Despite everything, Ginny seemed more affected than anyone else by the incident of Galvin the hangman. She appointed herself guard of their cave, disappearing at times to ensure they were safe from intruders.
‘There’s nothing strange out there,’ Cora reassured. ‘It’s the night world scurrying around, going about their chores.’
‘Go on,’ Quintana said to Jorja.
‘Well, crying for my mother caused much friction between Harker and me,’ Jorja continued.
‘Father’s very practical and doesn’t like fuss,’ Florenza told the others knowingly.
‘Yes, well, your father grew up with fuss and resented it,’ her mother said. ‘He was furious to find himself betrothed to me and threatened to send me back to my mother over and over again.’
Phaedra was surprised by the words. ‘But you love each other,’ she said. ‘I saw you together.’
‘Well, I always loved him and he grew to love me,’ Jorja said haughtily. ‘It’s the power I have over him now.’
‘When did he fall in love with you, then?’ Quintana demanded to know.
Jorja thought for a moment. ‘It was during the drought when Florenza was five. He said I was resourceful and managed to keep the village fed.’
‘It’s very decent,’ Phaedra said. ‘Not many noblemen care whether their villagers are fed.’
‘Well, that was Harker for you,’ Jorja said. ‘Whatever food we had on our table, our neighbours would have on theirs. To be honest, I did it more for him than the villagers. If it pleased him, it pleased me.’
‘My father’s an idealist,’ Florenza said proudly. ‘And my mother is a secret one,’ she added, feigning a loud whisper. ‘It’s very unfashionable where we come from.’
‘Never marry an idealistic man,’ Jorja advised them, ‘because one day you’ll find yourself dragging your daughter through the sewers of your province, or living in a filthy cave with nothing but the putrid clothes on your back.’
It wasn’t a grumble in Jorja’s voice. Just sadness. She looked at her daughter. ‘We imagined a better life for you, Florenza.’
‘It’s good enough for now, Mother. You all did enough, those of your age. Those born in your time and before suffered most because you knew Charyn before the curse and after. Cora would agree.’
‘No,’ Cora said, her voice flat. ‘Not enough.’ She turned to look at Quintana. ‘Look at what wasn’t done for this one. Me. The mothers of Charyn. All of us. Turned our backs on Charyn’s last child. We knew what was happening in that palace and we did nothing. We should have been beating down the palace walls and protecting you. But we turned our backs in bitterness and did nothing!’
‘Isn’t it the place of men to protect?’ Florenza asked.
‘Men,’ Cora said with disdain. ‘What good are they?’
‘That’s because you’ve never had a man,’ Ginny said.
‘Oh, I’ve had a man,’ Cora said. ‘And a more useless species the gods have never created, apart from Kasabian and that young Mont.’
‘Lucian?’ Phaedra said, surprised to hear such praise from Cora.
Cora snorted rudely. ‘That idiot? Don’t be ridiculous. I mean the Jory lad.’
‘What happened to your man, Cora?’ Quintana asked. ‘Did he break your heart?’
Cora made a rude sound again. ‘The only reason I put up with the panting and the grunting was because I was expected to produce a child and I failed time and time again. Do you want to know when I stopped feeling like a useless woman? When every woman in Charyn was considered useless. Charyn’s curse set me free. I left that lump I was wed to, and all I took was four Klin tree seeds. Have you seen a Klin tree? They hail from Osteria and their seeds are hard to come by. Osterians say the Klin tree flowers hope. So I took hope in my pocket that day I left and joined my brother Kasabian on his farm outside Jidia. That year we felled the trees surrounding his cottage and we grew a garden of wonder. My brother says I have a gift with the land. That I can speak to it.’
‘Then why didn’t you stay there?’ Jorja asked.
‘Drought. Plague. The earth stopped listening and we had nothing to feed us. The Klin tree still grew, but I never saw it flower hope and was forced to leave it behind. We were convinced to travel north where we’d find a new life in Alonso. But Alonso did not want us. It was as though the gods were saying, “You don’t belong to this land.”’
Phaedra looked away, shamed. Alonso was crowded and her father had refused to allow the travellers in. She remembered those days when people arrived in droves. Alonso land was fertile and it seemed to promise everything after the curse on the Lumateran border was broken. But her father’s people threatened to turn on him if he allowed another traveller in.
‘But there’s still some land left to share,’ she’d hear him cry to his lords.
‘And there are other men we can find to lead this province,’ they threatened. And that was how Phaedra’s family, whose ancestors had ruled Alonso for centuries, could have lost the province. Not from war or the enemy or even the palace. But because her father dared to allow the landless into the walls of Alonso.
‘It may count for nothing,’ Phaedra said to the women. ‘And I make no excuses for my father’s behaviour, turning his back on anyone who begged at Alonso’s wall, but there were some nights I’d hear him weep as he prayed to the gods and to my dead mother. I never imagined a man so proud could weep.’
Ginny was already bored with their talk and decided it was time to return to the cave. She waded away with Florenza and the others began to follow.
‘I saw my father weep before me,’ Quintana said to the others. ‘When he was dying.’ She was pensive. ‘Do you want to know something about tyrants? When faced with death, they weep and they beg just like the rest of us.’
Phaedra’s eyes met Cora’s and then Jorja’s, who warned her with a quick shake of her head.
At the rocks, they collected their clothes and wrapped themselves in blankets, hurrying back to the cave to dry. Jorja gripped Phaedra and Cora as they were about to follow the others.
‘If you value your lives … and hers, never repeat what you heard her say here today,’ Jorja said.
‘She couldn’t possibly have …’ Cora said.
‘Couldn’t she? We would always hear of her madness. And these weeks I’ve understood it is anything but that. It’s survival. She has a madness to survive now. What more could we want from a little king’s mother?’
Up ahead, Phaedra saw Quintana shiver despite the blanket covering her body. Phaedra dressed quickly, her body still damp, and hurried towards Quintana, wrapping her own blanket around the Princess, fussing about her. She felt Quintana’s gaze and their eyes met.
‘You were his thirtieth, Phaedra.’
‘Thirtieth?’ Phaedra asked absently, leading Quintana along the uneven ground before them. ‘I don’t understand. Whose?’
‘Froi’s, of course. He said, “Phaedra of Alonso is kind.” So he chose you to be on his list of those he trusted. It’s why I came to you.’
Phaedra stopped them both, her hand still gripping Quintana’s arm. ‘You came here for me? Here, in the valley?’
‘Well, it’s not as if I could have gone to any of the other twenty-nine on his list,’ Quintana said bluntly.
‘Me?’
‘Have I not already said that?’
Phaedra was speechless.
‘He was half-right, of course,’ Quintana said.
Phaedra wanted to weep. She would have done a better job if she knew. She would never have left Quintana alone or snapped at her or rolled her eyes to the heavens. She would have been a better protector.
‘There’s much more to you than kindness,’ Quintana continued. ‘That day after I arrived in the valley and you visited, the other women were all flustered when they saw my baby belly. Until you walked into the cave and you thought fast. And then that time with the Queen of Lumatere … well, make no mistake of this. She would have used that swo
rd. I’ve killed a man, Phaedra. I imagine the look in my eye was just like hers. A bit of justice. Self-loathing. Hatred. Pity. We’re not so different, me and the Queen of Lumatere.’
Quintana pulled free of Phaedra’s grip and moved ahead to Jorja and Florenza. Both mother and daughter had taken to fussing over her, and Quintana was a cat who went to anyone who showed her affection. Phaedra stood, shivering in her wet shift. And she did weep.
‘Phaedra! Don’t stray,’ Jorja called out.
Phaedra hurried to catch up, gripping Quintana’s hand tightly.
‘You’ll have to take your blanket back, Phaedra,’ Quintana said, stopping to wrap it around her, imitating Phaedra’s earlier fussing. ‘You’ll catch your death and it’ll cause hysteria.’
Their eyes met for a moment and Phaedra nodded with a smile.
‘Yes, my queen. I think you’re right.’
Froi watched as Ariston and his men thundered through the Nebian camp, taking the soldiers by surprise. The army had been in the middle of their morning drills and duties and the Turlans’ speed on their horses meant that they were halfway to the second hill before Bestiano’s men had even mounted theirs. Froi’s orders were clear: to wait until the battle was dragged well away from the camp to enable him a clear path to Bestiano. By then, Ariston and his men would be heading towards the Lumateran valley while Perabo and the Lasconians would join the battle against the Nebians.
From where he knelt, concealed by the old well on the first hill overlooking the camp, Froi could see at least four men guarding Bestiano’s tent. Beside him, Fekra was nervous and Froi had come to learn that a nervous man either had something to hide or made mistakes.
‘Who’s protecting Bestiano inside?’ Froi asked.
‘His guard. One of the rogue brigands Bestiano managed to acquire somewhere outside the Citavita. He speaks the language of gold and more gold.’
‘So, he’s not part of the army?’
‘No. The army is under the orders of Scarpo, Captain of the Nebian Guard.’
‘Easily controlled?’
‘Scarpo is a soldier, so he follows orders,’ Fekra said. Froi could tell that Fekra liked a man who followed orders. It was why Fekra didn’t particularly like Froi.
‘But he takes care of his men,’ Fekra continued. ‘According to Dorcas, Scarpo did question Bestiano’s decision regarding the execution of the riders. And when Bestiano ordered one hundred men to fight the Turlans in the little woods, Scarpo questioned why so many. The lads are merely numbers for Bestiano. For Scarpo, they are more than that.’
‘It’s a pity I’m going to have to kill this Scarpo.’
‘You may not have to,’ Fekra said, as they watched the Turlan horses trample the clearing just as Perabo and his men entered the fray. ‘Scarpo may be long dead at the hands of your friends. If Desantos arrives from the north, Scarpo’s army will be destroyed.’
Froi heard the regret in Fekra’s voice.
‘Is Scarpo for Nebia or is he for Charyn?’ Froi asked.
‘Nebia is Charyn,’ Fekra argued. ‘Don’t judge them harshly. Including the Provincaro. He’s sitting in a province with no protection because his entire army is here. What would the Provincari of Paladozza or Sebastabol or any other have done if they were kin to the King’s First Advisor and he came to them asking for an army after the King was murdered?’
‘You’re obviously a Nebian, Fekra. So let me rephrase the question. Is Scarpo a madman?’
‘He’s not one much for talking. But his men will die for him and he makes sure, in turn, that his men don’t die from bad decisions made by others.’
Men were dying around them now. Both Ariston and Perabo had succeeded in dragging the battle from the Nebian camp into the valley beyond, where Froi could hear the sickening tune of cries and shouts and the clang of steel against steel. All that was left here were the dead or dying.
‘Froi!’ Fekra said, pointing down to Bestiano’s tent.
A man stepped outside, exchanging a word with those who guarded the tent. He was armed with at least two swords and a dagger at his ankle. He mounted his horse and headed towards the second hill.
‘Bestiano’s guard,’ Fekra whispered.
Which meant Bestiano could be alone. But for how long?
‘Let’s go,’ Froi said. He slithered down the hill, his eyes fixed on those protecting the former King’s advisor. He remembered what Trevanion and Perri would say each time he hesitated. ‘Dead men don’t come back to kill you, Froi. They don’t shout out warnings. Make sure you do it right the first time.’ And that was how simple it was. The type of simplicity that turned his stomach. At the perfect vantage point, he dropped on one knee. One longbow. Four arrows. Four dead men. He heard Fekra’s ragged breath beside him.
‘You knew them?’ Froi asked.
‘Does it matter?’ Fekra asked. ‘If I didn’t, someone else did.’ He shook his head with regret. ‘How do you get used to it? All the killing?’
‘Who says you do?’ Froi asked, and bolted for the tent.
He reached the entrance.
No mistakes, Froi. No mistakes.
He stepped inside. Bestiano looked up, startled, his hand instantly reaching for his sword, but Froi was faster, leaping on the table and flying across the space to knock him down. Make it fast. Don’t waste time. Don’t take chances. Every second counts. Yet the sight of Bestiano, with his mottled skin and weak mouth and ever-present smirk, changed everything. Froi wanted every second to last. He wanted to inflict pain. No mercy. And by not using his sword, Froi knew he was making the first mistake of many. But he didn’t care. His fist connected with Bestiano’s cheek and the man’s head flew back, causing him to fall to the ground. Froi leapt, straddled him, pounding into nose, mouth, cheek. There was no counting. All rage. Blood, flesh and might and cries of pain and grunts of fury. He snapped both the man’s wrists, the howl ringing through his ears. And on and on he pounded, landing his blows with precision. Froi wanted Bestiano to feel his rage.
For that morning he witnessed Bestiano in Quintana’s chamber.
For not allowing her to make shapes on her wall.
For trying to capture her spirit.
For trying to break it.
For all the times Froi didn’t see.
And then Froi’s head burst with his own memories of Sarnak. A strike for every man who had held him down under the force of their own weight. A strike for the hatred he would always feel for himself when he remembered Isaboe’s face that night in the barn in Sorel. This is what Froi would do to that boy he once was. Blow after blow. He wanted him dead.
A clean kill, Froi. Always a clean kill.
He felt his knuckles crack from the force, but this would not be a clean kill. And when Bestiano had almost passed out from the pain of it all, Froi pulled him forward to speak in his ear.
‘You were never able to break her. She is the stone of this kingdom.’
Suddenly, there was a sound behind him and Froi let go of Bestiano, leaping onto the table. Too slow. The blade of a sword tore into the skin at his thigh and Froi crumpled in pain, kicking the intruder with his other leg. But past wounds betrayed him and his legs gave way. It was all the time Bestiano’s guard needed. Froi felt the tip of a sword pierce the wound already in his thigh and he cried out, mustering up the strength he had left to kick the man between the legs. And although Bestiano’s guard faltered a moment, the sound of another entering changed everything.
‘Kill him!’
Dorcas.
What had Gargarin said all that time ago? That he didn’t want to die at the hands of someone like Dorcas, who only knew how to follow orders.
Above him, Froi could see Bestiano’s man step back to strike.
‘Wait,’ Froi croaked. He closed his eyes a moment, felt the dirt and grime in his tears.
‘Dorcas, tell him to wait.’
He could hear the heavy breathing of those who stood in the room, but he was too weary to open his eyes. Too
heartsick at the thought of never seeing her again. But he needed to find a way to speak a bond to his son and this weak, pathetic rider was Froi’s only messenger.
‘Listen to me, Dorcas … listen well … if all you can do in this life is follow orders, then these are the orders of a man who’s to die. Take care of the little King … tell him he was made from love and hope … that is your bond to him, Dorcas. If you’re good for nothing else, follow a bond that makes him a good king.’
Froi raised himself, opening his eyes. He turned to look at Dorcas who was kneeling beside Bestiano. The palace rider’s hand reached out to Bestiano’s injured face.
‘I said, kill him,’ Dorcas ordered, looking towards where the guard stood over Froi. Froi heard the surprised gasp, the gurgle of blood and then felt the weight of the man fall across him as Fekra revealed himself with a dagger in his shaking hand. And then Dorcas pressed a hand over Bestiano’s mouth and pushed down hard. Bestiano’s body jerked against it with force, but Dorcas held it there for a very long time, until finally he looked over to Froi.
‘Tell the little King yourself, Lumateran.’
Ginny entered the cave long after she had left to find some kindling.
‘Where have you been?’ Phaedra asked.
‘I thought I heard something and went to look,’ Ginny said. ‘We can’t be too careful.’
‘Only squirrels,’ Cora said. ‘Our fear will turn us into madwomen.’
‘And we’re not already?’ Phaedra watched Ginny fussing with the entrance of the cave, concealing it with some of the shrubs and branches she’d dragged back.
‘Come closer and eat before our piglet gobbles everything up,’ Cora said gruffly.
The piglet didn’t defend herself; instead, she tugged at the meat on the bone. Since finding it more difficult to move around outside the cave because of her belly, Quintana had taken to setting traps for the hares that boldly came to their entrance and there was a glee to her when she held up their lifeless forms.
‘There’s nothing more harmless than food you catch yourself,’ Quintana said. ‘Free of hemlock and whatnot. I’ve never enjoyed eating so much as I have these past months.’
Quintana of Charyn Page 32
