Froi of the Exiles

Chapter 1

Froi’s head was ringing.

A fist against his jaw, an elbow to his nose, a knee to his face and they kept on coming and coming, these old men, he had called them. They came for him one after the other, and there was no mercy to be had this day. But Froi of the Exiles wasn’t born for mercy. Not to receive, nor deliver it.

Behind his attackers was a sycamore tree waiting to die, its limbs half-dragging on the dry ground beneath it, and Froi took his chance, diving high between two of the men, his hands reaching for one of the branches, his body swinging, legs jutting out. A boot to a face, one man down, then he pounded into another before the branch collapsed under his weight. He pulled it free from the tree, swinging the limb high over his head. A third man down and then the fourth. He heard a curse and a muttered threat before the flat of his palm smashed the next man who came forward. Smashed him on the bridge of the nose, and Froi danced with glee.

Until he was left facing Finnikin of Lumatere and Froi felt the feralness of his nature rise to the surface. ’No rules,’ they had declared, and the dark Goddess knew that Froi loved to play games with no rules. And so with eyes locked, they circled each other, hands out, waiting to pounce in the way the wolves in the Forest of Lumatere fought for their prey. Froi saw a bead of sweat appear on the brow of the man they called the Queen’s Consort, saw the quick fist come his way, and so he ducked, his own fist connecting with precision. But all it took was the thought of the Queen, her head shaking with bemusement and a smile entering her eyes, to make Froi think again about where to land his second blow. In that moment’s hesitation, his legs were kicked out from under him and he felt his face pressed into the earth.

‘You let me win,’ Finnikin growled, and Froi heard anger in his voice.

‘Only because she’ll kill me if I bruise that lily-white skin,’ Froi mocked through gasps.

Finnikin pressed harder, but after a moment Froi could feel that he was shaking from laughter. ‘She’ll thank you for it, knowing Isaboe.’ Finnikin leapt to his feet. They exchanged a grin and Froi took the hand held out to him.

‘Old man, did you call me?’ Perri, the Captain’s second-in-charge, asked behind him. ‘Because I’m sure I heard those words come out of your mouth.’

‘Not out of my mouth,’ Froi said, feigning innocence and spitting blood to the ground from a cut in his lip. ’Must have been someone else.’

Around the sycamore, soldiers of the Guard were picking themselves up, curses ringing the air while the lads in training began collecting the practice swords and shields.

‘If he goes for my nose again, I fink I’ll hang him up by his little balls,’ one of the Guard said, getting to his feet. Froi tried to ignore the mockery.

‘Nothing little about me,’ he grunted. ‘Don’t take my word for it, Hindley. Ask your wife. She seemed happy last night, you know, with the size and all.’

Hindley snarled, knew there was no truth in the words, but the danger was in having spoken them aloud. Froi saw the snarl as an invitation and all hope of ignoring it failed as he lunged at the man, wanting nothing more than to connect a fist to Hindley’s nose for the third time that day. Because no matter what, the taunts still stung. Three years ago when he hardly knew a word of Lumateran, his tongue would twist around all the strange pronunciations of his new language, causing great amusement amongst those who saw Froi as nothing more than street scum. Here comes the feef wif nofing to show for, they’d taunt. Finnikin had once told Froi that the greatest weapon against big stupid men was a sharp mind. It was one of the reasons Froi had agreed to continue his lessons with the Priestking. Three years on, he had exceeded everyone’s expectations, including his own.

Today they had set up their drills in a meadow close to the foot of the mountains. Finnikin and Sir Topher had business with the Ambassador from the neighbouring kingdom of Sarnak and they had chosen the inn of Balconio as the meeting place.

‘You’re not as nimble as you used to be,’ Perri said, as they walked towards the horse posts by the rock hedges of a Flatland farm that had long been deserted. Lumatere was filled with empty farms and cottages, a testament to those who had died during the ten years of terror, which ended three years ago when Finnikin and the Queen broke the curse and freed their people.

‘He’s talking to you,’ Finnikin said with a shove.

‘No, he’s talking to you,’ Froi replied with an even greater shove. ‘Because I’d probably kill a man who called me nimble.’

Perri stopped in his tracks and Froi knew he had gone too far. Perri had a stare that could rip the guts out of a man and Froi felt it now. He knew he would have to wait it out under Perri’s cold scrutiny.

‘Except if it came from you, Perri,’ he said seriously. ‘I’d prefer the word swift, though. And you can’t say I’m not swift.’

‘What have I told you about talking back?’ Perri’s voice was cold and hard.

‘Not to,’ Froi muttered.

He knew he should have counted. It was the rule to count to ten in his head before he opened his mouth. It was the rule to count to ten if he wanted to smash a man in the face for saying something he didn’t like. It was the rule to count to ten if instinct wasn’t needed, but common sense was. It was part of his bond to Trevanion and Perri and the Queen’s Guard. Froi did a lot of counting.

They began walking again, silent for what seemed too long a time. Then Finnikin shoved him with a shoulder and Froi stumbled, laughing.

‘He’s filling out more than we imagined, Perri,’ Finnikin said. ’Perhaps it’s true what they say, after all. That he comes from River folk.’

‘Wouldn’t mind being known as a River man,’ Froi said.

Still nothing from Perri.

‘Not as a Flatlander?’ Finnikin asked.

Froi thought about it for a moment. ‘Perhaps both.’

He saw Perri’s look of disapproval.

‘You can’t stay working on Augie’s farm much longer,’ Perri said firmly. ‘Sooner or later, you’ll have to join the Guard.’

The topic of where Froi belonged came up more often these days. What had begun as a roof over his head three years ago with Lord August and his family, had become home. And Froi’s kinship with the village of Sayles had strengthened as he toiled alongside them, day in and day out, to restore Lumatere to what it had been before the unspeakable. But Froi’s place was also with the Captain and Perri and the men of the Guard in the barracks of the palace, protecting the Queen and Finnikin and their daughter, Princess Jasmina. Once a boy with no home, Froi now found himself torn between two.

‘I can do both.’

‘No, you can’t,’ Perri said.

‘I can do both, I tell you!’

‘You’ve a warrior’s instinct and the skill of a marksman, Froi,’ Perri said. ‘You’re wasted as a farm boy. It’s what I tell Augie every time I see him.’

‘Lady Abian says I’m probably eighteen by now, so you’ll have to start treating me as one of the men,’ Froi muttered. He hated being called a boy.

This was followed by another stare from Perri. Another round of counting to ten from Froi.

‘I’ll treat you like a man when you act like one,’ Perri said. ‘Agreed?’

Finnikin shoved him again and Froi tried not to laugh because Perri hated it when Froi didn’t take things seriously.

‘When I’m as old as my father, they’ll still be calling me a boy,’ Finnikin said. ‘So why shouldn’t you endure the indignity of it all as well?’

‘Oh Finn, Finn, the indignity of it all,’ Froi mocked and Finnikin grabbed him around the neck, squeezing tight.

At the horse posts, Froi tossed the stable boy a coin as they collected their mounts. The boy gave Finnikin a note and Froi saw irritation and then a ghost of a smile appear on his friend’s face.

‘I’ll ride ahead to the inn,’ Finnikin said.

‘Not unescorted, you won’t,’ Perri said.

‘It’s around the bend in this road. Nothing can happen to me from here to there.’

Froi rubbed noses with his horse. He knew this argument would last a moment or two.

‘Anything can happen,’ Perri said.

‘Suppose around the bend are ten Charynite scumsters, waiting to jump you,’ Froi said, mounting the horse.

Finnikin shot Froi a scathing look. ‘You’re supposed to be on my side, Froi. And how do you suppose Charynite –’

‘Scumsters,’ Froi finished.

‘How do you suppose Charynite scumsters got up the mountain and passed the Mont sentinels?’

‘All it takes is for one of them to slip through,’ Perri said.

But Finnikin was already on the horse, trotting away.

‘I’ll see you at the inn,’ he called out over his shoulder. He broke into a gallop and was gone.

‘I think he forgets his place sometimes,’ Perri murmured, staring after Finnikin. ’He still believes he can come and go as though he’s some messenger boy.’

There was silence between them again as they rode to the inn. Froi watched Perri carefully. He wondered if Perri would stay mad for long. Despite most things from Froi’s mouth coming out wrong, he hated disappointing Perri or the Captain.

‘I can take leave from the farm, Perri,’ he said quietly. ‘Especially when it comes time to travel into Charyn and do what we have to do.’

Perri was silent for a moment. ‘What makes you think I’m taking you to Charyn?’

‘Because you’ve taught me everything I know about …’ Froi shrugged. ‘You know.’

‘Killing,’ Perri said bitterly.

‘And when I’m not training with you or working on the farm, then I’m with the Priestking being taught to speak the tongue of our enemy.’ He gave Perri a sidewards glance. ‘So the way I see it, that says you’re taking me to Charyn.’

Perri was silent for a moment. ‘You know what the Priestking says?’

‘Sagra!’ Froi cursed. He knew he was going to get another serving from Perri.

‘He says that you don’t have time for your studies anymore. That you think there’s no merit in learning and stories.’

‘I’ve learnt all I need to,’ Froi said. ‘Studies and learning and stories won’t protect the kingdom and they won’t reap harvests.’

Perri shook his head. ‘I would have given anything to be taught at your age. The Priestking says you’re a natural, Froi. That you pick up facts and foreign words and that you understand ideas that are beyond many of us. Who would have thought that hidden beneath all the talking back and fighting was a sharp mind? But it means nothing to the Captain or me when you show little control over your actions and words.’

Froi took a deep breath and counted, making sure he didn’t take it out on the horse.

‘You’re not training anyone else, are you, Perri?’ he managed to ask, trying to hold back his fury at the thought. ‘Not Sefton or that scrawny fool from the Rock? They think too much. You can see it on their faces. And they’d never bear a torture. Never.’

Perri looked at him and Froi saw his eyes soften.

‘And you would?’

‘You know me, Perri,’ Froi said fiercely. ‘You know that if you wrote me a bond and told me what to bear, I’d bear it. You know me. Have I let you or the Captain down once these past three years, hunting those traitors?’

In the distance, a Flatlander was harnessed to his plough, working a field on his own. Froi and Perri held up a hand in acknowledgement and the man waved back.

‘When the time comes, we will have only one chance to get into that palace,’ Perri said. ‘There will be no room for mistakes. Their army combined is more than our entire people and if we make the slightest of errors, there will be a war to end all wars across this land.’

There was a flash of anguish on Perri’s face. Froi saw it on everyone’s expression once in a while, especially those who remembered life as it once was. Froi didn’t feel the sadness. Despite Isaboe and Finnikin’s belief that he was one of the children lost to the kingdom thirteen years ago when the impostor King took control, Froi remembered nothing about Lumatere. All he had known was life on the streets in another kingdom, where a chance meeting with Finnikin and the Queen changed his life. In a secret part of him, Froi revelled in what he had gained from Lumatere’s curse. He never looked back because if he did, he would have to think of the shame and the baseness of who he had once been without his bond. He would do anything to prove his worth to the Queen and Finnikin. Even kill. It was what he had been taught to do these past years. Over and over again.

Although every Lumateran had been trained to use a bow to defend the kingdom, Froi had stood out and was hand-picked by Trevanion and Perri to work alongside them. He was swift and had mastered any skill thrown his way. The first time Froi was sent into the home of a traitor with a dagger and sword, Captain Trevanion had made him vow it would not end with death. They needed the man alive. What they required was information about the bodies of ten Flatland lads who had gone missing in the fifth year of the curse under the cruel reign of the impostor King. Froi studied the information and had gone in with vengeance in his heart. This man had been a traitor, a collaborator. He had spied for the impostor King and betrayed his neighbours. In the end Froi had kept the man alive. Barely. From the information he forced out of him, they found the remains of the lads and were able to put them to rest seven years after they were slain. If the lads had lived they would have been a year or two older than Froi today. Despite the passing of time, the grief from the families on the day of the burials was indescribable. What Froi had done to get that confession was worse.

But the punishment of most other traitors was different. When the palace was certain beyond doubt of their guilt, Captain Trevanion and Perri would ensure that retribution was quick and out of plain sight of the people of Lumatere, who had already seen enough bloodshed.

‘Don’t you just want to tear out their hearts?’ Froi had asked both his captain and Perri one day when they had marked a traitor from a distance and shot an arrow into his chest. That the man died quickly with no fear or pain disturbed Froi.

‘You can’t go around feeling too much,’ Captain Trevanion had explained, watching a moment to ensure the man was indeed dead. ‘Because if you feel too much, enough to want to kill them so savagely, then one day you’re going to feel enough to spare their lives. Don’t ever let emotion get in the way. Just follow orders. Most times the orders you follow will be the right ones.’

Most times.

Sometimes it was a snap of the neck. Other times a dagger across the throat or a blade piercing the heart. But it was always clean and quick. More than once they found a small band of the dead impostor King’s soldiers in hiding, deserters from his army seeking refuge in the forest at the far corner of the western border. Many of them had fled when Trevanion and his Guard had entered the kingdom to set their people free. Although the impostor King was half-Lumateran, he was also a Charynite and his army was mostly made up of Charynites. Those soldiers now filled Lumatere’s prison while Finnikin and Sir Topher endeavoured to prove guilt or innocence by collecting evidence and testimonials. More than a hundred prisoners had been released and returned to Charyn.

Perri and Froi came to the outskirts of Balconio where cottages began to appear. They passed a fallow field and Froi heard Perri murmur words that he had heard over and over again each time anyone passed a fallow field. It was a prayer to the Goddess that the soil would regain its fertility. In the last days of the curse, the impostor King had set alight most of the Flatlands.

‘There’s talk that Isaboe and Finn will sell the village of Fenton,’ Froi said.

‘Queen Isaboe. The Queen’s Consort,’ Perri corrected.

Froi made a rude sound. ‘Every time I call Finn the Consort anything, he wrestles me and he’s no skinny thing anymore.’

‘It’s hard for him,’ Perri said quietly. ‘No matter how strong his union with the Queen, he has much to prove.’

‘He doesn’t have to prove himself to her,’ Froi said.

‘But he has to prove himself because of her.’

Froi was distracted a moment by the rotted crop of cabbage that lined the road. He leapt off the horse and crouched, feeling the soil, shaking his head at the waste of it all. This year Lord August had decided to use a water system created by a soldier in the impostor King’s army. It was the only thing of worth the enemy had contributed, apart from some of the most stunning horses Froi had ever seen. But many of the Flatlanders refused to adopt the Charynite methods, despite the fact that their crops were dying.

‘They are fools,’ Froi said, looking up at Perri.

‘Don’t underestimate how deepfelt the hatred is,’ Perri said. ‘They see it as the method of an enemy and they don’t want a part of it.’

‘So they’d prefer that their crops die and their people half starve! I told Gardo of the Flatlands that he was a horse’s arse just the other day. What kind of man wastes his crop for the sake of pride?’

‘You need to refrain from insulting the villagers, Froi,’ Perri laughed. ‘They have daughters. You’re going to have to bond yourself to one of them sooner or later.’

Froi stiffened. ’I have a bond to my queen.’ He mounted his horse, steering it back onto the road.

He heard Perri sigh. ‘Froi, it was a worthy promise at the time, but you can’t spend the rest of your life refusing the pleasures of laying with a woman.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it alters nothing of the past,’ Perri said firmly. ‘You can’t change who you were. If anyone realises that, I do.’

Froi looked away. He didn’t know how much Perri knew. Didn’t want to know, really. It brought him too much shame. Three years ago on their travels, when the Queen was disguised as the novice Evanjalin, and Froi was a filthy thief they had picked up along the way, he had tried to force himself on her. On the streets of the Sarnak capital where he grew up, the men had taught him that power was survival. The Lumaterans had spent three years trying to unteach what he knew. Some nights he woke in a sweat remembering what he had done. The Queen had spoken about it only once since they entered Lumatere. It was when a member of her Guard, Aldron, was sent on palace business with Finnikin, and Froi had been chosen to replace Aldron.

‘Are you sure?’ he had asked her quietly as they stood at the bailey, watching Finnikin and Aldron ride away.

‘That you can protect me?’ she said, her eyes still out in the distance where Finnikin and Aldron were tiny specks on the horizon. ‘Trevanion claims there’s no one better than you, Froi. But if you’re asking if I’m sure you won’t hurt me, then yes I am.’

Froi had felt pride and relief.

Her dark eyes were suddenly on him and he shivered at the memory of their fierceness. ‘But I’ve told you before, I will never forget. Ever. And nor will you. It’s part of the bond you made to me that day we freed you from the slave traders. Do you remember?’

Froi would never forget. ‘That if I ever harm a woman you’ll have me hanged and quartered.’ And she would. That he knew.

Most days, he feared that a monster of great baseness lived inside him, fighting to set itself free. Killing the traitors of Lumatere for Isaboe made sense. But killing also fed the monster. He could not bear the idea of letting that monster free amongst the girls of Lumatere. So Froi kept away from them.

‘It’s the only way of proving myself to the Queen,’ he muttered to Perri as they entered Balconio.

‘Find another way,’ Perri said.

Froi shook his head. ’I don’t trust myself.’

They reached the inn where they would wait until Finnikin’s meeting with the Ambassador of Sarnak was over. The village of Balconio sat on the Skuldenore River at the foot of mountains. It could easily have been a village of ghosts. Many of its people had died in exile. But the Queen and Finnikin had decided that an inn in such a place would attract customers and give life to Balconio. They had approached the people of one of the surviving villages and proposed their plan. Froi had once heard Lord August tell Lady Abian that it was a smart decision. One day when the gates of Lumatere were open to the rest of the land, the inn would be the perfect place for trade. Despite their wariness of foreigners, the Queen and Finnikin knew that to survive they would have to do business with neighbours. This inn and the export of silver from the mines to their neighbouring allies, Belegonia and Osteria, was the first step. Most nights, the Balconio Inn was filled with Monts on their way to the palace village or merchants and farmers trading their goods and skills, but this past year the people of the neighbouring villages had begun to venture out of their homes for enjoyment rather than necessity. It helped that the inn also boasted the best ale in the kingdom.

Captain Trevanion met them at the gate of the inn. He was one of the most impressive men Froi had ever seen: mighty in build, with a face that even men would call handsome. He was Finnikin’s beloved father and Froi knew they still felt the pain of having been separated from each other when Finnikin was a lad of nine. The Captain had also believed for ten long years that his beloved Lady Beatriss was dead, but she had lived, and during the past three years there had been much talk about whether they would rekindle their love.

‘We’re old men, I hear,’ Trevanion said, cuffing Froi.

Froi laughed. ’If you and some of the Guard weren’t old men, then being called old men wouldn’t insult you so much.’

‘We’re only some forty years, Froi.’

‘He calls Aldron an old man and he’s not even ten years older than him,’ Perri mused, looking around. ‘Where’s Finn?’

‘I thought he was with you?’

‘He rode ahead.’

Froi watched the two men exchange worried looks and followed them into the inn.

Inside, they jostled through a crowd. Tonight it was mostly filled with the Queen’s Guard, but Froi also recognised a handful of rock villagers and the lads who travelled with the Queen’s cousin, Lucian of the Monts, which meant the Mont leader was somewhere in the vicinity.

In a corner close to where the innkeeper was serving from barrels of ale, Froi saw the Monts speaking tensely amongst themselves. Most were cousins to Finnikin through his marriage to the Queen, but Finnikin and Lucian were nowhere to be seen. Froi sensed Trevanion and Perri’s unease and followed them to the bar. The lad assisting the innkeeper looked up when they approached. He was young and nervous and it was evident that he had never come face to face with the Captain of the Guard before.

‘You’re new,’ Trevanion said.

‘Yes, Sir. Just started.’

‘Did you recognise the Queen’s Consort?’

‘No … no, Sir, but he introduced himself.’

Trevanion looked relieved. ‘Where is he?’

‘He’s with a … a … w … w … woman, Sir.’

Perri, Froi and Trevanion stared at the lad with disbelief.

‘A woman?’ Trevanion snapped. ‘What woman?’

‘A woman waiting in his room, Sir. She had left a message.’

‘What room?’ Trevanion demanded, already halfway up the staircase.

Perri dragged the nervous lad along with them. ‘Was she armed?’ Perri barked.

‘What message?’ Trevanion shouted.

‘She said, “Tell my king I’m w … waiting in his chamber” ’.

Trevanion stopped just as they reached the top of the stairs. Froi watched the Captain’s expression change from fear to exasperation.

‘Her king?’

Trevanion muttered his favourite string of curses. The Captain had spent years in a foreign prison amongst low-lifes from every kingdom of the land and at times even the Guard flinched at some of his expressions.

A palace soldier stood outside one of the chamber doors, shrugging haplessly when he saw his captain.

‘I can’t control her any more than you can control him, Sir,’ he tried to say. Trevanion pushed him out of the way, knocking sharply before entering the room.

Near the window, Finnikin stood with both hands against the wall, his head bent over her. As always, the intimacy between them made Froi ache.

‘I promise you,’ Finnikin said. ‘I’ve already shouted at her and used a very, very reprimanding tone.’

‘I was quivering,’ the Queen said, stepping out from behind Finnikin.

Froi hid a grin, but Trevanion and Perri failed to hide their anger.

Isaboe was dressed more for comfort than for style, but still she managed to take Froi’s breath away. When he had first laid eyes on her in that Sarnak alleyway, her head had been bare. Now her hair was thick and black and fell down her back, contrasting with the deep purple of her simple dress that fell loose from her shoulders.

‘Surround the entire inn and send away every person who does not belong to the Guard or the Mont cousins,’ Perri barked out the order to the soldier outside. Trevanion disappeared with the man.

‘That will make us popular,’ Finnikin said, his arm around his wife. ‘Not only have we finally decided to collect tax, but now we’re getting in the way of their drinking.’

Isaboe caught Froi’s eye. She grabbed Finnikin’s face to reveal an already purple eye.

‘You?’

Froi pointed to himself questioningly, feigning surprise and hurt.

‘Where are his bruises?’ she asked Finnikin.

Froi made a scoffing sound at the thought.

Trevanion returned to the room. ‘Where’s Jasmina?’

‘In the next chamber,’ the Queen said, ’and if any of you wake her, Captain, I will have to kill someone tonight.’

‘I need to check –’

‘No,’ both Isaboe and Finnikin spoke.

Trevanion stared at them.

‘I’ll see that –’

‘No,’ the Queen said again. ‘You can see your granddaughter when she wakes up.’

Trevanion looked disgruntled.

‘She’ll know it’s you the moment you walk in,’ Finnikin complained, ‘and she’ll think it’s a game and call out Pardu Twevanion all night. I’ve not slept for two years!’

Trevanion fixed his stare on the Queen, his anger still present.

‘I finished the business with the Osterians earlier than predicted,’ she explained, with a sigh. ‘I thought I’d come and visit before Finnikin’s meeting with the Sarnaks. Coincidentally, Lucian is also here so I get to see my husband and my cousin. I’m very lucky in that way.’

Finnikin and Froi laughed. Trevanion and Perri didn’t.

‘Where is Lucian?’ Trevanion asked.

‘Apparently checking the privy and mouse holes for Charynites.’

‘I’m glad you’re amused about the safekeeping of this family, my queen,’ Trevanion said.

The Queen regarded him coolly and in an instant the mood in the room changed.

‘Not amused at all, Captain,’ she said. ’I’m never amused about the safety of our family.’

Froi saw a flicker of regret on Trevanion’s face.

‘It’s just safer for you and the child to be in the palace, Isaboe,’ he said, his voice softening.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said with remorse. ‘But it seemed so harmless and you know what it feels like after three days speaking about mines and goats with the Osterians. It’s what keeps them protected from invasion. The ability to bore the enemy to tears.’

There was a knock and without so much as an invitation to enter, Lucian of the Monts joined them, his stare going straight to the bruise on Finnikin’s face. Although not as tall as the river lads, Lucian had an imposing build and a temper to match. There was ruddiness to his cheeks courtesy of the mountain weather and a bluntness in all things about him that set Lucian apart from the other leaders of Lumatere. Froi remembered little of Lucian from those few days he spent with the Mont before Lucian’s father died in the battle to reclaim Lumatere. But many believed he was a changed lad since. Lord Augie said over and over again to Lady Abian that he was too young to control his kin on the mountain and protect the kingdom from the Charynites.

‘Bastard,’ Lucian said, turning to Froi. ‘Bastards, both of you. Fists only?’

‘Bit of wrestling thrown in,’ Finnikin said. ‘You can’t see his bruises, but I promise they’re there.’

Lucian had been the childhood companion of Finnikin and Isaboe’s brother, Balthazar. The two friends still spoke of the slaughtered heir to the throne as if he was there amongst them, but Froi had never heard them mention Balthazar in front of Isaboe.

‘How’s Yata?’ she asked, pecking her cousin’s cheek with a kiss.

Lucian sighed. ‘The Guard is going to have to come up the mountain after all,’ he said, not wasting time. ‘There’s been an incident.’

Froi recalled the tenseness of the Mont lads downstairs. He knew it could only mean one thing. On the foot of Lucian’s mountain on the Charyn side was a cavernous valley that belonged to Lumatere. Half a day’s ride east on horseback was the closest Charyn province, and at the end of winter, Charynites had begun to take refuge in the caves that perched over the valley and alongside the stream. A bold, desperate few had sent messages through Lucian, asking for refuge in Lumatere. The Queen declined, but the Charynites refused to go away and their numbers grew and grew each day.

Froi saw fear on the Queen’s face. The threat of the Charynites was always, always on her mind.

‘For two weeks now, we’ve had a message sent up from the valley through Tesadora. A Charynite, through a contact, has requested to meet with the Queen or Finnikin.’

‘Since when does a Charynite demand anything of us,’ the Queen demanded. ‘They’re fortunate enough to be using our valley.’

‘Who is the contact?’ Finnikin asked.

Lucian looked away and Froi realised he was avoiding the question.

‘Lucian?’ the Queen ordered.

The Mont turned back to her and still there was a moment of hesitation. ‘Phaedra.’

The room was quiet for a moment.

‘The wife you sent back?’ the Queen asked.

‘Do not call her that,’ Lucian snapped.

‘Watch your tone, Lucian,’ Finnikin warned.

The Charynite girl was an unspoken source of tension between the Monts and the Queen. At the beginning of spring the leader of Alonso, the closest Charynite province, had travelled up the mountain with his daughter Phaedra in tow, insisting on a meeting with Lucian. The Provincaro claimed that when his daughter was born he had entered a pact with Lucian’s father to betroth their children. After almost two years of petty skirmishes between the Mont lads and the sentinels of Alonso, and talk that the Provincaro of Alonso was out of sorts with his own king, Finnikin and Isaboe had agreed that perhaps they could use it to Lumatere’s advantage. Lucian had been furious. The girl was said to be frightened of her own shadow, spending most of her day sobbing in the corner of Lucian’s cottage. Froi had met her once. She had politely spoken to him in Lumateran about the endless rain, her pronunciation poor at times. Froi had repeated to her a lesson taught by the Priestking about what to do with particularly strange pairings of sounds. Phaedra had thanked him and he saw gratitude and kindness in her eyes.

The Monts despised Phaedra for more than being a Charynite. Mont women were strong and walked side by side with their men. Phaedra could barely boil water. Six weeks later, the girl left. Some said that Lucian threw her out, others that she walked out herself, but this was the first time her name had been mentioned by Lucian.

‘And what is Phaedra doing in an unprotected valley when one would presume she should be back in her province living with her father?’

‘She works alongside Tesadora as a translator and registers the newcomers as they arrive.’

Froi watched the Queen pretend to be confused. Lucian didn’t stand a chance in this exchange.

‘Let me get this right. Phaedra failed at being a good Mont wife, but she can run a camp of hundreds of fleeing Charynites, translate for Tesadora, and has somehow managed to be affiliated with a faction demanding a meeting with my king and I?’

Lucian turned to Finnikin for support.

‘Don’t look at me, Lucian,’ Finnikin said. ‘Don’t even try to involve me in this one.’

Lucian held up his hands with exasperation. ‘She was useless, I tell you! Even Yata would agree.’

‘Why is she still in the valley?’ Isaboe demanded.

Froi watched the flicker of regret cross the Mont’s face.

‘According to Tesadora’s girls, the Provincaro refused to take his daughter back into his home. Phaedra lives in the caves now.’

The Queen nodded. Froi knew that nod. It was the gesture she used when simmering with fury.

‘The wife of the Mont Leader is living in a filthy cave?’

‘You show respect for her now, my queen,’ Lucian said angrily. ‘Yet you failed to attend my bonding ceremony.’

‘You married her in Alonso, Lucian.’ The stare she sent him was cold, and apart from Finnikin, Lucian was the only man who ever dared to match it. Isaboe and her Mont cousins did this often. All of them. They fought fiercely. Loved each other fiercely. Laughed fiercely. Finnikin said it was best to leave the room and let them shout. It would all blow over soon, but for Lucian’s sake, Froi would have welcomed sooner rather than later.

‘Tell the girl that I do not meet with Charynites and if they dare make the command again –’

‘I haven’t actually told you the worst of it,’ Lucian interrupted.

The room grew quiet. Tense. Froi felt the hairs on his arm rise.

Lucian kept his stare focused on his cousin. ‘And may I stress that no one is hurt.’

There was a deadly silence in the room.

‘This morning in the valley, a Charynite took a dagger to Japhra’s throat,’ he said, referring to one of Tesadora’s novices.

Froi leapt to his feet. He heard the Queen’s cry, Finnikin’s hiss of fury. The Captain’s fists were clenched tight. Perri was gone from the room before another word was spoken.

‘Japhra’s staying in Yata’s home for the night, but insists on returning with Tesadora to the valley tomorrow.’

‘And the Charynite?’ Trevanion asked.

‘He’s under guard.’

The Queen looked at Finnikin. Froi saw fear in Isaboe’s expression that sickened him. The Queen’s anxiety about a possible attack from the Charynites had grown tenfold since the birth of her child.

‘You go with your father and Perri,’ she said to Finnikin.

Finnikin looked torn. ‘The Sarnak Ambassador –’

‘I’ll speak to the Sarnak Ambassador,’ she said.

‘No!’ Finnikin shouted.

‘And what would you prefer?’ she asked him sharply. ‘That I travel up to the mountain and interview a potential Charyn assassin?’

‘I’d prefer that Aldron takes you and Jasmina back to the palace,’ Finnikin said. ‘I’ll speak to the Ambassador, shorten our meeting and then travel up to the mountain.’

‘And while you’re at it, why don’t you plough every field in the kingdom and check the nets in the river?’ she said, sharply. ‘Then go up to the Rock quarry and break your back working alongside your kin. And perhaps work in the mines after that.’

She was no different from Finnikin. Froi knew everyone in the room wanted to say that. Both the Queen and Finnikin refused to believe they had the privilege of palace life and both could be found at any time working alongside their people during their visits across the kingdom.

‘I don’t want you dealing with the Sarnaks, Isaboe,’ Finnikin said. ‘Don’t let me have to imagine how it will feel for you to be in their presence.’

‘And it feels any different for you?’ she cried. ‘You can’t be everywhere at the same time, Finnikin. I will take care of Sarnak. They are no threat to us. You take care of Charyn and perhaps sometime this week we may be able to pass each other on the road and wave from a distance.’

Finnikin sighed and Froi watched the Queen’s expression soften.

‘This is an attack from the Charynites, my love,’ she said. ‘Heed my words. This is the beginning.’

Chapter 2

Finnikin watched Isaboe from the entrance of the dining hall of the inn where she sat alongside Sir Topher and their Ambassador. Standing behind Isaboe was her guard Aldron and opposite was the Ambassador of Sarnak, his scribe and two of his Guard.

The atmosphere in the room was strained. The Ambassador of Sarnak was used to speaking to Finnikin about matters between the two kingdoms and Finnikin was used to keeping his wife from having to deal with Sarnak after what she had witnessed there in her fifteenth year.

‘Come, Finn,’ his father said quietly at his shoulder. ‘Lucian is waiting for us.’

Finnikin wanted to stay a moment longer. Isaboe had faced more hostile opponents since she came to power, but this was different.

The Sarnaks waited for her to speak. Finnikin imagined that her silence spoke of an arrogance to the visitors, a sort of play to show who had the power in these negotiations. But he knew what her silence meant.

She looked up and caught his eye. It wasn’t magic or curses, this thing that lay between them. It was more profound than that. He couldn’t even put it into words and at times it made him want to walk away and take refuge from the ties that bound them both.

I can do this, he read in her eyes.

You can do anything, he was saying in return. But I wish you didn’t have to.

‘My queen,’ Sir Topher prodded gently.

She nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Gentleman,’ she began, her voice husky but strong. She had a habit of changing her words moments before a speech. Today seemed like one of those times.

‘To be honest, these days I don’t know what to say,’ she continued. ‘You see, our daughter is almost two years old and she is speaking up a storm. I know the time will come when she’ll ask questions. And I won’t know what to tell her.

‘When she asks why we don’t sleep in the larger chambers of the palace, will I find the words to tell her the most heinous of stories? That thirteen years ago, when I was a child of seven, assassins came into those rooms and murdered my father and my mother and my precious older sisters. She’ll want to know how I survived and perhaps I’ll have to hide the truth. You see, my brother Balthazar and I were doing the wrong thing that night. The only truth I may be able to tell Jasmina is that her uncle would have been a great king if he had ever lived beyond his ninth birthday, but that he died saving me from the assassins who found us in the Forest of Lumatere.’

She stopped, unable to go on.

Look at me, Finnikin begged her with his eyes. Look at me and I’ll give you the strength.

‘She’ll be so sad, Jasmina will be,’ she continued. ’You see, she likes her stories to be magical. At the moment her favourites are about rabbits that speak and horses with wings that take her across the sky to her favourite friends in the kingdom.’

A ghost of a smile appeared on her lips as she looked at the Sarnak Ambassador across the table.

‘You have a grandson yourself, Sir?’

Finnikin watched the Ambassador nod.

‘They do love their tales of wonder,’ he chuckled.

‘But my tale has little such wonder,’ Isaboe said. ’I’ll have to tell her that I ran for my life and wasn’t there to see the days of the unspeakable that followed, but that her father recorded the events in his Book of Lumatere: stories of good people who turned their backs on their neighbours, because they needed someone to blame. Stories of how her pardu, Trevanion, was accused of treason and sent to a foreign prison, separated from her beloved father who was no more than nine at the time. She’ll weep for her grandfather and for the sorry truth of how he believed that his love, Lady Beatriss of the Flatlands, had died in a filthy dungeon giving birth to their dead child, moments before she was to be burnt at the stake.’

Finnikin heard the low intake of ragged breath from his father. Hearing his name and that of Beatriss would have told Trevanion enough despite his ignorance of the Sarnak language.

‘And then the hardest part will be explaining Lumatere’s curse, for curses are not the easiest things to explain to a child: how half the kingdom was trapped inside the walls, while the other half walked the land in exile for ten long years. She’ll have to speak to Lady Beatriss to hear the depravity of what took place inside these cursed walls. How the impostor King and his army, trapped by the curse themselves, forced themselves into the beds of our women, hanged the children of men who chose to rebel, and burnt down our land over and over again.’

The Ambassador bowed his head. He was a good man. Finnikin had come to realise that these last three years of negotiations. But goodness in a man was not enough when it came to appeasing a kingdom that had lost so much.

‘Both my king and I will have to tell our daughter what happened to our suffering people who travelled from kingdom to kingdom in exile. Begging for sanctuary.’

Her eyes fixed onto the Ambassador of Sarnak and Finnikin shuddered at the force of her memory. ‘Begging your kingdom for sanctuary, Sir.’

Her voice broke.

‘Give me the words, Ambassador,’ Isaboe pleaded. ‘Give me the words to explain to my child the fate of three hundred of our exiles from her grandfather’s village, who had taken refuge on your river bank. Although I was there to witness it, I still cannot find the words to explain what happens when a king turns his back and allows his people to do as they please. Give me the words to describe the mass grave her father saw at the crossroads of Sendecane. What a fever camp looks like where bodies are piled onto each other in a pit, as I witnessed in Sorel.’

The tears pooled in her eyes, but Finnikin saw triumph in them, as well.

‘Knowing Jasmina, she’ll make me repeat over and over again the story of her father climbing a rock to find me at land’s end,’ she continued, her dark gaze looking over the Ambassador’s shoulder and fastening onto Finnikin’s.

‘But I know which part she’ll love best. That despite all the horror our people had to endure, we found a way. How her father and I and this good man who sits by my side travelled the land searching for the Captain and his Guard and my Mont cousins. How Beatriss of the Flatlands and Tesadora of the Forest Dwellers found a means from within the kingdom to lead us home and reunite our people.’

There was silence until Finnikin heard the Ambassador of Sarnak clear his throat.

‘We need each other, Your Majesty,’ he implored. ’Has my king not expressed his sorrow enough? The silence between our kingdoms has gone on for too long. Let us unite and fight a more cunning enemy.’

She leaned forward. ‘Do not bring me apologies from your king, Sir. Bring me the news that the men who slaughtered my unarmed people on that river bank have been brought to justice.’

She stood, her eyes never leaving the Ambassador. ‘Do me that honour, Sir, so that one day the Princess of Lumatere may befriend the grandson of the Sarnak Ambassador who convinced his king that great men make amends for wronging their neighbours.’

Finnikin felt his father’s hand on his shoulder. He must have made a sound, for Isaboe looked up again.

Go, he read in her eyes.

Finnikin turned and walked away.

Outside, as they mounted their horses alongside Lucian and his Mont cousins, Finnikin explained what had been spoken between Isaboe and the Sarnak Ambassador.

‘We might have to make do with nothing more than an apology,’ Trevanion said quietly. ‘If what happened on the mountain is an attack from Charyn, we may need the Sarnaks now more than ever.’

Finnikin shook his head. ’We’ve worked too long and hard for this,’ he said. ’She’ll not weaken on the matter. Mark my words. I know Isaboe. She will not give in until the Sarnaks give her what we want.’

Chapter 3

The Charynite was slight in build, but most Charynites Froi had seen were. His hair was worn long to the shoulders and although he appeared to be older than Finnikin, it was hard to determine his age. His face was bruised and bleeding and Froi knew from one of the Monts that the beating had come from Tesadora of the Forest Dwellers, tiny as she was, who now stood beside Perri with savagery in her eyes.

The wife that Lucian had sent back stood before them, trembling. She was small and plumpish with a sweet round face.

‘My kinsman does not understand why you require me here, Sir,’ Phaedra said quietly, looking up at Lucian, her face reddening.

‘We speak Lumateran,’ Lucian said. ‘You speak for us. Understood?’

Meanwhile Trevanion crouched down closely before the Charynite prisoner, studying the man with an unnerving intensity.

‘Ask him the reason for the attack?’ Trevanion ordered Phaedra, not taking his eyes from the Charynite.

Out of everyone in the room, Trevanion’s Charyn was weak, Perri’s a little stronger. Finnikin had insisted they learn the Charyn tongue if they were to travel into the enemy kingdom to kill the King. Some days, Finnikin insisted that they speak nothing but Charyn for practice, although both Finnikin and Froi would become frustrated at how slowly they were forced to speak.

Phaedra repeated the question.

Froi saw the movement in the Charynite’s throat, the swallowing of fear. But nevertheless, he stared Trevanion in the eye.

‘Because I had requested more than once to speak to the Queen … or her king, and I was refused time and time again.’

Phaedra translated the words.

‘So you take a dagger to Japhra’s throat?’ Lucian asked in Charyn, forgetting his vow to speak only Lumateran.

The Charynite tilted his head to the side, looking beyond Trevanion to where Finnikin stood. ‘Well it worked, did it not?’

Froi snarled, but didn’t realise he had done so aloud until the man looked towards him with little fear and a slight expression of … was it satisfaction? It was a long moment before the prisoner looked away.

‘We don’t need the girl,’ the Charynite said quietly, indicating Phaedra. ‘Most of you can understand me clearly. True?’ He looked from Froi to Lucian and then finally to Finnikin. ‘There aren’t too many men in this part of the land with hair that colour, Your Majesty,’ he said. ‘And everyone knows the Lumateran Queen and her consort speak the language of every kingdom in this land.’

Finnikin stood coldly silent.

‘Ask the girl to leave,’ the Charynite repeated.

‘We make the demands,’ Lucian said. ‘Not you.’

‘Ask her to leave,’ the Charynite said tiredly. ‘For if she hears what I say, my men will have to kill her and they are scholars, not killers. They hate the sight of blood.’

Despite the regret in the man’s voice, Froi knew he spoke the truth.

Lucian called out to one of the Mont guards. ‘Get her out of here,’ he ordered. ‘Have one of the cousins take her down to the valley.’ Lucian turned his attention to the girl. ‘Return to your father’s house, Phaedra. Once and for all. If I see you in the valley, I’ll drag you back to your province myself!’

The girl walked to the entrance of the cell, turning to look at the Charynite hesitantly.

‘Go,’ the man said gently. ‘You’ve risked enough, Little Sparrow, and we are grateful indeed.’

Lucian bared his teeth. The Charynite gave a small humourless laugh as Phaedra left the cell.

‘Foolish of you to have let her leave your spously bed, Mont. If she had been given the chance, Phaedra of Alonso would have been the first step to peace.’

‘What makes you think we’re after peace with Charynites?’ Lucian asked.

‘Because Japhra of the Flatlands speaks of it in her sleep.’

Tesadora hissed with fury. ‘Don’t speak her name again or you’ll be choking on your own blood.’

‘Japhra’s a woman with worth beyond your imagining,’ he continued, as if Tesadora had not threatened his life. But Froi saw moisture gather on the Charynite’s brow and knew that Trevanion’s close proximity and Tesadora’s presence unsettled him more than he would care to admit.

‘Some women learn to listen better when they speak little.’ The Charynite’s eyes fixed on Finnikin again. ‘Did you not learn that from your queen in her mute days?’

Finnikin finally spoke. ‘You are pushing my patience, Charynite, and if you make one more reference to our women, including my queen, I will beg a dagger from my kinsmen and slice you from ear to ear. So speak.’

The Charynite kept his focus on Finnikin.

‘My name is Rafuel from the Charynite province of Sebastabol. I’m here in the valley with seven other men.’ He waited a moment for Lucian to translate. Rafuel met Trevanion’s stare. ‘I have a way of getting you into the palace, gentlemen. To do both our kingdoms a great justice.

‘To kill the King of Charyn.’

Froi could sense that the others were as stunned as he was to hear the words, but there was little reaction.

‘And why would we trust you, Charynite?’ Finnikin asked.

‘Because we have something in common, Your Majesty.’

‘We have nothing in common.’

‘Not even a curse?’ Rafuel said, calmly.

‘Sagra!’ Froi muttered. Another godsforsaken curse.

Rafuel’s eyes met Froi’s again.

‘Our curse was first,’ Rafuel of Sebastabol said.

‘Really?’ Finnikin asked, sarcasm lacing his words. ‘Was it worse than ours?’

Rafuel sighed, sadly. ‘If we sit and compare, Your Majesty, perhaps I may win, but we will all be left with very little in the end.’

Finnikin pushed past his father and grabbed the man to his feet, his teeth gritted. ‘How could you possibly win? My queen suffers with this curse.’

‘And so does her king, I hear.’

The Charynite had the power of saying so much in the most even of tones.

‘Did you not notice anything peculiar when you passed through Charyn during your exile?’ the Charynite continued.

Finnikin regained his composure and shoved the man away. ‘I passed through Charyn three times only. The first was when I was ten and visited the palace with Sir Topher, the Queen’s First Man. We were consigned to one chamber and spoke to no one. The second time was three years ago when we were searching for exiles and I can’t recall a friendly chat from a Charynite back then either. And the third time, a group of your soldiers took forty of our people hostage on the Osterian border and beat up our boy,’ he said, pointing back to Froi.

‘Your boy?’ the Charynite questioned, his eyes meeting Froi’s. ‘Are you sure of that?’

Tesadora flew at him, but Perri held her back.

‘Why does he still breathe?’ she demanded. ‘It’s simple. Snap his neck.’

Rafuel was staring at her, almost in wonder. ‘That’s the Charyn Serker in you, Tesadora of the Forest Dwellers.’

This time Perri let her go and Froi watched Tesadora throw herself at the Charynite, her fingers clawing his face. Froi had heard stories of her half-Charyn blood, but no one dared speak of it. Perri waited a moment or two, enough time for her to draw more blood. Only then did he calmly step forward to pull her away. Froi felt an instant regret that it was over so soon. Somehow he would always be drawn to darkness and no one in the room had a darker core than Tesadora.

Rafuel continued as if his face wasn’t bleeding. ‘It is forbidden for a Charynite to speak to outsiders. Such a rule gets in the way of a “friendly chat”.’

‘Why forbidden?’ Lucian asked. ‘What have your people to hide that we don’t already know of you?’

Rafuel gave a small humourless laugh. ‘I could fill a chronicle of what you don’t know about us, Mont. But I leave such things to Phaedra, who writes of the arrival of our people on your land with a fairer hand than I ever will.’ Rafuel of Sebastabol turned to Tesadora. ‘I see you writing your chronicles from time to time, too. Have you not noticed anything strange about the valley? All those people, hundreds of them?’

Trevanion asked for a translation. Rafuel was speaking too fast.

They turned to Tesadora, whose cold blue eyes looked even more sinister.

‘What is it?’ Finnikin asked her.

Tesadora shook her head. Perri let go of her arm and for the briefest moment Froi saw her lean against him. He knew they were lovers despite a savage history between them, but like Tesadora’s Charyn blood, no one spoke of it.

‘There are no children,’ Tesadora guessed quietly. Lucian repeated the words in Charyn and they all looked to Rafuel for confirmation. Rafuel nodded.

‘Where are they?’ Finnikin asked, stunned.

‘They’re all grown up,’ Rafuel said.

Finnikin advanced towards him again with frustration. ‘I’d prefer not to have to guess, Charynite. If you’ve gone to all the trouble to get me up this mountain, then make it clear to us. Speak to us as if we are as ignorant as a Charynite.’

Something in Rafuel’s expression flickered. ‘We’re not all ignorant, Your Majesty,’ he said coldly, ‘and I don’t know how to make it clearer to you. Our women are barren. Our men, seedless. A child has not been born to Charyn for eighteen years.’

Again there was a stupefied silence as they tried to grasp Rafuel’s words. Froi caught the confused look that passed between Finnikin and Trevanion.

The Charynite turned to Lucian. ‘It is probably yet another thing that shames Phaedra,’ he said. ‘That she believes you spoke the truth when you called her worthless all those times.’

‘You seem to know too much about my wife,’ Lucian said, fury in his tone.

‘Last I heard, you denounced her as your wife,’ Rafuel of Sebastabol said. ‘So one would presume you forfeit the right to be indignant about my knowledge of her feelings.’

Froi marvelled at this fool’s lack of fear.

‘That first time I visited with Sir Topher,’ Finnikin said, his voice full of disbelief. ‘I remember children in the streets. There was one in the palace as well.’

‘If you were ten at the time, the youngest child in Charyn would have been six,’ Rafuel said. ‘Her Royal Highness, Princess Quintana,’ he added.

‘I never met her,’ Finnikin said.

The Charynite took a deep ragged breath. ‘It’s where the story of the curse begins. With her birth.’

‘We’re not here for a story,’ Finnikin said, frustrated. ‘Go back to the part where you get us into the palace without betraying us.’

‘I want to hear what he has to say,’ Tesadora said, flatly. ‘More importantly, your wife will want to, my lord,’ she said, turning to Finnikin with slight mockery in her expression.

‘I thought you wanted him dead a moment ago,’ Finnikin said.

There was little love lost between Tesadora and Finnikin. Froi put it down to jealousy. The Queen shared a bond with Tesadora, and Finnikin was envious of anyone who had a bond with the Queen. Froi knew that more than anyone.

Finnikin turned to the Charynite. ‘Then tell us a story, Rafuel of Sebastabol, and make it quick.’

Rafuel kept his eyes on Trevanion. ‘Could you perhaps ask your father to step back, Your Highness? I’m a small man and it’s not as if he can’t snap me in two from the other side of the cell.’

‘He’s more comfortable where he is,’ Finnikin said.

Rafuel sighed. ‘The year before the birth of Quintana, the Oracle’s godshouse was attacked and the Priestlings were murdered,’ he began. ‘The Oracle Queen survived, but her tongue and fingers were cut off. So she could not speak or write the truth. A young Priestling named Arjuro of Abroi was absent from the godshouse on the night of the attack and was charged with assisting the murderers.’

Finnikin quickly translated.

‘Your Priestking is your spiritual leader, but the Oracle of Charyn was more than that for us. Since the beginning of life in Charyn, most decisions made by the King and the provinces had to be sanctioned by the Oracle. The Oracle and the godshouse were Charyn’s moral and intellectual beacons.’ Rafuel’s eyes flashed with fervour. ‘You’re a scholar, I hear. Then you’ve not seen anything until you’ve seen the books once translated by our Priestlings. They will take your breath away, Your Highness.’

‘I have seen ancient books, you know,’ Finnikin said defensively. ‘In the Osterian palace. I spent more than a summer there.’

Rafuel made a rude sound. ‘Osteria? A more tedious race of people I’ve never come across. I can imagine their translations. You know what we say in Charyn? That man learnt to snore by being in the presence of an Osterian.’

Froi could see that Finnikin was trying to hold back a smile. Finnikin and Isaboe’s favourite pastime was outdoing each other with insults about the Osterians.

‘But everything changed nineteen years ago,’ Rafuel continued. ‘The Provincaro of Serker died, his successor refused to pay taxes to the palace. The Serkers claimed that the palace was robbing them blind. The King, in turn, stationed his army outside Serker. It was a step towards a war where Charynites would kill Charynites, and the Oracle’s greatest fear was that the other provinces would take sides in such a war. The Oracle ordered the King to remove his army from outside Serker and she ordered the Provincaro of Serker to pay his taxes to the King and swear allegiance. If not, she threatened to remove the Oracle’s godshouse from the Citavita and the sacred library from Serker. You could not imagine a bigger insult to the capital or Serker.

‘That spring the Oracle’s godshouse in the capital was attacked and we lost the brightest young minds of our kingdom when the Priestlings were slaughtered. They were young men and women trained to be physicians, educators, philosophers. They died unarmed and savagely. On that day, every Priest, Priestess and Order went underground and have stayed there.’

‘Mercy,’ Finnikin said.

Froi knew that Finnikin was a lover of books and history and stories. It was Finnikin who had written the chronicles of their kingdom in his Book of Lumatere that was now being added to with the stories recorded by Tesadora and Lady Beatriss. When Finnikin stayed silent, Froi translated the words.

‘The Palace blamed Serker,’ Rafuel continued. ‘As punishment for the godshouse slaughter, the King of Charyn razed the province to the ground. It sits in the centre of Charyn and has been a wasteland ever since.’

‘What about the people?’ Lucian asked. ‘Where did they go?’

‘How many Forest Dwellers do you have left after the Charynite invasion?’ Rafuel asked.

Froi saw the stunned look on Finnikin’s face.

‘No Charynite has ever claimed that the five days of the unspeakable were part of a Charyn invasion,’ Finnikin said, huskily.

‘The palace has never claimed it,’ Rafuel corrected, quietly. ‘But what took place in Lumatere thirteen years ago is Charyn’s shame. Mothers wept for the sons forced into the army that was sent into your kingdom alongside the man you call the impostor King. Now, a generation of lastborn sons weep for the stories they have heard of what their fathers did.’

Rafuel’s eyes met Finnikin’s. ‘Silence is not just about secrecy, Your Majesty. It is grief and it is shame.’

No one spoke. No Lumateran wanted to see worth in a Charynite. Especially not a Charynite who had taken a dagger to one of their women.

‘Fifty-four,’ Tesadora said.

The others turned to her.

‘Fifty-four Forest Dwellers were known to survive the days of the unspeakable.’

Rafuel was pensive. ’The number of those who survived the Serker massacre nineteen years ago is even more heartbreaking. We know there to be one for certain. The King’s Serker whore. She lived in the palace at the time of the attack and is the mother of the Princess, Quintana.’

‘The rest?’ Lucian asked.

‘He had them slaughtered.’

‘His own people?’ Finnikin asked, stunned.

‘Hundreds upon hundreds of them,’ Rafuel said. ‘Although there are rumours that a handful survived and have spent all this time hiding in the underground cities.’

Rafuel looked bitter. ‘Most of Charyn sanctioned it. They wanted revenge for what took place in the Oracle’s godshouse. But others believed that it was the palace behind the slaughter of the Priestlings. Regardless, after the carnage in the godshouse the King took the Oracle Queen into the palace to protect her. Or so he claimed. It put him in good favour with the people who were inconsolable about what had happened to their goddess of the natural world. But nine months later, on the day the King’s Serker whore gave birth to Quintana of Charyn, the Oracle Queen threw herself out of her palace chamber into the gravina below.’

‘Gravina?’ Finnikin asked.

‘Ravine,’ Froi responded, without thinking. The Priestking’s education had been thorough and when it came to the languages of Charyn and Sarnak, Froi was the stronger speaker, although in Finnikin and Isaboe’s presence he always pretended that he wasn’t. He felt both Rafuel and Finnikin’s stare and looked away.

‘We don’t know what took place first,’ Rafuel said. ‘The birth of the Princess or the death of the Oracle, but from that moment on, the fertility of the land ended.’

‘I don’t understand. How does childbirth just end one day?’ Lucian asked.

‘On that day, every woman who carried a child in their belly …’ The Charynite swallowed hard, unable to finish the words.

Lucian, engrossed in what Rafuel had to say, shook his head with frustration. ‘What? What happened?’

‘Can someone translate?’ Trevanion snapped.

Finnikin cleared his throat and there was emotion in his voice as he repeated Rafuel’s words, ‘On that day, every woman who carried a child in their belly …’

‘They bled the child from their loins,’ Tesadora said, her voice low and pained. Perri stared at her as though someone had punched him in the gut. Tesadora took a ragged breath. ’I need to see to that fool girl, Japhra.’

Rafuel looked up. ‘Tell her –’

‘Don’t!’ Tesadora said through clenched teeth. ‘You keep away from her.’

A moment later she was gone. Too many things were happening that Froi didn’t understand.

‘Go on,’ Lucian ordered Rafuel.

‘When Quintana of Charyn was six years old the first sign was said to appear, written on her chamber walls in her own blood: The last will make the first. The words were written in godspeak. No one but the gods’ blessed is gifted with godspeak. Then on the thirteenth day of weeping – which is what we call her birthday – the King decreed that every lastborn girl in the kingdom was to be marked.’

‘Marked?’ Lucian asked, horrified.

Rafuel pointed to the back of his neck, the shackles around his wrist clattering.

‘Quintana of Charyn was born with strange lettering scorched onto the nape of her neck.’

‘But why mark the lastborns at thirteen and not at birth?’ Finnikin asked.

‘Why do you think?’ Rafuel asked. ‘At thirteen, the girls were of child-bearing age.’

Froi was relieved that Tesadora was out of the room for that piece of information.

‘Quintana of Charyn also claimed that she was the chosen vessel after her thirteenth birthday. And that only she was meant to carry the first in her belly. A boy child. A King and cursebreaker fathered by her betrothed, Tariq.’

‘At thirteen? Betrothed?’ Lucian asked with disgust.

‘Your yata was betrothed at fourteen, Lucian,’ Finnikin said.

‘Quintana claimed that the birth of the child would take place before she came of age and if any other male dared to break the curse with a lastborn female, the goddess of fertility would set Charyn alight.’

‘She’s obviously mad,’ Finnikin said. ‘And those who believe her are just as mad.’

‘As mad as a Queen who claims she can walk the sleep of her people?’ Rafuel said boldly. ‘As mad as those who believe her?’

An intake of furious breath sounded off the walls. Lucian grabbed the Charynite just as Froi was about to fly across the room and land a fist to his jaw.

Finnikin stayed calm as he walked towards Rafuel of Sebastabol.

‘I’d really like to know what took place, Charynite, and I’d hate to have to kill you before that moment. So perhaps you can refrain from bringing up my queen.’

Rafuel of Sebastabol had the good sense to look contrite. After a while, he nodded. ‘Next month Quintana of Charyn comes of age. The lastborn male from the province of Sebastabol will travel to the Citavita, the capital, and he will bed the Princess in an attempt to plant the seed. One lastborn from each of the provinces has done so for the last three years. Before that it was her betrothed, Tariq. But when Quintana was fifteen, he was smuggled out of the palace by his mother’s kin after his father mysteriously died. He is the King’s cousin and only male heir.’

‘Are they gifted, the lastborns?’ Lucian asked.

Rafuel was amused by the question. ‘They are actually quite … useless. They were precious to us and some were spoilt as children and others stifled. Most fathers feared the worst for their sons and they were kept out of harm’s way. It’s hard to find a lastborn male who can use a weapon or ride a horse. The daughters are confined to the home. Some are the most frivolous girls you will ever meet, while others are the most timid and shy. I would say most of their kin are about to send them underground for fear of what will take place when the Princess comes of age.’

Finnikin rubbed his eyes, shaking his head. After a moment he said, ‘A sad tale, Charynite, but I still don’t understand why you’re here.’

‘Because you have a lad who speaks our language, who is of the same age as a lastborn, and who is not so useless. More importantly, he is trained as an assassin.’ Rafuel’s eyes caught Froi’s. ‘Yes?’

No one spoke. Froi stiffened, his eyes locked with the Charynite’s. Froi could see the man was hiding something. He had been trained to notice the signs.

‘Gentlemen, your kingdom or mine could not have asked for a more perfect weapon to rid ourselves of this most base of kings. Your lad from the Flatlands is our only hope.’

Chapter 4

In Isaboe and Finnikin’s private chamber away from the prying eyes of their people and the world of their court that forced them to be polite and restrained, they spoke of Charyn and Froi and Rafuel of Sebastabol and curses and lastborns and Sarnak, and then Charyn again and taxes and empty Flatland villages, and then Charyn again. When all that talk was over, they stood before each other ready for the mightiest of battles, which they had saved until last.

Finnikin would describe the situation as tense. Isaboe didn’t describe situations. She described how she was feeling during the situation. Then they would argue about what was less important. Facts or feelings. Tonight it was about both.

‘How do you expect to rule a kingdom and be so weak in this matter?’ he said, trying to keep censure out of his tone. He saw her face twitch at the mention of the word weak.

‘Not now,’ she said. ‘Another day. Perhaps next week.’

‘And then perhaps the week after that and then the week after that,’ he suggested with little humour.

He saw the pain flash across her face.

‘Do it, Isaboe. You must show strength!’ Finnikin could see her softening and he nodded. ‘Now,’ he urged in a whisper.

Isaboe took a ragged breath before crouching to the floor. Finnikin knelt down beside her. Their daughter looked from one to the other. She had Finnikin’s face and Isaboe’s hair, and now she was nearing the age of two, she was showing some of Trevanion’s temperament, which was beginning to alarm both of her parents.

‘Jasmina, my beloved. Finnikin and I …’

Isaboe’s eyes met Finnikin’s and he nodded at her with encouragement.

‘ … We’ve had the most beautiful of beds made for you. So beautiful that every little girl in the whole of our kingdom wants to sleep in it. Tonight we thought you could sleep in the most beautiful bed in Lumatere, and Finnikin and Isaboe could sleep on their own. Together.’

Together. Finnikin smiled at Isaboe. He was proud of his queen. Proud of them both. Jasmina meant everything to them and he couldn’t imagine their lives without this blessing. He did imagine frequently, however, sharing a bed with just his wife while their little blessing was asleep in another room.

Their daughter stared from Finnikin to Isaboe. He beamed at her, his shoulders relaxing for the first time in days.

Jasmina’s bottom lip began to tremble.

‘Do you think she’s going to be smarter than us?’ he asked as they lay in bed later that night. He could see the moon through the balconette doors before them, looking almost close enough to grab and, as usual, it made him wonder about all things strange and mysterious. And about how insignificant he was in the scheme of things.

Finnikin turned to see Isaboe bending to kiss Jasmina’s brow as she slept between them. ‘Most probably,’ she murmured.

‘Then she won’t need us one day.’

‘What a thing to say, Finnikin,’ Isaboe said, ‘when I feel a need for my father and mother now, more than I ever have.’

‘True enough,’ he said gently. ‘It may have to do with such attachments belonging to women,’ he added.

When Finnikin added words, he always regretted it. He was regretting it now because the flames from the fireplace illuminated his wife’s stare of disbelief.

‘Your father lives in the chamber beside us, Finnikin. You speak to him every night and every morning and if for some reason you can’t sleep through the night, you speak to him then as well. Do you not see that as an attachment?’

She waited for his response and he chose not to reply because then they’d get into a discussion about why Trevanion had not announced his betrothment to Beatriss yet, which would lead back to a discussion about empty Flatland villages. Then they would both fall asleep thinking of neighbourless Flatlanders and Finnikin would wake up in the dark, despairing for his kingdom. Not able to get back to sleep, he’d knock on his father’s door because Trevanion didn’t sleep either, and then Isaboe would win this argument.

‘True enough,’ he sighed. He could see her mind was already elsewhere and he knew exactly where.

‘Sleep and don’t think about it,’ he said. He was sick and tired of the subject of Charyn.

‘How can I not?’ she asked. ‘Barren wombs and curses. If you ask me, they’ve poisoned all their children.’

‘If only you did believe that, then we could kill the Charynite in the mountain and banish those in the valley and not send Froi into the unknown.’

Isaboe turned to face him. ‘But you must think it’s all strange?’

‘Isaboe,’ he said, exasperated. ‘Unbeknownst to us, our neighbouring kingdom has not birthed a child for eighteen years. How can I not think it strange?’

She placed a finger to her lips as a sign for him to lower his voice. ‘I know you,’ she whispered. ‘I know you’re trying to find reason where there is no place for it.’

‘Reason failed halfway down that mountain,’ he said. ‘I think Rafuel of Sebastabol speaks sincerely.’

‘Then you seriously want me to consider this plan for Froi?’

‘I don’t think we will ever get into that fortress any other way,’ he said.

‘It’s too perfect,’ she said. ‘We want the King dead. They want the King dead. They need an assassin who is of age and speaks Charyn. We have an assassin who is of age and speaks Charyn.’

She looked at him, pained. ‘How would they have known?’ she whispered. ‘Do you think we have Charyn spies in Lumatere?’

They had spoken often of spies in the early days after the curse was lifted. Exiles had entered the kingdom with nothing to vouch for the fact that they were indeed Lumateran. Anyone could have been a spy. They both knew that there was still a lack of trust between those who had been trapped inside and the exiles. Regardless of the years of progress, it would be some time before their kingdom was back to what it once was.

Finnikin sighed and reached over to blow out the candle and they lay silent, listening to Jasmina’s breathing.

‘I hate them,’ she said, moments later. ‘It hurts to hate this much, but I do. I want them all dead, especially everyone in that cursed palace. I think of that abomination of a Princess and I want her dead as much as her father. Because I want to lie down to sleep and not imagine them coming over our mountain and annihilating my yata and Mont cousins first. I don’t want to imagine them clearing the Flatlands, turning our river into a bloodbath, storming your rock village. I want to stop thinking of them coming through the castle doors and doing to our daughter what they did to my sisters and my mother and father.’

He felt her breath on him as she leaned close.

‘Promise me, my love. Promise me that if they come through the palace doors and there’s no hope, you do what you have to do. You make it quick for her so she doesn’t suffer.’

Finnikin swallowed hard. He remembered the first time he was forced to make Isaboe such a heinous promise as Jasmina suckled from her breast.

‘Let’s not talk of these things, Isaboe.’

He gathered them both to him and he felt her lips against the back of his hand. At times like this he ached for her, but sometimes there was more between them than their daughter.

‘I’ve never spoken of this,’ she said quietly in the dark, ‘but when we lost Froi in Sprie that first time, I didn’t return for the ruby ring he stole from me. It was as if I was sent there to search for him.’

Finnikin was quiet. He had always felt threatened by the bond betweeen Isaboe and Froi. They shared a desperation to survive and there was a feralness and a darkness about them that he envied fiercely, though he was frightened by what this might mean.

‘I’ve questioned the intentions of the goddess these past three years, and she has whispered to me over and over again, “You will lose him.” ’ He felt Isaboe shudder. ‘I have a bad feeling about this, Finnikin.’

He leaned over and kissed her. ‘And I have a bad feeling that I’ll never have a moment on my own with you again,’ he murmured. He heard a sound coming from Jasmina and he lay back down on his side again.

‘Tomorrow,’ she whispered, ‘between me seeing the Flatland Lords about the cistern system and you placating the fishmongers about the taxes, I think we may be close to the guest closet on the third landing before I have to go off and speak to the Ambassador about Belegonia and you have to speak to Beatriss about Sennington.’ She paused. ‘We’ll have time.’

He sighed. ‘So I’m reduced to taking my wife up against a wall in a palace closet?’

She chuckled in the dark.

‘And why do I have to speak to Beatriss?’ he asked with a groan. ‘I’d rather speak to the Ambassador about Belegonia.’

‘She may not have given birth to you, but Beatriss loved you as a mother in the years she was betrothed to your father, and still does. Perhaps you’re the best person to speak to her, or Tesadora if she returns to her senses and comes back up the mountain. Beatriss can’t live in that dead village any longer, Finnikin.’

He was pensive a moment. ‘Tesadora reacted strangely to the news of the Charynite. She was not surprised about the curse and then she left all of a sudden and I could swear it seemed as though she would cry.’

‘Tesadora doesn’t cry.’

‘And you should have seen Perri’s face. He was quiet through our whole journey home.’

She sat up and lit the candle by her bedside.

‘Why didn’t you ask him what was wrong?’ she asked, alarmed. ‘If Tesadora was almost crying and Perri was stranger than usual?’

He shrugged. ‘What would I have said?’

She made a rude sound.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘You men are useless.’

Finnikin sighed. ‘We choose to mind our business and we’re useless?’

She shook her head. ‘Do you know the difference between you and I?’

‘An obvious one or not so obvious?’

She ignored the question. ‘I speak to other women about life and death and what upsets us and what confuses us and what we’d want to change in our lives. And you, my love, talk to men about what the terminology is for this.’ She made a strange movement with her hands.

‘Is that a death blow to the nose?’

She gave him a withering look, blowing out the candle.

‘That’s harsh, Isaboe. We talk about more than that.’

‘Such as?’

‘Life,’ he snapped. ‘Life … things. Things to do with life.’

‘Then have you spoken to your father about when he is going to have a bonding ceremony with Beatriss?’

He sighed.

‘Because that’s life, Finnikin. The life of two people very dear to me. And I believe your father is going to ruin everything by not speaking of the past. Still not talking about it after three years.’

‘Do they have to talk about the past?’ he asked.

‘Yes. They were lovers once. She gave birth to his babe, rest that precious soul. Yet they haven’t grieved together.’

‘This is not your concern, Isaboe.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Although Trevanion was strangely quiet on the way home. Everyone was strange.’

‘I’m not just speaking for Beatriss, Finnikin. I’m speaking for Trevanion. He is your father and in my heart, he is the only father I have. I want him to be happy and I know that without her, he isn’t.’

‘He’s wonderful with Vestie,’ he said, thinking of Beatriss’s daughter who was born under horrific circumstances during the curse. ‘He would do anything for her.’

‘And I commend him for that. I could imagine how hard it would be for him to feel so strongly about another man’s child. A tyrant’s child. But it’s Vestie who will be hurt the most, Finnikin. Find out what you can.’

‘Ah, so I’m not going to see Beatriss to speak about Sennington. I’m going to speak about my father?’

She pressed her lips against his shoulder.

‘I’ve married the smartest man in Lumatere.’

‘And I’ve married the most scheming woman in the whole of the land.’

She feigned a haughty sniff, moving away. ‘If it all seems like a scheme I may have to withdraw my offer of a tryst in the closet tomorrow.’

This time Finnikin chuckled.

‘Withdraw the offer and I will dash my head against a stone wall.’

Chapter 5

Froi took leave from Lord August’s village and spent the next week in the mountains with Trevanion and Perri interrogating the Charynite. Although the Captain hadn’t confirmed for certain that Froi was going to Charyn, Froi knew he was there with them for reasons other than his skill with the Charyn language.

‘It’s one of the best-defended castles in the entire land,’ Rafuel explained to them, ‘and it has little to do with the Guard or soldiers and everything to do with the actual stone and structure.’ The Charynite drew them a picture and Froi committed it to memory, translating the information to Trevanion and Perri.

‘Ask him more about the lastborns,’ Trevanion requested.

‘Firstly, there is Quintana of Charyn,’ Rafuel began when Froi asked. ‘She was the very last to be born to the entire kingdom on the day of weeping.’

‘Only her?’ Froi asked. ‘Was there no one else born that day?’

‘Then there are those born last to their province,’ Rafuel continued, ignoring the question. ‘Grijio of Paladozza and Olivier of Sebastabol, for example, were born to their provinces three days and five days prior to Quintana’s birth. Tariq was born to his people a month before Quintana. Satch of Desantos was born last in his province six months before. And every girl born in the same year as Quintana is marked as a lastborn.’

‘Gods,’ Trevanion muttered. ‘He better be speaking the truth when he claims those girls have gone to ground.’

Froi repeated Trevanion’s words. He saw Rafuel’s teeth clench.

‘Do you Lumaterans believe you protect your women better than we protect ours?’ he asked.

‘The Captain judges Charynite men by the way they treated Lumateran women. His beloved was dragged into the beds of your men time and time again, and gave birth during the curse,’ Froi said.

‘Not my men,’ Rafuel said bitterly. ‘Mine are peaceful scholars down in that valley. And the Charyn army may have raped. That I won’t deny. But it’s not only our women who are barren,’ Rafuel said. ‘The seed of a Charynite male is useless. Whoever fathered Beatriss of the Flatlands’ child is no Charynite.’

Froi stared at him, stunned. He looked up at Trevanion and Perri. Through the mere mention of Beatriss’s name, they would have comprehended Rafuel’s words, regardless of the speed at which Rafuel was speaking. Perri had paled. Worse still, Froi saw the truth on Trevanion’s face. The Captain already knew. He would have known from the moment Rafuel of Sebastabol revealed the curse days ago.

‘Ask him about their gods,’ Trevanion said, as if nothing had occurred.

Rafuel spent the rest of the day speaking mostly of Charyn customs and their beliefs, their produce and their gods. There were too many gods to learn by heart. In Lumatere, there was Lagrami and Sagrami, one Goddess worshipped as two deities for hundreds of years. Even in Sarnak where Froi had grown up, Sagrami was worshipped. Sagra, he grew up cursing. Once or twice the word would slip out in the presence of the Queen, who despised the way Froi’s Sarnak mentors had butchered the name of the Goddess.

‘It’s sacrilege,’ she’d say, coldly.

Listening to Rafuel now, Froi was intrigued by the idea that at the age of thirteen, a Charynite chose the god who would guide them for the rest of their days. Rafuel’s was Trist, the god of knowledge. Froi imagined he would choose a warrior god.

From the third day on, Trevanion and Perri whispered between themselves unless Froi had to convey some crucial information to them.

‘Are you listening to me?’ Rafuel said.

Froi nodded.

‘You dip and you taste,’ Rafuel continued. ‘Not the way Lumaterans eat.’ Rafuel did a somewhat rude impersonation of a man hoarding his food to himself and shovelling it down his throat.

‘Are you calling us pigs?’ Froi asked, watching as Rafuel winced for the tenth time at the formality of Froi’s Charyn.

Rafuel thought for a moment and then nodded.

‘Actually yes, I am. Pig-like.’

Froi turned back to Trevanion and Perri, who were discussing the need for longbow training in the rock village.

‘What is it?’ Perri asked Froi.

‘He said we eat like pigs.’

Trevanion and Perri thought about it for a moment and then went back to their conversation.

Sometimes, Lucian would join them if he wasn’t down in the valley, or quelling a feud or two between the Monts, or settling trade with the Rock elders who wanted a herd of cattle grazing on the mountain in exchange for the quarried stone they supplied for the Mont huts.

‘You seem interested in our ways, Mont,’ Rafuel said the third time Lucian visited.

‘Most interested,’ Lucian said. ‘Best way to find the weakness of the enemy is to understand their ways.’

Rafuel sighed and returned to his explanation about the etiquette of dancing. He stood to demonstrate, the iron shackles clattering around his wrists. ‘Hips must beckon while arms are in the air. Never lose eye contact with your partner.’

Lucian made a snorting sound. ‘Ridiculous. It will make Froi look like a woman.’

Froi growled. ‘Not dancing with no one,’ he said in Lumateran.

‘It’s a seduction, Mont. Not like the dancing of Lumatere and Belegonia, where you stomp as though you’re making wine.’

Froi turned back to Trevanion and Perri.

‘What did he say this time?’ Trevanion asked, irritated.

‘That we don’t know how to dance.’

Trevanion and Perri went back to their talk.

The Charynite taught Froi words and phrases the Priestking had failed to pass on. Horse’s arse was Froi’s favourite. Sheep-swiver, was another. Sheep-swiver or any other type of swiving worked best accompanied by a gesture.

‘You speak too formally because you were taught by the holy man,’ Rafuel accused again and again. ‘The lad you will be replacing comes from my province of Sebastabol. He was raised on the docks. We’re a bit on the crass side, if you ask me. And we don’t speak in full sentences. Keep it short and to the point.’

‘When shall he be travelling from his province?’

‘Shall?’ Rafuel stared at him. ‘Are you listening to me, fool? Olivier of Sebastabol can charm. Can provide entertainment. Can irritate. But he can’t say words like shall.’

‘I cannot help sounding as if I have something stuck up my arse,’ Froi snapped. ‘Is that crass enough for you?’

Rafuel sighed. Trevanion and Perri looked over at Froi with irritation. They sighed. There would be more sighing done that day.

Most nights, Froi travelled down to the valley with Perri to watch over Tesadora and the three novices who had followed her there at the end of winter. Sometimes he would sit alone with her if Perri was out checking the stream for trespassing Charynites. The unspoken rule was that the Charynites stayed on the other side of the stream. Any attempt to cross it would be seen as a threat to Tesadora and her girls.

Froi was used to Tesadora from the early days of the new Lumatere, when she lived in the forest cloisters with the novices and Priestess. She was a Forest Dweller and no group of people had been more shunned in Lumatere. It had been her mother Seranonna who cursed the kingdom thirteen years ago as she burnt at the stake, but those trapped inside Lumatere had come to respect Tesadora for what she had done to save their young women and help break the curse. She was a hard woman who trusted few people, especially men. Lord August always joked that he would be a fool to find himself in a room alone with her. Lady Abian, who had come to love Tesadora dearly these past three years, claimed that if Lord August found himself in a room alone with any woman he would have his wife to fear.

‘It doesn’t seem as if they’re going to leave any time soon,’ Froi told Tesadora as they sat high on a rock face staring across the stream to where the Charynite camp dwellers had set up their homes in caves.

‘I just wish they’d go home where they belong and get out of my sight,’ she said.

Froi stared at her. ‘You hate them?’

‘Despise them.’

‘Then why are you here? You were happy with the novices in the Cloisters out in the forest.’

‘I’m not a Priestess,’ she said. ‘It was only my place to take care of the novices during the curse.’

‘And this is better?’ he asked, angrily. ‘Perri has to travel almost two days to be with you. He’s only seeing you every day now because of the Charynite prisoner in the mountains.’

‘Poor Perri doesn’t have to do anything,’ she said, standing and holding her arms around her body to stop the shiver. Summer was fading, and the mountains and valley were the first to feel the bite of the cold.

Tesadora was tiny for a Lumateran and her face was shaped differently from the other Forest Dwellers. Her hair had gone white from the terrors she witnessed when she walked the sleep alongside the Queen during the ten years of the curse, although she was no older than Lady Beatriss. Sometimes Froi had to stop himself from staring at her. She had a beauty that could weaken men if they weren’t already weakened by their fear of her.

‘The Queen misses you and so do Lady Beatriss and precious Vestie and Lady Abian. At least in the forest they were able to see you more often.’

She looked at him, the shape of her eyes similar to Froi’s. His were hooded, and gave an impression of mistrusting the world. They were eyes not born for smiling, but for judging and being judged in return. He wondered often about the similarity. Sometimes he dreamed that Tesadora and Perri had sired him and that one day the truth would be revealed and they’d all celebrate. But then he’d see Tesadora with Lady Beatriss’s daughter Vestie or even with Princess Jasmina. He’d see the fierce love and he knew that whatever was said about Tesadora, she would never have forsaken her child.

‘There are some things beyond our control, aren’t there?’ she said.

Froi was surprised to hear her words. Tesadora was controlled by no one.

‘Were all the Charynites bad?’ he asked quietly, thinking of the many hidden soldiers he’d come across.

She shrugged. ‘Most. If not bad, they were weak. One or two took a stand. A young soldier and a Charynite traveller found us in the early days and told me that the novices of Lagrami in the palace village were in danger. They helped the novices escape and brought the girls to us. Strange,’ she murmured. ‘It was two Charynites who united the cloisters of Sagrami and Lagrami.’

She shuddered. ‘The traveller was imprisoned and they hanged the young soldier for it. In front of the rest of their army. A good deterrent, don’t you think? A Charynite never helped a Lumateran again, whether they wanted to or not. Even if they weren’t working against their own, they hated to be seen as outcasts. So what one did, the others would follow.’

Froi thought of Tesadora’s words the next day in the cell. He could not keep the hatred out of his voice. ‘What would you have done if you were the enemy trapped within the walls of Lumatere?’ he asked Rafuel of Sebastabol.

Rafuel gave a humourless laugh. ‘Does it matter, Froi? What’s more important is what would you have done?’

That day Trevanion and Perri had asked for information about the role of the Provincari in Charyn. Rafuel explained they were in power until they died and then the people of their province chose either their offspring if the person was desirable, or another.

Froi absently translated, bored by the information. Rafuel droned on about their power within their province and how they differed from the nobility and how they worked hard to keep the palace out of their affairs. But in the middle of his swift lesson, the Charynite caught Froi’s eye and slipped in the words, ‘You don’t belong in this kingdom, lad.’

Froi was alert in an instant. He looked back to where Trevanion and Perri sat.

‘What did he say?’ Perri asked.

Froi hesitated. His mouth felt dry and he could hardly speak.

‘The Provincari don’t care too much for the King these days,’ he found himself saying.

Trevanion nodded. ‘We know. Once you get inside, we’ll want you to find out who holds the most power amongst them. The Queen and Finnikin want to know who helped the Charyn King plan the slaughter in our palace.’

A Mont guard came to the prison door. Perri and Trevanion stood to speak to him.

Froi turned back to Rafuel. From Trevanion’s calm tone, the Charynite knew Froi hadn’t repeated his words.

‘Why do you travel down into the valley each night?’ Rafuel asked with urgency.

Froi didn’t respond.

‘Do you want to know why I think you’re there, Froi?’ Rafuel asked, leaning as far forward as he could with the iron bracelets around his hands. ‘Because blood sings between Charynites far from home. My blood sings to you. The blood of every Charynite in the valley sings to you.’

Froi stared at him, fury in his expression. ‘I’m not a Charynite far from home,’ he spat. ‘I’m a Lumateran from over the mountain.’

‘Why is Tes– the white witch in the valley?’ Rafuel asked, looking over Froi’s shoulder to see if the men had recognised that he had almost spoken Tesadora’s name. But Perri and Trevanion were still speaking to the Mont guard.

Froi thought for a moment. Swallowed hard.

‘A worse-tempered woman I’ve never met, despite her beauty that makes a man ache regardless of age,’ Rafuel continued, ‘but she’s in the valley because our blood sings to her. It’s out of her control.’

Froi shuddered. Rafuel’s words were too close to Tesadora’s the night before.

‘She’s half-Charynite, is she not?’ Rafuel continued. ‘It’s what kept her apart from the other Forest Dwellers when she was a child. Outcast from the outcasts themselves.’

Froi’s hands were shaking.

Rafuel’s eyes shone with excitement. ‘My men are searching for an assassin to kill the King, Froi. But I’m also searching for the last male child born to the Citavita on the day of the curse and smuggled out of the kingdom. Most say he’s a myth. But I know for a fact that he’s not.’

Froi stared at him, confused.

‘Do you know why you seek out the white witch, Froi? Because her blood sings to you. Two Charynites far from home.’

Froi’s palm flattened itself with great force against the bridge of the Charynite’s nose. Trevanion and Perri were on him in an instant, dragging him away from Rafuel, whose face was bloody and swollen. They shoved Froi towards the guard.

‘Get him out of here,’ Trevanion snarled.

The silence Froi experienced as they rode down the mountain was unnerving. He prayed it wouldn’t last long, but it wasn’t until they reached the foot of the mountain that the Captain spoke.

‘What were you thinking?’ Trevanion demanded, as if it had taken him all that time to quell his fury.

‘I wasn’t thinking,’ Froi said.

‘He’s a prisoner, Froi! He was chained. We’re not savages.’

Perri’s face stayed impassive. ‘We can’t let him go to Charyn, Trevanion. We can’t.’

Froi leapt off his horse, standing before them both. ‘You say I’m not ready?’ he shouted.

‘In might and skill, you are. Here,’ Perri said, pointing to his head. ‘No.’

‘I can imagine explaining ourselves years from now to the less hostile Provincari of Charyn,’ Trevanion said. ‘ “Our boy doesn’t work well without instruction. He needs to be informed of his bond. Of what is expected of him. Of what is unacceptable. He has little idea how to do that on his own. He lived fourteen years as a savage on the streets of Sprie. Three years in Lumatere has changed many of his ways, but he insists on a bond.” ’

‘I can do this, Captain. You know that.’ Froi was begging.

‘What if your rage is hard to control, Froi?’

‘Count to ten, Captain. And then count to ten again.’

‘Speak to us your bond.’

‘Only kill those who are a threat to Lumatere. Make sure the kill is clean. Treat all women as I would the Queen. Don’t answer back an elder who deserves my respect. Listen with my ears and not my rage. Never act on anger. Never ever disregard an order from you or Perri.’

‘No spitting at the nobility regardless of what comes out of their mouths,’ Perri continued.

Froi bristled. ‘I’ve never spat at Lord Augie or Lady Abian.’

‘They’re different, Froi,’ Trevanion said, irritation in his voice. ‘They’ve given you a home. There’s no doubt that you are protective of those you care for, but it’s the way you treat others that causes strife. You spat at Lord Nettice at the Harvest Moon Festival. Grabbed him by the throat and didn’t let go until he turned blue.’

‘I didn’t like the way he spoke to Lady Beatriss,’ Froi said, looking at Trevanion. ‘How could you not understand that, Sir?’

‘I’m the Captain of the Guard, Froi,’ Trevanion said. ‘Do you honestly think it is my place to choke every man who insults those I love?’

‘And he insulted the King. Your son, Captain.’

‘He’s the Consort, Froi. Not the King. There will be men who will insult Finnikin for the rest of his life. It’s what happens when you marry the most powerful woman in the kingdom. But that’s no reason to almost choke the life out of a man. A wise man has tolerance for such people. A wise man walks away or finds a means of changing the way they think.’

Froi looked away.

‘Don’t turn away from me when you don’t care for the words spoken,’ Trevanion said through gritted teeth.

Froi counted to ten in his head and turned back. ‘Sorry, Captain.’

Trevanion and Perri exchanged a look. Something passed between them as it always did. They had spent ten out of the last thirteen years apart, yet both men could still speak so much to each other with just one glance.

‘You follow the bond that only we speak to you. Not Rafuel of Sebastabol or even the Priestking who may want you to search for the hidden Priests of Charyn. You do only what we instruct you now.’

Froi nodded, excitement strumming his blood.

‘You enter that palace. A place filled with nobility more useless than any you have ever met here. At least in Lumatere they do not rely on the Queen to house and feed them. When they speak words that insult you, you keep to your bond and your mouth stays shut. As far as they’re concerned, you’re a witless idiot from the provinces.’

Froi nodded, although he wanted to tell them that according to Rafuel, those from Sebastabol were not witless.

‘You make no attachments to any other person and you never involve yourself with the plan of another. There are those living in the King’s court who will always search for new blood to give their cause more weight. You do not join forces, even if they are an enemy to our enemy. You work on your own.’

‘As if I’d be that daft.’

Perri made a sound of disbelief and dismounted, pointing a finger at Froi. ‘He’s not ready, Trevanion,’ he shouted. ‘He can’t even listen without answering back!’

Froi knew the decision could turn against him at any moment. He wanted this kill. He gripped Perri’s jacket. ‘Let me do this for her. Let me prove to you that I’ll give my life so the Queen and Finnikin can live with peace in their hearts. Please. You know I can do this.’ He looked at Trevanion. ‘You know I can, Captain.’

Trevanion was softening, Froi could tell.

‘Thankfully, because of your bond to the Queen, we do not have to remind you that bedding the Princess of Charyn is not part of the plan. When it comes to her, you do what you need to do.’

Froi wasn’t quite sure what Trevanion meant by that, but dared not ask in case his captain thought he was answering back. He nodded all the same. What needs to be done.

‘You find a way into the King’s chamber. Regardless of the hatred we all feel for him, you make it quick. Make sure he is dead before you leave that room. The moment he stops breathing, you return home. The very moment. Do not look back.’

Froi nodded. He looked at Perri, waiting for his blessing.

‘Can you do that without causing mayhem?’ Perri snapped.

‘Have I ever broken my bond to you and the Captain?’

‘Part of the bond is not to talk back to us!’ Perri said, exasperated. ‘You do that all the time.’

‘Apart from that,’ Froi said sheepishly.

Perri grabbed hold of his ear and pulled Froi towards him in an embrace. ‘You keep safe, Froi. Keep safe and come home to us.’

On his final day in Lumatere, Froi said his farewells to Lord August and Lady Abian and their sons who were the brothers of his heart. He was glad Lady Celie was in Belegonia. She would have cried and no one enjoyed watching Celie cry.

‘Where are you really going, Froi?’ Talon asked. He was Lord August’s oldest son and shrewd despite his younger years.

‘Sarnak,’ Froi lied. ‘I’m a messenger for the Queen. I know the language well.’

It was the story Trevanion had instructed him to use. He looked Lord August squarely in the eye and wondered if he knew the truth. Lord August shared a strong friendship with Trevanion.

‘You know where your home is,’ was all Lord August said before walking away.

Lady Abian kissed his cheek. She said little for once, but he saw tears in her eyes.

‘When you return, we will choose that day to celebrate your eighteenth birthday,’ she said.

He nodded, his throat tightening with emotion. A birthday. What did the Charynite call the day their Princess was born? The day of weeping.

‘I’ll count down the days,’ he said.

He went to see the Priestking next. The old man was teaching some of the younger Lumaterans in the front garden of his hovel. Froi waited for them to leave, pulling out thistles from the herb patch he had planted for the Priestking that spring. Oregano, garlic, chives and rosemary were dwarfed by creeping thistles.

‘I’ve told you before, blessed Barakah,’ Froi said when the youngsters left. ‘Pull them out the moment you see them or you’ll be slurping the blandest of soup.’

‘But they’re so beautiful in colour,’ the Priestking mused, getting to his feet and straightening his back with a groan.

‘And what happened to the chair I made you?’ Froi asked, frustrated, looking around at the hovel. When Rafuel spoke of the godshouse of Charyn where the Priests and Priestlings once lived and learned, Froi could not help comparing it to this shack in a meadow. Once, the Priestking of Lumatere lived in a grand shrinehouse in the palace village, but the blessed Barakah claimed to have been another man back then.

‘You need to move to a bigger home. Did you know that in Charyn they used to have schools for Priestlings, taught by those less powerful than you? They’d learn about the Ancients, become the scribes of the people, learn how to be physicians.’

The Priestking chuckled and beckoned Froi to him so that he could lean on his shoulder. ‘Let’s walk a moment or two, lad,’ he said.

Froi propped up the old man, frustrated by his stubbornness.

‘Anyway, I thought you said learning was a waste of time,’ the Priestking said.

‘We don’t want the Charynites being better than us.’

They walked an overgrown path through the small meadow that looked over the outskirts of Lord August’s village. Even if the Priestking agreed to build a larger house, the land surrounding it would be too small to make a proper impression. Froi knew Finnikin’s dream, but he usually fell asleep while Finnikin was speaking about it over and over again. Finnikin dreamed of a library filled with the greatest books Lumatere ever saw in a school where holy men and scholars from Belegonia and Osteria would come to teach as guests. It was the Queen’s dream as well. ‘We’re going to lose our smart ones like Celie to Belegonia,’ she said. ‘We need a school for them.’

Froi felt the Priestking’s stare. He knew the time was coming for him to say his goodbye. He didn’t want the Priestking asking where and why he was going. Then he’d have to lie again and this blessed man was the first person to treat Froi as an equal.

‘Can you sing me the Song of Lumatere?’ Froi asked quietly.

There was a ghost of a smile on the Priestking’s face. ‘I’ve said it once and I will say it again, there is a song in your heart, Froi. You must unleash it or you will spend your days in regret.’

‘I’ll sing for no one,’ Froi said stiffly. ‘And if you don’t want to sing it, you just have to say!’

The Priestking leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Froi’s brow. A blessing. ‘Stay safe, my young friend.’

Froi gently placed his hands on the fragile man’s arms. ‘I will see you in less than a fortnight, blessed Barakah, and we’ll do something about this garden.’

In the palace courtyard, Perri fitted him with scabbards for his daggers and short sword.

‘This was made especially for you,’ he said, placing one of them across Froi’s shoulder blades. ‘A beautiful hide, indeed. Look.’ Froi saw his own name engraved in the leather and whether it came from Perri or Trevanion, or the King or Queen, it made Froi feel proud. Apart from Isaboe’s ruby ring, Froi had never owned anything in his life.

‘You mightn’t be able to get weapons into the capital, but keep it safe.’

Froi looked up to see Isaboe standing alongside Sir Topher, watching from the parapet. Even from here he saw sadness in his queen’s eyes. A sadness of spirit. He knew Finnikin would be feeling exactly the same.

Later, Finnikin walked with him until they arrived at the gates of the palace village. ‘Do you ever think of that day with the slave traders of Sorel?’ Finnikin asked quietly.

‘I think of it all the time,’ Froi said.

‘I was going to kill you,’ Finnikin said, a catch in his voice. ‘You were begging me, remember?’

Froi couldn’t speak. In his whole existence, it was the only time he had ever lost hope. He would have preferred to die that day rather than be sold as a slave in Sorel. He had counted on Finnikin being accurate with his dagger from a distance. But he had not counted on Isaboe wanting him to live. Not after what he had tried to do to her.

He sensed Finnikin’s sadness and didn’t want to leave Lumatere with the memory of it.

‘Then you both argued,’ Froi grinned. ‘About my name.’

Finnikin chuckled. ‘Your mouth was split. I was sure you were calling yourself Boy.’ He feigned a grimace of displeasure. ‘Did she have to be right?’

‘She did have a point. Who’d name a babe a nothing name like Boy?’

Froi looked back up to the palace and then at Finnikin. ‘Why won’t she see me? I can’t leave without her blessing.’

‘She’s afraid to bid you farewell. You mean everything to us, Froi.’

‘I do this for you and her. I will do anything for my king and my queen.’

Finnikin smiled sadly. ‘But Isaboe and I are just two people, Froi. You need to want to do it for the kingdom.’

Froi saw tears in his king’s eyes and they embraced.

‘Kill this beast who has brought so much despair and come home to us safe, my friend.’

It was Perri who accompanied him to the mountain that night. From there, Froi would travel through the valley and pass the province of Alonso where he would meet Rafuel’s contact. They would travel for days and at the foot of the ravine outside the capital, they would be introduced to a man named Gargarin of Abroi, who had answered the request of the Provincaro of Sebastabol to travel to the palace with the lastborn.

When they began their ascent, Froi heard the beauty of the Priestking’s voice across the land, and the song inside Froi that he refused to sing, ached to be let loose. What had frightened him most about Rafuel of Sebastabol was that his stories had made Froi’s blood dance. They had given him a restlessness. A need to be elsewhere to search for a part of himself that was lost. But what he feared was that the search to find answers would take him away from this land of light. That once he left, he would never find his way back home.

In the Flatlands of Sennington, Lady Beatriss heard the song and sowed seeds into a dead earth that refused to yield. Her beloved daughter Vestie sat on the verandah waiting for Trevanion, who had kept away these past days. In the distance, she saw two more of her villagers take leave with all their possessions for the more fertile land of their neighbours and a loneliness and dread gripped Beatriss more fiercely than in those wretched years when the kingdom was torn apart.

In the valley between Lumatere and Alonso, the wife Lucian of the Monts had sent back camped in a cave between her father’s province and her husband’s mountain. She recorded the names of her people, and learnt the ways of the Lumateran healers. Most nights her shame burnt bright and she longed to return home. But she pledged to herself and the goddess she had chosen to be her guide, that one day Phaedra of Alonso would be something more than the object of the Monts’ ridicule and Alonso’s failure.

In the mountains, Lucian stumbled to his empty cottage, his body weighed by the weariness of leading a people who had little respect for him. He wondered what his father would do, if he lived. A fair man, Saro was, who had tried to teach Lucian to see the worth in every man and woman, regardless of whether they were the enemy. But Lucian was not his father and deep inside of him a desire burnt bright each night. A desire to steal away down the mountain and cut the throats of every Charynite who slept in the valley. Including that of the wife he sent back.