Froi of the Exiles

Chapter 24

Six weeks after Froi arrived in the capital to kill the King of Charyn, he crossed the bridge that would mark his journey home to Lumatere. Turning back to look just once, the Citavita seemed ghostly in this morning mist, half-concealing the strange cluster of rocks with their secret worlds beneath. He couldn’t help but think what would happen to Perabo and all the cave dwellers who had intrigued Quintana that day they spent together. Or those in the castle who were too unimportant to be counted on the death list. Did the cook and the servants and the farriers survive? Did the street lords take their bloody revenge on the soothsayer, aligned to the King for so long? How long would the soulless cutthroats control the lives of all those innocent people? He had heard news that one of the street lords had run off with the ransom of three hundred pieces of gold and the ruby ring, leaving his companions with not a penny. Froi had learnt early in life that there was no honour amongst thieves and, judging from the thirst for blood of those who had murdered the palace dwellers, he could only imagine the fate of the traitorous thief when his former companions caught up with him.

Before Froi on the bridge were the last of those who had decided to leave the capital, including Gargarin and Arjuro. Arjuro kept a distance between himself and his brother, and Froi easily caught up with the Priestling.

‘Where will you go?’ he asked Arjuro quietly. Gargarin had made it abundantly clear that he was going to join De Lancey in Paladozza and that Arjuro and Froi were not invited.

‘Osteria is said to be beautiful at this time of the year.’

Froi knew the Priestling was lying.

The bridge ended and the crowd travelled north on the road that ran alongside the edge of the gravina. Most of the day the people were silent, and Froi knew their bodies were hunched under the weight of knowing that they were leaving their home and had nowhere to go. He couldn’t help turning to look back, time and time again, until the rock of the Citavita was a blur.

They reached the three roads that crossed in Upper Charyn, and most took the path east to Sebastabol or Paladozza. A handful continued on the road north that would lead them to the provinces of Jidia or Desantos. Froi’s path was back down the wall of the gravina to collect his weapons.

When the last of the Citavitans had disappeared, Froi still waited with Gargarin and Arjuro. Perhaps a part of him was waiting for something more.

But Gargarin’s stare was cold. ‘You deserve all the calamities of this world and the next if you ever return to this cesspit of a kingdom,’ he said, before leaving in the direction of the crowd and not looking back once.

‘Thank you for your time,’ Froi shouted after him. ‘It’s put to rest some idiotic romantic notions!’

Gargarin didn’t stop, nor did he turn around.

‘Bastard!’ Froi shouted. ‘Curse the day you were both born,’ he shouted at Arjuro as well.

‘Someone’s already beaten you to that one, whelp,’ the Priestling said, taking the road south.

He was going home. Home, he thought for the tenth time that day, travelling down the mountain of rock. Home, where foreign blood had become family to Froi and where men were strong and virile, not all twisted and broken without a clue of how to defend themselves, or reeking of ale or wine or whatever it was that helped Arjuro endure a day. Home, where no one judged him. Not even the Queen, who had every reason in the world to judge him. Lumatere was everything Froi wanted to be, whilst Charyn was a reminder of everything he despised about himself. That unwanted pathetic street urchin who had begged for food, the surly boy who had sung his song for the rich street pigs of Sarnak and allowed himself to endure so much depravity just to survive. Weak boy. Stupid, useless boy. Froi wanted to kill that boy he had been. If not for Lumatere, he would be nothing and have no one.

Except it was only when Froi had come to Charyn that he realised there had been nights in Lumatere when he felt loneliness beyond imagining. Not once had he felt its intensity here in Charyn. Because you were busy in Charyn. You had too much to do. But he knew he was fooling himself. And now, under this full moon, on his way back to his beloved home, Froi felt the ache of loneliness return. But he fought back the feeling, making plans for the morning instead. He would retrieve his weapons and then he’d travel to the province of Jidia and pick up a horse. He’d ride two days, he told himself, not even stopping for rest. The sooner he returned to Lumatere, the better for him. He knew the excitement would return the moment he left the outer region of Alonso. There, Lucian’s mountains would appear in the distance and Froi would understand what it meant to be home.

After a moment or two of lying down and staring at the stars, he allowed thoughts of Quintana to enter his head. No matter how hard he tried to fight it, she seemed to be there all the time. Usually, she was asking a question of him in her indignant tone. Sometimes he would feel her cold stare of annoyance. Other times the savage would growl low in his ear, a sound from a place so primitive that it thrilled him each time.

He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but then he heard a sound. Not just of the nocturnal world, but something human. A humming. He had seen the last of those from the Citavita head east and knew it couldn’t possibly be any of them. Twigs crackled and he stood listening before following the sound, and then his nose. The strong smell of roasting meat – a gamey smell, hare perhaps – permeated the air.

Up ahead was a small incline off the main path. Froi climbed towards it. He heard a soft song being sung, a prayer-like warble so beautiful in pitch that it made him stop a moment. For, despite all the horror he had endured on the streets of the Sarnak capital because he knew how to carry a tune, the sound of this song made him want to weep from the pure beauty of it. He climbed further up and looked over the incline into a cave where he saw the figure of a man hunched over the small fire.

Arjuro.

‘I was told that the Osterian border lay south,’ Froi called out.

Arjuro’s body jerked in surprise, but after a moment the Priestling went back to stoking the fire, not even bothering to turn.

‘This is south,’ Arjuro said, pointing to where he sat. ‘South of that cave. South of that rock.’

‘You’re a fool not to have gone, Arjuro.’

‘Then come and join me, Abroi’s youngest fool.’

Froi couldn’t help smiling.

He sat before the fire and Arjuro held out a morsel. Not hare, but some kind of rodent.

‘I heard Gargarin tell you to pack some food,’ Froi said, trying to keep Gargarin’s reprimanding tone out of his voice.

Arjuro feigned a moment’s thought, his fingers at his chin for emphasis. ‘Hmm, what was I doing when he told me that? Ah yes, I think I was too busy ignoring him.’

Perhaps Froi’s strangest sadness this day was that the brothers weren’t travelling together.

‘What are you doing here, Arjuro? You can’t stay hidden at the bottom of the gravina. There’s nothing here.’

‘Just the way I prefer it,’ Arjuro said. ‘This last month of sharing everyone’s breathing space and stench has driven me quite mad.’

Froi saw the truth on Arjuro’s face. He had no place to go. Suddenly he was overwhelmed by fierce emotion for this bitter man. Blood sings to blood. Rafuel’s words were never so true.

There was silence for a time as they ate, the fire illuminating the remoteness out here in a world that seemed forsaken by all. Froi found himself clearing his throat.

‘Well… I have connections,’ he said. ‘In Lumatere.’

‘And you’re telling me this, why?’ Arjuro asked.

Froi felt foolish, but he spoke the words anyway. ‘I can take you home with me. The Queen may grant you sanctuary because you’re the last of the Priestlings. I heard them say it once. That the first people they’d allow into Lumatere were those who were the last of their kind.’

Arjuro studied him in the flickering firelight and Froi had to look away. It was all too intense for him. It wasn’t like the moments of disappointment and reprimand or approval from Trevanion and Perri. They kept emotion out of their stares. Arjuro didn’t.

‘Well, firstly, I’m not quite the last of my kind,’ Arjuro said. ‘There are many hidden Priests and Priestesses in Charyn, mostly in the mountains outside Sebastabol. Secondly, you can’t take me home as though I’m some kind of puppy, and thirdly, I’d rather live on rodents for the rest of my life than live in Lumatere.’

‘Well that’s rude,’ Froi said. ‘I’ll not offer again. And I meant that you’re the last of the Priestlings, not Priests.’

‘Another irritating fact,’ Arjuro said. ‘I’ll be forty-three in the spring. Do you know how demoralising it is to still be called a Priestling?’

Froi tried not to smile, but couldn’t help himself. There was silence again, but he was getting used to it. Back in Lumatere, Froi was the instigator of silence. Here he was the one who always seemed to end it.

‘The song you were singing? What was it?’

Arjuro looked up again, his expression sombre.

‘It’s the song of the dead. If it’s sung by the gods’ touched, sometimes the soul of one who is lost may be able to return home.’

‘Home?’

‘Wherever they came from. When a Charynite dies, their people call their name out loud for the gods to hear and then the gods allow the souls to enter a sphere within the city or province. So the living and dead live side by side. But if their names are not called out loud, the gods have no idea where they are and the souls are lost.’

‘That’s what the soothsayer said,’ Froi said. ‘About the ghosts of Serker.’

Arjuro nodded. ‘Their names were never called out. They never will be, because too many of them died and no one has a record of all the names. Serker was razed to the ground.’

‘Who were you singing to?’

‘I can feel restless spirits in these parts.’

Arjuro began to sing the song of the dead again and his voice was so deep and pure that Froi could imagine the beauty of him as a young Priestling, charming the world, loved by the handsome De Lancey, spoiled by the Oracle, adored by his brother. In his song he sang names that sounded strangely familiar, and when Froi heard the name Mawfa, he knew that the Priestling had memorised every one of those tossed from the palace balconette or hanged at the gale.

‘Can you not sing for Tariq?’ Froi asked quietly, after the song was sung.

Arjuro shook his head. ‘Tariq belongs to Lascow. He doesn’t want to be kept in the Citavita. He wants to return to his mountains.’

Froi shivered at the thought that if he was to die and they called out his name, he would have no idea where his spirit would belong.

‘What is your plan, Arjuro?’ he asked. ‘The truth this time.’

Arjuro shrugged. ‘First I’ll find out what that fool brother of mine is up to and then I’ll probably head to the Sebastabol Mountains.’

Froi was confused, but that was nothing new when it came to Arjuro.

‘What’s Gargarin got to do with anything now?’ he asked, trying to keep the curiosity out of his voice.

‘Do you honestly believe he’s gone to Paladozza?’

Froi nodded, surprised by the words.

‘Despite our years apart, I can pick my brother’s lies in an instant.’

‘Then where is he?’ Froi asked.

‘Is that excitement I hear in your voice?’

‘No,’ Froi snapped, but his heart was beating hard. ‘Go on.’

‘Very rude to speak with your mouth full.’

‘Hmm, pity my family weren’t around to sit me down and teach me how to behave proper.’

Something flashed in Arjuro’s eyes. He reached into his pack and retrieved a bottle, holding it up in the light from the fire.

‘Mead, not wine, but it will have to do.’

Arjuro took a swig and handed the bottle to Froi.

‘Where is he?’ Froi asked quietly, despising himself for wanting to know.

‘He could still be struggling down this gravina,’ Arjuro said. ‘I travelled after you and didn’t come across him. He probably stayed a while in Upper Charyn, deliberating. He likes to deliberate, my brother does. When we were boys he’d spend hours and days deliberating about whether it was safe to escape from my father.’

A rare flash of pain crossed Arjuro’s face at the memory.

‘And in the palace prison I can assure you he deliberated for eight years.’

Arjuro’s eyes met Froi’s. ‘As we speak, he’ll be deliberating about whether he should have explained that he ordered his son home to Lumatere because he wanted him safe, or whether his son will despise him for the rest of his days if the words remained unspoken.’

His son. Froi had never been anyone’s son, although at times he had sensed a father in Perri. Even Lord August, after a good day’s work, would gather his sons and Froi together in thanks. Something inside Froi’s gut twisted at Arjuro’s words. Oh you fool, Froi. You’ve always wanted to be someone’s son.

Arjuro smiled sadly. ’He’s probably wondering about whether it’s better to trust his instincts.’

‘What do you think his instincts are telling him?’

Arjuro shrugged. ‘Does it matter? I’m going to follow his example, Dafar.’

Froi shuddered at the sound of that name.

‘I’m going to tell you to go home to Lumatere and not look back,’ Arjuro said gently.

Froi held a hand out for the bottle, took another swig. ‘I’ve only come this way for my weapons.’

‘Good.’

Froi nodded, handing the bottle back to the Priestling. ‘But do you want to hear what my instincts are telling me right now?’ He didn’t wait for Arjuro’s response. ‘My instincts tell me that Lirah took Quintana to the only place that has ever been safe to her and that Gargarin is searching for them. He needs absolution. That’s what I’ve discovered about him these past few weeks. You see, Gargarin returned to the Citavita to tell you and Lirah the truth and then to kill the King. He failed at all three.’

Froi’s instincts were good. He could tell. Arjuro stopped, mid-swig.

‘He’s heading towards the cave you both claim as yours,’ Froi continued, almost cheerfully. He liked being right. ‘The one where you hid the Oracle and where I first saw Gargarin’s scowling face. Where he took Lirah and you took De Lancey once upon a time when life was joyful.’

Arjuro gave nothing away.

Froi continued. ‘Lirah mentioned the cave. You mentioned it. In between getting his bones broken and being imprisoned, Gargarin mopes in the cave. De Lancey fantasises about the cave.’ Froi shook his head, mockingly. ‘If those frescoes could talk, they would blush from what they’ve seen the brothers of Abroi get up to in that cave.’

Arjuro was silent, but after a moment Froi saw his mouth twitch.

‘Still shocks me that you’re not as stupid as you look, runt.’ Rain fell throughout the night making their journey down the gravina even more difficult than when Froi had climbed it weeks before with Gargarin. Arjuro cursed and grumbled for most of the time and if Froi didn’t know every Charynite curse word when he set out that day, his companion had introduced him to most by late afternoon.

When rain came pelting down again they crawled into the closest cave, its ceiling too low to stand. Arjuro sat for most of the night at the entrance of the tiny space, brooding.

‘My brother’s an idiot,’ he said, refusing to lie down. ‘He’s probably dead at the bottom of the gravina, stacked on top of the rest of those bodies they tossed down.’

Later, Froi was awakened by the sounds of voices, but then he heard nothing and thought he had imagined it.

‘What are the chances of someone other than Gargarin being down here?’ he asked Arjuro in the dark, knowing the Priestling was awake.

‘Apart from Lirah and the girl, probably none. This isn’t exactly the fastest way to the rest of the kingdom. People only come down here to catch trout and I don’t think anyone in Charyn feels like fishing at the moment.’

The world was silent again and it was at such times that Froi missed Quintana most. Missed the solace he felt as they lay beside one another. He fell asleep thinking of their last night together in the palace, when her legs had wrapped around him and he had heard the cry in her voice as she buckled against him. ‘Again,’ she had whispered. ‘Again.’

He woke to a sound and realised he had groaned aloud.

‘Think of an ice-water bath,’ Arjuro mocked from where he sat. ‘It always kills any desire in me.’

Early next morning they heard the sound of shuffling along the path outside the cave.

Arjuro made a strange bird-like sound and Froi could have sworn that there was excitement on the Priestling’s face.

‘You haven’t spoken to him for eighteen years and you still share a whistle?’ Froi whispered.

‘Nothing wrong with a whistle.’

Froi chuckled. ‘You would like Finnikin of Lumatere. He has a passion for whistles. One for his wife. One for his hound. One for his daughter. One for his father. And then there’s the one for when he’s merely enjoying the day.’

A moment later they heard the birdsong return.

Froi crawled out of the cave. Gargarin was sitting low behind a rock ahead of them, as though trying to avoid being seen by someone further down. Gargarin turned, held a finger to his lips and beckoned Froi over, not even questioning what he was doing there. Gargarin pointed down into the gully. Froi saw the cave where he had hidden his weapons, marked by the image of the fan bird. But further down, where the stream passed Gargarin’s cave, he saw horses.

Froi pointed up and quietly climbed to a higher rock. From there he saw the palace riders instantly. At least ten of them had set up camp downstream from Gargarin’s cave.

‘Not good,’ he said when he climbed down. ‘They’re here for something and I don’t think it’s us.’

‘Have you seen Lirah and the girl?’ Arjuro asked, joining them.

Gargarin shook his head. ‘But I saw two men watch our cave for some time.’

Gargarin said the ‘our’ unconsciously. ‘Then your man arrived, Froi.’

‘My man?’ Froi asked, confused.

‘That whining idiot, Zabat.’

‘With palace riders? Bestiano’s? You’re wrong.’

‘Not wrong at all,’ Gargarin retorted, as though he was never wrong. ‘First Dorcas entered with two riders. Then another rider arrived with Zabat. Zabat entered and I’ve not seen the three inside since.’

‘Zabat,’ Froi whispered again, trying to understand what Rafuel’s messenger was up to. ‘With Bestiano’s men?’

He thought a moment. He needed to get his short sword and daggers and then he would work out a way to speak to Zabat. ‘Follow me.’

Ensuring that the path was safe, they moved quickly down towards the rock marked with the fan bird. Froi lay on his stomach and squeezed his way to the rim of the cave. He felt around in the darkness, but there was nothing there.

‘My weapons,’ he called out to them, softly. ‘Someone’s taken them!’

He searched again, his hands patting every nook and cranny. Frustrated, he began to worm his way out.

‘Well at least you have the sword the keeper of the caves gave you,’ Arjuro said.

When he was out of the cave, Froi looked up at Arjuro with annoyance.

‘This?’ Froi snapped, clutching at the scabbard. ‘This is just a … a stick with a blade. Not a sword. Perri had my short sword and daggers made for me. With Froi engraved on them all.’

‘Well it’s a good thing they’re lost because Froi’s not exactly a name,’ Gargarin said. ‘It’s just a sound those imbeciles came up with.’

‘Yes, you’d think the Sarnaks would be able to say a word with more than one beat by now,’ Arjuro mused.

‘This coming from the idiot who named me Nothing,’ Froi snapped, jumping to his feet. ‘My weapons are missing,’ he hissed.

‘We heard you the first time,’ Gargarin said. ‘And that stick with a blade is going to have to do for the time being, because I doubt very much that Zabat and Bestiano’s men are meeting in our cave for an Arjuro/De Lancey inspired dalliance.’

‘You can’t be sure Lirah and the girl are in there,’ Arjuro said.

Gargarin didn’t respond, but his brow was creased as if trying to work out a riddle. After a moment Arjuro asked, ‘What?’

‘Why would Bestiano kill the King now of all times? What does he want from the Princess?’

‘What he’s always wanted from her,’ Froi said bitterly. ‘He believes she’s the vessel. She produces the heir and he can walk straight back into the palace with power.’

‘Then why didn’t he take her with him when he left the palace? If he planned to kill the King, why didn’t he plan to take the one he believed to be the vessel when she was right there in front of him?’

Froi shrugged and Arjuro waited for Gargarin’s explanation.

‘I think he was taken by surprise,’ Gargarin said. ‘I think someone else killed the King and Quintana was a witness to it all. Locked in that strange mad head is the truth.’

‘But how did Bestiano know she would be here?’ Froi asked.

‘The same way he knew where to find Tariq. He has spies,’ Gargarin said, a pained expression crossing his face, and Froi knew he was thinking of the slain heir. Perhaps Tariq was the son Gargarin always wanted.

‘Let’s presume that his men are secretly watching the flow of people coming over that bridge and there she is with Lirah. Not recognisable to the rest of Charyn, but certainly to the King’s riders who saw her every day. So they follow her down here.’

Froi went to crawl back into the rock to search for his weapons a third time. If he was to release Quintana and Lirah he would need them. Gargarin grabbed him by the scruff of his neck.

‘The weapons aren’t there!’ Gargarin snapped. ‘Do you think they’ll appear like magic?’

‘Then I’ll have to go in and speak to the riders unarmed. They won’t kill me –’

‘Of course they will.’

‘They won’t,’ Froi argued. ‘I’m Lumateran. The last thing they want is for the Lumaterans to invade.’

Arjuro made a scoffing sound. ‘You think Lumatere will invade because of you? Are you that important?’

Froi looked away. ‘Isaboe would invade if you kidnapped a servant, let alone a friend.’

‘Isaboe? We’re on first-name terms with the Queen of Lumatere, are we?’ Gargarin asked.

Froi found himself bristling. ‘What? Do you think I’m some cutthroat for hire who they found hanging around the palace walls with the words “I want to kill a Charynite King” tattooed on my arse?’

‘No, but I didn’t expect you to live in the palace guardhouse.’

‘I don’t. I live in the Flatlands with a family that has given me a home these past three years. Lord Augie is a –’

‘August of the Flatlands?’ Gargarin stared with disbelief. ‘The Ambassador to Belegonia?’

‘So he knows the Queen and he lives with nobility,’ Arjuro said, bored. ‘Should we be impressed?’

‘And I’m presuming you were taught to speak Charyn by the holy man?’ Gargarin continued the interrogation.

Arjuro stared. Suddenly he seemed to care. ‘The Priestking? As in the blessed Barakah of Lumatere?’

‘He doesn’t enjoy titles these days,’ Froi said quietly. Suddenly the brothers seemed strange and slightly defensive. Gargarin closed his eyes for a moment and Froi couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

‘Go. Home,’ Gargarin said tiredly. ‘Just go. You don’t belong here. You belong there. You can play with nobility in the Flatlands and continue your lessons with the holy man. But don’t stay here and waste your life.’

‘I want my weapons back,’ Froi lied, ‘and I know Zabat is the one who took them. I’m going to ask for them politely.’

‘How can you possibly think that’s a sound idea?’ Gargarin asked with frustration.

‘I’m a foreigner, Gargarin. Zabat and Dorcas know that. The last thing they or Bestiano want is to instigate a war against Lumatere.’

‘If Zabat knows so much about what you’re doing in Charyn, he can have you arrested for conspiracy to kill the King, which will acquit Bestiano and allow them all to return to the capital,’ Arjuro said.

‘Arrested by who?’ Froi argued. ’No one’s in charge except for those savages in the Citavita. If Zabat is working for Bestiano, they won’t have the power to arrest anyone just yet. They’re fugitives themselves.’

‘Then it’s better that I go,’ Gargarin said.

Arjuro was looking from one to the other. ‘You’re both idiots,’ he said angrily. ‘I suggest the three of us get out of this death pit before it’s swarming with Bestiano’s riders.’

‘I said, I’m going.’ Froi pushed past Gargarin. Gargarin grabbed him by his tunic.

‘Do you honestly think you can release the women and escape that cave with five of them surrounding you and no weapon? Because I can assure you that the guard standing outside will not allow you to enter with that sword, regardless of how worthless you think it is.’

‘If they know I’m Lumateran they will not kill me,’ Froi hissed, wondering if Gargarin was hard of hearing or plain stupid. ‘They will ransom me instead. Your life as a Charynite, on the other hand, is worth much less and you know it.’

‘I say we walk away,’ Arjuro repeated. ‘You, you and me,’ he said, pointing to all three of them. ‘She’s not worth your lives, neither of them are. The whole of Charyn will agree with me.’

‘Do you know what my captain and his second-in-charge have told me over and over again?’ Froi asked.

‘Not interested,’ Arjuro said.

‘That if there is no means to an end, then buy time,’ Froi continued. ‘Each moment you buy provides you with more of an opportunity. Someone makes a mistake. Some distraction occurs. The scenario changes.’

‘Yes, from two corpses to three,’ Gargarin said.

‘Well, I could always go,’ Arjuro said. ‘They’re not going to kill the last Priestling.’

Gargarin stared at his brother as though noticing him for the first time. ‘Why aren’t you on the road to Osteria?’

‘Because I’d like to die of natural causes and not of boredom, brother,’ Arjuro responded.

Froi won the argument and made his way towards the stream to Gargarin’s cave. When he was within shouting distance he stepped out of the clearing, both arms extended wide. The two palace riders stood to attention and Froi watched one disappear to alert those inside.

A moment later Froi found himself lying flat on the hard earth while his whole person was checked for weapons.

‘Tell Zabat I want to speak to him. Tell him it’s Froi of Lumatere. He’ll know me better as Olivier of Sebastabol.’

He was dragged to his feet and pushed towards the cabin. At the door he was checked again and then dragged inside.

He noticed the walls first. Painted with grand images of the gods, strong and mighty.

On a filthy cot in the corner sat Quintana and Lirah. When Lirah saw him, she closed her eyes with what seemed bitter despair. Quintana’s eyes flashed with what he could only understand as some kind of victory.

Dorcas’s expression revealed nothing except slight irritation, which was nothing new when he was looking at Froi.

‘Tell your guard to stay,’ Zabat ordered Dorcas.

‘Zabat?’ Froi asked, pretending hurt. ‘Do you not trust me?’

Dorcas ignored them both and looked back towards the guard. ‘Did you disarm him?’

‘He wasn’t armed, Sir.’

Zabat’s expression was disbelieving. ‘Search him again. Be careful. He’ll go for your weapon.’

Froi held out his arms impassively as he was thoroughly searched for a second time, his eyes never leaving those of Rafuel’s traitorous messenger.

‘I’m praying for your sake that you haven’t betrayed your brothers in the valley, Zabat,’ he said.

‘And why is that?’

‘Because I’ll have to kill you. It’s part of my bond.’

Zabat had the good sense to look nervous.

‘A smart man chooses the side with more might, but if it’s any consolation, we all work for the good of Charyn,’ he said.

The fool looked to Dorcas and the two guards, pleased with his words. They ignored him.

‘Leave,’ Dorcas ordered Froi. ‘Take Lirah of Serker with you. We have no quarrel with Lumatere, if it is true that’s where you’re from. Tell your people to keep out of our affairs.’

‘Why can’t I take her with me, Dorcas?’ Froi said, pointing to Quintana. ‘She’s worthless.’

‘My orders are to return the Princess to Bestiano. It is imperative that she explains the truth of the curse after all these years of deceit, so the true lastborn girls of Charyn can do what they were born to do. It is the role of the riders to keep Charyn secure.’

Dorcas spoke as if he was reciting the original order he had been given.

‘Was it your sword that killed Tariq of Lascow?’ Froi asked. ‘Did you follow the order to kill him? Kill all those innocent people in his compound?’

‘If I was there, I would have followed orders,’ Dorcas said. ‘But I was sent here. Regardless, I am comforted by the idea that Bestiano brought to justice those who were responsible for planning the murder of our king. The kills were said to be quick and clean.’

‘You weren’t there because you’re nothing to them, Dorcas,’ Froi said forcefully. ‘You’ve been assigned to run after a useless Princess. You weren’t there because Bestiano and his riders don’t want you to know the truth. That according to the Provincari, Bestiano killed the King.’

‘The Provincari have their own reasons to lie,’ Dorcas snapped, and for once Froi saw his uncertainty.

‘The riders murdered the rightful heir, Dorcas,’ he continued. ‘The only man who could bring justice to Charyn. And you would have done the same because you’re a fool who doesn’t know how to do anything but follow orders.’

‘Bonds? Orders? What’s the difference?’ Zabat interrupted. ‘Your orders are the same, Lumateran.’

‘In any case,’ Dorcas snapped. ‘Bestiano’s fight is not with foreigners. It is with the men who planned the murder. So I ask you again to leave and take Lirah of Serker with you. We’re not the street lords. We have no intention of slaughtering without reason.’

‘How will the seed be planted?’ Quintana asked coldly from the cot.

Everyone turned to stare.

‘So the true lastborn girls of Charyn can do what they were born to do?’ she repeated his words. ‘Who will fight to be the sire? Will it be Bestiano? Will the riders gather up the girls for him, Dorcas? Will you be reduced to that? Will you kill the fathers who fight to keep their daughters safe?’

Dorcas looked away, uncomfortable.

‘Are you envious, Reginita?’ Zabat spat out the words. ‘Isn’t that what you call yourself? Are you envious because your father did not fight for your safety?’

She shook her head. ‘Just dismayed that the lie we told these years past was futile.’

Zabat’s smile was of unpleasant satisfaction.

‘So here is the truth. Was I not always right when no one else would believe me? The Reginita, she claimed to be. The little Queen.’ He looked at Froi. ‘How many years did we waste listening to her tell the people that she was the only one amongst the lastborns who could break the curse?’

Froi looked at Quintana. He didn’t know what to believe.

‘Nothing in the curse said that I would give birth to the firstborn,’ she said, her voice cool. ‘Just that it would be the last who would do so. But I made sure my father gave a royal decree that only the Reginita and a lastborn male would break the curse. Myself and Tariq, my betrothed, the rightful heir. Anyone else who dared try would be defying the gods. My father was forced to believe me. The King had offended the gods in two kingdoms by then, and no one feared them more than he did.’

‘Why would you tell such a lie?’ Dorcas asked.

‘Why do you think, Dorcas?’ she said sadly. ‘Because I grew up in the palace and had come to understand the baseness of a man’s heart. They branded the lastborn girls on our thirteenth day of weeping. Tariq and I knew what that meant. My mother Lirah was sold in her thirteenth year. Do you honestly think the branding was for any other reason but to destroy the bodies and spirits of young girls destined to produce the first?’

Zabat’s expression was ugly.

‘You made up a story to win your father’s attention. Because he despised his abomination,’ Zabat said.

Lirah stood and glared at Zabat, who took a step back. She indicated Froi with a toss of her head. ‘He will kill you, fool. Mark my words. I saw him maim four of De Lancey’s men in the godshouse in the blink of an eye.’

The second rider was nervous, staring from the women to Froi. Dorcas looked at Froi uneasily, a film of perspiration on his brow.

‘Search him again,’ he said.

‘Let him go,’ Quintana sighed, dismissing Froi with a wave of her hand. ‘He’s no threat to you or Bestiano. He was sent to end my life, not yours or my father’s. That is the truth. He admitted it to me himself.’

She stood and the riders stepped towards her. Fear was in the room. Even in Quintana’s eyes. Froi saw it there, combined with fury, and it was directed his way.

‘But I want to speak to him first,’ she said. ‘To say that although you’ve betrayed me, Lumateran, I want you to know that those gifts you left me in that little treasure chest with the fan bird etched in its stone are ones that I will always carry in my heart.’

Froi fought hard to conceal every thought that ran through his mind. Every emotion. The thrill and satisfaction that came with the knowledge of what she was trying to tell him.

He looked at Dorcas. He needed to buy time.

‘This is not my fight,’ he said after a pause.

Dorcas nodded, pleased. Relieved.

‘Good to hear. Don’t ever let me see you in these parts again, Lumateran.’

Froi turned to walk away and then stopped.

‘Can I …’ Froi looked down, pretending awkwardness. ‘Can I bid her farewell?’ He leaned close to Dorcas. ‘I did share her bed,’ he whispered, ‘and I did lose a bit of my heart to her. Or to one of those who live inside of her, anyway.’

Dorcas stared from Froi to Quintana and nodded. ‘Make it quick.’

Froi joined her where she stood beside the cot. He took her hands and felt where she had concealed the daggers he’d buried in the cave. He was impressed with the way the scabbards were perfectly placed.

‘Did I ever call you useless?’ he asked softly.

‘Three times,’ she said, her tone sour.

‘Three times, you say?’

‘Yes, we tend to count the amount of times we’re called useless by one person. Bestiano made mention of it thirty-seven times.’

‘My, my, you do have a good memory for details.’

She nodded. ‘And I do believe you referred to me as worthless moments ago.’

He rubbed her palm intimately and then placed his hands on both her shoulders, feeling the scabbard across her shoulder.

‘Their measurement of worth, Princess. Not mine.’

He leaned forward to press a kiss to her mouth. Regardless of the circumstances, she still moved her face slightly so his lips touched her cheeks instead.

‘You’ve lost that privilege,’ she said coolly.

‘Pity.’

Froi yanked the two daggers from her sleeve and hurled one at Zabat, catching him between the eyes, the other at the second rider’s thigh as he kicked the man’s sword from his hand and spun Quintana around to retrieve the short sword at her shoulders. He pushed her behind him, smashing Dorcas across the temple with the handle of the sword just as Lirah scrambled for a dagger. The third guard entered the cave, weapon raised, hesitating one moment too long as he stared at the body of the dead man and at Dorcas struggling to his feet. In an instant, Lirah had a sword pointed at the back of the man’s neck and Froi put a foot on Dorcas’s chest.

‘I’m going to regret not killing you,’ Froi said, looking down at him, ‘but it’s not in my bond to take your life.’

‘And it was in your bond to take his?’ Dorcas gasped, pointing to Zabat’s body.

‘Zabat has brought war to the edge of my kingdom. My bond is to destroy anyone who is a threat to Lumatere.’

Satisfied that the three riders were tied up securely, Froi stepped outside to where Quintana and Lirah stood. He whistled softly and listened for the whistle in return. They heard it and he followed the sound along the stream and up a path. Arjuro’s head suddenly appeared behind a twisted knot of shrubbery that concealed a low narrow entrance to a cave. Froi gently pushed Lirah before him, and turned only to see Quintana running.

From him.

Enraged, he tore after her, catching her on an incline, causing them both to tumble to the ground. He heard voices and Froi held a hand over her mouth as they tried to control their ragged breaths. He knew by the sound of the footsteps that there were two others circling.

‘Go check on Dorcas,’ he heard the rider closest to them say.

A caterpillar found its way across the rider’s boot and Froi watched Quintana’s finger reach out and softly brush its texture as if she’d never seen anything so strange before. Froi knew the moment she felt its sting, her eyes wide with shock. Forgetting his anger for a moment, he gripped her finger in his fist to soften the pain. When the riders walked away and they heard the last of their footsteps, Froi grabbed her hand and dragged her into the cave where the others hid.

When he was satisfied that the cave entrance was concealed by the shrubs and they were safe for the time being, he turned to where she sat huddled against the wall, her arms clasped around her knees, eyes fixed on Froi’s as if he was some fiend, rather than the one who had saved her life.

‘You could have got us killed,’ he whispered with anger. ‘All of us. You never run from me again. Do you hear?’

Lirah crouched beside Quintana. ‘Try to sleep,’ she murmured, but Quintana shook her head and whispered in Lirah’s ear, the whole time her eyes never leaving Froi’s.

‘No,’ Lirah said patiently, ‘I think you’re both safe for now.’

Through the night, Froi lay awake, listening for every snap of a twig or voice outside. He could see the outline of Quintana sitting up, felt her eyes boring into him. In the morning when a little light entered the cave, he found her seated exactly as she had been the night before, her eyes fixed on where he was.

‘I’m going to catch us something to eat,’ he muttered, and before the others could argue against it, he was gone.

Chapter 25

That day the base of the gravina swarmed with more riders. Although it seemed dangerous to catch a hare and risk the Charynites following the scent of it roasting, Froi caught two all the same, figuring that they’d have to eat them raw if they were hungry enough.

‘They know we’re here,’ he whispered to the others when he returned. ‘Their numbers seem to have doubled overnight.’

‘Perhaps they’re just passing through on their way to Jidia,’ Arjuro said.

‘They’re here to stay,’ Froi said flatly. ‘And so are we until they’re gone.’

‘I’ve found something.’ Gargarin’s voice came from the back of the cave and Froi followed, squeezing into the nook beside him.

Gargarin took Froi’s hand in the dark and pressed it around a small opening in the stone.

‘It could end the moment you crawl in, but it’s worth a try.’

‘These caves are supposed to lead to the steps of Jidia, Sir.’ Quintana’s voice was suddenly there at his shoulders.

‘The steps of Jidia are a myth,’ Gargarin said.

Froi poked his head inside the space, relieved for once that he wasn’t the size of a Lumateran river man. He climbed in and began to crawl.

‘Don’t go too far,’ he heard Gargarin order, and the words echoed over and over again.

He didn’t have to. The tunnel led to another cave that was darker by far, but it was a safer place for them to hide.

In their new home, Arjuro built a small fire. Quintana had returned to her indignant self, except when Froi dared to look at her, which produced a savage snarl.

‘Lirah mentioned that you managed to smuggle the assassin out of the palace all those years ago, Sir Gargarin,’ she said at one point during the night when they were trying to get some sleep. ‘Rather than toss him into the gravina with my first mother, the Oracle.’

It took Froi a moment to realise he was the assassin she was referring to. There was an uneasy silence at the bluntness of her words.

‘Who was it?’ Arjuro asked Gargarin, when no one spoke. ‘The babe who died that day?’

‘Later,’ Gargarin muttered from his bedroll, turning away.

‘Now,’ Arjuro said. ‘It’s been too long. I need the truth. So does Lirah.’

‘Now you need the truth?’ Gargarin said bitterly. ‘Later, I said.’ He stole a look at Quintana.

‘Are you waiting for us to sleep before you speak of it, Sir Gargarin?’ she asked, indignantly. ‘Because we can’t, you know. Sleep that is. Not with the assassin here, threatening us and the little King.’

‘Us? The little King?’ Froi said, looking at the others with disbelief. ‘Are you all hearing this?’

Lirah closed her eyes as though she had heard it one too many times.

‘The Princess claims … believes,’ she corrected herself, ’that she carries the first.’

Quintana made a clicking sound of annoyance with her tongue. ‘I explained to you, Lirah. I’m actually the Queen of Charyn. I was wed to King Tariq in his compound before they slaughtered him. When one is wed to the King they are given the title of Queen regardless of how powerless they remain. I do love a title.’

There was another uncomfortable silence. This time her attention was on Gargarin.

‘Is it true you murdered my first mother, the Oracle?’ she persisted.

Answer her, Froi wanted to shout. So they didn’t have to hear her guileless voice speak of death and carnage.

When it was clear that there would be no sleep for any of them, Gargarin sat up.

‘I was handed a child that night said to have been birthed by the Oracle,’ he said.

‘It was the King who placed him in my arms. Told me that the babe would bring Charyn to its knees if he lived. That if I loved my king and believed in the gods, I would do as instructed. First, I was to toss the babe over the balconette into the gravina and then dispose of his dead mother in the same way. Better the people of the Citavita believe that the Oracle plunged to her own death than know she was defiled by the Serkers and died giving birth to an abomination.’

Froi could hardly breathe.

‘Of course we know now that the Oracle and the Priestlings were not attacked by the Serkers.’ Gargarin shook his head with bitterness. ‘To this day, I’ll never truly know what I would have done if fate had not stepped in.’

He looked at Lirah. ’You were my fate, Lirah. Firstly, because of your screams. I thought you were birthing your child, but now I know you were waking up with the Oracle’s daughter in your arms instead of the son you had seen. Your pain penetrated those walls and while the King and his guards left the chamber, I found myself alone with the child I was ordered to kill. Not a minute had passed when I heard a sound from the bed where the dead Oracle lay beneath the sheet. Dead from childbirth. Unbeknownst to the King and his men, between her thighs lay a second girl whose first breath had been her last.’

Froi saw a flash of pain cross his face.

‘There were three babes born in the palace that night. Lirah’s son and the Oracle’s twin daughters.’

Quintana rocked back and forth. Lirah was too stunned to offer her comfort and Arjuro looked so ill that Froi thought he’d throw up at any moment.

‘And as fate would have it again, strange lonely Rafuel came searching for one lost kitten to add to the litter in his basket. So I took my chance and placed the living child amongst them. Into the hands of an eight-year-old boy who had never known love except for those damned cats. Then I carried the Oracle and her dead child to the balconette and I gave the child a name. To my shame, I had no idea what the Oracle’s name was. All I prayed for was that you managed to call out her name to the gods, Arjuro, from where they had shackled you on the opposite balconette to watch. So that her spirit could find her child at the lake of the half-dead and take them both home.’

Arjuro shook his head. ‘Oracles didn’t have names. To call an Oracle by her name would make her human and we were never to see her as human.’

So the Oracle Queen and her dead child were to be separated for eternity.

Quintana’s face was transformed into an expression of sadness beyond belief. She shook her head. Froi couldn’t speak, could hardly breathe from knowing how close he had come to death the day he was born.

‘What did you name her?’ Lirah asked. ‘The dead babe?’

‘Regina,’ Gargarin said quietly. ‘The babe was the daughter of the Oracle Queen so I felt she deserved the name of royalty.’

Froi heard Arjuro’s sharp intake of breath. The Priestling’s eyes were fixed on Quintana with a mixture of horror and intrigue.

‘You were born first,’ Arjuro said quietly.

‘My son was born first,’ Lirah said. Froi noticed that both Lirah and Gargarin spoke about their son as though it was someone other than Froi.

‘But not to the palace,’ Arjuro continued. ‘He may have been born in the palace, but not to it. The only children fathered by the King belonged to the Oracle, the woman he violated the night he and his men slaughtered the Priestlings and blamed it on the Serkers.’

Arjuro’s eyes were still fastened on Quintana.

‘Two children would be born to the palace,’ he said. ’And the one born first would end his reign.’

Froi recognised the soothsayer’s words. The King’s dream.

‘How did you kill him?’ Arjuro asked Quintana quietly.

Froi saw Gargarin and Lirah’s confusion and felt his own. But Quintana seemed to know exactly what the Priestling was asking, for she neither argued, nor feigned innocence.

‘The Provincari said that the Guard searched you thoroughly,’ Arjuro continued.

‘Arjuro?’ Gargarin barked. ‘What are you saying?’

They waited and waited. But Arjuro refused to respond.

‘The assassin taught us how to kill a man in five seconds,’ Quintana said. ‘And the circumstances demanded that I did.’

‘Sagra!’ Froi said, stunned.

‘Where did you conceal the dagger?’ Arjuro asked. He stood and walked to where she sat upright against the wall and crouched before her. ‘Where?’

She leaned forward whispering, ‘I don’t want Lirah to hear this, blessed Arjuro.’

‘Why not?’ he whispered back, fascinated.

‘It will upset her. We don’t want to upset Lirah. I believe that the last time Lirah became upset, her Serker blood helped curse the kingdom.’

‘Arjuro will tell me anyway, Quintana,’ Lirah said.

They waited, Arjuro still before Quintana. She looked past him to Lirah.

‘There’s little that can upset me now. You know that,’ Lirah prodded, but Froi could see she was lying. Lirah seemed frightened of what she was about to hear.

‘We never had a dagger,’ Quintana said. ‘But we knew where Bestiano kept his hidden.’

‘How?’ Gargarin asked.

‘Because when he came into my room those nights he would always remove the dagger before … but he would leave the scabbard. He never took it off. Never.’

There were tears in her eyes. ‘Never. And it chafed my skin each time and I’d say, Bestiano, it hurts.’

Quintana stared back at the only mother she had ever known and Froi saw on Lirah’s face a look of fierce anguish. It spoke of heartbreak and guilt and rage and Lirah shook her head, not wanting to believe, tears spilling down her cheeks. Her consolation for this strange daughter all these years was that the lastborn males hadn’t hurt her or taken her by force. But she had never imagined the King’s Advisor would believe he could father the first.

‘I insisted on the guards searching Bestiano, knowing they wouldn’t. He saw the King most days, so why search him now? But the damage was done because I’d put doubts in the heads of the Provincari who were witness to it all.

‘And so I walked into my father’s chamber, shut the door, and to Bestiano I did what the assassin told me to do. Render a man useless with a knee between the legs. And then I grabbed his dagger from its scabbard and I walked to my father and I plunged it into his side.’

Froi saw the vicious little teeth clench in victory as she remembered the moment. ‘ “That is for my mother!” I said, and then I twisted the blade, “And that is for Lirah of Serker.” Then in the third second I cut him from ear to ear, “And that is for the people of Charyn!” Only then did I cry bloody murder. “Bestiano has killed my father!” ’

They all stared at her, speechless. Quintana gripped Arjuro’s hand.

‘My mother is lost, blessed Arjuro, never to be reunited with her daughters,’ she said. ‘The only place she’ll find us will be in our dreams.’

Arjuro pressed her hand to his lips. If there was one person he had adored in this world apart from his brother and De Lancey, it was the Oracle.

‘If it’s the last thing I do in this mortal world, Your Highness,’ he said, his voice ragged, ‘I will find her spirit and call her home.’

Quintana leaned forward, her lips close to the Priestling’s ear. ‘If the assassin comes near us or the little King, will you help me cut out his heart, blessed Arjuro?’

Arjuro turned to meet Froi’s eyes. ‘Yes, I think I’d have to.’

The next day, Froi returned from his surveillance to find Arjuro and Gargarin waiting for him in the outer cave. Today it had been too dangerous to venture close to the stream and he had to be satisfied with berries as his pickings.

‘She believes she’s with child and that you’ve been sent to kill the heir to Charyn,’ Gargarin said tiredly.

‘Yes, we’ve already established that,’ Froi said. ‘Are you telling me you believe her?’

‘I don’t know what to believe, except that the most useless girl in Charyn has managed to do something that most men have failed at, including the both of us. So I’m going to have to be less sceptical about her ramblings in the future.’

Froi couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He turned to Arjuro.

‘So now you think she’s the answer to Charyn’s dreams as well?’

Arjuro shrugged. ‘There’s nothing like a bit of patricide and regicide to convince me of someone’s worth.’

‘I don’t care what any of you think,’ Froi muttered, preparing to crawl into the inner cave, ‘because the way I see it, when we get out of here, I’m taking her to the cloister of Lagrami in Sendecane. They’ll take care of her there for the rest of her life.’

Gargarin gripped Froi’s arm gently.

‘We thought it best if you sleep in a separate place until we work out her state of mind. Lirah says –’

‘Lirah?’ Froi said, bitterly. ‘Lirah would like me in a separate place? She weeps for her boy all her life, but the moment she’s faced with me as a son, it’s all too disappointing, isn’t it?’

Arjuro made a sound of annoyance.

‘That’s not what she said at all,’ Gargarin said. ‘Quintana is not of sound mind at the moment, Froi. Anyone can see that.’

Froi shoved him away and crawled into their cave.

Sitting up against the wall as she had since they arrived, Quintana stared up at him, her eyes swollen from the fatigue of keeping them open.

‘Tell her to sleep,’ he ordered Lirah.

Lirah stood and walked towards him.

‘She claims you will kill her and the child if she dares to sleep,’ Lirah said quietly. ‘It’s why she ran from you both times before.’

‘Her delusion about this child will get her killed, Lirah. Speak to her.’

Lirah shook her head. ‘I pledged to take her somewhere safe. When she came to me that day in the inn and told me you were in Charyn to assassinate her, she was inconsolable. Not just about the carnage in Tariq’s compound, but over fear of what you would do. ‘He’ll kill the little King,’ she cried, ‘and Charyn will be cursed for eternity.’

There was anguish in Lirah’s eyes. ‘I owe her this and regardless of whether I believe she is imagining this child, I need to be with her.’

‘Why is she so certain?’ Froi asked.

‘She claims the gods wrote it all over you. She is mad beyond reasoning and we did this to her. I did. The King. You. The whole of Charyn. We created that,’ she said, pointing to where Quintana stared from her corner.

Froi pushed past Lirah towards Quintana, but her savage hiss of fury and ragged breaths of fear filled the cave. Froi felt himself being dragged back by Arjuro and Gargarin while Lirah went to Quintana, murmuring words in the mad girl’s ears.

‘Tell her to sleep, Lirah,’ Froi begged, pulling away from the others.

But the sound of Froi’s voice was Quintana’s undoing and she cried out hoarsely, ‘Please, Lirah. Please, I’m begging you. Make him leave.’

Lirah turned and Froi saw it in her eyes. She wanted him gone, as well. Shaking free of Arjuro’s arms he walked away and crawled back into the outer cave.

He spent the week playing cat and mouse with Bestiano’s riders, watching them search the larger caves each morning. Some days, Froi made sure he left a false trail that had them whispering with feverish excitement. Most days he returned with food and placed it in the tunnel between the outer and inner cave for the others to eat.

They came to the outer cave often, except for Quintana, but Froi barely spoke.

‘We can’t stay here,’ Gargarin said, a week after Froi had been banished from Quintana’s presence.

Froi practised some weapon drills, ignoring him.

‘Either we find a way out past their camp or give her up to Bestiano’s men,’ Arjuro said.

Froi stumbled a moment, his short sword falling out of his hand.

‘If they believe she is with child, it buys her time,’ Arjuro said. ‘What did you say about buying time? Each moment provides … blah, blah, blah.’

If Froi chose to speak to them he’d say it was a bad idea. And what would Bestiano and the riders do after they discovered Quintana had been telling lies when her belly failed to swell. But he didn’t choose to speak and soon they left.

Later, Lirah came to visit.

‘Gargarin says you’re sulking,’ she said, coolly. ‘And Quintana’s still not sleeping, so perhaps you should return and sit in a corner away from her.’

‘I don’t sit in corners, Lirah.’

‘This is not helping anyone.’

‘Is there food in her belly?’ he snapped, pointing a finger to her face. ‘In all your bellies? If not, get out of my cave!’

With a hand she shoved him back. ‘You listen to me, you little Serker savage –’

‘Your Serker savage, Lirah,’ he mocked viciously, stepping closer. ‘His.’

She shoved him again and he felt fury in the push. ‘You were sent to assassinate her, Froi. What do you expect? Regardless of everything, everything,’ she spat, ‘Quintana was placed in my care, and for so long I was the only one she trusted when cowards tried to kill her time and time again. Do you want to know the first time it happened? Have you ever seen a four-year-old child retch over and over again, trying to purge herself of the poison they put in her food, begging me to stop the pain?’

He thought of all those times Quintana tried to eat from his plate and from the plates of those around her.

‘I would never have done it,’ he argued.

‘Why not? It’s part of that wretched bond of yours to those revenge-seeking Lumaterans. It’s the code you live by. Why would I think any different?’

Because you’re my mother, he wanted to shout.

‘I stay here,’ he said, turning his back to her. ‘Go back to your cave and don’t bother me again.’

Arjuro accompanied him outside one day, regardless of whether Froi wanted the company or not. The stream was the best source of food, but it was guarded day and night, all the way to the northern wall of the gravina. After a good bout of rain the day before, Froi watched one of the riders collect a bounty of fish and eel, placing them in a sack that writhed with life.

‘If you could get that stash it would last us days,’ Arjuro whispered from where they hid in a small ditch behind a cluster of reeds.

They waited for most of the morning and when the rider was satisfied with his catch, he picked up the sack and walked away, disappearing into the copse of poplar trees that led to the Charynites’ camp.

‘Stay here and whatever you do, don’t move until I return,’ Froi ordered.

He followed the rider, leaping across stepping stones to avoid using the dirt track that could easily alert the others to him. The Charynite stopped soon after and placed the sack on the ground, standing against a tree to relieve himself. Perri always said that there was an advantage in attacking a man with his pants down. Most men went to protect their private parts before anything else and if a pursuer was to give chase, it would also take a moment for the victim to pull up his trousers. So Froi came up from behind and knocked the man across the temple with the handle of his short sword before grabbing the sack of writhing fish and eels, and then he bolted.

‘He’s here!’ he heard the rider bellow. ‘This way.’

At the stream where Arjuro was hidden, Froi forced the sack into the Priestling’s hands.

‘Run!’ Froi hissed. ‘I’ll lead them away.’

Without waiting for Arjuro’s response, Froi raced back the way he had come and found himself face to face with the first of the riders. He leapt up and gripped the tree limb above, one boot each pounding in both men’s faces. Jumping back onto the ground he took the path that circled the riders’ camp, knowing it would draw them away from Arjuro and their cave.

He reached the wall of the gravina heading north and saw the tunnel through the thick stone that he had travelled through Zabat on their journey to meet Gargarin. It would take Froi to the road leading him to Alonso and then Lumatere. Home, he thought. Home. And the fury he had felt in the caves towards Quintana and Lirah and Gargarin and Arjuro, and the knowledge that they would be left with a small bounty of food, steered him to take the path home.

Without looking back.

Chapter 26

Aldron arrived one morning with instruction from the palace. Although Lucian knew he had the full support of his cousin Isaboe, it still shamed him that he could not restore order amongst his people. There had been a week of hostility on the mountain and he had begun to wonder if it was best to send Yata down to the palace to keep her safe from the bitter words and simmering unrest.

‘If you’re here to guard the prisoner, Aldron, we’ll help you,’ Jory said, strutting to where Aldron was dismounting outside Lucian’s cottage. Everyone knew Trevanion and the Guard were keeping an eye on Jory, and he was the envy of most Mont lads his age. Usually he would receive a friendly cuff to his chin from one of the Guard in response to his remarks. Except for today.

‘I’m not here to guard the prisoner,’ Aldron said coldly. ‘I’m here to protect him.’

Aldron’s order was to take the Charynite down to the valley and shackle him to a tree on the Lumateran side of the stream. It was a safer option than keeping him up on the mountain.

Later that day, Lucian and Aldron escorted the prisoner through the crowd that had gathered outside. Tension was rife and under the watchful gaze of most of the Monts even Aldron looked uneasy. ‘What’s going on here, Lucian?’ he asked quietly.

‘The Monts being Monts.’

From where he sat on a horse tethered to Lucian’s, Rafuel of Sebastabol caught his eye.

‘You honestly don’t think they’re going to ride down that mountain and come for me,’ he asked. Lucian repeated his words to Aldron.

‘Tell him I have orders to keep him alive,’ Aldron said. ‘So if my orders are to keep him alive, he stays alive.’

Lucian translated.

‘And if his orders are to kill me?’ Rafuel asked.

‘Rest assured that you’ll be dead before you have time to give it a second thought,’ Lucian said.

When they reached the valley there was no one to be seen on their side of the stream. Lucian climbed up the oak that shaded the camp and saw Tesadora and her girls chatting with Phaedra and Cora in the vegetable plot that the Mont boys had once destroyed. Chatting. Lucian had noticed that ever since Lady Beatriss had sent down the clay cooking pot, his wife and her people had become friendlier to one another, but chatting to Tesadora and the novices was something new, and Lucian was determined to put an end to it.

Aldron pitched the tent beside a tree and as per Trevanion’s instructions he shackled Rafuel securely. Tesadora and the girls walked over and Aldron asked for the chronicle Tesadora held. He leafed through it.

‘Two hundred and forty-seven of them?’ he asked. ‘There are more Charynites in the valley than Monts on the mountain.’

‘We would have more Monts on the mountain if you two would return to your homes,’ Lucian told his cousins Constance and Sandrine, who had been living in the valley for two weeks now with Tesadora. They gave Lucian a look that would curdle milk and he thought it best not to say another word to them.

‘Is the Queen going to set him free?’ Sandrine asked, studying their Charynite prisoner carefully. ‘They are a puny lot, aren’t they?’

‘Despite it all, they are quite pleasing to the eye,’ Constance added. Tesadora gave them both a scathing look.

‘Yes, well it’s a pity you weren’t introduced to some of the Charynite soldiers during our ten-year imprisonment,’ she said, her tone acid. ‘I doubt any of the girls were cooing at how pleasing to the eye the enemy was when they were forced into their beds.’

The girls looked away, horrified and ashamed. ’We meant no offence, Tesadora,’ Sandrine said.

Tesadora gave the Mont girls a meaningful look, flicking her eyes towards Japhra before picking up the pots and walking away towards the stream. Lucian looked over to where Japhra was staring at Rafuel. Lucian knew little of her story except that she had been dragged to the palace by the impostor King when she was twelve. Years later, Lady Beatriss had managed to smuggle her out of the palace and they travelled for days across Lumatere until they reached Tesadora and her hidden cloister at the Sendecane border. The girl was said to be damaged, but she had a fierce attachment to Tesadora and a talent for healing more powerful than Lucian had ever seen. When her eyes looked past Lucian to their prisoner, he noticed that Rafuel was returning her gaze, and suddenly a rage came over Lucian. The rule was never to forget who the enemy was, and there had been times these past weeks when Lucian had forgotten. But not today. He grabbed Rafuel by his hair, pulling his head back. ‘You don’t look at our women,’ he hissed. ‘You don’t talk to them. You don’t touch them. Is that clear?’

Rafuel didn’t respond and Lucian saw sorrow in his expression.

‘Lucian. Aldron.’

Tesadora came running out from the trees that concealed the other side of the stream.

‘Riders,’ she said when she reached them. ‘Coming from the direction of Alonso.’

Lucian and Aldron crept towards the stream, the waterberry tree keeping them hidden. Across the stream Lucian could see the cave dwellers standing, ten or so horsemen riding towards them.

‘King’s men?’ Tesadora asked.

Aldron shook his head. ‘From how we hear it through the Belegonians, there is no King of Charyn.’

‘No King?’ Lucian asked. ‘When?’

‘Perhaps a week or two ago.’

‘Where’s Froi then?’ he demanded. ‘If he succeeded, he should be home by now.’

Aldron shook his head. ‘There’s too much uncertainty about who actually assassinated the King. Some are saying he died at the hands of his First Advisor.’

Lucian turned back to where Rafuel was chained to the tree and crept beside him.

‘Your King is dead, Rafuel. Approaching now are men with no uniform, but they ride with great authority.’

Hope blazed in Rafuel’s eyes. He leapt to his feet before collapsing under the weight of the chains. He strained to look through the trees across the stream.

‘Perhaps Zabat has returned with Froi,’ Rafuel said. ‘Unshackle me and I can see for myself.’

Lucian looked at the shackles and then at the prisoner.

‘If you run, Charynite, I will kill you,’ he warned, reluctantly unlocking the chains. ‘If I don’t kill you, which is highly unlikely, then Aldron will kill you. Aldron is the Queen’s bodyguard, so you can imagine his aim is almost as good as mine.’

The moment the chains were off, both Lucian and Rafuel wormed their way to the stream beside Tesadora and Aldron, who had crept closer to see what lay through the reeds.

‘I never doubted the lad would succeed,’ Rafuel chuckled.

‘From the way we hear it, the King’s First Man was the assassin,’ Lucian said.

Rafuel turned to him in disbelief. ‘You mean the King’s Advisor, Bestiano? It doesn’t make sense.’

‘So who’s in charge if the King is dead?’ Tesadora asked Rafuel in Charyn.

Lucian noticed her language skills had improved since the Charynites had first arrived.

‘The son of the King’s first cousin,’ Rafuel said. ‘Tariq. His father died of a mysterious illness in the palace three years ago and Tariq’s mother’s people managed to have the lad smuggled out. If he sits on the throne, the Priests will be happy, the Provincari will be happy and Charyn will be happy. Royal blood without the insanity. Nothing like it to make a Charynite dance with joy.’

‘One can understand why,’ Lucian murmured.

‘But it has been foretold that the last will make the first and the Princess Quintana will produce a male child by the time she comes of age to be both a cursebreaker and heir. All we will need is an honourable man, unaligned to the provinces, to act as regent to the boy until he comes of age. If that does not come to pass, we will be happy for Tariq to take the throne and for the Priests to come out of hiding and find a better way to break the curse than turning our women into whores.’

‘But if a son comes from the Princess, wouldn’t your people despise his tainted blood?’ Lucian asked.

Rafuel turned to Tesadora. ‘What do you believe? That one is born evil or raised evil?’

‘Why ask me?’ she snapped.

Rafuel shrugged. ‘Because you seem the type to have an opinion about such things.’

She looked away. ‘No child is born evil,’ she said quietly.

‘And I’m presuming that you and your men know exactly who the honourable regent to the heir will be?’ Lucian asked.

Rafuel nodded, grinning, trying to make himself comfortable. ‘We do indeed. He has a fiercely smart mind and is the fairest of men. All he needs is convincing that his place is in the palace.’

‘And does this paragon of virtue have a name?’ Lucian asked.

‘He exists. That’s all you need to know.’

Rafuel nudged Lucian and the idiot Charynite’s good humour was contagious. ‘Be reassured, Mont, tonight you travel to the capital with our lad.’

‘Our lad?’ Lucian asked. ‘Froi’s ours, Charynite.’

But Lucian grinned all the same and even Tesadora seemed happy at the news. He hadn’t realised how much he missed Froi’s visits up to the mountain. The boy had worked harder than any other these past three years, perhaps because he had the strongest wish for the Queen’s goodwill. Lucian imagined Isaboe and Finnikin’s joy as Froi rode into the palace village. Trevanion and Perri and the rest of the Guard would drag him away to find out what they could about the death of the Charynite King, but Lucian knew that deep down everyone would be relieved that Froi was returning home unharmed.

‘There are my lads,’ Rafuel said, excitement in his voice. The seven men stood huddled together.

‘I can’t see Froi with the riders,’ Tesadora said, as the horsemen came closer. She snaked through the reeds, within a breath of the stream.

‘Come back, Tesadora,’ Aldron whispered.

The closer the horsemen rode, the more silent the valley dwellers became. From his vantage point, Lucian could see it in the way Kasabian and Cora and Rafuel’s men and everyone else stood, their bodies rigid.

‘Do you recognise any of the riders, Rafuel?’ Lucian whispered.

Rafuel did not respond. Closer and closer came the men and Lucian feared they’d cross the stream. The order was that if any Charynite other than Phaedra crossed the stream, the Monts would see it as an attack on Lumatere.

‘Rafuel?’ Tesadora whispered.

The prisoner’s silence made Lucian uncomfortable. He could see by the expression on Rafuel’s face that he recognised no one amongst the newcomers.

There were twelve men in total. They dismounted and, in the eerie silence that followed, Lucian watched them shove through the camp dwellers.

‘They’re searching for someone,’ Lucian whispered.

Rafuel shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t recognise them, but they’re certainly not palace riders, so we have nothing to fear.’

‘Then who could they be?’ Lucian asked.

Rafuel shrugged. ‘The Priests have spies in places that I don’t even know. We had one or two inside Lumatere for the first year.’

‘What?’

‘Rest assured,’ Rafuel said, ‘the hidden Priests of Charyn and the army they have built for Tariq will never be a threat to you.’ But his voice had lost its humour. It was laced with fear. Rafuel’s eyes fixed on the horsemen as they began to surround his men.

‘Oh gods,’ Rafuel said, his voice anguished.

‘What?’ Lucian asked.

‘They’re here for my lads.’

Aldron motioned them to silence. They watched as the leader of the horsemen paced the path before the camp dwellers, the sword in his hand pointed back at Rafuel’s men.

‘We’re searching for a man named Rafuel of Sebastabol,’ he called out. ‘The leader of the seven traitors who planned the murder of our king.’

Rafuel was muttering under his breath. Praying. From where Lucian lay, he could see that Rafuel’s men were doing the same while the camp dwellers stared at the seven men, confused. Rafuel’s lads had only made themselves known these last weeks. Tesadora had said there was talk amongst them all that a Charynite had taken a dagger to Japhra, but the camp dwellers had no idea who and they especially never suspected he belonged to the quiet seven, who were all scholars and kept to themselves.

‘I repeat, we’re searching for Rafuel of Sebastabol.’ The voice of the horseman was coarse and ugly and its threat chilled Lucian to the bone.

The man’s hand suddenly snaked out into the crowd and grabbed Kasabian by the neck, shoving him down to his knees, standing behind him with a sword across his throat. Cora cried out.

‘Stay back, Cora. Stay back,’ Kasabian instructed his sister.

Lucian elbowed Aldron, staring at him helplessly. Aldron shook his head bitterly. ’This is not our fight, Lucian,’ he whispered.

‘They’re going to kill an innocent man,’ Lucian said.

‘This is not our fight, I say.’

Rafuel suddenly stumbled to his feet.

‘I’m Rafuel of Sebastabol.’

Yet it wasn’t Rafuel’s voice that rang out, but one from across the stream. Both Aldron and Lucian dragged Rafuel down before he could be seen.

‘No,’ Rafuel whispered in horror. ‘No, Rothen.’

Lucian discovered later that the young man was a scholar from the province of Paladozza. He was of Rafuel’s age with a dark trimmed beard and a shaggy head of dark curls. Lucian had watched him speak to Phaedra this last week. Instead of cowering, she had been animated. It had angered Lucian for some reason. The leader of the horsemen looked back to where Rothen stood with his hand raised. Kasabian was shoved aside as the leader walked back to Rafuel’s seven men and grabbed Rothen, dragging him to the stream, forcing him to his knees.

‘If you are to arrest us for treason,’ they heard another of Rafuel’s men say with great urgency, ‘then you try us in a court of Charyn law, by the seneschal of the Citavita. That’s the law.’

The leader of the horsemen stared back at the speaker. Everyone watched in terrified silence.

‘And who are you?’ the horseman asked, pleasantly.

‘My name is Asher of Nebia,’ the man said, and Lucian could hear the tremble of fear in his voice.

The leader shoved Rothen away and walked towards Asher of Nebia.

Lucian heard Rafuel’s sigh of relief.

‘Smart man, Asher,’ Rafuel whispered.

‘Asher of Nebia,’ the horseman said. ‘My name is Donashe of the Citavita, and let me tell you this, friend. There is no seneschal of the Citavita. The Citavita is dead. The King is dead. So when my men and I came across the King’s riders pledging to pay ten pieces of gold for the body of every traitor responsible, then that’s the only law I care to follow. And if they promised me twice that amount for the head of Rafuel of Sebastabol, then who am I to say no?’

In an instant he grabbed Asher by the hood of his robe and dragged him to the stream amidst the screams and shouts from those around them. With both hands, Donashe of the Citavita forced Asher’s head into the stream while the scholar’s body thrashed violently.

Lucian heard a cry behind him and turned back to the novices and the Mont girls, who were clutching each other in terror.

‘Up the mountain,’ he hissed to them. ‘Now. No horses. Run and don’t let them see you!’

When he turned back, Asher’s body lay still in the stream. Donashe of the Citavita stepped back and held up a finger.

‘One,’ the Charynite announced. ‘According to our source, there are six more led by Rafuel of Sebastabol.’

Rafuel tried to raise himself again, struggling as Aldron pinned him down and Lucian kept a hand to his mouth.

‘You’ll get us all killed,’ Lucian whispered. ‘Our women, too. Is that what you want?’

Only then did Rafuel stop and when both Aldron and Lucian were certain their prisoner would not try to surrender himself again, they let go of their hold and continued their blood-chilling vigil.

Lucian could see Kasabian through the reeds and he knew from the quick flicker of his gaze across the stream, Kasabian could see them. Although not the oldest of the camp dwellers, the man was a quiet leader of sorts and had made a point of becoming acquainted with all the camp dwellers. Lucian’s heart sank. Did the man expect him to act on their behalf or stay hidden?

‘So let me ask again?’ Donashe’s voice rang across the valley camp. ‘Where is Rafuel of Sebastabol?’

‘I am Rafuel of Sebastabol,’ Rothen said. ‘Take me and get your gold. The rest of these men are Priestlings. Not traitors. These people are landless. They care not for the politics of their kingdom. They want a scrap of dirt to call their own!’

Donashe of the Citavita grabbed Rothen’s face and stared at it long and hard. ‘I think you’re lying, friend. You’re not fair enough to be from Sebastabol. I think you’re hiding your leader somewhere in this camp.’

‘There were eight of us,’ Rothen said. ‘One took a dagger to a Lumateran woman’s throat and was banished by the leader of their Monts. His name was Rothen and he’s halfway to Desantos by now.’

Donashe shoved Rothen away and grabbed another one of the men, slight in build and the youngest by far.

‘Faroux of Paladozza,’ Rafuel choked out hoarsely as the Charynite horsemen sliced the lad from ear to ear. ‘Let me stop this, Lucian. Please. I beg of you.’

It took Aldron and Tesadora’s help to hold Rafuel down. For one so slight, he fought like a demon, weeping with silent despair. Lucian had seen his father die before his eyes, but he couldn’t think of anything worse than seeing Finnikin or Froi or his Mont cousins being slaughtered while he stood and did nothing.

Later, when he tried to explain it to his yata, he spoke of the fear he saw in the eyes of those young men who knew that death was upon them. Fighting a battle to the death seemed a natural way for a warrior to die. It was the way Lucian’s own father had died. But waiting for death? Knowing the inevitable? That day innocent men died in front of Lucian’s eyes. They died savagely. Some were cut down with a dagger to the gut, others with a blade to the throat. Each time, Donashe of the Citavita asked for the leader. And each time, Rothen swore he was Rafuel of Sebastabol.’

‘Where is Rafuel of Sebastabol?’ Donashe asked when the sixth man lay dying at his feet. Rothen dropped to his knees, holding his companion in his arms.

‘Forsake me, you bastard gods,’ he prayed, ‘but do not forsake beloved Charyn!’ He was cut down within moments.

Beside Lucian, Rafuel wept quietly. ‘I need to call out their names to the gods. I need to call out their names.’

‘Open your mouth and they will kill you next, fool,’ Lucian said quietly.

Lucian caught Aldron’s eye and he could see the Queen’s guard was shaken by what they had witnessed. Death was death. That it had taken place this close to the Lumateran border would set the kingdom on edge.

‘Rafuel?’ Tesadora whispered. ‘What in the name of Sagrami are they doing?’ Her expression was a mask of horror and sadness. Lucian watched two of Donashe’s men line the seven bodies up across the edge of the stream.

But it was what the other horsemen were doing that sent an icy finger down Lucian’s spine. Screams were heard as the youngest of the women were dragged to where Donashe stood and forced to their knees, side by side. Each girl was searched for the sign on the napes of their necks. The sign of the lastborn, Rafuel explained.

When Donashe failed to find what he was searching for, the girls were pushed away and Lucian heard cries of relief. Until the next girls were pulled from the arms of crying mothers and helpless fathers.

‘They’re searching for lastborn women,’ Rafuel whispered, his voice broken. ‘Which can only mean Quintana of Charyn is dead.’

Tesadora gripped Lucian’s arm. ‘We have to do something.’

Suddenly Rafuel caught his breath, his eyes meeting Lucian’s.

‘What?’ Lucian asked.

‘Phaedra!’ Rafuel whispered hoarsely.

‘She’ll know to keep her head down,’ Lucian said.

‘No, you don’t understand. They’re looking for lastborns, Lucian. Phaedra is the only lastborn in this valley. Most other lastborn girls are in hiding. Their fathers and mothers knew this day of weeping would come.’

Lucian stared across the stream, searching for Phaedra amongst the camp dwellers. ‘Why would Sol of Alonso not have hidden his daughter?’ he asked.

‘He did,’ Rafuel said. ‘He made a pact with an enemy leader eighteen years ago to protect his daughter from this very moment. He sent her to Lumatere.’

Phaedra watched from where she knelt beside Florenza of Nebia. As a lastborn, she had known that this day would come, and had always told herself she’d be brave. Perhaps it was the wish of the gods for Phaedra to be taken by the men of the palace to create the first. But after what she had witnessed this day, Phaedra could not imagine the gods sanctioning such cruelty and horror.

Her only reprieve was that no girl in this valley had the mark of the lastborn. Phaedra had checked them all herself. No girl but her, and here she was on her knees, five women away from whatever it was that Quintana of Charyn had been called on to do for all these years. The last will make the first. What if there was nothing left of the spirit of the last to give to the first?

The men were almost upon her when the leader of the horsemen looked up across the stream. Phaedra could only see Kasabian and Cora from where she knelt and on a day when she didn’t think hope existed, she saw it in their eyes.

‘Introduce yourself, stranger,’ the leader of the horsemen ordered.

‘I’m no stranger,’ her Mont husband said, astride his horse. ‘I’m Lucian of the Monts, the custodian of this valley. State your business here, Charynite.’

She hadn’t realised until that moment that she had always enjoyed the sound of her Mont husband’s voice. It was strong and gruff and it spoke with little nonsense and a good deal of substance.

‘Regardless of whose valley it is, these people are ours and we do as we’re ordered,’ Donashe said.

‘Ordered by who?’ Lucian asked. ‘The palace?’

The man hesitated.

‘State your purpose, Charynite. Is this palace business?’ Lucian demanded, pointing to where Phaedra and the others knelt. ‘Are these girls palace business?’

‘We’re searching for our lastborns –’

‘Lastborns?’

‘We’ve come from the Citavita, friend,’ the man said, trying to keep a civil tone. ‘These are uneasy times in Charyn. We’re collecting any lastborn to ensure their safety.’

Lucian nodded, watching the man closely.

‘Wise of you, Charynite. I would do the same to protect the young women of my kingdom. I invite you to take any lastborn you can find. But you have the wife of a Mont leader, who also happens to be cousin of the Lumateran Queen, there before you.’

Lucian clenched his teeth. ‘On. Her. Knees.’

The Charynite stared at him with disbelief.

‘Your wife?’

Lucian pointed down to where Phaedra knelt.

‘Why would your wife be a Charynite in the valley, Mont?’

Lucian trotted his horse around the horseman to where Phaedra knelt and held out a hand.

‘The first step to peace between Lumatere and the closest province of Charyn was the betrothment of myself and the Provincaro of Alonso’s daughter.’

Phaedra raised herself onto trembling feet.

Donashe stared at them both. ‘Why would you allow your wife out of your sight, Mont?’

Lucian bent and grasped Phaedra’s arm, dragging her onto the horse.

‘She claims the blood of her people in the valley sing to her each day and if I don’t allow her to come down the mountain, then she gives me grief.’ Lucian placed his arms around Phaedra. ‘Let us say that I’m a very indulgent man and my Little Sparrow is most convincing.’

With that, Lucian steered the horse towards the stream.

‘Then we look forward to speaking to your Little Sparrow tomorrow,’ the horseman called out, ‘about the wellbeing of her people.’

Phaedra cried out at the threat in those words. She looked back to where the camp dwellers stood.

‘That was a warning, Luci-en. About what he is going to do to these people.’

‘Not your concern,’ he said.

‘It is my concern,’ she cried. ‘I’m a Provincaro’s daughter. It is our duty that we protect those not born with our privilege.’

They didn’t speak for most of the journey up the mountain, but his grip around her was tight and she felt the tremble in his body.

‘I saw it all,’ he said, as if he could no longer contain it. ‘I saw it all and did nothing.’

What would his father have done?

The first person Lucian could see when he reached his village on the mountain was Rafuel crouched in the dirt with his head in his hands, weeping. The Charynite was surrounded by Tesadora and Aldron and Tesadora’s girls. The Monts who had been there to see the prisoner off were here to see him return. They watched in tense silence.

Lucian could tell they had been told of the day’s events, for they all seemed shaken. He lowered Phaedra to the ground and a moment later Yata was there with a blanket around the girl.

‘I sent one of the lads to the palace,’ Yata said. ‘Let’s hope the Guard will arrive tomorrow with instructions.’

‘What happened, Lucian?’ his cousin Yael asked.

‘Are we at war?’ another called out.

‘I don’t understand,’ Alda said. ‘What are those Charyn riders doing in the valley, Lucian?’

He looked at Rafuel and then Aldron. ‘I think it’s safer for him to be back in the cell.’

Aldron shook his head. ‘He’ll just find a way to smash his head apart against the stone wall.’

No one knew what to say about the Charynite. He was weeping, chanting the names of his lads over and over again.

‘I don’t understand,’ Jory said, staring down at Rafuel. ‘Tell him to stop.’

But Lucian understood. He grabbed Jory and dragged him to the younger lads who followed Jory day in and day out.

‘See these seven, Jory,’ he asked, fury in his voice. ‘Well, imagine you were on one side of the stream hiding, while on the other side of the stream someone slaughtered your lads and cousins, right in front of you. And there was nothing you could do, Jory, because we were holding you down to stop you from being slain yourself.’

Lucian then grabbed Phaedra.

‘Lucian!’ Yata warned.

‘And see this woman, Jory,’ he said, turning Phaedra around gently and revealing the strange lettering on her neck. ‘This woman is just like our queen. Marked as a slave to do things we don’t want to imagine happening to our own.’

Lucian pulled Jory towards Phaedra. ‘Treat her as you would beloved Isaboe, Jory. Follow her everywhere she goes. Down the valley and across the stream. Everywhere. And if any man touches her, Mont or Charynite, you put a sword through his heart. Do you hear me?’

Jory stared at Lucian and then at his father. His father nodded.

‘Take your pardu’s sword,’ Yael said quietly.

Lucian looked around, searching for the older lads.

‘I want one of you in every tree in that valley. Not concealed. I want those animals to see us. I want them to know that if they dare slaughter anyone on our land, they die.’

And then he walked to Rafuel, gripping him by the arm. Lucian pulled him to his feet and took the Charynite to his home.

That’s what Saro of the Monts would have done.

Chapter 27

In a mostly deserted village outside Jidia, Froi broke into a stable. He needed a horse and this dusty village of sunken empty wheel ruts and a wind that cried out its grief seemed his only option. Despite what these people had possibly endured, Froi’s necessity was greater and he felt little remorse at what he was about to take from them. That, in itself, brought him relief. He had become too soft in the palace and needed to find the ruthless warrior inside that Trevanion and Perri marvelled at.

‘You’re probably best not doing that,’ he heard a voice behind him say. Froi hoped the man wasn’t holding a weapon. He was desperate to get home and a man with a gentle voice was going to get in his way.

He turned to see a couple standing at the entrance of the barn. They were perhaps in their middle years, but it was hard to tell. Reed thin from the sorrow of life, they leaned against each other as though nothing else could hold them up but the other.

‘It will get you no further than half a day’s ride away,’ the man continued. ‘He’s an old thing, Acacia is. Belonged to our boy and refuses to die.’

Froi sighed. Why did everyone in Charyn seem to have a story in their eyes? And when had he started caring?

‘Have you come from the Citavita?’ the man asked.

‘No,’ Froi lied. ‘From Alonso.’

Both the man and woman studied him cautiously. ‘We watched you arrive, lad. You came from the south, not the north.’

Don’t let me hurt you, old man. Don’t let me hurt you both.

He knew he could easily fight these people and win. If he wanted the horse, he could take the horse. He had the power, regardless of who owned the stable. Power was everything. Until he realised that law belonged to the street thugs who had brought him up on the streets of Sarnak’s capital. Not Trevanion. Power, the captain had told him, meant nothing whether in someone’s home or their village or their kingdom or their palace. Respect and honour meant everything.

‘Can I beg of you a place to sleep in your stable, then?’ Froi asked. ‘And a plate of food? I’m good for a day’s work and if your second field isn’t weeded soon, you’ll have planted for nothing.’

So Froi worked alongside the man and woman all day. They were a quiet couple and like many of those Froi had met in Charyn, there was a sadness in their whole being that was years in the making. It was in the way they walked and toiled. It was in their silence and it was in their words. They grew barley and broad beans and cabbage. Not to trade, but to survive. The soil was poor from little rain, much the same as the rest of the kingdom outside the walls of the provinces. There was no future for them out here. Froi wondered what had happened to the rest of the villagers. He counted eight cottages in total but could see that it had been quite some time since they were lived in.

The man named Hamlyn asked him about his family, but Froi didn’t respond.

He could have lied to himself and said that he had thought little of Quintana, Lirah, Arjuro and Gargarin these past few days, but he didn’t. He had thought of the four of them every moment. But he was too close to home for regrets and he owed them nothing.

That night he waited on the porch for his food, but none came until Hamlyn stepped outside with an expression of irritation on his face.

‘We are hungry, lad. We can’t wait much longer for you,’ Hamlyn said before disappearing inside.

Froi entered the small cottage and looked around. It was plain and as clean as could be found in a place so dry and dusty. There was one bed at the end of the room. Outside he had noticed the woodfire oven, but inside was a large pot from where Hamlyn’s wife dished out a bowl of barley soup. When Froi saw the plate set for him at their table, he felt shame. Who was he to deserve their hospitality after what he had planned to do? Hamlyn’s wife placed a large chunk of bread at the side of his plate, but none beside hers or Hamlyn’s.

‘Life on a farm is hard enough,’ Froi said after a slurp, dividing his bread into three and placing a piece by both their plates. ‘Why stay here and not inside the walls of Jidia?’

Hamlyn’s wife looked up for a moment and then she went back to her soup.

When neither responded, Froi asked about news from the capital.

‘There’s confusion,’ Hamlyn said. ‘We had visitors ride through here seven days past. Their stories differed. Some claimed that one of the Provincari planned the murder of the King and that Bestiano is our only hope. Another believed it was the hidden Priests who managed to get an assassin inside. One or two of them whispered that Bestiano had killed the King and his riders are occupying the base of the gravina and raising an army from Nebia.’

‘And what are your thoughts?’ Froi asked.

Hamlyn shrugged. ‘We have nothing left of worth for a King’s army,’ he said bitterly.

Later, Hamlyn’s wife gave Froi a blanket and Hamlyn accompanied him to the stable.

‘I found it easy to break inside here,’ Froi said quietly when Hamlyn handed him the lantern. ‘Tomorrow I’ll secure some of these old planks.’

Hamlyn nodded. Froi couldn’t help but notice how large the stable was. How empty it was except for Acacia. Hamlyn caught the question in his eye.

‘I worked with horses,’ he said. He smiled at the memory. ‘Some would say that once I was the best in the outer reaches of the province. In the days before they put the walls around Jidia, men would travel for days to purchase a good horse from me.’

Hamlyn held out a handful of oats to Acacia and Froi watched the old horse nuzzle against its owner.

‘Thirteen years ago, the King’s riders came through this land and they took our horses,’ he said quietly. ‘And they took our sons. They took all the lads. Mine was of your age.’

‘Took him to the palace?’ Froi asked.

‘No,’ Hamlyn said. ‘They needed an army to support the new King of Lumatere.’

Froi fought hard to hide his shock.

‘For ten years we wondered what happened to him inside those walls,’ Hamlyn continued, as though he had waited a lifetime to speak. ‘When the Lumateran curse lifted we waited for him. One or two of our neighbours’ sons returned. The Lumaterans had released them, but the lads came back broken. They had shame in their eyes.’

Froi couldn’t speak. How much despair had this man’s son created in Lumatere? Worse still, had he died at Froi’s hands?

‘And then we began to hear the stories. Of what the Lumaterans claimed our sons did during those ten years.’

Not claims, Froi wanted to shout. What the impostor King’s army did to the Lumaterans was more than claims.

‘It keeps us awake at night,’ Hamlyn said. ‘What did a boy who was brought up with such kindness and love do to those people?’

Froi finally looked at Hamlyn.

‘You thought I was your son returning?’

Hamlyn gave a painful smile. ‘Foolish thoughts. He’d have reached his thirtieth year by now.’ He closed his eyes a moment, as though to recover himself. ‘But I dreamt of him two nights past. And in my dreams he told me a lad would arrive with the words of our gods written all over him.’

Froi flinched to hear Quintana’s words spoken by another.

‘The only thing written over me are my wrongdoings, Hamlyn,’ he said.

Froi tossed and turned half the night, but then he slept and dreamt, and when he woke, he couldn’t remember the dream. He could only remember its force. He convinced himself that he only dreamt because of Hamlyn’s words the night before. But the dream teased him all day, as though it was going to reveal itself any moment. All day he hacked at the earth with frustration alongside Hamlyn and his silent wife, trying to recall even a sliver of what had gone through his mind while he slept.

When Hamlyn’s wife walked towards the well, Hamlyn watched her, wiping the sweat from his brow.

‘It’s her way to be quiet and gentle,’ he said and Froi heard love in the man’s voice. ‘Long ago, she claimed to have lost her purpose.’

‘Because your son was gone?’

Hamlyn shook his head. ’No. Long before that.’ They both watched her lower a pail into the well.

‘Arna was the midwife for all of Jidia, as well as our village.’

A horse handler with no horses and a midwife in a barren kingdom.

‘She can be spirited at times. When she carried our son in her belly, she slept with a dagger, I tell you. A she-wolf, she was. She would have sliced open any man who was a threat to her boy.’

And here in this infertile field with two broken people, Froi remembered his dream.

Hamlyn’s wife, Arna, returned and gave a bowl of water to each of them and Froi drank thirstily.

‘I need to travel to the Citavita,’ he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Not a good idea,’ Hamlyn said.

‘I need to be with my family,’ he said quietly. ‘They are hiding in the caves at the base of the gravina.’

‘Why would they be hiding in the same place as the King’s riders?’ Hamlyn asked.

‘For reasons that could get you killed if you knew the truth.’

The next morning Froi woke to find Hamlyn and his wife standing before him. He had dreamt again. This time it was of Arna, a she-wolf guarding her young. Except the teeth and snarl were those of Quintana. Arna crouched and handed him a pack and he smelt fresh bread and cheese and smoked meats. Hamlyn gave him a map.

‘Have you heard of the stairs to Jidia?’ Hamlyn asked.

‘They say there’s no such thing,’ Froi said.

‘Who says?’ Hamlyn said with a smile.

Froi dressed quickly and placed the food and map in his pack. He looked at Arna, placed his arms around her and she held on tight as though she was holding the son who would never return and he was holding the mother Lirah would never be to him.

‘You’re hiding something, Froi,’ Hamlyn said, handing him a crossbow with the letter J etched into the wood.

‘Everyone is hiding something, Hamlyn,’ Froi said. He shook the man’s hand. It was a Charynite’s gesture. ‘But it’s best you do not know what it is.’

He walked away, but turned back once.

‘What was the name of your son?’ he asked, his finger tracing the groove in the weapon they had given him.

‘John,’ the man said. ‘John, son of Hamlyn and Arna of Charyn.’

Chapter 28

Froi had been on his own now for the better part of the day, travelling through a labyrinth of caves as he followed Hamlyn’s map, which was peppered with a series of twists and turns and strange markings. He marvelled each time he came face to face with a matching symbol carved into a crevice, or the image of a bison scratched onto the ground, its hump pointing him in the direction of the people he needed to be with. Hamlyn had explained that the underground caves were built thousands upon thousands of years ago when those of Sendecane had taken on the worship of the goddess Lagrami. They had been persecuted by their godless king and escaped across two kingdoms to hide in Charyn, preferring to burrow their way into the earth rather than give up their faith. In later years their descendants settled above ground in the kingdoms of Charyn, Lumatere and Sarnak. The rock people of Lumatere were fair in skin and gold of hair, much like Grijio of Paladozza and Hamlyn and Arna of Jidia. Froi had grown up amongst those in the Sarnak capital with the same colouring. Had they come from the same Sendecanese who had hidden in these caves in the past? Was it why Finnikin’s people settled themselves on a rock and not the Flatlands or mountains? He thought of Quintana who looked different from everyone Froi had come across. She was every colour of Charyn stone. Flecks of browns and greys and golds.

Outside the caves and back at the base of the gravina, Froi couldn’t help but marvel at how it had taken him half the time to travel back to where he had begun his journey. He wondered what else the caves could offer those who were desperate not to be found. He waited until early morning to make his way to the others, praying they would still be there. He was more than half a mile upstream and could see only three of Bestiano’s riders. He figured they would have had no clue about where he was this last week. Perhaps they had become lazy. But not too lazy. They wanted Quintana. Bestiano wanted her. She was his only way back into the palace and to power. Bestiano’s capture of the King’s true assassin, the King’s own treacherous daughter, would bring him some kind of credibility amongst some of the Provincari. Despite everything that had taken place between them, Froi was her only chance of survival. If Quintana, Gargarin, Arjuro and Lirah had left the cave or been caught by the riders, Froi would search for them and not return to Lumatere until he knew they were safe.

Later that morning he crept through the entrance of their cave. When he was satisfied that the branches and bracken were back in place, he turned, only to see Lirah wielding Gargarin’s staff at his head. Froi ducked and something flashed in her eyes. Was it relief that he wasn’t a rider? Or relief that he had returned?

‘You got lost, did you?’ she asked coldly.

They stared at each other for a long time and Froi felt the anger return.

‘Not what you wanted, am I, Lirah?’ he spat out. ‘Not what you dreamed of?’

‘I never wanted and I never dreamed,’ she said quietly, taking the pack from his hand. ‘So don’t presume you know what passes through my head.’

She walked away, but turned when he didn’t follow.

‘I think it frightens her more when you’re not around than when you are,’ she said. ‘Come.’

There were no hugs or tears on Froi’s return. Only hostility. Quintana was cold and Arjuro plain grunting rude. Gargarin refused to look at him, his head bent over his wretched sketches of water troughs and whatnot. In the centre of their cave, Froi emptied his pack. He saw their eyes widen when the bread and cheese and bacon appeared before them and wondered how long it had been since they last ate.

‘You think we’ll forgive you, just like that,’ Arjuro said, keeping his distance.

Froi retrieved a bottle of mead from his pack. ‘As I don’t believe I did anything that requires forgiveness, I’ll merely hand this over for you to swill in silence.’

‘You’ve been gone six days,’ Gargarin shouted, finally looking up and throwing his pages across the cave. ‘Six days! We thought you were dead!’

Froi was surprised by his outburst. Lirah merely picked up the scattered papers, shuffling them together. Quintana was staring at the food. She looked pale and drawn, the dark circles under her eyes even more pronounced.

‘Eat,’ Froi ordered. But still she refused to step closer.

‘Who gave you all this?’ Lirah asked, kneeling beside Froi, pages in hand.

‘A couple on a farm beyond the gravina,’ he said, breaking some bread and placing a piece of cheese inside. He held it up to Quintana, who gazed at it hungrily. When she refused to take it, he bit into it, chewed, swallowed and held it out to her again. This time she took it.

‘I tried to steal a horse and they let me stay a night or two.’ He looked at them, nodding. ‘Good, honest people. They treated me like they would a son,’ he added, his tone emphasising the last part.

Arjuro took a swig of the mead, wiping his mouth with satisfaction. ‘Who would have guessed? He’s a needy little thing, isn’t he?’

For a long time there was only the sound of chewing and grunting. Froi watched them all, a strange sort of peace coming over him.

‘I know how to get to Jidia without the riders seeing us.’

Everyone stopped chewing and stared.

‘The steps of Jidia,’ he said.

Gargarin shook his head with disbelief.

‘It’s a myth.’

Froi waved the map in front of his face.

‘Not according to this map. We’re going to have to take a chance and leave here. The cave is half a mile downstream. If we travel in the dark in the early hours of the morning, we should be safe.’

‘I say it’s a mistake,’ Gargarin said. ‘We could be following a trail that does not exist and end up creating a prison for ourselves in those caves. Starving to death at that.’

‘Always the optimist,’ Arjuro muttered.

Later, Froi and the others lay, trying to sleep. All except for Quintana, who still sat upright, fighting to stay awake.

‘I dreamt,’ Quintana said. ‘Two nights past.’

Whilst the others murmured their acknowledgement, as though they had become used to her ramblings, Froi’s heart began to hammer in his chest.

‘I dream between sleep and wakefulness,’ Quintana continued indignantly.

‘I, for one, would like to have the opportunity to sleep now, so I can dream,’ Arjuro said, drowsy from the mead.

Gargarin made a sound in agreement, but Froi kept his eyes on Quintana, the light from the flames making her look ghostly, even fragile.

‘What did you dream about?’ he asked, and he couldn’t keep the gruffness from his voice.

Quintana held up a thumb and two fingers, a question in her eyes. It was the identical gesture Lirah had captured and painted on the wall of her prison all those years ago.

Froi crawled out of his bedroll and picked up Gargarin’s quill and papers. He tried to get closer to her, but she hissed like the cats he had seen on the streets of the Sarnak capital, protecting their litter from the daggers of hungry men.

‘Froi,’ Lirah warned from her bedroll.

Froi began to draw. ‘I dreamt of this,’ he said when he finished the sketch, holding it up. ‘I dreamt …’

He felt his face warming up.

Suddenly the others were wide awake and looking his way.

‘You dreamt what?’ Gargarin asked ‘What have you drawn there?’

Froi held it up over the light of the fire.

‘I dreamt she was drawing these letters on my body,’ he mumbled.

He felt four sets of eyes on him, three sets looking at him questioningly. ‘Didn’t you say nothing intimate took place between you two?’ Gargarin asked, suspiciously.

‘Didn’t say that at all,’ Froi said, on the defensive. ‘What makes you think something did take place between us?’

Arjuro made a rude sound. ‘It’s in your voice, you little snake.’

Lirah was looking at Quintana as suspiciously as Gargarin had looked at Froi. ‘I thought you said he pleaded illness and lack of interest each time,’ she said.

‘Well, he did,’ Quintana said indignantly. ‘But on the final night he was up for swiving and I was reassured once again that the gods had sent him to break the curse.’

‘We don’t use that word, Princess,’ Gargarin said politely.

‘I use it all the time,’ Arjuro said. ‘One of my favourite words, actually.’

Froi didn’t think there’d be any sleep tonight, judging from the idiotic conversation.

‘What made you so sure he was sent to break the curse, Quintana?’ Lirah asked, patiently. ‘Why not the other lastborns?’

‘It’s written all over him. Have I not said that over and over again, Lirah?’ Quintana asked, annoyed.

Froi shuddered. There were too many signs to ignore now. Hamlyn’s dream of his son. Quintana’s strange words. Rafuel’s excitement that day in his prison.

When no one had spoken for a while, he turned to them, giving up the pretence of anyone getting sleep.

‘The man whose farm I worked dreamt that his son warned him about someone coming their way with the words of the gods written all over him.’

Now he truly had everyone’s attention. Gargarin stood and walked to where Lirah was studying Froi’s sketch.

‘What is it?’ Froi asked.

‘You’ve never seen this?’ Lirah asked, surprised.

He shook his head, frightened by their scrutiny. Lirah looked at Quintana. ‘Can we show him?’ she asked with a gruff gentleness.

Quintana studied Froi a moment or two before gathering her hair in her fist and turning to reveal her neck. The sign of the lastborn girls. Identical to the lettering he had sketched on the parchment. In his dream she had painted the strange word on his back with strokes that had made his skin feel alive. He had awoken, aroused. Had some kind of sorcery helped her creep into his dream like Isaboe was able to do with Vestie of the Flatlands?

‘What does it mean?’ Froi asked, his throat feeling as if he had swallowed sand.

Gargarin was studying his face. ‘It means that perhaps something good came out of Abroi after all,’ he said quietly.

Froi was shaken awake. In an instant, his hand snaked out and caught the throat of whoever loomed over him. When he saw Gargarin’s pale face, he let go, shoving him away. ‘I could have killed you, idiot!’

‘What is it?’ Arjuro murmured from his bedroll.

‘Come with me,’ Gargarin said. ‘Both of you.’

Froi looked over to where Quintana sat watching them, the lids of her eyes heavy with fatigue.

Gargarin led Froi and Arjuro to the small entrance and began to crawl through the tunnel into the first cave. They followed him out into the dark.

‘The sun is about to rise,’ Gargarin whispered. ‘Humour me. Please.’

Gargarin’s eyes flashed with a fervour that Froi hadn’t seen in them before. There was too much strangeness in the air and he wanted to run from it all. He wanted to follow bonds and plough land. Not believe in a grieving father’s dream and a mad girl’s ranting.

‘Those who are gods’ blessed can read the words of the gods when the sun appears.’ Gargarin said. ‘It’s why Arjuro wakes early and why he sat on the godshouse balcony each morning. He was waiting for a sign to appear on the palace walls.’

Arjuro looked away, a bitter expression on his face.

‘But perhaps you’ve been looking in the wrong place, Arjuro. On the night Froi was left with them, the Priests of Trist dreamt that the words of a prophecy would appear in the palace. True? I never believed that. I thought they’d appear in any one of the thousands of caves in Charyn and when I was released, I searched for years and years.’

Arjuro’s eyes finally met his brother’s.

‘You should have gone to Paladozza,’ he said sadly. ‘At least De Lancey would have given you an easy life.’

‘Some men aren’t born for an easy life, Arjuro. And I’m not out here for regrets and what-ifs.’

‘Then what are we doing out here?’ Arjuro asked.

‘Remember the readings of Carapasio?’

‘Who?’ Froi asked.

‘A first-century gossip,’ Arjuro said. ‘He bored us to death with his ramblings about life a thousand years ago. I had to read them as part of my godshouse education when I was sixteen.’

‘He means I read them for him and recited them to the Priests who thought I was Arjuro,’ Gargarin said.

Arjuro looked sheepish. ‘But I did end up reading them later.’

‘Where were the words of the gods first written in Charyn?’ Gargarin asked his brother.

Arjuro was confused for a moment. ‘Why do you ask –’

Arjuro stopped, some kind of realisation on his face.

‘What?’ Froi asked, now looking from Arjuro to Gargarin. ‘Can one of you explain instead of doing that frightening nodding thing where you look too alike?’

‘The gods wrote their words on the body of the first Oracle. She had pitched her tent, drawing crowds from all over the Citavita with her ability to foretell the future. She had no past and no name, but written all over her were the names of provinces and the rules for living and dying. It’s how they find the Oracle each generation. An Oracle dies and soon after a young girl arrives on the doorstep of the godshouse after travelling for days and weeks. No family. No past. Sent by the gods, they say. Except for these last eighteen years.’

‘And you believe that?’ Froi asked.

‘Get undressed, Froi,’ Gargarin said.

‘No!’ he said, horrified. It was freezing and if the riders came across them, he’d be unarmed.

The sun began to appear in the sky and Gargarin clicked his fingers, impatiently. Froi grunted, annoyed.

‘Trust me,’ Gargarin hissed.

Froi removed his clothing, grumbling.

‘Be careful,’ Gargarin said and Froi realised he was speaking to Arjuro. ‘Don’t look straight away, Ari. Remember what it would do to your eyes when we were children.’

Froi had no idea what he was speaking about. He tried to twist his body so he could look over his shoulder to his back. But he saw nothing.

‘What’s there?’ Froi asked, half-believing that perhaps words would magically appear. Gargarin forced him still, cold hands on his shoulders. Froi waited, felt the moment the sun entered the cave, welcomed the way the light crept in, caressed his arm, his shoulder and then all over his body. And still he waited, wanting to believe, not realising how desperate he was to.

Then he heard the sound. Of pure unadulterated pain. Froi swung around and Arjuro was bent over, palms to his eyes, writhing in agony. Gargarin was beside him in an instant, but Arjuro pushed him away.

‘I can do it. I can do it.’

‘What’s happened?’ Froi asked.

‘Turn. Turn,’ Arjuro whispered hoarsely, his eyes weeping blood. Froi shook his head again.

‘Turn, I say.’

Froi swung around, his heart hammering, sweat pouring from a body that seemed on fire and still he heard the gasps coming from Arjuro.

‘He’s in pain,’ Froi argued. ‘This isn’t right.’

‘If I speak it aloud, are you still able to write it down?’ Arjuro asked Gargarin, his voice broken.

Gargarin was staring at Froi, stunned. It was as though he was seeing him for the first time. ‘Stay still,’ Gargarin said, almost reverently. ‘Speak it, Arjuro. We will decipher it together later.’

Arjuro spoke and Froi heard words from a strange tongue. Not of Sarnak or Lumatere or Charyn. A tongue, not quite human, spoken from a voice so torn that it made him sick to think of the pain. Gargarin scribbled down his words with twisted fingers, sometimes asking Arjuro to repeat a word.

When Arjuro was finished, Froi dressed quickly while Gargarin pulled Arjuro to his feet, trying to hold his brother up with his own feeble body. Froi pushed him gently out of the way, placing Arjuro’s arm around his shoulder.

A startled Lirah was on her feet the moment they entered their nook.

‘What happened?’ she asked, helping Froi lay Arjuro down. His eyes were red raw and still weeping blood.

Gargarin tipped the mead into the cloth of his shirt and wiped Arjuro’s face clean and Froi saw tears in the Priestling’s eyes.

‘I thought they had forsaken me,’ Arjuro whispered.

And Froi could see that Arjuro was crying with joy.

For the next two days Gargarin and Arjuro sat with their heads together, scribbling, arguing, writing. Froi was used to their silence together, but not this. There were times when he saw the power of the brothers combined and understood what it was that made them so desired in the godshouse and the palace. He came to understand the difference between the gods’ blessed and a smart man. His uncle was one. His father the other.

Later that night, Gargarin shook him awake. ‘We’ve got to remove her from danger,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t know what she is … what you both are, but if I’m going to believe anything in this damned life of mine, it’s that the gods sent you to cure this wretched kingdom.’

Froi sat up and retrieved the map from his pack.

‘Then we do this my way,’ he said. ‘We take the steps to Jidia.’

Early the next morning, before the sun rose, they left their hiding place and travelled upstream to the cave that would lead them to Jidia. As they passed the camp of riders, Froi could see two on guard. He made a signal towards the others and they stayed low behind two fallen logs while Froi stealthily climbed the closest tree. Once up high, he shot three bolts from the crossbow into undergrowth on the other side of the stream. Alerted to the sound, the two riders made their way across the water. The moment the men were out of sight, Froi leapt down and led the others away.

Inside the caves, they travelled for most of the day, Froi forced to stop time and time again, searching for the next instruction on the map. When he stopped for the umpteenth time, Arjuro took the map from his hands and studied it a moment before handing it back and leading the way. At first Froi was irritated. There were no secret symbols or ancient words that needed to be deciphered. But then he realised Arjuro had an extraordinary ability to recall what he had studied only once. The Priestling never looked at the map again.

‘Don’t ask me to explain it,’ Gargarin said quietly. The cave had narrowed and they were now walking one behind the other.

‘Perhaps it comes with being gods’ blessed,’ Gargarin said. ‘When we were younger, he could read a book and memorise every page, regardless of its size.’

‘Then why did you sit for Arjuro’s exam when he would have had a better chance of remembering every detail?’ Froi asked.

‘The gods’ blessed might have genius,’ Gargarin said, ‘but that doesn’t stop them from being lazy.’

In front of him, Quintana stumbled. With no sleep, little food and fatigue beyond anything he had seen in her yet, she had trudged most of the day.

‘Not long now,’ Lirah reassured, despite the fact they had no idea how long it would be.

‘I can carry you,’ Froi said quietly.

He heard a low growl come from Quintana.

‘I think that means no,’ Arjuro said.

There were one thousand, three hundred and twenty-three steps to Jidia. They were narrow and steep with nothing but dents in the stone, moulded by shoulders pressed into the smothering walls over thousands of years. Arjuro’s oil lamp extinguished and it was pure darkness, the type of darkness to conjure up evil. On the steps of Jidia, there was no place to rest. No space above their heads. No room for one foot to stand alongside another. No end in sight. Three years training to be the most powerful warrior in the kingdom and nothing had prepared Froi for this.

But it was Arjuro who stopped, trapping all of them behind him. His breath was ragged. Not the sound of weariness, but of being choked of air, because hideous memories could swallow a man whole. And suddenly Froi was trapped someplace else. In a past so painful. A hand pressing his head down into the folds of a filthy straw mattress. He wanted to fight whoever it was. Had always tried, but he wasn’t strong enough. Because he’s just a boy and he’s so small and when he grows up he’ll learn how to fight and he’ll learn how to kill, but for now he just wants to breathe!

‘Blessed Arjuro, I’m very tired,’ Quintana said indignantly, with only the sound of their ragged gasps surrounding them. Froi thought he would beat the others out of the way, if only he could move and breathe. So he counted in every language he knew, took gulps of air that was still and stale, attempted everything he could to crush the thoughts that ran through his head. That he would die on these steps. He’d die, because he was weak and pathetic and too scrawny to protect anyone, let alone himself. He was nothing.

‘Arjuro!’

Lirah’s voice was loud and firm. On Froi’s shoulder, he felt a gentle hand. Gargarin’s. As though he knew that it was not only Arjuro who was suffering in this darkness.

‘You’re not there, Arjuro,’ Lirah said. ‘You’re here. Where he can’t hurt you. You’re safe!’

And all Froi could feel was Gargarin’s hand and all he could hear was Arjuro’s breath begin to even and all he could see was Lirah two steps before him. Lirah who knew Gargarin’s worst nightmares and in knowing his, she knew Arjuro’s.

You’re not there, Froi. You’re here. You’re safe.

And they continued to climb.

The steps to Jidia didn’t quite lead to Jidia. They led to another cave where they chose to rest for the night. Gargarin lay out the last of the twigs and reeds and they huddled around the meagre fire, sharing what was left of their bread crust and cheese rind. It was some time before anyone spoke.

Later, Gargarin and Arjuro sat apart from the others, deciphering the words from the gods. Gargarin would show Arjuro the parchment and most times Arjuro would disagree.

‘I think that’s the language of the godshouse of Ariadinay and this comes from the godshouse of Trist,’ Arjuro said, pointing to the words. ‘Different gods trying to break the curse.’

Quintana would look up from where her head lay on Lirah’s lap. Tonight she was pure Aunt Mawfa. Froi could have sworn he saw her place the back of her hand across her brow.

‘Why don’t they just ask me, Lirah?’ she asked. ‘I can tell them what it says.’

‘Because they’re idiots,’ Lirah replied.

Arjuro scribbled down more words and showed Gargarin, who shook his head. They had been secretive in their work and Froi knew they would reveal little until they were confident.

‘You’re wrong,’ Gargarin said.

Froi sighed. It meant another exchange. The last had almost resulted in a slapping sort of fight over parchment and quill that was horrifying. Froi tried not to imagine the humiliation of Trevanion and Perri witnessing it.

‘Who’s gods’ blessed,’ Arjuro snapped. ‘You or I?’

‘Oh, that is stooping low,’ Gargarin retorted. ‘Being able to read the words written by the gods themselves means nothing if you haven’t studied the different interpretations. If you hadn’t wasted most of your youth inhaling the reed of retribution and swiving De Lancey, you’d probably know a thing or two today.’

‘I’m quite intrigued by the reed of retribution,’ Froi murmured from his bedroll.

‘It made them both stupid,’ Lirah said. ‘They loved nothing more than stripping naked and reciting very bad poetry with an adoring De Lancey watching on.’

Arjuro and Gargarin exchanged stares of such incredulity that it almost had Froi laughing. Even Quintana lifted herself to see their reaction.

‘Artesimist? Bad poetry?’ Arjuro asked.

‘You’re a disgrace to Serker, Lirah,’ Gargarin muttered. ‘Artesimist was the greatest poet of all time.’

It was hours later that Froi sensed they were finished. It was in their hushed whispering and stolen glances at Quintana. Their expressions were slightly manic and strangely euphoric, despite the day’s harrowing journey.

Quintana watched them watch her and all three waited for another to speak.

‘What is it you want to know?’ she finally asked.

‘What you saw written?’

‘On the assassin?’ she asked.

Gargarin glanced over to Froi, a ghost of a smile on his face. Froi bit back his anger.

‘You’ve worked it all out?’ she asked.

Gargarin nodded. ‘Well, not just me, of course. Arjuro helped.’

‘Then why do you ask what I see written on the assassin’s back when Arjuro has witnessed the words himself?’

Gargarin was silent.

‘Ah,’ she said nodding, ‘You’re testing me. You want to hear it from me first, in case you think I’m influenced by your words.’

‘Perhaps we’re testing ourselves,’ Arjuro said. Even after a day or two, his eyes were bloodshot and swollen from having read the words of the gods in their purest form.

Quintana tilted her head, studying Arjuro’s face.

‘It doesn’t hurt so much to read if you go like this,’ she explained, squinting fiercely. Froi heard Arjuro chuckle.

‘Wish I had been told that long ago,’ he said.

This time it was Quintana who was silent.

‘What did you see written, Princess?’ Gargarin asked again.

She looked up at Lirah who nodded with encouragement.

‘The one who reigns must die,

At the hands of she born last,

And the last will make the first,

When the bastard twins are one,

And blessed be the newborn King,

For Charyn will be barren no more.’

Arjuro and Gargarin let out ragged breaths in unison. Gargarin placed his head in his hands.

‘I didn’t know you were bastard twins,’ Froi said, confused.

‘We’re not,’ Arjuro said. ‘You are.’

‘What?’ Froi was on his feet, staring at Quintana, horrified. ‘We’re twins?’

‘Calm yourself,’ Arjuro said condescendingly. ‘The Princess is the bastard child of the Oracle and the King. You’re the bastard child of these two. Born almost at the same moment in the same palace.’

Froi was still confused. ‘I don’t understand what it means by “when the bastard twins are one”.’

‘And if you don’t understand it, fool, I’m not explaining it to you,’ Arjuro said.

‘Joined,’ Gargarin explained instead. ‘Joined,’ he added, for emphasis.

‘Oh,’ Froi said, his face flaming again. ‘You mean when we …’

‘Swived,’ Quintana said. ‘I do remember the exact moment when we became one because I –’

‘No need for detail, Quintana,’ Lirah said. ‘Remember what I told you. If you talk of such things, you’ll only be judged by strangers.’

The atmosphere in the cave changed the moment Quintana did. Her stare towards Lirah was bitter. Froi could see the others were uncomfortable with this Quintana. They liked the indignant Princess and she knew it.

‘We’re judged by strangers now, Lirah,’ Quintana said coldly.

Arjuro moved closer to her. ‘May I?’ he asked. She nodded and he sat before her. ‘Do you know where she is?’ he asked quietly.

He was speaking of his beloved Oracle.

‘When I was a child I told Lirah that I knew a way to see my mother and for Lirah to see her beloved boy waiting for us in the lake of the half-dead. So I ordered Lirah to cut our wrists in the tub.’

‘Gods,’ Gargarin muttered. Lirah looked away, the memory so painful.

‘But Lirah saw nothing and came back half-mad, so they placed her in the tower.’

‘And you?’ Arjuro asked, hopeful. ‘You saw the Oracle?’

Quintana looked up at him and shook her head.

‘No. She never reached the other side. Sir Gargarin told us that he didn’t know her name, so how could she find her way?’

Her eyes stayed on Arjuro. ‘But we sensed a part of her across the gravina, blessed Arjuro.’

‘Is that why you wanted to throw yourself in?’ Arjuro asked. ‘So you could be with her?’

‘Throw ourselves in?’ she asked, astonished. ‘Why would you think such a thing? We wanted to enter the godshouse. We sensed our mother’s happiness there. Her scent. Her voice. It’s where she dreamt and those dreams still hovered in the air. We tried over and over again to speak to you about allowing us in, but you didn’t seem to hear us. Sometimes, we’d try to get as close as possible to the godshouse across the gravina, but we were afraid to leap.’

Arjuro looked down, shamed.

‘But when I visited the lake of the half-dead that time with Lirah, we did return with a spirit. I didn’t realise who that was until you told us the story of our day of weeping, Sir Gargarin.’

She didn’t speak and they all waited, desperate for more answers.

‘Princess?’ Gargarin prodded, gently.

Froi recognised it clearly. There was talk in her head. He recognised it in the way her face twitched and flinched. She mouthed words, but they heard nothing.

Lirah reached out a hand to touch Quintana’s mouth.

‘Don’t let this kingdom turn you into a voiceless fool, brave girl,’ she said. ‘Speak.’

Quintana’s eyes refused to meet any of theirs. Was it her madness that she was trying to conceal?

‘One of us returned,’ she whispered, ‘with the spirit of the sister who died.’

Froi saw his own confusion reflected on Gargarin and Lirah’s face. But not Arjuro’s.

‘Which of you is Quintana and which one is the sister?’ the Priestling asked.

She shook her head.

‘I don’t know any more,’ she said. ‘I don’t know who I am without her and she doesn’t know who she is without me. We don’t know who came first. All we know is that we share … we share …’ She leaned forward to whisper. ‘We share the one who may have cursed the kingdom. Lirah says they called us the little savage in the years before she drowned us and that everyone approved of who came back from the dead, because we were tamed.’

Arjuro was entranced with the story. ‘Go on,’ he said, with a reverence Froi had never imagined he would possess for anyone, let alone the daughter of a hated King.

Quintana thought for a moment. ‘We came back with the words I wrote on the chamber wall. That the last will make the first. And I waited all these years for the one to plant the seed and sire the cursebreaker and future king.’ Her eyes met Froi’s over Arjuro’s shoulder. ‘He arrived in the form of an assassin from an enemy kingdom. When I woke up that next morning after he had planted the seed, I knew that the King had to die.’

Let her be a madwoman, Froi prayed. Let her be mad.

‘Do you honestly think that I would bring a child into that palace after everything my father allowed to happen to me?’

‘Smart girl, my love,’ Lirah said.

‘I tried to tell the street lords in the Citavita that day of the hanging. But no one would believe me. Except for Tariq and the people of Lascow. It was his idea that we wed. He said it would protect my son’s right to the throne even more.’

She looked up at Gargarin. ‘I’m the Queen of Charyn, Sir. A powerless Queen except for what I carry in my belly. In less than seven months time I’ll give birth to the little King. Tariq said you, Sir, are to be my son’s First Advisor. Until then, he’s mine to protect and whatever part I took in cursing Charyn at my birth will not compare to what I’ll do if anyone attempts to destroy me before then.’

She directed those words at Froi with venomous certainty.

He couldn’t think and he needed to count because Froi’s bond to Lumatere was that he’d destroy anything that was a threat to his kingdom. She was a threat. The child she carried was a threat. His child. His seed.

In an instant, he shoved the others aside and was there before her, dagger in hand.

‘Use it!’ he hissed, grabbing her hand and closing it around the handle of the dagger. He pressed the blade against his throat. ‘If I’m a threat, use it the way I taught you.’

‘Froi?’ Gargarin barked. Lirah and Arjuro tried to drag him away, but he shoved free of them, a wild animal.

‘Do it,’ he whispered hoarsely, his face close to Quintana’s. ‘Do it if you fear me!’

She bared her teeth, pressing the blade against his throat, a flicker of victory in her eyes.

‘Froi! Enough,’ Lirah cried. ’She’ll do it. You know she will.’

Both Froi and Quintana pressed harder until he felt the skin tear, the blood trickle. ‘Do it!’

At that moment, she looked so destroyed that Froi wanted to put her out of her misery and slice his own throat. He had done this to her.

She broke, dropped the dagger and pushed him with all her might but Froi held her as she struggled against him, a wild cat in his arms, her hoarse screams muffled against him. He kept his arms trapped around her, his mouth to her ear.

‘You will not fear me,’ he said, speaking his bond to her. It was the only bond that would count from now on. ‘If I tell you to run, you run. If I tell you to hide, you hide. If I tell you to kill, you kill.’

And then the fight left Quintana and Froi carried her to his bedroll near the fire where they wrapped her in blankets, all of them, with hands that trembled with truth.

The last will make the first.

Froi lay against her and Quintana’s body heaved with fatigue and fear and a desperate need to protect what lay inside of her. She was Hamlyn’s wife Arna, a she-wolf who wanted to protect her babe. His arms were a band around her as she faced away from him, but after a while he heard the evenness of her breathing and prayed she slept. Instead, she reached behind and took his hand, holding it up to the dwindling light of the fire, playing with his fingers. On the wall he saw the shape of a rabbit and he pressed his chin against her shoulder as they watched their fingers dance across the contours of the cave.

And for hours and hours she slept, but no one else could. After so many years of living in a barren kingdom, they could hardly comprehend what this news would bring. Every sound seemed a threat to Quintana. A threat to Charyn.

‘Everything changes,’ Gargarin said quietly. ‘Everything.’

And when she woke more than a day later, the crazed stare of sleeplessness removed from her eyes, Froi watched her. Waited to see who they would be facing. But the eyes weren’t cold and they weren’t savage, so he sighed with relief.

‘You call me Froi. Not assassin. Do you hear?’

She nodded.

‘You may call me Quintana.’

Chapter 29

The province of Jidia was situated above a deep underground spring with waters said to be warmed by the breath of the sun god thousands of years ago. The spring drew those from all corners of Charyn for the cures it promised and the cleansing it provided. The province also boasted the most amount of rainfall with fields rich and fertile. Protected by a high stone wall, it had thwarted most attempts by the palace over the centuries to become the kingdom’s capital.

‘Arjuro spent a year here studying the water’s healing power,’ Gargarin said as they approached the two guards at the province gates.

It was always Gargarin who spoke of Arjuro’s gifts as a physician and healer, while Arjuro made rude sounds.

‘No interest to me these days,’ the Priestling muttered.

‘Then why did you grow your herbs and plants on the godshouse roof?’ Lirah asked, tartly.

‘And save the seedlings?’ Froi added, remembering their last days in the Citavita when they had retrieved plant roots and seeds that Arjuro later hid in a cavern at the base of the godshouse.

Arjuro muttered some more. These past days of travel through the caves, Froi had begun to notice that Arjuro’s hands shook at times. Some days he was so bad-tempered it was unbearable. Gargarin usually bore the brunt of his anger and made things worse by being oblivious to Arjuro’s moods. Froi knew the Priestling craved the brew that had been a companion to him all these years. He had seen how vicious a man could become without it.

Their plan for Jidia was simple. Too simple, in Froi’s eyes. Gargarin would ask for an audience with the Provincara Orlanda and request province protection on the Queen’s behalf. Despite its simplicity, Froi did not protest. They were all looking forward to sleeping in proper cots and filling their bellies with whatever the province had to offer.

‘The Provincara’s kitchen speciality is a lamb stew that is second to none,’ Gargarin said.

‘And if she refuses to see us?’ Lirah asked.

‘The Provincara will see us for certain, Lirah,’ Quintana said. ‘She fawned all over Sir Gargarin in the palace.’

‘She fawned all over Bestiano equally and most probably succeeded in finding a place in his bed that night, so caution is required,’ Gargarin said in his usual practical tone.

‘Fawned?’ Arjuro asked.

‘Like this, Brother Arjuro,’ Quintana said, pressing her chest against him. Through her perfect mimicry, she reminded Froi exactly of the Provincara. She was back to being the Princess Indignant. A relief after days with the cold Quintana who, despite their truce, couldn’t resist a snarl or two any time he came near. He had refused to sleep anywhere but by her side, dagger in his hand at all times. Most nights he wanted to reach out and touch her, wanted to speak the words that no one had dared to speak. That what grew inside of her belonged to him. He had no idea what that meant. All he knew was that he would kill to protect Quintana and she would kill to protect the child.

At the gates, two guards asked for their papers.

‘We’ve come from the Citavita. Not much time to collect things like that,’ Gargarin said. ‘We’ll be waiting at the godshouse baths. Could you send a message to the Provincara to find us there? Tell her it’s Gargarin of Abroi who asks.’

The guard shook his head. ‘The Provincara is a busy woman,’ he said, dismissively. ‘And you don’t enter without papers.’

The second guard approached and whispered into the first man’s ear. Both looked at Quintana, who stared back at them. Froi stiffened, stepped beside her. He didn’t want to imagine what would happen if Quintana began to make savage mewing sounds when the guard or any other stepped too close. Both guards studied Froi and he unclenched the fist at his side. Gargarin’s instruction had been to keep out of trouble’s way and not draw attention. The second guard continued to stare, but then he nodded.

‘The godshouse baths,’ the man acknowledged. ‘The Provincara will send for you there.’

At first Froi thought Gargarin had made a mistake and led them into the Provincara’s compound and not a godshouse. He had never seen a more opulent place of worship. His experience had been Arjuro’s home or the Priestking’s cottage. But here in Jidia, the godshouse was almost the size of a Flatland village. Outside there were gardens, olive groves, and an amphitheatre that could easily seat thousands. Inside there were steam rooms and baths and chambers with private altars where wealthy Jidians would make sacrifices to the Goddess of the elements. In Lumatere sacrifices to the Goddess were never of animal flesh and blood, but here in Charyn, flames and animal flesh were the perfect beacon for the gods. It was why they burnt their dead and refused to bury them in the ground. So the gods could follow the light and song to take a spirit home.

In the foyer, minstrels played while attendants rushed around with linens and floral-scented soap, serving teas and sweet cakes. In the alcoves, Froi could see lively discussions between patrons while others played board games or disappeared into the rooms that housed the sacred baths.

In one of the nooks where they waited for the Provincara to make her appearance, Gargarin spoke about the springs. Froi pretended not to listen and Quintana walked away to look in the different rooms. Lirah listened, though. Froi thought of her prison with its books and her drawings. Who would Lirah have been if they hadn’t sold her to the palace at the age of thirteen? Perhaps not a rich man’s wife, but certainly the wife of a smart man. Gargarin sketched her a diagram, his twisted hands precise, and Froi had his first glimpse of how things would have been between the two of them. Lirah liked facts and Gargarin enjoyed explaining them. For this time alone they seemed to forget their troubled history. Despite his pretence, Froi learnt how rainwater fell on the hills outside the province walls hundreds of years ago.

‘It seeped through the stone thousands of feet beneath us where natural heat raised the temperature and the heated water rose to the surface crevices and cracks, and then up through the stone,’ Gargarin explained. Any talk of water excited Gargarin.

‘De Lancey brought me here when I was released from the Citavita,’ he continued. ‘Soaking in that water, it was as though I died and went to the heavens.’

‘Did he make believe you were me?’ Arjuro sneered.

There was a strained silence.

‘You’re speaking out of line, brother,’ Gargarin warned quietly.

‘Are we not copies of each other? It would matter little to those who take us as lovers.’

‘It would have mattered to me,’ Lirah said. Any truce between the two had disappeared during Arjuro’s mood of the last days.

‘I wouldn’t have thought any lover in your bed made a difference to you, Lirah.’

Lirah stared at him with hatred in her eyes. ‘Not my bed. Never my bed. I don’t own one, Priestling. I’ve not owned one all my life.’

‘You would never have told us apart in those days, I tell you,’ Arjuro said. ‘You could have shared my bed and not known the difference, Lirah.’

‘Enough,’ Gargarin said and Froi saw fury. ‘We no longer live in those days. You and I don’t have the same bruises and broken bones, Arjuro. They are all mine.’

There was much left unsaid in Gargarin’s words. All mine but meant for you, Froi imagined him saying.

Arjuro walked towards one of the smaller shrine rooms.

‘You cannot present yourself to the gods in that state with such a stench,’ Gargarin called out after him.

Arjuro dismissed him with a wave of his hand. ‘No soak can cleanse the filth from our hearts and minds, can it, Gargarin?’

There were no more lessons after that. Just a strained silence until a godshouse guardian approached and led Quintana and Lirah to the women’s baths and Gargarin and Froi to those of the men. Froi was cautious. Quintana hadn’t been out of his sight since his return to the caves and he trusted her with no one. More than anything, the godshouse guardians seemed more like the Provincara’s Guard.

‘She’ll be safe enough,’ Gargarin said. ‘It’s a sacred place and if there is one thing the Jidians won’t do it’s sacrifice the peace they have enjoyed here for centuries.’

Froi paid his coin and followed Gargarin into the bath house. It was hazy with steam, its walls carpeted with moss and ferns. Gargarin stepped into the hot water and Froi followed, shocked at the state of Gargarin’s body, his rib cage and shoulderblades protruding. Faded bruises from his beating at the hands of the street lords adorned his back and chest. Froi saw the strange twist in his arm where two bones had poorly mended years before.

Settling beside him, Froi couldn’t help comparing himself to this man who was his father. Even in good health there would have been little resemblance between them.

‘Those from Serker resembled bull terriers,’ Gargarin said, turning to Froi as if he could read his mind.

Froi looked away. ‘How come Lirah doesn’t?’

‘Because when the gods made Lirah, they broke the mould.’

Gargarin closed his eyes, surrendering to the water.

‘If the water is so comforting, why not settle in Jidia?’ Froi asked.

Gargarin opened one eye. ‘Orlanda likes to own those who answer to her, body and soul. It would tire me out.’

Froi found himself grinning and Gargarin flinched. Could Froi not even own his gestures without reminding the brothers of their barbaric father?

Suddenly there was a shout and a commotion and a scream or two. Gargarin and Froi exchanged a look.

‘You don’t think –’

‘Whore!’

Froi quickly clambered out of the water and grabbed a cloth from an attendant, wrapping it around his waist before slipping and sliding across the wet floor towards the female bath house. Screams of outrage accompanied his entry and he stepped back outside, waiting. By the time Gargarin caught up, trying to secure his cloth, Lirah was being dragged out by a guard with Quintana in tow. Both were still fully dressed. Behind them, Froi recognised the Provincara Orlanda hissing with fury and being fussed over by her attendants. When she saw Gargarin she instantly regained her composure.

‘Gargarin, dear friend,’ she managed to say through gritted teeth.

‘Orlanda.’ Gargarin stared from Lirah to Quintana. ‘Has there been an issue?’

‘There’s been issue indeed,’ Orlanda seethed. ‘Follow.’

Lirah shrugged free of the guard viciously and they followed the Provincara and Gargarin to a small private praying room.

The Provincara dismissed her guard and attendant and closed the door behind them.

‘There is a stable beside the inn, close to the wall gates. You would have passed it on your way here. It’s where you are to shelter for the night.’

‘A stable?’ Gargarin questioned. ‘Orlanda, I’m travelling with Quintana of Charyn.’

‘And why would I not know that?’ she continued, almost spitting out the words. ‘I will not have her sanctioned by my house.’

Arjuro was shoved into the room by another set of attendants, cursing at the top of his voice.

‘We warned her, Sir Gargarin,’ Quintana said. ‘Twice. Three times.’

Orlanda stared at Quintana with contempt. She pointed to a doorway behind the altar. ‘That will lead you to the town square. Make sure you’re discreet and travel straight to the stable. In my own time I will call for you.’

The Provincara walked out.

‘Dressed like this?’ Froi called out, looking down at his cloth. ‘I want my weapons!’

Moments later, unfamiliar clothing was thrown into the room.

‘Why would we want to draw attention to ourselves?’ Gargarin demanded of Lirah. ‘What happened to being discreet?’

‘It was the Provincara, Sir Gargarin,’ Quintana said, turning the other way as the men dressed. Froi waited for Lirah to turn. He wasn’t usually so bashful about presenting a bare body to the world, but this was Lirah. She humoured him and looked away while Quintana continued to explain.

‘She took us to a private room and said she wanted us gone from her sight. “From my province,” ’ she shrilled, mimicking the Provincara’s outrage.

Froi pulled on a pair of trousers that were small and uncomfortable. He would need to return later to retrieve all their goods.

‘I tried to be very polite, Sir, but the moment I stepped forward she pushed me away and spoke words that we won’t repeat, will we, Lirah?’

Lirah repeated the words all the same. Even Arjuro flinched.

Gargarin ushered them all towards the doorway that would take them through a passage to the town square. ‘And I warned her, Sir. Three times I warned her, not to press such a fist against me as she shoved.’

‘And?’ Gargarin asked, leading them through the darkness.

‘Well, I didn’t have a choice but to try and choke the life from her,’ Quintana explained. ‘Three times I warned her.’

Froi was furious. ‘Are you both fools?’

‘I’m going to have to agree,’ Gargarin seethed. ‘Fools.’

‘Three warnings?’ Froi asked with disbelief. ‘Three? There are to be no warnings. If someone touches you again, Quintana, you grab the first thing you can and hurl it at them.’

‘No. Not exactly what I would suggest,’ Gargarin said. ‘It would help if this kingdom didn’t see us as a family of savages.’

There was silence after that. It was too strange a word for Gargarin to use. Family.

It was after midnight that they heard a sound outside the stable door. Froi retrieved his sword and wordlessly instructed the others to stand back.

‘Gargarin,’ he heard a female voice whisper. Froi looked at Gargarin, who nodded.

‘Orlanda?’

The door was pushed open and the Provincara entered. Beside her were two guards, their eyes searching the room before she ushered them out and shut the door.

‘Orlanda, you cannot keep the Queen of Charyn in a stable outside the protection of your home,’ Gargarin said.

‘She fancies herself as the Queen now, does she?’ Orlanda said. ‘First the Princess, then the Reginita, and now she’s the Queen.’

‘She was wed to the heir Tariq before Bestiano’s men slaughtered him and his entire compound.’

Orlanda stared at Quintana. ‘Why would that fool boy do such a thing?’ she asked, not questioning Gargarin’s belief that it was Bestiano’s men.

‘Because in Tariq’s eyes it was the only way to protect Quintana. And her child.’

The truth was certainly the last thing Froi expected to hear from Gargarin.

The Provincara’s laugh was bitter and furious. ‘Gargarin. I’ve never taken you for a fool. Are we still to believe this lying spawn of a whore?’

Froi watched Gargarin’s face, but there was no reaction to the slur towards Lirah or her description of Quintana. Froi hated his weakness. Trevanion would have smashed a man in the face for such words. Perri would have had him limping.

‘Then don’t take me for a fool, Orlanda. Take me for the smart man you know me to be and ask yourself why I would believe a story unless I know it to be true.’

‘I want to see her belly,’ the Provincara said, grabbing Quintana by the arm. Although Froi could see no change in Quintana, when he had lain beside her the night before, he had felt the swell in her body.

‘If she touches her, I will bite off every one of her fingers,’ Lirah warned.

Orlanda slapped Lirah hard across the face.

Quintana pushed between them, grabbed the Provincara’s hand and placed it under her shift. Froi watched the woman’s eyes widen, saw the disbelief and then the flare of hope.

‘You can’t stay here,’ she said, her voice hushed. ‘I can’t protect her.’

‘Bestiano only has fifty or so riders,’ Gargarin argued. ‘You have enough in your army to fight them!’

Orlanda shook her head, unable to tear her eyes from Quintana. ‘Have you not heard, Gargarin? Bestiano is in Nebia. He has secured the confidence of the Provincaro and has the entire Nebian army at his disposal.’

‘What?’

Even Lirah and Arjuro were stunned by the news.

‘And if they enter my province demanding I hand the Princess to them, I cannot sacrifice my people for her.’

‘You’re going to allow another province to align themselves with a man who wants the palace?’ Gargarin asked.

‘What choice do I have?’ she cried. ‘Do I need to remind you of Serker? Ask anything from me but this.’

Gargarin took time to think and Froi saw a determination in his expression. ‘When the time comes, I want your army. I want it combined with armies from Paladozza and Sebastabol and Alonso and Desantos.’

She nodded, almost relieved to know she would be rid of them. ‘There’s a plague in Desantos. You don’t want an army from them.’

‘But you’ll pledge yours.’

‘Yes. But you need to go. They will know you’re here. Those in the godshouse baths who spy for the palace and now for Bestiano saw you and would already be sending word. When the Provincaro of Nebia and Bestiano come to my gates I will tell them the truth. That I will not be embroiled in this matter of Quintana of Charyn and that I sent you away. When the time comes and you ask for an army of men, I will honour my pledge to you.’

Gargarin nodded. ‘We’ll leave in the morning and we’ll need horses.’

The Provincara glanced at Quintana one more time.

‘Thank the gods this babe belongs to Tariq of Lascow and not one of the province lads. That would be all we need,’ she said bitterly. ‘One province believing they had the seed to break the curse.’

She went to leave.

‘Orlanda,’ Gargarin said. ‘An apology.’

She turned and smiled tiredly, but with gratitude. ‘Not required, dear Gargarin. For old times’ sake, I’ll forgive you.’

‘No. An apology to the Queen and to her mother.’

There was that tone again. The one that demanded so much without him having to raise his voice.

‘And who are you to demand an apology on her behalf?’ she asked, hurt in her voice.

‘It doesn’t matter who I am,’ he said evenly. ‘But I would hate to have to tell my king in years to come that I stood by and heard words spoken against his mother and his shalama and did nothing.’

The apology was not quick in coming, but the woman was no fool.

‘My apologies, Your Highness,’ Orlanda said.

‘Majesty,’ Quintana corrected.

‘My apologies, Your Majesty.’ The Provincara turned to Lirah. ‘My apologies.’ She turned back to Gargarin. ‘My guard at the gate recognised her. Both of them. It’s well known throughout the land that the King refused to allow his daughter and whore … his daughter and her mother,’ she corrected herself, ’to cut their hair. I’d be careful if I were you. If all is true, we do not want her dead before she births the cursebreaker.’

But we don’t care if she dies after. The words she left unsaid were clear.

After she was gone there was silence.

‘How big is this army?’ Froi asked them.

‘Big.’ They all spoke at once.

‘If you combine the armies of the other provinces, you can fight them,’ Froi said.

‘They’re not Charyn’s only problem,’ Gargarin said tiredly. ‘The moment the kingdom begins to war with each other, those surrounding us will surely invade. Belegonia and Lumatere have been waiting for the perfect moment.’

‘Lumatere will not invade.’

‘They’d be fools not to and I’ve never taken your queen and her consort for fools,’ Gargarin said tiredly. His eyes met Lirah’s.

‘Cut her hair,’ he ordered. ‘She’ll be recognised in an instant by anyone who’s been to the palace and by anyone who’s heard of how long and strange it is.’

Quintana started, horrified. ‘My hair? But Sir Gargarin …’

Gargarin walked away to one of the few stalls that didn’t accommodate a cow or pig or horse. Quintana followed. ‘I can cover it with Froi’s cap,’ she cried. ‘No one will suspect, Sir Gargarin. No one.’

‘This is not up for discussion. Lirah will cut your hair and we will travel to Paladozza and try very, very hard to keep you alive. You were recognised within seconds in a province that can switch its allegiance at a whim.’

Quintana wept. ‘My father said it was the only thing that was beautiful about me.’

‘He lied, Your Majesty!’

Cruelty always seemed to stop Quintana’s tears. Froi’s cruelty had stopped them in Tariq’s caves when he told her why he was sent to Charyn. Gargarin’s words stemmed them now. Froi knew it was the indignant one who wept and the ice queen who knew how to endure the cruelty. He watched it all play out on her expression until Lirah took her hand and, sending Gargarin a scathing look, led Quintana away.

Froi joined Gargarin where he sat on the bale of hay, studying the maps.

‘When do we leave?’ Froi asked.

‘Early. I want us to get to Paladozza through this mountain pass that becomes a thoroughfare for cattle and goods by midmorning. Then it’s a day or two across flatlands.’

‘And then what?’ Arjuro asked, from the stall beside them. ‘Are we going to travel from province to province begging them for sanction?’

‘De Lancey will take her. He will be pleased with Orlanda’s pledge of her men and he’ll organise the rest. If De Lancey succeeds, Quintana returns to the Citavita with a Guard made up of the united provinces and there may be some hope for Charyn yet.’

‘The Provincara pledged the men to you, Gargarin,’ Arjuro argued. ‘Not De Lancey. Not to another province.’

‘And what do you propose I do?’ Gargarin asked. ‘March into the Citavita as the Captain of the future King’s Guard? Do I look the part?’

‘Captains don’t make the plans,’ Froi said quietly. ’They carry them out. In the absence of a King, a First Man makes all the plans.’

‘I’m no First Advisor,’ Gargarin corrected. ‘I’m just one who doesn’t have to be gods’ blessed to predict what will happen.

‘And what is that?’ Froi asked. Arjuro came around to their stall, waiting for Gargarin’s response.

‘Quintana of Charyn lives only until she births the first,’ Arjuro said bluntly when Gargarin didn’t respond. ‘It will be the first who is returned to the Citavita and whoever has him in their possession will rule as regent until the King comes of age. Let us hope that it is not Bestiano for the sake of the child and let us hope it is not a Provincaro for the sake of the whole kingdom.’

‘And if it’s a girl child?’ Froi asked.

‘You pray to every god you trust, Froi, that this child is not a girl,’ Gargarin said. ‘Because she may end the curse, but they still need a King to rule. This is not Lumatere. They will break Quintana, producing another and then another until it’s a male, and if that does not happen, then they will begin on her daughter when she’s of age. Do not underestimate Charyn’s desire for the heir to come from royal blood, regardless of how they feel about the dead King.’

Froi shuddered. ‘What do you mean she’ll live only until she births the first?’ he asked.

‘If I was Bestiano and I knew the truth, I’d have her tried for the murder of a King. The people of Charyn would accept the ruling. Why care what happens to the Princess if they have the heir and cursebreaker?’

‘And how will they rid themselves of Quintana the last?’ Froi spat out the words. ‘Will they ensure that she dies in childbirth? Will they have some ambitious boy from the dregs of Charyn toss her from the window of a palace to please his master? Wouldn’t want her there as a reminder of Charyn’s curse, would you?’

Gargarin had proven himself to be a man who rarely lost his temper, but Froi could tell by his clenched fists that he had pushed him to the edge.

‘If you do nothing to protect her, I’ll take her away.’

‘Is that a threat?’ Gargarin asked.

‘No, a promise,’ Froi said. ‘You try to stop me, Gargarin. Just try. I’ll break every bone in your body. You know I will. I’ll take her to Sarnak or even to Sendecane where no one ever need know who she once was.’

‘But do you know who will stop you, Froi?’ Gargarin said. ‘She will. Allow her the dignity of being able to save her kingdom.’

‘Dignity,’ Froi spat. ‘You’re a cold-hearted dog. You tell her there’s nothing beautiful about her and you call that dignity.’

Gargarin stared up at him coldly. ‘If that is the way you chose to interpret my words, then there is nothing I can do to change the way you think.’

Gargarin walked away. Arjuro was silent, but suddenly he flinched with surprise.

Froi turned to see Lirah, her hair hacked short, her stare towards Gargarin defiant. If anything, her furious work had made her more breathtaking. She was all face, all eyes of a storm and Froi could not believe he was born from one so beautiful.

Gargarin stared at her coldly, shaking his head with bitter amusement. ‘I’m not the enemy, Lirah. Save your fury for when we confront Bestiano.’

Gargarin pushed past her to the back of the stall where Quintana sat on the ground with her head in her hands. Her hair was not as short as Lirah’s. It rested at her chin and she resembled one of the pages from the palace of Lumatere.

Froi watched Gargarin sit on the bale of hay before her, clearly uncomfortable. After a while he reached out to lift her chin, but she resisted and kept her eyes cast to the ground.

‘It would have been feasible for the gods and Oracle to choose another vessel to carry the first, but they chose you, Your Highness. Do you know why?’

Froi winced. He would have begun with an apology. Even he knew that. ‘No stories or explanations,’ Finnikin had once told him. ‘When it comes to women, straight into an apology and you will find the rest of your life bearable.’ Although Finnikin and Isaboe spent much of their time arguing, Froi still believed it to be sound advice.

Quintana was silent. Froi wondered if she had heard the question.

‘Because I’m the King’s daughter,’ she answered after a while. ‘That’s why the gods chose me. Because the royal bloodline is everything. It began with the gods.’

‘True, but why not Tariq? He was still of royal blood.’

‘But they did choose Tariq.’

‘No, Quintana. They didn’t. You know that. They chose you and they chose Froi, not Tariq.’ He glanced at Froi. ‘I can’t say why they chose Froi. I know little of him, despite everything. But I think they chose you because they were watching and saw that not once in this cursed and wretched life of yours have you lost hope or complained.’

The Reginita looked up, indignant. ‘Oh I complain all the time, Sir Gargarin. All the time. They must not have been listening close enough,’ she said, ‘Once or twice I even threw a rock at one of the frescoes on the palace walls placed there by the gods. “Who cares if you can draw?” I shouted. ‘Send us some hope.” ’

Gargarin sighed. ‘But they did send us hope.’

She shook her head.

‘Do you remember those days they had me chained to your father’s desk, believing me to be Arjuro? At first I wanted to hate you. When I believed you to be Lirah’s child, I knew in an instant that you were the King’s and not mine. You have one or two of his features. But I surprised myself. I lived for those moments when you came into the room with your wonder at the world. “Good morning, Arjuro,” you would say to me and although it wasn’t my name, and although I was chained to a desk like an animal, you made me feel human.’

She raised her eyes, almost shyly. Froi liked the way Quintana’s strange face was framed by the hacked length of hair.

‘And if someone asked me to paint a picture of joy and hope, I would have painted you. In my eyes, that is beauty. Not what your father had to say about your hair.’

‘You’re only saying that to make us feel better.’

Gargarin was amused by the idea. ‘No, not really. I have no idea how to go around making people feel better. Ask Arjuro. He always said I had the ability to walk into a room and make everyone feel instantly worse. And to be honest, I found your hair quite annoying. Too much of it, everywhere. You look much more handsome now.’

‘But we don’t want to look handsome,’ she cried. ‘We want to look beautiful.’

She touched her hair with regret. Gargarin looked at Froi and then back to Quintana.

‘Did you know the Queen of Lumatere’s head was bare when Froi first met her?’

Why did he do this? Froi wondered. Make Froi hate him one moment and then change his mind an instant later.

Quintana sat up, suddenly interested.

‘Less hair than Lirah’s?’ she asked, looking over Gargarin’s shoulder at Froi.

‘Much less,’ Froi said.

‘She must have looked ab-solutely ridiculous.’

‘Thankfully I’m drawn to ab-solutely ridiculous-looking girls,’ Froi said, sitting beside Gargarin before her. He saw a flash in her eyes. Their irises were tinged with yellow today. He had lost count of how many times their colour had changed.

‘Lirah said my father would never let her cut her hair and that it was just a different type of shackle. Isn’t that strange, Sir Gargarin? That her beauty was her downfall and my plainness is mine.’

‘You’re just fishing for compliments,’ Froi said, annoyed.

‘You said I was plain,’ she said, pursing her lips. ‘I heard you on the balconette.’

‘Princess –’

‘Queen,’ she corrected.

He leaned forward, his mouth close to her ear.

‘Quintana,’ he said instead. ‘You haven’t been plain since I saw those teeth.’

Later, Froi made sure the stables were secure and walked back into the godshouse baths the way they had came through the underground passage.

Inside there was no one and Froi went into the room where they had undressed and found their clothing. Retrieving his dagger and short sword he placed the pack on his back. In the adjoining bath chamber he heard a sound and walked to the door. Torches illuminated the space, giving it a ghostly hue in this light. From where he stood, he was surprised to see Arjuro in the water, his bony body even paler than Gargarin’s.

Froi approached and was about to call his name when he saw the true horror of what Arjuro’s long black robes concealed. The Priestling’s back was a mess of puckered white flesh. It was as if someone had torn strips from every part of him. Worse was what lay scorched across Arjuro’s pale shoulders.

It was the Charyn word for traitor.

Chapter 30

‘Lady Beatriss,’ Beatriss heard Tarah say gently from the door of her chamber. ‘Lady Beatriss, you have a guest.’

Tarah came to the bed and removed the blanket from around Beatriss and began laying out some clothing.

‘Tell them I’m not myself today, Tarah,’ Beatriss murmured.

It was what Tarah had told anyone who came to the house for the past week.

‘But Lady Beatriss, it’s the Queen.’

Beatriss did the best she could to look presentable, but nothing could be done about her limp hair and dull complexion. Tarah had chosen her favourite calico dress, but these days she resembled a scarecrow in it.

Beatriss was even more shamed to see the Queen sitting in her kitchen.

‘Come into the solar, my queen,’ she said quietly. ‘My apologies that I was not here to meet you at the door.’

The Queen embraced her, pressing a kiss to her cheek, and dismissed the idea of another room with the wave of a hand. ‘And when did you stop calling me Isaboe?’

Outside her kitchen window, Beatriss could see the Queen’s Guard scattered to ensure Isaboe’s safety. Those who knew the land were running their fingers through dry dirt, shaking their heads.

‘I can only stay a while,’ Isaboe said. ‘I have to get back to feed Jasmina.’

‘Perhaps a mug of buttermilk and honey,’ Beatriss said, making herself busy. ‘It’s Vestie’s favourite when the weather becomes cooler. I’m afraid it will be a short autumn, and next thing you know, we’ll all be confined indoors because of the cold.’

Despite her ridiculous chatter about weather and her refusal to look at the Queen, Beatriss felt the younger girl’s eyes on her. When it was difficult to ignore her any longer, she turned to face Isaboe.

‘Why do you look at me in such a way?’ she asked huskily.

‘Because I’m worried for you, Beatriss,’ Isaboe said, not one to play with words. ‘So is Abian, but she says you won’t see her. And we don’t want to write to Tesadora. You’ll only end up living in that cursed valley, like every other woman or girl who comes in contact with her.’

They both managed a smile. ‘I miss her,’ Beatriss said, searching for the sweets she had hidden from Vestie. ‘It’s an ache I feel. Who would have thought that Tesadora and I would form such a friendship?’

She placed the mug and sweets before the Queen and sat opposite, fighting to keep back the tears. ’She gave me purpose.’

Isaboe gripped both her hands. ‘You’ll always have purpose, Beatriss.’

‘It shames me to think highly of those days … those awful, awful days,’ Beatriss said, tears biting her eyes. ‘But … in the last five years of the curse I knew who I was for the first time in my life. Not the daughter of a Flatland lord or even the woman loved by the Captain of the Guard. I was Beatriss of the Flatlands.’

The tears did fall and Beatriss despised her weakness.

‘My people are scattered and miserable, Isaboe. I’ve failed them. I’ve failed everyone I love.’

The Queen stood and led Beatriss to the window, pointing outside to the dead field.

‘That is not failure, Beatriss. That is something beyond your control. Beyond any of our control. That land will not yield and it’s not because of anything you did or didn’t do. Perhaps it will never yield, but you cannot stay here in ruin, waiting for that day.’

Beatriss shook her head. ’I can’t leave this place, Isaboe. I can’t.’

‘Why?’ Isaboe asked, frustration in her voice. ‘For pride?’

Pride? Beatriss’s pride was long gone. It was smothered by the smugness in the expressions of the Flatland lords. It was shattered by the disappointment in Trevanion’s eyes.

‘My daughter is buried here,’ she said quietly, pained to say the words. ‘Down by the river. I can’t leave her spirit alone. I feel her every day, Isaboe. I can’t leave her behind.’

Beatriss saw a wince of regret in Isaboe’s eyes. In exile, the Queen had taken the name of Beatriss and Trevanion’s first child to keep her safe. Evanjalin had been the name of Trevanion’s mother and Beatriss knew that each time the Queen or Finnikin passed through Sennington, they visited the babe’s grave. She also knew that Trevanion didn’t.

‘Forgive me, Beatriss. I beg of you. Idiot that I am,’ Isaboe said.

‘Nothing to forgive.’

Isaboe returned to the table, nursing her buttermilk. Once again, Beatriss felt the dark eyes studying her.

‘Can I tell you of an idea I have?’ the Queen said. ‘I keep Finnikin awake with ideas, you know. I’ve been thinking of the tales Rafuel of Sebastabol has told Finnikin about Charyn during his interrogation up in the mountains. Even my idiot cousin Lucian is captivated. Our neighbours had schools of philosophy and art and studied the books of the Ancients. It wasn’t only Charyn. Belegonia is a place of learning too. The stories Celie comes back with fill Finnikin and I with envy. We can’t begin to think of the way they see us. Backwater cousins.’

‘We’re no such thing,’ Beatriss said, firmly. ‘Our healers are gifted, taught by Tesadora. They’ve kept the fever out of this kingdom these past years and we lose fewer women to birthing now than any other time.’

Isaboe shook her head. ‘But their talents are wasted. I can understand why Japhra followed Tesadora to the valley. It’s what you said, Beatriss. It’s all about purpose. And look at the Priestking. He manages to see the smartest of our kingdom in his overgrown garden. And for what? Where does a learned man or woman go in Lumatere? To quarry stone? To milk a cow?’

Isaboe looked around the sun-drenched room.

‘This place, Beatriss,’ she said, ‘this house could be a place of learning. Could you imagine the spirit of the first Evanjalin soaring here?’

Beatriss was stunned by what the Queen was suggesting.

‘The Priestking’s shrinehouse has gold and they’ll pay you well and I know Augie has said many times he’d buy your southern paddock and we could sell your north paddock to whoever runs Fenton. Your villagers will be taken care of between Sayles and Fenton. Tarah and Samuel, of course, will come with you to the palace to live with us.’

‘The palace?’

Isaboe nodded emphatically, traces of a smile on her face.

‘I’m selfish, Beatriss,’ she said. ‘I have a room of men to help me rule a kingdom but I need good women to help me raise my children.’

A look passed between them. ‘You’re with child,’ Beatriss said, reaching out to clutch Isaboe’s hand.

Isaboe nodded, biting her lip and looking towards the entrance before leaning forward.

‘I need help with Jasmina, Beatriss,’ Isaboe whispered. ‘Just between you and me, my beloved daughter is the worst-behaved child in Lumatere.’

Beatriss laughed.

‘No, it’s true,’ Isaboe said. ‘No one will admit it because they think I’ll have them imprisoned or beheaded or whatnot, but Jasmina’s tantrums can be heard from the Rock.’

‘You try to do it all, beloved,’ Beatriss said. ‘You can’t.’

‘My mother did,’ Isaboe said. ‘She raised five children and helped my father run this kingdom.’

Beatriss scoffed gently at the words. ‘Isaboe, I was there as a companion for your sisters. No one loved the dear Queen as I did, but she had help. A lot of help. Your yata was with her every second week, as were your aunts. Get those Mont girls off the mountain and into the palace. Some of them are stifled up there. Why do you think they’re down in the valley with Tesadora? They would be a delight to have around. And dare I say it, perhaps it’s time to remove Jasmina from the breast.’

The young Queen seemed stricken at the thought.

‘You will not lose your bond with her, Isaboe.’

Beatriss looked at the Queen tenderly. ‘When Vestie was born I couldn’t feed her. Tesadora found one of the river girls who had just birthed a babe and later we fed Vestie goat’s milk. Can you ever deny the bond I have with my child?’

The Queen didn’t respond but Beatriss could see the tears threatening to fall and so she embraced her.

‘I was supposed to come here for you,’ Isaboe said. ‘Yet you’re my strength today, Beatriss.’

‘Then let’s be strength for each other.’

There was a knock at the door. Isaboe quickly wiped her eyes and stood, smoothing down her dress. Tarah was there with one of the Guard to take Isaboe back to the palace.

‘Will you accompany me home this afternoon?’ the Queen said. ‘I’d enjoy more time to talk.’

When they reached the palace, Finnikin was arriving on horseback with Sir Topher. Beatriss watched as he kissed his queen and then whispered in her ear.

‘Yes, she knows,’ Isaboe said as Finnikin turned to embrace Beatriss.

‘Isaboe’s convinced it’s a boy with the same certainty that she was convinced Jasmina was a girl,’ he said to Beatriss.

‘Oh my beloveds,’ Beatriss said, cupping a hand to both their faces.

‘Mercy,’ Finnikin said, grinning from ear to ear. ‘We’re going to have a bed full of children and I’ll have to holler out to my wife, “Hello there! It’s been a long time since we last spoke!” ’

Isaboe laughed. It had been some time since Beatriss had seen the two so relaxed.

‘And she doesn’t bleed for nine whole months,’ Finnikin said.

When the Queen bled, she walked the sleep of all of Lumatere, and when she walked the sleep, she shared with Finnikin the fears and worries of their people. Vestie walked the sleep with her and Beatriss remembered how carefree her daughter had been during the time when Isaboe carried Jasmina. The thought lifted her spirit even more.

Beatriss spent the rest of the afternoon in the main village at the toymaker’s cottage, wanting to buy something special for Vestie. She had decided with Isaboe that it was time for her daughter to come home.

As she walked out of the cottage she bumped into Genova, the wife of Makli. They ignored each other, and with her head down, Beatriss made her way to the bakery.

‘Lady Beatriss,’ Genova called out.

Beatriss stopped, and turned back to the woman.

‘I’m sorry about my husband’s behaviour,’ the woman said. ‘I can’t speak for my boy because he’s a child, but according to Kie your daughter told him he had the face of a witch’s wart, which gave great offence.’

Beatriss had heard the term come from Vestie’s mouth once or twice. Her daughter had spent too much time with Tesadora, who loved nothing better than teaching Vestie new insults each time they saw each other.

‘It’s hard for Makli, and that’s not to excuse his words at all, but we were in the camp with Lord Selric and his family. In Charyn. It was very fast the way the plague took them.’ The woman looked away.

Beatriss walked to her, reaching out a hand to Genova’s arm for comfort.

‘The children went first and then his wife. The Goddess was cruel in that way, for it should never be in that order.’

Beatriss nodded.

‘One of the last things Lord Selric asked Makli was to ensure Fenton stayed alive and united. Yet here we are with half of us gone and in these past three years no one has dared purchase the village, which is ridiculous really. Could you imagine Lord Selric preferring that Fenton go to ruin rather than someone else raising it to its glory? I think Makli believes he failed his lord and he thinks those of you who were trapped inside don’t understand the pain of those in exile.’

Genova had a singsong way of speaking, cool and practical.

‘The man I love suffered greatly in exile,’ Beatriss said. ‘So strong is his pain that it drives us apart. I understand what you went through more than you can imagine.’

Genova nodded curtly. ‘My husband’s a good man. He’s too proud to say he regrets his words to you, so I’ll say it for him.’

‘And I will speak to Vestie about the witch’s wart.’

When she returned to Sennington with Vestie by her side, Beatriss looked out at her land and thought of the Priestking and his school and of Tarah and Samuel and Makli and his family and Lord Selric. Two villages, both half of what they once were. But the Queen was right. This land was dead and she and Vestie could not continue dying with it. But could she live in the palace? So close to Trevanion and the memories of what took place there, both the good and the awful. Perhaps she’d be better off in the main village. Some said she had a gift with a needle and thread and she had a good eye for fabrics. Isaboe had expressed that they were poor country cousins in more ways than one, especially in their dress. ‘When I see the Belegonians come with their finery and even those tedious Osterians with their fashions, I feel as if they return home and tell others of our dowdiness,’ the Queen had told her on their journey home. But would Beatriss feel stifled in the palace village without the Flatlands surrounding her?

Travelling towards them was the Priestking on his donkey and cart, and suddenly Beatriss found herself smiling as Vestie ran towards him, zigzagging from side to side, her arms outstretched as if they were the wings of a bird. Isaboe had said the Priestking would come visit the moment he got word of Beatriss’s acknowledgement of his offer.

Sennington would be a place of learning, guided by a man who had journeyed step by step with their cursed people and managed to find his way again. Beatriss watched as Vestie reached him and she already felt the spirit of the first Evanjalin soaring alongside them.

Chapter 31

Their plans were changed the next morning by Quintana.

‘We go over the mountains,’ she said. ‘The dying man of Turla is waiting.’

The others exchanged a look. When the cold Quintana spoke, there was an uneasiness in them all, even Lirah who knew her best.

‘I say we choose another time for that, Your Highness,’ Gargarin said in a firm, but polite voice. ‘It will add at least a few days’ ride to our journey if we take the mountains to Paladozza and not the underground pass.’

‘There will be no other time,’ she said dismissively, looking at Arjuro. ‘Are you ready, Priestling? I have a sense that the gods are leading us there for a reason.’

She walked away towards the three horses they had been given, and Froi knew the decision was final.

‘I like it better when I’m blessed Arjuro,’ Arjuro muttered.

With great patience, Gargarin put away the map he had studied all night.

‘Let’s all agree that we’re going to try to get out of Turla with no marriage contracts, no broken bones and no body parts sacrificed to the gods,’ he said.

He poked a finger at Froi’s shoulder. ‘And you’re going to have to control any need to prove yourself as a man.’

‘I’ve never had to prove my worth as a man to people I don’t care for.’

Gargarin sighed. ‘Then you’ve not met a Turlan.’

Lirah easily mounted one of the horses and Froi followed suit, directing it to where Quintana stood. But she wordlessly chose to travel with Lirah, and Froi saw no reason to get on the wrong side of both women today.

‘You’re going to have to ride with me,’ he told Gargarin.

‘If you’re one of those reckless fools with a need for speed I will travel with Arjuro.’

Arjuro’s horse had already taken off with little control from its rider, so Gargarin had no other choice but to clumsily climb onto the horse.

‘How does our path differ from your plans yesterday?’ Froi asked, grabbing Gargarin by the sleeve of his coarse undershirt to secure him on the horse.

‘We go over the mountain and not under. It’s about a day’s ride to the peak.’

‘You need to hold on tighter,’ Froi ordered as Lirah and Quintana galloped past them.

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m one of those reckless fools with a need for speed.’

Halfway up the Turlan Mountains Froi knew they were being watched. He pulled at the reins and stopped their horse, looking around at rock, wild tufts of dull brown grass and little else. Someone who knew how to stay concealed was out there and Froi was not taking chances. He steered his horse to Quintana and Lirah’s, circling them.

‘If I say bolt, you head down the mountain,’ he said quietly to Lirah, who was holding the reins. ‘Regardless of what she says,’ he added, his eyes meeting Quintana’s.

Arjuro rode up beside them. ‘This is a mistake,’ Arjuro said. ‘There’s something strange here and that’s not the coward in me speaking. It’s the gods’ blessed.’

‘Which is exactly why we’re here, Priestling,’ Quintana said.

Gargarin made a sound of displeasure. ‘They’ve not come down this mountain to speak for themselves for more years than I can remember, Your Majesty,’ he said. ‘So they’re going to be suspicious of anyone travelling through their land.’

‘Find me someone in Charyn who is not suspicious,’ she said. ‘Come. We’re wasting time.’

Later that afternoon, they came across a lone cottage and a hound accompanied them for a stretch before turning back. Froi could see that the peak of the mountain was at least another day’s ride and that they would have to stop soon to set up camp. The autumn days were short and he didn’t want them travelling in the dark. Soon after, however, they reached a village and from where they sat astride their horses, Froi could see views of Jidia below. Depending on the Turlan numbers, any army that chose to ride up that mountain didn’t stand a chance.

In an instant, they were joined by one man after another – from cottages, stables and further up the mountain – and as Froi had suspected, some of the men had followed them from the mountain below. They were accompanied by their goats and cattle and even a family of ducks decided to join in. But no women. Froi cared little for the way they stared at Lirah and Quintana. Although there was no trace of the malevolence seen in the Citavitan street lords, the Turlans were ripe with a barely suppressed spirit that unnerved Froi. They were called mountain goats by the rest of the kingdom and in his entire existence, Froi had never seen men with so much hair sprouting from heads, faces, arms, chests. They were solid, unlike most Charyn men he had come across.

When they dismounted, Gargarin led Froi and the others to what looked like an outdoor ale house. The younger Turlans shoved at Froi as he passed them.

‘They’re just playing with you,’ Gargarin said quietly. ’Do not react.’

‘I was never one for playing with others,’ Froi snarled.

His anger seemed to excite the Turlan lads even more.

A man clothed in calf hide and a fleeced coat approached, his hair long and coarse and fair.

‘We’re on our way to Paladozza and hoped to beg a place to stay for the night,’ Gargarin said. Froi was impressed by the lack of fear in his voice and his very practical aim of securing accommodation for them all.

Before another word was spoken, the man walked to Arjuro and backhanded him across the face. Arjuro toppled to the ground and Froi charged for the Turlan. Instantly, two others grabbed both his arms. Gargarin was at his brother’s side, fury in his expression.

‘We come in peace and you greet us like the enemy!’ he shouted.

The man spoke a strange dialect and Froi watched Gargarin shake his head with confusion. Arjuro tried to lift himself from the ground.

‘We have no one you want,’ Quintana said. She turned to Gargarin. ‘That’s what he said. “We have no one you want.” ’

Arjuro sat up, wiping blood from his mouth.

‘We are searching for the dying man of Turla,’ Quintana announced coldly.

The man stared, as if noticing her for the first time. He walked towards her and roughly grabbed Quintana’s face in his hand. She snarled and bit his hand and Froi struggled against those holding him back.

‘Why travel over the mountain when you can take the pass?’ the man spoke in Charyn. He seemed to be the authority in the village. Perhaps even the mountain. His question was directed at Gargarin.

‘The girl dreams of the dying man of Turla. That’s all we can tell you,’ Gargarin said with honesty. ‘My brother is the last Priestling of the Citavita godshouse and a physician. It may be that he has a purpose here.’

The Turlan leader continued to study Quintana’s face. ‘Is she a lastborn?’ he asked warily. There was silence until Quintana nodded. There was regret on the Turlan’s face and he shook his head.

‘We will not protect her, so don’t even ask,’ he said. ‘We have enough of our own to protect.’ He stood before Arjuro, who was still on the ground.

‘My name is Ariston and I’m leader of this village,’ he said. ‘The first time I saw the dying man of Turla, I was a boy. That was forty-five years ago and the one thing I remember him shouting was not to trust the men in black robes, for they will take your children.’ The Turlan’s eyes were hard. ‘We may not have children to speak of, Priest, but if you bring harm to any of my people I will choke you by the hood of your robe.’

Arjuro stared. ‘The Priests would never take a child.’

‘Are you calling me a liar?’ Ariston asked.

‘No,’ Arjuro said. ‘I’m saying you’re mistaken.’ He looked at Quintana. ‘Now more than ever I need to meet this dying man to know the truth.’

Ariston of Turla studied them all. ‘The dying man lives on the other side of the mountain, half a day’s ride from here. I’ll lead you there myself soon enough.’ He turned his attention back to Gargarin. ‘Your name.’

‘Gargarin of Abroi.’

There was a snicker. One of the Turlans made a sheep sound at the word Abroi. Froi started counting. The moment they let him go he was going to have to hurt someone.

‘And your women?’ Lirah asked tersely. ‘Are they not here to greet us?’

Ariston appraised her with satisfaction.

‘At this time each year, the women travel up the mountain before they make a sacrifice to the goddess of winter to protect us through the cold months. They cleanse their spirits, for the goddess will not accept their gifts if they smell of the stench of man.’

‘A wise goddess indeed,’ Lirah said. ‘You have no reason to hold back our lad, so let go of him now.’

Ariston gave a signal to his men to let go of Froi.

‘Tomorrow we hunt the wild boar to prepare a feast for the women. Your lad there looks strong. It’s a privilege that we allow him to join us.’

‘Joust!’ one called out. Another stepped forward to shove Froi back. Another thumped at his own chest twice.

‘Our younger men have felt a need to relieve the tension.’ Ariston laughed.

‘Our lad isn’t one for fighting,’ Gargarin said in a dismissive tone.

‘Who are you trying to fool, Gargarin of Abroi? Your lad came up this mountain with a fight in his spirit and an eye out for danger.’

There was a shrewd, questioning look on Ariston’s face. They may have been mountain goats, but they were no fools.

‘We might want to keep him for ourselves.’

They weren’t quite savage, Froi thought the next day. Just untamed. As though up in these mountains they had become one with the wild. They were coarse, and quick with a bow, and he managed to please them by taking part in the hunt and contributing at least one arrow to the boar they caught. But for all their fierceness and skill, they were vain. Froi had seen peacocks once and the men of Turla resembled them in the way they strutted. Sometimes, back in Lumatere, Finnikin would imitate the way the Mont lads walked. He’d take off his shirt and pound at his chest and he’d walk in the same way they had seen birds walk in Yutlind. The Queen and Froi would laugh at the sight of his lanky milk-white body. But the Monts had nothing on these men.

Display followed display of their might, yet they never tired of competing or showing off. A joust. Sword challenges. Target practice. Races of speed. Races of endurance. Every sentence spoken between them was a challenge.

That night there was a feast, but still no women. The ale was plentiful and that made Arjuro happy, at least.

After dinner was wrestling, just in case the men of Turla had not had enough of an opportunity to show their skills and attributes. They had an annoying habit of finding any opportunity to walk around Quintana and Lirah with bare chests and their trousers worn low. Rings pierced their bodies in places that made Froi wince at the thought of the pain inflicted. Lirah did nothing more than roll her eyes with irritation, but Quintana seemed strangely relaxed with the Turlans in a way Froi hadn’t seen before. Then one of the younger men decided to carry over a litter of pups to her and Froi thought Quintana the Indignant was back when she allowed the dogs to lick her face. He’d prefer Quintana the Indignant to appear right about now. She was an innocent when it came to men. This Quintana understood desire. She had proven it that night they were together. And now in the way she allowed the Turlan lads to stand so close.

‘It’s a primitive bond,’ Arjuro explained. ‘They’re mad. She’s mad. Don’t try to compete.’

‘Why would I possibly want to do that?’ Froi snapped, eyeing the way her face lit up each time a Turlan spoke to her, young or old. He could see from gestures that one was explaining the rules of wrestling to her, which was ridiculous because there were no rules at all. The young Turlan even dared to place an arm around her shoulders as he pointed at what was taking place in the match. Froi wanted nothing more than to pull the ring on the man’s chest through the flesh and cause as much pain as was humanly possible.

After what seemed like an hour of men in bare chests rolling around in dirt, a stocky lad with an abundance of hair came to stand before Froi. He waved two hands towards himself in an invitation to fight.

‘A friendly wrestle, perhaps?’ Ariston called out from where he sat beside Gargarin.

Gargarin waved the offer away on Froi’s behalf.

‘Our lad is bashful,’ he said.

The Turlan who sat beside Quintana heard the words and whispered something in her ear. Froi saw her lip curl in amusement.

He leapt to his feet and removed his shirt.

‘The thing is,’ Arjuro said, rubbing the ointment on Froi’s bruised body later that night in the cooper’s cottage the five of them shared. ‘I probably would have stayed down the tenth time the human bear had your head between his thighs.’

‘Did you not hear me call out to stay down that last time?’ Lirah said.

‘He’s never been one to listen,’ Gargarin muttered, sitting opposite Lirah at the table, scribbling in his journal. ‘Deserves all the pain.’

Froi closed his eyes, wincing. ‘I would so appreciate it if everyone refrained from expressing an opinion.’

When he opened his eyes again he felt the force of Quintana’s stare.

‘There’s no shame in losing against the Turlans,’ she said.

‘I didn’t lose,’ he said, just as Arjuro finished. Froi got to his feet, really wanting desperately to stay calm. ‘And you would have known that if you had watched instead of playing with those yappy dogs at the exact moment I snatched victory!’

Quintana’s stare continued, but she refrained from speaking.

‘And I’ll have you know that not once have I lost a fight this year against anyone from the Lumateran Queen’s Guard!’ he added, sitting next to Lirah, who was trying to remove blood from the trousers he had worn in the wrestle.

‘You said they were forty years in age, Froi,’ Quintana said, irritated. ‘Can you honestly compare the Turlan lads to the old?’

Arjuro made a rude sound. Even Gargarin looked up from his writing, slightly wounded by her words.

‘The younger men would like us both to join them for tale-telling time,’ she said.

‘Wonderful idea,’ Arjuro said. ‘Perhaps you can join them and they can pierce both your bodies with blunt instruments and leave us old and decrepit alone to get some rest.’

Quintana turned her stare to Arjuro. After a moment she smiled. ‘You’re very funny, Priestling. The funniest man we know.’

Arjuro was wary of her mood. ‘What?’ he asked. ‘Funnier than Bestiano? Because I hear he is hilarious.’

This time she laughed and then Lirah joined in and Froi couldn’t help laughing himself, although it caused him pain. He caught Gargarin’s stare.

Quintana reached out and touched Lirah’s mouth and then Froi’s.

‘When you laugh, you look like your boy, Lirah.’

Princess Indignant was back the next morning as they prepared to leave. She spent her time skipping after the hound pups, looking up at Gargarin longingly.

‘Are they not the most beautiful pups you’ve ever seen, Gargarin? It’s as if the gods are begging us to take –’

‘No,’ Gargarin said firmly.

Ariston joined them on horseback and Froi had a feeling it was more about keeping an eye on them, than the need to help.

‘We missed your women last night, Ariston,’ Gargarin said smoothly. ‘Is the goddess of winter keeping them from you?’

‘The cleansing takes time,’ Ariston replied.

Gargarin and Ariston spoke amongst themselves most of the way up the mountain. From what Froi could hear it was mostly about produce and irrigation and it wasn’t hard to see that both men were impressed with each other, despite their lack of trust and the very little they had in common.

Froi and the others were quiet for the rest of the way and he could see that Arjuro was curious about this strange visit to the dying man. No matter how much Arjuro had tried for the last two nights he had not uncovered the reason for Ariston’s warning against the godshouse Priests. Froi wondered what had taken place forty-five years ago on an isolated mountain peak to warrant such an accusation.

As Ariston had promised, it was half a day’s ride and Quintana slept against Froi’s back most of the way.

‘Why is she always tired?’ he asked Lirah.

‘Because she’s making a baby,’ Lirah said quietly to prevent Ariston from hearing. ‘In the first few months when I was carrying mine I was weary to the bone.’

Froi noticed that she said ‘carrying mine’, not ‘carrying you’. Lirah and Gargarin still had not acknowledged him as theirs and he realised that he wanted more from them than they were willing to give. But they seemed broken people who were not good with words, so he kept his silence.

When they reached a small hut close to the peak of the mountain, Ariston helped Quintana dismount and once again he grabbed her face, this time more gently, to study her. Lirah exchanged a look with Gargarin and he shook his head to silence any question from her lips. Although it seemed unlikely that Ariston had ever travelled to the Citavita and seen Quintana before, the Turlan was strangely suspicious of her.

A woman stepped out of the cottage, having heard the horses. Perhaps sixty in age, her face was long and thin. She seemed guarded, until she saw Ariston and greeted him with a nod. But then she noticed Arjuro and her expression changed to hostility.

‘Why bring a godshouse Priest to my father’s house, Ariston?’

‘Because I believe these people have a story to tell,’ he replied.

Arjuro stared at the woman as if he was seeing an apparition.

‘What is it you see in me?’ she asked angrily.

Arjuro looked beyond her into the open doorway of the cottage.

‘I truly feel I can vouch that they mean no harm, Hesta,’ Ariston said. ‘I’m curious myself.’

The woman, Hesta, walked away and entered the house. Froi and the others looked at Ariston for guidance. He nodded and they followed her inside to where a weathered man lay on a cot. Skin and bones, he seemed, with gnarled hands that Quintana reached out to trace with an inquisitive finger.

‘He’s the oldest man I’ve ever seen,’ she said indignantly.

The woman stared at her in amazement.

‘Who are you?’ Hesta of Turla asked her abruptly.

‘R … Regina,’ Quintana said, but she was an awful liar because she looked at Gargarin for approval. Froi made a point of rehearsing her with a different name. Not Quintana. Not Reginita. Not anything that would have strangers connecting her to the palace.

‘I’ve dreamt of the dying man of Turla,’ Quintana said. ‘Do you call on my dreams, old man?’ she asked loudly. Gargarin winced. This was certainly one of the moments where they needed the decorum of the other Quintana.

The old man stared at her through milky eyes tinged with blue. He beckoned her with one of his gnarled hands and she leaned forward for him to speak against her ear.

‘Your whiskers are tickling,’ she said.

The man chuckled and Hesta softened.

‘My father has been dying for almost nineteen years, yet he refuses to be taken.’

‘But he seems in so much pain,’ Arjuro said, lifting the man into a sitting position so he could breathe easier.

‘Why would he share his dreams with our girl?’ Gargarin asked.

‘You need to tell me who she is before I answer that question,’ the woman said firmly, but Froi could see fierce emotion in her eyes as she stared between her father and Quintana.

‘Is he gods’ touched?’ Arjuro asked.

Hesta shuddered. ‘I’ve not heard those words for many years now. He refused to say them out loud after the godshouse Priests came.’

They waited and she sighed. ‘Yes, he is, and I am too, but not enough to make us special.’ She looked down at her father tenderly. ‘He was good with his herd. The perfect shepherd.’

After too long a bout of silence, Hesta shivered. ‘You’re frightening me.’

Gargarin bowed his apology. ‘My name is Gargarin, and this is my brother Arjuro, Lirah and … our young ones,’ Gargarin said. ‘We have no idea why we are here except our girl has dreamt of your father all her life.’

‘He wants to die,’ Quintana announced. ‘But he’s waiting for the spirit of another. That’s what he tells me in the dream. He’s looking for his lost lamb.’

Hesta studied Quintana warily. ‘Why you?’ she asked.

Quintana looked at Gargarin, who sighed, not knowing how much to divulge.

‘Let’s just say she isn’t who she seems.’

‘Can she not speak for herself? She seems simple.’

‘I’m like you and your father,’ Quintana said. ‘A bit of a gift but not enough to make me special.’

There was silence from the others, made uncomfortable by Quintana’s frank words.

The woman noticed her father’s hand hovering above his blankets and gripped it.

‘What can you tell them, Hesta, that may make sense?’ Ariston asked.

She shook her head, confused. ‘What is there to tell?’

Froi walked away with frustration. They were talking in circles and wasting time. Hesta seemed nervous at his movement.

‘You’ve come from the Citavita, haven’t you?’ she asked bitterly. ‘What could we possibly have left for you after all these years?’

‘Hesta?’ Arjuro said, as though asking her permission to use her name. She nodded. ‘Can you tell us the story of the Priests coming to take away the children?’

She shook her head. ‘Not the children. One child. A gifted child, beyond anything conceivable. If it was to rain in four days’ time, she would say the words, “In four days time it will rain.” If a man she did not know in a village half a day’s ride away was to die soon, she would say it long before the man would die. People came from all over the mountain to hear their future spoken by this child.

‘When she was thirteen, the godshouse Priests came to see us and asked her questions all the day long when she only wished to play with her lambs. Oh, the songs she’d sing to bring them home,’ Hesta said, closing her eyes. ‘I can still hear them in my sleep.’

‘What happened to her?’ Lirah asked, shivering.

Hesta’s eyes were faraway and the dying man held one of her hands.

‘They stole her. In the dead of the night, the Priests stole her. We never saw her again.’

Arjuro held a palm to his brow as though he could not quite believe what he was hearing.

‘In years to come they may have covered her face when she walked amongst the people, but I knew who she was.’

Arjuro let out a ragged breath.

‘Arjuro?’ Gargarin asked.

‘The Oracle Queen was a Turlan mountain girl?’ Arjuro said, looking at Hesta for confirmation. ‘Stolen from her people?’

There was a hushed silence amongst the others.

Arjuro reached out and touched the woman’s face.

‘You have some of her features,’ he said with a gentle smile. ‘I lived with her in the godshouse of the Citavita. I was a young lad, and she was a fair bit older, but we shared a … strange humour. They said I was her favourite.’

He pointed to a chair beside the dying man’s bed and she nodded. Arjuro sat.

‘I never really quite believed that the Oracles were demigods who found their way to the Citavita godshouse,’ Arjuro said.

‘But most people do,’ Gargarin said. ‘They need to believe it.’

‘The last thing they’ll want to hear is that she came from the backwaters of Turla,’ Ariston said, his face pale at what had just been revealed.

‘Who were you to her?’ Hesta asked Arjuro.

‘A Priestling. Those of us who were gods’ touched lived at the godshouse from when we were sixteen to twenty-five. After that we could go as we please, live the way we wanted, but during those years we lived and breathed for the godshouse. We were the voice of the Oracle, really. She rarely ventured outside the godshouse walls, and when I think of it now, perhaps she was as much a prisoner to the Citavita as …’

Arjuro looked at Lirah. As much a prisoner to the godshouse as Lirah was to the palace. Two young girls taken from their homes at the same age. One to be the King’s whore, the other to be Oracle to a people.

‘As far as we Priestlings were concerned, she had always been there. We thought she was ancient, of course. The hubris of the young who think that everyone else is too old or too young.’ He smiled. ‘Old and decrepit, and she would have been younger than my brother and I are now.’

Arjuro took the old man’s hand.

‘If what you fear is that she was controlled by the Priests who took her, then I will reassure you that the Oracle allowed no one, man or woman, to tell her how to think or what to say. Regardless of how she was placed in the godshouse, she had power. We loved nothing more than watching the older Priests travel from the provinces and get a serving from her tongue. More than anything, she could not be bought. She could not be convinced to lie. The gift of foretelling, she would say, was not meant to bring on war and nurture greed. It was meant to guide.’

Froi could see that Hesta was touched by Arjuro’s fierce respect for her sister.

‘And the events in the godshouse all those years ago?’ she asked. ‘The carnage?’

‘All true, I’m afraid,’ Arjuro said sadly.

‘And she took her life all those months later?’

Arjuro looked at Gargarin.

‘No,’ Gargarin said. ‘I was with her at her death. She died …’ he swallowed hard. ‘She died in childbirth.’

Hesta was shocked to hear the words.

‘How can that be?’ Hesta asked.

‘It was … nine months after the attack on the godshouse,’ Arjuro said.

Hesta wept, understanding the truth.

‘By who?’ she asked, her voice broken. ‘Was it the Serkers?’

No one spoke for a moment.

‘By my father, the King,’ Quintana said, her voice quiet. ‘When Lirah and I went searching for my mother’s spirit that one time in the lake of the half-dead, it was not to be found. But there was another. A second child born dead, who had somehow become separated from our mother, the Oracle, in spirit.’

Hesta stared at her, stunned. ‘Your mother?’

A look passed between the two of them and Hesta shivered.

‘She was just the Oracle Queen to us,’ Arjuro said. ‘Blessed, we would call her. At their deaths, Gargarin gave the babe a name. Perhaps it was for that reason Regina of Turla made it to the lake of the half-dead to wait for her mother’s spirit. But her mother’s name was never known and so the Oracle has been lost, except in the dreams of her father and her daughter.’

Hesta’s eyes were still fixed on Quintana.

‘Solange,’ she said. ‘My sister’s name was Solange.’

Quintana looked down at the old man. ‘He cannot bear the idea of being separated from his daughter in both life and death. He needs to take the spirit of Solange with him and somehow she sent me to him because he wants to die.’

She turned to Arjuro. ‘Can you do that for him, Arjuro? Now that you know her name. Can you call her spirit home after all these years?’

Arjuro nodded solemnly.

‘Leave us,’ Quintana said to Froi and the others. ‘I need to speak to my Turlan kin.’

Outside Ariston took a ragged breath.

‘Our women are hidden,’ he said after a while. ‘Ever since the talk of calamity in the Citavita we’ve kept them protected. We long suspected that the Oracle came from Turla. If the Priests found an Oracle amongst us long ago, then the palace will find a girl to produce the first now. The last thing we wanted were madmen riding into our villages and taking our lastborns.’

‘Do you know what the lettering means, Ariston?’ Gargarin asked.

The Turlan shook his head. ‘We’ve always believed the mark of the lastborn to be a message from the gods.’

‘It’s not godspeak,’ Arjuro said. ‘But it is certainly a message of some sort.’

Ariston looked back into the cottage.

‘I thought it strange that the girl had some of the features of our Turlan women,’ he said. ‘But the despised King’s daughter? We are lowly enough in this kingdom without Charynites claiming that the cursemaker belongs to us.’

‘You’re never to speak of it,’ Gargarin said sharply. ‘Do you hear me? The mystique of the Oracle stays as it is. As far as this kingdom is concerned, the Oracle was not from Turla and she did not birth the King’s child. If a King is born to us in years to come, ignorant men could use that against him.’

Ariston nodded, looking back at the old man’s cottage.

‘Will you come down from this mountain, Ariston?’ Gargarin asked. ‘To fight for Charyn when the time comes?’

Ariston shook his head. ‘We’re Turlans, not Charynites. We fight for no one, only to protect ourselves.’

‘How can you say that?’ Froi shouted angrily. ‘You practise all day long to be the best, but you can’t fight for your people. In Lumatere, no one is prouder of being a Lumateran than a Mont. Why can’t you be both?’

‘You’re a Lumateran?’ Ariston asked, surprised.

‘Does it matter?’ Froi asked.

‘Do you know what we say to each other every day, Lumateran?’ Ariston asked. ‘ “Remember Serker.” Annihilated by Charynites. They had no one on their side but each other. Mark my words, you will find no province who will fight for Charyn. You don’t have to be a mountain goat to know that.’

‘Would you fight for a King, Ariston?’ Gargarin persisted. ‘For the cursebreaker? Would you fight so that your lastborn girls need not fear the mark on the back of their necks?’

‘I would fight to the death to protect my people on this mountain,’ Ariston said, glancing at Froi. ‘You know they say that the Lumaterans will strike when we least expect it, out of revenge for Charyn’s part in their cursed ten years.’

Froi shook his head. ‘They would never attack the innocent.’

‘Where do you hail from in Lumatere?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘I was found in exile,’ Froi said, having no reason to lie to Ariston. ‘I belong to all of them.’

Ariston glanced at the others, as though not knowing what to believe.

‘I mean no offence, Gargarin of Abroi, but the sooner you and your companions get off my mountain, the safer I’ll feel for my people.’

They camped that night under a full moon and a sky crowded with stars that made Froi forget that there was an old man waiting to die and remember that there was a kingdom dying to live.

Quintana hadn’t spoken a word since she walked out of the cottage with Hesta. She merely rested her head in Lirah’s lap.

‘I think it will be soon,’ she whispered.

And soon it was. Hesta came outside to feed them goat stew and when she returned to the cottage the old man had died without her there.

‘By his side all these years,’ she wept, ‘yet he died alone.’

Arjuro stood to follow her and sing his song, calling the spirit of the Oracle and her father.

‘Arjuro,’ Quintana said, sitting up. ‘You must call hers as well.’

He nodded. ‘The Oracle Queen?’

‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Regina of Turla. You need to return her spirit to where it belongs.’

Lirah froze. Froi leapt to his feet, shaking his head. ‘Quintana, what are you saying?’

Gargarin and Arjuro stared at her in anguish.

‘We cannot protect this child if we are not whole,’ Quintana said.

‘Arjuro, don’t do it!’ Lirah said.

‘There’s nothing wrong with two people living inside of you,’ Froi said. ‘You said it yourself. That I have more than one. We all do.’ He turned to Arjuro. ‘Sing the old man and the Oracle home, Arjuro, and let’s leave this place and take the Princess to the safety of Paladozza.’

But Quintan’s eyes stayed on Arjuro. ‘If you loved my mother, blessed Arjuro, you’ll do it. You’ll do it for these people. Solange of Turla deserves to be with the spirit of her dead child and perhaps only then can she guide the little King into this world.’

Arjuro’s eyes filled with tears, shaking his head.

‘They crave each other, Arjuro. Mother and daughter. It’s why we wanted to enter the godshouse all those times, remember?’

‘These gifts are curses,’ Arjuro cried. ‘Curses.’

Later that night, Froi heard Arjuro’s voice waver across the mountain and under the light of the moon he saw Gargarin’s wonder at the beauty of his song. Close by, Lirah held Quintana in her arms, waiting for Arjuro to sing the name they were dreading to hear.

‘Solange of Turla, Argus of Turla and Regina of Turla.’

At the sound of her name, Quintana’s cry was hoarse and full of a grief so profound. ‘Lirah,’ she sobbed. ‘Lirah, I’m dying inside. I’m dying inside without her. Tell him to stop.’

Part of Quintana had left this world and Froi knew that part of him was gone as well.

Chapter 32

For two days they rode in silence. Quintana had only spoken once on the morning after the old man’s death. She had taken Hesta of Turla’s hand in hers.

‘You spent your life tending to the dying, kinswoman Hesta,’ she said. ‘When my son is born I’ll call for you to come help me take care of the living.’

She rode the first day with Lirah, whose own sadness seemed fierce and there were few words spoken for most of their journey down the mountain.

It was a relief to reach the flat plains of Charyn after the backbreaking days on the steep narrow mountain track. Although there was little to see except brown tufts of grass haphazardly appearing from time to time between the rough and broken earth, Froi could tell that their mood had lifted.

‘This is the worst hit area for lack of rain,’ Gargarin told him. ‘It’s one of the reasons Paladozza is a jewel for those travelling from the capital to the east.’

That night they came across a camp of nomads and exchanged a few copper coins for a meal of sugar beets and barley soup, and a tent to share.

‘I’ll ride with her tomorrow,’ Arjuro said, as they watched Lirah coax Quintana into eating something. She had curled herself up inside the tent from the moment they had arrived and still had not spoken.

Froi walked to where Lirah was feeding the horses. He reached out towards one of the animals who tossed its mane, its nostrils flaring.

‘My captain is a great lover of horses,’ he told her. ‘For his birthday last year, the King and Queen found a mighty horse like this after sending the Guard out to search the kingdom high and low.’

‘The Serker breed is the greatest in the land,’ Lirah said. ‘When those from the palace ravaged the province, they kept the horses and they took them to Lumatere five years later.’ She pressed her nose against the animal.

‘Gargarin once told me the ancient tale of a winged horse sent by the gods to Charyn,’ she said. ‘As it fell to earth, its wings were clipped by the branches of a tree in Serker, but its might and beauty stayed. I’d been looking for a reason to love Serker all my life and there it was with that story.’

‘You must have been appreciative,’ Froi said.

‘Yes, so appreciative I let him into my bed.’

Froi looked back towards the tent where Gargarin stood watching. He felt awkward listening to any story about Gargarin and Lirah, but he was more frightened by Lirah’s silence than her words.

‘How did you cross each other’s paths in the palace?’ he asked.

She stared across the open space, a restlessness to her.

‘He liked to please the king,’ she said quietly. ‘I was the reward.’

‘You were Gargarin’s whore?’ Froi asked flatly.

She sighed. ‘It’s a bit more complicated than that.’

‘Whenever Gargarin says those words it means the end of a conversation,’ he said. Her eyes met his and then he saw a ghost of a smile on her face.

‘He was shamed by the King’s offer. “We can sit and talk,” he told me the first time. I knew the stories of his Priestling brother and suspected that Gargarin preferred the company of men in the same way. I told him there was nothing to speak of. I had lived in the palace since I was thirteen and before that I lived in savage Serker. The only thing I cared to remember from life in Serker was that I loved horses. It was my one indulgence in the palace. Gargarin, as you can probably tell by his riding, didn’t care for horses and that ended our conversation the first night.’

She stroked the horse’s mane, looking across the plain once more.

‘Do you want me to race you?’ Froi asked. Lirah was used to a cell and a small garden. He should have known she would crave space. Her eyes, usually so cold and condemning, flashed with excitement and they both mounted their horses. Lirah was off before he could give the command. She was a good rider, better than him, despite her years of imprisonment. Froi hadn’t been on a horse until three years ago when he met Finnikin and Isaboe on their travels. It was Trevanion who had taught him to ride well, although he and Perri had conceded that Froi was not a natural on a horse. But it was in Froi to be fearless and reckless so he took more chances with speed and caught up with Lirah.

‘The next time Gargarin pleased the King, I was given a history of Serker,’ she continued, her usual bitter expression replaced with a glow. ‘He loved to explain things and in my twenty years of living, no one had ever treated me as anything but a possession. The time after that he read to me. The times after that he began to teach me to read. By winter I could read and write, and by the summer, I knew I was in love with him.’

Lirah looked back to where Gargarin still stood in the distance, watching.

‘Yet he had not laid a hand on me.’

Froi shook his head with disbelief. ‘Only Gargarin.’

She smiled. ‘Yes, only him. So I seduced him,’ she said quietly. ‘All those years a whore, but I had never wanted to seduce a man until then.’

She looked at him with a wolfish expression. ‘Do you know how I did it?’

‘Is it going to make me blush?’

‘No,’ she laughed. It transformed her face for a moment and Froi loved nothing more than knowing he could make Lirah laugh.

‘I recited to him love poetry written by the water god when he was courting the earth goddess. The man had taught me to read, so I rewarded him with words of passion.’

Froi waited, wanting more. ‘What did he do then?’

‘He pleased the King every opportunity he could.’

Froi couldn’t help laughing.

‘And we spent that year with Arjuro and De Lancey. They hated me. I hated them. Gargarin loved us all. We all loved Gargarin and those three lads felt as if nothing evil would ever touch their lives.’

The sadness was back there on her face.

‘Then the slaughter in the godshouse happened and everything changed. Arjuro was arrested and Gargarin was inconsolable. Mark my words, he will never ever love anyone as much as his brother, despite everything.’

There was no envy in her voice, only regret.

‘Gargarin was desperate to find a way to have Arjuro set free and began making plans to take us all to Lumatere.’

‘Lumatere?’ Froi said, surprised.

She nodded. ‘He said they had good rainfall.’

They both exchanged a look and laughed.

‘You can imagine what type of strange man he’ll be as he grows old,’ she said.

They made their way back to the nomad camp and already Froi felt as if he was losing Lirah back to her cold spirit.

‘Did Gargarin believe it was his child you carried?’ he asked.

‘I think he hoped,’ she said. ‘But didn’t care. It’s strange to meet a man who doesn’t judge.’

She looked at Froi, the hard expression back on her face.

‘In light of all our truths, do you wonder how I could imagine that he was a murderer of a blessed woman and a babe?’

‘I think the proof was there,’ Froi said with honesty.

‘I knew how much he wanted Arjuro free,’ she said bitterly. ‘I knew how much he wanted to take me away from the palace. I thought he sold his soul for it all.’

They reached the camp. Gargarin limped towards them.

‘Even with his body straight I can’t imagine him standing out,’ Froi said quietly. ‘Why love him and not a man with more command?’

She stroked the horse’s mane.

‘Don’t ever underestimate him. He’s the most powerful man you’ll ever know.’

Froi approached Quintana where she was sitting up with her hands wrapped around her knees.

‘You’re going to have to ride with me now that we’re a day away from Paladozza,’ he said. ‘If we have to bolt for our lives, I’m the only one who can protect you.’

She nodded and then her eyes met Froi’s. His heart missed a beat. He felt a grief so deep. And a desire so fierce. Up until this moment, he had not known who the true Quintana was. Who they had lost when Arjuro sang his song for Regina of Turla. But now the relief in seeing her cold savage eyes made him feel guilty beyond reckoning.

He helped Quintana mount first and then he settled himself behind her, his arms cautious around her waist. He could tell her belly had grown and he settled his hand flat against it, heard the bloodcurdling snarl in an instant. But Froi refused to remove his hands.

‘I pledged that I would never do anything to hurt him,’ he said. ‘Or you.’

It was some time before her body relaxed against his.

‘Does it hurt to have him growing inside?’ he asked quietly.

She shook her head and he could see the nape of her neck.

He traced a finger along the lettering there, but she shrugged him away with a growl. He remembered what the soothsayer had said about the little savage born to the palace. Without the indignant Reginita calming her, Quintana could not control her fury.

‘Tell me more about this,’ he said, his thumb gently caressing the mark. If he was going to protect her, he needed to know everything that made her who she was.

‘My father had the female lastborns branded,’ she said. ‘His men went from province to province, village to village.’

‘Why?’

‘He said to protect them, but we … I feared for them. Have you seen Lirah’s branding? In Serker, one was branded with the name of those who owned them.’

He wanted to ask her so much more, but couldn’t find the words without sounding like an idiot.

‘Where did you go?’ he asked, his voice husky. He saw her stiffen again. ‘Where did you go when the Reginita was the one who presented herself? Where did she go when you did?’

‘We went nowhere,’ she said. ‘We would never have left each other alone. If I left her alone she’d say strange things. If she left me alone I’d do bad things. So we made a pact. To always be with each other.’

‘What bad things would you do?’ he asked.

She didn’t respond.

‘Did you kill the King or did she?’

Still nothing. He wanted her to acknowledge that it was she who had bed him the night they gave themselves to each other. That his broken spirit and hers had created rather than destroyed something for the first time in their wretched lives.

But there was no more talk from her that day.

They saw Paladozza from a distance and in the early evening light it seemed a magical place of strangely shaped stones and flickering lanterns. Froi glanced at Gargarin and Arjuro, who were sharing the same mount. It was the first time the brothers were returning together to the home that had brought hope into their lives as children.

As was the case with the Citavita and Jidia, there was little beauty outside the province, but a promise of so much from afar. Unlike Jidia, Paladozza had no wall to guard it and stranger still, no army except for a small troupe of soldiers and bodyguards who protected the Provincaro and his family and kept order amongst the people.

‘De Lancey’s great-grandfather wrote that there was something about a stone wall that invited invasion,’ Gargarin said, ‘and something about an army that threatened war to its neighbours.’

‘De Lancey’s great grandfather was an idiot,’ Froi said bluntly.

‘The thing about Paladozza is that it has too much to offer. Art, music, enjoyment of life. Why would the palace want to ruin that by invasion when they are guaranteed a portion of the revenue?’ Arjuro said.

‘You ask such a question at a time like this?’ Froi said, with disbelief. ‘Do you honestly think Bestiano and the army of Nebia are talking each other out of invading Paladozza because they love art and music. Wouldn’t they invade Paladozza instead and enjoy what it has to offer by force?’

‘You don’t know the people of Paladozza,’ Gargarin said. ‘They would never cooperate with an invader.’

‘So we just ride in?’ Froi asked. ‘No papers. No explanation?’

‘None at all.’

Froi stared into the distance, shaking his head with resignation.

‘I suppose before the five days of the unspeakable, Lumatere was such a place. Anyone could come and go to enjoy what it had to offer.’

Arjuro spluttered. ‘I can’t believe you’re comparing Lumatere with Paladozza.’

Froi counted to ten. Arjuro was truly beginning to irritate him.

‘I take great offence at your insult to my kingdom,’ Froi said, trying to keep his tone even.

‘It’s not your kingdom, you little Serker shit from Abroi! Charyn is.’

‘Sagra,’ he muttered under his breath. Quintana twisted around on the horse, her face so close.

‘You’re easy to rile, Lumateran,’ she said.

And there it was. He was no longer referred to as the assassin, so Lumateran would have to do. And he realised that despite the fact that he wanted to toss Arjuro from his mount, and give a sermon on all things wondrous about Lumatere; despite his wish to attempt a mock raid on Paladozza to prove how stupid they truly were; despite wanting to lecture them on the appreciation Isaboe and Finnikin had for all things artistic, what Froi wanted to do above all else was kiss Quintana.

‘Little Serker shit, we’re speaking to you,’ Arjuro called out.

‘Sagra!’

Quintana turned again and he saw the ghost of a smile on her face as he counted to ten, his mouth clenched with fury.

‘I resent that you persist in labelling him a Serker shit and not a shit from Abroi,’ Lirah said coolly.

‘Thought you didn’t care about Serker, Lirah,’ Arjuro mocked.

She shot him a malicious smile.

‘You know what I think, Arjuro?’ she said. ‘I think you have suddenly come to life because De Lancey is beyond those poplar trees and you will always be a panting boy when it comes to Paladozza’s handsome Provincaro.’

Arjuro was furiously silent after that.

Gargarin did what Gargarin did best and sighed. ‘I’m begging you all to allow me at least one night’s rest in Paladozza before De Lancey has us forcibly removed.’

Froi fell in love. He didn’t want to. Not with a Charyn city. But he did because people didn’t stand around in Paladozza and stare suspiciously, they sat around and spoke to each other and laughed. Because at the entrance to the city, they had a town square called the vicinata where the people of Paladozza would take a stroll at night or watch performances or set up market stalls where merchants sold sweet tea and pastries and let Froi and Quintana taste at least five before handing over a coin. Because it was the first time he saw Lirah animated with a stranger as she spoke to an artist about his paintings. Because Gargarin and Arjuro had their heads together over books in a stand. Because for once in Froi’s life everything felt in place.

Similar to the Citavita, the road that ran alongside the entrance to the city was steep, but not as narrow. Unlike the Citavita, the stalls that lined the road were not selling goods for survival, but trinkets and beautifully crafted daggers and swords and fabrics full of colour. When they reached the top where the Provincaro’s residence was built, there was a small piazza where soft-furred hounds were for sale. Close by, a fountain belched out water with great force.

Froi kept an eye on Quintana, who seemed to gravitate towards the hounds, her eyes begging Gargarin for one of their young.

‘No!’ Gargarin said.

Who would have thought their savage cat was soft for puppies?

It made Froi smile, despite the fact that arrows had been pointed at him from the moment they arrived. Gargarin stood beside him looking straight up to where a group of De Lancey’s men were hiding.

‘You were mocking me,’ Froi said.

‘Not quite,’ Gargarin chuckled. ‘One doesn’t exactly have to have a wall surrounding them to be a firm believer in protection. The city is trained to go to ground within minutes of an army approaching. They’ve had drills ever since I can remember.’

Froi was irritated.

‘So how observant are you?’ Gargarin asked.

‘Very. It’s what I’m trained to be.’ Froi paused and looked around, before exchanging a glance with Gargarin. ‘Four behind the first rock shrine we passed and two on the rooftops of the house with red gables. Another two on the balconette of the inn with the image of the boar on the front. They make as though they are playing cards, but they throw down their hand too quickly.’ He turned and pointed up to a grand house above the piazza. ‘Most are up there, at every level and every window. Probably De Lancey’s residence. There are at least six in this square.’

Gargarin nodded. His expression showed appreciation.

A moment later, Froi was flat on his face with four of De Lancey’s Guard searching him.

‘It seems they still haven’t got over the incident in the godshouse hallway,’ Arjuro said, crouching to his level. Quintana was there as well.

The guards dragged Froi to his feet and wordlessly removed his short sword from its scabbard on his back and the daggers from his sleeves.

‘What did you do to them in the godshouse hallway?’ Quintana asked. The guards didn’t seem interested in the others and Froi knew this was personal.

‘He showed them a thing or two about hand-to-hand combat,’ Lirah said. ‘Just before he stood on the piece of granite over the gravina and bargained for Gargarin’s life. While they stood around looking stupid.’ She was angry. ‘He’s bleeding, you fools.’

‘Bargained with what?’ Quintana asked.

‘A ruby ring given to him by his queen,’ Arjuro said as De Lancey’s men shoved Froi forward towards a narrow path that led them to an even higher level of the city.

‘Your queen gave you a ruby ring?’ he heard Quintana ask coldly.

Froi grabbed her hand and gently placed her between himself and one of the Guard. She twisted away, almost breaking his fingers. De Lancey’s men allowed her to step away.

‘You’re leaving her unprotected, you fools,’ Froi said. He shoved away from them and grabbed Quintana roughly by the wrist, pulling her back into the confines of his protection.

‘Now you can pretend you have some control over this situation,’ he told the men pleasantly, only too aware that the true danger lay in Quintana’s fury.

‘Is that what she bribed you with to assassinate me?’ she asked, trying to pull away. This time the guards had the good sense to keep her close.

‘I thought we were finished with the talk of assassination,’ Froi said, his voice weary.

‘Is she your lover?’ she demanded.

They reached a gate and walked into a courtyard with more guards. Surrounding them was a cluster of pristine white dwellings. De Lancey came out onto the balcony of the largest dwelling, holding a lantern in his hand. He stared down at them with irritated dismay.

Grijio’s head appeared beside his father’s. Then they both disappeared and it was a few minutes before they walked out into the courtyard. As usual, De Lancey was impeccably dressed in loose white trousers and a cambric shirt. De Lancey embraced Gargarin and barely acknowledged the rest except for Quintana. His eyes went straight to her belly.

‘Is it true?’ he asked gently.

‘True indeed,’ Gargarin said.

Grijio let out a breath that he seemed to have been holding.

Gargarin grabbed two of De Lancey’s men by the back of their necks and forced them to face Froi. ‘He protects the Princess and you protect him. Does that sound like an order?’

There was nothing sinister about the mood between the Provincaro and his men and they walked away.

‘My swords!’ Froi called out. One of the guards returned his weapons, taking a moment to study the craftsmanship of the short sword.

‘I’ll let you play with it if you’re nice,’ Froi mocked.

It was tense after the guard left. Grijio dared to break the silence, but he chose the wrong person to address.

‘How long has it been, Sir, since you returned to Paladozza?’ he asked Arjuro politely.

‘Nineteen years.’

‘Why so long, Sir?’

‘Because the memory of a farrier whose head was sliced clean from his body kept me away,’ he snarled.

Froi saw De Lancey freeze and Grijio flinch. A look of great pain and remorse passed between father and son. Had they spoken of the part De Lancey played in an innocent man’s death?

‘Come inside,’ De Lancey muttered to Gargarin. ‘I don’t want to kill him in front of my people. They’re not used to the sight of blood.’

They followed De Lancey and Grijio up a flight of stairs that took them into a hall, overwhelming in its beauty. Frescoes of every creation story Froi had ever heard from this land and those of the lands said to be across the great oceans adorned the wall. He even recognised that of Lumatere’s, a luminous goddess emerging from the earth.

De Lancey took them to a dining room where a long table was set up for three.

‘Another five places, Jatta,’ he called out.

There was silent awkwardness again and Grijio held out a hand to Quintana.

‘Would you like to see the songbirds I once wrote to you about?’ he asked.

She hesitated, looking around the room, squinting.

‘Perhaps you can bring the cage in here, Grij?’ De Lancey said.

‘You’ll love them,’ Grijio promised, running out of the room.

De Lancey removed five glasses from a tray. ‘My son –’

‘His son,’ Arjuro mocked under his breath.

De Lancey stared at him, decanter in hand.

‘And what is that supposed to mean?’ De Lancey asked.

Gargarin stood and limped towards the Provincaro. ‘Perhaps I should take over here, De Lancey.’

‘No. I want to know what he meant by that,’ De Lancey said.

Froi stared at Arjuro. He looked so strange and out of place with his dark robes in this pristine room.

‘Your boy out there?’ Arjuro shook his head with disbelief. ‘You disappoint me, De Lancey. We always mocked those fools of men who needed young flesh beneath their body to make them feel powerful.’

Gargarin removed the decanter of wine from De Lancey’s hand.

‘How dare you? My son –’

‘Your son? You have no son,’ Arjuro shouted. ‘Why the pretence? Eighteen years ago, you had no bride. Yet you have a young lover –’

Gargarin wasn’t quick enough to save the glasses. De Lancey dived across the table and grabbed Arjuro around the throat just as the glass hit the ground and shattered. It took Froi and De Lancey’s men and even Lirah and Jatta the serving woman to pull them apart.

Grijio raced in holding a cage of lovebirds, only to see his father being held back.

‘What did he say to rile you so?’ Grijio asked his father, putting the cage aside.

De Lancey adjusted his clothing and was full of decorum once more.

‘He accused De Lancey of taking you as a lover,’ Quintana said calmly.

In some way, there was little difference between this Quintana and the indignant Reginita. They both had the habit of not recognising when to refrain from speaking.

Grijio snorted with laughter at the idea. A young woman hurried into the room, her blonde curls bouncing around her face, her eyes wide with curiosity.

‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘I heard shouting and …’ She saw the glass on the ground and looked at De Lancey for an explanation. Froi noticed that in contrast to the richness of De Lancey’s complexion, his children were fair and blue-eyed.

‘Arjuro accused Father of taking me as a lover and Father took great offence and leapt across the table to strangle Arjuro.’

The girl was as stunned as Grijio.

‘You mean the Priestling’s here and nobody told me.’

She looked around, searching the table. Grijio pointed to Arjuro.

The girl shuddered. ‘All these years I’ve been expecting a demigod. A less decrepit version of Gargarin.’

‘My daughter, Tippideaux,’ De Lancey said dryly. She noticed Gargarin.

‘Welcome back, Sir.’

‘Thank you, Tippideaux,’ Gargarin managed politely, looking somewhat insulted by her image of Arjuro.

Tippideaux eyed Lirah next with a question hanging in the air.

‘Lirah of Serker,’ her brother said, blushing the moment he looked at Lirah.

‘The King’s Serker whore?’ Tippideaux asked, her curls bouncing as she turned to De Lancey for confirmation, as if it could not possibly be true. ‘What a strange night this is, Father.’

‘Lirah of Serker,’ her father corrected, looking wary as Tippideaux’s eyes found Quintana.

Everyone in the room except for the two girls seemed to wince at the thought of what would take place next.

‘Quintana of Charyn,’ Grijio introduced, sending his sister a warning look.

Tippideaux was aghast and held up a hand as if to shield herself from the sight of Quintana. If she wasn’t so awful in her honesty, Froi would have laughed.

‘What a ridiculous way to wear one’s hair,’ she said, horrified. She cast a look down Quintana’s form. ‘And that dress does not suit your figure, Your Highness.’

Grijio cleared his voice. ‘She’s …’ He leaned over and whispered in his sister’s ear.

Finally they had a moment’s reprieve.

Tippideaux of Paladozza fainted.

Later, Froi sat with Gargarin and De Lancey in a large reading room. The walls were stacked high with books and the floor was covered by a thick rug that enabled them to lounge on cushions for comfort.

‘This could cause hysteria,’ De Lancey said. ‘We could have women fainting all over Charyn.’

‘But Tippideaux –’

‘Doesn’t faint,’ De Lancey interrupted. ‘Tippideaux causes people to faint.’

‘What are your thoughts?’ Gargarin asked.

‘The Princess can’t stay here, Gargarin. I have no way of protecting her.’

‘You have no way of protecting your people, you mean,’ Froi snapped. ‘Like you had no intention of bargaining for her life in the Citavita.’

‘No,’ De Lancey said, anger lacing his words. ‘I have no way of protecting her. My people know what to do in an invasion. We go to ground and believe me when I say we can live underground for as long as it takes. But if they come in the dead of the night to take her, there will be nothing I can do.’

Froi looked away in disgust, but he felt De Lancey’s stare piercing into him.

‘Your boy needs to learn manners,’ the Provincaro said. ‘He has little respect.’

‘Only for those who deserve it,’ Froi said.

‘Wonderful. An Arjuro in the making,’ De Lancey muttered.

One of his people came in to serve sweet wine and dried apricots. Gargarin waited for the man to go.

‘Where would you suggest then?’

‘Sebastabol,’ the Provincaro replied. ‘They have the ocean on one side and a wall on the other. It’s impossible to invade. And apart from the fact that the Provincaro is still furious about the kidnapping of Olivier, I think we can convince him to offer the Princess sanctuary.’

‘How discreet are your Guard and servants?’ Froi asked.

‘They’ve been with me a long time. My Guard are the sons of my father’s Guard, and my servants raised me and my children.’

‘Then speak to them tonight and tell them they must not reveal who your guests are,’ Froi said.

De Lancey nodded. ‘But Gargarin and Arjuro could be recognised in the city. Bestiano’s men will certainly know they’re travelling with the Princess.’

‘We’ll stay indoors.’ Gargarin looked up at the books, a ghost of a smile on his face. ‘There’s enough here to keep me happy.’

Froi found Quintana, Grijio, Tippideaux and Arjuro in one of the hallways, leaning on a massive window ledge looking outside. He squeezed in beside Quintana and she stiffened. It seemed a long time since the discussion of the ruby ring and he knew he would have to work hard for her trust.

Down below was Paladozza in all its night-time splendour. It was a province of flickering torches and there was a beauty in the way they danced that soothed him.

Arjuro pointed down to one of the rooftops where an altar was lit by a single flame.

‘I lived at the godshouse school there,’ he said quietly. ‘And every night Gargarin and De Lancey would be at this window and we’d wave good night to each other. I couldn’t bear the idea of going to bed without doing that.’

There was silence for a moment.

‘I wish you’d forgive my father, Priestling,’ Tippideaux said. ‘I think then he’d forgive himself and get on with his life.’

Arjuro grunted.

‘We forgave him,’ Grijio said quietly. ‘Why can’t you?’

‘And what did he do to you?’ Arjuro asked bitterly, turning to them both. ‘Betray you? Make you feel ashamed of him.’

‘When my mother was carrying me in her belly and Tippideaux was two years old, De Lancey paid my father two silver pieces to run a message for him. A message he was frightened to send in person.’

The lastborn studied Arjuro. ‘And I think you know the rest.’

Arjuro closed his eyes as the truth registered. ‘You’re the farrier’s children?’

Tippideaux nodded. ‘Our mother died giving birth to Grij,’ she explained. ‘Father always tells us that what began for him in guilt has become the joy in his life.’

Arjuro looked pained. He turned and walked away. Froi wanted to follow. He suspected that the days to come would break the Priestling.

‘Princess,’ De Lancey suddenly called out from the other room.

‘Yes,’ Quintana and Tippideaux called back in unison, before staring at each other with horror.

After an awkward silence, Tippideaux linked her arm with Quintana’s.

‘We’re going to have to do something about the way you dress, Your Highness. And your hair. I can’t be seen walking around my father’s province with someone looking so strange. I’m well known for my good taste.’

She led Quintana away.

‘And an important rule for you to remember,’ Froi heard her say. ‘In my father’s house there’s room for only one Princess.’

Grijio felt it best that they gave Quintana and Tippideaux time on their own, so Froi sat with him on the roof of Grijio’s chamber and swapped stories of their journey from the Citavita. They both agreed that Froi’s had been the most incident-filled. Later, they joined the girls in Quintana’s chamber and Froi chose an adjoining servant’s quarter to sleep.

‘We can accommodate you in a bigger room of your own,’ Grijio said, looking distastefully around the small space where a cot lay on the ground against the wall.

Froi shook his head. ‘It’s best that I stay close to her.’

They both looked back into the chamber where Tippideaux was attempting to remove snags from Quintana’s hair. Quintana, in turn, had her nails dug deep into Tippideaux’s arm and Froi could see she had already drawn blood. There was a look of great satisfaction on her face.

Both Froi and Grijio sighed.

‘At least Olivier of Paladozza will be visiting in the next few days. He is fun to be around. Tippideaux giggles shamelessly in his presence so she might not be so pedantic about keeping Her Highness … tidy.’

‘Strange days ahead,’ Froi said.

‘Indeed.’

When the others left, Quintana looked up to where Froi stood at the entrance that divided their rooms.

He pointed to her hair. ‘It looks … neat.’

‘If I had known my hair would be such a concern to this kingdom I would have cut it bare like your beloved queen long ago.’

Froi counted to ten.

‘She didn’t give me the ring as a bribe to assassinate you,’ he said, trying not to clench his teeth because it was part of his bond not to. Teeth clenching, Trevanion explained, was a hostile act.

‘It was Zabat who gave the order. And I’m not sure whether you’ve noticed, but I had every opportunity to carry it out and didn’t.’

‘Then why would she give you a ring?’ she demanded.

‘Why would you care?’ he demanded in response.

How could she look so different from the Quintana he met in the palace? Not because of the hair, but because of her expression and her manner and the anger that permeated every part of her being.

‘Did the Queen of Lumatere ask you to bed me as a means to find a way into my father’s chamber?’ she demanded, her tone so cold.

‘Do you want to know the truth?’ he said. ‘Because I doubt you’ll believe anything I say tonight.’

‘Do you want to know my truth?’ she cried. ‘That they called me Quintana the whore for so long and I never felt like one until now!’

Froi felt a proper fiend.

‘Quintana –’

‘Get. Out.’

He stepped up onto the roof above their compound only to find that he wasn’t alone. Arjuro was there nursing a bottle. Froi saw a naked love in the Priestling’s eyes as he stared out into the distance to the mountains of rocks with wind holes carved out of the stone. Tonight they flickered with the flames of campfires built to keep their occupants warm.

‘They’re called the fairy lights of Paladozza,’ Arjuro said.

This wasn’t just another kingdom, it was another world.

A song was sung across the landscape and it made Froi’s skin tingle in its purity. It reminded him of the pleasure he felt every time the Priestking sang the Song of Lumatere, yet he could not remember the words. But here in Paladozza, in the enemy kingdom of Charyn, a song sung once became a tune he walked to.

‘Heard every word,’ Arjuro said quietly, looking at him. ‘Between you and Quintana. You’re falling in love with her. Don’t.’

‘You’re an idiot, Arjuro,’ Froi said, irritated. ‘And you’re drunk, as usual.’

‘Not that much of an idiot and not that drunk. It’s why you had to prove yourself to the Turlans.’

Froi got to his feet, but Arjuro grabbed the cuff of his trousers and dragged Froi down to sit again.

‘If she births this child and they allow her to live, the best plan is that the Provincari allow her to stay in the palace to raise the little King herself. She will be wed to one chosen by the Provincari and it won’t be you, Froi. It won’t be the son of the King’s Serker whore. It won’t be the Lumateran exile who has found himself in these parts. Charyn won’t care who the father of the child is, as long as there is a child. But they will care who brings up the future King. And it won’t be the grandson of a pig farmer from Abroi.’

Froi looked away, but Arjuro grabbed his face between his hands. ‘You are better than anything my brother and I could have imagined,’ he said fiercely. ‘Better than anything Lirah of Serker dreamed of in her boy. Walk away from Quintana, Froi. For her sake and yours. Fall in love with another girl and be a king in your own home.’

Chapter 33

From the carnage in the valley came some kind of order in the mountains for Lucian. Despite the fact that Phaedra chose to continue her work amongst the camp dwellers, Lucian insisted that she live with the Monts and travel down to her people with Jory as her personal guard. On the first day after the slaughter, Lucian rode down with them to see how the cave dwellers were faring. He found the Charynites silent and grieving, frightened by the stories coming out of the Citavita. There was also rumour of plague in the north.

‘It’s just talk,’ Kasabian said as they watched one of the cutthroats steer a cart of bodies towards the road to Alonso. ‘Every once in a while they bring up the plague to frighten us as though there’s not enough in this kingdom to do that.’

‘Well, it’s working,’ Harker said. He was the husband of Jorja and the father of Florenza, who had escaped through the sewers.

Lucian noticed Harker and Kasabian and even Cora treated him differently today, as though compared to those who had savagely cut down Rafuel’s men, Lucian had lost his place at the top of their list of enemies.

‘Where do you think they’re taking the bodies?’ Lucian asked, looking up to where the leader of the cutthroats emerged from one of the caves. The man held up a hand of acknowledgment, walking towards them as though Lucian was an old friend.

‘Who is this Rafuel of Sebastabol?’ Kasabian whispered to Lucian. ‘I don’t remember there ever being any other than the seven.’

‘They’ve … they’d,’ Cora corrected herself, ‘always kept private, those lads did.’

The leader reached them, extending a hand to Lucian.

‘We didn’t get a chance to introduce ourselves yesterday. My name is Donashe of the Citavita,’ he said, an easy manner to his voice so unlike the deadness in his eyes. Lucian ignored the hand. When Donashe of the Citavita saw the Mont archers in the trees he shook his head with regret.

‘You insult us, Mont. We are no threat to you and your people. Why would we risk a battle with Lumatere?’

‘I will remind you of this one more time,’ Lucian said coldly. ‘You had my wife and the women of this camp on their knees. You killed seven defenceless men.’

Lucian watched as Phaedra approached. He sent her away with a toss of his head, wanting her nowhere near these men.

‘Apart from your wife,’ Donashe said, ‘we have the right to do what we want with our people.’

‘And if any harm against your people or mine is committed on Lumateran land,’ Lucian said, ‘then I have the right to do what I want with you.’

Each night on the mountain Lucian and Phaedra sat around Lucian’s table speaking of the day’s events. Rafuel, Tesadora, Jory and Yael would join them.

‘Today,’ Phaedra said, pouring a hot brew into their mugs from over their shoulders, ‘they separated the men and the women.’

‘Never a good sign,’ Tesadora said flatly.

‘In each cave there are at least five or six people, although these numbers will swell because of the new arrivals from the Citavita,’ Phaedra continued.

She had a gift for switching between the two languages with ease although it was less necessary now that Rafuel’s Lumateran had improved.

‘Are they really palace riders?’ Yael asked.

‘No,’ she said. ‘They’re said to be street lords from the Citavita.’

‘Gods,’ Rafuel muttered. Lucian watched the Charynite make room for Phaedra to sit.

‘Street lords are obviously not men of title in your eyes,’ Lucian said to the Charynite.

‘Only titled with the words thug and brigand,’ Rafuel said bitterly. ‘The gods only know what state the Citavita is in.’

Tesadora paled and Lucian knew she was thinking of Froi. They had not heard a word from him since he left at the end of summer and with the slaughter in the valley suggesting a traitor amongst Rafuel’s contacts, they were beginning to fear for their lad’s life.

‘Do you have an idea why these men have chosen to stay in the valley?’ Lucian asked Phaedra.

She nodded. ‘I think someone from the palace has told them to be his eyes and ears out here in the west and that they’ll be rewarded for any information they can find. Their leader Donashe was betrayed by one of his men in the Citavita. He trusts no one and has allegiance only to those in power who will pay him well.’

‘Blessed Sagrami,’ Tesadora muttered.

‘I have an idea,’ Phaedra said, looking at Rafuel, as though he was in charge and not Lucian.

‘About having another spy in the camp with me.’

‘You’re not a spy,’ Lucian pointed out.

She looked up at him, almost vexed. ‘I’m overhearing conversations and retelling them back to you,’ she said. ‘In Charyn, that’s called spying, Luci-en.’

‘Yes Luci-en,’ Tesadora mocked. ‘I believe it goes by the same name in Lumatere.’

‘Don’t even suggest that Tesadora and the girls come down with you,’ Lucian said. ‘Isaboe and Finnikin have forbidden it.’

‘Yes, well, forbidding always works on me,’ Tesadora murmured.

‘Go on with your idea,’ Rafuel instructed Phaedra. Lucian bristled.

‘I heard Donashe complaining that they cannot get any of our men to assist them with keeping order,’ she continued. ‘His men may be armed, but there are too few of them, and sooner or later, there’ll be too many of us.’

‘How can they possible believe any of your men would act as guards against their own people?’ Yael asked.

‘With you Monts in the trees, they know they can’t use force,’ Phaedra said. ‘What they need is for a newcomer to arrive and put up his hand for the work.’

‘A Mont spy,’ Jory said excitedly.

‘Monts speak Charyn like fools, Jor-ee,’ she said. ‘Not possible.’

Phaedra pointed to Rafuel. ‘He would be perfect.’

Rafuel was the only one who thought it was a good idea.

‘They don’t know who I am,’ the Charynite argued. ‘No one does. The other valley dwellers would not have seen me with …’ He swallowed hard. ‘With my lads,’ he said huskily. ‘Let me befriend the murdering bastards. Find out the truth of what’s going on in the Citavita and the rest of Charyn. Then when I have their trust, I can escape. Perhaps try to get to Sebastabol. Find out the fate of your assassin.’

‘No,’ Lucian said.

‘What am I doing here?’ Rafuel asked, rage and grief in his eyes. ‘Nothing. Your lad Froi is out there, who knows where, and I’m hiding on your mountain while they’re slaughtering the finest minds in Charyn!’

‘It’s not my decision to make,’ Lucian said. ‘I’ll take it to the Queen and Finnikin.’

Rafuel shoved back his chair and left the cottage. Lucian knew exactly where the Charynite was heading, as though he was a guest and not a prisoner. He spoke of it with Tesadora later as they stood outside after the others had left.

‘Talk to Japhra, Tesadora,’ he said. ‘Her sharing his bed is madness.’

‘I can’t stop her any more than you can. She was sharing his bed long before now. Even before he took a knife to her throat.’

She secured the shawl around her shoulders, staring out into the darkness. Lucian had underestimated how hard she had taken the death of the Charynites. She’d been quiet these last days, more fragile. He had no idea what to do with a fragile Tesadora. He was even thinking of sending for Perri, but Lucian knew the guard was escorting Lady Celie to Belegonia where she would spend time in the royal court.

‘It doesn’t make sense,’ he persisted. ‘Japhra and Rafuel.’

‘Why should it make sense, Lucian?’ Tesadora argued, irritated.

‘Because Japhra was dragged out of her home and violated by his people.’

‘By one of our people,’ she said fiercely. ‘The impostor King was half-Lumateran. I think we all forget that sometimes.’

‘But why choose a filthy Charynite?’

Tesadora looked over his shoulder and he knew that Phaedra stood there at his cottage door.

‘Good night,’ Tesadora said, walking towards Yata’s home.

Inside, Phaedra was preparing her bed.

‘You still speak of us as if we’re animals,’ she said quietly.

‘You were listening to a conversation that had nothing to do with you,’ he said, his voice cool, placing more logs on the fire.

‘I’m one of those filthy Charynites,’ she said. ‘In what way has it nothing to do with me?’

Later they lay in the dark, Lucian in his bed and Phaedra in her cot on the floor. He wanted to speak. Perhaps tell her that of course he didn’t see her as a filthy Charynite.

‘Japhra told me,’ she said quietly as though she had waited half the night to speak. ’That Rafuel is the first person … the first man she’s encountered who doesn’t see her as broken. He sees her as gifted. In Charyn we call the gifted ones gods’ blessed. Lumaterans seem frightened by the gods’ touched, but Rafuel is in awe of her.’

Lucian was beginning to get used to hearing Phaedra’s small observations at night. Whether Lumateran or Charynite, people revealed things to her that they told no other. More than anything, he realised that he liked her voice in the dark. It made him feel less lonely. Only last night he had spoken to her about life in exile, and had found himself recalling memories cast aside since his father’s death.

And then there was cousin Jory who was experiencing a bout of puppy love for Phaedra that irritated Lucian.

‘Off home now, Jory,’ Lucian said for the fourth night in a row when everyone else had left.

‘We’re still talking, Phaedra and I,’ Jory said. ‘Don’t let us keep you up, Lucian.’

‘Go,’ Lucian ordered. ‘Home.’

Jory rolled his eyes. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow, Phaedra,’ he said.

Lucian shut the door behind the lad. ‘If he’s annoying you, tell him so,’ he said gruffly.

‘He’s very sweet,’ she said, standing to push aside the table where her bed was to be laid out. Lucian ushered her away and placed the table against the wall.

‘Without a word from me the other day I heard him make his apologies to Cora and some of the other women about his past behaviour.’ Phaedra laughed. ‘Except he decided to actually use the word for the body part he exposed, which I think horrified the women even more.’

‘What was the word?’ he asked.

She whispered it and he laughed, wincing.

‘The idiot. They’re a bit raw, our lads.’

One night when Perri was in the mountain, Phaedra came home from the valley, flushed with excitement.

‘I overheard a story today,’ she told Lucian and the others. ‘About the events that took place in the Citavita after the King was murdered.’

‘Was this Donashe in the capital then?’ Rafuel asked, his hands clenched. Lucian had noticed that the Charynite spent his day brooding with fury, wanting nothing more than to kill the men who slaughtered his lads.

‘Indeed he was there. They say he was one of the leaders of the street lords who stormed the palace,’ Phaedra said.

‘Who does he answer to?’ Cousin Yael asked. But Lucian could only think of Froi.

‘Have they seen our lad?’ he demanded.

‘And the Princess?’ Rafuel said.

‘Let her finish the story,’ Tesadora snapped at them all, nodding to Phaedra to continue.

‘It’s hard to believe any of them,’ Phaedra said, ‘but those closest to the King were hanged one by one each day in front of the Citavitans. On the last day the Princess Quintana was dragged out to the podium. A noose was placed around her neck and the Princess’s body did indeed swing.’

Tesadora shuddered. After watching her mother burn at the stake, Lucian imagined that any public execution horrified her, regardless of whether it was the enemy or not. Rafuel buried his head in his hands.

‘But listen,’ Phaedra continued, ‘they say a barrage of arrows flew from one of the trees above, maiming the street lords who stood guard. Then a lad charged through the air, capturing Quintana’s body and freeing it from its noose.’

Phaedra stared around at them all, a feverish excitement in her eyes. ‘Both the Princess and her rescuer have not been seen since.’

‘Froi!’ they all spoke at once and then laughed when they realised they had.

‘But why would Froi waste his time saving the life of someone whose father he was sent to assassinate?’ Lucian asked.

‘I think most people were trapped inside the Citavita after the street lords took over,’ Phaedra explained.

Perri was not convinced. ‘I know the lad. It would have to be something powerful to trap him there.’

‘Or someone,’ Tesadora said with a sigh. ‘They must have formed a bond. Our idiot boy and the Princess. What’s he got himself into?’

Perri shook his head. ‘Not possible. Froi has a bond to his queen.’

Rafuel made a rude sound of amusement. Lucian didn’t like his expression.

‘Deep down,’ the Charynite said, looking at Perri and speaking Charyn slowly, ‘you don’t honestly believe Lumateran blood runs through his veins, do you?’

Phaedra translated his words nervously to Perri.

‘I understood exactly what he said.’ Perri’s tone was ice cold and deadly.

‘Did you really believe that I travelled through five provinces and failed to find a Charynite lad capable of impersonating a lastborn and killing a King?’ Rafuel asked.

Perri leaned forward, his face less than an inch away from Rafuel’s.

‘I’m not going to have to kill you, am I, Charynite?’ he asked quietly. ‘Because I’ll do it in a heartbeat, regardless of who sits at this table.’

‘What is the truth, Charynite?’ Yael asked. ‘What is it you know?’

‘Froi wasn’t impersonating a lastborn,’ Rafuel said.

Lucian was confused now and he could see the others were, as well. Except for Phaedra. He saw the realisation on her face.

‘He is a lastborn,’ she said, stunned.

‘Not just one,’ Rafuel said. ‘He’s the very last of them, I’m sure of it. He could easily be the one to break the curse.’

‘You believe all that talk,’ Lucian scoffed, ‘about lasts and firsts? It’s the talk of a mad Princess.’

‘As I’ve said before, I believe it in the same way you believed that your queen could walk the sleep of her people trapped inside your kingdom,’ Rafuel said.

‘How did you find him?’ Tesadora asked.

Rafuel had the good sense not to look away when speaking to her.

‘I knew that the lastborn was smuggled into Sarnak as a child. I knew his name was Dafar.’

‘But here we are in Lumatere,’ Perri said. ‘And our lad’s name is Froi.’

‘It’s all fate, and hunches,’ Rafuel said. ‘I was a soldier, you see. Forced into the army. Placed at … what did you call it, Mont, that day three years ago when my lieutenant took your people hostage at the Osterian border? The arse-end of the land.’

Perri was quick, his hand around the Charynite’s neck.

‘Let him speak!’ Tesadora shouted, peeling Perri’s fingers from where they gripped Rafuel.

‘You were on the Charyn border when we rescued Froi from the barracks there?’ Lucian demanded, but the answer was on Rafuel’s face. Worse still, Lucian remembered the comfort of that day, the knowledge that his father was walking down that Osterian hill to save the exiles. A week later his father was dead.

In an instant, his fist connected with Rafuel’s face and the Charynite was on the ground. Lucian grabbed his father’s sword hidden against the leg of the table and swung it above his head, ready to strike. He felt Phaedra’s trembling arms around him, holding him back. ‘Please Luci-en. Please,’ she wept.

‘Lucian,’ Yael said quietly.

Phaedra’s hand pressed against the thump of his heartbeat. A small hand, but strong.

‘I fell into the hole they dug into the ground,’ Lucian said, ‘where our people would have been buried. Forgotten. Do you remember, Perri? You and Trevanion helped Finnikin drag me out that night.’

Lucian’s eyes bore into Rafuel’s. The Charynite’s mouth was bleeding.

‘You were going to slaughter our people,’ Lucian said. ‘You were one of them.’

‘Perhaps,’ Rafuel replied. ‘Perhaps I would have followed orders. Perhaps I would have walked away and caught an arrow in my back for deserting my post. I’ll never know. You all turned up and I thought the gods were smiling in the favour of good men for once.’

Lucian could still feel Phaedra’s trembling arms around him. He remembered what she had witnessed days before in the valley. He lowered the sword.

Rafuel sat up, wiping the blood from his mouth.

‘Our squad leader at first believed your lad was the lost heir of Lumatere,’ Rafuel said. ‘Because of the ruby ring and the words he was shouting. Our men beat him up enough to discover that he was no one but a Sarnak thief named Froi.’

Rafuel looked at Tesadora.

‘A thief with strange un-Sarnak eyes and a very un-Sarnak name that reminded me too much of Dafar of Abroi, the lastborn of Charyn, known only to the Priests and those who smuggled him out of danger on the first day of weeping eighteen years ago.’

‘But you did nothing when they beat him,’ Perri said. ‘We found him black and blue and tied up like a dog in your barracks.’

‘There was nothing I could do,’ Rafuel said. ‘But I swore on my life that he’d be rescued that night. Do you Lumaterans honestly believe it would have been that easy to enter the barracks undetected?’ There was a certain look of victory in Rafuel’s eyes. ‘You got him out of there alive because I allowed it to happen. You killed two men on guard and our squad leader because I let it happen. And when I wrote to the Priests of Trist afterwards, they allowed you to have Dafar of Abroi for all of these years because we hadn’t found his purpose yet. We knew he’d be safer with you.’

Perri stared down at the Charynite. ‘You have no idea what you’ve done confusing that boy’s bond,’ he said. ‘If his corpse is returned to us because of the danger you’ve put him in, I will slice you from ear to ear.’

Rafuel gave a rueful smile.

‘Do you expect me to have regrets?’ he asked. ‘When it’s you Lumaterans who speak an unwritten law that makes the most sense to me.’

‘And what is that, Charynite?’ Tesadora asked.

‘What needs to be done.’

Chapter 34

Olivier of Sebastabol arrived a week later, riding into the courtyard of the Provincaro’s compound with a flourish that Froi had failed to capture during his time in the palace impersonating the lastborn.

‘How can someone travel three days and still be in good cheer?’ Grijio asked, laughing up at his friend. Olivier dismounted and Tippideaux was picked up off the ground and swung three times, giggling with delight. She and Olivier could have passed as siblings with their wide blue eyes, but there was a way Tippideaux flirted with Olivier that told Froi she wanted more than a brother’s affection from Sebastabol’s lastborn.

While the Sebastabol guards gathered Olivier’s belongings from one of the pack horses and disappeared inside the compound, the lastborn hesitantly held out a hand to Froi, who willingly shook it.

‘What is the news?’ Grijio asked as they walked inside, noticing the envelope in Olivier’s hand.

‘We’ve heard that Bestiano has a large army camped outside Nebia,’ Tippideaux said. ‘Tell us it’s not true, Olivier.’

‘Perhaps Bestiano is not so bad for Charyn at the moment,’ Olivier said. ‘I sense a more potent enemy at our gates.’

He glanced at Froi questioningly as they crossed into the visitor’s quarters.

‘Then who is the enemy if not Bestiano?’ Froi asked coldly, not liking the implication of his look.

‘The moment Charyn falls into civil war, the surrounding kingdoms will invade as retribution for Lumatere,’ Olivier said. ‘The Belegonian army has gathered outside their borders with Osteria and Lumatere and waits for word from both kingdoms to join them.’

Tippideaux paled and her brother placed an arm around her, sending a warning glance to Olivier, but the lastborn of Sebastabol was oblivious.

‘Most of the people I’ve come across in my travels through Charyn are going underground, fearful of rape and pillage,’ he continued. ‘The Lumaterans will exact their revenge.’

Froi grabbed Olivier by his vest, slamming him against the wall. ‘You dare to say such a thing, Charynite? No Lumateran soldier would take a woman by force.’

Grijio pulled Froi away from Olivier and an uneasy silence settled around them.

‘But will the Lumaterans invade, Froi?’ Grijio asked quietly.

Froi had come to respect this even-tempered lad. ‘I’m not privy to the business of my kingdom,’ he said honestly, ‘but invading Charyn was never part of the plan.’

Froi bent to pick up Olivier’s cap and handed it to the lastborn. Olivier took it, a solemn expression on his face.

‘Pray that you know your queen and her consort well, Lumateran,’ Olivier said. ‘A war between our two kingdoms is the last thing we all want.’

In the drawing room of the guest compound, Olivier was reintroduced to Quintana. His eyes roamed around the room surreptitiously before returning to her stomach.

Tippideaux patted Quintana’s dress around the waist, proudly. Froi saw Quintana’s lips curl. He had taught her a counting exercise the night before so she could control her savage rage when provoked. Froi could tell today that Quintana only made it as far as the number four before twisting Tippideaux’s fingers away.

‘I shaped an outfit to disguise her belly,’ Tippideaux continued, as though nothing had happened. ‘She’ll be showing soon and we don’t want to draw attention to her. It’s all in the panelling, you know.’ She looked at the others for approval. ‘Because of my gift with the needle I’m called on frequently by the fatter women in Paladozza to design their outfits.’

Quintana had developed an impassive stare that she reserved solely for Tippideaux. During the last week Grijio and Froi had taken bets on who of the two girls would look away first. Secretly, Froi was dying to see them both in hand-to-hand combat with a bit of hair pulling thrown in.

‘You look much better than the last time I saw you, Your Highness,’ Olivier said cheerfully.

‘Well I suppose it was because I had a noose around my neck then and they’re always so unattractive,’ she replied, bitingly.

There was a strained silence and then Olivier had the good grace to grin.

‘Then it’s true that you do have a sense of humour,’ he said, placing an arm around both girls. Quintana stiffened and Olivier had the sense to let go.

‘I arrived at the same time as a troupe of actors, and their costumes and props looked a treat. What say you all that we go down to the vicinata and watch the greatest show in the land? That’s what is said on their caravan,’ Olivier said.

Olivier ’s good cheer was contagious and they spent the day browsing through the stalls of the vicinata, talking to the merchants, snacking on corn sticks, looking through the armoury. Froi noticed that Quintana was drawn to colourful things, and he watched her glance through the stalls where rolls of brightly hued cloth and carpets adorned the space. Olivier dragged Froi and Grijio to the window of an ale house, known to be the most disreputable in town.

‘We’ll steal away and come here one of these nights without your father’s men knowing, Grij,’ Olivier said. ‘It will be wild.’

Later they stood in the crowd watching the actors perform and Froi’s sides ached from the laughter. He heard Quintana’s laughter and it was not the endearing snorts of the Reginita, but a sweet sound to his ears all the same. He managed to push closer to the front and place her before him, his chin leaning on her head, his arms around her to protect her against the jostling of the crowd.

The troupe was made up of five men who each played a number of characters. They covered everything from a witless fool’s amorous adventures, to the comic feud between two neighbours over a pig named Herbert.

A few moments into another skit Froi knew there was something wrong.

‘Let us go,’ Tippideaux said, urgently grabbing Quintana’s arm. ‘My father said not to be late for dinner.’

‘Can we not wait for the next to finish?’ Quintana resisted.

‘Let us go now!’ Tippideaux pulled her away and when Froi saw one of the troupe actors place a straw-coloured broomstick of hair on his head, Froi understood Tippideaux’s persistence. Another actor wore a crown and what they did on stage was lewd. The crowd laughed at their bawdy antics and Froi wished he was with the indignant Reginita. She would not have understood what she saw, but Quintana did and he could see the tears of rage and hurt in her eyes. He saw the shudder of her body.

Don’t let her think of Bestiano, he prayed to the most merciful of the gods, if one existed in Quintana’s life.

Few words were spoken on their walk back to De Lancey’s compound other than Quintana’s ragged breathing and mutterings. But then her mutters became words. Numbers.

And then the numbers became grunts and she was weeping with fury, tearing at her hair. This was Quintana without the Reginita to calm her down. All rage with little reason.

‘We need to do something,’ Grijio said as one or two of De Lancey’s neighbours emerged from their homes to see what the commotion was about. ‘If they suspect who she is …’

By now Quintana was shouting the words, pounding at her head with her palm. Froi grabbed hold of her, but she slipped out of his hands and onto the ground, crawling into a crevice in a wall, pressing herself into it as though she wanted to disappear inside the stone. He knelt, taking her face between his hands.

‘It doesn’t go away if I count,’ she sobbed. ‘Nothing goes away.’

‘Then we’ll find something else,’ he said gently and placed his lips against her ear. ‘Think of her,’ he whispered. ‘What would she say to you? Think of the Reginita.’

And he watched as the fight left her body and only then did he look up at the others and see the horror and the sorrow in their expressions. Here was the mother of their heir. Their cursebreaker. Did Charyn stand a chance?

‘Do they think I’m that hideous?’ Quintana finally asked in a broken voice. Her words made Froi’s heart twist even more. ‘Do they think I would have done such things with my father?’

The others chorused their no emphatically.

‘Father has probably mentioned that I’m a genius at writing plays myself,’ Tippideaux said. ‘Well, when I have the time I will pen the true story of Quintana of Charyn.’ She gave Quintana a determined nod. ‘And of her beautiful and faithful friend, Tippideaux of Paladozza.’

Tippideaux held a hand out to her. Quintana studied it. Froi feared she would bite the fingers off to the bone.

‘Will Quintana of Charyn be beautiful in your play?’ she asked, quietly.

Tippideaux thought for a moment.

Just say yes, Tippideaux.

‘She’ll be strangely intriguing,’ Tippideaux said, her eyes faraway. ‘With a touch of mystery and savagery that will bewitch only the bold and courageous amongst us.’

Froi and the lads held their breaths.

After what seemed an eternity, Quintana took Tippideaux’s hand.

He spent each morning on the roof with Lirah watching the sunrise. Most times it was to observe if Bestiano’s riders were heading for Paladozza. Despite there being no province walls, the land outside to the south was flat and Nebia’s powerful army would be seen from miles away.

In Paladozza a peculiar world of colour existed on the roofs of people’s houses. Unlike Lumatere with its lush greens and golds, here the strange landscape of stone cones and cave houses was coloured in shades of light pink and soft brown and white. Once upon a time, stone had been stone to Froi. In Paladozza it had a beauty he was beginning to love.

One morning, De Lancey joined them and they sat appreciating the view.

‘They say a volcano erupted thousands upon thousands of years ago,’ De Lancey explained. ‘And the ash and rain water made that stone. It’s called tufa.’ He pointed to one stone house and then another. ‘That one is made of lava and that one out of sandstone. It’s why they differ in colour.’

Lirah shivered and Froi shared his blanket with her, placing it around them. They sat shoulder to shoulder in silence awhile.

‘Where’s Gar?’ De Lancey asked Lirah.

‘Sleeping,’ she said, getting to her feet and yawning. ‘Planning armies. Building water meadows. Writing letters.’

She tapped Froi on the head. ‘Gargarin said you write down ideas faster than anyone he knows. Make yourself useful today.’

She disappeared down the steps into the house.

‘It’s a good thing that Lirah and Gargarin are on speaking terms,’ Froi said. ‘For the sake of everyone.’

De Lancey gave a short laugh. ‘I think they’re doing more than speaking, Froi.’

Froi could hardly comprehend the idea of Lirah with Gargarin. Perhaps when they were young, but not now. De Lancey surely had it wrong.

‘Will the brothers travel home to Abroi?’ Froi asked.

‘Abroi?’ De Lancey said with disgust. ‘Abroi is a swamp of ignorance and you don’t want Arjuro anywhere near that madman father of theirs. This is their home. And it’s the home of anyone who belongs to them. You and Lirah included.’

‘I have a home,’ Froi said.

‘But does it speak to you in the same way Paladozza does?’

Froi turned to him, exasperated. ‘Speak? Sing? What is it with you Charynites?’

De Lancey stared at him, shrewdly. ‘Do you honestly think that the Queen of Lumatere followed a map home? She followed a song. Does Lumatere sing to you, Dafar?’

They were interrupted by the sound of horse hooves clattering on the courtyard stone and they stood to see who it was.

‘At this time of the morning it could only be a messenger,’ De Lancey said, a worried expression on his face. ‘Go find Gargarin.’

Froi knocked on Gargarin’s door and entered. In a corner, Lirah was tying a brightly coloured braid of rope around the hips of her simple gown. Gargarin was at a desk, placing a wax seal on a letter. Only then did it occur to Froi that Lirah and Gargarin were sharing a chamber. He felt an anger beyond reckoning. Was he the last to know? Was Froi merely an insignificant part of their past, one they could easily overlook? Especially now that they were thinking of no one but themselves. He hated them both: Lirah for being stupid enough to believe Gargarin cared about anything, and Gargarin because it was easy to hate Gargarin, the weak and useless cripple.

‘De Lancey wants you in the main hall,’ he snapped before walking out.

Grijio and Olivier arrived at the same time as Gargarin, all waiting to hear the news.

‘A letter from the Provincaro of Sebastabol on behalf of the Ambassador of the principality of Avanosh,’ De Lancey said.

‘Where’s Avanosh?’ Froi asked. He tried to recall whether the Priestking or Rafuel had mentioned it.

‘It’s a small island,’ Grijio explained. ‘Off the coast of Sebastabol in the Ocean of Skuldenore.’

‘Closer to the border with Sorel than to Paladozza,’ Olivier said. ‘Those of Avanosh are the greatest bellyachers about who has the right to the throne based on an incident hundreds of years ago. In the past they’ve sought the support of Sorel to secure the throne of Charyn.’

‘Do they have the right?’ Froi asked.

Gargarin shook his head. ‘Not any more. But they are of royal blood dating back to the Ancients and they are considered Charynites.’

‘Then what do they want?’ Lirah asked.

De Lancey turned back to the letter.

‘According to the Provincaro of Sebastabol, Feliciano of Avanosh is the perfect candidate to be the Queen’s Consort. A titled duke, unaligned.’

Froi stared from De Lancey to Gargarin, stunned. A Consort for Quintana?

‘The Provincaro says that we need stability within our kingdom and the only way to achieve that is to appoint a neutral Consort,’ De Lancey said. ‘We also need to keep Belegonia and Lumatere from invading and what better way than to have a Consort with strong ties to a powerful neighbour like Sorel?’

‘Gods,’ Gargarin muttered.

‘That’s not all,’ De Lancey said. ‘The Avanosh entourage are a week’s ride from us as we speak.’

Chapter 35

Phaedra was pleased that the Queen of Lumatere had released Rafuel to the valley as a spy. Pleased, and somewhat flattered, because it was Phaedra’s plan they chose to follow, detail by detail. Rafuel would be escorted by the Monts downstream and at a safe enough distance he would cross and join Charynite exiles travelling towards the valley from Alonso. Rafuel was to ensure he impressed the camp leaders and was to find out more about what was taking place in the Citavita and the rest of the kingdom.

A week later, Rafuel and Donashe entered the cave where Phaedra was tending to a dying man from the valley. She felt their eyes on her as she kneaded the old man’s tired bones, but she refused to acknowledge them and continued her work. The old man had said he liked her voice, so Phaedra spoke to him stories passed down to her in Alonso. She thought it sad and strangely wrong that her voice could be the last he heard in this world. When she was satisfied that the man slept, she stood to face Donashe.

‘I demand that his wife is moved into this cave with him,’ she said, trying to keep her voice strong and determined.

‘Who is she to demand?’ Rafuel asked coldly. It was as though Phaedra was facing a stranger and not the Rafuel she had come to know.

‘She’s the wife of the Mont leader,’ Donashe said, his eyes glancing at Jory, who was instantly at Phaedra’s side.

Rafuel whispered something in Donashe’s ear and both men laughed. Phaedra’s face reddened with humiliation. She would have liked to demand what had been said, but instead she pointed back to the old man.

‘He’s dying. Where is your compassion?’

Donashe seemed irritated by her pleas, but he agreed to let the man’s wife share the cave. Phaedra watched the camp leader place an arm around Rafuel’s shoulder as they walked away. ‘To be a good camp leader, you have to let them think they’ve won a few rounds, Matteo.’

‘Our Matteo was convincing,’ Phaedra said to Jory a little uneasily as they rode home that day.

‘Too convincing,’ Jory muttered.

Phaedra continued to stay with Lucian on the mountain. It had always seemed strange to her that for one who led the Monts, Lucian kept his dwelling small. Yata, on the other hand, lived in what the Lumaterans referred to as the royal residence. It had many rooms and had once accommodated the whole of the Queen’s family when she was a child and spent the holy days in the mountains. It was secure and perfect for when the Queen and her consort and child came to stay. Lucian’s cottage had two rooms. When Phaedra lived here as his wife, she had shared his bed, or a corner of it anyway. Now, she slept on a cot near the fire.

Some mornings she’d wake and his bed would be empty and she’d wonder which of the Mont girls he lay with. On one such morning a man named Orly came knocking about a missing bull and she found herself traipsing through the mountain searching for the animal. When they dragged Orly’s bull back to his stable, Phaedra noticed that the cow shed had been left open, and pointed it out to him.

‘Didn’t understand a word you said,’ he said. ‘You should learn how to speak proper, like.’

‘I said,’ Phaedra repeated slowly, ‘that the door of your cow shed is open.’

He stared back at the shed. ‘The cow belongs to my wife,’ he said, irritated. ‘Fool of a woman.’

She saw his wife standing on the porch watching them both and, with a wave of her frozen hand, Phaedra walked away, feeling cold and miserable.

When she arrived back at the cottage it was still empty. The fire had died down and the room was cold. Try as she might, Phaedra couldn’t start it up again and she felt as useless as when she lived here as his wife. Lucian arrived soon after, grunting with displeasure at how cold the room was.

‘You couldn’t have made some porridge, I suppose?’ he snapped.

She watched him grab a bowl of cold stew she had left from the night before.

‘Your shalamar sent it over yesterday,’ she said, not having anything else to say.

‘Yata,’ he corrected, wolfing down his food. She noticed that when he was tired and cold and hungry he had the worst temper.

‘We say shalamar,’ she said.

‘Well, that’s a ridiculous word, and we say yata,’ he said firmly, the discussion finished as far as he was concerned.

‘And the word for shalamon?’ she persisted.

He refused to respond.

‘That’s our word for grandfather,’ she said.

‘Pardu,’ he muttered. ‘Are you happy now?’

‘A strange word.’

‘Not so strange at all,’ he said.

‘And you know better, do you?’ she asked, feeling her temper rise despite the fact that Phaedra had never been known as one with a temper.

‘Well, I’m not the one unable to say simple words,’ he said.

‘Well, actually, you are,’ she said, sitting opposite him.

‘Me?’ he asked, putting down his spoon and finally giving her his attention.

‘You say “Phedra” and my name is Phaedra.’

‘I do not. I say Phaedra,’ he insisted.

‘To your ears it sounds like Phaedra; to a Charynite it sounds like Phedra.’

‘I’ll call you whatever I like,’ he muttered.

‘Of course you will. You’re the King of the mountain. Why wouldn’t you do as you please?’

She stood up and searched for her shawl, preferring to be anywhere else.

‘King of the mountain?’ he shouted. ‘I’ve just spent a night birthing a foal. I’m frozen to the bone, my food is cold and it seems as if my wife has been bitten by a viper.’

‘I’m not your wife,’ she cried. ‘I’m just a fool Charynite girl you sent back, ridiculed by your people with not so much as a thank you for traipsing half the morning looking for that wretched bull.’

Lucian sighed. ‘Orly was here? You should have sent him away.’

‘Yes, that would have made me more well-liked than I already am.’

He looked at her hands clutching her shawl and then he sighed again, stood up and left the cottage. A little while later he returned with four small logs.

‘Come here,’ he said gruffly, and he showed her how to build a fire and light it. ‘This cold will only get worse and you can’t go around freezing half to death.’

That day in the valley she felt Rafuel’s eyes on her, whispering to Donashe and pointing her way. Later, when she was at the stream with some of the other camp dwellers, Rafuel approached.

‘You,’ he snapped, pointing to Phaedra. ’I want a word. There’s a set of rules you need to follow.’

Kasabian and Harker stood and Phaedra saw them turn to Jory.

‘Don’t let her out of your sight,’ Harker snapped. Both men were less than forgiving of Jory and his Mont cousins’ nightly excursions into their camp weeks ago. Jory had responded in turn by choosing to charm the Charynite women. ‘They don’t even know how to fight,’ he muttered once to Phaedra about the men. ‘So who am I to care what they think of me?’ But deep down she could tell the lad was desperate for their approval.

Phaedra waved their concerns away and followed Rafuel along the stream, with Jory trailing behind.

‘They are aligned to no one,’ Rafuel said quietly. ‘They’re scum who are travelling through the provinces searching for lastborn women after Quintana of Charyn’s failure at the coming of her age. On the road between the Citavita and Sebastabol these men were stopped by the King’s riders, or I should say, Bestiano of Nebia’s men. They were told that in the valley at the foot of the Lumateran mountains, a group of landless Charynites were camped and that amongst them were seven rebels led by Rafuel of Sebastabol. They knew this information because Bestiano’s men had apprehended a spy who I believe was Zabat.

‘Never,’ Rafuel said, grabbing Jory by the ear to bring him closer and to give the impression that he was reprimanding the Mont, ‘trust a whinger from Nebia.’

‘Matteo!’ Donashe called out. Rafuel and Phaedra turned and the man shook his head. ‘Don’t touch the Mont. We can’t have trouble.’

Jory pushed him away, but hid a smile all the same. ‘Yes, don’t touch the Mont, Matteo,’ he mocked.

‘Do you think they’re spying on Lumatere?’ Phaedra asked. ‘Or are they truly after you?’

‘These men are cutthroat opportunists. They have purpose. They think, much like Matteo of Jidia, that if they do the right thing they will be rewarded in the new Charyn. Perhaps be appointed palace riders. Here in the valley is the closest they can come to proving themselves. This land we stand on may be Lumatere’s, but they see the people as theirs to do with as they will. It’s all about power, Phaedra. Always about power and who grabs it first.’

‘Then tell your people to leave,’ Jory said. ‘They’d be idiots to stay. No one’s keeping them imprisoned.’

Rafuel stared at Jory as if he could not believe what he was hearing. ‘Do you not understand, Mont? These people have nowhere else to go. They will endure anything for the slightest chance that your queen will let them into Lumatere.’

Most nights, the Monts came to Lucian with all sorts of favours and complaints. As Phaedra fell asleep that night, she heard the slur of tiredness in Lucian’s voice and knew that if she was his proper wife, she’d order them all home. The next morning she heard Orly call out for his bull again and this time she hurried to the door before the man came knocking.

‘He’s sleeping,’ she said firmly.

Orly tried to look over her shoulder.

‘Then wake him up.’

‘Why, when I was able to help yesterday?’ she said briskly, grabbing her shawl. ‘Let’s go. We’re wasting time.’

This time Orly’s wife Lotte was with them. Her cow had managed to escape as well.

‘I hope wherever they are, they’re together,’ Lotte said.

‘Who?’ Phaedra asked.

‘Why, Bert and Gert. Who do you think, idiot girl?’

Later, when they found the bull and cow in two separate fields, Phaedra saw Orly’s relief and Lotte’s sadness.

‘It’s your people,’ Orly snapped at Phaedra as he placed a plank across the stable door. ‘Coming up this mountain and making mischief.’

Phaedra walked away, but made it as far as the stone hedge of their land before returning, walking straight into their cottage where husband and wife were warming their hands over the fire.

‘Firstly, I’m not an idiot girl,’ she said firmly, ‘so don’t call me one again, and secondly, my people don’t have the strength for mischief. The only thing they have the strength for is breathing. And another thing. If a bull went missing every morning amongst the people of my province, neighbours would help each other. Where are your people now, Orly of the Monts? What kind of place is this if the only help you can find is from an idiot girl who belongs to your enemy?’

Phaedra turned and walked straight into Lucian who stood at the entrance of Orly’s cottage, staring at the three of them, a bear of a man in his coat of fleece and his fierce dark eyes. No one spoke and he stepped aside. Phaedra bristled at the silent order. Her Mont husband wanted her out of his sight.

When she reached the stone hedge for the second time that morning, Lucian was there beside her. ‘Now let me do the counting,’ he said and suddenly she felt the weight of his fleece on her shoulders and a comfort beyond imagining because it was his gruff voice that warmed her as much as his coat. ‘Firstly, these are the mountains, Phaedra. People freeze in winter up here, so you don’t leave the cottage in all hours of the morning wearing a shawl to protect you from the cold. Understood?’

She could smell the bread wafting out from the baker’s cottage. The Monts were finally beginning to awaken, the start of another miserable day for Phaedra.

‘Secondly, Orly’s bull is my problem, not yours. Understood?’

Phaedra didn’t respond.

‘And thirdly, you’ll have to forgive my people. They are still grieving their leader.’

She stopped and looked up at him. ‘Their leader is living,’ she said firmly. ‘He’s standing in front of me and the only person in this mountain who is not acknowledging him these days is the leader himself.’

Phaedra saw Lucian’s fury first and then she saw his eyes water. Was it from the cold bite of the morning air or something else?

‘I’ll never be as good as him,’ he said. ‘They know that. We all know that.’

She shook her head. ‘Speak the truth, Lucian.’

‘What truth?’ he asked angrily.

‘You don’t want him here because of the mistakes you think you’re making. You want him here because you loved him and he’s gone and you can’t say those words out loud.’

He stared down at her, but Phaedra refused to look away. And then he moved closer, his lips close to her ears as though he was afraid the mountain itself would hear his words.

‘Sometimes … I miss him so much I can barely breathe.’

He joined them in the valley later that day and Phaedra took him for a tour of the caves. He was polite and attentive to all he met, including Kasabian and Harker who she felt Lucian was trying hard to impress after Jory’s reports about how cold and unforgiving the men of the valley were to Mont lads. Phaedra could tell her Mont husband liked Kasabian best. Kasabian reminded Phaedra of her own father and he was gentle in a way that his sister Cora wasn’t. But Cora was trustworthy and worked hard. Both were good people who Phaedra believed had much to offer Lumatere if they were ever allowed to enter.

After a brief, terse conversation with Donashe and his camp leaders, Phaedra took Lucian to Cora’s cave. There was always tension in that dwelling because Cora disliked Florenza and Jorja. She believed they had airs and graces despite their journey and referred to them as the Ladies of the Sewer. There was a lazy girl named Ginny, who Cora called Lady Lazy Muck. Cora had a name for everyone.

‘I want to be placed with my brother,’ she snapped.

‘You know they’ll never allow that, Cora,’ Phaedra said patiently.

There was a new woman in the cave. An older woman who came from the north and never stopped speaking. Yet no one understood a word she spoke.

‘Dialect,’ Phaedra explained to Lucian.

‘Her mouth never stops,’ Cora muttered.

The woman from the north spoke to Lucian, and Phaedra wanted to giggle, watching him nod seriously. ‘Hmm, yes,’ he would say every once in a while.

Outside he stared at Phaedra, slightly stunned.

‘If you ever take me into that cave again, I’ll lock you up with my great-aunts, Yata’s sisters!’

‘You would not enjoy that, Phaedra,’ Jory piped up, as they walked back to the Lumateran side of the stream.

‘Rafuel said the same about that cave,’ Phaedra laughed. ‘He calls it the cave of she-devils. The women hate him most of all.’

‘They don’t hate me,’ Jory boasted. ‘I can charm Angry Cora. She says she hates idiots and everyone she meets is an idiot.’

When they reached the stream, Lucian grabbed Phaedra around the waist, lifting her over the water so her feet wouldn’t get wet. She had seen him do the same thing with his Mont cousins and Tesadora. Phaedra’s face flamed when he did it for her, so absently.

‘You’re a good spy too,’ Lucian said to her. ‘Except spies usually have more important subjects than women named Lady Lazy Muck and Angry Cora and the Ladies of the Sewer.’

She found herself laughing again and he looked at her strangely.

‘You don’t do that enough,’ he said quietly.

It was strange what Phaedra became used to living amongst the Monts. She liked their directness and lack of pretence. She liked the way they worshipped in the open at shrines that could be planted at the side of the road wherever someone pleased, rather than godshouses that were built thousands upon thousands of years ago. She liked having her hair braided by Yata, who once took Phaedra’s face in her hand.

‘I had granddaughters with eyes as pretty as yours once,’ the old woman said sadly, and Phaedra knew she was speaking of the Queen’s sisters who were slain in the palace all those years ago.

What Phaedra didn’t like was their food. It was very plain and it lacked taste.

Finnikin of Lumatere, his father and Perri the Savage were visiting one night with Tesadora, and the Consort noticed Phaedra’s lack of appetite.

‘Best food I ever had was in Yutlind,’ he said.

‘The best food in the land is in Paladozza,’ Phaedra insisted.

‘You’ve been there?’ he asked with excitement.

She nodded. ‘The Provincaro invited my father during one of Charyn’s very brief moments of peace between the Provincari. He is very handsome, De Lancey of Paladozza is.’

‘Then why didn’t your father marry you to him?’ Lucian asked, sharply.

‘Because he’s old. Nearing at least forty-five years.’

The Captain and Perri looked up, mid-mouthful, and exchanged looks. Tesadora laughed at their reaction.

‘Regardless, the Provincaro De Lancey loves the company of women, but not in his bed,’ Phaedra said.

‘Ahhh,’ they all said, intrigued.

It was late in the night when everyone left. The Consort and the Captain were staying in Yata’s home with Perri and Tesadora.

‘They asked quite some questions tonight,’ Lucian said from his bed. ‘I never know what they’re up to.’

‘Should the valley dwellers be worried?’ she asked.

‘No, but I get a sense that my cousin Isaboe wants to travel down the mountain again, so perhaps Trevanion and Perri are ensuring it is safe for her.’

‘If they won’t allow Tesadora amongst Donashe and his men, I can’t imagine them permitting the Queen.’

Lucian gave a short laugh. ‘The Queen doesn’t wait for permission.’

Phaedra thought about it. ‘It would mean so much to the valley dwellers if she visited, especially with the child. That precious girl would lift their spirits for days and days.’

‘Try having Jasmina for days and days and she’ll lift your temper,’ he said with a laugh. ‘She’s a minx, that one.’

‘Sometimes I imagine Charyn children in the valley,’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t that change everything? Closer to Lumatere, I wonder if the children would feel a stronger kinship to it.’

‘Will you ever feel that?’ he asked quietly.

‘Never. Regardless of where I live, I will always know I’m a Charynite. Even with the shame of our past, I’ve never wanted to be anything else, and I pray to the gods that one day I will love the person who sits on our throne as much as you all love your queen and her consort.’

And that was how Phaedra became part of two worlds. Up in the mountains, if it wasn’t the Queen’s Guard who wanted to speak to her, it was the ladies of the Flatlands who were keen to send her seed for the valley’s vegetable patches. She met the Queen’s First Man one night when he wanted to see the census she had been chronicling. Sir Topher, the most distinguished man she’d ever met apart from De Lancey of Paladozza, wanted the names of those who were landless first and promised to take their names back to the Queen. Perhaps soon the first of the valley dwellers would be given permission to enter Lumatere.

Down in the valley, more people arrived and there was talk of a plague in the northern province, causing fear to flare up amongst the people again. From her cot on the ground Phaedra spoke to Lucian about her memories of the plague from years past. She became used to the strange conversations where she spoke Charynite and he responded in Lumateran, except now it was done out of convenience rather than spite. And it was on those nights that she imagined that she loved him and it shamed her that he did not love her in return. He was the only man she had laid with and she hadn’t enjoyed the experience. But it was this Lucian that she had learned to love.

Despite his wishes, Phaedra still found herself some mornings searching with Orly and Lotte for Bert. Lotte had made Phaedra gloves fashioned out of cowhide that kept her fingers from freezing. After their search each time, Phaedra would sip tea with Lotte whilst Orly built a shrine in the paddock thanking the goddess that Bert was returned to them once again.

‘He’ll run out of room for shrines,’ Phaedra said, as they watched him from the window of the cottage.

‘Perhaps if Bert mated Gert there’d be peace on the mountain,’ Lotte said quietly.

Phaedra looked at her. After a moment she smiled and then she laughed. Lotte was surprised at first and then she laughed with her.

‘Oh Lotte. What have you been up to all this time?’

‘Do you promise not to get angry?’ she asked Lucian as they travelled down the mountain that morning. Jory was riding ahead.

‘I never make promises I can’t keep,’ he said.

She sighed. How many times had she heard those words from her father?

‘Luci-en, I think Lotte has been letting the bull out of its pen. It’s why no one has been caught yet or confessed. Orly won’t let Gert breed with Bert, and his wife has been hoping that if both animals are free to wander, they’ll find each other.’

Lucian turned in the saddle to look at her, stunned, and then he shook his head and laughed.

‘I have the smartest wife in Lumatere and Charyn combined.’

Chapter 36

The talk of a Consort made Froi tense. It made Quintana tense. She called him fool more often. He called her a cold-hearted cat. If she wandered away from his protection in the vicinata, he would snap at her. If she walked away and Froi didn’t follow, she’d accuse him of placing her life in danger. If she removed her clothing in front of him at night, as though he were some eunuch, his words would be cruel. If she told him to turn the other way or go to his quarters while she undressed, he’d remind her that there was no part of her body he was yet to see. In the palace when Princess Indignant had been about, she would break the tension between them. He realised that the desire between Quintana and Froi had always been there and the Reginita had balanced it with her innocence.

‘Bed the girl,’ Olivier said with exasperation. ‘Put us out of our misery.’

And then there was the matter between Arjuro and De Lancey. Froi feared what the friction would lead to and wished that Gargarin would intervene, but now more than ever, the gulf between the brothers was wide and the hurt too deep.

‘What do you think they’re talking about?’ Grijio asked one morning as they peered out of the grand window of the hallway into De Lancey’s private garden. Tippideaux was squeezed in between them.

‘Whatever it is, it’s making Arjuro angry,’ Froi said.

‘He’s not choking your father, is he, Grij?’ Olivier asked.

‘Gods. You don’t think they’re kissing, do you?’

‘That’s a shove.’

‘Looks like an embrace from here.’

All agreed the next moment was a shove.

‘How appalling!’ Tippideaux said. ‘I think the Priestling just punched Father in the mouth. Where are the guards?’

They heard a sound behind them and all four were reluctant to move away, but turned to Quintana.

‘I’m looking for Lirah,’ she said coolly. ‘What are you doing up there?’

‘We’re spying on Father and Arjuro,’ Grijio said, making room for her. ‘Care to join us?’

‘Don’t be so rude. Get down all of you.’

‘That’s definitely kissing,’ Olivier said with authority, having turned back to the window.

Quintana pushed herself in beside Froi, shoving Tippideaux to the side. She had never been able to resist the drama Arjuro brought into their lives, whether it was on the balconette of the palace or here in De Lancey’s compound.

‘Did you see the way she did that as if she owns this window?’ Tippideaux sniffed.

Quintana stood on tiptoes beside them. Froi hoisted her up around her legs. She placed her arm around his shoulders for support.

They all watched the two below for a while. For a long while, actually, and Froi heard Tippideaux sigh because it was romantic in a strange way. Froi wanted them to keep on watching because if he turned his head a fraction it would be buried in Quintana’s neck, an area of her body he had ignored all those nights they shared a bed. She looked down at him and he dared not look away. She was all twitches and gold-speckled brown eyes today.

‘I caught Gargarin and Lirah kissing in such a way one morning,’ she said. ‘As if they wanted to consume the soul of the other.’

The mention of Lirah and Gargarin infuriated Froi and he let her go abruptly and walked away.

He spent the rest of the day in the library penning a letter to Finnikin and Isaboe. If there was ever a chance of getting something to them it could be from Paladozza. Gargarin entered later and Froi stood to gather his pages, wordlessly leaving Gargarin’s quill on the desk where he found it.

‘Keep it. I have another,’ Gargarin said. ‘I’ve not seen you all these days, Froi. Stay so we can talk.’

‘About rainfall?’ Froi said, sarcastically. ‘And garderobes?’

Gargarin gave him one of his piercing stares. ‘Ah, so we’re in that type of a mood.’

‘Not in any mood at all,’ Froi shrugged nonchalantly, walking to the door.

‘We need to build her an army,’ Gargarin said.

Froi stopped.

‘This business with the Avanosh people disturbs me,’ Gargarin continued. ‘The last thing we want is Sorel running our country through a puppet Consort.’

‘Knowing Sorel, they probably will,’ Froi said.

Gargarin looked bemused. ‘You’re an expert on Sorel, are you?’

Froi walked back to where Gargarin had laid out a map on the desk and watched as he marked the provinces they could trust. There weren’t many.

‘Let’s just say I was a guest in Sorel,’ Froi said. ‘A guest of one of their slave traders.’

Gargarin’s hand froze.

‘The slave traders of Sorel?’ Gargarin asked, his eyes registering the horror of what Froi was saying. The stories of the traders and the fate of their victims were well known across the land.

Froi shrugged again and looked away.

‘Don’t tell Lirah,’ Gargarin said quietly.

Froi shook his head, not believing what he was hearing. ‘Wouldn’t want to upset Lirah with my sordid past.’

Gargarin hissed with frustration. ‘Froi, what has got into you? Be angry at me, but don’t shut her out. If she doesn’t know how to speak the right words with you, it’s because she doesn’t know what you want from her.’

‘But she knows what you want from her, doesn’t she, Gargarin?’ Froi spat.

Arjuro walked into the room, putting an end to the discussion. Froi could see that the Priestling’s body was tense with fury as he reached Gargarin and examined his map.

‘So where to next?’ Arjuro demanded to know.

Gargarin didn’t respond, but rolled up the chart quietly.

‘You’re in a hurry, are you?’ Arjuro asked. ‘To walk away?’

The brothers’ eyes were fixed on each other with bitter regret. At that moment they could not have looked more different.

‘You think I don’t see it every time you look at me?’ Arjuro asked. ‘The contempt.’

‘Not contempt, brother. Just sadness,’ Gargarin said, limping away from both Froi and Arjuro.

Arjuro grabbed Gargarin and threw him to the wall. ‘Say the words,’ Arjuro hissed. ‘Say you despise me for what I allowed to happen to you, because I see fury in your eyes, despite your soft tone.’

Froi stepped between them, a hand to both their chests. Gargarin shoved them both from him.

‘I don’t despise you for what you allowed to happen to me,’ Gargarin said through clenched teeth. ‘I despise you because when I was released you refused to be found and I needed you more than anything in my life. Not to mend my broken bones, Arjuro. I needed my brother to mend my broken spirit.’

The next day, Arjuro was not to be found. His belongings were gone and no message was left. De Lancey sent his men to search and Froi waited the whole day in the courtyard for them to return. The moment the guards arrived, De Lancey and Gargarin came down the steps, desperate for answers. But Arjuro had become a ghost.

‘What about the godshouse?’ Froi asked. ‘He’d wave to you and Gargarin every night when he was at school there.’

‘It was the first place we looked,’ one of the guards said.

Gargarin looked defeated and limped away. De Lancey followed.

‘Did you know that someone stripped the flesh from his back and branded the word traitor across his shoulder blades?’ Froi called out.

Both Gargarin and De Lancey looked back, anguish in their expressions. Froi nodded. ’I saw him one night in the godshouse baths of Jidia. I think it’s why he keeps himself covered up.’

‘We will find him,’ De Lancey said.

Gargarin shook his head. ‘No. We won’t. If there is someone who knows how to disappear without a trace, it’s my brother.’

Apart from searching for Arjuro, Froi spent the days awaiting Feliciano of Avanosh’s arrival and avoiding Quintana, Lirah and Gargarin. Most times he was in the company of Grijio and Olivier. Grijio knew of a cave with a long straight tunnel where Froi could teach them to hit a target with an arrow.

‘It was my secret place for target practice when we planned to save Quintana,’ Grijio explained. ‘I’d leave a bow and a quiver of arrows there so the guard would not see me walking out of the compound holding a weapon. If they knew, they would have told my father for certain.’

‘Did you … ever actually hit a target?’ Froi asked politely.

Grijio grinned. ‘No. Not once. My eyes are not good. They never have been.’

The cave tunnel was long indeed and Froi set up a target and gave his first lesson.

‘You’ll never get it this far back,’ Olivier said, straining to see where the target was in the dark of the cave.

‘A wager?’ Froi asked, steadying his hand, one eye closed. The lads loved a wager.

‘One piece of silver a hit,’ Olivier offered.

Froi succeeded first go and held out his hand, laughing.

Then the others tried. Grijio was all thumbs and fingers whilst Olivier seemed a natural, although it was a while before he hit the perfect target.

When they weren’t practising hitting targets they would sit on the roof of Grijio’s secret cave overlooking the province and answering a string of Olivier’s theoretical questions.

‘What if you were given a choice between being the Captain of the Guard or the King’s First Advisor? Which would you choose?’

‘King’s First Advisor,’ Grijio said. ‘Or Ambassador, at least.’

‘Captain, of course,’ Froi said.

Olivier thought of his own question. ‘I don’t enjoy taking charge, so I’d be hopeless at both. But I’m good on a mount and if I knew how to fight I’d be honoured to be a royal rider.’

They continued their quizzing as they walked home. Grijio hollered a ‘Hello there’ to everyone he passed.

‘What if you had to choose between the most beautiful girl in the land who was stupid and the ugliest girl in the land who was smart?’ Olivier asked, running out of intelligent things to ask.

‘Why can’t there be one in between?’ Grijio asked, dismayed. He sighed, thinking. ‘The problem with being a lastborn male is that there aren’t many women to pick from,’ he said. ‘I’d like her to be as smart as I am. Someone who doesn’t just place worth on the build of a man or his ability to fight.’

‘That’s very smart of you, Grij. Because your build and ability to fight are not your strong points,’ Olivier said.

Froi laughed and on Grijio’s behalf, jabbed Olivier with the arrow he was holding.

‘One who knows the languages of the other kingdoms,’ Grijio continued. ‘Who doesn’t believe the world ends at our borders. One who is kind.’ He looked at the others, pensively. ‘We don’t have enough kindness in this land.’

‘You’re describing the Queen of Lumatere,’ Froi said.

‘Is she as beautiful as they say?’ Olivier asked.

‘She is indeed.’

‘Is your queen what you are searching for in a woman, Froi?’ Grijio asked.

Froi thought for a moment. ‘I never imagined I was looking for something in a woman. But if I did, I’d have to judge her by the way I felt laying beside her before I went to sleep at night and how I felt in the morning waking up to her.’

‘Oh, too profound, my friend,’ Olivier mocked. ‘Much too profound.’

When Froi arrived in the compound he found Quintana in the courtyard. She had taken a liking to the pups there. When she spoke to them, he heard the Reginita’s indignant voice and for a moment, he thought she had returned. But Quintana had learnt that pups and people reacted better to the sound of her sister’s voice than her own.

‘They like it if you do this,’ Froi said, his voice husky as he tickled the belly of one. She tried herself and laughed at her pup’s antics.

‘Do you have one back home?’ she asked.

‘No, but Finn and Isaboe do. A massive hound. Finn calls her the bitch of Lumatere.’

Quintana smiled a moment. ‘Finn and Isaboe,’ she said quietly, her eyes meeting his. ‘They seem so real when you name them.’

He followed her into De Lancey’s courtyard and up a passageway, a shortcut to their quarters. As she walked before him, he couldn’t help reaching out and touching the exposed place at the back of her neck. She stopped, but didn’t turn. And it was as if she were waiting for something. Before he could stop himself, his arm snaked out to pull her towards him, his tongue tracing the writing at her nape. She shuddered in his arms.

When she turned to face him, Froi’s mouth was on hers. His hand crawled up the skirt of her dress, his fingers finding their mark gently. Be gentle, Froi, he hummed to himself and the Serker inside of him shouted for more, but he took only what she would offer. He felt her hand find its way to the band of his trousers and he groaned aloud, trying to swallow the sound with their mouths.

But then she was gone, pushing him away.

‘Why?’ he asked, anguish in his voice.

She walked away, but he followed, a shaky hand to her shoulder. A servant came down the passageway towards them and Froi turned, needing to conceal his arousal. Quintana took the chance to escape up the stairs.

By the time he reached the chamber where she lay on the bed, he was furious. He walked into his quarters and slammed the door, kicking it once, twice. He turned the key in the lock, fearful of where this rage would go. Always fearful. He wondered when he would ever trust that his anger was just anger and not a desire to hurt another, or a reminder of his past misdeeds. The bruised look in Quintana’s eyes would also serve as a prompter. Each time he saw it, Froi would be reminded that the brutal actions of men were designed to break the spirits of the others. It was what he had tried to do in a Sorellian barn with Isaboe of Lumatere. Although a voice inside had chanted to stop that night, Froi would never know if he would have. And he wanted to know. He wanted to say the words, ‘I would not have gone through with it.’ But he’d never know and that was his punishment. That, and being in love with a girl whose spirit had been broken by men like Froi.

Later, when dinner was called, he stepped outside his room to where she still lay on her bed with her back to him. He walked stonily past her to the door, but her voice stopped him leaving.

‘Because I remembered your words,’ she said quietly. ‘I remembered that you liked me least. You said it in my palace chamber. Have one of the others wake me for I like you least.’

She turned to face him and brushed tears fiercely from her face. ‘Sometimes when I see what’s left of Quintana of Charyn through my own eyes, I think I can learn to love her. But when I see her through your eyes, I despise her.’

If she saw Quintana of Charyn through Froi’s eyes, he knew she’d see a part of himself.

‘Come,’ he said huskily, holding out a hand. ‘You need to eat.’

Chapter 37

The day came when the Avanosh party arrived. Froi, Grijio, Olivier and Tippideaux stood at the window watching the entourage ride into the courtyard. There were twelve of them, dressed in bright silks and carrying banners representing the ocean god.

The moment the youngest of the party dismounted, Froi and the others snorted with laughter.

‘What is he wearing?’ Tippideaux gasped.

‘Could they be any tighter?’ Grijio said.

‘Where would you hide a weapon with such stockings?’ Froi said.

‘I can tell you where it looks like he’s hiding a weapon from here,’ Olivier responded.

They watched De Lancey greet Feliciano of Avanosh and his people with a shake of a hand to each male and a kiss to the hand of each woman. Feliciano presented De Lancey with a small box and Froi and the others watched De Lancey open it.

‘Father’s very unimpressed,’ Tippideaux said. ‘I can tell by his shoulders.’

Dinner that night was a tedious affair with Gargarin noticeably absent and the introductions going for far too long. There was handshaking and more handshaking, and boisterous laughter from the Avanosh uncle and aunt that had no substance. Froi had heard enough empty laughter in his lifetime not to trust it.

Feliciano was a handsome young man who constantly looked at his uncle before he spoke. He was seated beside Quintana, who in turn was polite and restrained.

‘You are the light of our lives; you know that, don’t you?’ Feliciano said to her. ‘I’ve heard such words all across Charyn. The birth of your child is a gift only deserving of you.’

Olivier made a sound of disbelief and stole a look at Froi, making a motion as if he was going to be ill.

‘Thank you, Feliciano,’ she said politely, reaching over to take a piece of pheasant from his plate.

‘They spoke of the insanity of your hair, but not once did they mention a sweet face and pretty eyes.’

More looks between Froi and the others.

Tippideaux whispered her intense dislike of the whole situation to Froi and the lads. ‘When a woman has not received much flattery in her life, she will be seduced.’

‘It’s Quintana,’ Froi murmured in reply, watching the idiot Feliciano flick a piece of hair from his eyes. ‘She’ll never be taken in by charm and lies.’

De Lancey introduced his children first and then Olivier of Sebastabol and Froi of Lumatere.

‘A Lumateran in these parts?’ the Avanosh uncle said. ‘From what part of Lumatere?’

‘I was found in exile, Sir,’ Froi said.

‘You speak Charyn like a nobleman.’

‘It’s not that hard to do anything like a Charyn nobleman,’ Froi responded, eyeing Feliciano.

‘And your purpose in Paladozza?’ the uncle continued.

‘I travel with the Princess, Sir. I’m good with a dagger and a short sword and serve as her personal guard.’

‘Well, I don’t believe your services will be required any more,’ the uncle said. ‘We have our own guards and we’re hoping to take the Light of Charyn back to the island with us. No better place to protect a mother and her unborn child than an island.’

‘We haven’t spoken about the Princess leaving us, my lord,’ De Lancey said.

The uncle removed an envelope from his pocket. ‘We’ve travelled for some time, De Lancey, and have obtained the signatures from every Provincaro apart from yourself, Nebia and our unfortunately plague-ridden Desantos friends. The Provincari of Charyn have approved the marriage of my nephew and the Queen.’

‘Three of the Provincari,’ De Lancey corrected. He stared across the table. ‘If I could be so bold as to ask to see the document, my lord.’

The envelope was passed down the table and Froi wanted to tear it to pieces when it reached his hands. Olivier, instead, dropped it in his soup, apologising profusely while the uncle forced another smile. The document reached De Lancey, who studied it a while and then nodded.

‘Well, that is that, then,’ De Lancey said quietly, looking at Quintana.

The uncle from Avanosh searched around the table. ‘And we were told Gargarin of Abroi was a visitor, De Lancey, yet he’s nowhere to be seen.’

Lirah placed down her fork. ‘He was feeling sick to the stomach tonight, my lord.’

The man stared at her, uncomfortable.

‘Lirah of Serker,’ she said. ‘Do you remember me? The King introduced us,’ she added, her words weighted with hatred. The uncle from Avanosh didn’t respond.

Meanwhile Feliciano’s cousin Abria seemed to have taken a liking to De Lancey, her hand constantly at his sleeve.

‘Someone should tell Abria that your father hasn’t been intimate with certain parts of a woman’s body since his mother birthed him,’ Olivier whispered.

‘Hush Olivier,’ Tippideaux giggled.

After dinner when they all got up, Froi moved around the table to reach Quintana, but Feliciano was closer and there before him.

‘If you would join me in my compound, Your Highness,’ Feliciano said. ‘My servants can have your items removed from your current room. My uncle will set a guard at every entrance of our residence.’

‘The protection of the Queen lies with me,’ Froi said, leading Quintana away with a firm grip on her arm.

Tippideaux met them by the door.

‘Aren’t they hideous?’ she said, yanking at a piece of Quintana’s hair as though willing it to grow longer. ‘Froi said you would never believe the charm and lies,’ Tippideaux continued. ‘You deserve better than that.’

‘Lies?’ Quintana asked, looking at Froi. ‘And what part was the lie? The sweet face or the pretty eyes?’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ he said, feeling the need to choke the life out of Tippideaux.

The very annoying Feliciano was back between them, holding out a hand to her.

‘My uncle insists that you enjoy our hospitality, Your Highness.’

Quintana caught Froi’s eyes and he shook his head, but he knew the damage was already done. He watched her place her arm on Feliciano’s sleeve.

Froi and the others stood beside De Lancey watching the Avanosh party walk out of the dining room.

‘What on earth did they give you in the box, Father?’ Tippideaux asked. ‘When they arrived?’

‘Sand,’ he said. ‘From their island. Sand. As if we don’t have enough sand in our stone here.’

Froi’s mood was flat, his mind not able to get around Quintana and her consort alone in their residence. So later that night when Olivier suggested stealing out into the city below with a promise of ale, women and good conversation, Froi readily agreed.

They found themselves in the bawdiest ale house in Paladozza, according to Grijio, who looked worried. He was recognised instantly as the son of the Provincaro and they were offered ale all night, although the offer always came with the words, ‘Perhaps a favour from your father, young Grijio.’

But the ale did nothing to alter Froi’s mood.

‘You’re in love with her?’ Grijio said quietly.

Froi didn’t respond.

‘I don’t mean to give offence, Froi,’ Olivier said, ‘but she’s not an easy person to like. One doesn’t always warm to her.’

‘There’s more to her,’ Froi said, not denying either of them. He wanted to explain it, hoping they’d understand.

‘Until three years ago I couldn’t read and write, I couldn’t ride a horse or shoot an arrow and didn’t know the difference between a turnip seed and grain. The men who have taught me everything back home, they often say to me, “Froi, what if all your talents were left undiscovered?” ’

He looked up at them. ‘It’s the same with her. Imagine who she would be if we unleashed her onto the world. I think she would rip the breath from all of us.’

Froi drank more that night than he had ever drunk in his life. Drinking was forbidden by the Guard in Lumatere unless off-duty, and even then it had to be in moderation. But Froi was sick of bonds. Sick of moderation. Sick of having to hold back.

The next morning, however, Froi wished he had held back. With little memory of what they did the night before, all three of them were summoned to the Provincaro’s library.

De Lancey was there to remind them of everything, fury in his expression.

‘Exposing yourselves? To the locals?’

Froi vaguely remembered that part.

‘Drunk? Singing bawdy songs about the gods of other kingdoms? Pissing in the prized gardens of Lady Orsa?’

Grijio looked shamefaced. Olivier pretended to. Froi’s head was spinning too hard for anything to make sense.

‘The Avanosh puppets think this is a province of debauchery!’

Grijio looked up. ‘You’ve never cared what people say about us, Father. About the way we live.’

‘But the rule has always been to conduct yourself with dignity, Grij. To have respect for others so you can demand respect back. There was nothing, nothing dignified about your behaviour last night, or those women.’

Women? Why didn’t Froi remember women? How could he not remember women?

‘What women?’ he asked Olivier, as they walked out.

‘They want to meet us tonight,’ Olivier whispered. ‘Are you in, Grij? Froi?’

‘They are so much older,’ Grijio said. “What do you think they’ll want from us?’

At the entrance to the courtyard they bumped into Feliciano of the Red Tights, as Olivier insisted on calling him. Froi had a hazy memory of strands of a song they penned for Red Tights the night before at the inn. Words to suggest that Feliciano’s trousers resembled a sock and Froi was sure that the word describing Feliciano himself rhymed with sock.

‘My betrothed and I would appreciate less noise when you arrive home,’ the heir to Avanosh said pompously. ‘It woke us last night.’

Feliciano was pinned to the wall before Froi could count out his bond, a hand to the other lad’s throat. Olivier and Grijio pulled Froi away before his fist could connect.

The moment he could escape, Feliciano scampered down the stairs. Froi pulled free of the others and walked back to his chamber. The image of Quintana and that idiot together last night, today and forever, made him want to kill someone.

Suddenly Lirah was at the top of the steps, her hand on his arm to stop him.

‘Where have you been for sunrise these last days, Froi?’ Lirah’s voice was always blunt, emotionless. ‘Gargarin says you’re not yourself.’

‘Gargarin doesn’t know who I am,’ he snapped, ‘so how could he possible know I’m not myself?’

‘Well, he would like you to come visit,’ she said, her voice calm. ‘He needs to speak to you urgently. This business with Avanosh is a worry.’

‘I’m not his messenger boy,’ Froi said. ‘He has you for that. A good deal for him, indeed,’ he added spitefully. ‘He gets to bed you and you run errands for him.’

She stared at him, a flash of anger and hurt in her eyes. She nodded, as though comprehending his words. ‘Well, there it is,’ she said. ‘There’s the Serker male. Can only express pain through bitter words.’ She let her hand drop and walked away.

Froi took a deep breath and turned back down the steps again. He was in the mood to find Feliciano again and tell him exactly what he thought of him. But outside in the courtyard he could only find Olivier and Grijio.

‘Tonight,’ he said. ‘If you’re up to it again, I’m in.’

Chapter 38

No matter how hard they tried, Froi and the lads were unable to lose De Lancey’s guard that night. The three had to settle for drinking in the ale house under close watch.

‘I can’t believe that if I take a woman tonight, my guard will probably stand at the foot of the bed and give instruction,’ Grijio said, forlorn. ‘I need to get out of Paladozza.’

Olivier laughed. ‘And there are those who would die to live here. Our lad,’ Olivier explained to Froi, ‘is frightened that the Princess will be the only girl he’ll ever have laid with.’

‘We didn’t actually lay with each other,’ Grijio said. ‘She made me leave the moment it was over, and believe me, it was over in the blink of an eye. She was very particular about not sharing her bed. Wasn’t she, Froi?’

Froi looked from one to the other. ‘What impression have I given either of you that I want to hear or discuss anything about the Princess and lastborns and Consorts?’ he said, anger lacing his words. He was fighting with all his might not to think of Quintana and that idiot Feliciano.

Olivier called for another round of drinks and the subject of Quintana was finished with. But after a pint or two, Olivier leaned forward and ushered them towards him.

‘I don’t trust the Avanosh lot. Why would the Provincaro of Sebastabol not have sent that note through me?’

‘The seal was there. My father saw it,’ Grijio said.

‘I still don’t trust them.’

Froi studied the lastborn. ‘What are you thinking, Olivier?’

Olivier looked over their shoulders to where Froi knew De Lancey’s guard was standing watch.

‘We do what you and I and Satch and Tariq set out to do in the Citavita, Grij,’ Olivier said. ‘We save Quintana.’ His eyes caught Froi’s and he winked. ‘We give her a chance to unleash herself onto the world.’

Froi stared at him.

‘When?’

‘This is going too fast, lads,’ Grijio said.

‘Not fast enough,’ Olivier responded. ‘Yesterday they met. Today betrothed. Tomorrow she’ll be gone and we will not be able to protect her.’

‘Maybe Avanosh is the safest place for her,’ Grijio said, regret in his voice.

Froi would never believe that to be true.

‘Maybe,’ Olivier said. ‘But maybe they’re under orders from Sorel and one day we will be part of that heinous kingdom of prison mines and slavery.’

Froi was on his feet. He could hardly breathe at the thought of his son and Quintana in Sorel with no one to protect them. Olivier grabbed him by the sleeve and yanked him back down.

‘You can take Quintana through one of the caves that lead up to the central hills,’ Olivier whispered. ‘I can lead you, Froi. I know the way.’

‘Then I’ll come to,’ Grijio said.

‘No, you need to stay here, Grij,’ Olivier insisted. ‘To give them false leads. They need to think we’ve travelled south or east.’

‘Just say …’ Grijio began, looking at Froi cautiously.

‘Just say what?’ Froi demanded.

‘Just say Quintana may not believe she needs saving?’ Grijio said. ‘I saw her with Feliciano today and she seemed charmed, alarmingly so.’

Froi had noticed too. Quintana was a tamer person in the presence of the Avanosh lot.

Olivier sat up straight and suddenly a grin appeared on his face.

‘We’ll speak of this again later,’ he said. ‘The women are approaching.’

A moment later Froi felt a hand run through his hair and then he saw a pretty face and lips painted red.

‘This one is mine,’ she said, pulling him to his feet. He looked into her eyes, warm and laughing eyes, but not those he wanted to be looking into. Not the face. Not the body with the round belly and strange scars. Not Quintana.

‘I’m bonded to two women,’ he blurted out because it was the ale speaking and Froi was coming to realise that he was very stupid under the influence of ale.

‘Well, aren’t we the intriguing one?’ she whispered in his ear.

Back in Quintana’s room he saw the empty bed for the second night in a row. He stared at it a moment, fury clenching his hands. He locked her door, wanting to throw away the key to stop himself from tearing through De Lancey’s compound and finding that idiot from Avanosh. He didn’t want to count to ten and remember his bond. He wanted to feel the anger, and with every image that came to his head, Froi’s rage grew and grew.

Later he heard the doorknob rattle and he grabbed his dagger and leapt to his feet. But whoever it was knocked and he opened the door to see Quintana standing in the hallway, dressed in her nightgown, trying to peer over his shoulder. He stepped in front to block her way.

‘What are you looking for?’ he asked coldly.

‘Who are you hiding back there?’ she asked, trying to push past him until he felt the pounding of her heart against his own chest and the sound of her breathing against his ear.

‘What makes you think I’m hiding anyone?’

And when he saw her mouth curl into a snarl, his blood began to beat into a frenzy of excitement and he matched her heartbeat, breath by breath. She stepped to his side, trying to get into the room and he blocked her again and again and again, until she clenched her fists and pounded his shoulder.

‘Did you bring a woman back here?’

‘Did you share his bed?’

Suddenly Olivier and Grijio and Lirah and Tippideaux appeared in the hallway.

‘Answer me,’ she shouted.

‘Answer me!’

‘You’re drunk!’

‘Did you let him touch you?’

Quintana cried with fury. ‘You dare to accuse me of such a thing when you come back to my room with the smell of a woman on your stinking body.’

‘Did you let him swive you?’

She threw herself at him and it took both Olivier and Grijio to hold her back.

Froi snarled and clenched his fist.

‘Do it. Do it!’ she cried, until Lirah came between them, grabbing both their hands.

‘Enough,’ Lirah said calmly and she held them both to her. Quintana was sobbing, ‘I don’t understand this, Lirah. I don’t understand,’ and Froi wanted to sob the same words.

‘Because matters of the heart are not there to be understood, brave girl,’ Lirah said, as Tippideaux led them away, fussing like a mother hen.

The lads stared towards where the women disappeared and then exchanged looks.

‘I must say I found that … quite exciting,’ Olivier said.

Grijio nodded. ‘Feel my pulse.’

Later, Froi lay in his cot on the ground, hating her. Hating. First opportunity he got, he wasn’t going to take her through the cave with Olivier. He was going to go on his own and travel back to Lumatere and he was going to ask for a Flatland girl’s hand in marriage and live on a pocket of land for the rest of his life and never leave Lumatere again. No. A river girl. He’d marry a river girl because they were wilder, but still not savage one moment and ice cold and vicious the next.

He heard a sound at his door and sat up and he saw her there in the shadows, holding a candle and staring down at him.

‘I took no woman,’ he said, forgetting every vow he had just made never to speak to her again. ‘Allowed no woman to touch me.’

‘The guard said the women were like flies on you all.’

‘But I was thinking of another and I couldn’t bear their touch.’

And he saw it in her eyes. Still. The belief that there could be someone other than herself. You, he wanted to shout. You. No one but you. Stupid, stupid girl.

And when she didn’t leave his door, Froi pulled back the blankets and shuffled over to the wall. He held out a hand and he saw in her expression that she wrestled with the savage inside of her, but Froi’s hand stayed outstretched. She would never trust easily. Never. But he would make it his bond to ensure that one day she would trust him without hesitation.

And then she was laying there beside him.

‘My feet were cold in their part of the compound,’ she muttered.

‘Well, we can’t have that, can we?’ he said, warming them against his and tucking the blanket over her body.

‘I heard the Avanosh aunt say, “She should grow her hair to hide that pointy chin and pointy nose.” ’

‘If I see that pointy chin and nose hidden, I’ll have to hurt someone.’

‘You’re supposed to say I don’t have a pointy chin or pointy nose,’ she said, somewhat dryly.

‘But you do,’ he said. ‘And you also have pointy eyes,’ he added, as he kissed both lids, ‘and a pointy mouth,’ he teased, pressing his lips against hers, ‘and a pointy tongue.’ His body covered hers as he held her face in his hands and captured her mouth, the silk warmness of her tongue matching his, stroke by stroke. Then he felt the sharp nip of her teeth as his mouth dared to leave hers, travelling towards her throat, fleetingly tracing the scars from the noose. ‘And a pointy, pointy heart,’ he murmured, feeling the powerful beat that her enemies had tried to crush from the moment she was born. One hand cupped her breast as his other hand lifted the folds of her nightdress and drew her closer.

‘Does the Queen of Lumatere have all those things?’ she asked, quietly.

Froi didn’t want to talk about the Queen of Lumatere. He didn’t want to talk about anything. His need for Quintana was fierce. It had been a long time since that last night in the palace. He fumbled at the drawstring of his trousers, loosening them, taking her hand and pressing it against him. Still, she stared with a question in her eyes. Froi knew she wanted more from him and although he ached for her, he fought hard to control his desire. Counted to ten in every language he knew. Counted to ten again. And again. Until his breathing was less ragged and his hand linked with hers. Finally he sighed, and placed his arm around her, drawing her close.

‘The Queen of Lumatere complains constantly of her nose. “Too big,” she says. Finnikin just shrugs and says, “What would I do with a Queen who has a little nose?” ’

Quintana laughed and she leaned her head against his chest. ‘He’s supposed to say she doesn’t have a big nose.’

‘I know, but Finnikin was brought up by men. If it wasn’t the Guard for the first ten years, it was Sir Topher for the next nine. He knows very little about women.’

‘So what do you say when the Queen of Lumatere comments about her nose?’

He flicked a finger at her nose. ‘I tell her I’ve seen much bigger.’

‘You are a smart man, Dafar of Abroi.’

He shuddered with pleasure to hear his name spoken by her.

‘Froi?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t trust the Avanosh party,’ she whispered. She moved closer to his ear. ‘I’ve allowed them to believe that all is civil between us, but I think they are planning something wicked. There’s too much whispering and Feliciano doesn’t seem to have control. His uncle does. He reminds me of Bestiano.’

She shuddered and Froi held her closer.

‘Don’t let them take away our little king, Froi. Not the Avanosh people or Bestiano. I’m begging you, Froi.’

That she had to speak the words broke something inside of him.

‘I will protect you,’ he whispered. ‘I will never let anything happen to you or our child.’

And he would come to realise sooner rather than later that it was the greatest lie he had ever spoken aloud.

Chapter 39

He went to see Gargarin in his chamber the next morning. It was almost a miniature compound with two bedrooms and a library. Gargarin was writing with vigour and Froi could hear Lirah pottering around in the other room. They’d be safe and comfortable here. Despite his bitterness, at least he could take that away with him.

‘I don’t trust the people of Avanosh,’ Gargarin said, his head still bent as he wrote.

‘Nor do I.’

Gargarin sighed and their eyes met. Froi saw relief in Gargarin’s. ‘Good. I have a plan.’

Froi shook his head. ‘I have a plan. I’m taking her. Probably to Turla.’

‘Excellent. My plan exactly. If anyone can hide us it’s Ariston. We can leave –’

‘I’m taking her alone.’

Froi heard a sound behind him and saw Lirah standing at the dividing door. She looked at Gargarin.

‘I can’t look after you,’ Froi said. ‘I can’t protect you and Lirah and Quintana.’

‘But I can protect you, Froi,’ Gargarin said. ‘I’ve written to every Provincaro. Every Ambassador. I’ve attempted to contact every mountain tribe. We can build an army, bigger than Bestiano and Nebia’s. Her army, Froi. Without one, she has no power.’

Froi shook his head. ‘You’ll slow us down,’ he said bluntly.

‘But if we get caught, you will be protected by my name,’ Gargarin said. ‘I’m beginning to realise that at a time like this it means something.’

‘Your name is nothing,’ Froi argued. ‘You can’t protect me. Neither of you can. You never did!’

Lirah stood watching them. ‘We stay together. We need you both,’ she said, firmly.

‘He can’t even protect himself,’ Froi shouted. ‘Did he save you from harm? Or me? Do you want to know what they did to me in Sarnak, Gargarin? Do you want to know what they made me do?’

Tears of rage spilled from Froi’s eyes. Because he loved them and he hated them. Because he wanted them safe and he wanted to hurt them beyond anything else. So he spoke the words he had never dared to speak aloud. About the men who controlled the back streets of the Sarnak capital and made him sing on street corners because his voice was sweet and high and a gift from the gods. How the rich merchants would pay to take him home. And he spoke of the time in that stable in Sorel when he tried to take Isaboe of Lumatere. He watched Lirah and Gargarin flinch, as though his words were Gargarin’s cane beating them over and over again until nothing much was left of Gargarin and Lirah’s spirit.

‘You couldn’t protect me, so why would I trust you with Quintana and my son?’

He knocked on Olivier’s door moments later. The lastborn of Sebastabol looked worse for wear, having had little sleep the night before.

‘Let’s talk about what we spoke of last night in the inn,’ Froi said.

Olivier looked down the hallway and ushered him in.

‘When can you be ready?’

‘We are ready.’

They planned to meet the others in the courtyard under the pretence of an excursion into the vicinata. They were to take no possessions with them, for it would draw attention and cause suspicion, and Grijio felt it best that they invite Feliciano along as well.

‘We’re going to see the last days of the greatest show in the kingdom,’ Grijio called out with a wave to his father on the balcony beside the uncle from Avanosh.

Froi felt De Lancey’s eyes on him and there was something in his stare that told Froi he knew what would take place. That Gargarin had already spoken to him.

‘Grij?’ De Lancey called out. They were almost out the gate and they nervously looked back up at the Provincaro.

‘If you and Tippideaux aren’t back in time, I’ll send the Guard to come search for you.’

It was a father’s warning. That whatever the plan was, it would not involve his children.

As they travelled down the road to the vicinata, Tippideaux clutched Quintana’s arm.

‘I’m not feeling myself today,’ she sniffed, and Froi could see she was weeping, truly weeping and not just acting out her part in their charade. ‘All this anger from Father about your nonsense, Grij. It’s upset us all. Upset the Queen.’

Grijio stopped and held out a hand to Quintana. She took it and he pressed a kiss to it. In the eyes of Feliciano it was an apology. In the eyes of the others, a farewell.

‘You’ve never offered anything but friendship, Grijio,’ Quintana said. ‘One day I’ll repay it tenfold despite your poor form these past nights.’

Quintana turned her attention back to Feliciano and linked her arm with his, whilst taking one moment more to clutch Tippideaux’s fingers before walking ahead with the heir of Avanosh.

When they reached the lane that would take them into the vicinata, Olivier indicated the fletcher’s cottage with a slight toss of his head.

‘Be safe, friends,’ Grijio said, quickly embracing Froi and Olivier.

‘Everything is for Charyn,’ Olivier said sombrely, his voice breaking from emotion. ‘Everything.’

Tippideaux quickly hugged Froi. ‘Keep her warm. She’s awfully bad-tempered when she’s cold.’

And then they all caught up with Quintana and Feliciano, full of pretend laughter and talk of the greatest show in the kingdom.

‘Feliciano,’ Tippideaux said in a hushed tone, with a wink towards the stalls they could see at the entrance of the vicinata. ‘Trinkets. A perfect gift for a blushing betrothed.’

He nodded, unaware of what was brewing, and Tippideaux dragged him away.

Froi grabbed Quintana’s hand and then they were running for the fletcher’s cottage.

‘Can we trust this man?’ Froi asked Olivier.

‘Just trust that he will do anything to protect the Princess and the babe,’ Olivier said as they entered the house.

‘This way,’ they heard someone say.

Froi followed the voice down into the cellar, his hand never letting go of Quintana’s. An oil lamp was lit and he saw the fletcher and his wife standing before them.

‘Quick. Help me with this,’ the fletcher said.

It took the weight of Olivier, Froi and the fletcher combined to push aside the stone, revealing a tunnel that would lead to the hills just outside the province to the north.

‘It will take you no longer than a day,’ the man said. ‘I’ll travel behind you soon to replace the stones.’

Olivier handed over a purse of coins.

‘Paladozza must not fall,’ Olivier said firmly.

The fletcher’s wife took the purse of coins from her husband.

‘Can I see?’ she asked, reaching out a hand to Quintana. Froi froze. Don’t touch her, he prayed. The last thing they needed was Quintana’s savage strangeness frightening those who were here to help. But Quintana took the woman’s hand and pressed it against her belly and the woman wept. In return, she placed the purse of coins inside Quintana’s hands.

‘Keep them,’ the fletcher’s wife said. ‘They will come to good use. You can return the favour when you’re settled in the palace with the heir.’

‘We need to go,’ Olivier said.

‘Weapons?’ the man asked.

‘I have a sword and two daggers,’ Froi said.

‘We’re wasting time,’ Olivier hissed, pulling Froi and Quintana away.

‘Here,’ the man said giving Froi and Olivier a bow each and a quiver of arrows. ‘Protect her with your life, lads.’

Chapter 40

Beatriss travelled through the Flatlands with Tarah and Samuel to see how her villagers were faring. They were scattered across the kingdom, some as far away as the rock village, quarrying stone, or the river villages, gutting fish. Most expressed sadness when they heard she would be moving into the palace with Vestie. ‘Always thought we’d be able to return to you,’ they said. ‘We may have work here, but we don’t have a home, Lady Beatriss.’

As they passed the road that led to the village of Fenton she saw a crowd. The Queen’s Guard was there as well and amongst them Trevanion sat astride his horse. Beatriss remembered Isaboe’s words the day the Queen visited and they had travelled back to the palace together. That she was not to expect Trevanion to reveal his feelings of the past. ‘They’re not like us women, Beatriss. For all their strength and might, any talk of the past pains them and if you’re waiting for him to speak words you want to hear, then make the decision to live without him now. For you may never hear them.’

‘What do you think is happening there?’ she asked Samuel.

‘Why, the palace is auctioning the village, Lady Beatriss,’ Samuel said gently. ‘Did you not know? The surviving Fenton villagers will all receive ten pieces of gold to resettle elsewhere or stay if they wish. The Queen says it’s what Lord Selric would have wanted.’

‘The Queen and Finnikin mentioned as such. What are the villagers saying?’

Tarah made a rude sound. ‘Those of Lord Freychinet’s village are saying they wished he was dead in a ditch someplace in Charyn and they had ten a piece.’

‘Doubt anyone will stay in Fenton, though,’ Samuel said. ‘Not if Lord Nettice buys.’

Beatriss shuddered at the thought.

‘Let’s stop awhile,’ she said quietly. ‘I see dear friends.’

She approached Abian and August, who kept their distance from the other Lords and Ladies. Abian hugged her tightly.

‘Sad day,’ August said. ‘If they waited until spring I’d have the money from the crop. Selric would have hated any of that lot getting hold of his land and people.’

Beatriss knew from Abian that August felt he had let his neighbour down. She squeezed his arm. ‘You’ve taken on more of his villagers than you can afford to, August. He would have been grateful.’

They watched Lord Nettice and his cronies, who were laughing amongst themselves. Already they were thumping Nettice’s back with congratulations, as though he already owned Fenton.

‘What I don’t understand is where he got his gold from,’ Lady Abian said, bitterness in her voice.

‘He made his money shamelessly under the impostor King’s rule,’ Beatriss said quietly.

Her eyes met Genova’s. She was huddled with her husband Makli and the survivors of Fenton. As was the case with Sennington, the village of Fenton once boasted sixty-four people and were now down to twenty-eight, most had died in the Charyn plague. What was ten pieces of gold worth to them when they were still grieving the loss of neighbours?

A moment later Trevanion approached and dismounted. Beatriss felt her face warming up under the intensity of his stare.

‘Honestly Trevanion, can’t you arrest them for their smugness?’ August said.

Abian’s fury could hardly be contained. ‘If any of their wives come near me to boast the purchase you’re going to have to bail me out of the palace dungeon tonight, Augie, because I don’t know what I’ll do to them.’

Trevanion laughed. He looked at Beatriss. ‘Would you like me to arrest Lord Nettice for purely existing, Beatriss?’

Beatriss’s stomach churned at the mention of his name. She was unable to join in the jest and all too soon Trevanion’s smile was gone and he was off to oversee the growing crowd.

It was all a farce really. The poor Fenton lot had pooled together their promised amount deciding that perhaps they would try to buy it together, but Lord Nettice doubled the amount the moment it began and it was humiliating to watch. Humiliating. Beatriss stared at the man, the word thundering inside her head. Humiliating. Humiliating. Her anger grew. She felt its rage, but there was no longer shame in it.

What had her fellow Lumaterans said about her during those early years of the impostor King’s cruel reign? That she gave them courage. That each time his men ruined her land, Beatriss the Bold refused to stop planting.

‘Four hundred pieces of gold,’ she shouted. It was what the Priestking had promised her for Sennington.

There was a stunned silence around her. August and Abian stared at her as if she had lost her senses. It wasn’t that they doubted she had money, but to buy a village? Beatriss looked across at where Lord Nettice stood with his wife alongside Lord Freychinet and their acquaintances.

‘Five hundred,’ Lord Nettice said and her heart dropped.

Every person standing on the field stared back at her, but Beatriss knew she could not match the price. The auctioneer waited.

‘Five hundred and ten, Lady Beatriss?’ the auctioneer called out, searching for her through the crowd. ‘Perhaps another go?’

‘End this,’ Lord Nettice shouted at the man, but the auctioneer refused to be rushed.

Suddenly Makli and Genova were there beside Beatriss, as were the rest of the Fenton villagers.

‘End this,’ they heard Lord Nettice shout again.

‘Lady Beatriss,’ the auctioneer called out, his voice anxious. ‘Another bid, perhaps.’

‘We have two hundred and eighty coins between us,’ Genova said. ‘Use it, Lady Beatriss. Use it all. If he wins the bid, Fenton is lost to us. The pride of Lord Selric and his beloved girls are lost to us.’

Beatriss caught Makli’s eye and she saw sorrow there and before she could stop herself, she pushed through the crowd and reached the front, her stare fixed on Lord Nettice.

‘I bid six hundred and eighty pieces of gold!’ she said. ‘Do you have the nerve to outbid me, Lord Nettice?’

‘Nerve?’ Lord Freychinet laughed, looking at his friend. ‘What has nerve to do with it? I’ll lend you the rest, Nettice.’

Lord Nettice hesitated and Beatriss dared the coward to be the first to look away. For it would not be her. Never again would she look away from this man. She stepped closer, until she was almost nose to nose with him.

‘I defy you to outbid me,’ she said. ‘I defy you.’

There was a hush from the crowd filled with confusion and anticipation and hope.

‘Sold to Lady Beatriss for six hundred and eighty pieces of gold,’ the auctioneer shouted, his words slicing through the silence.

‘What?’ There was outrage from Lord Freychinet and their companions.

‘Too fast,’ Lord Freychinet shouted at the man. ‘Too fast.’

‘End this. End this,’ the auctioneer mimicked. ‘Is that not what you shouted? Make up your mind. I’m finished for the day.’

‘This is an outrage!’ Lady Milla said.

‘Nettice! Do something,’ his wife said.

‘Leave it,’ Lord Nettice said to his entourage, his tone cold and bitter. ‘Leave it. She’s paid too much for it anyway. Fenton was always the runt of the villages.’

Through the crowd Beatriss could see Trevanion, his eyes on Nettice as if he wanted to tear the man apart. But a moment later she was surrounded by those of Fenton and lost sight of him. Abian and August were there too, as were Tarah and Samuel and anyone present from Sennington. They all seemed stunned at the quick outcome of the day’s events. Beatriss could hardly find the words to speak.

‘Did I just buy a village?’ she asked.

Then Makli laughed. ‘You did indeed, Lady Beatriss. You did indeed.’

That afternoon her home was filled to the brim with those from Sennington and Fenton. Even the auctioneer had returned with them when he heard of the ale and the sweets to be served.

‘May I make a toast?’ Beatriss called out when the sun was beginning to set and it was time for her guests to leave. Silence came over the room.

‘A toast to Lord Selric and Lady Milla and Lady Hera and Frana and Lestra. And a toast to those others we lost from Fenton and Sennington.’ Beatriss’s eyes blazed with tears. ‘We won’t have a moment’s rest this coming year, dear friends. Not a moment’s rest, but we break our backs in their names.’

There was a cheer for her words and she stood amongst them overwhelmed with fear and exhilaration. What had she got herself into? What would people say? One moment refusing to step outside her house, next moment buying a village.

Later, the man who had conducted the sale approached and took her hand, and she smiled.

‘I gather you weren’t a big supporter of Lord Nettice after what you did today?’ she asked. ‘Did he do you wrong, Sir?’

The auctioneer named Pollock shook his head. ‘I’m not interested in those who do me wrong, Lady Beatriss. There’s not enough time in the day for them. But my daughter spent five safe years in the cloisters because of you and that mad Tesadora. Won’t be forgotten by me and my wife. I can tell you that.’

She stood a while and watched them all go, but as she turned she heard the sound of a horse coming down the road. Samuel stepped out beside her.

‘It’s the Captain,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m safe, Samuel.’

She waited for Trevanion to dismount and without a word he followed her into the house.

‘Was it him?’ he asked, and she heard the barely contained rage in his voice.

She sighed, pouring him a cider and cutting him a slice of cake.

‘And what are you going to do to him if it was?’ she asked.

‘Kill him,’ he said through clenched teeth.

‘No, you won’t,’ she said gently.

Trevanion kicked the stool out of the way and it bounced off the wall and splintered. ‘I’ve killed traitors before, Beatriss. It’s my job. In what way would this be any different?’ he asked.

Beatriss calmly picked up what was left of the stool. ‘Because you don’t have proof. Nettice was smart in that way. He would come to this house often in the early days to talk about the soldiers and his hatred for the impostor King. Later he’d tell me he was lonely. His wife kept a cold bed. I would send him away each time. And then suddenly he was a guest of the impostor King in the palace. A fact I knew because I was dragged down there often enough.’

She caught Trevanion’s wince of pain.

‘Nettice would tell all who would listen that his visits to the palace were to make life easier for us, but the only families who had an easy life were those who collaborated.’

She swallowed, trying to keep down the bile that always rose when she thought of those years.

‘He must have made a deal with the impostor King and somehow I became part of that bargain because the King and his men didn’t touch me again. And do you want to know the truth, Trevanion?’ she asked. ‘I felt relief. Each time he came up that path, I felt relief. Better a demon I knew, better one man than any of the others in the palace. Relief,’ she cried. ‘Nothing more. Nothing. And that relief shamed me and he knew, trading on that shame all these years.’

Trevanion closed his eyes, his expression so pained that she wanted some kind of magic to take away all their suffering. But that type of magic didn’t exist.

‘He stopped the visits when I was carrying Vestie and then of course there was Tesadora. Nothing frightened those cowardly men more than Tesadora. Her friendship saved my life. It saved my spirit.’

Beatriss began to clear away the plates and cakes. She looked away, so she wouldn’t have to see his face. Would there be judgement? Had it been easier for him to love Vestie knowing that the father was nowhere in their lives?

Trevanion stayed, his silence frightening. And there they sat opposite each other, two people who had grown older without the comfort of the other. She wanted to weep for the lost opportunities. But deep in the night when she thought there would never be words between them again, he spoke.

‘The reason I couldn’t ask questions all this time, is that I feared I’d have to respond to yours in return.’ His voice was low and hoarse. ‘That I’d have to speak of being imprisoned in the mines and my first months there and what I let them do to me and how I couldn’t save those two brothers from the Rock who came to join me there.’

He looked away, the tears biting at his eyes.

‘We didn’t let them do anything to us, Trevanion,’ Beatriss said fiercely. ‘They did it without our permission.’

She walked to where he sat and placed her arms around him. He turned and buried his face against her waist and she thought she felt a sob against her and they stayed wrapped around each other, bathed by the sounds of this house that had seen the worst and best of times. But all Beatriss had to hear was the sound of his breathing and her child mumbling in sleep to know that perhaps for tonight alone all was good in her world.

‘Do you remember the day three years ago when we spoke at the babe’s grave?’ he asked. ‘Do you remember your words? Has anything changed? About how you can never go back to the way things were?’

She took his face in her hands. ‘I only remember the words that haven’t changed, Trevanion.’

She pressed her brow against his.

‘I still wake with your name on my lips every morning.’

Chapter 41

Froi’s only consolation as they crawled through the underground caves of Paladozza was that the tunnels were too narrow and long to allow an army to invade. And in that way, Gargarin and Lirah would stay safe in Paladozza. Try as he might, he couldn’t get their faces out of his head and already felt a strong sense of loss knowing he might never see them again.

They rested that night close to the stone that would take them out into the hills of the north. The space was too small for comfort, but Quintana curled against him, asleep in an instant. Froi couldn’t help thinking of Isaboe when she was carrying Jasmina in her belly. The way everyone in the palace fussed over her. How Finn would prop her up against him and knead her shoulders and back while she gave Sir Topher instructions on how to deal with the merchants in the main village who refused to work with some of the Flatland lords. Froi couldn’t count the amount of times he’d ride from Sayles to the palace on an errand for Lady Abian, who insisted that the Queen have the best apples their orchard had to offer, or the days he had accompanied Finn to the mountains because the juiciest berries in the kingdom were grown there and Isaboe deserved the best.

‘You are all becoming tiresome,’ she’d complain. ‘I’m carrying a child, not dying of an ailment.’

And Froi wanted all of that for Quintana. He wanted to hear her complain how tiresome they all were with the attention they were giving and how she was sick of resting and sick of taking warm baths and sick of her people waiting on her hand and foot. Yet here Quintana was, crawling through the bowels of a city for a kingdom of people who would never truly understand what she had sacrificed for them.

Hours later he shook her awake gently and their journey continued.

‘I’ll hurt the babe,’ Quintana said, as they used their elbows to crawl along the jagged contours of the ground beneath.

‘It won’t be for too long, Your Highness,’ Olivier gasped. ‘My mother told me often that she took a tumble a time or two on the docks of Sebastabol when she was carrying me.’

‘That’s no comfort, Olivier,’ Froi said. ‘You’re an idiot most times.’

The tunnel finally spilled out into a larger cave and soon they’d be out in the hills. Froi felt the breeze come through the cracks in the stone and he smelt their freedom. His eyes met Quintana’s and he saw hope there. The hills would be a safe enough refuge and in days to come they would be back with the Turlan mountain goats. It made Froi laugh to think of it.

‘When we get to Turla, Olivier, do not try to prove your manhood,’ he said, as they followed the lastborn.

‘I’ve never really been one to do that,’ Olivier said.

‘Then you’ve not met the Turlans,’ Quintana said.

They reached the last stone and pushed it aside, shielding their eyes as light poured into the cave. Crawling out first, Froi could see they were in a small ravine with a stream between them and the hills on the other side. He climbed up to the cave top they had come from and saw the woodlands further north.

When he jumped back down, he took Quintana’s hand and they walked further along the stream, ready to cross where the water was a trickle. Quintana looked up in the distance and the rare smile she gave Froi lit up his heart.

‘To the hills we go,’ she said. He pressed her palm to his cheek.

The arrow took him by surprise and he grunted from the pain as it ripped through his thigh. Froi pulled Quintana down to him, crawling behind the closest rock. Olivier followed, and Froi could hear his ragged breath. He stole a look over their hiding place and his blood ran cold. Men were scattered across the stream and throughout the hills with their bows cocked, pointing down at them. At least fifty. Neither unprepared nor surprised. Waiting. Some were dressed in the uniform of the palace riders and Froi knew that Bestiano’s men had been waiting. They had been betrayed.

Froi took in his surrounds. He had to think fast. It was safer to climb the rock behind them and run for the woodlands than it was to return to the tunnel.

‘There,’ he said, taking a quick painful breath and pointing to a large boulder.

Olivier was panicking. Froi could see from the sweat on the lastborn’s brow and the tremble in his body.

‘Olivier, help me with this,’ Froi gasped, placing a hand over the arrow in his thigh. He needed to get it out. But Olivier could only stare at it in horror.

‘Squeamish? You idiot!’

Without Olivier’s help, Froi placed both his hands around the arrow’s base and pulled it free with a hoarse shout of pain. He stole a look again and saw that Bestiano’s riders were still waiting. He wondered if the three of them stood a chance.

‘Froi, listen to me,’ Olivier said. Pleaded. ‘They’ll protect her. And they won’t kill you. I promise.’

Froi froze. No, he thought. Not Olivier. He trusted this lad with his life. With Quintana’s life and that of his unborn child. His eyes met the lastborn’s and he saw the truth there.

‘Olivier?’ Froi said the word, his voice broken. ‘Have you betrayed us? Have you led us into a trap?’

Quintana gasped and Froi saw her horror and fear.

‘Not a betrayal, friends,’ Olivier said. ‘A reprieve. You can’t keep her safe, Froi. You can’t. The Avanosh people almost took her from us. They would have made her a puppet to Sorel. Who will be the next lot to try to take her, Froi? At least Bestiano –’

Quintana cried out at the sound of Bestiano’s name, her arms clutching her body as she wept with futile rage.

‘How could you do this to your queen?’ Froi bit out with fury.

‘How could I not?’ Olivier shouted back. ‘I love my kingdom, Froi, and I will keep it safe. It was the pledge I made to the men you sent to keep me prisoner while you became Olivier of Sebastabol. And they gave me worth. All my life a useless lastborn, and for once, I had purpose.’

Froi took deep breaths to alleviate the pain and to think. Think, Froi. Think.

‘Rafuel of Sebastabol despised the King and Bestiano, you fool,’ Froi said.

‘No,’ Olivier said shaking his head, emphatically. ‘Zabat said –’

‘Zabat? Zabat was a traitor. He switched sides, Olivier. Took you with him without you even noticing. The men who kidnapped you belong to the Priests of Trist and Zabat betrayed them to the riders. Bestiano’s men killed Tariq.’

Olivier shook his head, refusing to believe.

Froi secured the bow and placed the quiver of arrows on his back.

‘You are putting her life in danger, Froi!’ Olivier said, a plea in his voice.

Froi snarled. ‘The first man who fires a bolt at Quintana and the child she carries puts her life in danger.’

Froi held a hand to Quintana’s frightened face. ‘She does not go to Bestiano,’ he promised.

He took in another deep breath of pain, his eyes fixed on Quintana’s. ‘We’re going to run up to that boulder,’ he said, pointing up. ‘They won’t shoot at you, so don’t stop until you reach it.’

‘But they’ll shoot at you,’ she said.

‘And I’ll shoot back.’

‘You’re putting both your lives at risk,’ Olivier cried.

‘A curse on you, Olivier,’ Froi shouted. ‘A curse. You put both our lives at risk and if I ever know that you’ve returned to Paladozza to taint the lives of Grij and Tippideaux and De Lancey and Lirah and Gargarin, I will hunt you down and tear you apart limb by limb.’

Froi looked at Quintana, struggling to his feet. He drew his bow, gave her a nod, and they both ran.

He never stood a chance. The arrows came for him. Another to his thigh. One to his calf. One to the side of his torso. All those drills in the meadows of Lumatere and all that instruction, but Froi never stood a chance. When they reached the boulder and she saw the arrows, Quintana’s cry was full of rage and Froi could have sworn he felt the earth move around them. But the despair was also Froi’s, the knowledge that he could not protect her and his child. It made him want to weep.

He pressed her down behind the rock, trying with all his might to keep the grimace of pain from his expression. Her hands hovered around him, as if she had no idea where to place them. Froi reached out and gripped one of them.

‘It’s not that I liked you least,’ he croaked through his pain, ‘it’s that I feared you most. The Reginita taught me to like you. There was a strange joy to her that lifted my spirits. But you, Quintana of Charyn, you made me love you. And you’re going to have to promise me something.’

‘Don’t ask me to leave you,’ she cried through clenched teeth. ‘I can’t do this on my own.’

‘You can. You did it before. That last day in the Citavita when you let go of my hand. You thought I was a threat to you and you chose to protect the little King on your own rather than put him in danger. On your own, Quintana. You can do it again.’

She shook her head over and over again.

‘The moment I stand and begin lobbing my arrows, you run,’ he ordered, ‘and keep on running. Try to get to Turla. Keep away from the north. Satch has written to say there’s plague in Desantos. But you run, Quintana, and you keep yourself alive.’

‘We’ll do it together, Froi,’ she said with determination, pressing the skirt of her dress to the wound on his thigh to stop the bleeding.

He shook his head. Too much pain. Too much pain.

‘I can’t protect you,’ he gasped. ‘Not like this. I will slow you down and Bestiano will take you. He will kill you the moment you birth the babe.’

‘But they’ll kill you.’

He shook his head, biting back the pain. ‘They would never chance a battle with Lumatere now. They know it will involve Belegonia and Osteria. Their orders are to shoot me to slow me down, but not to kill me. I know such an order, Quintana. I’ve followed them myself. I’m worth more to them alive than dead.’

They both knew he was lying.

‘I’m counting, Froi,’ she cried. ‘I’m counting in my head.’

‘Good girl.’

He took her face in his bloody hands. ‘I’ll come and find you wherever you are. I’ll not stop breathing until I do. So you’re going to have to promise me that you won’t lose hope. That you will keep yourself alive.’

He tried to wipe her tears, but there were too many.

‘I heard your song the moment we were born,’ she sobbed. ‘And years later, it dragged me back from the lake of the half-dead when all I wanted to do was die. Each time someone tried to kill me, it sang its tune and gave me hope.’

She pressed cold lips against his and they tasted the salt of each other’s tears.

‘Are you ready?’ he asked.

She nodded.

‘Run!’

Later, Froi would have sworn to anyone who listened that it was Tariq of Lascow who propped him up so Froi could shoot at anyone in those hills who stood to take aim at Quintana.

And while he thrashed with pain as seven barbs were removed from his body, he wondered if he truly heard the voice of the Reginita in his ear. ‘You’re coming the wrong way, Froi,’ she said indignantly. ‘Turn back!’

But what he knew to be true were those voices surrounding him now. Speaking of Quintana of Charyn.

How seven days had passed since she had disappeared from existence.

That it would take the eyes of the gods to find her.

Or the heart of the Lumateran exile.

Chapter 42

Lucian knew the moment he saw Jory’s face that something was wrong. Because Jory was alone on the Lumateran side of the stream and Lucian knew the lad would never leave her. He was half in love with her himself.

‘Where is she, Jory?’ he asked, his voice harsh. He had decided just hours before to surprise Phaedra and ride down the valley to collect her earlier than usual. It was about time they went to the capital, he told Yata. They’d all go together and stay with Isaboe and Finnikin and he’d properly introduce Phaedra to his queen. As his wife.

Jory jumped to his feet, holding his hand up as if to ward Lucian away.

‘It’s plague, Lucian.’

‘What?’

‘Not the whole camp. They think they may have contained it. To one cave. But I don’t want you to come near me in case I’ve got it.’

The boy was wild-eyed. Full of fear, but not for himself.

‘Talk to me, Jory,’ Lucian said, walking to the lad. ‘Don’t be frightened. Just talk.’

‘Stay away, Lucian. I beg of you.’

‘Where’s my wife, Jory? Where’s Phaedra?’

Jory seemed confused. Dazed. He pointed back to the camp across the stream, his arm dropping with a fatigue of spirit.

‘When we arrived this morning it was all so normal,’ Jory said, ‘and I stopped a moment, you know. I didn’t mean to but I stopped a moment to speak to Kasabian because I try so hard with him, Lucian. Phaedra had gone into Angry Cora’s cave and later, when I went to enter, Phaedra yelled at me. “Stop Jory,” she said. “We think it’s plague. Call Matteo who has seen plague himself.” ’

Jory shuddered.

‘Rafuel or Matteo or whoever he wants to be, he went to the cave but didn’t go inside. I saw him from the entrance, Lucian. I saw his face. I thought his heart had stopped beating. He ordered the camp leaders and Harker and Kasabian and everyone away. “Plague,” he shouted. “Plague.”

‘Harker had to be held back. “You can’t keep me away from my women,” he shouted. But Rafuel picked up a sword and said that the next person to pass him would die with a sword through his heart. “Plague is plague,” he said. Everyone was ordered back to their caves. Rafuel told Donashe that the women had to be isolated, “They can’t just stay there in the middle of us all and spread their stinking disease.” He was like a madman, Rafuel was. Phaedra came to the entrance and said that she would take the women further down the stream and that perhaps in that way, they’d contain it. And I called out to her, Lucian. Truly I did. I said, “Phaedra, you’ve not been there long. You can stay with us because it can’t catch you that fast. Not if you haven’t touched them.” But she wouldn’t come, Lucian. She said that if she returned with me and brought plague to the mountain and to the children, she would never forgive herself and nor would you, Lucian.’

Jory looked back to the Charynite camp again, as if willing Phaedra to walk through the trees.

‘So now they’re downstream and Phaedra said that each day she’ll write a message outside a cave wall up high with an ochre stick, the writing big and bold.’

‘Write what?’ Lucian asked, horrified. But he didn’t need to hear the answer.

Phaedra would write the numbers of the dead.

Despite Jory’s pleas to keep away, Lucian crossed the stream and approached Rafuel, who was standing in a huddle with the rest of the camp dwellers. Lucian grabbed him, shaking him hard.

‘How many of them are there?’ he asked.

‘Six.’

‘Take me to her.’

‘And what?’ Rafuel spat. ‘Get yourself killed. Have you ever seen plague, Mont. I doubt that in your cosy Osterian hills. If I take you to her cave, Lumatere will be annihilated within weeks. I was there six years ago. I lived through the last plague we had.’

Rafuel turned to the others. ’I say this to you all. The first man or woman who travels past me to that cave downstream will catch an arrow to their heart. The first man or woman who does not report a sign will catch an arrow to their heart.’

‘Are you camp leader all of a sudden, Matteo?’ Lucian demanded.

Donashe stepped forward. ‘We stand by Matteo’s threat,’ he said.

Rafuel stared at Lucian. ‘If you cross the stream again then you’re a bigger fool than I thought you were, Mont.’

Lucian stayed with Jory on the Lumateran side of the stream for days. When he saw Yael coming down the mountain on the third day he called out to his cousin to stay away. Although he strongly suspected that he and Jory were not in danger, he couldn’t take the chance. The only good news was that none of the cave dwellers had reported symptoms, although there were those who, according to Rafuel, reported anything from a sneeze to an itch.

But on the fourth day the true horror began. Downstream from where the women had moved, two markings on the outer wall of one of the caves appeared. Two dead. Lucian held his vigil with Jory. Across the stream he saw Harker and Kasabian and the husband of the lazy girl Ginny, waiting. Two days later Rafuel reported two more markings on the cave walls. On the seventh day Rafuel travelled to the caves with his body wrapped and every part of him covered but his eyes. Lucian and the world of the valley prayed, dreading the news. And later that afternoon, they all saw the flames from a distance.

‘Not good,’ Kasabian muttered. ‘Not good.’

Rafuel returned and Lucian crossed the stream with Jory, to join Kasabian and Harker. He could see that Rafuel’s face was ashen, his eyes everywhere but on the men who stood before him.

‘Matteo?’ Kasabian asked. ‘Speak, Matteo.’

And the moment Rafuel’s eyes met Lucian’s, he knew.

‘All of them?’ Harker asked, his voice broken. Rafuel nodded. He looked around to where a crowd was gathering.

‘But not Phaedra?’ Lucian said.

‘All of them, Mont.’

Lucian shook his head, not wanting to believe.

‘I want to see her,’ he said, pushing past Rafuel.

‘You can’t. The corpse of a plague victim carries disease. I had to burn them.’

Jory grabbed Lucian, trying to drag him back.

‘Mont, don’t risk our lives,’ Donashe ordered.

The cries of fear and grief stopped Lucian.

‘You had no right to do that,’ he accused Rafuel. ‘She was my wife. You had no right.’

‘I had every right in the world, Mont,’ Rafuel shouted. ‘What were you going to do? Bury her in the ground. We don’t honour our dead in such a way.’

‘She was my wife!’

‘She didn’t belong to you any more,’ Rafuel said. ‘She didn’t belong to her father. She belonged to this valley and I had every right in the world. These people are frightened. They’ve lost Phaedra and they believe your queen will exile us for fear of spreading the plague.’

‘I want to see my wife,’ Harker said. ‘I want to see my daughter! Take me to them!’

Rafuel went to walk away. ‘You know that’s not possible.’

Harker leapt on Rafuel, beating him with a rage beyond anything Lucian had seen amongst these people. It took four men to drag him from Rafuel and they tied his hands and legs. ‘You had no right to take them from me,’ Harker wept. ‘No right. I want to see my Florenza. I want to see my Jorja.’

In the mountains when Lucian and Jory returned, the Monts were waiting for them. Yael and his wife were there, overjoyed to see their son alive and well.

‘Where’s Phaedra?’ Tesadora asked, and Lucian saw tears in the eyes of a woman he had believed would weep for no one.

‘Lucian!’ Japhra and Constance and the novices grabbed at the fleece of his coat as he walked towards his cottage. ‘Where is she, Lucian?’

He continued walking, leaving behind their cries.

Later, Yata and Tesadora came with supper and they ate it quietly.

‘Foolish girl,’ Tesadora said. ‘Foolish girl.’

Foolish man, Lucian thought, who took a year to realise he loved his wife and never said the words to her.

‘Tomorrow you go to Alonso,’ Yata said quietly. ‘Her father needs to know.’

As Lucian set off the next day, Jory and Yael were waiting for him outside Pitts’s cottage.

‘We thought we’d come with you, Lucian. To keep you company, cousin,’ Jory said, and Lucian thought how young he looked. Still a boy.

They travelled all day on horseback in silence. As they passed the caves where Phaedra died he saw the four bold red lines marking the four out of six deaths. He wondered who died last with her. He hoped it was Cora. They would have been a comfort to each other in the end. He wondered if she had thought of him. If she’d realised that Lucian had grown to love her and that he had planned a bonding ceremony amongst the Monts unlike the one in Alonso where she had wept the whole time. He wondered if she imagined that Lotte and the fool Orly would build a shrine for her in his paddock and that Yata had the entrance of her house adorned with the shroud of grieving, refusing to accept visitors. And that Alda had her sons leave a posy of mountain wildflowers on the Charyn side of the stream and that Lucian had slept in her cot with her shawl clutched in his hands, the scent of her consuming his small cottage.

In Alonso they identified themselves at the gates and were escorted to the Provincaro’s house where Lucian met Sol of Alonso. The Provincaro would have read the sorrow on their faces. Lucian knew the moment the man understood what they were doing there, but he spoke the words out loud regardless.

Phaedra was dead.

And for the second time in days he saw the grief of a father for his daughter and he heard the fury spat at him as every man in the room tried to hold Sol of Alonso down.

‘You were supposed to protect her! On your mountain! Your father pledged! Your father pledged he’d take care of my Phaedra! He pledged!’

Lucian realised the truth with bitterness. She had lied to the Provincaro. Had led him to believe she was still living happily in the mountains with her Mont husband since their bonding ceremony in Alonso. Did she not say that in her letters home each month? She had lied to all of them. Her father would never have refused to take his daughter back into his home. It had been Lucian’s ignorance that had allowed him to believe that only a Lumateran father would not forsake his daughter.

And as they left the province walls, he heard the wails, the crying from the people grieving their beloved lastborn.

Phaedra of Alonso is dead.

When they arrived back at the valley, Lucian was numb. He didn’t stop, but kept on riding past Kasabian, who was on his hands and knees in the vegetable patch he had lovingly restored with his sister Cora after the Mont lads had destroyed it. Before Lucian or Yael could stop him, Jory dismounted and walked to the man and knelt in the earth beside him. Lucian watched his young kinsman reach out and embrace Kasabian, and for the first time since his father’s death, Lucian wept.

Chapter 43

In the palace meeting room on the day of his father and Beatriss’s bonding day, Finnikin and Isaboe stared at the object placed before them.

‘Just tell me he’s alive, Sir Topher,’ Isaboe said. ‘That’s all I want to hear.’

Sir Topher stared at the ruby ring. ‘This is all there is to prove he was alive in early autumn. The man who brought it to us claims it was given to him as a trade during the events in the Citavita. He thought we might want it back. For a price.’

‘And?’ Isaboe asked.

‘Perri and Trevanion are interrogating him as we speak.’

‘Mercy,’ Finnikin muttered. ‘That’s all we need. My father turning up to his bonding ceremony splattered in blood.’

He stared out the window to where their people were setting up the trestle tables. There would be many absent faces today, especially from the Monts. Lucian’s grief was fierce. The loss of his Charyn wife was felt across the mountain and even Yata had declined to attend Trevanion and Beatriss’s bonding day out of respect for the days of mourning. Finnikin was torn between his joy for Trevanion and his sadness for his friend. He had noticed during his last visit to the mountains that Lucian’s feelings for the Charynite girl had changed. It was in the way the Mont’s eyes had blazed with pride when Phaedra spoke with such ease to those around her and flashed with jealousy when she spoke about the handsome Provincaro of Paladozza.

The death of Lucian’s wife had come at the same time as the arrival of a Charynite through the Osterian border claiming to have a ruby ring belonging to the Queen. The moment Finnikin and Isaboe had heard those words they had suspected the worst.

‘Have you heard news from the envoys, Sir Topher?’ Finnikin asked. ‘About events in Charyn?’

‘Only Celie. She’s returned for the wedding. The Osterians are saying that the King’s First Advisor has taken control of the kingdom with the Nebian army. The Belegonians are saying that a man named Gargarin of Abroi is holding the Queen hostage with Paladozza’s blessing. The Sorellians are saying that a Lumateran nobleman has kidnapped the Queen. The Sarnaks are saying that she is in the hands of rebel Priests in the Turlan Mountains.’

‘Is anyone saying the same thing?’ Isaboe asked.

‘Yes,’ Sir Topher said. ‘Everyone is saying that the Princess of Charyn is with child. Bestiano, the former King’s First Advisor, has made contact with the Belegonians asking for their acknowledgement of his right to lead the heir. He claims the Queen of Charyn is carrying his babe and that she has been kidnapped by Gargarin of Abroi. He says that the last thing Belegonia and Lumatere want is for Gargarin of Abroi to take control of the palace.’

‘As opposed to Bestiano, who was the savage King’s First Advisor for ten years?’ Isaboe asked bitterly.

‘Yes, but appointed after the events of Lumatere, not before,’ Sir Topher said. ‘And that is where our interest lies. According to Bestiano and the Belegonians, Gargarin of Abroi was in the palace eighteen years ago. He was the King’s brightest advisor.’

Finnikin sat before Sir Topher.

‘What is he implying?’

‘That Gargarin of Abroi was the mastermind behind the attack on Lumatere. That it was years in the planning.’

‘Eighteen years ago?’

‘Belegonia believes it to be true. Because what did Charyn need eighteen years ago more than anything else in the land?’

Finnikin and Isaboe exchanged looks.

‘Women who could give birth,’ Sir Topher said. ‘Gargarin of Abroi, according to Bestiano, believed the curse lay with the women and not the men. What better way to prove that than to invade Lumatere and take its women?’

‘Too ridiculous,’ Isaboe said. ‘And heinous.’

Finnikin shook his head. ‘Not so ridiculous. There was widespread rape here, Isaboe,’ he reminded her quietly. ‘Despite the fact it led to no births amongst us.’

‘Thank the Goddess for the smallest of favours,’ she said.

‘And you believe this Gargarin is staying in Paladozza?’ Finnikin asked Sir Topher.

‘According to the Belegonians, yes.’

Isaboe stood and took Finnikin’s hand. ‘What say you, my love? That it’s about time we go in and get our lad back?’

He thought for a moment and nodded. ‘And we set a trap for Gargarin of Abroi.’

They walked out into the main hall where their people awaited them beyond the courtyard doors.

‘We’ll speak of this later,’ Isaboe said. ‘I will not have Beatriss and Trevanion’s day ruined.’

Jasmina burst through the doors dressed for the celebrations and they both knelt down and held out their arms to her.

‘We do what needs to be done,’ Isaboe said quietly before Jasmina reached them. ‘We kill Gargarin of Abroi.’