Ariston looked out towards the little woods. ‘So we can take advantage of those moments? We can send out a scout, the fastest lad we have, to see what is taking place between the two hills where Bestiano is camped.’
Gargarin shook his head. ‘I don’t like it. It’s too much of a risk. We can’t guarantee that tomorrow will be the same as today. If Bestiano’s men capture whoever we send out, they’ll use torture to find out what our lad knows.’
‘He’s right,’ Dolyn said. ‘It’s too much of a chance. We may lose our scout at the hands of one of those guards, or, worse still, at the hands of Bestiano and his riders.’
‘And if we don’t, her life stays in danger,’ Froi said. ‘The Captain of the Lumateran Guard would never question which of his men would be tortured or captured when it came to keeping the Queen safe.’
Ariston barked out a laugh of disbelief. ‘From what I’ve heard of Trevanion of Lumatere, I doubt he’d send out his son, the Consort.’
‘Well, it’s a good thing we have no sons to send out amongst us,’ Dolyn said.
Perabo gathered everyone in the great hall and spoke of what he had seen.
‘All we need is to work out what takes place between those hills. Whether they have Quintana of Charyn. Whether they have an army as powerful as we fear.’
He turned to Ariston. ‘Who is fastest of your lads?’
Ariston shook his head. ‘They’re built to defend, but not for speed, I’m afraid, and for this task speed is everything.’
‘The Lumateran is fast,’ one of the Lasconians called out.
Froi heard Arjuro’s sharp intake of breath beside him.
‘The lad from Lascow is the fastest,’ Lirah’s voice rang out. Everyone stared at her. ‘Him,’ she said, pointing at Florik. ‘He beat Froi in the race around the wall. The lad who won the prize is the perfect soldier for the task.’
Froi’s eyes met Florik’s across the way. Mort nudged Froi. ‘If come tomorrow the Lasconian sees the gods,’ he whispered, ‘pray it’s a sentinel’s arrow and not Nebian torture.’
No one spoke. Froi could see that the Lasconians didn’t want to give up their own. Perhaps they had good reason. They had lost Tariq’s compound in the Citavita and couldn’t afford to lose others. Finally, Dolyn nodded.
‘Good. Then that’s decided,’ Gargarin said. ‘We’ll try for the morning.’ He walked away before another word was spoken.
Early the next day Froi woke and made his way up to the great hall where the Lasconian lads slept. They were all awake, standing around Florik while Dolyn and Ariston fitted him with his weaponry, speaking to him in low, calm voices.
‘You’ve got the speed, Florik,’ Dolyn reassured. ‘Just stay focused and get to that lookout and take in everything, every single detail, and then you run for your life. Don’t let them see you. We’ll want this chance again, but for now all we need to know is the strength of their army and what lies between those hills.’
Florik nodded. His elder had a hand to his shoulder. ‘How many times have you run the mountain, Florik? How many times?’
Florik followed Ariston and Dolyn as if he were a prisoner walking to the gallows. When the Lasconian lads tried to follow, Ariston ordered them back.
‘He needs to empty his head of all your talk.’
But Froi followed Florik into the bailey, to the fortress gate. Up above, Perabo was in the gatehouse, watching the little woods for the departure of the guard from the tree. Ariston gave the order to raise the gate.
Froi could see the tremble in Florik’s hand.
‘Now!’ Perabo shouted out.
Florik hesitated.
‘Now.’
One moment. Two. Three. Three too many.
Froi’s fist caught Florik in the face. He bolted before any of them could stop him. He ran with the shrill wind in his ears, the little woods before him. He tried to prepare himself for the worst, although Perri always said that if you had an objective, think of nothing but getting there. Anything else would slow you down. But from the moment Froi knew that Bestiano was between those hills, he had wondered if Quintana was held captive in the camp. Knew there was nothing he could do if she was. Him up against an army? He stumbled at the thought. See, Perri’s voice shouted in his ear. It’ll slow you down, Froi, and what good will you be to her then?
He reached the woods, tree limbs flying in his face and half-concealed burrows catching him unaware. He remembered the time Finnikin and Isaboe freed him from the slave traders in that forest in the town of Speranza, how they had sprinted through its half-hidden trails, desperate to reach the valley that would lead them to Trevanion and Sir Topher. Finnikin’s coat had been secure around Froi’s otherwise naked body. They had come back for him and the memory of it spurred him on as he untangled himself from vines that clung, leapt over fallen logs and caught his first glimpse of the hill beyond the copse of trees. Froi clambered up the hill’s unmarked track, praying that no soldier was on the path back to the lookout tree, desperate to catch his breath and find answers to what lay beyond.
Hundreds upon hundreds of tents crowded the small valley between the two hills, outnumbering those in the Lasconians’ fortress ten to one. Soldiers were everywhere, huddled before campfires, dragging on their clothing and preparing for the day, and Froi wondered if there were any men left in the province of Nebia. He watched their morning drills, so much like those of the Lumateran Queen’s Guard in the palace. These men were professional. Not a lazy or sloppy soldier among them, except for their late sentinel who was now climbing the hill towards where Froi was lying behind a boulder. He had only moments to get back to the concealment of the woods and then to the fortress before the sentinel was back up in the lookout. But Froi needed more. He needed to get closer, to see if she was there. So he stayed pressed against the stone until the soldier passed him. He recognised the man. Fekra from the palace? Was that his name?
When the man had disappeared into the little woods, Froi moved from where he was hiding and climbed back to the top of the hill. Spotting a well shaft closer to the camp, he took a chance and crawled on his belly towards it, curling himself behind the stonework to stay hidden. At the foot of the hill was the largest of the tents, surrounded by four guards. Was it to protect Bestiano and the Provincaro of Nebia? Or was it to hide Quintana?
In the distance, Froi saw a horseman ride down into the valley from the second hill. And so he waited. He couldn’t go back with so little. Something was bound to reveal itself if he stayed here longer, and then he would have to work out a way to get past Fekra. Closer and closer the horseman rode through the camp, and it wasn’t until he stopped at a water barrel that Froi saw who it was. Olivier. The traitor dismounted, placed his hands in the barrel and then pressed them against his face before walking towards the grand tent. Froi watched him exchange a word with one of the guards, who then disappeared inside, leaving Olivier to wait. A short time later, Bestiano emerged to speak to the lastborn of Sebastabol and it took all of Froi’s might to stop himself from flying down the hill and tearing them both apart. How could he have forgotten the hate he felt for Bestiano? Or that smug repulsive smirk Bestiano wore as he had greeted Gargarin and Froi on the drawbridge when they first arrived in the Citavita? Or his grip around Quintana’s hair as he dragged her out of the great hall that heinous day when Froi witnessed Bestiano’s attack on her body and spirit?
Do it, he begged himself. Forget the plan and kill them both now. It would be so easy.
But he hesitated too long and suddenly there was shouting and much pointing north. Bestiano was issuing orders and soldiers were mounting their horses. Something was definitely happening beyond the second hill.
Froi turned and crawled back to the little woods. Gargarin and Ariston and Perabo would have to understand that the plan had changed. Froi wanted answers and they weren’t going to come from his surveillance on the hill. Perhaps he needed answers from a lazy sentinel, who for years had been easily bribed by Quintana and Lirah
to be their go-between. In the little woods, he crept towards the lookout tree and saw that Fekra was settled comfortably. Froi picked up a stone and hurled it into the distance. Instantly, Fekra was alert, standing between two limbs, staring in the direction of where the stone had landed. Froi crept to the bottom of the tree and looked up, waiting for him to settle himself again.
‘Fekra!’ he finally called out.
The dead King’s former house guard almost fell out of the tree in shock, his hands fumbling for his crossbow.
‘It’s Froi … actually, Olivier. You wouldn’t know me as Froi. I’m the Olivier who lived in the palace. Remember?’ Froi needed to unnerve the sentinel. He was matter-of-fact, as if he was re introducing himself to one of Isaboe’s kin.
Silence followed. Then a gruff, ‘I know who you are.’
‘Good. Good. I thought I’d have to explain my lineage. Ah, Fekra, I can’t begin to tell you how complicated it all is.’
Silence again.
‘I don’t have a weapon, Fekra. It means that I’m probably going to have to climb up and kill you with my bare hands, which may be drawn out and painful. I’m quicker with a weapon, but still thorough without. I’d say our best scenario would be if you came down and we made some sort of arrangement.’
‘I’m the one with the weapon,’ Fekra reminded him.
‘Yes, but I’m not the only one down here,’ Froi lied. ‘During your tardy exchange with the other guard, at least a dozen of us made our way from the fortress into the little woods, and the only reason they sent me was because I assured them I had a better chance of making an arrangement with you. They’re Lasconians. Tariq of Lascow’s people. You’re a member of the former King’s army. They’ll want you dead immediately and I think Gargarin would prefer you alive.’
‘I don’t believe a word you’re saying. Why would they allow you to come out here unarmed?’ Fekra asked, his voice flat and controlled.
Good question.
‘Well, you have me, I’m lying. Because they didn’t ask me to come along,’ Froi said, almost truthfully. ‘I just took a chance, hardly dressed for the day really. But I knew the moment they came across you, they’d kill you, and to tell you the gods’ honest truth, Fekra, I don’t want you to die. I need information from you. So if you trust me and surrender, I’ll do all I can to keep you alive.’
‘And you expect me to believe you?’
‘Fekra, trust me when I say that if I wanted you dead, you’d be dead by now.’
Froi heard a grunt of irritation.
‘You’re a bit of a gnat in the arse, Froi … or Olivier, or whoever you choose to be today,’ Fekra said. ‘It’s what they call you in the barracks. That gnat in the arse that won’t go away. The lads are feeling a bit of an attachment.’
‘Fekra, stop the flattery now or you’ll have me weeping by the time I get you to that gate.’
Fekra didn’t challenge Froi’s lies about a dozen men in the little woods. Instead he stayed quiet as they crossed the clearing towards the fortress, shrugging himself once or twice from Froi’s grip. When they were close enough to see the faces of everyone staring down at them from the outer wall, Fekra stopped. The Lasconians and Turlans aimed.
‘We don’t know what we’re fighting for anymore,’ Fekra said quietly to Froi. ‘Do you?’
‘Oh, I’ve always known what I’m fighting for,’ Froi replied. ‘Quintana of Charyn and her child. Nothing else matters, Fekra.’
The portcullis was raised and Froi wasn’t surprised to see the bailey filled with almost everyone from inside the castle. Gargarin was limping towards them, fury in his expression. Lirah’s eyes were swollen with tears.
‘Did we not have a plan?’ Gargarin shouted at Froi.
‘I thought a hostage would give us more accurate information,’ Froi said, deciding to be the calm one. He looked beyond them to where Florik stood.
‘I’m sorry I took away your glory, Florik. I wanted the task for myself and never gave you the chance. It’s in my nature to compete and win.’
Florik didn’t respond. His lads glowered at Froi instead.
‘Where’s our girl?’ Gargarin demanded of Fekra, his expression cold and hard.
‘We were hoping she was with you, sir.’
‘Really? Bestiano was hoping she was with me?’
Fekra shook his head. ‘No, sir.’
‘So there’s more than one “we”?’ Gargarin asked.
Fekra shrugged free of Froi. ‘We’re being attacked from the north, sir,’ he reported to Gargarin, chatty all of a sudden. ‘It can’t be from the provinces, because Alonso has no army and Desantos has plague. Bestiano believes that the Sarnaks and Lumaterans are advancing towards us.’
Froi saw the horror on everyone’s face. He knew it could not possibly be Lumatere. But Sarnak, yes.
‘Which means, sir, that the Belegonians may have taken the south.’
The memory of what he saw in the cave with the women haunted Lucian all week. Phaedra scrubbing blood off stone. Harker’s daughter sobbing against her mother, the girl’s face battered by a man’s fist. Worse still was Quintana’s look of despair. Lucian knew that her body had swung its way close to oblivion months ago in the Charyn capital. What terror and madness went through the mind of one who knew she was moments from death? Had she ever imagined that Froi would save her? And with those thoughts, Lucian felt contempt for himself. He should have been able to protect his own wife and he didn’t. When he first saw Phaedra in the woods with the Princess he should have dragged her kicking and screaming up the mountain, but he allowed his pride to get in the way.
Days later, when he found time to escape, he travelled down to the valley. Tesadora and the girls were across the stream and he joined them as they were about to enter the cave of a dying man. He noticed even more fear among the Charynites, and Tesadora glanced quickly up high and then back to Lucian as a warning. On one of the rock ledges above he could see a furious exchange between Donashe and his men. Rafuel was with them. When they noticed Lucian, Donashe climbed down to where he stood.
‘One of my men seems to have disappeared, Mont. Galvin of Jidia. You would have seen him with me.’
‘And that fool Gies insists on searching for him,’ Tesadora said, as Rafuel and the rest of Donashe’s men joined them.
Lucian kept his expression impassive. He knew Tesadora was warning him that Gies had crossed the stream.
‘This man who’s disappeared?’ Lucian demanded. ‘Let’s hope he doesn’t think he has a chance of getting up my mountain. He’ll pay with his life.’
‘I heard Galvin’s grumbling from time to time, Donashe,’ Rafuel said. ‘And he’s a lazy one. If he’s chosen to run off, we’re better without him. I’d go through all your things to make sure he didn’t take any with him.’
Donashe thought for a moment.
‘He has challenged me from time to time. Even in the Citavita he wanted all the control.’
‘Why would he leave?’ one of Donashe’s men asked.
‘Why wouldn’t he?’ Rafuel said. ‘It’s a large reward the First Advisor Bestiano is paying for the return of Quintana of Charyn. Perhaps Galvin realised he was wasting his time in these parts and has been given an inkling of where she is in the north country.’
Lucian secretly applauded Rafuel for the doubt he was planting in the camp leader’s head. He hoped it worked. It meant that Donashe would steer the search for Galvin the hangman far from the women.
He spent the rest of his time in the valley with Kasabian and Harker. The men had learnt half the facts of what had taken place in the cave.
‘Arm us,’ Harker begged. ‘The people here are frightened. Donashe has become even more violent since Galvin disappeared. He says he trusts no one. And there’s talk that an army is two days’ ride from here between the three hills of Charyn. Along with hundreds of men much like Donashe, who answer to no captain but the promise of gold. It will end in this valley, Lucian. I feel it in my bones. Arm us,
so we can better protect the Princess and our women.’
Lucian shook his head, frustrated.
‘Don’t ask me to do that, Harker. That decision belongs to my queen and her consort.’
Instead of returning home, Lucian found himself riding away from the mountain. It was close to her cave that he found Phaedra, not realising that he had gone searching. He was on higher ground and could see her below in the gully. And when Phaedra heard the horse, she cried out in alarm, dropping the bucket of water she was carrying. Lucian dismounted and slid down the slope towards her and they stood apart, facing each other, neither speaking. Once, when Lucian had returned from Alonso to argue the so-called promise between his father and the Provincaro, a cousin had asked him to describe Phaedra. He had shrugged. ‘There’s nothing about her to remember.’ Looking at his wife now, there was so much about her he couldn’t forget. Her soulful eyes. The roundness of her face. The pinch of red on her cheeks. Lucian wanted nothing more than to take her home.
It was Phaedra who walked to him and Lucian lifted her with an arm around her waist, so they were eye to eye. He wanted to go back to the first time they met. He wanted to change that one night in Alonso when he was expected to take the rights of a husband. He knew he hadn’t used force. Was careful not to. But he hadn’t acknowledged her fear of being alone with a man for the first time in her life. She was no Mont girl, unabashed and earthy and used to swimming naked in the river with the lads. He had mistaken so much for weakness, yet there was nothing weak about Phaedra of Alonso.
‘Why are you here?’ she asked quietly in Lumateran.
‘Because I couldn’t keep away,’ he replied in Charyn.
Quintana of Charyn Page 27
