Quintana of Charyn (8 page)

 

 

A
rjuro 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.”’

 

 

T
hey 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.