fumbling with the key.

‘Let me do that,’ Froi said. ‘You know Lady Abian hates people being late.’

‘You want me to hurry, do you?’ the Priestking asked. ‘An old man like me?’

Froi placed the oil lamp in the Priestking’s hand and hastened them towards the horse and cart he had prepared. Although the Priestking’s house was in use all the day long, most of Sennington village was still empty and once the sun set, there was nothing but the moon to light their road to the village of Sayles.

‘Froi, slow down,’ the Priestking said.

‘Half the mountain’s come down, blessed Barakah, and you know the Monts. They’ll eat all the food before we get there and Lady Abian’s made those rolls of pork and cheese.’

‘Wonderful. I’m going to be forced into my deathbed because of pork-and-cheese rolls,’ the Priestking said, stopping a moment to wheeze. Froi flinched to hear the sound of it. Much had changed since he left, but he had only realised now just how frail the Priestking was.

When they reached the feast, most of the guests were already inside except for some of the Guard, who merely raised a hand in acknowledgement. Things had changed between them, Froi thought. In the past there would have been mockery or jest, but it was as if they could barely look him in the eye. Did they see him as a Charynite now? Would he be a stranger in every land? Not a Sarnak or a Charynite or a Lumateran?

‘You’re gritting your teeth,’ the Priestking said as they made their way to the entrance.

‘I liked it better when they used to call me a filthy little feef,’ Froi said bitterly.

‘And they probably liked it better when you had little control,’ the Priestking said. ‘You’ve become a surprisingly formidable young man, Froi. Nothing’s more frightening to others.’

On the porch, Perri was organising another shift of the Guard. Froi could understand the caution. Lord and Lady Abian’s home had little protection for such a royal guest list, and Trevanion’s men had to ensure that every entrance and corner of the village was secure. Upon seeing Froi and the Priestking, Perri pointed to the hall, which was rarely used except for large gatherings. One of the Guard pushed past them and hurried along without so much as a grunt of apology. Froi bit his tongue and held out a hand to the Priestking, who moved slowly. It made Froi wince.

‘I want you to see Tesadora now that she’s spending a little time in the palace,’ Froi said to him. ‘She may be able to give you something.’

‘For being old? There’s a cure, is there?’

‘And don’t stand around too long,’ Froi ordered. ‘Everyone’s going to want to talk to you and next minute you’ll be tottering.’

‘I’ve never tottered a day in my life. You’re annoying me, Froi.’

‘Yes, well, I’m annoying everyone these days.’

They reached the hall and stepped inside. They all were suddenly standing in silence. Staring at him. It was awkward and it made him feel uncomfortable and a stranger. Angry tears burnt at the back of his eyes.

He saw the Queen first. Froi had seen little of her since arriving home, and knew it would take her some time to heal. But tonight there seemed more of a bloom in her cheek. She bent to whisper something in Vestie’s ear. Vestie took Jasmina’s hand and they ran to Froi, beckoning him to bend to their level. Bemused, Froi crouched beside them.

‘Happy birthday, Froi,’ Vestie said proudly.

And then everyone was shouting it and the Priestking was pushing him forward, not weak at all, and Froi was engulfed in embraces and kisses, with friends pressing gifts in his hand.

Jasmina clutched his arm all night, abandoning her reserve from earlier in the day.

‘It’s all about your gifts,’ Finn said. ‘She thinks they’re hers. She’s stealing everything. Even letters addressed to us. She loves the pretty seals.’

Froi laughed, caught Lord August’s eye and shook his head.

‘You, sir, are deceitful.’

Lord August embraced him and then Celie was there with Talon and his brothers.

‘Mother’s been planning it for weeks,’ Talon laughed.

‘And if anyone dared say a word I think she would have had the boys strung up,’ Celie said.

Froi was jostled from one person to another, until he found himself with Lucian, quietly watching the revelry. Finnikin had expressed a suspicion to Froi that Lucian was in love with Phaedra of Alonso and missed her deeply. From what he had heard these past months, Froi knew Phaedra had been everything he imagined her to be. Kind. Loyal. And currently, Quintana’s only companion. Froi itched to ask.

‘No,’ Lucian said, reading his mind. ‘Only letters from the Priests of Sebastabol. They want to know how the seven scholars died. Every detail. Why would you want every detail of the way seven men died?’ he added, irritation in his voice.

‘They’re the Priests of Trist,’ Froi corrected. ‘And if one of the Monts died in Charyn, wouldn’t you want to know every detail? It’s the same for them. One of the lads, Rothen, was the grandson of the Head Priest.’

‘Rothen. I remember him,’ Lucian said quietly.

‘Then tell them everything you know. It’s not a trap, Lucian. It’s just people wanting to know how their loved ones died.’

‘You know them?’ Lucian asked. ‘The Priests?’

Froi nodded. Lucian looked at him shrewdly. ‘You seem to have had a very busy year, Froi.’

‘Almost as busy as yours, Lucian.’

Lucian was steered away by one of the Flatland lords and Froi caught Isaboe’s eye as she excused herself from speaking to Beatriss. He fought hard to stop the wave of emotion that always came over him in the Queen’s presence.

‘Will your husband come charging across the room if I do this?’ he said, catching her in an embrace. He felt her fists clenched with emotion against his back, and the shudder in her breath. They hadn’t spoken about the death of her son and her part in the birth of his. There were no words, just the certainty that he would love Isaboe of Lumatere for the remainder of his life.

‘So you heard about his outburst in our residence?’ she asked huskily, stepping away after a while and eyeing Finnikin across the room.

‘Yes, well, he did beat me black and blue on the Osteria–Charyn border.’

‘Strange that he left that part out,’ she said, somewhat dryly.

They were awkwardly silent for a moment or two.

‘Thank you for all of this,’ he said, looking around the room, knowing she was involved as much as Lady Abian. Then his eyes met hers. ‘Thank you … for everything you did … for her.’

Isaboe’s stare was fierce. ‘I did it for you. I don’t do Charynites favours.’

‘I’m a Charynite,’ he reminded her softly.

She shook her head emphatically. ‘I don’t care what your blood sings, Froi. You belong to us. You’re a Lumateran.’

And he was. How could he feel both so strongly?

She took his hand and they walked to where Jasmina was playing under the long table with the village children. The little girl was giddy with the sort of hysteria he noticed in those her age.

‘All the laughing will end in tears,’ Isaboe said, sitting down while the children crawled between her feet. Froi sat down beside her.

‘Did blessed Barakah tell you about the spirits and the Yut madman’s theory?’ she asked quietly.

‘Oh, yes,’ Froi said, his tone dry. ‘He decided to tell me in front of Perri, who didn’t cope at all.’

They both laughed at the thought, but then she was serious again.

‘Is it true that you can sing spirits home, Froi?’ she asked.

He didn’t know how to answer that.

‘I don’t know what’s true,’ he said, awkward at hearing the words. ‘I know my … uncle … Arjuro can.’

‘Can you tell … if a spirit is lost?’ Isaboe asked.

Froi saw the sadness in her eyes.

‘Is that what you think?’ he asked. ‘That your boy’s spirit is lost?’

She winced, but he could also see her confusion. ‘When I was carrying him in my belly … I’d sense her … Quintana … but not like when I walked the sleep with Vestie and Tesadora. This was different. More distant in a way, and I think it’s because …’

She couldn’t finish. She looked away, pained, and Froi tried to search the room for Finnikin because he knew his friend understood Isaboe’s despair better than anyone. But Finn wasn’t there and Froi could see that Isaboe wanted to speak.

‘Do you still walk her sleep?’ he asked softly.

She shook her head. ‘Quintana and I do not have a connection, Froi. But I think our sons walked each other’s sleep … and I don’t know whether I was desperate for a sign or whether all this talk of spirits has played with my mind, but I sensed him … I sensed my boy in your boy’s eyes. Isn’t that what you wrote in the letter about the husband and wife you shared a barn with? She said the half-dead spirit of her child lived in you.’

He nodded. Tesadora told him how Quintana had spoken the same words to her. Froi’s mind had been filled with sorrow for the families of the lost Charynite babes. He wondered if they still would sense those spirits within him or Quintana now, or had they been passed to Tariq?

‘I think you’re wrong about Quintana and you,’ he said to Isaboe. ‘Because I first heard a voice four years past in Sarnak. It was on the bleakest day of my existence, at a time that I almost gave up. Almost. Until I heard her song. I didn’t know what it was at the time. But it told me to go to Sprie. Sprie? You saw it. Why such a nowhere place in Sarnak? I could have chosen any place in the land, but not Sprie. And it’s taken me all these years to realise that she was singing me to you. And Finn. And Sir Topher.’ He looked around the room. ‘And this, Isaboe. And all this, led me to Charyn. Blessed Barakah says our paths aren’t straight and they make little sense. But Quintana heard my pain and she led me to you. Which means that your connection with her existed long before the sons you both carried.’

‘You don’t know that, Froi,’ Isaboe said, her voice cool.

‘No, I don’t. But your plan for revenge on Charyn led me straight into Gargarin of Abroi’s path. And I crossed a gravina to be with Arjuro of Abroi and I climbed a tower to be with Lirah of Serker. Call it coincidence, but I’ve spent a year questioning what I know and what I sense, and sometimes what I sense overpowers everything.’

Isaboe sighed. Jasmina’s head popped up between her feet again and they both laughed.

‘Well, let’s hope they’re making a fuss over your Quintana today,’ Isaboe said, gathering her daughter to her.

Froi grimaced. ‘She’s not very good with … fuss,’ he said.

‘Every princess is good with a little fuss,’ she said, kissing Jasmina. ‘Aren’t you, my love?’

Froi sighed. Yes, but Quintana wasn’t exactly the most normal of princesses.

‘Perhaps they’ve thrown her a party.’

Sagra! He couldn’t think of anything more frightening for her. Or those who tried.

Chapter 42

‘You’re not thinking of throwing me one of those odious surprise parties?’ Quintana asked coldly, clutching the little King. ‘If you do, I’ll lock myself and Tariq in our room and never come out.’

Phaedra looked from Quintana to Gargarin of Abroi. ‘Well, it’s not as if you don’t already do that, Your Majesty,’ Gargarin said. His eyes met Phaedra’s. They had managed to coax Quintana out of her self-imposed prison and into the courtyard to greet those who now lived in the palace. Phaedra and Gargarin hoped they could lead her further to the portcullis and perhaps down the drawbridge and into the Citavita.

‘Could I suggest that we visit the town square and greet those who have travelled here for your birthday?’ Phaedra said.

‘The town square?’ Quintana asked. Phaedra watched Gargarin wince, as if he knew the following words would not be pleasing to the ear.

‘The town square where they once set up the gallows and jeered when the street lords placed a noose around my neck? Brayed for my blood?’

And this was how they had begun each day since they had arrived all those months ago.

‘It’s about time and compromise,’ Gargarin of Abroi had said to Phaedra outside Quintana’s chamber one morning. He had said those words after yet another failed attempt to have her join them outside the palace. ‘Let’s give her the time she needs.’

Time, Phaedra noted, was spent in Quintana’s cold, sparse chamber. Its only appeal was a balconette that looked over the gravina. Phaedra was fascinated with the way the godshouse opposite tilted towards them, not to mention the hollering that took place between Quintana, Gargarin, the Priestling Arjuro and Lirah of Serker. The Provincari’s people who had settled in the palace tower on both sides of theirs complained the whole day long about the early-morning and late-night shouting. Phaedra would have died of boredom without it. As she would have without the nocturnal visits from the godshouse residents.

On the second night in the palace she was introduced to two Priests, both in robes and cowls. She was soon to discover that one was Arjuro and the other Lirah of Serker. Perabo, the keeper of the keys of the palace, had smuggled Lirah in with Arjuro, far from the prying eyes of those they called the Provincari’s parrots.

Lirah of Serker was the most beautiful woman Phaedra had ever seen apart from Tesadora. They reminded her of each other. Especially in their disdain for the world, until they were in the presence of someone they loved.

As long as she lived, Phaedra would never forget the first moment Lirah of Serker held the little King in her arms.

The Queen allowed only Phaedra, Lirah and Arjuro to hold the child. And Gargarin, but he refused each time, preferring to admire the little King over the shoulders of others.

‘Is he not the most perfect thing you’ve seen, Lirah?’ Quintana asked. ‘Is he not just like Lirah, Gargarin?’

‘Thank the gods for that,’ the little King’s regent murmured. Phaedra knew Gargarin and Lirah were lovers. It was whispered in the hallways of the palace by the guards. But Phaedra hadn’t realised the two loved each other until Gargarin watched Lirah of Serker with the sleeping boy.

‘You can stay the night with Phaedra and me, Lirah,’ Quintana said. ‘We can watch Tariq sleep.’

Lirah and Gargarin exchanged a look and Arjuro snorted a laugh.

‘Yes, I’ll sit with Gargarin and speak of waterwheels and privies.’

Today, having lost the battle of Quintana leaving the palace, Phaedra watched as Gargarin decided to bring up the issue of chambers when they returned to her room.

‘There’s been enough time to settle in,’ Gargarin said. ‘You can’t stay in here, Your Majesty. It’s not big enough for you all.’

‘But I can,’ Quintana said dismissively. ‘This has always been my chamber.’

Gargarin grimaced. ‘It holds bad memories for you, Your Majesty,’ he said. ‘Awful.’

Quintana picked up Tariq from his basket and clutched him to her. She did it often. Up and down he went. From her arms to the basket and then back into her arms. Sometimes Phaedra would see Quintana place an ear to Tariq’s lips to check for breathing.

‘This chamber holds the best of memories, too,’ Quintana said quietly. ‘You forget that.’

Gargarin sighed. ‘It’s best you take the solar. It’s large and well lit and the most comfortable place in the palace.’

Quintana wanted to hear none of it. Instead, she held out Tariq to Gargarin. ‘It’s about time,’ she said. She tried at least once a day to have the little King’s regent hold him, but always failed.

‘You move to the solar,’ he said firmly instead.

Phaedra believed Quintana had all but lost this fight.

‘My idea is better,’ Quintana said. ‘You take the solar, Gargarin. There’s the secret passage through the cellar that leads to it and on the nights Perabo is on watch at the gatehouse, Lirah can visit you easier than meeting you here. She certainly won’t be seen by the parrots of the provinces. When he’s old enough, we can place Tariq in the chamber next door to here. We can hack an entrance just there,’ she said, pointing to the wall. ‘We can place a desk near the window, just for you. The little King will have to get used to you, so it’s best you use his chamber as a study during the day. It means you’ll still be able to use it when the sun comes up to greet Arjuro and Lirah.’

‘Your Majesty –’

She shook her head and placed her hands over the little King’s ears. ‘I slit my father’s throat in the solar, Gargarin. Not exactly the room I want my son sleeping in. And anyway, think of your satisfaction. You get the dead King’s sanctuary. You get what Bestiano wanted for himself. Lie back and relish it.’

Gargarin was silent. Most of the time, Phaedra was frightened by him. Not that he had ever shown a violent trait and not because of words he had spoken, but because of the silence. He had a wounded spirit and the only time she saw him happy was when he was in the company of Lirah and his brother and Tariq, despite not wanting to hold him. But then again, everyone was happy in the little King’s presence. Phaedra couldn’t bear to start her day without having him in her arms. He soothed her aching heart.

‘And I’ve made a decision about my title of Queen,’ Quintana continued. ‘I’ve decided to relinquish it. In years to come when Tariq marries, it will belong to his betrothed and I’ll despise her enough for taking my son from me. It could get quite ugly if I get used to the title and I may hate her twice over. I might want to kill her and we do want to avoid future bloodshed in the palace.’

There was a strange, twisted smile on Gargarin’s face. Phaedra didn’t understand their humour. It bordered on wicked when Arjuro joined them.

‘Then, Princess –’

Quintana shook her head. ‘I can’t say I enjoyed being princess of this kingdom, either. It’s best that the people of Charyn forget that title until I have a daughter. She can be the spirited princess. The gentle princess. The sweetest princess in the land. The bravest. The feistiest. But when the people of the Citavita think of me as princess, they’ll remember the cursed princess. The Princess Abomination.’

They waited.

‘I’ll be referred to as Quintana of Charyn, mother of the King. And Lirah of Serker will be referred to as shalamar of the King.’

Gargarin sighed and then nodded, and then gave a twisted, shy smile again. It made him quite striking. ‘When did you work all this out?’ he chided gently.

Quintana looked down at Tariq. ‘Quite some time ago. Tariq loved the idea. We just thought we’d wait until you were ready, Gargarin. It’s about time and compromise.’

Gargarin looked around the room, already imagining how the residence would be if they made an entrance between the two rooms. He walked to the wall and knocked hard.

‘In the fortress beyond the little woods where we hid with the Lasconians and Turlans, they had fireplaces on every floor without so much as a chimney,’ Gargarin said. ‘They used vents in the wall. We’ll put fireplaces in both these chambers.’ He liked the idea. ‘And I dare say I think we can make another entrance into the room adjoining the next. All three could make a strange private residence.’

Quintana seemed pleased. She held Tariq out to Gargarin.

‘My arm –’ he said.

‘You won’t drop him, Gargarin. Froi would want you to hold him.’

Phaedra wondered what had taken place when Quintana escaped with Froi, Gargarin and Lirah all that time ago. They shared a bond, a secret. She knew that Froi was the father of the child. Very few did, except for Lirah, Gargarin, Arjuro, Perabo and the Provincaro of Paladozza. But there was more, and she knew the answer lay with Froi of Lumatere.

She tried asking once.

‘Better that we don’t tell, Phaedra,’ Quintana said.

‘We’d have to kill you,’ Arjuro added, ‘and we don’t really want to do that.’

But regardless, Phaedra knew she was trusted by them all. She liked the Priestling best. Arjuro was besotted by the little King and visited as often as possible.

‘Did you see that?’ he asked Gargarin one time. ‘He stared straight at me with understanding when I explained the symptoms of gout. Pure genius.’

But despite some of the compromises, Phaedra could see that Gargarin and Lirah and Arjuro feared for Quintana. The way she had imprisoned herself in the castle with Tariq, and her belief that an enemy was sent to kill him. It meant that if Phaedra wanted to walk the streets of the capital, she did so with a guard, and not Quintana. At first she had been frightened that the stone walls would come tumbling down on her. As time passed, she was accompanied by Lirah and she warmed to the people and wished Quintana could hear the yearning in their voices when they asked Phaedra and Lirah about the little King. But no one could convince Quintana. Not even Lirah, whose only means of seeing Tariq was through her nightly visits.

‘I’d love to see him during the light of the day, Quintana,’ Lirah said one night.

‘But you see him from across the gravina, Lirah,’ Quintana said coolly. ‘I hold him up every morning.’

‘You know that’s not enough,’ Lirah said. ‘And you know that Dorcas and Fekra and Scarpo and Perabo and his men would never ever let anything happen to Tariq. Even I trust them. How many people have I trusted in my life?’

Gargarin blamed it on the little sleep Quintana had. Arjuro and Lirah said they’d seen her this way before and were lovingly patient, despite not seeming to be lovingly patient people.

‘If I don’t guard Tariq, Lirah, they’ll kill him,’ Quintana explained. ‘They’ll kill my guards to get to him.’

‘The only person I know who’ll get through those guards is Froi,’ Lirah said. ‘Do you want him to return to this? To a frightened Quintana and an unwashed babe?’

The washing of the babe had become an even bigger issue.

‘It’s been months, Quintana,’ Phaedra pleaded. ‘It’s not enough to clean him with a cloth. You need to bathe him.’

‘I don’t want his head to go under the water,’ Quintana whispered. ‘You see awful things down there. Those from the lake of the half-dead are desperate for him.’

Gargarin later explained to Phaedra about the soothsayer. The ritual that had happened each year before the day of weeping. And it shamed Phaedra even more to have known so little of Quintana’s suffering in the Citavita for all those years. It made her want to take back every moment of their time hiding in the valley when Phaedra and the women had dismissed her as nothing but a delusional, half-crazed girl.

But memories of the valley were dangerous for Phaedra. It was deep in the night when she allowed herself to think of Lucian. Was he thinking of her? Had he moved on with his life? And she thought of the valley and realised that it was more of a home to her than Alonso was, and that she missed its people in a way that she hadn’t missed those of her province. When she was young, she had been kept protected from the world outside her father’s compound. In the valley and mountain she had truly begun to live.

And on one such night Quintana lay beside her, tense with fear of what the unseen enemy would do to her little king. Sometimes when the breeze spoke from outside the balconette and the shadows played with their eyes, Phaedra would hear the hope in Quintana’s voice.

‘Froi! Is that you?’

And then the disappointment. Phaedra would take her hand.

‘You need to sleep, dear friend.’

‘And dream of what, Phaedra?’ Quintana asked, getting out of bed. ‘The Provincari are beginning to make suggestions for a Consort. Should I dream of choosing the one that turns my stomach least?’

After Quintana had checked Tariq’s breathing for the umpteenth time, she crawled back into bed exhausted.

‘I’ll never leave you,’ Phaedra said, tucking the blanket around the Princess. ‘The Consort can find himself another chamber.’

‘I know you’ll never leave me,’ Quintana said. ‘But when it comes to you, Phaedra, I’m afraid of worse.’

Chapter 43

Froi was led through the gilded doors and into the palace throne room. He had never been in here before and marvelled at the rich tapestries of fierce men battling impressive boars with bare hands. On the ceiling was a fresco of women, stupendous in their girth and beauty, the serpents they had conquered beneath their feet. Froi understood with great clarity why he wasn’t meeting Finnikin and Isaboe in their private residence. But he had been waiting for this day. Regardless of his time spent with Finnikin, riding around the kingdom; and with Trevanion, fishing in the river; and with Perri and Tesadora down in the valley, laughing with the camp dwellers; and blessed Barakah, translating a journal in the shrinehouse; and with Isaboe, suggesting changes to her garden; and with Sir Topher, beating him in a game of kings – today they weren’t those people to him. They were the Queen, her king, the Captain of the Lumateran Guard and his second-in-charge, the Queen’s First Man, and the Priestking.

And he wasn’t Froi. He was their assassin who had spent nine months in an enemy kingdom. He had a head full of information they wanted, and this was the time to give it.

‘Was the palace exactly as Rafuel of Sebastabol sketched?’ Finnikin asked when they were finally seated.

Froi didn’t answer. He didn’t expect them to begin with that question. He had thought they’d skirt around things before they asked him that.

‘Froi?’ Sir Topher prodded.

‘Do you not trust us with that information?’ his queen asked.

‘I trust you with my life,’ Froi said. ‘But if I answered your question, then the people I love in Charyn would never trust me again.’ His eyes met hers and then Finnikin’s. ‘And in my whole time there, I never once betrayed Lumatere. So if there’s no reason for you needing to know how to enter my son’s home, I’d prefer not to speak of the Charynite palace.’

There was silence. Perri was already on his feet, pacing the room.

‘Then what shall we speak about?’ Finnikin asked.

‘The weather is always a safe topic,’ Froi said pleasantly. ‘It could lead into some vital information about the storage of rain-water, and growing produce. We have different terrain to Charyn and what we grow, they want, and what they grow, we may want.’

‘Anything else, Froi?’ Finnikin asked dryly. ‘Any other suggestions?’

‘Well, you have invited me here for a reason,’ he said with a shrug, ‘and I have become used to people asking my opinion, so it’s a bit difficult to hold my tongue.’

Sir Topher sat forward in his seat. ‘And you gave your opinion readily?’ he asked. ‘With them?’

‘Most times. I did lose my confidence once … after I was injured,’ he said, remembering Gargarin discussing Froi’s self-doubt with Lirah that time in Sebastabol.

‘After you were betrayed by a Charynite … friend?’ Isaboe asked.

‘Yes.’

‘An opportunist? This traitor friend?’ Finnikin asked. ‘Did he do it for money? Lucian mentioned what greedy, ignorant Charynites they were, those who placed themselves in charge of the camp dwellers. Do most Charynites betray for money?’

Froi felt himself bristling. ‘Well, firstly, I tend to refer to him just as a traitor these days,’ he said. ‘Not a friend. And … no. Most Charynites don’t betray for money. Most Charynites want to stay alive and hold their children in their arms.’

He regretted the words the moment he spoke them. Caught the pain in Isaboe’s eyes. But there was understanding there, as well.

‘He … the traitor didn’t do it for money,’ Froi said quietly.

‘And you know this for certain?’ Sir Topher asked. ‘Someone just wakes up one morning, Froi? And decides to betray those who trust him? But not for money? And you believe that?’

Froi sighed. ‘No, sir. I’ll explain to you how betrayal happens. A bunch of lads come up with a plan. Quite noble, if not naive,’ he said, thinking of Grijio and Satch and Olivier. ‘And then what happens is that one of the lads gets kidnapped as part of a plan hatched between a neighbouring enemy kingdom and a very secretive organisation …’

Finnikin sighed. ‘If it’s Lumatere and Rafuel’s people you’re referring to, then let’s get rid of the cryptic references. I get so confused when I haven’t slept.’

‘Yes, let’s use names,’ Isaboe said.

Froi nodded. ‘I took Olivier’s place at your instruction, and meanwhile he was held captive underground, guarded by a man, Zabat, who convinced him that he could make a difference. Except Zabat had switched sides and believed Bestiano of Nebia was the best chance for Charyn. And when Olivier of Sebastabol was released, he became what Zabat, not his original captors, wanted him to be. Which led to betrayal.’

‘In what way?’ Sir Topher asked.

‘Olivier withheld the truth,’ Froi said.

Isaboe made a sound of annoyance.

‘He doesn’t seem so naive after all,’ she said. ‘If you’re ever writing to the Charynites, Froi, tell them not to execute the smart ones. They do come in handy.’

He looked up at her again. Would Froi’s rotten corpse be lying somewhere in a ditch in Sorel if Froi was less smart?

Yes, of course it would be, her eyes told him.

Froi smiled, half bitterly, half in amusement that he would think she had lost any of her fight or backbone. That he would think that Lumatere’s charming, loving Queen and her king were any less than they presented. But they didn’t lie about who they were. They just omitted details.

Finnikin retrieved a letter and passed it to Froi. Froi’s heart hammered at the thought of Gargarin finally writing.

‘This came to us yesterday, addressed to you.’

Froi opened it, recognising the writing from a letter Simeon had sent to Lucian.

‘The Priests of Trist,’ Froi said, reading quickly, his heart heavy by the end.

‘Rafuel?’ Finnikin asked.

Froi nodded. ‘They obtained information from one of Donashe’s camp leaders and found Rafuel outside Jidia in a mine shaft with no food and only a little water trickling from a stone – skin and bones. They don’t expect him to live. They want me to pass on the news to the women of the valley as well as Japhra and Tesadora. The Priests of Trist found mad ramblings on the walls imprisoning Rafuel and the names of the women of the valley were amongst them.’

Froi heard Perri’s sound of regret.

‘Tell us about your correspondence with these Priests,’ Finnikin said.

‘The Priests of Trists wrote to Lucian first and I replied on Lucian’s behalf. They wanted to know how the scholars died.’

‘Why didn’t that order come from the Charyn palace?’ Finnikin asked.

‘Because the palace is taking care of political traitors, not personal vengeance, and what happened with the scholars … and Rafuel is about personal vengeance. The Priests had five camp leaders in their prison. They wanted to make sure those who murdered the lads were tried and executed and they didn’t want to get it wrong, especially if there was a chance that Rafuel lived.’

‘Is Rafuel of Sebastabol being alive your business?’ Trevanion asked, looking at Froi. ‘You hardly knew him except for the week he taught you about Charynite customs. You smashed his nose, last I remember.’

Froi felt the regret he always did when he thought of Rafuel these days.

‘Let’s just say that Rafuel and I go back … nineteen years. If you remember anything about the events I spoke about in the letter I gave to Finn … Your Highness, it was that I was smuggled out of the palace as a babe.’

‘By a boy.’

Froi shrugged. ‘Rafuel was that boy. So yes, him being alive is my business. And for all of your information, it won’t do us any harm finding allies in the Priests.’

Isaboe stood and walked to Froi’s side, sitting before him.

‘And that is why we need you, Froi. Talk us through it. What if we want to take a step towards peace? Who has the most power? Gargarin of Abroi? The Provincari? The godshouse?’

‘The Provincari united have the power,’ Froi said. ‘My advice is that you go to Gargarin, but you also establish a relationship with the individual Provincari. Deep down, they’re slightly impressed with Lumateran nobility. Take advantage of that. And then remember that the godshouse is important to the people and if you’re going to impress Charyn, you’re going to want to impress the godshouse.’ He looked at the Priestking. ‘They want nothing more than absolution from the blessed Barakah. They understand the pain that took place here at the hands of Charyn’s army and they know they can’t change the past, but they want to acknowledge it.’

‘How strong is their army now, Froi?’ Trevanion asked.

Froi was dreading that question. His eyes met Trevanion’s.

‘Very strong. United, it’s even stronger.’

‘If they were ever to attack …’ Isaboe asked.

‘We wouldn’t stand a chance.’

He heard the sharp intakes of breath around the room.

‘So the way I see it, we try very, very hard not to be attacked by them,’ Sir Topher said.

‘Well, we could see the situation from the side of wonder,’ Froi said.

‘Oh, there’s a side of wonder in all of this?’ Finnikin asked, sarcasm lacing his words. ‘Charyn has a new army large enough to decimate us and he tells us we’re going to look on the brighter side.’

They all stared at Froi as if he was some foolish child.

‘If we make friends with them, we’ll have a powerful ally in Charyn,’ he said.

‘Very simplistic,’ Isaboe said.

Froi shook his head with frustration. ‘It’s the way I see things now,’ he said. ‘The simpler it is to keep peace, the better our lives are. You don’t want Lumaterans to die, my queen. They don’t want Charynites to die. Trust me on that. A powerful Nebian captain surrendered and was on his knees because he didn’t want one more Charynite to die. He knew the man he surrendered to was a good man who did not want one more Charynite to die. So when good leaders don’t want their people to die, they spend quite some time trying to work out how to achieve things without going to war. It’s that simple!’

He needed to walk. He needed to count, because his blood was jumping. But most of all he needed to show them that he had control over himself. No counting. You can do this without the counting.

‘At the moment Charyn has a stable alliance between the Provincari and the way I see it, they want peace,’ he continued. ‘They need it. They may have the power to decimate a neighbouring kingdom, but they need that power to mend their decimated people.’

Isaboe took his hand. ‘You’d be our perfect envoy to them, Froi, and regardless of who … she is married to, you would still have an opportunity to … see her. Each time you visit.’

‘An arrangement that would work for us all,’ Finnikin said with a shrug. Froi shook his head, wondering if his king would ever understand.

‘That’s very easy for you to say, my lord,’ he said in an even tone. ‘You’re married to the woman you love and your daughter sleeps between you.’

‘Well, if you’d really like to know, she’s getting used to her own bed now, and I wish everyone would stop going on about it,’ Isaboe said.

‘Froi –’ Finnikin said.

But Froi stood. He needed air.

‘Sit,’ Finnikin ordered. Gently.

Froi sat.

‘So you get half the dream, Froi,’ Finnikin said. ‘You can’t have the whole thing because they won’t let you. Not us. So why the anger towards Lumatere?’

‘I’m not angry at you, Finn,’ Froi said, frustrated. ‘But you can’t go around expecting me to spy and be happy with halves and whatnots while you get the whole dream.’

‘I don’t get the whole dream,’ Finnikin said. ‘My whole dream is that my wife wakes in the morning and doesn’t have to worry about an entire kingdom. That all she has to worry about is … I don’t know … looking after her husband and child.’

Isaboe choked out a laugh.

‘Or her husband looking after her, then,’ Finnikin said.

‘Wonderful. I get reduced to either a slave or a helpless idiot,’ she said, with a smile towards Finnikin. But then she was all seriousness. ‘In the games of queens and kings,’ she said to Froi, ‘we leave our dreams at the door and we make do with what we have. Sometimes if we’re fortunate, we still manage to have a good life.’

She thought about her own words for a moment and smiled.

‘We don’t want you in the Charyn palace to spy, Froi,’ she said. ‘Regardless of what you think of the situation with Celie, she is in Belegonia to provide us with an opportunity to talk. Without talk between past adversaries, we don’t stand a chance.’

‘If you want peace, you begin with the valley, then,’ Froi argued back. ‘You begin at the foot of your mountain, Isaboe!’

‘But there’s more to all of this than the valley, Froi,’ Isaboe argued. ‘If Gargarin of Abroi is as smart and noble as I’m sick of hearing he is, why has the man not written to us? To you?’

Why indeed? Froi wondered angrily.

‘When the time comes, will you travel to Charyn and begin talks between the kingdoms?’ she said.

‘When?’ Froi asked.

‘Not now. Let’s take the time to get the treaty right. As you said, perhaps we speak his language first. Water and land and how we can learn from each other. In the meantime you can write Gargarin of Abroi a letter –’

‘No,’ Froi said.

They all stared at him. Regardless of Froi’s fury and betrayal, it had been Gargarin’s order not to make contact with any of them and Froi’s pride demanded he honour that.

‘I’ll write the letter,’ Finnikin said. ‘Let it be seen that Lumatere was the first to make contact.’

In the weeks that followed, Froi found himself travelling to almost all corners of the kingdom. In the forest of Lumatere he attended a remembrance ceremony with Tesadora and the novices of both Lagrami and Sagrami. During his first year in Lumatere, Froi had spent much of his time with Perri guarding Tesadora, the Priestess and the girls. He had accompanied them when they moved their cloister back to the forest of Lumatere after ten years near the Sendecane border. Froi knew back then that he had earned trust from these women at a time when he was desperate for it, and each year when they had the remembrance ceremony, they invited Froi along.

The tree of remembrance had been planted in honour of the Charynite who had smuggled the Lagrami novices out of the palace village. It meant more to Froi now, knowing that Arjuro had been part of the escape. That morning he stood with the Priestess watching Perri carry earth to the separate plots surrounding the cloister. The novices had grown a spectacular garden of healing and Froi knew that Lumaterans from across the kingdom came to these women to cure their ailments.

‘Tesadora says you’re acquainted with the Charynite holy man who took us to her,’ the Priestess said.

Froi nodded. ‘His name’s Arjuro,’ he said. ‘He never spoke of his time in Lumatere.’

‘Yes, well who can blame him?’

‘What happened?’ Froi asked.

The Priestess held out her hand and he took it, escorting her for a walk around the gardens.

‘We met him through John, the Charynite soldier who smuggled us out of the village,’ she said. ‘The lad was working as a scout for the impostor King and heard of the heinous plans in the barracks. They wanted women in the palace as their … playthings and what better girls to have than those of the Lagrami cloister, who were close by in the palace village, and not protected by fathers and brothers?’

‘How did this … John make Arjuro’s acquaintance?’ Froi asked.

‘Earlier that month, John had been sent on a scouting mission by the impostor King’s captain to check the rest of the kingdom. The Charynites were hoping that the Sendecane and Sarnak borders were free of the curse. Your friend the holy man was camping close to the Sarnak border when John came across him. Despite the distance to the cloisters on the Sendecane border, Arjuro took John to meet Tesadora, for no other reason than that the holy man had read an instruction to lead the boy to the novices in his dreams. It would be a most symbolic meeting between them all because weeks later John of Charyn made a decision that would cost him his life. He smuggled us out of the village, for he had found the perfect place to hide us. He took us to your friend the holy man first but the palace riders had followed and we had little time for further acquaintance. The man we now know as Arjuro of Abroi drew us a map to where Tesadora was hiding the Sagrami novices, and then he and John became the decoys. We never saw them again. John of Charyn was seventeen years old when he died. Strange to think he’d be a man of more than thirty today.’

Froi looked out at the garden so similar to Arjuro’s on the roof of the godshouse.

‘Well, Arjuro survived. He’s a brilliant physician,’ Froi said, ‘and if there’s ever peace between Charyn and Lumatere, he’d welcome some of your girls as his students of healing. Your novices are smarter than the collegiati I came across in Charyn.’

Tesadora and Japhra joined them soon after and the Priestess took Tesadora’s hand. Two very different women stood before Froi, but the respect between them was fierce.

‘Are you ever going to allow him a bonding ceremony?’ the Priestess asked shrewdly.

‘Who? Froi?’ Tesadora asked and Froi laughed.

‘You know who she’s talking about,’ he said, looking over to where Perri was working.

‘She asks you every year,’ Japhra said, her voice soft.

‘I don’t need a ceremony,’ Tesadora said.

‘And what if a child comes to your union?’ the Priestess asked.

Tesadora sent her an annoyed look, but the Priestess persisted.

‘The end of the curse for Charyn means the end of the curse for you, Tesadora,’ she said.

‘I’m past the age,’ Tesadora said. Japhra made a sound of disbelief.

‘My mother birthed me at the same age as you,’ the Priestess said. ‘And the Queen’s beloved mother gave birth to her fourth and fifth children well past your age. He’s very virile, Tesadora.’

As if Perri suspected he was being spoken about, he looked across at them from where he was digging.

‘If you allow that man into your bed, be prepared to hold a child at your breast one day.’

‘Remember what John of Charyn said, Tesadora,’ one of the novices joined in. ‘That his mother was a midwife and women came to her at all ages.’

‘Yes, and his father was a man of horses and old mares dropped dead when they were carrying,’ Tesadora said, her tone tart. ‘Enough. All of you.’

Froi accompanied Tesadora and Japhra and two of their girls back up to the mountain that afternoon, his mind going over the talk of the day. There were names and facts he couldn’t get out of his head, for some reason.

Japhra was quiet and when they were well ahead of the others, he asked her about Rafuel.

He had spoken to Japhra about Rafuel last time he was in the valley and she had introduced him to Quintana’s women of the cave.

‘Do you love him?’ he had asked. ‘Rafuel?’

‘Does it matter?’ Japhra said. ‘My heart belongs here with Tesadora and my work, and his heart belonged in Charyn with the Priests and their work.’ She smiled. ‘But he helped me heal and one day I want to do something to repay him.’

Down in the valley, he was taken again to the women who once shared Quintana’s cave. Froi always found it hard to believe Quintana had bonded with these three: two who grumbled and argued, one who giggled and preened. But Cora, Jorja and Florenza loved his girl and they had taken care of her. If there was any reason to spend time with them, it was that. More than anything, he loved the valley. Because the valley was Lumatere and Charyn. Forest and rock and mountain.

‘If I write a letter to the palace,’ he said quietly to Cora, ‘will you sign your name to it?’

‘Why can’t you sign your own name to it?’ she demanded, making a rude sound any time he attempted to take a blade to one of the weeds in her vegetable garden that now lined the path along the stream.

‘Because I promised I wouldn’t,’ Froi said.

Florenza of Nebia nudged Cora.

‘Of course, you’ll do it, Cora. Or I will. I want to write to Phaedra anyway.’

Cora grumbled.

‘Don’t you go upsetting our little savage,’ Cora warned. ‘That’s all you men are good for. Upsetting women.’

‘What’s the letter about?’ Jorja asked.

‘It’s just a story I heard that may interest them,’ Froi said. ‘About a young man named John. John of Charyn.’

Chapter 44

I start my day counting. And it slows down the rage. And only then, when the rage is a melody, do I go see the little King, so he’ll hear a hum of joy the moment I speak. He knows me, this strange little creature. And it feels goods to be known this well. It makes me less lonely. Because I think I’ve lost my song to Froi. It was taken when the spirits of the unborn babes went away. I miss them. I miss blaming them for the rage and my cold, cold heart. In the end, the sum of my vices is all me. I was sired by a tyrant and a gods’ blessed. Sometimes, I’ve no idea which part of me is more frightening.

And most days we’re fine, the little King and me. Phaedra is by our side. ‘Because I’ll never leave you,’ she says, and she fusses and loves, but I hear her sadness deep in the night. There’s sadness all around. During the days, I watch Gargarin write and talk and fight and limp from one tower to the other. Those Provincari parrots are the bane of our lives. He goes to appease, to convince, to plan, to build, to try the guilty and release the innocent. Because the trials have begun and there’s death in the air. The Provincari have sent a judge from every province to assist Gargarin in sentencing the Charynites who acted dishonourably, or worse. They want to try to execute them on palace grounds, but I don’t want their cries heard by my little king, because the cries of the wretched always find a way to wedge themselves deep in the marrow of one’s spirit. I don’t want that for my boy. And Gargarin wins this first battle and we adopt the Lumateran ways. Our traitors are executed out of plain sight of those from the Citavita.

Olivier of Sebastabol does not become one of those condemned to die. Much to my despair. The Provincari pardon him. Brave, brave Olivier, they say. But I remember the eight arrows that pinned Froi down to that rock outside Paladozza. And when he’s a free man, Olivier kneels at my feet and tells me he’ll spend the rest of his life in my service, even as a lowly soldier. Lastborns don’t play soldier, I say. They play nobleman. They play merchant. They play landowner. But Olivier will do anything to prove his worth, he tells me.

‘Where do you want him?’ Perabo asks.

‘In the dungeons,’ I say. ‘Because everyone knows the dungeon master is as much a prisoner as those he guards.’

And weeks pass and a letter arrives from Cora. It’s travelled from the valley to Alonso and to Jidia and then it reaches us. The scribe reads it aloud in the great hall because there are to be no secrets from the Provincari in Charyn. It’s the story of a lad named John of Charyn, hanged as a traitor fourteen years past. Hanged by his own men for saving the lives of twenty-three Lumateran novices. It’s a letter requesting that the mother and father of such a lad be told of their boy’s courage. But I see the letter, written in penmanship so alike to Gargarin’s that I know it’s Froi’s, and later I show it to the little King so he’ll know his father’s hand. And I see the names of John of Charyn’s kin and I shudder at the power of the gods who steer our paths.

‘Do you believe in fate?’ I ask Arjuro when he comes to visit and reads the letter with watery eyes. He laughs, shaking his head.

‘You ask that of me?’

And more weeks pass and nothing changes, except Phaedra’s cries in the night are more muffled, hidden by her love for Tariq and myself.

‘Are you happy here, Phaedra?’ I ask one day.

And she looks up from loving Tariq’s perfect face and I see the fierceness in her eyes.

‘I will never leave you,’ she says.

‘It’s not what I asked.’

And most nights there’s no sleep to be had. There are too many things keeping me awake. Tariq’s cries. The shadow on my balconette that makes my heart leap with one name on my lips. And the cells where the traitors are imprisoned. I wish I could keep away, but I can’t.

Olivier of Sebastabol tells me he knows why I’m there, hovering in the bowels of the palace. He sits at a bench with no more than a flicker of candlelight, recording his facts, his once-handsome face pale and thin.

‘Don’t read my mind, traitor.’

‘You’re here about the girl, Ginny,’ he sighs, looking up. ‘She cries for you often.’

‘Ah, you know her well,’ I mock. ‘She’s knelt at your feet, has she?’

‘She’s condemned to hang a week from now,’ he says. ‘That’s all there is to know.’

But they gnaw at my sleep, these two, and I travel there each day before dawn, hovering at the entrance, praying to the gods that Ginny will batter her head against the stone so her death will be at her own hand, and not mine.

‘This is no place for you,’ Olivier of Sebastabol says.

‘Do you think your concern for me is going to change my mind about you?’ I demand to know.

‘No, but I’ll still express it,’ he says. ‘Whatever has happened, my actions will always be determined by my need to keep you safe, my queen.’

‘I’m not a queen.’

‘You were Tariq’s bride,’ he says. ‘Tariq was a king. You are his queen in my eyes.’

Olivier stands and lights a lantern. ‘Come,’ he says quietly. ‘You need to say your piece before her death, or it will haunt you for the rest of your life.’ And I let him guide me through the damp darkness. It’s a place to get lost, this labyrinth of misery. But I know the way because I’ve been here before. Waiting for a noose. I know the terror that taunts, and the piss that stains your legs from fear. I know the stench wedged deep in the stone, I know the sounds of the rats scurrying, the touch of their whiskers on your skin.

And when I hold up the light and see her huddled in the corner of her filthy chamber, my hatred for her is even stronger.

‘I despise you,’ I say. ‘I always did. I despised your lamenting. I despised your need to blame everyone for lost dreams. Poor, poor pathetic Ginny. What a life she could have had if not for the lastborns,’ I mock. ‘I despise your weakness. Your desire to satisfy the needs of men, but not your own. I despise that I can’t remove from my memory the image of Phaedra and Cora and Florenza and Jorja on their knees waiting for death.’

And I’m weeping because I’m weak in that way. It’s another unwelcome gift the unborn savage spirits left me with: the need to cry for everything and everyone.

Ginny crawls to the iron bars to speak.

‘Not a word,’ I say. ‘I never want to hear your voice again, you wretch. I never want to see your face again.’

And the day is announced by the cock that crows and she’s on her knees begging, sobbing, and I remember the time with the street lords when they took this palace and wiped out my bloodline. I remember the begging. Aunt Mawfa. The cousins. The stewards. The uncles. All begging for life and Gargarin in the cell beside me saying, ‘Close your ears, Reginita. There’s nothing you can do to save them. We’re powerless.’

But I’ll never be powerless again.

‘There’s a tailor passing through from Nebia,’ I tell her, because today is not a day for dying. My son spoke that to me with his smile. ‘The tailor needs an apprentice and you’re going to join him. And you’re going to learn everything you believe was taken away from you by the lastborns. So when you fail again, you will have no excuse but your pathetic self.’

And I reach a hand inside the bars and grip at the filth of her hair till it binds to my hand. ‘Don’t dare show your face in this Citavita or in Phaedra’s valley as long as I breathe, or I will have you cut in pieces and fed to the hounds.’

‘Phaedra’s valley.’

I wake with those words on my lips on the day Grijio of Paladozza arrives and I know it’s a sign. I count so I can find a way to breathe, watching Phaedra of Alonso hold Tariq in her arms, and I know I have to do what is right, so I speak the words. And she weeps and she weeps and begs me, but I numb my heart to her cries.

‘Go back to where you came from, Phaedra,’ I say. ‘You’re not needed anymore.’

And for days after, I walk through that strange sleep with Tariq in my arms and he takes me places I don’t want to go. Searching for her. Isaboe of Lumatere. She with the stealth and She with the strength. And my son promises me that if we find her, I’ll sing my song again. He knows, because there’s a spirit inside him seeking her. But in Tariq’s waking hours he wails, and it curdles my blood because I know what is true. They’ve poisoned my son. So we stay in my chamber, Tariq and I, day in and day out, a dagger in my hand as he wails with all his might. Until Gargarin comes and sits by my side and I see the sadness in his eyes and for the first time I’ve known him, Gargarin of Abroi weeps.

‘You’re letting the demons win, Quintana,’ he says. ‘He won’t want this for you. Froi won’t want this for you.’

And he holds out a hand and takes me down the tower steps to the courtyard where travellers have arrived. A man and a woman, their faces gaunt and pale.

‘You sent for them,’ Gargarin said. ‘Be gentle, they’re frightened.’

And clutching Tariq to me, I walk to them, because I know who they are.

‘Your son was a traitor who was executed,’ I tell them and I hear Gargarin’s intake of breath beside me. I see the woman’s legs crumple beneath her as the man holds her upright.

Tesadora says to coat my words. So I try again. I try a gentle voice. I use the voice that belonged to the Reginita.

I tell them about their son who was taken to Lumatere fourteen years past. I tell them that he and Arjuro hid the young novices of Lagrami, who went on to save the lives of many. I tell them their son was arrested and sentenced to hang while Arjuro was imprisoned for ten long years. And I tell them that I want to understand. I beg them to share it with me.

‘How do you raise a boy of substance?’ I ask her. ‘Will you stay and teach me?’ I look at them both. ‘Soon we’ll have a stable of the best horses in the kingdom, Hamlyn of Charyn. Is that not what you were known for? The best horse trainer outside Jidia? Will you and Arna stay and teach me how to raise a good man?’

My son wails in my arms. The little King wants to know, too. He wants to be that son.

And Arna holds out her hands to take Tariq in hers, her fingers going to his mouth, holding up his perfect lips and I see the rawness of his gums.

‘Your boy’s teeth are bringing him pain,’ she says quietly. ‘It’s why he cries. And he needs to be bathed.’

And so we bathe him, surrounded by his guards, just in case his little head slips. Tariq gurgles with laughter, his arms and legs flailing like the strange sea urchins I’ve seen in the books of the ancients. And Arna of Charyn places the cloth in my hand. ‘They love water,’ she says gently. ‘You try.’

We take Tariq from the tub and Dorcas holds up the blanket to wrap him, all the guards fussing. Arna shows me how to wipe him dry and I let Dorcas hold him. Because Dorcas is my favourite. He choked the life out of Bestiano of Nebia.

‘Can I hold him?’ Fekra asks.

‘Can I?’

‘Can I?’

But then I place Tariq in the crook of his shalamon’s arms and Gargarin’s mouth twists into its bittersweet beauty.

‘When a king hides behind the walls of a castle, his people are frightened,’ he says quietly.

So with Lirah and Arna by my side, surrounded by the riders, I travel through the Citavita and we jostle through the people, more people than I’ve ever seen except for the day of the hanging. I hear the weeping and the joy and I dare not look for the noose because Gargarin says it is not there to be found. But when a woman grips my arm, I jump from fear.

‘I’ve not bled for months, Your Highness,’ she sobs. ‘I’m weary all the time and I don’t know what to do. I’m frightened to squat over the privy in case a babe slips out.’

Dorcas gently guides me along, but I pull free.

‘Are you a fool?’ I demand to know of her. ‘It won’t be slipping out for months!’

So I order the girl up to the godshouse where Arjuro will soften her fears, but the next day in our chamber, I hear a bellow from across the gravina.

‘Quintana!’

And I step outside to the balconette where a furious Arjuro is standing on the other side of the gravina.

‘Here. In the godshouse. Now!’

When we reach the path up to the godshouse with our guards, Gargarin and Arna and I stop in shock.

‘He’ll kill you,’ Gargarin mutters, and I see the road is lined with women, weeping. Desperate. Every woman carrying a child in her belly, from the Citavita and beyond, is waiting to see Arjuro. And inside, we push through the long line of people and suddenly Lirah is there, taking Tariq in her arms.

‘Arjuro is furious,’ she said. ‘And to make matters worse the collegiati arrived today and they may be good at reading books about women carrying babies but they have no idea how to speak to women carrying babies.’

Day after day we spend our mornings at the godshouse. There’s too much confusion and shouting and crying, most of it coming from the collegiati. And then a week later while Arna shows the women how to hold Tariq so one day they’ll know how to hold their own, we hear a voice outside from the godshouse entrance.

‘I’m here, my loves. No need for despair,’ Tippideaux of Paladozza says, and by that afternoon she’s created rosters and assigned chambers and shouted orders and terrorised the collegiati into submission. She tells us all, because she does enjoy an audience, that since the betrayal of Olivier of Sebastabol, she has no trust in men except for her father and brother.

‘I swear I’ll die a barren woman and give my life to those whose wombs bear fruit.’

I see Arjuro and Lirah exchange a look.

‘Make peace with Olivier the traitor,’ Arjuro mutters. ‘Or I’ll kill you all.’

Later, Arjuro walks us down to the Citavita and I let him hold Tariq because it brings them both pleasure. We pass more women with swollen bellies hurrying towards the godshouse and Arjuro presses a kiss to Tariq’s outstretched fingers.

‘She’s mocking me, runt of our litter,’ Arjuro tells him. ‘The Oracle is mocking me for choosing a man to share my bed. And her punishment is that I spend the rest of eternity staring between the legs of women.’

And for the first time since I can remember, I laugh, and I watch my little king leap in his uncle’s arms at the sound of it.

Chapter 45

When Perri arrived at Lord August’s farm one morning while they were fixing the fence, Froi knew it was time.

‘Can we borrow him, Augie?’ Perri asked.

‘For how long?’ Lord August said, not looking up from his task.

Perri didn’t respond.

‘Last time you rode by to “borrow” him we didn’t see him for nine months and he returned with a body full of scars and an awful Charynite accent,’ Lord August complained, glancing at Froi. ‘When do you get to be ours for always?’ he asked, his voice low.

‘Do I have to be here to belong to you?’ Froi asked. ‘Can’t I belong to you wherever I am?’

In the kitchen making honey brew with the village women, Lady Abian had the good sense not to ask too many questions.

‘Is August blustering out there?’ she asked quietly.

‘A bit,’ Froi murmured. ‘A gentle early-winter bluster, I’d call it.’

She pressed a kiss to his cheek and he went to speak, but she held up a hand.

‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep.’

At the palace stable Perri insisted on Froi taking Beast as Trevanion fitted him with his weapons.

‘Your … Gargarin never wrote back,’ Finnikin said, standing beside Isaboe and Sir Topher.

‘After the letter Finnikin wrote promising to share ideas with Charyn about reservoirs and waterwheels and anything else we’ve been able to translate from the chronicles Celie stole … I mean, borrowed from Belegonia,’ Isaboe said.

Froi was confused. ‘Gargarin loves talk of reservoirs and waterwheels.’

Sir Topher handed him a satchel of documents. ‘Tell him we don’t beg and if he chooses not to respond to our attempts of peace, we don’t offer again.’

Finnikin nodded. ‘First time. Last time.’

Froi placed the satchel in the saddlebag.

‘You travel through the Osterian border. It’s quicker from here than if you travel from the mountain through the valley,’ Perri said.

Too many abrupt instructions.

‘You tell them that under no circumstances will the Queen travel to Charyn, so not to make that part of their terms,’ Finnikin said.

‘Anything else?’ Froi asked, mounting Beast.

‘Yes, you can at least look a bit upset about leaving,’ Isaboe said.

Froi rolled his eyes.

‘Did he just roll his eyes at me?’ she asked the others.

‘I’ll be back in two weeks!’ Froi said.

‘Yes, I think you said that last time we sent you off to meet with Gargarin of Abroi and he cast a spell on you,’ she said.

Froi held out a hand to her and she looked away.

‘I don’t shake hands. I’m not a Charynite.’

He sighed and dismounted, embracing her.

‘Trust me when I say that Gargarin of Abroi’s spell has well and truly worn off.’

Chapter 46

Phaedra and Grijio reached the rocky outcrop that marked the beginning of the road from Alonso to the Lumateran valley. They had left the Citavita days ago and Phaedra’s heart had hardened the further they travelled away from the palace. She didn’t know what faced her in the valley. It had been more than six months since she left and she was frightened that everything had changed. But how could it have stayed the same, when she herself had changed? Who was Phaedra of Alonso after all this time? She had lived her entire existence as a lastborn, controlled by Quintana of Charyn’s curse.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to visit your father?’ Grijio asked as they glimpsed the walls of Alonso in the distance.

Phaedra nodded. ‘I need to write to him first. There is much distance between us and it won’t be solved with a visit.’

They continued riding towards the valley and she felt the anger build up inside her.

‘I hate her,’ she suddenly announced.

Grijio stared at her, taken aback by the outburst.

‘You don’t mean that,’ he said patiently.

‘Oh, I do,’ Phaedra said. ‘She’s cruel and she’s cold and she doesn’t understand love. Look at the way she treated you, Grijio. You come for a visit and she sends you away instantly.’

Grijio shrugged. ‘I can see her anytime. Gargarin’s offered me a place in the palace as an envoy. And anyway, I jumped at the chance to see Froi.’

Grijio dismounted his horse and shuffled through his pack. When he found what he was looking for, he held out a letter to her.

Phaedra recognised the writing and she refused to take it. She refused to be controlled by another’s cruel plan, or by a pledge made before she was born. But Grijio continued to hold out his hand.

‘Quintana gave me four absolute instructions,’ he said firmly. ‘And I’m not to return until my work is done.’

Phaedra walked away and sat on the rock face that gave her a view of the caves. On a clear day, she’d be able to see Alonso to the west, and she wondered if she would be better off there. Grijio came to sit beside her, taking her hand and placing the letter there.

‘She’s playing with you, Grijio,’ Phaedra warned. ‘It’s what she’ll do now with the little power she has.’

‘If you say another word, Phaedra, I think you’ll have much regret,’ he said sadly.

Phaedra refused to open the letter. In the distance she could see Lucian’s mountain and she kept her gaze fixed ahead. The sun was setting early and her body was beginning to feel the cold and all she could think of was Lucian’s fleece that made him resemble a bear.

‘Did I tell you that once I sat out on a rooftop in early winter and got a chill and almost died?’ Grijio said with an exaggerated sniff. ‘We’re very fragile, us lastborns.’

She glanced at him and could see that, despite the soft, fair curls and gentle face, this lad was steadfast in his decisions and she knew he would not move until she read the letter. So she opened it.

Dearest Phaedra,

I asked Grij not to give this to you until you reached the ridge before the valley, so you wouldn’t turn back. Because I know you well, and I couldn’t bear you not taking the journey back to the valley where I know you belong.

I remember on the day I was separated from Froi outside Paladozza, I learnt that I could be loved. That was his greatest gift to me. From you, I learnt that I could love my people. Don’t ever underestimate the power of that. I needed to learn. How can I guide the little King without that lesson?

We speak the words gods’ blessed again and again in this kingdom. I’m not sure what they mean. But know this. That what you have in spirit is a gift indeed, Phaedra of Alonso. It’s a true blessing from the gods. It’s one I will be grateful for each day of my life. My king will be raised with the privilege of his mother having known you.

When I saw the list of consorts I knew I would never have true happiness in my spousal bed. But you love your Mont, Phaedra. So it’s only fair that one of us finds deep happiness. You said repeatedly that you’d never leave me and I knew you’d keep that pledge. But what I feared most is that you’d come to hate me for trapping you in the Citavita.

As I write this I feel as if I’m broken in all these pieces that only you and Froi and little Tariq can put together. I will miss your presence every day of my life.

Quintana of Charyn

Phaedra stared at the words. Read them again and again. She scrambled to her feet, hurried to her horse and mounted it.

‘Take me back, Grijio. I’m begging you.’

Grijio shook his head and got to his feet.

‘She said that if I returned you to her, she’d never speak to me again.’

‘Take me back,’ she cried. ‘Please. You don’t know her, Grij. You don’t know how lonely she can get.’

‘I’ve lost too many friends, Phaedra,’ he said. ‘Through betrayal or distance or circumstance. I couldn’t bear to lose her.’

Grijio was resolute as he mounted his horse. ‘My pledge to Quintana was that I’d get you to your valley.’

They arrived later that afternoon and her heart leapt to see the busyness of the camp dwellers’ day from where they were standing on the path behind the caves. Their lives seemed full of talk. It’s what she had noticed these past months. That Charynites had found their voices. But she wondered how long the valley dwellers would stay here. Perhaps a new Charyn meant there was a place for them across the kingdom. Gargarin’s focus was to bring the dry lands back to life for farming. It would take the pressure off the overcrowded provinces. In the months to come when children were born to this valley, the people would have to leave and find a home, not a temporary camp. Phaedra wondered what would become of them all.

She led Grijio between the caves and saw Cora and Jorja in a vegetable patch crowded with produce and colour. Close by, a few of the men were roasting a boar on a spit, and women were scrubbing clothes by the stream. Phaedra’s heart leapt to see one or two of the camp dwellers with swollen bellies. She gave a sob of laughter, and then someone pointed up to where she sat astride the horse, and as Phaedra dismounted, the valley dwellers rushed to greet her from caves above and below. Cora and Jorja heard the commotion and turned and suddenly she was running towards them and she was clasped in their arms weeping.

‘Look at you,’ Jorja said.

‘You’ve a bit more weight,’ Cora joined in.

‘Well, there’s a bit more food to be had in the palace,’ Phaedra laughed, looking back to search for Grijio.

‘How is she?’ Jorja asked. ‘How are they both? Is he as beautiful as they say?’

Phaedra held a hand to her chest. More tears because there would never be words to describe the little King.

‘Enough of the crying,’ Cora snapped, but she hugged Phaedra all the same.

Grijio reached them as Harker and Kasabian approached and Phaedra completed the introductions.

‘We’ve met, sir,’ Grijio said to Harker, shaking his hand. ‘On the day you took this valley.’

‘How are things in the Citavita?’ Harker asked.

‘Hopeful, sir.’

Grijio searched through his pack and handed Harker the mail. ‘These are for the Lumaterans. Is there a chance they can reach the palace soon? Gargarin of Abroi was very insistent.’

Harker shook his head. ‘When it comes to messages and mail, we have to wait for the Monts to visit and then it’s up to chance when they next visit their palace. Sometimes a week passes. But we’ll do our best.’

‘I’m presuming that I’d be expecting too much if Froi of Lumatere was here in the valley?’ Grij said.

Harker shook his head again with a grimace. ‘He’s on his way to Charyn, the way we’ve heard it.’

Phaedra turned to Grijio, understanding his disappointment.

‘Rest first and then go,’ she urged, knowing he’d want to see his friend. ‘You may catch him in the Citavita if you’re lucky.’

‘And which of you is Cora?’ Grijio asked.

‘Me,’ Cora snapped. ‘Why?’

He retrieved a tiny purse from his pocket and held it out to her. Everyone crowded around Cora, curious to see what it was.

‘She’s rewarded you with gold,’ someone murmured.

‘Perhaps a trinket.’

They waited as Cora emptied the contents into the palm of her hand and soon there were sighs of disappointment. But Cora looked up and caught her brother’s eye and Phaedra saw a smile on both their faces as they studied the seeds.

‘Where would she have found herself a pair of Klin tree seeds?’ Kasabian asked, as Cora placed them in his hand. He clenched a fist and pressed a kiss to it. ‘These seeds grow hope,’ he said.

‘I have one more letter,’ Grijio said. ‘Quintana said I had to deliver it by hand. To Florenza of Nebia.’

‘My daughter?’ Harker asked, perplexed.

‘By hand, you say. Why?’ Jorja asked.

Grijio shrugged. ‘Quintana said I could not leave until the letter was read out loud, and then I had to wait for Florenza of Nebia’s response. So then Her Highness would be sure it was delivered.’

‘I’ll go find her,’ Harker said.

More of the valley dwellers came to greet Phaedra and she introduced them to Grijio, who seemed fascinated by the way they lived.

‘For now, every family is assigned to their own cave with ample privacy,’ Jorja said. ‘It was difficult for us during the time of Donashe and his friends. Families were separated.’

‘But still a blessing that our Quintana found herself in a cave with you women,’ Grijio said.

‘Phaedra!’ they heard Florenza cry, and next moment they were in each other’s arms, laughing and crying.

‘I was with the Mont girls when we heard the news,’ Florenza said. ‘Are you back for good?’

‘I am indeed.’

‘And how is she?’ Florenza asked solemnly. ‘I dream of them both. All the time, I do. Is she happy?’

Phaedra didn’t know how to answer that truthfully.

‘The little King is the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen in my life,’ she said. ‘Is that not true, Grij?’

Grij was staring at Florenza, who was now staring at Grij with a hand held to her face to hide her nose, which had survived its ordeal in the caves with quite a large bump.

‘Yes … yes, of course,’ he said, flustered, clearing his throat.

‘Father said you have something,’ Florenza said, and Phaedra watched as Jorja’s hand brushed a leaf from Florenza’s hair surreptitiously. Cora exchanged a look with Phaedra.

Grijio removed a letter from his pack and handed it to Florenza.

‘She requested that you read it aloud before me,’ he said. ‘So then she’d be sure that it was read.’

‘Why?’ Cora asked bluntly.

‘Hurry up and read it, Florenza,’ Jorja said.

Florenza broke the seal of the letter.

‘Dear Florenza,

‘I hope all is fine with you. Phaedra will tell you more about life here. The weather is quite unspectacular and so are most of those who live in the palace …’

‘They are,’ Phaedra agreed.

‘Of course, I’m yet to meet a girl such as you, Florenza, who crawled through the sewers of Nebia to save the life of those Serkers and whose nose was broken as she fearlessly fought a man who was a threat to myself and the future King of Charyn …’

Florenza touched her nose again, self-consciously.

‘You crawled through the sewers?’ Grij asked in awe. ‘To save the Serkers?’

‘And broke her nose as she fearlessly fought a man who was a threat to Quintana and the future King of Charyn,’ Jorja reminded him.

Florenza removed her hand from her nose and continued reading.

‘Anyway, enough of all that. I was wondering if you’d like to come and visit some time. You can give your response to Grijio, the brilliant scholarly son of the Provincaro of Paladozza and one of the heroic masterminds of my rescue in the Citavita.’

Phaedra burst out a laugh and stared at Cora. This time it was Florenza who looked up in awe.

‘You were the mastermind?’ Florenza asked Grijio.

He waved a hand in embarrassment. ‘One of them, anyway,’ he murmured.

‘Our little savage has turned matchmaker,’ Cora muttered. ‘What have they done to her?’

Lucian finished helping Orly with the fence post and they both stood back to assess the work. Lotte joined them soon after and handed Lucian a hot brew. There wasn’t much talk between them, although he could sense that Lotte was dying to say something and Lucian knew exactly what that was.

‘Lady Zarah,’ Lotte said politely. ‘She seems a fine girl.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Lucian said curtly. He was sick and tired of being asked at every turn if it was true that he was betrothed. No, he wanted to shout. Fabrications from an overzealous lord who wants a cut in our fleece market!

But he held his tongue.

‘Some are saying she’ll be your new wife, Lucian.’

Orly muttered something rude and Lucian had to agree.

Lotte peered beyond him towards the path that ran through the mountain.

‘Is that one of your aunts?’ she asked, somewhat alarmed. ‘Is she running? Sweet Goddess, Lucian. Something’s happened.’

Lucian leapt over Orly’s post to reach his aunt.

‘Lucian, Lucian,’ she called out, her face lit with excitement. ‘Phaedra’s returned to the valley!’

His mouth was suddenly dry. His heart was pounding too fast, his face felt aflame. Lotte and Orly caught up with them, Lotte trilling with excitement. He had to get away from them all to think clearly. He had to work out what to do and how not to ruin things. But he couldn’t do it here, and it was clear to Lucian that there’d be no more work done with Lotte and Orly, so he gently steered his aunt back home.

‘Too much work to be done around here to be wasting time,’ he said to her calmly. They passed Jory and the lads, who were rounding up the sheep on Yael’s spread.

‘See,’ he said, pointing. ‘The lads have got the right idea. Work and no talk.’

‘Lucian,’ Jory hollered, jumping from his mount and running towards them. ‘Phaedra’s back.’

‘Be quick! You’ll lose her again!’ another cousin shouted.

In the Mont market square, Lucian was surrounded instantly. By everyone. He hadn’t seen such a gathering since Isaboe had returned for the first time since the death of her child. The mountain had celebrated that day. Finnikin had begged Lucian, ‘Tell them that their sorrow will break her. She’s come for their joy.’ And the Monts had tried.

Today, he saw a truer version of that joy.

‘I’m going down to Lumatere,’ he muttered and there was a collective sigh of annoyance.

‘Lucian, don’t be ridiculous,’ his cousin Alda snapped. ‘If you’re going to betroth yourself to that useless Tascan’s daughter, you’ll be insulting the women of this mountain and the memory of your poor mother.’

‘Don’t know what was wrong with the first wife,’ Pitts the cobbler said.

‘Yes, yes,’ most agreed.

‘I always said that if Phaedra of Alonso’s people weren’t cursed, those hips of hers were made for child-bearing,’ Ettore the blacksmith piped up.

Lucian caught his yata’s eye and he could see she was seething about something. She turned to them all, fire blazing in her eyes.

‘When Lady Zarah visited last, the little miss turned up her nose at the food on our table! I jest you not!’ she said.

There were gasps of outrage all around.

‘A good riddance to her now that Phaedra’s back!’

There was a cheer at Yata’s words.

Goddess forbid, Lucian had to get off this mountain.

Chapter 47

Most things had changed.

At the bridge leading to the Citavita was a guard station. No one was permitted to cross without dismounting. A garrison was camped on a piece of land by the road, swarming with soldiers asking questions and allowing entry onto the bridge, one person at a time.

‘What’s your business?’ Froi was asked. He recognised no one among the guards.

‘I’m from Lumatere,’ he replied. Lies only created problems. Even so, the man looked at him suspiciously. He indicated for Froi to raise his arms.

‘Shoulder, ankle and here,’ Froi said, patting the sword in its scabbard at his side. ‘All weapons revealed. Is there a rule about being armed?’

‘No, but there’s a rule about having a smart mouth.’

And some things stayed the same.

Unlike every other person before and after him, Froi found himself escorted across the bridge. Beast was just as disgusted. Halfway across, Froi stopped, daring to look down the gravina and then ahead through the mist at the splendour of the Citavita’s stone piled high.

How could he have imagined that Gargarin’s sigh that first time they arrived here was of anything but pleasure?

He continued walking, his heart thumping with anticipation. Home, it sang. You’re home. But he argued back with that part of his heart that couldn’t let go of the Flatlands. Until he stepped onto the Citavita. Home, his heart sang.

He steered Beast off the bridge and looked around. There were no street lords demanding a coin for use of the bridge. There was no wretched line of Citavitans desperate to leave the carnage behind. Instead, a marketplace was set up at the base of the rock and there was haggling and shouting. And laughter. Froi had never heard laughter in the Citavita.

He saw the sentinels instantly, guarding the roof of the Crow’s Inn. He imagined Scarpo’s men would be swarming the capital now that most of its people were returning to their homes. As he was led towards the walls of the city, a dozen or so soldiers came striding towards him.

‘Now that doesn’t surprise me,’ the guard escorting him said. ‘A welcoming party.’

‘My favourite type of party in the world,’ Froi muttered.

Could he expect less, leading a Serker horse?

‘I’m actually on my way to the godshouse to see the Priestling Arjuro,’ Froi explained. He wasn’t much in the mood for being interrogated by a group of soldiers who didn’t know him and wouldn’t believe a word he said.

‘The Priestling’s a busy man.’

Before they could exchange another word, one of the approaching soldiers broke free and lifted Froi off the ground in an embrace.

Mort.

‘Where you been, Froi?’

Mort was shoved out of the way and Florik was there.

‘We’ve been taking odds to see whether you’d return,’ the Lasconian said.

Froi looked from one to the other, laughing. ‘You’re both on the same duty?’

Mort and Florik placed arms around each other’s shoulders. They looked strange in uniform, but it suited them.

‘I’m teaching him thing or two,’ Mort said. ‘Lasconian lads know nothing.’

‘Except how to speak better than Turlan lads,’ Florik said. ‘So I’m teaching him a thing or two.’

Within moments, more of the fortress lads were surrounding him and Froi embraced and shook hands with as many as he recognised.

‘We take things from here,’ Mort told Froi’s guard. Mort moved in closer. ‘I got rank,’ he whispered. ‘Turlans outrank everyone on this rock.’

‘Who says?’ Froi asked.

‘She say. She don’t get much power, but she picks whoever protects Citavita, and our Quintana pick the Turlans.’

Smart girl. No one would protect Quintana and Tariq better than her kin.

‘How are things here?’ Froi asked.

How is Quintana and Gargarin and Lirah and Arjuro and my son? he meant.

‘Gettin’ there slow-wise,’ Mort said. ‘But gettin’ there all the same.’

‘What you doin’ here, Froi?’ another Turlan asked. ‘You here for the –’

The lad was nudged into silence. Froi saw their unease, so he held up his pack. ‘Palace business from Lumatere,’ he said.

Mort shoved Froi playfully. ‘Told you lads this one no soldier boy. He’s a palace big man.’

Froi laughed at the description.

‘We’d take you up there, but Scarpo would skin us if we left our post,’ Florik said.

Mort pointed up to the roof of the Crow’s Inn. ‘That’s where I aim from and if there a problem, fastest lad in Charyn here races to the castle and let ’em know,’ he said, shoving at Florik’s head.

Florik looked slightly sheepish. ‘Second fastest.’

‘Did you see Grij on your travels?’ one of the lads from Lascow asked. ‘He was on his way to Lumatere to deliver Phaedra of Alonso back to the valley.’

Froi shook his head, annoyed to think he missed seeing Grij in Lumatere of all places.

‘He would have travelled another path,’ he said. ‘I came through Osteria.’

‘He’ll be back soon,’ Florik said. ‘So you wait for him, Froi. He’ll not like missing you twice.’

‘And come see us at our post.’

Froi promised to return to the inn and made his way up the city wall to the road that led to the godshouse. He couldn’t avoid seeing the castle battlements, but he forced himself to look away.

On the path above the caves towards the godshouse, he was bewildered to see a cluster of women coming and going.

The Priestling’s a busy man, the soldier had said. Busy doing what?

Inside the godshouse it was stranger still. More women, as well as the collegiati Froi recognised from his days in the caves under Sebastabol. The entire lower level of the godshouse was bustling with activity. Questions were being asked, orders were being given. And then Froi noticed the swollen bellies and understood why.

He gently pushed past the women up the steps, and at each floor Froi glimpsed well-lit rooms and once-empty cells now decorated with a sense of home. He thought of these steps. Where he had first discovered that Gargarin was his father. The cells where he had found out for certain that Lirah was his mother. Each flight he climbed was a memory and the closer he got to the top, the more hurried his steps became. Because he had missed them all with an ache that had never gone away and he was desperate to see them. That was it, he convinced himself. Just one glance at them all. The higher he climbed, the less noise he heard, and by the time he reached the Hall of Illumination, the godshouse had returned to its quiet self.

Inside the room, he could see through the windows out onto the Citavita, and from the balconette out onto the palace.

Arjuro sat at a long bench, head bent over his books; plants and stems spread across the space before him. Froi caught his breath.

‘If you’re here about the Jidian invitation, tell them I’d rather swive a goat,’ Arjuro murmured, not looking up.

Froi stepped closer.

‘Must I, blessed Arjuro?’

Arjuro looked up in shock.

Froi grinned. ‘For those of us at the godshouse are well known for swiving goats and I’d prefer not to give them weapons of ridicule.’

Arjuro stood and grabbed Froi into an embrace, his arms trembling. Froi pushed him away, unable to get rid of the grin on his face.

‘Sentimental, Arjuro? You of all people.’

Arjuro studied his face. ‘Me of all people can be as sentimental as he pleases.’

And then he was taking Froi’s hand, leading him to the steps of the roof garden.

‘Lirah,’ Arjuro called out. ‘Come down and greet our guest.’

Froi caught his breath again.

‘If it’s about the Jidian invitation, I said no,’ she shouted back.

‘The Jidian Provincara’s in town, I’m supposing,’ Froi said quietly.

‘They’re all coming to town,’ Arjuro said with a grimace. ‘And everyone wants to visit the godshouse.’

Froi nodded, and suddenly he understood. It’s what Mort and Florik stopped the lad from saying outside the inn.

‘They’re here for her betrothment?’ Froi asked.

Arjuro nodded. ‘Five days from now, they decide who he is.’

‘Lirah!’ Arjuro bellowed again. He pointed up, rolling his eyes. ‘They say the Ambassador of Nebia’s wife has taken over Lirah’s roof garden in the palace.’

‘Lirah’s prison garden, you mean,’ Froi said.

‘Lirah says it’s her garden. She’s livid. So she’s determined to make our garden better.’

Our? Froi shook his head with disbelief. The idea of Arjuro and Lirah having something together was too strange.

‘Are you not going to come down for me, Lirah?’ Froi called out softly. ‘I’ve come a long way and I’d hate to return to the Lumaterans and tell them how inhospitable you are here in Charyn.’

There was no response but suddenly Lirah peered down the steps, the sun behind her illuminating her face. She had kept her hair short and without the grime of travel and with her sea-blue dress, she looked regal.

She descended the steps and Froi helped her down the last few and then she was there before him.

‘What’s this?’ she asked gruffly, touching the fluff of hair on his chin.

‘A pathetic attempt at a beard,’ he said. ‘It’s not working, is it? Which is so unfair when you think of the face of hair Arjuro had when I first met him.’

She smiled. ‘Regardless of their might as warriors, the Serkan lads could never grow one.’

Lirah reached out and touched Froi’s face as if she couldn’t believe he was standing before her.

‘Wait until you see him,’ she said, and there were tears in her eyes. ‘Wait until you see the wonder that’s our boy. Sometimes when they smuggle me into the palace we lie there, Gargarin and I, with this little bundle between us and we count all his fingers and toes. And in all the joy it’s only a reminder of how much we lost and there are some days that I don’t think he can bear the memory.’

Froi took her hand and pressed a kiss to it.

‘Gargarin thought he found a way,’ she said. ‘But now he believes it’s lost and he’s bitter, Froi. Why were your Lumaterans so cruel? If they loved you, they would not have been so cruel.’

‘Cruel?’ he asked. ‘Lirah, Gargarin left me behind without a thought. That’s cruel. The Lumaterans have proved themselves to me over and over again. What has he done?’

Arjuro joined them with a jug of brew and a bowl of broth.

‘Have you seen our guest?’ Lirah asked quietly, and Froi shook his head and followed her into a chamber. Its walls were adorned with rugs on one side, books stacked high on the other. A cot and fireplace occupied one corner. At first Froi thought there was a child lying on the bed, but then he realised the truth.

‘You can speak to him. He can hear you.’

Froi took a step closer, wincing at the skeletal figure that lay before him.

‘Hello, Rafuel. Do you remember me?’ Froi asked, his voice catching to see the man in such a state.

Lirah took Rafuel’s hand. ‘He’s to save his breath and get himself well,’ she said. ‘If anyone can get you back on your feet, it’s Arjuro, isn’t that so, Rafuel?’

There was no response. Just the stare. Rafuel was all eyes in a shrunken body. His left eye was half-closed and there was a scar across his lip.

‘Let’s get you seated upright,’ Arjuro said to Rafuel. Froi helped, suddenly overcome by emotion. He couldn’t recognise Rafuel as the same animated man who had shown him the way a Charynite danced, even though he had been in chains. Froi sat down beside Rafuel on the bed.

‘This one loves nothing better than when the little King visits,’ Arjuro said, placing a spoon to Rafuel’s mouth. ‘His eyes light up like a beacon.’

Froi looked away, unable to watch. He had never seen a man look so much like death. It almost seemed too cruel to keep him alive.

‘How did you come to be here, Rafuel?’ Froi asked, knowing that it would be one of the others who would answer. But he didn’t want to insult the man into believing he didn’t exist.

‘Gargarin demanded it the moment we found out he lived,’ Lirah said. ‘Rafuel belongs here with us. It all began with him, didn’t it, dear friend, with those silly cats? Where would we all be without Rafuel?’

‘I can take over here,’ Froi said, holding his hand out for the bowl. ‘I’ve got much to tell you, Rafuel. About the valley and the women who beg for news of you.’

He returned to where Lirah and Arjuro sat in the hall, his emotions ragged.

‘Will he get better?’

Arjuro shrugged. ‘We don’t know what’s broken inside of him up here,’ he said, pointing to his head. ‘We don’t know how much of it came from the beating he received upon his arrest or from being left for dead in that mine shaft.’

‘But when he first arrived, he could barely open his eyes,’ Lirah said. ‘Quintana visits with Tariq every day and it’s been a revelation to see how much he’s changed in the presence of the boy.’

Froi was suddenly envious of them all. Even Rafuel with his decrepit body. They had each other, despite the fact that they lived in separate places. Quintana and Tariq and Lirah and Arjuro and Gargarin and even Rafuel hadn’t needed Froi. They had begun to thrive without him.

‘Will she want to see me?’ he asked quietly.

Lirah didn’t respond.

‘Would that stop you?’ she asked.

‘That means she doesn’t want to.’

‘I didn’t say that at all.’ Lirah sighed. ‘I think … I think Quintana believes you’ve forsaken her.’

‘Me?’ he asked. ‘I’ve been waiting for Gargarin to do something. He promised to do something! I’ve been waiting.’

‘Gargarin said he wrote,’ Lirah said.

‘Well, he didn’t. He lied.’

‘No,’ Lirah said firmly, ‘he doesn’t lie to me.’

Froi made a sound of disbelief.

‘Especially about our son!’

Froi was on his feet pacing.

‘Do you think you can get me into the palace without the Provincari’s people knowing?’ he asked

Arjuro chuckled. ‘It’s our favourite sport,’ he said, winking at Lirah. ‘And you’ve picked an easy night.’

An easy night, Froi learnt, was when Perabo was on watch. The keeper of the keys studied him intently at the gatehouse, a lantern in his hand held up to Froi’s face.

‘You took your time,’ Perabo muttered as he escorted him to the second tower. ‘Head down. Let them think you’re Arjuro.’

It was Fekra who guarded the second level of the second tower. His eyes flashed with surprise to see Froi.

‘We have to be careful of the Provincari’s people,’ Fekra told him. ‘They don’t have a life of their own, so they’re fascinated with everyone else’s.’

Once they reached her chamber, Fekra poked his shoulder with a finger.

‘Don’t wake the boy. It took Dorcas all night to get him to sleep.’

Froi tiptoed into her room. At first he wondered why Gargarin would have kept her in this chamber and not a larger residence. Until he saw the fireplace and then the archway between Quintana’s chamber and the room Froi once shared with Gargarin. He crept to its entrance. He knew what was in there … who was in there. He could hear the steady breathing of the boy, the strange little sounds of sleepy satisfaction.

An arm was instantly around his neck. A dagger to his throat. A savage noise in his ear. Sagra. How he missed her.

‘You’ll only make a small hole there,’ he whispered. ‘Not fatal. Inconvenient, really.’

He leant his head back onto her shoulder, exposing his throat to her blade. He felt her arm linger, her cold cheek against his. They stayed there for a time with trembling bodies.

And then he turned to face her. How could he ever have thought this face plain? How could he ever have imagined that the savagery would leave her, just because she birthed a child?

‘You’re a stranger,’ she said coldly, but her body spoke of warmth, pressed so close that the thin fabric of her shift seemed not to exist.

He saw tears in her eyes, anger. Sadness. He searched her face in the light from the godshouse across the gravina, his fingers on her cheeks, mouth.

‘Who do you see?’ she demanded. ‘Am I a stranger in return?’

He took her hand and linked his fingers with hers.

‘Why say that?’ he asked.

‘Because I calculated,’ she said coolly. ‘I’ve become good with your counting. You and I have known each other for fewer days than we haven’t.’

‘Does that matter to you?’ he asked as she clenched their hands together. He sensed his arousal, knew she felt it strongly pressed against her.

‘I can live without you,’ she said. ‘I can live without a man I’ve only known for one hundred and eighty days.’

‘And how have those calculations helped?’ he demanded to know.

She didn’t respond except for a look down her nose at him and a curl of her lip. So much for the angry half-spirits being responsible for the savages within them both. This was pure Quintana.

‘Then step away,’ he taunted. ‘If you can live without me, step away.’

He felt her warm breath on his throat.

‘Because you can’t,’ he said. ‘You think you can, but we’re bound, and not just by the gods or by a curse or even by our son. We are bound by our free will. And you can’t step away, because you are not willing.’

He bent, his mouth close to hers.

‘Step away,’ he whispered. ‘If you step away I’ll learn from you. I’ll find the desire in me to live without you. Much the same as you want to live without me.’

‘I didn’t say I wanted to live without you,’ she said, angry tears springing in her eyes. ‘Only that I can. I’ve practised. I’ve been very good in that way.’

She stepped away, but not too far and his eyes travelled down her nightdress, transparent in the moonlight. He could see the fullness of her beneath it all. He reached out a tentative hand to her breast, but she flinched and this time he stepped away.

‘It’s full of milk, fool,’ she said. ‘It’s tender. You’ll have to find another place to put your hand.’

‘You tell me where?’ he said, his voice soft. ‘Because it’s not in me to be gentle.’

‘Then you’ll just have to learn, won’t you?’

She swayed towards him, playing with him. Had she turned temptress, this cat of his? And then their mouths were fused, the cloth of her nightdress bunched in his hands, his arm a band around her body, lifting her to him as one tongue danced around the other, until her legs straddled his hips and he dragged the shift over her head, desperate to remove anything that lay between them, his mouth not wanting to leave hers as he fumbled with the drawstring of his trousers. Soon they were skin against skin and he tried to be gentle; chanting it inside his head while saying her name and they rocked into each other with a rhythm played out by the gods who had guided their wretched way. Where have you been? Where have you been? I’ve lost our song, he thought he heard her cry inside his heart, until finally Froi felt her shudder, her fingers gripping the place her name was etched across his shoulders.

‘Our bodies aren’t strangers,’ he said, his voice ragged. ‘Our spirits aren’t strangers.’ He held her face in his hands. ‘Tell me what part of me is stranger to you and I’ll destroy that part of me.’

And she wept to hear his words.

Later, as they lay in silence, Quintana kissed each one of his scars from the eight arrows.

‘Do you want to see him?’

He nodded like a hungry man, and they shivered naked in the cool night air as she led him into the other room.

‘We’re not to wake him,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m very strict about rules, you know.’

She lit a candle, and Froi stared into the cot and saw the most amazing creature he had ever seen, the babe facing them, his arms outstretched.

‘What kind of rules?’ he whispered.

‘Well, I don’t wake him just because I want to hold him. I wait until he wakes on his own. And I only give him four or five cuddles a day. Sometimes a few more if he’s fretful. We don’t want to spoil him.’

He smiled.

‘And look,’ she said. She pointed above the little King’s cot where a cut-out piece of parchment hung from the ceiling. Froi’s eyes followed her finger across the ceiling to the wall where the light from the moon made a shape of a rabbit.

And because Froi was overwhelmed with emotion, he buried his head into her shoulder.

‘Are you crying?’ she asked.

He didn’t respond, but his tears were wet against her and he felt her pat his back. ‘He likes me to do this,’ she said, her voice practical. ‘It calms him down if he wakes up with the night terrors.’

They watched Tariq for a long time until he woke and Quintana reached out to pick him up, and Froi’s son suckled as she fed him on her bed.

‘Does it hurt?’ he asked, fascinated.

‘It did to begin with.’

When she was finished and Tariq burped in a way that would have made Arjuro proud, she held him out to Froi. He took his son gently and Quintana placed his hand securely against Tariq’s head.

‘It used to roll all over the place if I didn’t put my hand there. Sometimes I fear it still will,’ she said and he stared in amazement as Tariq stared back at him.

‘Sagra,’ he muttered. ‘You’ve gone and stolen Lirah’s face, you thief.’

The three fell asleep in each other’s arms, and when the sun began to rise, Froi woke and kissed Quintana and Tariq, then dressed quickly. He stepped out into the hallway and found himself face to face with Gargarin.

‘So it is true,’ Gargarin said, furious. ‘I thought the guards were making up stories.’

Froi shoved past him. Six months without a word and that’s all Gargarin could say to him.

Gargarin dragged him back. ‘Where are the Lumaterans?’

‘In Lumatere! Where else?’ Froi said, pulling free and walking away.

‘So they had to have you all to themselves?’ Gargarin demanded. Froi stopped and turned back to face his father. There was no amount of counting that could control him.

‘They have me all to themselves because my real father doesn’t want me! He never did. He regrets not tossing me out –’

‘Don’t!’ Gargarin shook his head with disbelief. ‘Don’t say those words to me.’

‘If you weren’t a cripple, I’d beat you senseless,’ Froi said. ‘What would it have taken for you to acknowledge me? That’s what I wanted. To hear those words from you. And all you could say to me through Scarpo was that in weeks to come, not to make contact with the Charyn palace. “You wait,” Scarpo said. “Trust me. These are his words.” I know them by heart, Gargarin. And I waited and waited.’

Gargarin gripped Froi’s cloak, pulling him closer, tears of anger in his eyes.

‘I begged them for you because I thought I found a way,’ Gargarin whispered. ‘That despite never being able to claim you as mine or Lirah’s, I found a way of my son getting everything he wanted. Here. In this palace.’

‘You’re lying.’

Gargarin shoved him away.

‘Go back to your greedy dishonourable people who’ll do anything to keep you away from those who love you. And you tell them that Lumatere has made an enemy of me, and they’ll regret that for the rest of their lives.’

Chapter 48

Phaedra spent the next few days in the valley being visited by the Monts. Many of them. All expressing disappointment in Lucian.

‘He’s an idiot,’ Constance said to Phaedra. ‘I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again,’ she continued, taking one of the honey cakes Florenza had made. They were sitting inside Jorja and Harker’s cave with Tesadora and anyone who came to put their thoughts into the matter.

‘What’s she saying?’ Cora demanded.

‘Lucian’s an idiot,’ Tesadora translated with alacrity.

Cora sighed. ‘I’m biting my tongue because of a vow I made when he carried our little savage to safety,’ she said.

Phaedra had refused to condemn Lucian’s absence. She had made the choice to follow Quintana to the Citavita. It was Lucian who had been left behind. He owed her nothing.

‘I understood his pride,’ she told anyone who asked. ‘And I’ve changed. I’m a different Phaedra,’ she said with determination. ‘No more weeping. No more begging the gods for what I want and can’t have. We learn to live with our disappointments. It’s one thing I’ve learnt from our brave Quintana.’

The others, Charynites and Lumateran alike, stared at her disbelievingly.

Goddess. Gods. Anyone listening, she cried all the night long. Let him come down the mountain tomorrow.

Tomorrow came and there were more Mont visitors. Jorja borrowed rations from the other valley dwellers because it was rude to have visitors, especially foreigners, and not feed them. They were all forced to move outside the cave where there was more room. Harker built a fire and everyone seemed happy enough discussing Lucian out in the open.

‘Is that Orly and Lotte?’ Sandrine exclaimed as they watched the Mont couple cross the stream, leading a cow.

‘Orly doesn’t come down the mountain,’ Constance said.

But today Orly and Lotte had decided to pay their respects.

‘A gift,’ Orly said to Phaedra. ‘She belongs to Gert and Bert.’

Phaedra embraced them both. She understood the significance and worth of this cow.

‘The milk will come in handy once you all start breeding like normal people,’ Orly said, pulling away from Phaedra, not liking the fuss. ‘I’ll be off now.’

‘Orly! Stay a while,’ Constance argued, rolling her eyes at the awkward ways of her kin.

‘We’re to go now,’ Lotte said woefully. ‘He’s feeling this very strongly, Phaedra. He thought the moment you returned, Lucian would take you back up to the mountain, but the lad’s gone to the palace village and we are fearing the worse, we are. The worse,’ Lotte cried.

‘What is she saying?’ Cora asked. ‘This one talks too much.’

‘That Lucian is still an idiot,’ Tesadora said.

Another day passed. Another set of visits from the Monts. The Charynite valley dwellers also joined the discussion. The men lay bets.

‘Five days,’ one said.

‘Ten,’ another argued. ‘She was the one who left him this time.’

‘But he sent her back the first time, so he’ll feel contrite for that. Seven.’

It was neither five nor ten nor seven days. Kasabian guessed it right.

‘When the lad sorts out what he needs to sort out, he’ll come for you, Phaedra.’

Everyone was on their feet in shock and surprise when Lucian appeared on the third day. Phaedra watched him cross the stream, his eyes taking in the large party staring his way with curiosity. She could see by the set of his shoulders that he was dreading whatever he was about to face.

He greeted them all politely with a nod of his head.

‘I want to speak to Phaedra,’ he said, his eyes firmly on hers. She could read nothing in them. No, there it was. Panic.

‘Alone,’ he said, holding out a hand to her.

No one moved.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Cora said, pulling Phaedra away. ‘Kasabian’s her chaperone in the place of her father.’

Florenza snorted out a laugh. ‘That is so not true –’

But Jorja hushed her daughter.

‘What you have to say to Phaedra you can say in front of everyone, cousin,’ Constance said. She received instant approval from the camp dwellers, who understood exactly what she was saying.

‘I agree,’ Pitts the cobbler said. He came down most days to enjoy Jorja’s hospitality.

Phaedra took pity on Lucian and held out her hand. He looked too nervous for any of this to turn out right and she had an awful feeling that she was going to cry in front of everyone.

‘This is a matter of privacy between two people,’ she said firmly.

There was a chorus of disapproval at the suggestion, but she could feel the tears burning her eyes and she wanted to leave. Lucian was staring down at her, horrified.

‘Enough!’ he shouted at the crowd. ‘You’ve all made her cry.’

‘I’m not crying,’ she cried.

‘You’re the one who made her cry, running off to the palace the moment she arrived,’ Constance said.

Lucian was shaking his head with exasperation.

‘I thought it best that we make our marriage official,’ he blurted out. ‘The first time it was in Alonso and … quite a miserable affair. My cousin insists we make it less miserable and I couldn’t agree more.’

‘Your cousin Jory?’ Phaedra asked, her heart hammering to hear the words.

‘No,’ he said with a sigh and Phaedra could see how uncomfortable he was under everyone’s scrutiny.

‘What cousin?’ Cora asked.

Lucian pointed across the stream. Isaboe of Lumatere stood on the other side of the stream with her child on her hip and her consort by her side, surrounded by the Lumateran Guard.

‘That one.’

The Queen looked annoyed. ‘Lucian!’ she called out. ‘What’s happening over there?’

Lucian turned back to Phaedra and the others. ‘The Priestking is coming too. To conduct the ceremony,’ he said.

Lucian waved the royal party over and suddenly Jorja was taking deep breaths from the shock of seeing the Queen of Lumatere walking towards her cave.

‘I don’t want any fanfare,’ Lucian said gruffly when his cousin reached them. ‘Nor does Phaedra. Is that clear, everyone?’

‘You can’t speak for her,’ Constance said.

‘I don’t want any fanfare,’ Phaedra said, and she caught Lucian’s grateful smile.

‘No, none at all,’ the Queen of Lumatere joined in, accepting Jorja’s invitation to sit down. ‘Although we’ll have to wait for everyone on the mountain to come down. Balconio, too. They’ve all promised to travel up … and down for the wedding. As has August and Abian and their lot and Trevanion and the rest of the Guard. Very small. Compared to ours.’

The Queen turned to her consort.

‘I think the whole kingdom came to that one, didn’t they, my love?’

‘No, some of the Flatland lords boycotted it because they thought you were marrying beneath you,’ Finnikin of Lumatere advised her.

Jorja was looking flustered and Phaedra knew she had little to serve as refreshments.

‘The groom’s family is responsible for the feast,’ Isaboe of Lumatere said, ‘and they’ll be arriving with the food soon.’

Phaedra knew the tradition was the exact opposite in Lumatere, but she didn’t dare challenge the Queen.

‘While we wait for the arrivals, we thought we could take time to speak of matters,’ Finnikin said to Harker, and Phaedra watched everyone’s stillness as the valley dwellers gathered close.

‘To be honest, it’ll be a long time indeed before Charynites live in Lumatere. The wounds cut very deep. But we …’ Finnikin looked at the Queen. ‘My queen and I thought we’d speak to you about ideas for this valley. Perhaps it’s time to build and make plans … for permanency.’

There was silence from the valley dwellers.

‘It needs a leader, Harker,’ Isaboe said. ‘And you seem to be that man.’

Perhaps it wasn’t exactly what Harker and Jorja and the rest of the valley dwellers had journeyed here for, all that time ago, but they were interested in what the Queen and her consort had to say.

‘The way we see it, this valley will have the best that Lumatere and Charyn have to offer,’ the Queen said. ‘It could become a thriving place of progress. A place where both kingdoms meet.’

Jorja suddenly gasped and jumped to her feet. ‘How could we have forgotten? It’s a good thing you’ve visited, Your Majesty,’ she said. ‘The Charyn palace has sent a letter. Go get it, Florenza. And then we’ll find you a pretty dress, Phaedra, for the ceremony.’

‘Well, if I may,’ the Queen of Lumatere said, ‘I brought a dress that belonged to my sister, Evestalina. Lucian was her favourite, do you remember that, cousin? She’d let you get away with anything. Even more than our brother Balthazar.’

Phaedra saw the emotion on Lucian’s face. The Queen rarely spoke of the past and everyone present knew the importance of her speaking her family’s names on the Charynite side of the stream.

‘Well, she would have wanted your wife to have it.’ The Queen looked at Phaedra. ‘It shames me that it has taken me so long to acknowledge you, Phaedra of Alonso.’

Phaedra shook her head. ‘It shames me to have spoken to you the way I did in the caves after you put your life at risk for Quintana of Charyn.’

‘Enough said.’ The Queen’s voice was brisk, but filled with emotion.

Florenza returned with the letter, handing it to the Queen. The Princess Jasmina cried to have it.

‘Jasmina likes the pretty seals on the letters,’ the Queen explained, ‘especially those that are red.’ There was much oohing and aahing from the valley dwellers, who were besotted by the little princess.

The Princess Jasmina took a liking to Florenza, gripping her hand tightly, trying to drag her away.

‘Be careful,’ the Queen said firmly. ‘She’ll try to control you.’

‘Has she a gift?’ Florenza asked.

‘Yes,’ the Queen said, her tone dry. ‘The gift for …’

‘… stubbornness,’ Finnikin said.

More people arrived from over the mountain, and on a cold night under a full moon, Phaedra found herself wed to Lucian for the second time. He wore a royal-blue doublet and his trousers tucked into his buskins and Phaedra’s dress was fitted to the waist in soft pink. She wore flowers from Yata’s garden in her hair. He was very solemn; she wasn’t. Phaedra couldn’t stop smiling.

While the celebrations continued well into the night, they sat by the stream alone.

‘I think this party will last for days,’ he said. ‘And we’ll never be alone together.’

‘Soon enough,’ she said. ‘I don’t think tonight is just about us.’

He pressed a kiss to her lips.

‘We’ll have to visit my father, Lucian. There’s too much anger between us all and I can’t begin my life with you this way.’

He nodded. ‘Then we’ll visit your father soon,’ he promised.

Suddenly Finnikin was at Lucian’s shoulder.

‘Lucian, we have a problem,’ the Queen’s Consort said, holding the letter from the Charynite palace in his hand. ‘A big one.’

‘Can it not wait until the morning?’ Lucian asked.

‘Apparently some of our mail has gone astray.’

Lucian laughed, his eyes never leaving Phaedra’s.

‘Finnikin, unless it affects the future of this kingdom, I’m going to have to say no to whatever you’re about to ask me to do,’ her husband said firmly.

Finnikin placed an arm around them both.

‘Cousins, I’m afraid it affects the future of both our kingdoms.’

Chapter 49

On the day the Provincari of Charyn were to choose Quintana’s consort, Froi sat on the roof of the Crow’s Inn with Mort and Florik, the lads staring down at every potential suitor who arrived in the Citavita. Each candidate brought with them a large enough entourage to impress, and Froi’s heart sank with every step they took closer to Quintana and his son.

‘The Osterians,’ Florik said sombrely, indicating the procession crossing the bridge with great ceremony. Froi had come to realise that the more banners a kingdom had, the more useless they were.

‘They say he could be the one,’ Froi said. ‘The Osterian.’

‘Why?’ Mort asked.

‘Apparently no mad blood or inbreeding for the past hundred years.’ Froi watched the Osterian prince as he stepped onto the rock of the Citavita.

Mort stood and walked to the edge of the roof. ‘Easy if a bolt flew out of my longbow right between Osterian’s legs. Accidents happen, lads.’

‘You’d start a war with the only kingdom who hasn’t gone to war for its whole existence,’ Florik said. ‘Not your best idea, Mort.’

Mort looked back at Froi and managed a grin. ‘Gods are smiling, Froi. Think I see our Grij.’

It was both Grij and Satch who arrived, and Froi had never been so happy for their company.

‘Why did you stay, Froi?’ Grij begged to know as they made their way up to the castle, arms around each other’s shoulders.

‘She w … w … won’t want you th … th … there,’ Satch said. ‘T … too painful.’

‘Then what are you both doing here?’ he asked.

Satch shrugged.

‘C … couldn’t bear for her to b … be alone this day.’

When they reached the drawbridge they lined up behind a crowd of foreigners, waiting to enter. They had left their weapons with Mort and the lads, knowing only the little King’s palace guards would be allowed into the palace armed. Everyone who travelled through the gates, whether prince or servant, was checked for weapons. Today, every soldier in the palace was on guard and tension was high among Scarpo and his men. Froi finally reached the portcullis, but Olivier appeared before him. He had seen glimpses of the lastborn since his arrival five days ago, but it was the first time they had come face to face.

‘Let me pass,’ Froi said, his tone cold.

Oliver looked beyond Froi to where Satch and Grijio stood.

‘You call yourself his friends and you bring him here?’ Olivier demanded.

‘You try stopping him,’ Grij said.

‘It’s not right!’ Olivier said.

‘Let me pass,’ Froi said again, but he couldn’t find the anger anymore. He just felt the tears biting at his eyes.

Inside the great hall, there was barely room to move. Froi and the lads found themselves close to the back, fighting for space among horses and hounds. Some of the suitors had animals with them, until Perabo ordered anything on four legs to be taken to the stables or their two-legged owners would be removed themselves. The fool Feliciano of Avanosh joined them soon after, and Grijio, always diplomatic, allowed him to stay.

When Quintana entered the great hall holding the little King, a hush came over the room. Some had never seen Tariq before. As the only babe in Charyn, people were in awe of him wherever he went. The Provincari followed and each acknowledged Quintana and the boy with a bow before being seated on a raised platform. Froi was pleased to see Ariston and Dolyn there to represent the rights of Turla and Lascow. He watched Tariq squirm in Quintana’s arms and she placed him on the ground and Dorcas and Fekra had a hard time trying to keep up with him as he crawled between the Provincari’s feet.

‘They’re saying the Prince from Osteria will win the day,’ Feliciano said.

‘We’ve heard,’ Froi muttered.

‘He’s brainless, according to my father,’ Grij explained.

‘Exactly what the P … Provincaro wants,’ Satch said. ‘Someone they can all control.’

‘And why aren’t you in contention?’ Froi asked Feliciano coldly.

‘My uncle owes money,’ Feliciano admitted. ‘A lot of it. He believes we have a better chance of paying his debts if I marry the daughter of the Osterian archduke. We’re in with a very strong chance. They’re taking marriage requests for her in three days’ time.’

‘Then why are you here?’ Froi asked.

‘Avanosh has been accepted as a province. My uncle will have a vote in the decision.’

Another candidate and his entourage entered through the great doors behind Froi and his friends. They were from Sarnak. Froi would know a Sarnak in his sleep. They had ruddy cheeks and high foreheads. And they married young.

‘I don’t have much experience determining the age of people younger than us,’ Grij said, catching a glimpse of the new arrivals, ‘but is he …’

‘Twelve. Possibly thirteen,’ Froi said.

‘F … F … Froi,’ Satch said quietly. ‘L … let’s go. This will only end in heart … b … break.’

Froi dismissed the suggestions. Whether he stayed or went, the heartbreak would be the same.

They saw Olivier again, pushing through to oversee the ever-growing crowd by the doors.

‘Olivier!’ Grij called out. ‘Olivier. What are they saying? We can’t hear a thing.’

Olivier reached them, trying to catch his breath after being squeezed between two large Sorellians.

‘The Yuts of the Nord walked out,’ Olivier said. ‘Your father, Grij, asked them what they had done with the heir of Yutlind Sud. They didn’t like the question.’

The crowd surged forward. There seemed to be a commotion at the entrance. Olivier was gone within moments.

Froi’s eyes followed him.

‘What’s happened to his family? The Provincaro of Sebastabol claimed to have expelled them from the province.’

Satch and Grij exchanged a look.

‘Desantos has t … taken them in,’ Satch said. ‘I will always underst … st … stand your anger, Froi, but in t … trying to make amends, he risked his life again and again.’

‘He’ll never be the same lad,’ Grijio said. ‘He refuses to befriend any of the Guard and keeps to himself. He’s a stranger, this Olivier. I don’t think he’ll ever forgive himself for what he did.’

There was a surge forward again and shouts of exasperation. At the front of the hall, people were oblivious to the disturbance at the back.

‘Probably another mountain goat from Osteria and his herd,’ Grijio muttered.

The noise at the entrance became louder.

‘Something’s happening back there,’ Grijio said. ‘Hitch me up, so I can see.’

Froi and Satch hitched Grijio up onto their shoulders and he peered over their heads towards the grand entrance. Grij’s peering turned into shock as he looked back down to Froi.

‘What is it?’ Feliciano asked.

‘Froi,’ Grijio said calmly. ‘I think I recognise your queen’s cousin from my time in the valley after the battle. He’s just shoved his way into the hall.’

‘What?’

Grij climbed down and they lifted Froi up onto their shoulders. He looked towards the crowded entrance. He could see nothing but an irate crowd being pushed forward. Olivier and one of the guards were attempting to shove their way through the crowd to see what was taking place.

And then Froi saw Lucian.

And Finn.

And Perri. The three of them were searching above the heads of those around them.

Sagra!

‘Here!’ Froi shouted, holding up a hand. ‘Lucian!’

The Lumaterans had managed to cause a small riot near the entrance and there was too much noise to be heard. Meanwhile, the onlookers standing around Froi yanked him down.

‘We can’t hear a thing, you fool,’ one snapped.

Froi climbed back up again, slapping away at the hands that were pulling at him.

‘What can you see?’ Grij shouted.

Froi could still see Olivier shoving his way towards the entrance to investigate the small brawl that seemed to have taken place.

‘Olivier!’ he shouted. The lastborn must have heard, because he turned and Froi pointed towards the entrance and then to himself.

‘Lumaterans! They’re with –’

He was yanked off Grijio and Feliciano’s shoulder before he could speak another word. So he pushed headfirst into the crowd, telling himself he could have imagined one, but not all three. Close to the entrance he hit a wall of a man. One who was determined Froi would not pass him by. Until a hand covered the face of the man and shoved him out of the way.

‘Lucian? What are you doing here?’ Froi asked.

Grij, Satch and Feliciano had followed, staring at the Lumaterans just as incredulously. Lucian waved away the question with irritation.

‘You,’ Lucian said, pointing to Feliciano. ‘Get your jacket off,’ he ordered the Avanosh heir. Feliciano pointed to himself, stunned. Lucian stared down at Feliciano’s tights. ‘Just the jacket.’

When Feliciano was too slow, Finnikin was there, yanking Feliciano’s arms out of the sleeves.

‘Follow everything we say, Froi,’ his king said. ‘Put this on. Ask no questions.’

And then Lord August stumbled through the crowded entrance, followed by Lady Abian and Talon and the younger boys, their faces soaked with perspiration. And just when Froi thought nothing could shock him more, he saw the Priestking.

The Lumaterans looked dishevelled. Froi was so confused, his arm half-stuck in a jacket that was far too small.

‘You,’ Lucian said, pointing to Olivier. ‘Get us to the front.’

‘Just agree with everything,’ Finnikin said. ‘Let me do the talking. There’s no time for an explanation. Do you trust us, Froi?’

‘With my life,’ he said.

The path to the front seemed never-ending.

‘Excuse me.’

‘Excuse me.’

‘Out of the way.’

There was shoving and cursing and Froi’s heart was pounding. Lady Abian was adjusting her dress and hair, and swiping at the dirt on Lord August’s face.

‘Blessed Barakah is going to faint,’ Froi said, trying to hold onto the old man’s arm.

‘They dragged me off the carriage as if I was a sack of potatoes,’ the Priestking complained as they stumbled to a standstill at the front, facing a shocked Provincari.

There was furious whispering all around him. Froi heard someone gasp.

‘It’s the Queen of Lumatere’s Consort.’

‘No!’ another replied.

‘Yes. Look at the hair.’

Froi glanced at Finnikin, and already his friend’s face was a mask of arrogance. Finn said it worked well in negotiations. Isaboe said she hardly recognised him when she first saw it appear with the Belegonians.

Before them the Provincari and the leaders were staring their way. Quintana stood to the side. Tariq was on the ground, tugging at Gargarin’s leg. Gargarin’s stare was fierce. Angry. Hopeful?

‘Introduce me,’ Finnikin ordered Froi in Charyn.

Froi cleared his throat.

‘My lord Finnikin, Consort of Her Majesty Queen Isaboe of Lumatere, may I present to you the Provincari of Charyn.’

Froi held out a hand to indicate the Lumaterans.

‘Lord August of the Flatlands. Lady Abian of the Flatlands; the lords Talon, Duret and Ren of the Flatlands. Lucian, leader of the Monts. And the blessed Barakah of Lumatere.’

There was a stunned hush as the Provincari leapt out of their seats to offer the Priestking one of theirs. But despite his limp, Gargarin beat them to it.

‘You’re late,’ he hissed, glaring at Finnikin.

‘We had a slight problem … locating the letters you sent,’ Finnikin whispered back. ‘Explanation later,’ he added. ‘Go. Away.’

The Provincari were staring at the visitors, intrigued.

‘I’d prefer to speak Charyn so there’ll be no misunderstanding of our intention,’ Finnikin said to the Provincari. ‘I will be translating for Lord August and Lady Abian of the Lumateran Flatlands.’

Lord August stepped forward while Lady Abian was still swiping at his face with her kerchief. Finnikin gave the nod for Lord August to speak.

‘As stated, my name is Lord August of the Flatlands. Today, my wife and my family present to you our eldest boy as a prospective consort to Quintana of Charyn.’

Froi was speechless. He thought he would be sick on the spot. He could hate anyone, but not Talon who was a brother to him. Finnikin translated and glanced at Froi, who hadn’t taken a breath. Froi felt a pinch on his arm.

‘Don’t you dare faint,’ Finnikin whispered.

Lord August continued.

‘My eldest boy may not share my blood, but he is part of our life and has been since the rebirth of our kingdom. When we chose four years past to give him our name, we never imagined that we would be presenting him to a foreign court.’

August caught Froi’s eye. Him? They were talking about him. Not Talon. But Froi had never been given Lord August’s family title. Who had hatched up this lie?

Before them, the Provincari were bewildered by the turn of events. Gargarin wasn’t.

‘That doesn’t count,’ Vinzenzo of Avanosh said.

‘How does that not count?’ Lucian asked politely.

Finnikin nudged Froi. ‘Which one’s Paladozza?’ he whispered.

‘Fourth from right.’

Finnikin stepped forward.

‘My father is the Captain of the Lumateran Guard,’ Finnikin said coldly. ‘Don’t let me have to go home and tell him that the child he calls his own is not a daughter to him just because she doesn’t share his blood.’ He looked at De Lancey. ‘Provincaro De Lancey,’ he continued. ‘I’ve been told your children are not of your blood. Do they not count?’

De Lancey’s was livid. ‘They’re my children,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘Regardless of blood ties, they have my name. They have my land. They have my title.’ De Lancey stared across at Avanosh. ‘Are you questioning the rights of my children?’

‘No one is questioning the rights of your children, De Lancey,’ the Provincara of Jidia tried to placate.

‘It’s not enough,’ Vinzenzo of Avanosh shouted.

‘He’s the son of a Lumateran Flatland lord,’ the Provincaro of Sebastabol said. ‘How much more do we want? The Belegonians turned down our invitation to be here today. It will turn them green with envy to have our Quintana wed to the son of a Lumateran Flatland lord.’

‘Don’t trust a Lumateran,’ the Provincaro of Alonso said, eyeing Lucian. ‘They lie.’

This time Lucian stepped forward.

‘For the sake of a beloved wife, I will forgive my father-in-law’s words,’ Lucian said. ‘And offer a hand of friendship to my neighbours in Alonso.’

‘Your wife?’ Alonso shouted. ‘The one you sent back and then claimed was dead? And then let go to the palace? And where is she now? Is my daughter a toy to be passed around?’

‘Your daughter is a woman who makes her own choices, sir,’ Lucian said. ‘And it was her choice to sacrifice her safety for Quintana of Charyn in the valley, and it was her choice to rightfully travel here and settle the first mother and child of Charyn into their home. I would never ask my wife to choose me over her king.’

Lucian stepped forward and bowed to Quintana. ‘And I will always be indebted to Quintana of Charyn for allowing Phaedra to return.’

Froi was most impressed with Lucian.

‘So you married her again?’ Quintana demanded to know.

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Good,’ she said, looking away.

‘We don’t trust this lad,’ Vinzenzo of Avanosh said, pointing to Froi. ‘He’s lied and he stole the Princess from under us in Paladozza. I was there.’

There was more hushed talk.

‘Louder!’ someone from the back called out. ‘We can’t hear.’

Froi felt as if he was part of a pantomime, placed in front of a crowd hungry for entertainment.

‘I was there, too,’ De Lancey said. ‘And I don’t recall her being stolen.’ He looked across at Quintana. ‘Stolen, Your Highness?’

The Nebian Provincaro spoke up. ‘If I may be so bold as to say that our Quintana may not be the best person to ask whether she was stolen or not?’

Finnikin made a rude sound of disbelief.

‘Can I be even bolder and ask why she can’t be asked?’ he shouted, for those at the back. ‘All we hear about is Quintana the brave, Quintana the mighty who broke the curse. It turns my queen’s stomach to hear all the praise. Yet here, a Provincaro calls her a dimwit who can’t answer a question about whether she believes she was stolen or not!’

Finnikin received a round of applause. The crowd liked the ginger King.

‘A dimwit?’ De Lancey asked the Nebian Provincaro.

‘I didn’t call her one at all,’ the man protested.

‘What of a dowry?’ the Provincara of Jidia demanded to know. ‘What has your son got to offer Charyn, Lord August?’

Finnikin translated, but first answered himself.

‘The benevolence of Lumatere,’ he said. ‘Is that not enough?’

‘And an invitation to your little king’s regent into the Belegonian court,’ Lord August said. ‘If I understand rightly, the Belegonians refused your offer to be part of today’s proceedings.’

Finnikin translated. The Provincari exchanged looks with each other.

‘Nothing more than what the Osterians are offering,’ the Nebian Provincaro said. ‘Haven’t they promised to assist making peace with the Belegonians?’

Froi couldn’t imagine what else Finnikin had to offer.

‘The valley,’ Lucian said, exchanging a look with Finnikin.

Froi shook his head with disbelief. ‘One moment!’ he shouted, ushering the Lumaterans aside. There was a sound of irritation from some of the Provincari and furious talking from the crowd. They wanted to hear every word.

‘Land?’ Froi whispered. ‘You’re giving them land? I’m not worth the valley.’

‘You’re worth a kingdom,’ Finnikin said, turning back to the crowd. He had a better chance of impressing them.

‘We offer the valley between Lumatere and Charyn,’ Finnikin shouted to the crowd.

There was a hushed silence. Even the Provincaro of Alonso was speechless.

‘With a stipulation,’ Finnikin said.

‘Charynite people, governed by Lumaterans?’ Vinzenzo of Avanosh scoffed.

‘Charynite people governed by their own Provincaro,’ Lucian said.

‘And the stipulation?’ Gargarin asked Finnikin.

‘That under no circumstance will the valley ever accommodate an army. Yours or ours.’

‘And what will you name the valley? Little Lumatere?’ Sol of Alonso scoffed.

Froi noticed Arjuro push through to the front of the crowd. He wondered if one of the lads had gone to find him. Arjuro had professed that he’d have nothing to do with this day, but here he was.

‘They will name it the Valley of Phaedra,’ Quintana said, her eyes meeting Lucian’s. Froi could see that Lucian was moved by her words.

‘I think my queen will approve,’ Lucian said quietly.

Vinzenzo of Avanosh was whispering to Sol of Alonso. Froi knew Avanosh could poison any bitter man’s heart, regardless of what was being promised.

Froi sighed loudly. ‘We need to hasten these proceedings, Father,’ he said to Lord August. ‘And my king,’ he added to Finnikin, who looked at him curiously.

Play along with me, Finn.

‘Remember? The Osterian archduke’s daughter is receiving suitors in three days’ time and we may have a better chance with her. You did spend many years in exile among the Osterians with Sir Topher of the Flatlands. And they do love you so.’

‘True, true,’ Finnikin said.

‘No!’ someone in the audience shouted.

Froi chanced a look at Quintana and saw a show of vicious little teeth.

‘Let us go, Lumaterans,’ Finnikin said, enjoying himself.

‘No!’ someone else in the crowd shouted out.

But it was Vinzenzo of Avanosh who was on his feet in an instant.

‘No need for that. No need at all,’ Avanosh said, adopting a good-natured tone. ‘Only testing your worth. I say we talk about this. Have we seen all the candidates?’

‘One more question,’ Orlanda of Jidia demanded. ‘What was the son of a Flatland lord doing in Charyn?’

Everyone stared at Finnikin and Froi, waiting. Finnikin stepped up to the platform and managed to address both the crowd and Provincari.

‘Why question what Froi of Lumatere was doing here?’ he asked. ‘When you should be questioning what would have happened to Charyn if he hadn’t been here. Who else would have saved Gargarin of Abroi from the street lords? He’s now the little King’s regent,’ he said, pointing to Gargarin. ‘Who would have saved Quintana of Charyn from hanging? Who would have rescued her from Tariq of Lascow’s compound? Who would have sent her to a safe place to birth the cursebreaker? Blah, blah, blah. I’m bored now,’ Finnikin said, looking around. ‘Are we here for a wedding, or are we off to Osteria for the archduke’s niece?’

‘Daughter,’ Froi corrected.

Finnikin stepped towards the Provincari and Froi could sense his friend’s anger.

‘My queen offers you peace. Your dead king ordered the slaughter of her family and his army tortured her people. This is our peace offering,’ Finnikin said, pointing to Froi. ‘Take it or leave it. We’re busy people.’

He turned his back on the Provincari and joined the Lumaterans.

The Provincari and the leaders rose and walked to a corner. Froi watched them argue vehemently. Suddenly Arjuro was there beside Froi and the Lumateran lot.

‘This is all too much for me. My heart is hammering.’

The Priestking stood and the two men embraced and then Gargarin was there. He bowed to Lady Abian and turned to Lord August. Both men acknowledged each other with a wary nod.

Finnikin held out a hand. ‘How could you take such a risk?’ Gargarin whispered angrily, shaking it hard. ‘I wrote to you months ago and you sent him here on an errand about water fountains.’

‘He said you loved water fountains,’ Finnikin argued, but when he saw the fury on Gargarin’s face, he sighed.

‘We had an issue,’ Finnikin said.

‘What type of an issue?’ Gargarin hissed.

‘A very substantial one,’ Finnikin said. Froi and Gargarin waited.

‘If you must know … your letters went astray.’

‘The Belegonians?’ Gargarin asked.

Finnikin shook his head ruefully. ‘My daughter likes … red seals. She chews at them. She must have come across your correspondence in our residence.’

Sagra.

‘Jasmina stole the letters he sent?’ Froi asked.

‘Ridiculous,’ Gargarin whispered.

‘Yes,’ Finnikin said, leaning closer, ‘And your grandson is chewing the Provincara of Jidia’s pearl shoes. Equally ridiculous. Try controlling him.’

Finnikin stepped away. ‘Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to speak to the King’s mother. Can you reintroduce us, Froi?’

Froi did just that and Finnikin bowed to Quintana.

‘A trinket from my wife to your son,’ he said, holding out a little purse.

Quintana stared at it.

‘A trinket?’ she said. Froi could see she was hurt. She wanted more from Isaboe. ‘I would have preferred a letter addressed directly to me. If the Queen of Lumatere wants a friendship between us, then she must learn to communicate, not send trinkets.’

‘Hmm, yes, I’ll pass that on,’ Finnikin said. ‘She’s always so appreciative of being told what to do.’

The Provincari returned and when they were all seated, Orlanda of Jidia stayed standing. Not a good sign, Froi thought. If it was good news, De Lancey would have been chosen. Not Orlanda. Froi’s stay in Jidia was disastrous. Lirah had attacked Orlanda; Orlanda had insulted Quintana and Lirah. Gargarin had rejected Orlanda. It couldn’t get much worse.

‘We have many strong young men presented here today,’ Orlanda said over the noise of the room. ‘All with so much to offer us, in what we call … our infancy. For we are infants in many ways and we must choose well.’

She looked back at Quintana.

‘If there is one thing I am certain of … we are all certain of, based on the events of this kingdom during the months before the little King’s birth, it’s that we need to ensure Charyn’s safety. There’s no better way of doing that than to keep the King well taken care of under the guidance of his mother’s consort …’

Her eyes met Froi’s.

‘The Lumateran has already played a great role in Charyn’s peace and will play a greater role in our future.’

There was silence. Froi’s eyes met Quintana’s and then Gargarin’s. He blinked. Once. Twice. And there it was. The moment Lirah spoke of that day in the fortress beyond the little woods. Froi shook his head with wonder. But then he saw Quintana’s face. She was confused. Disbelieving.

‘One moment,’ he called out.

There was an uproar.

‘What? What’s he doing?’ the Nebian Provincaro asked.

‘I would just like to speak to Quintana of Charyn. Can we have a moment or two? Talk amongst yourselves,’ Froi suggested.

He leapt onto the platform and took her hand.

‘What is it?’ she whispered.

‘Do you want this?’

‘What a thing to ask, you fool!’

‘I just want you to feel normal for a moment.’

She shook her head, confused. ‘Normal? Why are you using that word? To taunt me?’

He laughed. Only Quintana would consider being called normal a taunt.

‘Will you be my wife?’

She looked taken aback.

‘You’re asking me?’

‘Well, no one else is.’

They turned back to see the entire room watching them.

‘What are you doing over there?’ the Provincara of Jidia demanded to know. Froi shrugged.

‘I just wanted to ask her to be my wife.’

‘And what say you, Quintana?’ the Provincara of Jidia asked.

‘Well, if the truth be known, I’d very much like him to be my husband,’ Quintana said coolly.

And then everyone was shouting and jostling to surround them and Froi was separated from Quintana, and he found himself embraced by Lord August and Lady Abian and the boys, stunned by how quickly the events had unfolded.

‘We lose you, Froi,’ Talon said. ‘How can we celebrate when we lose you?’

‘You will never, ever lose me,’ he said.

Lord August took him by his shoulders.

‘I’m angry at myself, Froi, because it wasn’t my idea,’ he whispered. ‘It should have been. I should have done this years ago, but I didn’t. It was his. Gargarin of Abroi. In his letter, he wrote that I owed him because of the water system introduced by the Charynites that saved our first crop. He wrote, Give my son a name that will buy him happiness. Have I done that for you, Froi? Is this what you want?’

‘It’s everything I want.’

And then the Charynite lastborns were lifting Quintana on their shoulders and the Lumaterans had Froi on theirs, and she was laughing and he thought he’d never seen her look so beautiful. And over everyone’s head, Froi could see Gargarin and Arjuro staring up at her with their bittersweet smiles, and Froi imagined two boys with the same face all those years ago in a filthy cave beneath the swamps of Abroi, praying for a better life.

Later in the night, Finnikin was there, gripping his arm.

‘We’ll be leaving tonight, Lucian and I, and Perri. We’ve invited the Provincaro of Alonso to travel home with us and Lucian wants to see Rafuel before he leaves. The others will stay.’

Froi nodded, his throat constricting. He wasn’t ready for this so soon. He hadn’t even had a chance to speak to Perri.

‘Come,’ Finnikin said, leading him outside of the great doors. Finnikin retrieved his dagger and a moment later they were surrounded by Scarpo’s men, who were surrounded by Finnikin’s guards, all ready to attack.

‘Sagra!’

‘Mercy!’

‘Go. Away,’ Lucian shooed the guards back.

The three stood alone in the alcove. Finnikin cut into both Froi’s hands and then into one of Lucian’s and finally his own. Froi clasped both their hands.

‘A pledge, with your blood mixed with ours,’ Finnikin said.

Froi nodded, unable to speak.

‘Brothers always. Balthazar is with us, too. We make this work,’ Finnikin said fiercely. ‘We bring peace to these kingdoms. We deserve it. Our women do. All of us have lost too much, Froi. We’ve lost the joy of being children. Let’s not take that from Jasmina and Tariq and those who come after them.’

The three embraced and Froi felt the tremble in their arms and then he followed them to the stables where Perri was waiting for them with their mounts. And it was only then, when Perri gripped a hand to Froi’s shoulder and pressed a kiss to his brow, that Froi wept.

He stayed there a while at the portcullis until he could see nothing more of his friends in the darkness. Behind him, he heard voices, and Gargarin, Arjuro and De Lancey approached with Tariq in Arjuro’s arms.

‘You may need to go inside,’ Arjuro said. ‘She’s surrounded by the Provincari parrots and she has that caged-animal look that’s beginning to frighten everyone.’

Arjuro placed Tariq in Froi’s arms.

‘Tell Lirah we’ll visit with the Lumateran Flatlanders tomorrow,’ Gargarin said quietly. ‘We’ll celebrate amongst ourselves then.’

They watched Arjuro and De Lancey leave and Froi felt awkward alone with Gargarin. He didn’t know what to say. Not after the last furious words he had exchanged with his father. But it was Tariq’s strange little chatter with himself that made them both smile.

‘At least I get to be with Quintana and Tariq,’ Froi said quietly as they returned to the great hall. ‘What will you possibly get out of all of this, Gargarin? You don’t have Lirah. You hold such little power and you’re as much a prisoner here as you were nineteen years ago. It’s like the dead King won.’

Tariq had recognised his name and chortled. It brought a soft smile to Gargarin’s mouth.

‘I get to raise a king, Froi. We all do. We’ll make a good king. And when he comes of age, his shalamar will live with us in the palace because I can’t imagine Tariq wanting it any other way.’

Gargarin reached out a hand and touched Tariq’s face. ‘Your Priestking told me just now that he once dreamt that you would hold the future of Lumatere in your hands. Perhaps Tariq is Lumatere’s future. As a powerful neighbour, he will ensure Lumatere will always be protected. Because regardless of everything, yours is still a small kingdom and any one of us larger kingdoms can crush Lumatere at a moment’s notice.’

Gargarin’s eyes met Froi’s. ‘They know that. It’s why their queen gave you to us. Because she and her consort trust that you can raise a good and powerful leader. That’s how I’ll win against the dead King, Froi. We share a grandson and I’ll live to see him become a great leader.’

Froi remembered what Lirah once told him. Don’t ever underestimate him. He’s the most powerful man you’ll ever know.

Gargarin turned towards the revelry. ‘It’s best that we get back to your Lumateran family.’

‘They’re good people,’ Froi said.

‘Very demonstrative,’ Gargarin said. ‘All that embracing Lord August does with you. Are all Lumaterans like that with their sons?’

Froi shrugged. ‘That’s just Lord Augie. He’s like that with everyone. He says he wasn’t embraced enough as a child and he’s making up for it now.’

Froi stepped forward. He pressed a kiss against Gargarin’s brow much the same as Perri had kissed his. Then he pressed one against Tariq’s.

‘That’s how Lumaterans give thanks between fathers and sons.’

Gargarin looked away, overwhelmed.

‘You make sure our boy learns the Lumateran ways, then,’ he said.