Quintana of Charyn

Chapter 1

‘Froi!’

In the dark of their chamber, Isaboe awoke. She heard Finnikin stir beside her and she climbed out of their bed, pulling back the curtain that partitioned their sleeping quarters from the rest of their private residence. Despite the thickness of the rug, her feet felt icy as she tiptoed to the hearth. Her hands shook as she lit a taper with the embers of last night’s fire, trying to understand the savage strangeness of her dream. But when she returned to their bed she saw, through the flicker of the flame, what the darkness had hidden. Finnikin lay awake, staring at her with fury. And it made her shiver even more.

‘What is it?’ she asked, as if facing a stranger, not her king. And because she feared the malevolence of Finnikin’s gaze, she gathered Jasmina into her arms and carried their daughter away, settling her to sleep in a moonlit corner of the room. There was a sound behind her, and Finnikin’s shadow was on the wall. Isaboe despaired at the wickedness that had crawled into their lives this night.

‘What?’ she demanded to know, her mood only eased by the smile of sleepy satisfaction on Jasmina’s face.

Finnikin didn’t respond and this time she turned to face him, the light of a cruel moon mocking her belief that she had nothing to fear from her king.

‘You wake with another man’s name on your lips and you ask me what the matter is?’ he said.

Froi?

She could hardly remember it now, but she had certainly dreamt that she had heard his name.

‘It’s the walk,’ she said, pressing a kiss against the soft skin of her daughter’s cheek. ‘Every night now it seems as if I’m in another’s sleep, but they reveal nothing.’

Unable to stand his accusing stare, she brushed past him and returned to their bed. ‘It’s a mind full of strangeness,’ she mused. ‘There’s cunning beyond reckoning there. Snarls. Whispers. And something else. I can’t explain it.’

‘You’ve not bled for months, Isaboe,’ Finnikin said, his voice blunt. ‘Since you began carrying the child. How can you walk the sleep if you don’t bleed?’

And then fear left her and anger set in and she matched the grey stoniness in Finnikin’s eyes with dark rage.

‘Are you calling me a liar?’ she asked softly. ‘Because I’d be careful of that, my love.’

They heard the sound of horses in the courtyard outside and she suspected it was Trevanion and Perri returning from the mountains where she had sent them to question Rafuel of Sebastabol. Finnikin walked away, without so much as a word. They had all been tense these past weeks after the return of Froi’s ring by a Charynite brigand. They had also received news from inside the kingdom of Belegonia about the man who may have planned the slaughter of Isaboe’s family, thirteen years past: Gargarin of Abroi. Isaboe had insisted they were to collect information about the suspect. She knew what her next order would be. Slowly, every man responsible for Lumatere’s pain would be gone, and she prayed to the Goddess that it would bring her peace.

When she heard the voices from the entrance of the chamber, Isaboe wrapped her fleece around her body and pulled across the curtain that separated their bed from the rest of the room. Informal meetings with Sir Topher and Trevanion always took place here in their private residence. It was Isaboe’s favourite place in the castle, and when she had first seen the vastness of the room she had insisted they include a dining bench and settees to accommodate the closest of their friends when they came to visit. It was beautifully decorated with rich tapestries and ceiling frescoes, and Isaboe was proud of how at ease those nearest to her heart felt in her home. But there was little of that today.

She watched her lady’s maid serve hot brew to Trevanion and Perri, who were hovering near the doorway.

‘Your shoes, my queen!’ Rhiannon reprimanded, turning her attention to Isaboe and staring down at Isaboe’s bare feet.

She hadn’t noticed. She only noticed Finnikin brooding by the window. Isaboe greeted Trevanion, who embraced her, and she felt the icy wetness of his coat. Taking his hand, she led him closer to the fire where Finnikin’s hound pressed himself against Trevanion’s leg in recognition.

‘Where are your shoes, Isaboe?’ he asked with disapproval.

Finnikin’s father had one gruff tone for everything and she was finally becoming used to it after all these years.

A bleary-eyed Sir Topher entered with a knock and then they were all huddled before the warmth.

‘Sit,’ Isaboe ordered everyone and they made themselves comfortable before the fire.

‘Rafuel of Sebastabol has become somewhat difficult to get alone these past weeks,’ Trevanion said. ‘Impossible, actually.’

‘Since Phaedra of Alonso …’ Isaboe said.

Trevanion nodded.

‘How are they all?’ she asked quietly. It had been three weeks since the death of Lucian’s wife.

‘Grieving. I left Beatriss and Vestie with them.’

‘Yata sent a letter,’ Isaboe said. ‘Tesadora is taking it hard, I hear,’ she added, looking at Perri. He nodded, but said nothing more. Isaboe had never known him to speak of Tesadora. Whatever it was that they shared was a private matter.

‘Tesadora and her girls insist on going down to the valley again,’ Trevanion said.

Isaboe shook her head. ‘I want Tesadora here keeping me company until I deem it safe for her to return to her work with those Charynite valley dwellers.’

She noticed the flicker of annoyance on Perri’s face and stared at him questioningly.

‘Tesadora claims they are suffering greatly,’ Trevanion said.

‘The Monts?’ Isaboe asked.

‘The valley dwellers.’

‘Why so much concern for the valley dwellers?’ she asked, exasperated. ‘They’re not our problem.’

‘Well, they may just be,’ Trevanion continued. ‘The province of Alonso has stopped sending grain carts. The valley dwellers are sharing meagre rations and it’s beginning to show. Tesadora says that in their weakened state and in this cold, they’re more at risk of illness. The older ones are beginning to die far too quickly.’

‘Why would the Provincaro of Alonso leave them to starve?’ she asked angrily.

‘Grief,’ Sir Topher said. ‘He believes his daughter’s death would have been avoided if she wasn’t in the valley. He blames the valley and he blames us. Perhaps if we write to offer our –’

‘I don’t grieve for Charynites,’ Isaboe said, her voice cold. ‘I don’t recall receiving a letter from the Provincaro of Alonso when my family were slaughtered, nor was there a note of sympathy when my uncle Saro of the Monts was killed. I owe the Provincaro nothing. He, on the other hand, owes Lumatere for relieving him of the problem of a crowded province. Write to him, Sir Topher, and demand that he feed his people. I will not have them dropping like flies on my land!’

Rhiannon returned with Isaboe’s slippers and another shawl, and they all waited until she stopped her fussing.

‘You’re quiet, Finnikin,’ Sir Topher said after Rhiannon had left the room.

‘I agree with Isaboe,’ he said, his voice flat. ‘Regardless of whose problem they are, the valley dwellers are Charynites, and Alonso has no right to stop the grain carts. Explain to the Provincaro that every death in the valley will be recorded, and one day when a benevolent king sits on the Charynite throne, Alonso will be held accountable.’

It was the wavering in Finnikin’s voice that marked the difference between them both. Isaboe knew that. He was the better person. He wrote the letters of outrage to the King of Yutlind Nord about the injustices in Yutlind Sud. He wrote the letters to every leader of the land challenging the Sorellian laws of slavery. He was the only person she had ever known to use the word Skuldenorian. As if those in the land of Skuldenore were one people. But Isaboe could not think of being one with their enemies. Not with the memory of what had been done to her family. Finnikin’s father was close at hand. Hers was dead and she had prayed these past years for the grace of forgiveness, but the Goddess refused to send it.

‘We’re not here to speak of the valley dwellers,’ Isaboe said. ‘What else have we discovered about Gargarin of Abroi?’

Trevanion indicated for Perri to speak first.

‘I’ve interrogated every Charynite prisoner we have,’ Perri said, leaning forward in his seat. The blaze of the hearth illuminated the scar that ran across his brow. ‘Those who have heard of Gargarin of Abroi all speak the same thoughts. He was the King’s favourite advisor in the palace eighteen years ago. The Charynites in our prison say that the King favoured Gargarin of Abroi’s opinion over all others. It was well known in the capital that if young Gargarin of Abroi had a plan, the King would follow it.’

‘And what does the Charynite in possession of Froi’s ring have to say?’ Finnikin asked.

‘Every word that comes out of his mouth seems a lie, so he’s not the most reliable of sources, but he certainly knows who Gargarin of Abroi is.’

Trevanion and Perri exchanged looks. ‘According to the Charynite, the ring was given to him by a lad to bargain for Gargarin of Abroi’s life. And the province leaders paid three hundred pieces of gold as ransom to have Gargarin of Abroi returned to them when he was held hostage by these men called the street lords.’

There was an uneasy silence in the room.

‘Are we suspecting that Froi has joined the enemy?’ Isaboe asked, trying to keep her voice even.

‘We’re suspecting anyone can be an enemy to Lumatere,’ Trevanion said. ‘If it was Froi who bargained with the ring, then he was begging for the life of a man who could easily have been the mastermind behind events in this palace thirteen years ago.’

‘Easily have been?’ Isaboe asked. ‘If we’re going to hunt a man down, we need to be more certain than that.’

‘Gargarin of Abroi dazzled the King with his ideas,’ Sir Topher said. ‘Perhaps he has a way about him.’

‘Froi is the least likely to be dazzled by another,’ she said. ‘Even when he had a choice between life and death, he refused to be influenced by powerful men. His choices are about survival.’

She heard a sound come from Finnikin and dared to glance at him.

‘How is it that you came to speak about such things with him?’ her husband asked.

She shrugged. ‘We were exchanging stories of horror from our childhood. I told him about my time as a slave in Sorel and he shared with me some of his more … sordid moments on the streets of the Sarnak capital.’

Again she felt Finnikin’s cold stare. How could a man who stared so coldly possess a smile that made her mood change in an instant? But that smile was far away now.

‘I’ll say this again because it’s the life of a man we are playing with,’ Isaboe said. ‘Gargarin of Abroi worked for the King of Charyn eighteen years ago and then disappeared. But he did not work for the King thirteen years ago when Lumatere was attacked. How can we be sure he was involved?’

‘We intercepted a letter he sent to the Belegonians, Your Majesty,’ Sir Topher said. ‘Gargarin of Abroi wants to talk to them about Charyn’s unborn King. He has ambition.’

‘Is that a crime? Most people in this court have ambition,’ she said.

‘He mentioned Lumatere.’ Sir Topher removed the letter from his pocket and began to read. ‘The Lumaterans need not know of our alliance. We’ll talk later about what to do with them. Leave it to me, for I have a plan for Lumatere that will eliminate them as a threat.’

Eliminate Lumatere? Isaboe shuddered. ‘Then we must set a trap,’ she said.

Trevanion nodded. ‘Already done, my queen. We sent a letter in response to his, asking him to meet with us on the Charyn–Osteria border.’

‘And you don’t think Gargarin of Abroi knows the look of an authentic Belegonian seal on a letter?’ she asked.

Trevanion and Sir Topher exchanged a look.

‘Our spy in the Belegonian palace managed to stamp the letter with a Belegonian seal,’ Sir Topher said, and she knew him well enough to understand he was hiding something. She looked from her First Man to Trevanion.

‘Who’s your spy?’ she demanded. ‘Lord August? On his last visit? Does Abian know?’

There was silence and she almost choked at the realisation.

‘Celie?’ She stared at them in horror. ‘August will kill you.’

Sir Topher sighed. ‘Celie came to us. She’s bored. She says she’s too plain to dazzle the Belegonian court, but that they all confide in her. She says her insipid looks are the perfect weapon. Her words, not ours.’

Isaboe rubbed her face, knowing that soon she would be dealing with Celie’s parents, Lady Abian and Lord August.

‘What about Rafuel of Sebastabol?’

‘According to Lucian, the Charynite has made contact between us impossible,’ Perri said.

‘I don’t like the fact that he’s out of our sight,’ Finnikin said. ‘He’s still a prisoner and the agreement was that he would be spying in the valley for us.’

Isaboe agreed. ‘I want Lucian to send down the lads again. I want Rafuel’s every movement noted.’

‘If you send down the Mont lads, Tesadora will insist on returning to the valley for good,’ Perri said.

‘Last I knew, Tesadora was not in charge of this kingdom,’ she said coolly. ‘I’ll say it again. I want her to pay me a visit. Can you ensure she receives that request, Perri?’

He nodded. ‘I’ll send Moss.’

‘Hunt Gargarin of Abroi down,’ she said to Trevanion. ‘I don’t want him alive. And I don’t want him in Lumatere. What needs to be done.’

She spoke a few moments more with Sir Topher about their upcoming market day and then turned to find Finnikin packing.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked. ‘Where are you going?’

He refused to speak and continued to place items in his pack.

‘What is wrong with you?’ she cried.

She grabbed the cloak from his belongings and threw it back into the chest.

He stood her aside and retrieved the cloak and placed it back in his pack before pulling on calfskin trousers, which she knew he only used for travel.

‘I’m going with my father and Perri.’

‘No!’

He laced up his boots, continuing to dress as if she hadn’t spoken.

‘You’re not going to Charyn, Finnikin.’

‘I don’t follow a wife’s orders,’ he said.

‘I’m not speaking to you as your wife,’ she shouted. ‘I’m speaking to you as your queen, and my order is that you are not going to Charyn.’

In her corner, Jasmina awoke and began to cry.

‘Ah, so that’s what is meant by the “Queen’s Consort”,’ Finnikin said with bitterness. ‘A page who answers to her demands.’

She grabbed his arm, but he shook it free.

‘Is that what this is about?’ she asked. ‘Being my consort?’

He ignored her.

‘Answer me!’

‘You spoke another man’s name in my bed!’

She stared at him, stunned. He had shouted at her this way once before when she had been disguised as the novice Evanjalin. It was almost four years past when he discovered the truth about Balthazar and had accused her of sedition.

‘I go to Charyn with my father and Perri,’ he said, his voice hard. ‘Because I speak the language in a way they don’t and if we are fortunate enough to cross the path of our wayward lad, I’ll bring him home to you safe and sound. Perhaps you can murmur his name to him while he shares your bed.’

She slapped his face with a cry of outrage and he pulled her close to him, his arms shaking.

‘You’ve never spoken to me of your time in Sorel as a child,’ he said, and she saw tears in his eyes. ‘You’ve always said it was too painful. That apart from Balthazar’s death and what you witnessed in Sarnak, it was your worst memory. Yet you told him. You trusted another man with your pain.’

He shook his head, anguished and full of fury. ‘I’ve told you everything. Every fear I have. How can we be equals in this union if you can’t trust me?’

‘Not telling you about Sorel has nothing to do with trust, Finnikin!’ she said.

He walked out the door before she could speak another word.

Soon after, she saw his fleece on their bed and knew he would freeze without it. Let him, she thought. Let him. But she grabbed the fleece and walked outside, flinging it over the balcony down to where Finnikin was already mounting his horse in the courtyard alongside his father and Perri. It caught him in the face and her only satisfaction was that the weight of it almost toppled him from his horse.

‘And don’t expect any sympathy if you catch your death out there,’ she shouted. ‘You didn’t even pack an undershirt.’

‘I expect nothing from you,’ he shouted back.

She was determined he would not get the last word and shouted a whole lot more until she had no idea what she was saying.

Inside, she walked to Jasmina’s bed, thinking of her dream again. Not of the savageness and not of the confusion, but of the part that she remembered most of all. That it wasn’t Tesadora and Vestie who had walked the sleep with her, as they had each month before her pregnancy when it was Isaboe’s time to bleed. It was a different spirit now, one that almost shared her heartbeat. She stared down at her daughter, but knew it hadn’t been Jasmina. She felt a kick in her belly and almost buckled, imagining the truth.

Had she walked the sleep of some savage beast with her unborn child?

Chapter 2

‘Froi?’

‘Yes?’

‘Are you awake?’

‘I am now.’

‘I can’t sleep.’

‘What are you thinking?’

‘About sad things, really. What if I never get to meet our little king, Froi?’

‘Don’t say that. Don’t think it!’

‘He’ll never know that the time I felt most brave was when I knew he was in my belly.’

‘You were brave long before that, Quintana. Sleep.’

‘Quintana?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you awake?’

‘I am now.’

‘I can’t sleep,’ he said.

‘What are you thinking?’

‘That time … that time you let go of my hand in the Citavita,’ he said, ‘when you thought I would hurt you and the babe, where would you have gone?’

‘Wherever our little king guided me.’

‘He speaks to you?’

‘No. But he used to speak to my sister, the Reginita. He liked the sound of her voice. He’s very clever in that way. I think he’s gods’ blessed like Arjuro.’

‘And where did our little king suggest you all journey without me?’

‘You’ll not believe it.’

‘But I will.’

‘Promise you won’t think me a fool.’

‘With all my heart.’

‘Then you’ll have to come closer, Froi. We can’t have the Avanosh lot hearing.’

Quintana? I can’t hear you. Speak louder. You’ve got to speak louder. I can’t hear you. Quintana!

‘Froi!’

Don’t wake up.

‘Froi!’

Fight it. Don’t let her go again.

‘Froi, wake up!’

The times he loved most were when his eyes were closed. So he could imagine he was still in his quarters in Paladozza on that long night when they talked and talked and lay naked against each other. They were like a cocoon, she said. She had seen one in the gardens of their compound and had sat and watched it for hours. So there they lay with her rounded belly between them, protecting their little king, studying each other’s face as if trying to work out which part of them would belong to the babe.

With eyes closed shut, Froi could also imagine Gargarin and Lirah down the hall in De Lancey’s home and he could go back to that room time and time again and change everything that happened. Take back every word he spoke.

But sleep was already gone and with its loss came truth and a flatness to his spirit that rendered him motionless. Barely opening his eyes, he could see Arjuro crouched beside him, a cup of brew in the Priestling’s hands that was sure to turn Froi’s stomach.

‘She whispered it to me, Arjuro,’ he said, his voice hoarse, and Arjuro lifted the cup to Froi’s lips. ‘I could almost hear her. I could almost hear the words telling me where she’d hide.’

‘Drink,’ Arjuro ordered gently. ‘She’s just about told you every night, Froi. For weeks now. You beg her in your sleep over and over again. Let it rest or you’ll drive us both mad.’

Arjuro lit another of the oil lamps, and then two more, and placed them in the crooks of the wall. It was the only light Froi had seen these past weeks and he wondered what it did to a spirit to not feel sun on the skin or the wind on one’s face.

Although he shared the cavern with Arjuro, passages linked it to every other cavern in the underground godshouse of Trist. The rest of Charyn had been led to believe that the Priests were hiding somewhere in the caves outside Sebastabol, but instead they lived beneath the city itself. It was a labyrinth so extensive it had three main entrances: one through a grate in the ceiling that led to a hospital for travellers, and two through cellars of Sebastabolians who had an allegiance to the Priests. It was outside one of those homes where Froi’s bloody body was left.

‘You have a habit of turning up on our doorstep, Dafar of Abroi,’ Simeon the Head Priest had told him the first time Froi woke. ‘Creating havoc in the kingdom beyond understanding.’

They were unable to tell him who his saviour was. ‘You were left and he was gone without a word,’ they said.

Froi dragged himself out of his bedroll and walked to the basin, dampening a cloth and wiping it over his face. Each morning had been a measure of how quickly he was healing and his only relief today was that there was less pain than the day before.

‘I’m ready,’ he said to Arjuro.

‘You said you were ready the day you woke up with eight barbs wedged in your body,’ Arjuro muttered, mixing a paste that he coated on Froi’s wounds each morning. It produced a stench that made them both want to retch, but Arjuro insisted the scars would fade and Froi would heal quicker. The faster Froi healed, the closer he came to finding her.

‘Arm up,’ Arjuro ordered.

Froi held up his arm as Arjuro smeared the paste onto the deepest of the wounds on Froi’s side. ‘It’s the one that brought you closest to death,’ Arjuro said most days, and Froi would hear the break in the Priestling’s voice each time.

The paste and Arjuro’s fingers were cold on his skin and Froi flinched more than once, although he tried hard not to. It was Arjuro who had to be convinced of his strength. Arjuro, Froi had come to understand, was respected by the compound of Trist, and Froi could see the Priests and their families were desperate to keep him. He was the last of the Oracle’s Priestlings and he still held a fascination for them all.

‘Are you ready for the collegiati?’ Arjuro asked. ‘You’re the most exciting thing that’s happened to them for quite some time.’

‘You mean my injuries are,’ Froi said.

‘Yes, I suppose they will miss your wounds when you leave,’ Arjuro chuckled.

Each morning, a group of young men and women, a little older than Froi, came to visit their quarters. Although not lastborns, some were in hiding because they were believed to be gods’ blessed. Others were the children of the Priests and Priestesses who had hidden their families all those years ago when the Oracle’s godshouse was attacked. That a school for the brightest minds in Charyn existed in the bowels of a province didn’t surprise Froi. In the nook of any given cave in this kingdom were a people refusing to give up.

‘The way they grovel to you makes me sick to my stomach,’ Froi said as he watched Arjuro arrange his tools of healing. Froi thought of them more as tools of torture. When he had first awoken from his injuries, one of the collegiati had told Froi how excited all in the compound had been when Arjuro returned to them.

‘He was considered the greatest young surgeon in Charyn before the attack on the Oracle’s godshouse,’ the girl, Marte, had explained to Froi. ‘My mother was one of his teachers in Paladozza and said that even as a boy he showed brilliance.’

Marte and her fellow collegiati were hungry for any type of learning and they hovered around the entrance of Arjuro’s chamber all day long, just for a chance to spend more time with the Priestling.

Arjuro found them as annoying as he found most people and would tell them exactly where he would prefer they go. But they returned each day while he treated Froi’s wounds, which they analysed and discussed, poking at Froi as if he was nothing but a slab of mutton. Froi would see their eyes blaze with excitement each time they saw his scars.

Whoever had taken him to these caves had tried to yank out the arrows, but once the shafts were pulled, they had come unstuck from their stems and Froi was left with eight arrowheads lodged inside his body.

‘Cat gut goes a long way, blessed Arjuro,’ Marte said that morning when they all shuffled in. ‘The stitching is perfect.’

‘But how did you remove the barbs, Brother Arjuro?’ a collegiato asked in awe.

‘An arrow spoon,’ Arjuro said, showing them the instrument.

There was much oohing and aahing.

‘The spoon is inserted into the wound and latches onto the arrowhead,’ Arjuro said, looking at Froi. ‘You might want to close your ears for this next bit, Froi.’ Arjuro turned back to the others. ‘Next moment, the barb is ripped out and look what we have?’ Arjuro said. ‘Beautiful.’

This was what produced joy for Arjuro. Inflicting pain.

‘It’s a work of art, Brother Arjuro,’ an annoyingly fawning collegiata said. ‘You’re a genius.’

‘Yes, I’m going to have to agree,’ Arjuro said, pleased with himself. ‘See how clean this one is,’ he said, pointing to Froi’s shoulderblade. ‘But I think it could have been a tighter stitch. I only wish I had a chance to do it again. If I could get myself some bronzed wire, rather than using sheep bone, I think I could have done a neater job of this sewing.’

He caught Froi’s eye, a smile crossing his lips. Froi knew he was enjoying himself.

Someone ran a finger alongside the dent at the back of Froi’s head and Arjuro slapped the hand away. Froi had received an arrow to the head and they had been forced to crop his hair. Although not completely bare, it felt strange under his fingers. But what was even stranger was the collegiati’s reaction to it. Not a day went by without a hand attempting to feel its way across the cleft at the back of Froi’s skull.

‘Are you going to tell me what’s there?’ he demanded of Arjuro.

‘A hard head,’ Arjuro responded and Froi saw the warning look he sent to the others. ‘It’s a good thing you have no brains and the arrowhead pierced nothing but empty space.’

It was the same joke each time and Froi rolled his eyes when the others laughed at it again.

‘Can I put on my trousers now?’ he asked. Never one to be bashful about his naked self, it felt different when the collegiati scrutinised every part of his body. The topic of foreskin was the most difficult to endure.

‘He grew up in Sarnak. It’s what they do to their male young. A snip and then it’s gone,’ Arjuro explained.

The men had flinched. The women were intrigued.

Arjuro ushered them all out.

‘Brother Arjuro, what of warts?’ one of the lads asked at the entrance of the cave. Nothing gods’ blessed about that one. Some were quite delusional when it came to the degree of their talents.

Arjuro stared at the young man.

‘I don’t heal warts. If you want to learn how to heal warts, go to the soothsayer and she’ll feed you with an old wives’ tale or two.’

When they were all gone, Froi pulled on his trousers.

‘They’re all half in love with you,’ he said. ‘Men and women.’

‘Yes, it’s a pity you didn’t inherit our looks,’ Arjuro said. ‘You too could be as popular.’

Froi hid a smile.

‘Gargarin was even more sought after,’ Arjuro explained, sketching today’s image of Froi’s gut wound into his journal. ‘It’s because he ignored the world and, in turn, the world believed he was playing games.’

‘Were you jealous of him?’

‘Gargarin?’ Arjuro looked up, surprised by the question. ‘Never. I told you. I was jealous of anyone who took him from me.’

‘He could be happy with Lirah in Paladozza,’ Froi said softly.

Arjuro sighed. ‘I can’t see my brother staying put while all this is happening.’

Froi imagined that ‘all this’ was the question of Quintana’s whereabouts. He watched Arjuro carefully. ‘You know I’m ready.’

‘I’ll tell you when you’re ready. Sit.’ Arjuro pressed hard on the puckered skin across Froi’s gut.

‘Does that hurt?’

Froi pressed two fingers against Arjuro’s shoulder with the same force.

‘Does that?’ he snapped in return.

‘Oh, so we’re bad-tempered this morning, as well. Always good to see the Abroi spirit living on in our sprog.’

This time Froi couldn’t resist a smile, but then he grabbed Arjuro’s hand and pressed it against the back of his skull.

‘What’s there, Arjuro? What are you hiding from me?’

Arjuro pulled his hand away with a grimace.

‘Nothing we don’t already know, Froi. It was just hidden for so long. You were born with a mop of hair. Did you know that? It’s probably been there your whole life and no one ever saw it.’

‘But what is it?’

‘It’s the same style of lettering as Quintana’s,’ Arjuro said finally. ‘We didn’t realise all this time that both of you were scorched by the gods or whoever it was.’

‘If not the gods, who else?’ Froi asked.

Arjuro shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I wish I did. I wish I knew what it meant.’

He placed a blue woollen cap over Froi’s head, almost covering his eyes and ears.

‘Make sure no one outside these caves see it. Charynites are used to the sign belonging to lastborn women,’ Arjuro said. ‘I don’t know what would happen if they knew the very last male born was walking amongst us.’

Arjuro put his journal away under his cot. Froi saw a note poking out from one of the pages. He watched for signs of news all the time, and during the past day, Arjuro had received new correspondence.

‘What’s in the letter?’ he asked.

Arjuro didn’t respond.

‘Tell me,’ Froi begged.

Arjuro sat on the cot and thought for a minute. ‘We’ve received word back from the Turlans. Quintana never reached them, Froi. She’s not in the Lascow Mountains either. We’ve sent out word to the Provincari. She may have gone back to Jidia.’

‘Orlanda made it clear she would not protect her,’ Froi said, referring to the Provincara of Jidia.

‘Regardless, if Orlanda’s hand is forced, she will protect the future King.’

‘What of De Lancey? Quintana went searching for Lirah that time in the Citavita. Maybe she returned to Paladozza.’

‘I’ve written to De Lancey. Let’s hope he responds with the news we want to hear.’

‘Arjuro –’

‘It’s all I know. Don’t ask me again!’

Chapter 3

The hammering on Lucian’s cottage door woke him with a start.

‘Lucian! Lucian!’

The voices belonged to Lady Beatriss and Tesadora, he thought, stumbling from his bed. Something had happened to Yata. He felt the all-too-familiar taste of bile fill his mouth as his mind raced with images of the worst.

But Yata was there the moment Lucian opened the door, his relief cut short when he saw the looks on all three faces.

‘Vestie’s gone!’

‘Taken from her bed, Lucian!’

He grabbed his coat and ushered them out the door and he felt the sharp slap of wind against his cheeks. Winter was out-staying its welcome for yet another day. He had never known it to drag so long.

‘One at a time,’ he ordered as they travelled the path down to Yata’s home. ‘And everyone calm down! No one on this mountain would hurt Vestie, so there has to be an explanation.’

Lady Beatriss nodded and tried to do as she was told, taking a deep breath that sounded more like a ragged sob.

‘I woke up and her bed was empty and then I woke Tesadora and we searched Yata’s house. Nothing.’

‘The door was unlatched,’ Tesadora continued. ‘From the inside.’

They reached Yata’s compound, which sat at the centre of the mountain, and Lucian hurried to the bell in the courtyard. It had only been rung once since their return, after the younger lads broke into the cellars and got drunk. It was unlike the bell that Isaboe had insisted be placed on the mountain halfway to Lumatere. That one was a means of alerting the guards stationed there that something was wrong on the Charyn border; Yata’s bell could only be heard throughout the mountain village. Lucian rang it long and loud until the Monts emerged from their cottages, even from as far up as the slopes to the east.

Lucian’s eyes met Tesadora’s. She wasn’t one for dramatics, but she looked pale and he knew that Vestie of the Flatlands was precious to her. Very few people found a place in Tesadora’s heart. Finnikin spoke often about the love between Tesadora and Isaboe. Letters were exchanged between the two each week and it wasn’t rare to see Tesadora laughing as she read her correspondence. Both Isaboe and Tesadora’s bond with Vestie was strong because they had walked the sleep together during the curse. Lucian could not fathom the thought of what would happen if Vestie was hurt.

‘She could have responded to a knock,’ Lucian said.

Tesadora and Beatriss shook her head.

‘We would have heard it,’ Yata said. ‘There was no knock.’

By now a crowd had gathered around them, calling out questions, realising this was no drunken foolery by the younger lads.

Lucian settled them down, knowing their silence would be short-lived the moment he spoke the words, ‘Vestie is gone.’ And short-lived it was. Questions were shouted at him from all directions, the women crying out their fear as they surrounded Beatriss, alarming her even more. Worst were Jory and the lads, whipped into a frenzy of fury. Jory’s response to Phaedra’s death had been anger. The lad wasn’t aware that it was grief he was feeling, and perhaps Lucian and the Monts had not realised until these past weeks that Jory was no longer a boy.

‘Stop!’ Lucian ordered above the noise. He pointed a finger at the lads who were the last to obey. He waited for silence again. ‘Everyone search around your homes. Jory, ride down towards the valley and ask the cottagers to start searching the middle mountain. You lot,’ he said, pointing to his younger cousins, ‘check the woods. Knock on every door. Juno, take your lads and head towards Balconio.’

Lucian turned to Lady Beatriss. ‘Maybe she woke up feeling lost and is trying to make her way home?’

Lady Beatriss shook her head and he could see she was holding back tears.

‘There is an explanation, Lady Beatriss. You know that. It’s what Trevanion would tell you if he were here.’

All morning, Vestie’s name rang throughout the mountain. Every cottage was searched, every footstep traced, every shrine to the Goddess filled with garlands. Lucian knew of Vestie’s gift for walking the sleep, but he had never known anyone to become so lost in the dream that it took them from their beds.

And then, midmorning, Jory returned, his face pale, clutching a mitten in his hand. Lady Beatriss took it and held it to her face, weeping.

‘She has to be in the valley, Lucian,’ Jory said. ‘It’s the only explanation.’

Lucian caught his breath. It had been weeks since Phaedra’s death and he had only made the journey to the valley twice. At night, in a panic, he would wake up afraid he had abandoned Phaedra’s companions to the mercy of the cutthroat camp leader, Donashe, and his men. No matter how many times he reminded himself that the valley dwellers were not his people, Lucian felt a fierce sense of guilt.

‘We should have had our sentinels down in the valley,’ Tesadora said, her voice blunt and accusing.

‘But we don’t,’ Lucian argued. He had used the threat of the plague as a reason to stop sending down the lads, but he knew there was no such danger anymore. He looked around at those waiting for the next order. ‘Lady Beatriss, you wait –’

‘Don’t ask me to do that, Lucian. I’m coming with you.’

He didn’t even attempt to instruct Tesadora. She was coming down to the valley whether Lucian liked it or not.

‘Yata,’ he sighed. ‘Go back to the house, in case Vestie returns. Jory and Yael, come with me. Everyone else, stay.’

When they reached the bottom of the mountain, Lucian did what he always did: asked his father for guidance. What would Saro do? Cross the stream and accuse the Charynites of taking a Lumateran child, after all the valley dwellers had endured with the death of five of their women and the slaughter of Rafuel’s men? Would Lucian ask for help from the murderous camp leaders, or would he accuse them of taking Vestie? Could he trust Rafuel, who now seemed a stranger to them? At the campsite on the Lumateran side of the valley where Tesadora had once camped with her girls, he dared to look through the trees in the hope of catching a glimpse of his wife crossing the stream.

That’s why you haven’t returned here, Lucian. Because you see her everywhere.

‘Jory, you cross the stream and see what you can find out. They’ll trust you. Remember, no accusations. I don’t care what the camp leaders say, we cannot have Kasabian and the others thinking we believe they hurt one of our own.

‘Yael, you watch Jory from one of the trees and holler for me the moment there’s trouble. Lady Beatriss, Tesadora and I will continue down this side of the stream and see what we can find. We’ll meet you back here.’

As they travelled further downstream he could see Phaedra’s people in their caves through the copse of trees.

‘She would never have come this far,’ Beatriss said when they were deep within the woods. ‘Perhaps … perhaps she tried to cross the stream. The ice is beginning to melt on the mountain and the force of it could have carried her away.’

‘Beatriss,’ Tesadora said firmly, ‘she swims better than any child we know.’

Lucian doubted greatly that Vestie was swept away by the stream. Lucian knew that teaching Vestie to swim was the first thing Trevanion had done for Lady Beatriss and the child she bore during the curse when they were reunited three years past. It had created a bond between the Captain and his former lover’s child. Today, they were a family and the union had been one of the most joyous occasions for Lumaterans.

Suddenly he saw a movement, heard the snap of a twig and the rustle of leaves and the strangest of giggles.

‘Vestie!’ he called out, racing towards the sound. Beatriss and Tesadora were with him, calling out her name. ‘Vestie!’

But there was nothing. They stood a moment to listen, hearing only the sound of a bird mocking. Then he saw the movement again and Lucian was running, leaping over half-fallen limbs, avoiding the tree shoots that caught at his ankle.

‘Vestie!’

‘Vestie!’

‘Vestie, my love!’

Lucian continued his pursuit until he heard the sound of heavy breath, rasping for air. But it was not the breathing of a child. He stopped, and held up a hand to Tesadora who appeared close behind.

‘Vestie, it’s Lucian! Are you hiding?’

Beatriss entered the clearing and Tesadora placed a finger to her lips.

‘I’ll not be angry,’ Lucian said. ‘I promise, Vestie darlin’.’

He knew she was close, but not alone, and that alarmed Lucian more than he cared to admit. He took a step closer, and there he saw them. Huddled in the hollow of a tree trunk. A girl with crazed eyes held a hand over Vestie’s mouth. A bloody dagger was clasped in her other hand.

He heard Beatriss’s cry behind him and he saw Vestie look up, startled to see them all. Startled, but not frightened. Beatriss rushed forward, but the strange girl snarled, and Lucian gripped Beatriss’s hand and dragged her gently behind him.

‘Please don’t hurt her,’ Beatriss begged the girl. ‘Please.’

Lucian moved towards the girl, a hand at the scabbard of his sword. He knew with certainty that he would slice this wretch’s hand clear off her body if she didn’t let go of Vestie at his command.

‘Vestie, step away from her,’ he ordered gently. Vestie stared at the sword and suddenly began to weep, confused. Was she waking from walking in her sleep? He moved closer and the most savage of sounds came from the girl, and she held the dagger out before her, waving it in Lucian’s face. He retrieved his sword from its scabbard slowly, not once losing eye contact with her.

‘Lucian, come back,’ Tesadora ordered. ‘You’re scaring them.’

But Lucian refused, and when he almost reached them, the savage girl clenched her teeth, dragging Vestie deeper into the hollow of the tree.

‘Lucian, please stop,’ Beatriss cried. ‘She’ll hurt her.’

Lucian shook his head, refusing to move away.

‘Do not let me have to explain to Trevanion why I put my sword down while someone held a dagger to his daughter.’

Tesadora walked before him. His hand caught her arm to pull her backwards, but she shrugged free.

‘I know what I’m doing,’ she said, her eyes fastened on the girl, who stared, almost transfixed. When Tesadora was only a step away from Vestie and the girl, Lucian heard a bloodcurdling snarl, but suddenly Tesadora’s hand snaked out and gripped the girl’s face.

‘Oh, you savage beauty,’ Tesadora said. ‘Where did you come from?’

Lucian wondered if Tesadora was bewitched. The girl stared, confused. Tesadora repeated the words in Charyn.

‘We won’t hurt her,’ Tesadora said, reaching out for Vestie.

Vestie gripped the girl’s hand that was pressed over her mouth and removed it. Lucian expected a scream, but instead Vestie leaned forward and whispered into the stranger’s ear.

The mad girl peered over Tesadora’s shoulder to where Beatriss stood with Lucian.

‘I just want to hear the little person speak again,’ the savage girl said coldly in Charyn. ‘I want to hear her voice.’

‘We need to take her home,’ Tesadora explained gently. ‘She’ll be safe. You must get back to your people in the valley.’

The girl shook her head emphatically.

‘Tell no one, Serker Eyes,’ she whispered. ‘Or else they’ll kill us all.’

Small crooked teeth showed through a snarl. Before anyone could speak another word, the girl scrambled to her feet and tore off. Lucian quickly gathered Vestie in his arms, his eyes meeting Tesadora’s.

‘What,’ he asked, ‘was that?’

Later, when Vestie was being bathed by Beatriss and the women, they found not a single mark on her body. She had recovered quickly from her ordeal.

‘Who was she, Vestie?’ Lady Beatriss asked as Yata wrapped the little girl up in a blanket while Lucian’s aunts fussed.

‘I don’t know. I think I walked and slept, Mama, and then I was in the woods crying and I saw her. It was as though I knew she’d be there. And I said, “Hello there. Hello there, I say.” And she looked so frightened. It was just like that time we first met the valley dwellers and they stared at us in such a fashion.’

‘They’re not used to seeing little girls,’ Yata said.

‘I spoke again and said, “My name is Vestie,” and she wept and wept and she spoke in that funny way the camp dwellers speak.’

Vestie turned to Tesadora. ‘I want to learn, Tesadora. I want to speak just like them. I only know one word. It means friend. I said it in her ear. “Sora. Sora. Sora.”’

Tesadora chuckled and gathered Vestie to her.

‘And who taught you this Charynite word for friend?’

‘Phaedra of Alonso did. She said it was the prettiest word in Charyn.’

And Lucian ached to hear those words.

Vestie looked up at Lady Beatriss. ‘That time we crossed the stream together with you, Mama. Remember? Phaedra said not to be afraid because the camp dwellers only wanted to be my friend. My sora. I want to learn more.’

‘I’ll teach you, Vestie,’ Jory said from the entrance of the room, anger lacing his voice. ‘So that when you see her again you can tell the witch we’ll tear her limb –’

‘Jory!’ Lucian warned, while Beatriss covered Vestie’s ears. Jory looked away, shamefaced.

‘Go out to the lads,’ Lucian ordered, shoving his young cousin forward. ‘And calm them down. There will be no repeat of raids into the valley.’

‘Not their side of the valley, Lucian,’ Jory said. ‘Ours. She wasn’t a valley dweller. You said so yourself.’

‘Go.’

Jory left, a stubborn set to his jaw.

‘We’ll get supper started,’ Yata said, following the aunts out of the room. Lucian bobbed down to Vestie’s height.

‘Can you remember anything else, Vestie?’ Lucian asked.

‘Every time I spoke, she’d weep and weep with joy.’

‘She liked your voice,’ Beatriss said quietly.

‘But whose blood was it?’ Lucian asked. ‘It was the first thing we saw and it frightened us all.’

Vestie laughed with glee. ‘She taught me to slaughter a hare.’

Vestie twisted her hands together as if breaking the neck of an animal and made the most gods-awful sound. ‘I’m going to show Father.’

‘Yes, Father will be overjoyed to hear all about this when he returns,’ Beatriss murmured, catching Lucian’s eye.

‘We caught three,’ Vestie exclaimed. ‘We caught them together.’

‘You did not,’ Lucian mocked, desperate to know more about their savage neighbour.

‘I did, too,’ she said indignantly. ‘Can I play with her again?’

‘No, my love,’ Beatriss said. ‘We’re going home to Fenton in a few days. You’ve given us quite a scare.’

‘I told her about Millie and how I left her behind in my bed.’

Lucian was confused. ‘Millie?’

‘Her doll,’ Beatriss said. ‘I’ll go get her.’ She pressed a kiss to her daughter’s brow. ‘Don’t do this to Mama again, Vestie. You scared me today.’

When Beatriss left the room, Vestie turned to Tesadora.

‘Why can’t I take her home with us, Tesadora?’

‘We know nothing about her, minx,’ Tesadora said, picking her up and swinging her around. ‘We don’t even know her name.’

‘I think I do,’ Vestie said, indignant. ‘She’s just like Isaboe, you know. Just like her.’

‘She’s nothing like Isaboe,’ Lucian said.

Tesadora looked up at him. ‘How about you calm down the lads … and Vestie can tell me everything she knows about her new friend in the valley?’

Chapter 4

I come close to our cave with hands drenched in hare’s blood. If they feast on fresh game for the first time in weeks, perhaps things may change and their hearts will be open. But the women are speaking, they’re fighting, they’re weeping, Froi. Their stone-hearted claws scratch at me whole. Though their voices are hushed, they scream with such hate. I hear them speak words, ‘We’ll kill in her sleep.’ The little King kicks, a beat of great fear, and he begs me to run from these wretches of malice. The Mont’s wife, she sees me, her face speaks of shame, and the hares in my hand are hurled in my fury.

And I run and I run, and I think of the girl child, the one they call Visti, and the trust in her eyes. I think of her voice, so much like Regina, my sister beloved who’s left me behind. But Froi, have you joined her at the lake of the half-dead? I fear that you have and she’s not sent you back. The last time I saw you, eight arrows were piercing. You couldn’t have lived; the gods aren’t that kind.

And I hide in the thistles that tear at my skin, but finally I see her, the white-headed Serker. She knows I am out here, but pretends she’s not looking. I know she is looking and pretend it’s a game. And finally I’m closer and I grip at her strange hair, the white of its strands a shroud around my fist. And my blood beats a dance because I’ve found it a kindred. So I vow to return and my smile aches my face. I know her: Tesadora. Will she love me regardless?

She knows me, she knows me, but does not turn away.

Phaedra of Alonso was running. Stumbling over an upturned stone once, twice. Praying with all her being for a glimpse of their strange princess. Up in the distance the whistle of the wind sang to her from the mountain. From Lucian’s mountain. It beckoned and taunted and she wanted to run towards it. To be enveloped in its coat of fleece and to hear its safe sounds.

And then she saw Quintana of Charyn and she stopped, almost crumbling from relief and fatigue and fear. It left room for anger, and Phaedra didn’t realise until that moment how much she disliked the Princess Abomination for what she had brought into their lives.

‘Your Highness,’ she said quietly, fearful that Donashe and his men would travel downstream and cross their path. Despite the distance from both the camp and the road to her father’s province, there was always a chance that someone would stray and discover their secret. From what Rafuel had told them, the one time he had managed to slip away since their ‘deaths’, the Monts were no longer acting as sentinels on the Lumateran side of the stream. So there was nothing to stop Donashe and his murderers from hunting in the woodlands and crossing the stream to where Phaedra and the women hid. Worse still, Rafuel had advised that one of Donashe’s men was feeling threatened by Rafuel’s presence around his leader. The man followed Rafuel and Donashe’s every move, which had made it difficult for Rafuel to slip away. So here Phaedra and the women were, a mile downstream from the Charynite valley dwellers, not knowing what was happening to their people upstream except that Phaedra’s father had stopped sending grain from Alonso.

Despite Phaedra’s warnings to stay put, the Princess crossed the stream most days. It was as if she was drawn to the Lumateran side with its gullies and tall tree canopies. The girl had a tendency to disappear for hours upon end, which unnerved them all. And then they’d be unnerved again by her return.

Phaedra didn’t know what was worse. Quintana of Charyn’s absence or presence. This afternoon’s behaviour was quite dramatic: she had tossed one of the hares at Florenza and ran off like a wild savage.

‘Her father’s daughter,’ Jorja had muttered. Jorja and her husband Harker despised the dead King more than anyone Phaedra had ever met, except for the Lumaterans.

Phaedra caught up with the Princess near a moss-covered stone.

‘You can’t wander away, Your Highness.’ Phaedra used a brisk tone, despite the fact that she was speaking to the daughter of a king. ‘We must keep to the cave. We’ve been beside ourselves with worry.’

The stare that met hers was hard and cold. Cora and the other women believed an entity inhabited Quintana of Charyn, and that deep inside, she was not quite human. It made Phaedra despair even more. What hope did Charyn have if this creature carried the first?

‘I’m the Queen, Phaedra of Alonso. Did I not mention that?’

Oh, you’ve mentioned it many, many times, Phaedra wanted to say. Once with a hand around Jorja’s neck, squeezing tight because Jorja had dared to question what type of authority the Princess had now that the King was dead.

‘And I’m not going back,’ announced the Princess or Queen or whoever she wanted to be. ‘They’ll kill me in my sleep. I heard them say.’

Phaedra sighed. ‘They said no such thing, Your Majesty.’

And there was the ice-cold stare again.

‘I heard the words,’ Quintana said, with a curl to her lip that spoke of a threat. ‘Are you calling me a liar, Phaedra of Alonso?’

Phaedra hesitated, choosing her next words wisely. ‘You frighten them,’ she finally said. ‘You snarl and rage and sometimes we believe that our sacrifice was for nothing. “She’ll kill us in our sleep.” That’s what you heard. Their fear is that you will kill us all.’

With as much courage as she could muster, Phaedra walked to the Princess and pulled her to her feet, dragging her along in much the same way she had seen a Mont mother drag her protesting boy towards the bathhouse. She was sick and tired of being the one to keep the peace between the women. It was about time everyone else did their duty. When they reached the stream, Phaedra tore a strip from Quintana’s dress and soaked it in the water, cleaning the girl’s bloodied hands and face. If Quintana of Charyn knew anything, it was how to hunt. A frightening thought in itself, but Phaedra had to admit that the hares had filled their empty stomachs for the first time in days. And there was the satisfaction of seeing one of the hares lobbed at Florenza’s nose. Jorja believed that she and her precious daughter were above everyone else, despite their journey through the sewers. ‘She was the most sought-after girl in our province,’ Jorja had boasted just the night before.

‘Yes, but where are these suitors now that Florenza has crawled through shit?’ Cora asked.

Each time Jorja and Florenza’s escape was mentioned, Florenza whimpered and made gagging sounds, and Ginny would laugh. Ginny laughed at anything that was mean. Phaedra had learned to dislike them all since their so-called deaths. If she had to hear Jorja boast, or Florenza whimper, or Cora mock, or Ginny being snide one more time, she’d find a hare or two to throw at them all herself.

‘What are you smiling about?’ the Princess asked, breaking Phaedra’s thoughts. Quintana sat on one of the stepping stones in the stream and Phaedra had no choice but to squat beside her. She felt the skirt of her dress soak, but refused to allow her discomfort to show.

‘It’s a grimace, not a smile,’ Phaedra said.

‘It was a smile.’

She felt Quintana’s strange gaze and met it. Months on the mountain had made Phaedra less afraid of bullies and no people knew how to intimidate her more than the Monts. But as she returned Quintana’s stare, all Phaedra saw was that the mother of their future King was nothing but a broken, bloodied girl.

‘I think he’s dead,’ the Princess said quietly.

Phaedra froze. ‘The babe?’

The Princess shook her head.

Phaedra waited, gently scrubbing Quintana’s face clean.

‘I looked back once,’ the Princess continued, ‘and counted eight arrows, and I heard his cries and saw his spirit fight to leave his body.’

Phaedra was confused. She had heard the Princess tell Rafuel that the father of her child, the heir Tariq of Lascow, had been slaughtered in the underground caves of the Citavita. Who was this ‘he’ she was speaking of?

‘Is there a chance that Tariq of Lascow is alive?’ Phaedra asked, hope in her voice.

‘Tariq’s dead,’ Quintana said. ‘I saw his corpse. I saw them all. They died protecting me … protecting this,’ she said, pointing to her belly. ‘Maybe I’ll see your corpse, Phaedra of Alonso. Everywhere I go, I leave behind corpses.’ There were tears of fury in the girl’s eyes. ‘I left him behind, dying.’

Phaedra failed to hide a shudder. ‘Who are you speaking of?’ she dared to ask. She thought of Rafuel’s warning on the day Quintana of Charyn had entered their life. The less they knew, the better it was for them all.

‘Who, if not Tariq of Lascow?’ Phaedra persisted.

The Princess leaned forward, pressing her lips against Phaedra’s ear. Phaedra smelt the stench of hare’s blood.

‘Froi of Lumatere.’

Phaedra stumbled back into the water, stunned. She remembered the story she had heard of the rescue in the Citavita. He had swung through the air to save Quintana. The audacity of his actions had made Phaedra like Froi even more than she had the one or two times they had met on the mountain. She knew what he meant to Lucian and Tesadora, as well as Perri, the guard who shared Tesadora’s bed. Some said the Queen and her consort loved the lad as if he were a brother.

And then Phaedra remembered Rafuel’s strange words: Did you mate with the lastborn?

‘Is he the father?’ she asked, horrified. ‘Froi of Lumatere?’

‘Don’t let me have to kill you for knowing that, idiot girl,’ Quintana threatened. ‘Don’t let me hear you speak it out loud to those parrots in the cave.’

‘Then why tell me?’ Phaedra cried, getting to her feet and following the stepping stones across the stream to get as far away from the girl as possible. She couldn’t bear the idea of what the Lumateran’s death would do to those on the mountain and beyond. Worse still, it would mean true war between the two kingdoms.

When they returned to the cave, Phaedra heard the hushed fighting in an instant. They called it their prison. It was a small shrinehouse that from the outside looked like any other cave, much like those upstream, half-concealed with shrubs and vines. But once inside, there were two chambers. The larger one was dedicated to the Goddess Sagrami, a fact that unnerved them all. Sagrami was the goddess of blood and tears and was said to have cursed Lumatere. It was also further proof that despite Phaedra’s people being allowed in the valley, the earth still belonged to their Lumateran neighbours. Through a narrow walkway, the cave opened up to another smaller chamber. It had a wind hole that gave a view of downstream, but most of the time they kept it covered with vines and shrubs to keep out the cold. No one dared sleep in the shrine room, so here they were, living in too small a space for five women who could hardly endure each other’s company.

‘I can’t stand this,’ Phaedra heard Ginny cry. ‘I didn’t ask to save Charyn. When Rafuel returns I’m going to ask him to tell Gies that I’m alive. I don’t like being without my man.’

‘From the flirting I saw the fool do with those Mont girls, I dare say he’ll cope,’ Cora said in a nasty tone.

Cora loved nothing more than riling Ginny, whose only sense of worth came from having a man. Phaedra had known girls like Ginny in Alonso. The type who rarely took the side of women in an argument. They feared it would make them unpopular in the eyes of men. She remembered Ginny in the camp and realised that most of the acquaintances the girl had struck up were with the camp leaders Gies seemed drawn to.

‘You’re a liar,’ Ginny shouted at Cora, who was still taunting her about the Mont girls.

‘And you’re one of the greatest idiots I’ve come across, and believe me when I say I’ve come across many.’

‘Enough!’ Phaedra said from the entrance. ‘Our voices will carry upstream.’

They stared at the Princess over Phaedra’s shoulder.

‘Tell her to stay put,’ Cora said.

‘You’ll have to tell her yourself, Cora,’ Phaedra said firmly. ‘She’s not deaf to your voice, you know. Now, enough of this fighting. We have a little king to protect.’

‘If you ask me, the only thing keeping her alive is that little king,’ Ginny said. ‘That’s what my Gies would say.’

‘Shut it, you idiot girl,’ Cora said.

‘You shut it. You’re an ugly hag. There were women in my village just like you. Hags with nothing left to offer a man.’

‘Well, it’s a good thing the men in the village had you,’ Cora said.

‘Shut up, both of you,’ Jorja hissed. ‘I’d crawl through those sewers one hundred times over not to have to listen to any of you.’

This was Phaedra’s life now and she wondered what she had done to the gods for them to punish her in such a way. And in the corner, Quintana of Charyn sat staring at her, shaking her head. Phaedra recognised the look directed at her. She had seen it on the mountain before she had proven her worth. It was disappointment. You’re useless, Phaedra. Useless.

She closed her eyes and went to sleep with the sound of Florenza’s retching in her ears. And a small part of her begged the gods not to let her wake.

Chapter 5

Froi was summoned to see the elder of the compound, Simeon of Nebia. The Priest had come to visit him once when he lay injured and in pain, but Froi remembered little of that time except for the constant questions regarding Quintana’s whereabouts.

But this time Froi was well enough to visit the leader’s residence and it was the first time he was able to study the underground galleries. They were unlike Tariq’s compound under the Citavita. Here the ceilings were high and the rooms were wide. Froi could see that they had not always been a hiding place. The archways seemed about six feet high and large enough for a pushcart to fit through them. The walls were made of limestone and Arjuro had mentioned the galleries were once used to quarry chalk.

They entered a long, wide corridor with a dozen or so small alcoves on either side where the collegiati slept. In each cubicle was a bedroll, a stool and books scattered around. The passageway led to another cavern referred to as the chamber of reflection, which was much like a small godshouse where they assembled for prayer or to find solitude. Froi watched as Arjuro stood at the wall and traced his finger against the stone, as if he was writing a secret message that only the gods could decipher.

‘What were you doing?’ Froi asked quietly as they stepped out of the chamber onto a landing.

‘That’s between me and them.’

They finally came to a vertical shaft that led down to a lower level, and it was there that Simeon lived.

‘I’ve not been invited,’ Arjuro said. ‘So speak to him as you would the Lumateran Priestking.’

‘I yell at the Priestking,’ Froi said. ‘I’ve thrown manuscripts at him when he’s forced me to read the jottings … or droppings, as I preferred to call them, of the ancients on their visit to the off lands. You do not want me speaking to the elder as I would the Priestking.’

Arjuro poked him in the shoulder.

Froi entered Simeon’s residence. It was covered from top to toe with brightly coloured shards of clay tiles. It was as if someone had smashed a plate to the ground and gathered the pieces to stick on the wall. On the ceiling were the most magnificent frescoes he had seen, better even than De Lancey’s or those in the locked wing of the Lumateran palace where Isaboe’s family had been slain. Simeon the elder was shelling broad beans beside a pot of boiling water. He acknowledged Froi with a tilt of his head and beckoned him close. He pointed at Froi’s cap.

‘Can you remove it?’

Simeon had a cold countenance, unlike the Priestking, and it was difficult to read his thoughts. But Froi had to respect a man who had succeeded in keeping a frightened community thriving not only after the slaughter in the Oracle’s godshouse, but during the years since the curse in Charyn.

Froi did as he was told and turned, knowing it was the lettering Simeon was interested in seeing.

‘Just as confusing as the mark of the lastborn women,’ Simeon mused. ‘But different.’

‘Can I see the markings on one of your lastborn girls?’ Froi asked. Because Quintana’s hadn’t made sense to him, he had never truly studied them. Now he had a chance to compare.

Simeon shook his head.

‘Our lastborns have hidden in these caves for eighteen years, so they were not marked when they were of age. But we’ve had visitors from outside and I know the lettering well.’

Simeon stood and shuffled towards a bench of books piled high. He retrieved a piece of parchment and held it out for Froi to study.

‘Yours has stems on the round letters. Here and here,’ he said, pointing to the copy of the lastborn girls’ lettering. ‘I have a feeling that the idiot King’s riders copied it wrong on the girls. So all these years we’ve been trying to decipher words that don’t exist.’

‘Do you think you can decipher this?’ Froi said, pointing to his skull.

‘Not all Priests are gods’ blessed, Dafar,’ Simeon said. ‘Did you know that?’

Froi felt strange hearing his true name spoken by the Priest.

‘Arjuro says the gods close their eyes and point, and that he just happened to be in their line of vision that day,’ Froi said.

Simeon didn’t respond.

‘Are you?’ Froi asked. ‘Gods’ blessed?’

‘No,’ Simeon said. ‘I think I fooled myself as a younger man, but when you meet the likes of Arjuro of Abroi, you realise the difference between ordinary men and those the gods chose to lead us.’

‘It’s hard to believe just by looking at Arjuro,’ Froi said.

Simeon’s expression softened. ‘My grandson Rothen is gods’ blessed. He’s with Rafuel of Sebastabol in the Lumateran valley. We’ve not heard from them. We’re beginning to fear the worst.’

‘The Lumaterans would never harm them,’ Froi said.

‘You don’t know that.’

Simeon was not the sort of man to fool others with false hope. ‘It’s not only the Lumaterans we fear, Dafar. Arjuro mentioned Zabat of Nebia’s treachery.’

Froi nodded. ‘But your lads keep to themselves. If they’re as cunning as Rafuel –’

‘But they’re not,’ Simeon said, his voice grave. ‘They don’t have the nature of Rafuel. Rothen is … a dreamer.’

‘Is he a physician?’

A faint smile appeared on Simeon’s face. ‘No. He’s an artist.’ He pointed to the walls and then the roof above them.

Froi looked at him, dumbfounded. ‘Those were done in our time? They look as though the ancients drew them.’

‘My grandson’s work replicating the ancients’ manuscripts is humbling. I can only take responsibility for providing the seed that created his mother.’

Simeon emptied the broad beans into the water.

‘But we’re not here to talk about Rothen and the lads in the valley. We’re here to talk about the two people born last in this kingdom.’

Simeon lowered his voice. ‘Or more importantly, the King and the cursebreaker they may have created.’

Simeon’s knowledge of events may have had little to do with Arjuro. So Froi waited. Trevanion always said that silence from one party always resulted in information from another.

‘Apart from the Oracle’s godshouse, the one here in Sebastabol was the largest and the most political of all in Charyn,’ Simeon said. ‘It sits on a cliff overlooking the vast Ocean of Skuldenore and has not been used since we heard of the attack on the godshouse and Oracle in the capital. For centuries the godshouses of Charyn have sent their most brilliant scholars to the Citavita. Those men and women chronicled our lives, studying the stars and designing the structures that have kept us in awe. The godshouse produced physicians and alchemists and nurtured genius. Always guided by an Oracle sent by the gods.’

‘But the Oracle wasn’t sent by the gods,’ Froi said bluntly. ‘She was taken from a goatherd’s family in the Turlan Mountains.’

Simeon looked away. ‘Regardless of how she was found, lad, she was still sent to us by the gods.’

‘But why lie to the people about her origins?’

‘Because people aren’t interested in the truth, Dafar. They’re interested in what keeps them safe. They’re interested in being looked after. They’re interested in a tale being spun. Do you know the story they tell now in Charyn about the Lumateran Priestking? That he sang his song, and from across the land his people heard his voice and followed him home to Lumatere after ten wretched years. A better story than the truth. That he was found wallowing in a death camp with no hope.’

‘He is a mighty man,’ Froi said, catching his breath at the thought of the Priestking. ‘Don’t you forget that.’

‘But mighty men have moments of great despair that common people do not want to know about.’

Simeon’s eyes were full of regret.

‘The Provincari, the Priests and the Palace are rivals, and in the new Charyn it is best that we do away with that rivalry. So we’re going to chronicle a different tale. The people of Charyn won’t enjoy the real one. The one Arjuro told me, anyway.’

Froi and Quintana were the real story. So were Gargarin, Lirah and Arjuro.

‘And what story is that?’ Froi asked, trying hard to obey Arjuro’s command to behave.

‘The story of the lastborn lad who was left on our doorstep eighteen-and-a-half years ago. Of the Priests of Trist, who decided to keep the babe safe by taking him to Sarnak. Charyn is not going to enjoy the story of their failure. That the Priests of Trist lost the lastborn; lost him for all those years, and that he was brought up on the filthy streets of the Sarnak capital. They’re going to hate the part about the King raping the Oracle and that she gave birth to the Princess. So we’re going to have to make up a story everyone will love, Dafar. One befitting a king.’

Froi felt the tears stinging at his eyes.

‘Tell me that story, then,’ he said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

‘Oh, it’s a beautiful one,’ Simeon said. ‘In which the King’s daughter found love with the heir to the throne, Tariq of Lascow, despite having Lirah, the Serker whore, as a mother. Where he planned her rescue from the gallows and married her in their underground home. And he gave up his life to keep the future mother of his child safe. It’s a love story, Dafar. Everyone wants to believe in one. And if we manage to keep Quintana of Charyn alive, do you know why the people will love her? Because the heir, Tariq of Lascow, loved her. The little King will mean even more to us.’

Froi turned away. ‘I was never one for stories,’ he said, staring up at the frescoes.

‘Do you want me to tell you another one?’

Froi didn’t respond. His eyes focused on the larger-than-life image of a warrior aiming a longbow on the wall of the cave. He searched the ceiling for whatever it was the marksman was aiming at. Simeon pointed to the image of a tree whose roots stretched across all corners, as if reading his thoughts. Painted onto the trunk was a decree pinned with a bronze arrow. It was the same word written three times in faint gold. Hope. Hope. Hope.

‘I’ve never heard that story,’ Froi said softly. ‘About a warrior shooting messages of hope.’

Simeon smiled ruefully. ‘Because it doesn’t exist.’ He pointed to his bedroll, which lay directly under the three words. ‘My grandson’s first work at the age of thirteen. He said I was a pessimist and he wanted me to stare up at it to remind me not to be. In the darkness, the gold letters are illuminated and all I can see are the words.’

Charyn needed more men like Rothen, Froi thought.

‘Did you know it was Arjuro who first took you to Sarnak as a babe?’ Simeon asked.

Froi was stunned to hear the words. He shook his head because he could hardly speak. There were so many secrets hidden inside Gargarin and Arjuro and he wondered if they would all ever be revealed.

‘Arjuro was a broken man on the night he escaped from the palace eighteen years ago. He said there was a darkness tainting his spirit and he had to make something right. It was his idea that we smuggle the abandoned babe out of the kingdom. He volunteered to be the one.’

Simeon’s stern face softened. ‘You spent the first month of your life in the safety of his arms. I’ve seen you both together these past weeks and it is clear the ties that bind you are still strong.’

The bond was strong because Arjuro was blood kin. Froi knew that more than anything else.

‘Arjuro returned from Sarnak and lived here with us. He was as wild as ever and full of rage at the world. At himself. Over the next few years we would hear news about you from the Priestess of the Sarnak godshouse. You were Our Dafar,’ he added. ‘If any of us ever experienced hardship, we would say, “At least Our Dafar is safe.”

‘But four years after we sent you to Sarnak, we received word that the godshouse of the Sarnak capital was destroyed by fire. All we knew at the time were the names of those who had perished. And that there was no child among the dead. So we sent a messenger to bring you home … but the messenger never reached Sarnak. Your fate was lost to us until Rafuel of Sebastabol sent word three years past that he believed he had found you in the woods on the Charyn–Osteria border.’

‘Rafuel was there?’ Froi asked. ‘In the barracks when I was taken by the Charynites?’

Simeon nodded. ‘Rafuel ran away from his father and the palace when he was fourteen years old. When he returned to the Citavita years later to find out what he could about the lastborn, he was rounded up with a group of lads and put to use in the army. And as fate had it, Rafuel was at the right place at the right time. And here you are, Dafar of Abroi.’

There was something about the way Simeon said his name this time that made Froi uneasy.

‘What do you want from me?’ Froi asked, because he knew he hadn’t been summoned to listen to Simeon’s stories.

‘Find us the girl.’

The Priest’s eyes were ice-cold.

‘And then go back to being Froi of Lumatere. And no one need get hurt.’

That night, Froi sat opposite Arjuro in silence for the most part.

‘What did he say?’ Arjuro asked finally when the candle between them had burnt low.

‘I think he threatened me.’

‘He sent Rafuel to find you, Froi. Rafuel is an assassin. A well-read assassin, but one all the same. When I first lived here with these people, one of their lovers in Nebia was murdered because she would not divulge their whereabouts. The retribution was bloody.’

‘You never said you were the one who smuggled me out of Charyn when I was a babe,’ Froi said softly. ‘Simeon said it was your idea.’

‘Yes, well, that proved to be one of my better ones,’ Arjuro said dryly. ‘Because Sarnak seems to have been a wonderful experience for you.’

‘You blame yourself?’ Froi asked.

‘Well, I’m to blame for many things, so I try to make it easier on the gods and take responsibility for all of them.’

‘Even for the war in the kingdom of Yutlind?’ Froi teased.

‘Oh yes, my fault. Shouldn’t have told the northern King that he was far more handsome than his southern cousin.’

But with all the jesting, they were both quite sombre and Froi knew why.

‘I’m ready to go, Arjuro,’ he said softly. ‘You know that.’

‘You’re safer with me.’

‘You sound like your brother.’

‘My brother?’ Arjuro asked. ‘The one who happens to be your father?’

Froi thought of Simeon’s story that day. ‘I wouldn’t say that too loudly.’

Arjuro’s face was suddenly cold.

‘If the Priests and Provincari will agree on one thing, it’s Gargarin’s fate,’ Arjuro said. ‘Locking him up in the palace as the next King’s First Advisor.’

‘But he’ll have Lirah by his side,’ Froi said. And Quintana, he thought. And his son.

He saw the uncertainty in Arjuro’s expression.

‘Do you think I should have stayed in Paladozza?’ Froi asked. ‘That I put Quintana’s life at risk?’

Arjuro studied him and shook his head.

‘There are so many awful possibilities. So many. But none worse than Quintana and the babe being in the hands of the Sorellians. Wasn’t that what you said Feliciano of Avanosh and his uncle planned?

‘And if you had taken Gargarin with you, they would have trained their arrows on him first. Intelligence and goodwill are Bestiano’s greatest enemies; he will kill my brother before he kills anyone else in this land. Gar is Bestiano’s greatest competitor for a place in the palace, as reluctant as he is to return there. You did the right thing.’

‘But I failed,’ Froi said, pained to think of how much he had. ‘You don’t know how that feels.’

Arjuro’s laugh was humourless. ‘You are saying those words to the wrong man, Froi. Failure is more of a twin to me than my own brother.’

Two days later, a messenger returned from Paladozza with a letter addressed to Arjuro. Froi watched him open it and noticed that Arjuro’s hands trembled.

‘Read it aloud. Hurry,’ Froi ordered.

‘What if it’s private?’ Arjuro argued. ‘It’s addressed to me. See. Arjuro,’ he added, pointing to his name on the note.

‘Read!’

Arjuro sighed.

‘Just so you know, De Lancey always gets carried away in his letters,’ he muttered.

Froi tried to snatch the parchment from him, but Arjuro stepped away.

‘Dear Ari,’ he read. Arjuro cleared his voice, hesitating a moment. ‘Quintana is not with us. We, too, have sent out messengers to Jidia and the Turlan Mountains, as well as Lascow, but each returns with no idea of her whereabouts. She has disappeared from existence and we hold grave fears for her life.’

Froi held his head in his hands. When Arjuro didn’t read on, he looked up.

‘Read,’ he said quietly.

Arjuro continued. ‘Gargarin and Lirah have left …’

‘What?’ Froi demanded, reaching for the letter. ‘Let me read.’

Arjuro held up a hand to silence him.

‘Your brother has been corresponding with the Belegonians. After writing a countless number of letters to every contact he had in the palace, the Belegonians have finally responded. A messenger of the King has agreed to meet Gar at an inn on the Charyn–Osteria river border.’

Froi didn’t like the news at all. How could Gargarin imagine he could protect Lirah and himself from enemies both inside and outside Charyn?

‘He shouldn’t have left,’ he raged at Arjuro. ‘He was supposed to stay safe in Paladozza.’ Froi paced the cave, fearing the absolute worse. ‘Doesn’t he know how dangerous it is to be travelling through the kingdom these days?’

Arjuro looked just as unhappy about the news. He went back to the letter.

‘You may want to know that two weeks ago, your moronic horse-arse father arrived, demanding to see you and Gar. My guard had his heinous self escorted from the province, cursing you both to oblivion. As much as your leaving angers me still, I was relieved you weren’t here to see him …’

Arjuro stopped reading aloud.

‘What?’ Froi demanded. ‘What are you keeping from me?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You’re hiding something, Arjuro.’

Froi snatched the letter from Arjuro, pointing a furious finger at his face.

‘You keep nothing from me, do you hear?’ Froi said, his eyes fixed on the page. An instant later he handed back the letter sheepishly. There was a hint of a smile on Arjuro’s face.

‘The letter was addressed to me, runt. See here,’ he said, pointing. ‘Arjuro.’

Froi’s face felt warm. ‘Yes, well, I thought you left on bad terms. I didn’t expect him to express himself so … explicitly.’

Arjuro folded the letter. Something told Froi that Arjuro and De Lancey expressed themselves explicitly whether they were on speaking terms or not.

‘Perhaps it’s best I read it in privacy,’ Arjuro said.

Chapter 6

Isaboe watched Jasmina and Vestie play among the children of the Fenton house staff. After weeks of preparation, Beatriss had finally moved into the village. The manor house was large and the children raced from room to room, giddy with excitement. Beatriss showed Isaboe the home while Lady Abian helped Tarah in the kitchen, listing every item that had arrived to stock the larder.

In the library, there was a portrait of Lord Selric and his family, and Isaboe studied their faces sombrely.

‘I’ve decided to keep it there,’ Beatriss said softly. ‘They’re as much part of this village as we are now.’

‘I hardly remember them, you know,’ Isaboe said. ‘Pretty girls.’ She tried not to think Lord Selric’s daughters would have been a year or two younger than her own sisters when the entire family died from plague during their exile in Charyn. She reached out to touch the painting. The replicas of Isaboe’s family in the palace had been desecrated during the curse by the impostor King. There was not one likeness left of them, and some days she could hardly recall their faces.

Abian called out from the other room and they joined her in the kitchen.

‘Your husband comes to this union with one box?’ she asked, glancing at Trevanion’s chest sitting on the bench.

Beatriss laughed. ‘Two uniforms. One image of me drawn when we were first betrothed fifteen years ago; one of Finnikin’s mother, Bartolina; a lock of Finnikin’s hair as a child; and a fishing rod. His kingdom, his river and his family. “Who needs anything else?” he says.’

‘Where would you like them?’ Abian asked.

‘I’d like you to sit, Abian,’ Beatriss said. ‘We’ve not spoken for so long and I just want to sit and enjoy my time with my friends.’

‘Yes,’ Isaboe said shrewdly, glancing at Abian. ‘So would I. At times I think you’re avoiding me. Lord August, too.’

‘Trevanion has spoken of the same thing,’ Beatriss said with a meaningful look.

Abian continued her counting and recording of the grain sacks.

‘Is your silence about Celie?’ Isaboe asked.

Abian was not one for restraint, but finished what she was writing before giving them her full attention.

‘August is livid,’ she said. ‘And I can’t say I’m too happy about it, either. Our daughter spying for the Belegonians!’

‘It’s not spying at all,’ Isaboe said in a light tone with a shrug. ‘It’s stealing mail. Jasmina steals mail all the time. She loves the colourful seals on the notes, and days later we find the most important of letters in obscure places around the palace.’

Abian seemed in no mood for humour, but Isaboe was in no mood for wasting time. ‘We would never put Celie’s life in danger. Stealing the mail was her idea. And this anger … your anger, is not about Celie. You and August distanced yourselves from me long before Celie gave us the news from Belegonia.’

Abian collected the records and placed them on a shelf built into the wall.

‘This matter with Froi …’

Isaboe stiffened. She shook her head, not wanting to hear another word.

‘Well, if you must know, it’s affected us all,’ Abian said. ‘Froi’s been part of our family all these years and then suddenly he was gone, sent away on some mission to Sarnak, which we then find out is Charyn. We’ve waited all autumn and it’s almost winter’s end and still he’s not home. Now there’s talk about Froi collaborating with the tyrant who was behind the slaughter in this kingdom. Talon and the boys are furious to hear those words from others. Froi is a brother to them and it’s too much to bear.’

‘He doesn’t belong to you, Abian.’

‘How can you say that, my queen? Does one have to be blood kin to be considered family? We love him as a son. Celie and the boys miss him terribly. Celie’s reckless actions are a reflection of how she’s feeling. She wants to know where the brother of her heart is and stays in the Belegonian court for any whiff of information about Charyn.’

‘Celie has a reckless spirit, Abian. She inherited that from you, despite her pretty politeness and quiet ways. You should celebrate the fact that she’s her mother’s daughter.’

But Isaboe could see Abian didn’t want to hear it.

‘Will it always be my children, Your Majesty? Augie’s and mine? First Froi and next Celie, and then the boys. Do you know what they say in the Belegonian and Sarnak and Osterian courts? Probably in Charyn, too? That the children of a Lumateran Flatland lord are a prize in this land. Sired by the gods themselves, and the perfect marriage match. It’s as close to Lumateran royalty as one can find. Are all my children going to be sacrificed for the protection of this kingdom?’

Isaboe heard a sad sigh from Beatriss, but she was too angry to care.

‘Yes,’ she said coldly. ‘Your children will be used to impress our neighbours, Lady Abian,’ she added, stressing the formality. ‘And I’ll watch you closely, as will Finnikin. You and Lord August will be our guides. So when the time comes for our daughter to be given to a useless son of a foreign king to keep this kingdom safe, I’ll know how to hold back my tears because I will have learnt from you!’

There was stone-cold silence in the room.

Jasmina and Vestie came racing back, giggling and panting with fatigue. But as they did, Jasmina tripped and fell, her head hitting the floor. Abian was closest, picking her up in her arms as they all crowded around, soothing Jasmina’s cries with words and soft kisses. Finally Abian placed her in Isaboe’s arms and pressed a kiss to both their cheeks.

‘I spoke out of line.’ Abian shook her head with regret. ‘But promise me that Trevanion and Perri have not been sent to Charyn to …’

‘Abian, enough,’ Beatriss said, sorrow in her voice. ‘Froi means everything to the Guard. To Isaboe and Finnikin and all of us. If he’s done any wrong, he will be dealt with here. Fairly.’

Isaboe rocked her daughter in her arms. ‘It always ends in tears, my love,’ she murmured. ‘All this silliness ends in tears.’

When everything was calm except for Jasmina’s quiet sobs, Tarah served them sweet bread and honey brew and they sat talking a while about Beatriss and Vestie’s time on the mountain.

Vestie came to stand by them, brushing Jasmina’s cheek with a gentle hand until the little sobs were merely hiccups.

‘Is it true I’m her aunt?’ Vestie asked.

‘Well, you’re Finnikin’s sister now, so I suppose that does make you Jasmina’s aunt,’ Isaboe said.

‘Can I look after her, then, Isaboe?’

Isaboe nodded. ‘Always, precious.’

‘I’ll take her to the valley to meet my new friend.’

Beatriss grimaced. ‘I said no more talk of that, Vestie.’

Isaboe could see Beatriss was still shaken by the incident. Isaboe had heard about it from the Guard that morning and it frightened her to think of how they almost lost Vestie.

‘Do you think Millie will cheer Jasmina up?’ Vestie asked, referring to her doll.

‘She cheers everyone up. Go get her,’ Beatriss said, and Vestie skipped away as Jasmina lifted her head to peer towards where her older friend had gone.

‘Are we sure she wasn’t taken from her bed?’ Isaboe asked quietly.

Beatriss shook her head. ‘Vestie went down the mountain on her own. She claimed … she claimed to have walked the sleep of the girl.’

Isaboe felt both women’s eyes on her.

‘Do you think she’s walking the sleep on her own?’ Beatriss asked.

Isaboe had no idea how to answer that. Not after the strangeness of her sleep. ‘What does Tesadora say?’

Beatriss seemed uncomfortable. ‘Not much really. She was very strange. Almost … bewitched, if one could ever imagine Tesadora bewitched.’

‘Tell us about this mad girl, Beatriss,’ Abian said.

‘She was so strange,’ Beatriss said with a shudder. ‘Tesadora was wonderful with her. She managed to disarm her. The poor girl is obviously hiding from the Charynites and Tesadora has taken it upon herself to take care of her.’

‘She’s seen her again?’ Isaboe asked.

‘As I was leaving the mountain, Tesadora was setting out for our side of the valley,’ Beatriss said.

Isaboe was disturbed to hear the news. She had sent message after message to Tesadora, asking her to visit. She had excused everyone’s mood after Phaedra of Alonso’s death, but to hear that Tesadora was back in the valley seemed wrong. Isaboe’s bond with Tesadora was strong. It had grown since Isaboe first walked the sleep with Vestie and the Other while in exile. The Other had been Tesadora, their protector and the person partly responsible for breaking the curse her mother had placed on the land. Tesadora and Beatriss had once been strangers to each other, but had worked tirelessly together to protect those trapped inside the kingdom. Through the benevolence of the Goddess they had found a way to lead Isaboe home. It had been Tesadora who had nursed her back to health after Trevanion and the Guard reclaimed Lumatere.

Vestie returned with her rag doll and Jasmina was happy to see it.

‘You’re a kind friend to this stranger, Vestie,’ Isaboe said, gathering the little girl towards her. Vestie placed her lips beside Isaboe’s ear and growled in a strange, savage way. She giggled.

‘Are you a little wolf, Vestie?’ Isaboe asked, bemused.

‘That’s what she sounds like,’ Vestie explained. ‘When I walk the sleep.’

Jasmina began to squirm and Isaboe placed her back on the ground, her attention on Vestie.

‘Tell me more about her,’ Isaboe said calmly, despite the fact that her heart was pounding. She remembered the feeling night after night of waking from the sleep.

Vestie shook her head.

‘Can we guess?’ Beatriss said. ‘Vestie so enjoys guessing games with her father.’

Vestie liked the idea and nodded emphatically. ‘Father guesses every time. He knows everything.’

‘Oh, wonderful,’ Isaboe said, winking at Beatriss. ‘Another besotted child of Trevanion’s.’

‘You’ll have to give us a clue,’ Abian said.

Vestie hesitated and then she took Jasmina’s hand and swung it. ‘She’s just like Jasmina.’

‘She’s pretty?’ Beatriss said.

‘She’s bossy?’ Abian said.

‘She’s incorrigible?’ Isaboe said.

Vestie giggled. ‘I don’t know what that means.’

Isaboe looked at her daughter, who loved nothing more than hearing her name. ‘Aren’t you incorrigible, beloved?’

Jasmina thought about it a moment and nodded emphatically, liking the word.

‘What else are you, Jasmina?’ Vestie asked, excited.

Jasmina thought another moment and everyone laughed to see her pensive face.

‘Pwincess.’

The others laughed again at the joy of hearing her speak and Vestie clapped with glee.

‘Yes. Yes.’

Isaboe froze, the hair on her arms standing tall.

‘Your friend in the valley is a princess?’

Vestie put a finger to her lips to silence herself, but nodded, giggling.

‘And does this princess have a name?’ Isaboe asked.

Beatriss shook her head at the same time as Vestie’s nod. Beatriss stared at her daughter, surprised.

‘You’ve not mentioned a name, Vestie,’ she said, worry in her voice. ‘You said she didn’t have one.’

‘It’s a secret.’

‘Whose secret?’ Beatriss asked, alarmed. ‘Who said it’s a secret?’

‘She did. And so did Tesadora when I told her. Tesadora said that the Charynites have the biggest ears in the whole world and even if I told someone my secret in Lumatere, they’d hear it.’

Isaboe, Abian and Beatriss exchanged looks.

‘All these secrets,’ Isaboe tried to jest. ‘Who said there were any secrets from me in Lumatere, Vestie?’

Isaboe bent down to her.

‘You can whisper it to me. The Charynites will never hear. I’ll make sure of that.’

Vestie took the time to think and then leant forward.

‘It’s a strange name, Isaboe. I can hardly say it.’

‘I’ll help you, my sweet.’

Vestie placed her lips against Isaboe’s ears.

‘Her name is … Kintana. Kintana of Charyn.’

Chapter 7

Arjuro insisted on escorting Froi for at least part of his journey. Their exit was through the cottage of a draper wed to one of the Priests. It lay on the northern outskirts of Sebastabol and as they crept out of the cellar into the early-morning blustery wind, Froi smelt a difference in the air, one that seemed foreign, yet still strangely familiar.

‘The ocean,’ Arjuro said. ‘We’re not even a half day’s walk from it to the east.’

The map Arjuro had drawn for Froi would take him across the centre of the kingdom to Charyn’s border with Osteria. Froi knew they would pass Abroi in the morning and Serker later that afternoon. He thought of Finnikin and Lucian and the pride they felt having come from the Rock and Mountain. Froi felt no such pride in the homes of his ancestors.

‘Stop thinking about it,’ Arjuro said, when Froi looked back over and over again after they passed north of Abroi.

‘How do you know what I’m thinking?’

‘I just know,’ Arjuro said. ‘Shit to the south and killing fields ahead. You want neither in your life.’

The terrain south of Serker was a slush of melted snow and dirt, and above them was a whirl of filthy clouds that lay low all the day long. A wind whistled an eerie tune and even the horses responded to the misery, tearing across the country as if they wanted to get as far from this place as possible.

‘Do you ever think of travelling through Serker?’ he asked Arjuro.

‘Nothing we can do,’ Arjuro said. ‘I have no chronicle of their names, so I can’t sing them home. Never have been able to.’

Which meant that Arjuro had tried. Froi pulled up a sleeve and rubbed his arm, shivering at the raised hair on it. Arjuro stared at him.

‘The unsettled spirits are dancing on your skin.’

‘I thought we only danced for joy,’ Froi said.

‘Not in Serker, they don’t.’

When it was time to say goodbye they stood huddled by their mounts, fussing with reins and comforting the horses. Being with Arjuro these weeks had been Froi’s only relief from the torment of Quintana’s absence.

‘You died twice in my arms,’ Arjuro said quietly.

Froi looked up at him.

‘It would have been the last thing I could have endured.’ Arjuro said, his eyes filling with tears. ‘Your death would have been the very last I could have endured.’

Froi thought of those strange moments after the attack outside Paladozza. When he knew he was dying, he had heard the Reginita’s voice ordering him away.

‘When I was removing those barbs,’ Arjuro said, ‘and your thoughts and words were feverish, you wept and wept from the memories … from the horror of your memories in Sarnak.’

Froi saw the rage in Arjuro’s eyes, his clenched fists.

‘If I could find the men who did those things to you as a child I would tear them limb from limb.’

Froi embraced him.

‘One day,’ Froi said, clearing his voice of emotion, ‘I’ll introduce you to my queen and my king and my captain; and Lord August and Lady Abian, who have given me a home; and the Priestking and Perri and Tesadora and my friend Lucian; and then you’ll understand that I would never have met them if you hadn’t journeyed to Sarnak all those years ago, Arjuro. And if the gods were to give me a choice between living a better life, having not met them, or a wretched life with the slightest chance of crossing their path, then I’d pick the wretched life over and over again.’

He kissed Arjuro’s brow. Finnikin called it a blessing between two male blood kin. It always had made Froi ache seeing it between Finnikin and Trevanion.

‘I’d live it again just to have crossed all of your paths. Keep safe, Arjuro. Keep safe so I can bring your brother home to you.’

Froi felt an acute loneliness the moment Arjuro mounted his horse and rode away. The sleet half-blinded him and the cold brought a new sort of pain to his bones. But he travelled all day and night, not wanting to rest in a place where he couldn’t shelter from the malevolence of nature. This was ancient land, filled with spirits, and apart from his journey to Hamlyn and Arna’s farm, Froi hadn’t been alone since his days in Sarnak. He fought the need to weep, but blamed it on his aches.

On his second day alone, he saw lights from afar and knew he had reached the Charyn River and the road south to the Osterian border. He couldn’t bear another night of sitting in the saddle with only the horse and his fleece for warmth, and the lights promised everything. They delivered little but a rundown inn that was full to the brim. Froi’s heartbeat quickened when he saw the sign to Alonso. How easy it would be to change path and take the road home to Lumatere. But there was something about De Lancey’s news that made him uneasy. Gargarin was no fool, yet if there was a lesson Froi had come to learn from living with Lord August’s family, it was that the Belegonians could not be trusted.

So he paid a coin for a corner in a crowded stable a mile south of the inn. It was mostly filled with Citavitans who had not found refuge in Jidia and were heading upriver to Alonso. Froi knew how their journey would end. Alonso would turn these people away, forcing them to travel to the Lumateran valley. As he watched these desperate, landless people, he couldn’t fight the crippling fear that Quintana was somewhere out there on her own with no coins to trade, cold to the bone.

‘Any news from the Citavita?’ Froi asked the couple beside him. He had watched the husband tie their pack around his waist in case someone tried to steal their possessions.

‘I was there when the street lords took the palace, and fear for the lives of friends,’ Froi continued, eyeing the bundle of food tied up in an apron.

‘Street lords are gone,’ the woman told him. ‘Nothing left to take. The gods only know who has control over the palace. Every week, a different story.’

‘If Bestiano’s a smart man he’ll return now,’ a bearded man close by said. ‘Best thing for Charyn.’

‘How can you say that?’ another called out from his bedroll. ‘He’s a killer of kings.’

‘But strange that the moment the King was killed, there’s news of an heir to be born,’ the bearded man continued. ‘Perhaps the answer all along was to rid ourselves of the King. Bestiano could be the hero of this kingdom.’

Count to ten, Froi. Count to ten.

‘They say Bestiano is the father of the future king,’ a woman called out.

The bearded man made a sound of approval. ‘If he’s smart, he’ll take the poor mite out of that mad-bitch Quintana’s hands the moment it’s born.’

Froi flew across the space, landing heavily on the man, pounding his fists wherever he could land them. He felt arms drag him away, their fingers pressing deep into his wounds and he pulled free.

‘You dare talk about the Princess in such a way,’ he raged. ‘I challenge you to speak those words when the future king grows to be a man. I dare you to say them about his mother to his face!’

The bearded man cowered away. ‘Who are you with your fancy talk?’

‘Someone who knew them,’ Froi said. ‘Knew the heir Tariq of Lascow. Knew that he sacrificed his life to keep Quintana of Charyn safe. I defy you to dishonour his memory by claiming Bestiano a better man.’

The words felt like rough parchment in Froi’s mouth, but there was silence all around.

‘They breed good men in Lascow,’ the husband from the Citavita said. His wife stared at Froi. ‘Tariq of Lascow would have made a just king if he had lived,’ she said.

Later, the wife held out a dry strip of meat to Froi and he ate it, shamed that whether she had given it to him or not, it would have somehow ended up in his belly. She looked at him closely, confused. ‘You remind me of someone. I don’t know who,’ she said quietly. She reached over and he flinched, but her hand touched his face gently.

When she was asleep, Froi felt her husband’s eyes on him. ‘She doesn’t usually take to your kind,’ the man said.

‘My kind?’ Froi said coolly. Who wasn’t it safe to be now? A Lumateran assassin? A Serker lad? A defender of the Princess?

‘A young one,’ the man said. ‘My wife … she usually turns away. She bled on the day of weeping. It was close to being born, our child was. She bled it and has spent the last eighteen years turning her eyes away from lastborns or the young.’

The man looked down at his wife, but then back at Froi. Then he smiled. ‘It’s not your face. It’s something else. It’s in your spirit. I feel it as well.’

Froi relaxed for the first time since he left Arjuro, and lay down on the straw. Although he had been taught not to take chances, he had a sense that the couple beside him were not a threat.

‘How many inns are on the river border across this stretch heading towards Osteria?’ he asked the man softly in the darkness.

‘Three. One is closed for the winter, though. You’ll be lucky to get a bed. But I would not head that way, lad.’

‘I’ve no intention of returning to the Citavita,’ Froi said.

‘It’s not the Citavita you need to fear,’ the man said. ‘There’s talk that the Osterians have allowed the Belegonians to camp across the river. If they decide to cross, there’ll be nothing left of us. It’s why we’re heading towards Alonso. Don’t head south, lad. Come north with us.’

Froi sighed. Oh, to head north to Alonso. It would be so easy to follow these people. He was closer to Lumatere than he had been for the past five months and all night his dreams beckoned him home.

But in the morning the reality hadn’t changed. Quintana was still somewhere out there, and he needed to find Gargarin and Lirah. The three of them had a better chance of finding her if they joined forces.

When Froi walked his horse out of the stable, south to everyone else’s north, he felt the wife stare at him.

‘Are you gods’ blessed?’ she asked.

He shook his head, not meeting her eyes.

‘Do you know what I dreamt last night?’

Froi didn’t want to know. People’s dreams frightened him. But he looked up at her all the same.

‘I dreamt of my ma who died long ago. Her words are still singing in my ears.’ The woman’s smile was gentle. ‘She said, “The half-spirit of your unborn child lives in that lad.”’

Chapter 8

They arrived at the border of Osteria and Charyn five days after setting out from Lumatere, having stopped to meet with their ambassador in the kingdom of Osteria. Finnikin couldn’t help but think of the last time they were at this exact place. Isaboe … Evanjalin had been out there somewhere. With Froi. She had walked away from Finnikin because he hadn’t trusted her. Froi had followed. ‘She and me. We’re the same,’ Froi had said. Finnikin could hardly remember the boy Froi had been, except for his ability to let fly his emotions whenever they rose to the surface. Froi as a lad was easy to control. Froi as a man threatened Finnikin. He had restraint and an ability to play with his opponents. He would make a formidable enemy.

‘You’ve been quiet these past days,’ Trevanion said. ‘Are you going to tell me what the … exchange of words was about?’

‘Who said there was an exchange of words?’ Finnikin asked with irritation.

‘When a woman says “I hope you fall under your horse” and “catch your death then see if I grieve you”,’ Perri said, ‘then there’s been an exchange of words …’

Finnikin glared at him.

‘… in my humble opinion.’

‘It’s no one’s business but ours.’

‘Understandable,’ Trevanion said. ‘Although the entire Guard and palace village heard it.’

‘Perhaps the south of the Flatlands as well,’ Perri concluded.

Finnikin dismounted and they led their horses to the river. There was little teasing here. They stayed quiet, remembering the day three-and-a-half years ago when they faced Sefton and the village exiles held by the Charynites. They knew now that Rafuel of Sebastabol had been one of the soldiers, and if Finnikin closed his eyes he could imagine just where Rafuel had stood. Perhaps if he had looked at the soldiers and not their leader, he’d have seen fear and shame on their faces.

‘Let’s go,’ Trevanion said quietly.

Gargarin of Abroi had instructed the Belegonians that he would be waiting in an inn five miles north of the Charynite barracks. It was the only ale house for miles upon miles and was frequented by the Charynite soldiers guarding the border, as well as people from a cluster of isolated villages. Finnikin had been advised by the ambassador that the Belegonian army was camped further upriver on the Osterian side with Osteria’s blessing, a sign of great intimidation and provocation to Charyn. Would the Belegonians be so ready for attack if they had received Gargarin of Abroi’s letter asking for an alliance? Instead, that letter had been intercepted by Celie and passed on to Finnikin. In trapping the man who had planned the slaughter of Isaboe’s family, had Lumatere inadvertently triggered a Belegonian invasion?

Finnikin stayed focused, and thought over the instructions given by Gargarin of Abroi. The man would carry a walking stick as a means of identification. He would greet them with the words, ‘You’re a far way from home.’ He would set out a treaty between Charyn and Belegonia which would acknowledge him as the one who would return the true heir to the palace. Finnikin remembered the words in the note. The Lumaterans need not know of our alliance. We’ll talk later about what to do with them. Leave it to me, for I have a plan for Lumatere that will eliminate them as a threat.

Finnikin’s blood chilled just to think of it again.

As they guided their horses through the trees he found himself back in the past. He thought he heard a whistle, and imagined the sight of her: Evanjalin of the Monts. Her hair cropped short, her arms hacked from her need to bleed so she could walk the sleep. He cursed himself for his weakness because what he felt for her then paled in comparison to how he felt now. Despite the fury at her speaking another man’s name that carved at his insides, Finnikin had never desired his wife as much as he did this moment.

Suddenly Trevanion held up a hand and they slowed their horses. Finnikin watched his father dismount. The smell of horse shit was overwhelming. Whoever had stopped at this place had not travelled alone.

‘A small army has been here, it seems,’ Trevanion said.

‘Could the Belegonians have already crossed?’ Perri asked.

Trevanion shook his head. ‘No. The Belegonians are on foot. This group has horses.’

‘The barracks are close by,’ Finnikin said.

‘This was a rest stop for someone travelling a distance.’ Trevanion looked up at them. ‘At least twenty. Pity whoever it is they’re after.’

They tethered the horses and set up camp in a clearing some distance from the inn. Quietly Finnikin changed his clothing. Trevanion and Perri would wait here, concealed, until Finnikin returned with the man, but Finnikin would have to look the part convincingly. The Belegonians wore their clothing more fitted, and bolder in colours.

‘Cover up, Finn,’ his father said and Finnikin pulled the cap over his head, covering every strand of his berry-coloured hair. If anything would give him away, it would always be its colour. He had to be careful. He had to steady his hand so Gargarin of Abroi would not see it shaking.

‘When the time comes, you don’t have –’ his father began to say.

‘It’s my duty,’ Finnikin interrupted. ‘What these people did to Isaboe’s family will haunt her for the rest of her life.’

He walked the trail to the inn. Charyn afternoons were eaten by an early darkness, lit with a strange moonless hue. Closer, he heard the voices and knew that soon enough he’d reach the isolated inn. This is where he would kill a man tonight. He’d lead Gargarin of Abroi back to this very place and slit his throat. And regardless of everything, he’d do it for her.

There were the usual stares as he walked in. But with the threat of Belegonia invading, the inn was frequented by travellers rather than soldiers. So the stares were not for long. And then Finnikin saw a man with a walking stick enter alongside a woman of great beauty. Every man in the room stared.

‘Mercy,’ Finnikin muttered. There was never any talk that Gargarin of Abroi would have a companion. The moment they were seated, Finnikin joined them, his eyes meeting the man’s cold stare. Cold, but handsome. Gargarin of Abroi’s hair was coal-black, which contrasted alarmingly with his pale skin and dark-blue eyes. There was silence and Finnikin felt studied by both of them. For all her beauty, there was little warmth in the woman. But in their fine pelt cloaks, the two looked regal. Apart from Trevanion and Beatriss, a more striking couple he had never seen.

‘You’re a far way from home,’ the man said in Charyn.

That I am, Finnikin wanted to say. He nodded.

‘I don’t trust him,’ the woman said to her companion.

The Charynite held up a hand to wave over the servant. When the lad arrived, Gargarin of Abroi turned to his woman.

‘I’ll order us food,’ he said quietly. Gently. He looked up at the lad. ‘What have you got?’

‘Leftovers.’

‘Always a favourite,’ Gargarin said dryly. Finnikin watched him reach a hand over to touch the women’s gaunt cheek. ‘I’m begging you to eat, Lirah.’

‘I can’t stomach food. I told you.’

‘If he sees you like this, he’ll blame me.’

The woman wrapped her arms around her body miserably. ‘Shouldn’t have let them go,’ she said quietly.

It was as though Finnikin didn’t exist and although he tried his hardest, he couldn’t keep his eyes off them both. Before him was love and contempt and yearning and it filled the air.

Then the food came, yet there was still no acknowledgement from the Charynites.

‘Did we organise to meet so I could watch you eat?’ Finnikin asked finally.

Gargarin lifted his eyes from his plate and stared. ‘Your army is waiting to cross the border from Osteria,’ he said, ice in his tone. ‘You have our people running scared. A strange turn of events since we exchanged letters.’

‘Yes, you’re quite the letter writer,’ Finnikin said, cursing the Belegonians for persisting with their plan to invade, despite Isaboe’s objections. ‘Give me something to offer my king and I may be able to speak to him about his eager soldiers.’

The woman spat at Finnikin.

‘Offer him that,’ she said.

Finnikin refused to allow his anger to surface. ‘That’s very rude,’ he said, wiping the spittle from his face. ‘Especially since, unlike you, leftovers are my least favourite.’

‘We promised you peace between our kingdoms, unheard of for at least thirty years,’ Gargarin said. ‘Why would Belegonia not take advantage of such a pledge?’

‘But what if Bestiano is offering Belegonia the same?’ Finnikin asked.

Through the information collected about Charyn, Finnikin knew that the battle for the palace would take place between two men. Bestiano of Nebia and Gargarin of Abroi.

‘Bestiano was the dead King’s advisor,’ Gargarin said. ‘Why would he offer Belegonia peace now when he had years to offer it while the King was alive? He wants something from you and he’ll promise you nothing but lies.’

‘And what do you want from us in return?’

‘A powerful ally. The Osterians are weak. They’ll give in to the Sorellians one day and we will all be left unprotected. What happens when the Sorellians cross the sea to invade your kingdom?’

‘We’ll have the Lumaterans. They’re our allies and neighbours.’

Gargarin of Abroi shrugged arrogantly. ‘Lumatere’s not a kingdom. It’s a road.’ He smiled. ‘Would you not agree?’

‘You’re forcing words in my mouth, sir,’ Finnikin said, keeping his tone even. ‘Is this a trap by the Lumaterans to test our allegiance?’

‘No, just a jest enjoyed by most Charynites and Belegonians I know.’

‘We must have a different sense of humour,’ Finnikin said, his hands clenched under the bench.

‘Oh no,’ the Charynite said. ‘Your kingdom and mine? Power and size ensures we have the same sense of humour. We all agree that Lumatere is insignificant except when it comes to its coal.’

That was all Lumatere ever was to Charyn. A road to Sarnak. A road to Belegonia and a coalmine. Murder Isaboe’s family, replace them with a puppet king who would give them a path to wherever they wanted to go. Finnikin swallowed, hardly able to speak from the fury.

‘So what will we get out of acknowledging you as regent?’ he asked Gargarin.

‘I never claimed to be regent. I’m here to speak for Charyn until the day that someone sound of mind is placed in charge. And you need an ally. Against Sorel to your east, and those Yut madmen to your south, who are going to bring the whole of Skuldenore down. United, we could be powerful. Divided, this land does not stand a chance.’

The only thing this Charynite and Finnikin had in common was the belief that Skuldenore would work better together than alone.

‘Call off the army,’ Gargarin said. ‘For now, that’s all we ask. Give us a chance to stand on our feet.’

Finnikin stood. ‘I’ll take you to the border. You may get the chance to call them off yourself.’

‘Then you accept the offer?’

‘I need to speak to the King,’ Finnikin said. ‘He didn’t seem to trust your letters and he wanted some sort of certainty that this wasn’t a trap.’

Finnikin held out a hand to shake.

‘But how do we know this isn’t a trap?’ Gargarin asked, not taking the hand outstretched. ‘That you aren’t playing Bestiano against us?’

‘You don’t. But many say that Bestiano of Nebia became First Advisor because the King sent his better men to Lumatere thirteen years ago, only to have them trapped by the curse. We don’t make treaties with last-resort advisors. You, however, were said to be everything a king wanted, and you walked away from it all. The Belegonian King is impressed.’

‘Well, there you go,’ Gargarin of Abroi said. ‘Always pleased to impress a foreign enemy. The King of Yutlind Nord remarked quite emphatically that he found me smarter than most men, and expressed great pity that he could not come to our assistance because he hated the Charynites as much as he hated his countrymen from the south.’

‘And how is it that you know the King of Yutlind Nord?’

‘Well, you see,’ Gargarin said, leaning closer to feign a conspiratorial whisper, ‘I’m a bit of a letter writer.’

Finnikin was being mocked. The only person who got away with mocking him was Froi and perhaps Perri. This man slightly intrigued him, which was unfortunate when Finnikin knew what was to take place this night. It actually made him feel sick to the stomach.

‘So when do I get to meet someone more important than you?’ Gargarin asked.

‘More important than me?’ Finnikin scoffed. ‘According to my wife, there is no one more important than me.’

A ghost of a smile appeared on the Charynite’s face.

‘Keep that wife.’

Finnikin stood.

‘Let’s go,’ he said.

‘Hand him his staff,’ the woman ordered.

Finnikin stared at it.

‘You need it?’ he asked Gargarin.

‘Yes, well, it is a walking stick, fool.’

Finnikin had never killed an unarmed man with a limp before. Apart from training with the Guard and an incident with drunk yokels in Sarnak the year before on palace business, he hadn’t used a weapon since the battle to reclaim Lumatere. He was good with a sword. Not as good as Trevanion’s Guard, but better than most men. But he had never assassinated a man. It made him think of all those times Trevanion, Perri and Froi had done so on palace orders over the years. His and Isaboe’s. Sometimes the men would return from their mission and he’d sense a change in his father. A mood so dark. Perri always disappeared for days after and Froi … Froi would have a vacant look in his eye. As if he had lost a bit of himself.

Outside the inn, Finnikin watched the man and woman before him. They were of the same height. Both reed thin. And they loved each other. That was the fact Finnikin wanted to forget. That he was about to assassinate a man who loved someone. Who was gentle with her and cared whether she ate or not. But Finnikin remembered the stories of past leaders from the books of the ancients. The kindest of fathers were often the greatest butchers of innocent women and children.

When they reached the clearing, Finnikin saw Perri and his father. Unlike Gargarin of Abroi, he knew where to look for them in the shadow of the trees. And before he could change his mind, Finnikin had one arm around the Charynite’s shoulders, the other hand holding a dagger at his throat. Finnikin kicked away the man’s staff and Gargarin of Abroi’s body slumped against him.

He heard a sound from the woman as Perri’s hand muffled her cry and pulled her away.

‘Don’t hurt her!’ Gargarin said. Almost ordered. ‘Just let her go. She’s of no use to Bestiano. She’s suffered enough. If you have any compassion, let her go.’

Finnikin tightened his grip. ‘I don’t follow your orders and I don’t follow Bestiano’s,’ he said. ‘I’m just a fool who comes from that road you call Lumatere.’

He silenced the man’s shout with a hand, pressing the dagger closer to his throat. But suddenly he heard the rustle of leaves underfoot behind him and felt the tip of steel pressed into his back.

‘Drop the dagger,’ he heard a hoarse whisper say. ‘Drop it now!’

Gargarin of Abroi tried to turn in Finnikin’s arms and Finnikin sensed his desperation. The knife he held to the Charynite’s throat drew blood as Gargarin struggled. Behind Finnikin, the sword dug deeper into his back.

‘I said drop it!’

Mercy!

And just when Finnikin thought the moment could get no worse, he heard his father’s voice. Cold. Hard. Anguished.

‘Put down the sword, Froi, or I’ll slice your head clear from your body.’

Chapter 9

Lord Tascan and his family’s visit to the mountain was met with great enthusiasm. At first. Yata received them in her home and Lucian spent the afternoon showing them the dairy farms and the silo. Lucian was keen to set up an agreement between the Monts and the Flatland lords. The first of Lumatere’s market days with the Belegonians and Osterians had been a success for the kingdom, but the Monts had been absent, due to Phaedra’s death in the valley. Their hearts had not been in it. But Lucian believed it was time to show the rest of the kingdom that they were more than just sentinels.

And here Lord Tascan was, as keen as Lucian desired. But when the nobleman insisted he accompany Lucian alone on a tour of the stables, Lucian quickly came to understand the truth behind his visit.

‘I’m not going to waste time here, Lucian,’ he said, as they inspected the stalls. Lucian was hoping to show off the size of their boars to Lord Tascan, but he didn’t seem interested.

‘Since our return to Lumatere I’ve watched you carefully and have been impressed with your potential, lad. But then, of course, there was the unfortunate marriage to the Charynite. All behind you now.’

Lucian stiffened. When he had visited the palace village a week past, friends and acquaintances had approached, one after the other, with hearty congratulations.

‘It must be a relief,’ the weaver had said.

Relief?

The sun appearing after days of rain or darkness was a relief. Orly and Lotte’s news that Gert and Bert had finally found each other and would produce the finest calf known to the mountain was a relief. Phaedra of Alonso’s death was a never-ending pain that gnawed at his insides. It made him a prisoner in his own cottage.

‘Lucian, this kingdom would love nothing more than your betrothment to my daughter, Zarah.’

Sweet Goddess.

‘It will bring opportunity to both our villages and it will bring light back to this mountain. Isn’t that what you want, Lucian? I’ve seen your yata. This marriage to the Charynite darkened her doorstep.’

No, her death did, Lucian wanted to say. Yata had come to admire Phaedra. Even love her.

‘Zarah’s a good daughter, Lucian. The Osterian court held her in high regard when we lived there during the curse.’

‘I don’t want to offend your daughter, sir –’

‘Then good.’ Lord Tascan thumped Lucian on the back heartily. ‘It’s settled. No need to rush into anything formal just yet. But we’ll expect you for supper when you visit for market day. You can stay the night in the palace. I’m sure the Queen will enjoy seeing a beloved cousin. Perhaps there will be an invitation for my family to join you.’

Lucian forced a smile. Lord Tascan had waited a month. Not to talk hogs and mutton. But to talk unwed daughters. How could Lucian have been so stupid not to notice?

After a long goodbye the guests departed, demanding promises he would come visit them, and Lucian returned home. From where he stood outside his cottage, he could see Lord Tascan’s people disappearing down the mountain trail and he felt nothing but great relief. Since Phaedra’s death, his cottage had become his refuge. Sometimes he imagined her there beside him. She had once told Lucian that she liked how high his home sat on the mountain, overlooking the other cottages and farms. She had loved the dips and slopes of the land in the distance, the smoke that came from Orly’s home, and the sight of Miro’s herd of sheep on a neighbouring property.

‘It’s a pity you can’t see it all from inside,’ he heard her say. ‘Windows would give you the greatest view all around.’

‘Why would I want to see more of everyone?’ he said. ‘Then they’d never leave me alone. The walls blocking out the mountain work just fine for me, Phaedra. It means I don’t have to see the sadness of their faces now that you’re gone.’

He spoke aloud to her often. This is what he was reduced to. Speaking to the ghosts of his father and his wife.

He was about to walk inside his cottage when he saw the horses travelling up the trail from the village of Balconio. Was it Lord Tascan returning? Lucian would have to hide, if so. But then he realised it was the Queen’s Guard and, fearing the worst, Lucian walked down the path back to Yata’s compound and waited for their arrival. As they ventured closer, he saw his cousin Isaboe amongst them. They were usually forewarned that she would be staying so that Yata could organise her quarters. But he also knew that sometimes his cousin craved to be with her mother’s kin, because no one fussed over Isaboe like Yata and the aunts. She was still their little Mont girl despite being Queen of them all.

When she arrived with Jasmina and the Guard, he helped her dismount and they embraced. She seemed to want to hold on a moment longer and he let her. He took Jasmina from one of her other guards, Moss, and placed the imp on his shoulders.

‘Should you be riding?’ he asked Isaboe.

‘I’m with child, Lucian,’ she said dryly. ‘Not dying. And I’m actually on my way down to the valley.’

‘What?’ Lucian asked, stunned, looking up at her guard Aldron, who grimaced.

‘I’d appreciate you talking the Queen out of doing that, Lucian,’ Aldron said.

‘And I’d appreciate you both not talking about me as if I’m invisible,’ she said, rolling her eyes.

‘Did the Queen of this kingdom just roll her eyes?’

‘She’s been doing it all the way up the mountain,’ Aldron muttered.

‘And still you’re talking about me as if I’m not present!’ she said.

Lucian exchanged a look with Moss. No one seemed to like the idea of Isaboe travelling to the valley.

‘Stop doing that! All of you,’ she said firmly.

Lucian held up a hand in surrender.

‘If this is about your fight with Finn –’

Aldron was shaking his head at Lucian in warning.

‘My conversations with your beloved friend are of no one’s business,’ she said.

‘How come Finnikin’s my beloved friend whenever you fight and he’s your beloved husband all other times?’

Isaboe stared at him, unamused. ‘Take me to the valley, Lucian, or I’ll have Aldron here relay the conversation I just had with Lord Tascan as we passed each other. The one where he suggests an invitation to the palace next time you’re in town. With his daughter in attendance.’

Lucian sighed. Isaboe would do it to spite him.

‘Moss, can you take Jasmina to Yata and tell her we’ll be staying the night?’ she said, taking Jasmina’s little fingers and kissing each and every one of them. ‘I’m off to see Tesadora. I’ve not seen her for such a while.’

‘Then I’ll send Jory to fetch her,’ Lucian said. Moss and Aldron nodded, liking the idea. ‘Tesadora can eat with us on the mountain tonight.’

‘No,’ his cousin insisted. ‘Tesadora’s not one for fetching and I want to surprise her.’

Lucian insisted that Isaboe share his mount. Yata spoke often about the babe arriving at the end of spring. When Jasmina was born, the kingdom was in a state of euphoria for months. Lucian couldn’t bear the idea of the horses getting skittish and something happening to the Queen.

They rode down the mountain with Aldron and two of the other guards. He had forgotten how much he enjoyed his cousin’s company and how little time they had spent together lately. After sharing family gossip, they spoke of market day in the palace village and Lord Tascan.

‘Be careful,’ she said. ‘Lady Zarah trills. Finnikin used to flirt with her when he’d visit the Osterian court during his exile.’

‘Yes, but that was before he met you.’

‘I overheard Finnikin once telling Sir Topher that Lady Zarah’s voice was a soothing sound.’

‘Hmm, soothing voices are in decline on the mountain … and in the palace, the way I hear it,’ Lucian said. He peered over his shoulder for her reaction.

Isaboe’s eyes narrowed. ‘If I had the power to make anyone in this kingdom mute, I’d begin with her trilling voice,’ she said. ‘Nothing soothing about it. She speaks softly so men can step closer to ask her to speak again.’

‘You’re mean,’ he laughed.

‘It’s true,’ she protested. ‘The first time Jasmina heard her voice she held her hands to her ears and cried.’

He reached back and poked her side with a finger and they both laughed again. But the closer they came to the valley, the more silent they became. He knew he would never speak the words out loud to her, but he had been disappointed that she hadn’t acknowledged Phaedra as his wife. After her death, Isaboe had sent her condolences, but Lucian wished that she had come to know Phaedra in life.

When they reached the point on the mountain where they could see the first glimpse of the Charynites in their caves, he heard her sigh.

‘What are we going to do about this valley, Lucian? If it’s true that Alonso has refused to send grain, I can’t take food from my own people to feed an enemy.’

‘Perhaps … they could fertilise the land and grow more of their own,’ he said. ‘I’ve only allowed them a small patch, but they could grow much more along the stream and between the caves.’

Hadn’t that been Phaedra’s idea?

‘Do you know how we fertilised Kasabian’s vegetable patch?’ Phaedra had asked him with delight one time when they were travelling back up to the mountain. ‘We climbed to the higher caves and carved holes for the pigeons to … you know.’

‘No,’ he had said, pretending ignorance. ‘I don’t.’

‘So they can … you know.’

‘So they can shit.’

‘Well, I would have put it more delicately.’

‘Trust me, Phaedra. There’s no delicate way to shit. It evens out the entire land. Humans and other creatures. Queens and peasants.’

‘Then we collect the pigeon … droppings and mix them with the water and soil, and that’s how we fertilise our garden,’ she said proudly.

It’s what he told Isaboe, without mentioning Phaedra.

‘People who plant gardens and vegetable patches become part of the land, Lucian,’ Isaboe said. ‘We can’t have them forming an attachment. It means they’ll never go.’

At her campsite on the Lumateran side of the stream, Tesadora was boiling a broth that smelt too repulsive to be considered dinner. She was surprised to see them, but held out her arms to Isaboe.

‘Stomach upsets in the valley,’ she said. She looked suspiciously at Aldron and the guards as they began searching the area.

‘If you’re so worried about the dangers, why bring her down here?’ she snapped.

‘Don’t talk about her as if she’s not here, Tesadora,’ Lucian said.

But no one seemed in a mood to jest.

‘You know they won’t risk crossing the stream,’ Tesadora said, irritation in her voice and still watching Aldron and the guard. She returned her attention to Isaboe and brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. ‘You look tired, beloved.’

‘I’m not sleeping too well these nights.’

‘I can imagine why,’ Tesadora said. ‘Your husband’s an idiot. Have I not told you that many times?’

Isaboe laughed, but Lucian could see worry in her eyes.

‘I sent for you, Tesadora, but you mustn’t have received my notes.’

‘Circumstances have been strange here since …’

Tesadora sighed, looking at Lucian.

Since Phaedra. Since Vestie travelled down a mountain on her own in the early hours of the morning. Since a strange, savage girl took up residence in their valley.

‘I wanted to talk to you about the sleep,’ Isaboe said.

Tesadora looked perplexed. ‘You still walk the sleep? But you’ve not bled. And I’ve not walked it with you.’

‘It’s odd,’ Isaboe admitted. ‘Vestie walks it, too. Not alongside me. It’s as if we walk our own.’

Tesadora was unnerved by the news, her beautiful face creased with worry.

‘I’ll come up the mountain with you tonight and we’ll make a strong brew to ease those jitters,’ she promised.

Tesadora extinguished the fire under her pot and Lucian helped her pack up.

‘I want to meet the girl, Tesadora,’ Lucian heard Isaboe say. He watched Tesadora freeze.

‘Vestie says she’s a Charynite with no place to go,’ Isaboe continued. ‘That she’s frightened of her own people.’

‘She’s no one,’ Lucian said. ‘Just a stray who doesn’t want to be in the presence of Donashe and his cutthroats, if you ask me.’

Tesadora covered the pot. ‘They’re arriving from all over these days,’ she said dismissively. ‘Ever since the events in their capital. The girl can look after herself. You three,’ she said to the guards, pointing to her pots and jars. ‘Make yourselves useful and put these in my tent.’

‘And what if she can’t look after herself, Tesadora?’ Isaboe continued. ‘What if there’s something I can do for her? All those people in the valley, waiting for my permission to climb this mountain. Perhaps she’s the one. She is on her own with no kin. Take me to her, Tesadora. We’ll ease her fear.’

Lucian looked at Tesadora. As strange as the girl was, perhaps it was the first step. He liked the idea, but suddenly preferred that the conversation take place on the mountain and not down here in the valley.

‘Let’s get this over and done with,’ he said finally. ‘I want us all in Yata’s house by the time the sun disappears. Lead the way, Tesadora.’

Tesadora was reluctant, but finally she agreed.

‘I don’t want the girl frightened,’ she said, looking at the Guard. ‘Lucian and Aldron only. The others can stay here.’

They travelled half a mile downstream. It made Lucian wonder how much contact Tesadora had made with the mad girl since they had encountered her the morning Vestie went missing.

‘We don’t even know her name, Tesadora,’ Aldron muttered. ‘If I get a blasting from Finn and Trevanion and Perri over this, I’ll blame you.’

‘Yes, well, I’m trembling at the thought,’ Tesadora said, but Lucian could hear the strangeness in her voice.

They passed the tree where they first found the girl with Vestie. Further downstream, shafts of light forced their way between tall pines. It was here that they found the girl on her haunches, close to one of the trees, with a blanket wrapped around her body that Lucian recognised as one of Tesadora’s. She was scrounging for something in the dirt and he could see that at least she was eating well, looking rounded and full-figured. When she heard the crunch of the pine needles under their feet, she stumbled to stand, her eyes wide with alarm.

Tesadora stepped forward, holding out a hand to quell her fears, but the girl’s eyes fastened on Isaboe. Lucian saw a snarl curling her lips and then heard the bloodcurdling sound. Aldron stepped forward, a hand to his sword.

‘We won’t hurt you,’ Tesadora called out meaningfully, for Aldron’s ears as much as the girl’s. ‘Step back, Aldron. You’re frightening her.’

Aldron refused to move. The girl seemed poised to lunge.

‘Step back, Aldron.’ Isaboe repeated Tesadora’s words. Reluctantly, Aldron did as he was told. Isaboe approached slowly, tentatively, and the girl stumbled back.

‘Your Majesty!’ Aldron warned. Isaboe held up a hand, stepping closer and closer to the girl. Neither spoke, but there was a tension in the air that unnerved Lucian. He looked at Tesadora and when she refused to meet his eye, he knew something was wrong. And then it happened quickly, the speed of it stunning them all. Isaboe’s hand snaked out and pushed the girl against the closest trunk, her fingers clenched around the Charynite’s throat.

‘Give me your sword, Aldron,’ his queen ordered, her voice so cold.

‘Isaboe,’ Tesadora hissed. ‘Let her go. You’re hurting her.’

‘Aldron,’ Isaboe repeated. ‘Give me your sword.’

‘What’s happening here?’ Lucian demanded. Aldron unsheathed his weapon and placed it in Isaboe’s hand. In an instant his cousin had the blade pressed under the girl’s chin.

‘Isaboe, let her go!’ Tesadora cried, stepping forward, but Aldron held her back.

Lucian couldn’t see Isaboe’s face, but he saw the girl’s expression. With the blade to her neck, she was petrified. He reached out a hand to Isaboe’s shoulder, but she shrugged it away.

‘I was one of five children,’ she said, speaking Charyn to the girl. ‘I want you to know that before you die. I want you to know their names. Evestalina. Rosemond. Jasmina. Balthazar. My mother’s name was Tilda. My father’s name was Carles. On the day he died, my brother Balthazar got in trouble for lying about breaking a vase in the reading room. My father said he was ashamed of him and so my brother went to his death thinking he had lost the King’s respect.’

Lucian heard her voice break.

‘My sister Rosemond … we called her Rosie, she carved her name on the cherry-tree trunk in my mother’s garden, declaring her love for one of my father’s guards who later died in the prison mines of Sorel. I want you to think of them when you’re choking on your own blood, Quintana of Charyn.’

Lucian’s pulse pounded to hear the name. Aldron stared at him, having no idea of the Queen’s plan.

‘Isaboe!’ Tesadora said, her voice desolate. ‘Do not do this. It will break your spirit.’

With her hand still pressed against the girl’s throat and the weapon still in place, Isaboe looked back at Tesadora.

‘My spirit was broken long ago, Tesadora. And it was broken again yesterday when Vestie told me about your deceit. While I was begging you to come spend time with me, you were playing nursemaid to the daughter of the man who ordered my family’s slaughter.’

Isaboe turned back to the girl. ‘Did you think you could find refuge in my valley, filthy Charynite?’

Tesadora struggled in Aldron’s arms. Lucian knew that nothing would stop the Queen. Wasn’t this exactly what Finnikin and Trevanion and Perri were doing in Charyn? Wasn’t this something they all had sanctioned?

But it was horror Lucian felt when he saw Isaboe raise the blade to strike. The girl’s scream was hoarse and full of rage and fear. The sound of it would ring in Lucian’s ears for days to come. And just as Isaboe went to use the sword, something came flying out at them from the copse of trees.

‘No!’

The voice made his knees almost buckle.

Phaedra?

Lucian watched, stunned, as Phaedra threw herself at Isaboe. And then it all happened so fast and he did what he was taught to do in battle … when his queen was under attack. He acted on instinct. Lucian didn’t hesitate. Not for a single moment. His father’s sword was in his hand, pressed against the throat of his wife. He knew he’d kill anyone who was a threat to his queen. He knew he would kill Phaedra of Alonso. But Phaedra was on her knees gripping the blade of Isaboe’s sword and pressing it to her own chest. Lucian could see its sharpness cutting into his wife’s hands. Until they dripped with blood.

‘Kill me,’ she pleaded, her head pressed against Isaboe’s knees. ‘I’m begging, Your Majesty. Kill me. Please. If you want to avenge anyone, kill me. I’m a lastborn and daughter of a Provincaro. Ride through Charyn and take every lastborn girl to exact your revenge. But not her, Your Majesty. Charyn will cease to exist without her. We are nothing without the babe she carries.’

Lucian watched Isaboe shudder. Even Tesadora was speechless at the sight of Phaedra.

‘They don’t stay dead, these Charynites, do they?’ he heard Isaboe say, her voice so foreign to him. Compared to all the battles or deaths or sieges Lucian had ever witnessed, this was different. He swore later that the air changed, that there were spirits at play. That the Charyn gods and the Goddess herself were damning Lucian for the blade he held. Damning them all. And then suddenly Isaboe stepped away, letting go of Quintana of Charyn and pulling free of Phaedra.

‘Get out of my valley,’ Isaboe said. ‘Before I change my mind and slice you in half as your father’s assassin did my mother!’

Lucian lowered his sword and stumbled back. Without hesitation, Phaedra gripped the girl’s hand and they ran for their lives, disappearing through the trees.

For moments all he heard was the sound of their own ragged breaths, but Lucian knew it wasn’t over yet. Phaedra was alive. He had held a sword to her throat while she knelt, begging for another’s mercy, her hands drenched with blood. He thought that the difference between he and Isaboe was that his love for a Charynite had sometimes made him forget. And he despised himself for it. He had forgotten the way Balthazar had died. His cousins. His aunt. His king and his father.

‘You’re to return home to the cloister in the forest,’ Isaboe ordered Tesadora. ‘I forbid you to come here again. I’ll deal with you in my own time.’

Tesadora gave a humourless laugh.

‘You forbid,’ she mocked. ‘You’ll deal with me? I’m not yours to deal with, little girl. You’re mistaking me for someone else.’

‘Tesadora,’ Lucian warned as she walked away.

‘If you return to this valley, Tesadora, you face the consequences,’ Isaboe said.

‘I stay where I’m needed,’ Tesadora said.

‘She’ll stay with the Monts,’ Lucian said.

‘I stay here!’ Tesadora shouted, turning to face them all, eyes blazing.

Isaboe walked to her. She stood before Tesadora, shaking.

‘Is it the filthy Charynite inside of you that draws you to these people?’ she asked, and Lucian knew there was no turning back from those words.

‘Oh, beloved,’ Tesadora said, both rage and sadness in her voice. ‘Don’t force me to choose.’

‘Choose?’ Isaboe said. ‘Between her and me? You’d choose her?’

Tesadora leant forward and cupped the Queen’s face in both her hands.

‘Blood sings to blood,’ Tesadora said. ‘And yours doesn’t carry a tune.’

Isaboe stumbled back as if she had been struck, and then Tesadora was gone and Lucian could only stare at his cousin. He wished Finnikin were here, because only he could tear that look from her eyes. Lucian had seen him do it. Walk into a room when the images in her head were too powerful to bear. Finnikin would take her in his arms and whisper the words and she’d choke out a cry, but she’d breathe.

Lucian reached out to comfort her, but she stepped away. Being Evanjalin had trained her for years and years not to cry. It’s how she differed from the rest of the Monts. But he could see she was still broken inside.

‘Let’s go,’ he said quietly. ‘I need to get you home to Yata.’

Chapter 10

‘Froi, put down the dagger!’

‘Finn first. Then we talk.’

Later, Froi thought it would have looked strange to someone who stumbled across them in that clearing. Finnikin with an arm around Gargarin’s neck and a dagger to his throat. Froi with a blade to Finnikin’s back. Trevanion with his sword against the side of Froi’s neck, ready to strike the moment he moved. Froi was dizzy from the confusion and the rage and the despair of it.

‘Froi, put the dagger down!’ Perri ordered.

Froi chanced a look and saw Gargarin’s feet struggling to keep his body upright. Whether it was from pain or helplessness, it stirred Froi’s fury even more.

‘Let him go,’ Lirah cried, struggling in Perri’s grip.

Perri was strong enough to hold Lirah as he stepped forward and pressed the tip of his sword against Froi’s temple.

‘Put it down, Froi. You know I’ll do it,’ Perri threatened softly. ‘You know it.’

Because you don’t let emotion get in the way of what you’re doing. Isn’t that what Perri had once said?

‘Froi,’ Gargarin said. ‘Put your sword down.’ His voice was hoarse from the pressure of Finnikin’s dagger across his throat. ‘What good are you to us dead?’

‘And what good are you to all of us dead?’ Froi asked in return. Stupid, filthy tears filled his eyes and he felt weak and helpless. He had a blade to his king’s back. His king had a dagger to his father’s throat. The men he respected beyond question were threatening to kill him. Here at this place where Perri had tenderly carried Froi in his arms after they had rescued him from the Charynites more than three years ago.

‘Just put the dagger down, Finn,’ Froi begged. ‘He’s an architect. Nothing more.’

‘An architect of a path soaked in blood.’ Finnikin spat out the words, tightening his hold on Gargarin. ‘That’s all Lumatere is to these people, Froi. A road.’

Gargarin made a sound of regret. ‘I said what the Belegonians wanted to hear,’ he said with bitterness. ‘But you interfered, Lumateran. You interfered and the blood of Charyn is on your hands the moment Belegonia crosses that river.’

‘What have you done to us, Finn?’ Froi demanded.

Froi heard Finnikin’s hiss of fury. ‘Us? Froi, we’re not them. You’re not them.’

‘He’s not who you think, Finn. If you put down the dagger we’ll talk and you’ll hear it all.’

Lirah bit Perri’s hand and tried to struggle free.

‘Don’t hurt her!’ Froi shouted. He didn’t know who to protect first. Where to look.

‘Do you know of this man’s promise to the Belegonians in his correspondence?’ Finnikin demanded. ‘To eliminate Lumatere. To eliminate the people who gave you a home.’

‘You’re mistaken –’

‘Leave it to me, for I have a plan for Lumatere that will eliminate them as a threat,’ Finnikin said. ‘His words. Not mine. And how were you planning to do that, Charynite?’ he demanded, holding Gargarin closer to him. ‘March an army through my kingdom and rape my wife and child? It’s all Charynite men know how to do.’

Froi watched Gargarin slump, his head bent in defeat.

‘There are more ways than killing and maiming to eliminate a threat, Your Highness,’ Gargarin said, his voice low. ‘You misunderstood our use of weapon. Not a blade or an arrow, but Froi. We thought we could use him to eliminate Lumatere as a threat. His ties to you. His words.’

How could Finnikin not have understood that? Froi begged the gods.

‘We offer Lumatere peace, my lord, and you trap the man who can make it possible?’ Froi asked, gutted.

Finnikin was silent but he loosened his grip on Gargarin slightly, and Froi waited, but there was nothing.

‘Finn, I’m begging you. Let him free.’

‘We have evidence that this man was behind the plan to annihilate Lumatere all those years ago,’ Finnikin said.

‘Never,’ Froi said fiercely. ‘I will give my life saying that. It will be the last words I speak and they will haunt you, Finn. Never.’

‘Froi, step away,’ Gargarin said. ‘Put the dagger down. They won’t listen to reason and it will only get you killed. Put it down.’

‘You don’t tell me what to do, Gargarin!’

‘Can you not listen for once?’ Gargarin shouted. ‘If you had listened …’

But Gargarin didn’t finish his words.

‘Say it!’ Froi shouted over Finnikin’s head, not knowing who he hated most. ‘I wouldn’t have lost her. That’s what you wanted to say.’

‘Put the sword down and at least bargain for Lirah’s life,’ Gargarin said.

Finnikin uttered a sound of disbelief.

‘He thinks we’d kill his woman?’ he said. ‘Is that what he thinks we are? Murderers?’

‘You’re holding a dagger to an innocent man’s throat, Finn,’ Froi snapped. ‘He builds cisterns and plans water meadows and waterwheels. You collected all the information, but you got it wrong. Most times we’re right, Perri once told me. This time you’re wrong!’

Froi couldn’t stand the silence. He couldn’t stand to hear the sound of Gargarin’s ragged breath and Lirah’s despair. Just as he was about to lower his weapon, he watched Finnikin release both the dagger and his hold on Gargarin, who crumpled at his feet.

Froi dropped his dagger and Lirah was suddenly beside them, holding the staff, helping Gargarin to his feet. Somehow they managed to separate into two groups with space between them. Despite the absence of swords and daggers, the atmosphere was tense. Perri’s stare was fixed on Gargarin.

‘Where do I know you from?’ he demanded.

‘You don’t know him,’ Froi said, tiredly. ‘Just leave it, Perri. He doesn’t understand what you’re saying.’

Perri’s hand snaked out and gripped Froi by the throat, pulling him close. ‘Speak Lumateran, Froi! Or have you forgotten how to?’

And Froi felt a shame beyond reason. It made him despise the Charynite tongue to know it had such control. All this time, he hadn’t spoken a word of Lumateran.

Perri didn’t let go. ‘Since when do you hold a weapon to your king’s throat?’ he raged quietly. ‘Since when do you disappear for so long and take up with an enemy of Lumatere?’

Froi pulled free, viciously. ‘Since you sent me into Charyn to create holy hell. Isn’t that what you’d call it, Perri? Because this is hell enough for me!’

He walked away, trying to think. All this meant was that he was even further away from finding Quintana and their child.

‘How did you manage to get the Belegonian letters?’ he demanded, swinging back to face them.

Finnikin didn’t respond.

‘How?’

‘We have … a spy.’

Finnikin refused to meet his eye.

‘A spy? In Belegonia?’ Froi was confused and then it registered.

‘Celie? Our Celie? You put her life in danger? Isaboe would never have allowed that!’

Finnikin was suddenly advancing on him. ‘Oh, really? You know what my wife would allow, do you? An expert on all things Isaboe?’

Finnikin was deadly in one of these moods.

‘I know Isaboe well enough,’ Froi said. ‘She would –’

Finnikin flew at him, knocking Froi down. Froi shoved him back and they wrestled, rolling in the dirt towards where the others stood.

‘Are you going to stop them?’ he heard Gargarin ask Trevanion and Perri.

‘This has little to do with palace business,’ Perri responded almost politely in poor Charyn.

‘Step back, madam,’ Trevanion ordered Lirah. ‘You’ll get hurt.’

Froi hesitated, thinking how ludicrous it all sounded. Finnikin took the opportunity to straddle him, holding Froi down to the ground.

‘You want to ask about my wife?’ Finnikin demanded. ‘What would you have me tell you, Froi? You probably know more about her than I do. Her little confidant.’

Froi popped him in the nose with his fist and the next moment he was on top, and Finnikin was struggling to break free.

‘It’s the word “little” I take offence to, my lord,’ he said. ‘I think I’m the taller one now. Perhaps we can have Isaboe decide.’

Finnikin’s elbow caught Froi in the eye and he fell back before Finnikin dived on top of him.

‘What else did she tell you?’ Finnikin hissed. ‘What else has she confided in you that she couldn’t tell me?’

Froi shrugged free. ‘Are you insane?’

He was on his feet, shaking his head with disbelief. ‘What have you done, Finn?’

Finnikin leapt up seconds later, and they stood nose to nose.

‘What else, apart from her time in Sorel, did she trust you with and not me?’

Finnikin shoved him hard for an answer. Froi shoved him back.

‘Do you really want to know?’ Froi goaded, fury lacing his voice. ‘She spoke to me of love and obsession and the way the Goddess can weave ties between human hearts that burn with every touch.’

Finnikin roared and charged for him, but Froi leapt up onto one of the branches, shoving a boot into Finnikin’s face.

‘She trusted me with the knowledge that loving the way she loved frightened her beyond imagining.’

Finnikin gripped at his boot and Froi tumbled, landing back on the ground with Finnikin pressing his face into the dirt. Froi crawled free.

‘She trusted me with the knowledge that her people think she’s the bravest Queen who ever lived, but she fears she doesn’t know who she is without the man she worships,’ Froi continued. ‘She fears that if something happened to him she’d lie in her bed and never ever get up.’

Froi scrambled to his feet and soon enough they were standing before each other, so unlike the time in training back in the meadow before Froi had travelled to Charyn.

‘When she was carrying Jasmina in her belly she trusted me with the knowledge that she feared she wouldn’t love her child as much as she loved her king,’ Froi continued. ‘She told me about her slavery in Sorel because she had to speak to someone about her shame. If anyone understood that sort of shame it was me … and her king. But she couldn’t tell her king because their curse was that he had to share her pain twofold and she will never forgive herself for putting him through that.’

Froi threw a punch and it knocked Finnikin down.

‘And do you know what else we spoke about? Not that she doesn’t believe that her consort is a man of worth because he is less titled than his wife, but that her consort doesn’t believe he is worthy. You have no idea what that does to her, you fool. Because you’re too busy being proud. What an indulgent luxury pride is,’ he raged. ‘I would give my life to be the consort to the woman I love. I’d give my life to be her footman! Her servant. Any chance to stand close enough to protect her. Yet your queen asks you to sit on the throne by her side and it’s all too degrading for you. You fool,’ Froi said bitterly. ‘You will drive her away.’

There was no satisfaction in Froi’s victory. After a moment they both looked over to where Trevanion, Perri, Gargarin and Lirah were watching dispassionately. Froi suddenly felt like a child. Under the same stares, Finnikin fidgeted uncomfortably beside him.

‘Finished?’ Trevanion asked.

No one responded.

‘We head home,’ the Captain said. ‘You ride with me, Froi. And you better be speaking the truth about this man’s innocence. You’re going to have to face the Queen about the decision we made to let him go.’

They were the last words Froi wanted to hear.

‘I’m staying,’ he said quietly.

Finnikin turned to stare at him, but didn’t say a word.

‘Get on the horse, Froi,’ Perri ordered.

Froi shook his head. ‘Don’t ask me to do that. For now, I need to stay here.’

Finnikin still hadn’t spoken and Froi waited, wanting a word, a gesture. From his king. His friend.

‘You’re making a choice here, Froi,’ Trevanion said. ‘Charyn or Lumatere?’

Froi couldn’t fight the anguish he was feeling. ‘Why does there have to be a choice?’ he asked.

Finnikin made a sound of disbelief and Froi felt as if he was with strangers.

‘How can you even ask that?’ Finnikin said, mounting his horse and riding away.

And on that night, Finnikin travelled with a heavy heart, his thoughts on his childhood friend, Balthazar. Because the loyal friendship he had shared with Froi had become just as fierce over the years. Lucian would have agreed. Froi reminded them both of how they had been before Balthazar’s death. They were more carefree in his presence. Content. But all that was gone now.

‘They’re not safe here,’ Trevanion muttered when they reached the border. ‘There’s an army camped somewhere close back there. Probably for one of them.’

‘Not our problem,’ Finnikin said, steering his horse towards the river that would take them across to Osteria and then home.

‘Froi made his choice. He’s dead to Lumatere.’

And I’m shaking with Phaedra as we climb to the cave, Froi. Our skin is still fastened by blood that is hers. And the women are stunned and all asking questions, but the fool girl just cries and let goes of my hand. And she weeps and she weeps so I lay by her side and I whisper the order, ‘We’ll kill them together.’ Phaedra reaches a hand to her cheek and I see that it’s pressed where the Mont’s blade had pierced her. And I can see in her eyes that she’s almost convinced. The next time we meet them, it’s the bitch Queen who weeps.

And sometime the next day, Isaboe returned from the mountain to the palace. She responded to the letter from the Sarnak Ambassador that was waiting for her. Then she spoke to the kitchen staff about the dinner banquet for the Osterian archduke, and chose the design for the garden they were building in honour of her mother. Sir Topher arrived in the residence soon after and they put the finishing touches on the invitations for the next market day. Rhiannon came fussing with Jasmina, who wanted no one but her mother, and Isaboe rocked her daughter to a song of unicorns and rabbits and all things fluffy and white. And then the palace was quiet and she was alone for the first time in days, thinking of that hideous night of death, trying to remember with all her might what her last words to every one of her family were. Until Finnikin’s hound came searching for his master and found her instead. It was only then that she felt the weary sob release. And she wept into the hound’s coat until her body ached and she feared she would hurt the babe that was inside of her. Because everything was broken. Everything. And there was no design, nor treaty, nor map that could put it all back together.