Froi of the Exiles (61 page)

‘Oh, too profound, my friend,’ Olivier mocked. ‘Much too profound.’

When Froi arrived in the compound he found Quintana in the courtyard. She had taken a liking to the pups there. When she spoke to them, he heard the Reginita’s indignant voice and for a moment, he thought she had returned. But Quintana had learnt that pups and people reacted better to the sound of her sister’s voice than her own.

‘They like it if you do this,’ Froi said, his voice husky as he tickled the belly of one. She tried herself and laughed at her pup’s antics.

‘Do you have one back home?’ she asked.

‘No, but Finn and Isaboe do. A massive hound. Finn calls her the bitch of Lumatere.’

Quintana smiled a moment. ‘Finn and Isaboe,’ she said quietly, her eyes meeting his. ‘They seem so real when you name them.’

He followed her into De Lancey’s courtyard and up a passageway, a shortcut to their quarters. As she walked before him, he couldn’t help reaching out and touching the exposed place at the back of her neck. She stopped, but didn’t turn. And it was as if she were waiting for something. Before he could stop himself, his arm snaked out to pull her towards him, his tongue tracing the writing at her nape. She shuddered in his arms.

When she turned to face him, Froi’s mouth was on hers. His hand crawled up the skirt of her dress, his fingers finding their mark gently.
Be gentle, Froi
, he hummed to himself and the Serker inside of him shouted for more, but he took only what she would offer. He felt her hand find its way to the band of his trousers and he groaned aloud, trying to swallow the sound with their mouths.

But then she was gone, pushing him away.

‘Why?’ he asked, anguish in his voice.

She walked away, but he followed, a shaky hand to her shoulder. A servant came down the passageway towards them and Froi turned, needing to conceal his arousal. Quintana took the chance to escape up the stairs.

By the time he reached the chamber where she lay on the bed, he was furious. He walked into his quarters and slammed the door, kicking it once, twice. He turned the key in the lock, fearful of where this rage would go. Always fearful. He wondered when he would ever trust that his anger was just anger and not a desire to hurt another, or a reminder of his past misdeeds. The bruised look in Quintana’s eyes would also serve as a prompter. Each time he saw it, Froi would be reminded that the brutal actions of men were designed to break the spirits of the others. It was what he had tried to do in a Sorellian barn with Isaboe of Lumatere. Although a voice inside had chanted to stop that night, Froi would never know if he would have. And he wanted to know. He wanted to say the words, ‘I would not have gone through with it.’ But he’d never know and that was his punishment. That, and being in love with a girl whose spirit had been broken by men like Froi.

Later, when dinner was called, he stepped outside his room to where she still lay on her bed with her back to him. He walked stonily past her to the door, but her voice stopped him leaving.

‘Because I remembered your words,’ she said quietly. ‘I remembered that you liked me least. You said it in my palace chamber.
Have one of the others wake me for I like you least
.’

She turned to face him and brushed tears fiercely from her face. ‘Sometimes when I see what’s left of Quintana of Charyn through my own eyes, I think I can learn to love her. But when I see her through your eyes, I despise her.’

If she saw Quintana of Charyn through Froi’s eyes, he knew she’d see a part of himself.

‘Come,’ he said huskily, holding out a hand. ‘You need to eat.’

T
he day came when the Avanosh party arrived. Froi, Grijio, Olivier and Tippideaux stood at the window watching the entourage ride into the courtyard. There were twelve of them, dressed in bright silks and carrying banners representing the ocean god.

The moment the youngest of the party dismounted, Froi and the others snorted with laughter.

‘What is he wearing?’ Tippideaux gasped.

‘Could they be any tighter?’ Grijio said.

‘Where would you hide a weapon with such stockings?’ Froi said.

‘I can tell you where it looks like he’s hiding a weapon from here,’ Olivier responded.

They watched De Lancey greet Feliciano of Avanosh and his people with a shake of a hand to each male and a kiss to the hand of each woman. Feliciano presented De Lancey with a small box and Froi and the others watched De Lancey open it.

‘Father’s very unimpressed,’ Tippideaux said. ‘I can tell by his shoulders.’

Dinner that night was a tedious affair with Gargarin noticeably absent and the introductions going for far too long. There was handshaking and more handshaking, and boisterous laughter from the Avanosh uncle and aunt that had no substance. Froi had heard enough empty laughter in his lifetime not to trust it.

Feliciano was a handsome young man who constantly looked at his uncle before he spoke. He was seated beside Quintana, who in turn was polite and restrained.

‘You are the light of our lives; you know that, don’t you?’ Feliciano said to her. ‘I’ve heard such words all across Charyn. The birth of your child is a gift only deserving of you.’

Olivier made a sound of disbelief and stole a look at Froi, making a motion as if he was going to be ill.

‘Thank you, Feliciano,’ she said politely, reaching over to take a piece of pheasant from his plate.

‘They spoke of the insanity of your hair, but not once did they mention a sweet face and pretty eyes.’

More looks between Froi and the others.

Tippideaux whispered her intense dislike of the whole situation to Froi and the lads. ‘When a woman has not received much flattery in her life, she will be seduced.’

‘It’s Quintana,’ Froi murmured in reply, watching the idiot Feliciano flick a piece of hair from his eyes. ‘She’ll never be taken in by charm and lies.’

De Lancey introduced his children first and then Olivier of Sebastabol and Froi of Lumatere.

‘A Lumateran in these parts?’ the Avanosh uncle said. ‘From what part of Lumatere?’

‘I was found in exile, Sir,’ Froi said.

‘You speak Charyn like a nobleman.’

‘It’s not that hard to do anything like a Charyn nobleman,’ Froi responded, eyeing Feliciano.

‘And your purpose in Paladozza?’ the uncle continued.

‘I travel with the Princess, Sir. I’m good with a dagger and a short sword and serve as her personal guard.’

‘Well, I don’t believe your services will be required any more,’ the uncle said. ‘We have our own guards and we’re hoping to take the Light of Charyn back to the island with us. No better place to protect a mother and her unborn child than an island.’

‘We haven’t spoken about the Princess leaving us, my lord,’ De Lancey said.

The uncle removed an envelope from his pocket. ‘We’ve travelled for some time, De Lancey, and have obtained the signatures from every Provincaro apart from yourself, Nebia and our unfortunately plague-ridden Desantos friends. The Provincari of Charyn have approved the marriage of my nephew and the Queen.’

‘Three of the Provincari,’ De Lancey corrected. He stared across the table. ‘If I could be so bold as to ask to see the document, my lord.’

The envelope was passed down the table and Froi wanted to tear it to pieces when it reached his hands. Olivier, instead, dropped it in his soup, apologising profusely while the uncle forced another smile. The document reached De Lancey, who studied it a while and then nodded.

‘Well, that is that, then,’ De Lancey said quietly, looking at Quintana.

The uncle from Avanosh searched around the table. ‘And we were told Gargarin of Abroi was a visitor, De Lancey, yet he’s nowhere to be seen.’

Lirah placed down her fork. ‘He was feeling sick to the stomach tonight, my lord.’

The man stared at her, uncomfortable.

‘Lirah of Serker,’ she said. ‘Do you remember me? The King introduced us,’ she added, her words weighted with hatred. The uncle from Avanosh didn’t respond.

Meanwhile Feliciano’s cousin Abria seemed to have taken a liking to De Lancey, her hand constantly at his sleeve.

‘Someone should tell Abria that your father hasn’t been intimate with certain parts of a woman’s body since his mother birthed him,’ Olivier whispered.

‘Hush Olivier,’ Tippideaux giggled.

After dinner when they all got up, Froi moved around the table to reach Quintana, but Feliciano was closer and there before him.

‘If you would join me in my compound, Your Highness,’ Feliciano said. ‘My servants can have your items removed from your current room. My uncle will set a guard at every entrance of our residence.’

‘The protection of the Queen lies with me,’ Froi said, leading Quintana away with a firm grip on her arm.

Tippideaux met them by the door.

‘Aren’t they hideous?’ she said, yanking at a piece of Quintana’s hair as though willing it to grow longer. ‘Froi said you would never believe the charm and lies,’ Tippideaux continued. ‘You deserve better than that.’

‘Lies?’ Quintana asked, looking at Froi. ‘And what part was the lie? The sweet face or the pretty eyes?’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ he said, feeling the need to choke the life out of Tippideaux.

The very annoying Feliciano was back between them, holding out a hand to her.

‘My uncle insists that you enjoy our hospitality, Your Highness.’

Quintana caught Froi’s eyes and he shook his head, but he knew the damage was already done. He watched her place her arm on Feliciano’s sleeve.

Froi and the others stood beside De Lancey watching the Avanosh party walk out of the dining room.

‘What on earth did they give you in the box, Father?’ Tippideaux asked. ‘When they arrived?’

‘Sand,’ he said. ‘From their island. Sand. As if we don’t have enough sand in our stone here.’

Froi’s mood was flat, his mind not able to get around Quintana and her consort alone in their residence. So later that night when Olivier suggested stealing out into the city below with a promise of ale, women and good conversation, Froi readily agreed.

They found themselves in the bawdiest ale house in Paladozza, according to Grijio, who looked worried. He was recognised instantly as the son of the Provincaro and they were offered ale all night, although the offer always came with the words, ‘Perhaps a favour from your father, young Grijio.’

But the ale did nothing to alter Froi’s mood.

‘You’re in love with her?’ Grijio said quietly.

Froi didn’t respond.

‘I don’t mean to give offence, Froi,’ Olivier said, ‘but she’s not an easy person to like. One doesn’t always warm to her.’

‘There’s more to her,’ Froi said, not denying either of them. He wanted to explain it, hoping they’d understand.

‘Until three years ago I couldn’t read and write, I couldn’t ride a horse or shoot an arrow and didn’t know the difference between a turnip seed and grain. The men who have taught me everything back home, they often say to me, “Froi, what if all your talents were left undiscovered?” ’

He looked up at them. ‘It’s the same with her. Imagine who she would be if we unleashed her onto the world. I think she would rip the breath from all of us.’

Froi drank more that night than he had ever drunk in his life. Drinking was forbidden by the Guard in Lumatere unless off-duty, and even then it had to be in moderation. But Froi was sick of bonds. Sick of moderation. Sick of having to hold back.

The next morning, however, Froi wished he had held back. With little memory of what they did the night before, all three of them were summoned to the Provincaro’s library.

De Lancey was there to remind them of everything, fury in his expression.

‘Exposing yourselves? To the locals?’

Froi vaguely remembered that part.

‘Drunk? Singing bawdy songs about the gods of other kingdoms? Pissing in the prized gardens of Lady Orsa?'

Grijio looked shamefaced. Olivier pretended to. Froi’s head was spinning too hard for anything to make sense.

‘The Avanosh puppets think this is a province of debauchery!’

Grijio looked up. ‘You’ve never cared what people say about us, Father. About the way we live.’

‘But the rule has always been to conduct yourself with dignity, Grij. To have respect for others so you can demand respect back. There was nothing, nothing dignified about your behaviour last night, or those women.’

Women? Why didn’t Froi remember women? How could he not remember women?

‘What women?’ he asked Olivier, as they walked out.

‘They want to meet us tonight,’ Olivier whispered. ‘Are you in, Grij? Froi?’

‘They are so much older,’ Grijio said. “What do you think they’ll want from us?’

At the entrance to the courtyard they bumped into Feliciano of the Red Tights, as Olivier insisted on calling him. Froi had a hazy memory of strands of a song they penned for Red Tights the night before at the inn. Words to suggest that Feliciano’s trousers resembled a sock and Froi was sure that the word describing Feliciano himself rhymed with sock.

‘My betrothed and I would appreciate less noise when you arrive home,’ the heir to Avanosh said pompously. ‘It woke us last night.’

Feliciano was pinned to the wall before Froi could count out his bond, a hand to the other lad’s throat. Olivier and Grijio pulled Froi away before his fist could connect.

The moment he could escape, Feliciano scampered down the stairs. Froi pulled free of the others and walked back to his chamber. The image of Quintana and that idiot together last night, today and forever, made him want to kill someone.

Suddenly Lirah was at the top of the steps, her hand on his arm to stop him.

‘Where have you been for sunrise these last days, Froi?’ Lirah’s voice was always blunt, emotionless. ‘Gargarin says you’re not yourself.’

‘Gargarin doesn’t know who I am,’ he snapped, ‘so how could he possible know I’m not myself?’

‘Well, he would like you to come visit,’ she said, her voice calm. ‘He needs to speak to you urgently. This business with Avanosh is a worry.’

‘I’m not his messenger boy,’ Froi said. ‘He has you for that. A good deal for him, indeed,’ he added spitefully. ‘He gets to bed you and you run errands for him.’