Contents
Prologue
Part One: Dafar
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Part Two: The Lumateran
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Part Three: Tariq of the Citavita
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Melina Marchetta is one of Australia’s most celebrated authors of young adult fiction. Her novels have been published in eighteen countries and in seventeen languages. Melina’s first novel, Looking for Alibrandi, swept the pool of literary awards for young adult fiction when it was published, winning the Children’s Book Council of Australia (CBCA) Book of the Year Award for Older Readers among many others. It was also released as an award-winning film, winning an AFI Award and an Independent Film Award for best screenplay, as well as the New South Wales Premier’s Literary Award and the Film Critics Circle of Australia Award.
Melina taught secondary-school English for ten years, during which time she released her second novel Saving Francesca, which won the CBCA Book of the Year Award for Older Readers, followed by On the Jellicoe Road, which won the American Library Association’s Michael L. Printz Award for Excellence in Young Adult Literature in 2009. Melina’s next novel, Finnikin of the Rock, won the Aurealis Award for Best Young Adult Novel, and was followed by The Piper’s Son, the critically acclaimed companion novel to Saving Francesca. Melina has also written a book for younger readers, The Gorgon in the Gully, which was released in 2010. The second book in the Lumatere Chronicles, Froi of the Exiles, was published in 2011 to much international praise. Melina has completed her second screenplay, On the Jellicoe Road, which was chosen to be part of Screen New South Wales Aurora Script Workshop, and she has also written episodes for ABC-TV’s Dance Academy.
Her website is melinamarchetta.com.au.
For Mum, Dad, Marisa, Daniela, Luca, Daniel, Brendan and Andy,
who make it so easy to write about strong, passionate,
high-maintenance families with big hearts.
ALSO BY MELINA MARCHETTA
Looking for Alibrandi
Saving Francesca
On the Jellicoe Road
The Piper’s Son
THE LUMATERE CHRONICLES
Finnikin of the Rock
Froi of the Exiles
Ferragost
FOR YOUNGER READERS
The Gorgon in the Gully
There’s a babe in my belly that whispers the valley, Froi. I follow the whispers and come to the road. And I travel for days on the back of a cart with the lice and the filth, and the swill of the swine.
But once in the valley, those pigs of the city sit high on their horses, not with a noose, but with swords at their sides. And still so forsaken, I rage at the gods, and I turn from the faces of those who take charge.
I keep to myself, but I find they are watching. I clench both my fists, I’ll kill in a beat. Your words pound my brain, Froi, if they dare try to touch me, a knife to the side and a slit ear to ear.
Those in my cave, they grab and they drag me. They want me to bathe, but they’ll soon know the truth. And the fear on their faces speaks loud of their awe, and I capture the crying and tell them what’s true; that the men with the swords, who once held the noose, will cut out my king and leave me to die.
The girl with the smile, the one you once spoke of, she enters the cave and can see what is true. And she thinks with her heart, and shouts out, ‘It’s plague!’ and calls for a man who has seen plague before. I beg her, I beg her, but the man named Matteo is the lad with the cats from when I was a child. ‘Your Highness,’ he whispers, his eyes full of wonder. ‘Did you mate with the lastborn I sent to save Charyn?’
And the women, they stare with fear in their hope, but it’s hope drenched with tears, and it smothers me whole. And the Mont’s wife, she covers my belly and speaks, ‘We’ll be dead to all Charyn, from plague in the north.’ There’s keening and wailing from those left behind: the men of the valley who lose all they have.
And here where we’re hidden, I sleep in a corner. My dreams are consumed by She who has stealth. I feel her, I fight her, I grit through my teeth, ‘Keep far from my king or I’ll tear you to pieces.’
I call out your name to help fight this demon. I call out your name. ‘Froi! Save Charyn’s son.’
And day after day it is dull in my heart, for there’s nothing to say when you’re dead to the world. And the Mont’s wife, she looks to the valley and mountains with pain and regret, but such hope and fierce love.
‘Is it rain?’ someone asks, and I wait for the answer. Though winter still shrouds this land, I’ve prayed for the sun.
‘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.’
Quintana of Charyn Page 1
