Quintana of Charyn

Epilogue

There’s a song that I hear at the back of my heart that I feared for so long, when I sensed you were there. And I think of those times when you crept into my dreams and I thought you a threat to curse my sweet king. But it was the boy in your belly that whispered to mine, and even before that, you lived in my spirit.

Because I think of those times when I was a child. I prayed to the gods and I begged for a sign. I know that they sent you, despite the blood of all those you loved shed at the hands of my kin. For you were the one who found him in exile and though it took time, you led Froi to his home.

And you’ve sent me this trinket that hardened my heart, because I wanted your words and a sign of true peace. But I’ve opened it now after all these long weeks and Froi stares at it, speechless, when I hold out my hand. And we see it before us, our spirits shaking. The brilliance of colour: the same ruby ring.

Oh, you’ve outdone me twice now, you queen of forgiveness. The ring’s a promise of peace and I’m greedy with hope. It’s a song that we sing in a tongue that we share. And though you say it’s a gift from a king to a king, I say it’s a sign from a queen to a queen.

In the palace of Lumatere, Finnikin woke to the sound of Jasmina crying.

‘I’ll pay you all the gold in the land if you get out of this bed and see to her,’ Isaboe said sleepily.

‘I don’t want all the gold in the land,’ he said, placing his pillow over his head. ‘It’s your turn anyway.’

He felt her lift the pillow to place lips close to his ear.

‘I will do anything you want.’

In her little bed, Jasmina stared up at Finnikin from under the blankets, refusing to surrender their warmth until she was certain to get what she wanted in return.

‘Isaboe,’ she whimpered.

If there was one thing Finnikin understood, it was the yearning in his daughter’s voice when she spoke her mother’s name. He held out his arms to her, saw the smile of satisfaction on her beloved face. He chuckled at her brazenness.

‘You’ll make a brilliant queen one day, my love,’ he whispered.

‘Finnikin!’ Isaboe reprimanded from across the residence. ‘Remember our rules.’

Finnikin kissed his daughter’s cheek. ‘But for now, there’s room for only one queen in this kingdom.’

He waited until she slept and then returned to their bed.

‘So you’ll do anything I want?’ he asked, trapping Isaboe, a knee placed each side of her body. ‘Can we play any game?’

‘Which game were you thinking of?’ she said with a laugh.

He pretended to think deeply. ‘The one where you are a novice named Evanjalin.’

In the dark, he kissed the smile from her lips.

‘And you’re a farm boy named Finnikin?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he scoffed with arrogance. ‘I’m the King.’

‘Ah,’ she said. ‘That game.’

On Lucian’s mountain someone hammered on the cottage shutters.

‘It will be for you,’ he said drowsily.

‘No, it will be for you,’ Phaedra said, wrapping the blankets around her.

‘It’s your turn,’ he insisted.

Phaedra pulled the blankets from the bed, leaving him cold and exposed as she wrapped them around herself. She was back soon enough.

‘Sheep. Looting. Cousins.’

Lucian cursed and got out of bed.

It was too cold a morning to be settling disputes between two neighbours over marked sheep, but he knew he would have to see to it. The mountain was still dark, but down in the valley he could see the twinkle of lantern light as they woke to milk the cows.

Back inside their cottage, the fire was lit and Phaedra was dressed. As always, she left for the valley before first light.

‘Can they not go one day without you?’ he asked gruffly.

‘Can yours not go one day without you?’ she asked.

She took his hands and wrapped them in a cloth warmed by the fire. ‘They’re ice,’ she murmured.

‘You’re going to have to learn to ride a horse on your own, Phaedra,’ he said. ‘It will make the journey faster.’

‘The mule and I have an agreement.’

‘The mule and you have similar traits,’ he said.

He helped her with the fleece Yata had made for her and then he warmed her face with his hands. ‘If I don’t get called to the palace and if Raskin’s sheep don’t take all day to birth and if the Mont cousins don’t create a drama, I’ll come down the valley to collect you. The days are getting shorter and I don’t want you to travel in the dark.’

She pressed a kiss to his mouth and then she was gone. Sometimes when he watched her ride away on these cold mornings he’d want a better life for her, but then she’d return at night and they’d dine with Yata or visit the cousins or feast with friends and Lucian would hear her laughter, and he imagined that this was the better life.

In the Citavita, Froi lay beside Quintana, both knowing that any moment now a cry would be heard from the other room and one of them would need to leave the warmth of their bed.

‘What’s creasing your forehead this morning?’ he asked.

She turned on her side to face him. ‘I was thinking of all the babes to be born today in this kingdom and what if you and I were to have another and it was a girl with Solange of Turla’s eyes or a boy with Arjuro and Gargarin’s face?’

‘I can see your concern,’ he said, nodding. ‘An awful thought. The idea of a babe born with Arjuro’s beard.’

She laughed. ‘Fool.’

He kissed her dimpled chin. ‘Let’s not worry about having to explain the past. If the palace does the right thing by the people, they won’t care who our children resemble.’

‘It’s still a worry, isn’t it? All this talk about balance of power and neutral consorts and neutral regents and there’s nothing neutral about this household at all.’

‘Everything’s a worry if you let it be, Quintana.’

‘But what will you do today when the Nebian Ambassador’s wife asks you if her garden is better than Lirah’s? Will you choose hers over your mother’s?’

He was trying not to think of that.

‘How did I get to be the judge?’ he asked, suddenly worried.

‘Your Lord August was speaking to the Nebian Ambassador’s wife about your skills in the garden when he was here and one thing led to the other.’

The cry sounded from Tariq’s chamber.

‘I’ll go,’ Froi said. ‘He may shine light on the matter.’

‘He’d choose Lirah.’

Froi stepped out into the cold morning air with Tariq in his arms. Gargarin was already on the balconette beside theirs and the palace was beginning to stir.

‘My lord,’ Froi heard Dorcas call out from the battlement above.

‘Yes, Dorcas.’

‘You’re going to have to cover his head. He’ll catch a chill. Fekra made him a cap.’

‘Thank you, Dorcas.’

Gargarin laughed softly.

Quintana joined Froi soon after, placing a thick woollen cap on Tariq’s head and then she took him and wrapped him in a blanket against her, murmuring to their son. Sometimes when she spoke to Tariq she sounded like the Reginita.

‘Good morning, Gargarin,’ she said.

‘Good morning, Quintana.’

She looked above to the battlements. ‘Good morning, Dorcas,’ she called out.

‘Good morning, Your Highness.’

‘Good morning, Fekra. The little King loves his cap.’

‘Good to hear, Your Highness.’

Froi wrapped all three of them in his fleece and they watched Lirah and Arjuro step onto the balconette across the gravina. Today Rafuel was there, leaning on them both. But he was standing and that was enough for now.

Little steps led to big achievements, the Priestking would always say, and sometimes Froi had to remind himself of that. The days here were long and full of work to be done and worries to be had. Today, no less than any other. There were talks with Osterians about a cotton crop, and arranging with Perabo and Hamlyn about the arrival of Serker horses from Lumatere, and the first planting of maize across the bridge, and helping Scarpo train the riders, and scribing for Gargarin’s well project, and Provincari demands, and merchants to be placated. And of course, the impending births. They frightened and thrilled people at the same time. And then soon they would take Tariq into Charyn’s provinces. Quintana wanted to meet the men and women who had lost their babes on the day of weeping. She wanted to introduce Tariq to them because she believed he would bring the living some sort of peace. They would also visit Serker. After months and months, Lirah had recorded as many of the names found in the journals Perabo gave her that night in her province as she could. Arjuro had promised to sing those names home.

‘Why are you smiling?’ Gargarin asked Froi, from across the balconette. ‘When you’re going to have to learn a lesson in diplomacy today and choose between the gardens of two women?’

Froi laughed, his chin resting on Quintana’s head, his eyes taking in the joy of their son, despite the ridiculous cap that covered the babe’s eyes. He looked across at Lirah and Arjuro and Rafuel, and then back to Gargarin who was smiling himself, because he knew the answer to his own question.

‘Because today, I think I’m leaning on the side of wonder.’