And most days we’re fine, the little King and me. Phaedra is by our side. ‘Because I’ll never leave you,’ she says, and she fusses and loves, but I hear her sadness deep in the night. There’s sadness all around. During the days, I watch Gargarin write and talk and fight and limp from one tower to the other. Those Provincari parrots are the bane of our lives. He goes to appease, to convince, to plan, to build, to try the guilty and release the innocent. Because the trials have begun and there’s death in the air. The Provincari have sent a judge from every province to assist Gargarin in sentencing the Charynites who acted dishonourably, or worse. They want to try to execute them on palace grounds, but I don’t want their cries heard by my little king, because the cries of the wretched always find a way to wedge themselves deep in the marrow of one’s spirit. I don’t want that for my boy. And Gargarin wins this first battle and we adopt the Lumateran ways. Our traitors are executed out of plain sight of those from the Citavita.
Olivier of Sebastabol does not become one of those condemned to die. Much to my despair. The Provincari pardon him. Brave, brave Olivier, they say. But I remember the eight arrows that pinned Froi down to that rock outside Paladozza. And when he’s a free man, Olivier kneels at my feet and tells me he’ll spend the rest of his life in my service, even as a lowly soldier. Lastborns don’t play soldier, I say. They play nobleman. They play merchant. They play landowner. But Olivier will do anything to prove his worth, he tells me.
‘Where do you want him?’ Perabo asks.
‘In the dungeons,’ I say. ‘Because everyone knows the dungeon master is as much a prisoner as those he guards.’
And weeks pass and a letter arrives from Cora. It’s travelled from the valley to Alonso and to Jidia and then it reaches us. The scribe reads it aloud in the great hall because there are to be no secrets from the Provincari in Charyn. It’s the story of a lad named John of Charyn, hanged as a traitor fourteen years past. Hanged by his own men for saving the lives of twenty-three Lumateran novices. It’s a letter requesting that the mother and father of such a lad be told of their boy’s courage. But I see the letter, written in penmanship so alike to Gargarin’s that I know it’s Froi’s, and later I show it to the little King so he’ll know his father’s hand. And I see the names of John of Charyn’s kin and I shudder at the power of the gods who steer our paths.
‘Do you believe in fate?’ I ask Arjuro when he comes to visit and reads the letter with watery eyes. He laughs, shaking his head.
‘You ask that of me?’
And more weeks pass and nothing changes, except Phaedra’s cries in the night are more muffled, hidden by her love for Tariq and myself.
‘Are you happy here, Phaedra?’ I ask one day.
And she looks up from loving Tariq’s perfect face and I see the fierceness in her eyes.
‘I will never leave you,’ she says.
‘It’s not what I asked.’
And most nights there’s no sleep to be had. There are too many things keeping me awake. Tariq’s cries. The shadow on my balconette that makes my heart leap with one name on my lips. And the cells where the traitors are imprisoned. I wish I could keep away, but I can’t.
Olivier of Sebastabol tells me he knows why I’m there, hovering in the bowels of the palace. He sits at a bench with no more than a flicker of candlelight, recording his facts, his once-handsome face pale and thin.
‘Don’t read my mind, traitor.’
‘You’re here about the girl, Ginny,’ he sighs, looking up. ‘She cries for you often.’
‘Ah, you know her well,’ I mock. ‘She’s knelt at your feet, has she?’
‘She’s condemned to hang a week from now,’ he says. ‘That’s all there is to know.’
But they gnaw at my sleep, these two, and I travel there each day before dawn, hovering at the entrance, praying to the gods that Ginny will batter her head against the stone so her death will be at her own hand, and not mine.
‘This is no place for you,’ Olivier of Sebastabol says.
‘Do you think your concern for me is going to change my mind about you?’ I demand to know.
‘No, but I’ll still express it,’ he says. ‘Whatever has happened, my actions will always be determined by my need to keep you safe, my queen.’
‘I’m not a queen.’
‘You were Tariq’s bride,’ he says. ‘Tariq was a king. You are his queen in my eyes.’
Olivier stands and lights a lantern. ‘Come,’ he says quietly. ‘You need to say your piece before her death, or it will haunt you for the rest of your life.’ And I let him guide me through the damp darkness. It’s a place to get lost, this labyrinth of misery. But I know the way because I’ve been here before. Waiting for a noose. I know the terror that taunts, and the piss that stains your legs from fear. I know the stench wedged deep in the stone, I know the sounds of the rats scurrying, the touch of their whiskers on your skin.
And when I hold up the light and see her huddled in the corner of her filthy chamber, my hatred for her is even stronger.
‘I despise you,’ I say. ‘I always did. I despised your lamenting. I despised your need to blame everyone for lost dreams. Poor, poor pathetic Ginny. What a life she could have had if not for the lastborns,’ I mock. ‘I despise your weakness. Your desire to satisfy the needs of men, but not your own. I despise that I can’t remove from my memory the image of Phaedra and Cora and Florenza and Jorja on their knees waiting for death.’
And I’m weeping because I’m weak in that way. It’s another unwelcome gift the unborn savage spirits left me with: the need to cry for everything and everyone.
Ginny crawls to the iron bars to speak.
‘Not a word,’ I say. ‘I never want to hear your voice again, you wretch. I never want to see your face again.’
And the day is announced by the cock that crows and she’s on her knees begging, sobbing, and I remember the time with the street lords when they took this palace and wiped out my bloodline. I remember the begging. Aunt Mawfa. The cousins. The stewards. The uncles. All begging for life and Gargarin in the cell beside me saying, ‘Close your ears, Reginita. There’s nothing you can do to save them. We’re powerless.’
But I’ll never be powerless again.
‘There’s a tailor passing through from Nebia,’ I tell her, because today is not a day for dying. My son spoke that to me with his smile. ‘The tailor needs an apprentice and you’re going to join him. And you’re going to learn everything you believe was taken away from you by the lastborns. So when you fail again, you will have no excuse but your pathetic self.’
And I reach a hand inside the bars and grip at the filth of her hair till it binds to my hand. ‘Don’t dare show your face in this Citavita or in Phaedra’s valley as long as I breathe, or I will have you cut in pieces and fed to the hounds.’
‘Phaedra’s valley.’
I wake with those words on my lips on the day Grijio of Paladozza arrives and I know it’s a sign. I count so I can find a way to breathe, watching Phaedra of Alonso hold Tariq in her arms, and I know I have to do what is right, so I speak the words. And she weeps and she weeps and begs me, but I numb my heart to her cries.
‘Go back to where you came from, Phaedra,’ I say. ‘You’re not needed anymore.’
And for days after, I walk through that strange sleep with Tariq in my arms and he takes me places I don’t want to go. Searching for her. Isaboe of Lumatere. She with the stealth and She with the strength. And my son promises me that if we find her, I’ll sing my song again. He knows, because there’s a spirit inside him seeking her. But in Tariq’s waking hours he wails, and it curdles my blood because I know what is true. They’ve poisoned my son. So we stay in my chamber, Tariq and I, day in and day out, a dagger in my hand as he wails with all his might. Until Gargarin comes and sits by my side and I see the sadness in his eyes and for the first time I’ve known him, Gargarin of Abroi weeps.
‘You’re letting the demons win, Quintana,’ he says. ‘He won�
��t want this for you. Froi won’t want this for you.’
And he holds out a hand and takes me down the tower steps to the courtyard where travellers have arrived. A man and a woman, their faces gaunt and pale.
‘You sent for them,’ Gargarin said. ‘Be gentle, they’re frightened.’
And clutching Tariq to me, I walk to them, because I know who they are.
‘Your son was a traitor who was executed,’ I tell them and I hear Gargarin’s intake of breath beside me. I see the woman’s legs crumple beneath her as the man holds her upright.
Tesadora says to coat my words. So I try again. I try a gentle voice. I use the voice that belonged to the Reginita.
I tell them about their son who was taken to Lumatere fourteen years past. I tell them that he and Arjuro hid the young novices of Lagrami, who went on to save the lives of many. I tell them their son was arrested and sentenced to hang while Arjuro was imprisoned for ten long years. And I tell them that I want to understand. I beg them to share it with me.
‘How do you raise a boy of substance?’ I ask her. ‘Will you stay and teach me?’ I look at them both. ‘Soon we’ll have a stable of the best horses in the kingdom, Hamlyn of Charyn. Is that not what you were known for? The best horse trainer outside Jidia? Will you and Arna stay and teach me how to raise a good man?’
My son wails in my arms. The little King wants to know, too. He wants to be that son.
And Arna holds out her hands to take Tariq in hers, her fingers going to his mouth, holding up his perfect lips and I see the rawness of his gums.
‘Your boy’s teeth are bringing him pain,’ she says quietly. ‘It’s why he cries. And he needs to be bathed.’
And so we bathe him, surrounded by his guards, just in case his little head slips. Tariq gurgles with laughter, his arms and legs flailing like the strange sea urchins I’ve seen in the books of the ancients. And Arna of Charyn places the cloth in my hand. ‘They love water,’ she says gently. ‘You try.’
We take Tariq from the tub and Dorcas holds up the blanket to wrap him, all the guards fussing. Arna shows me how to wipe him dry and I let Dorcas hold him. Because Dorcas is my favourite. He choked the life out of Bestiano of Nebia.
‘Can I hold him?’ Fekra asks.
‘Can I?’
‘Can I?’
But then I place Tariq in the crook of his shalamon’s arms and Gargarin’s mouth twists into its bittersweet beauty.
‘When a king hides behind the walls of a castle, his people are frightened,’ he says quietly.
So with Lirah and Arna by my side, surrounded by the riders, I travel through the Citavita and we jostle through the people, more people than I’ve ever seen except for the day of the hanging. I hear the weeping and the joy and I dare not look for the noose because Gargarin says it is not there to be found. But when a woman grips my arm, I jump from fear.
‘I’ve not bled for months, Your Highness,’ she sobs. ‘I’m weary all the time and I don’t know what to do. I’m frightened to squat over the privy in case a babe slips out.’
Dorcas gently guides me along, but I pull free.
‘Are you a fool?’ I demand to know of her. ‘It won’t be slipping out for months!’
So I order the girl up to the godshouse where Arjuro will soften her fears, but the next day in our chamber, I hear a bellow from across the gravina.
‘Quintana!’
And I step outside to the balconette where a furious Arjuro is standing on the other side of the gravina.
‘Here. In the godshouse. Now!’
When we reach the path up to the godshouse with our guards, Gargarin and Arna and I stop in shock.
‘He’ll kill you,’ Gargarin mutters, and I see the road is lined with women, weeping. Desperate. Every woman carrying a child in her belly, from the Citavita and beyond, is waiting to see Arjuro. And inside, we push through the long line of people and suddenly Lirah is there, taking Tariq in her arms.
‘Arjuro is furious,’ she said. ‘And to make matters worse the collegiati arrived today and they may be good at reading books about women carrying babies but they have no idea how to speak to women carrying babies.’
Day after day we spend our mornings at the godshouse. There’s too much confusion and shouting and crying, most of it coming from the collegiati. And then a week later while Arna shows the women how to hold Tariq so one day they’ll know how to hold their own, we hear a voice outside from the godshouse entrance.
‘I’m here, my loves. No need for despair,’ Tippideaux of Paladozza says, and by that afternoon she’s created rosters and assigned chambers and shouted orders and terrorised the collegiati into submission. She tells us all, because she does enjoy an audience, that since the betrayal of Olivier of Sebastabol, she has no trust in men except for her father and brother.
‘I swear I’ll die a barren woman and give my life to those whose wombs bear fruit.’
I see Arjuro and Lirah exchange a look.
‘Make peace with Olivier the traitor,’ Arjuro mutters. ‘Or I’ll kill you all.’
Later, Arjuro walks us down to the Citavita and I let him hold Tariq because it brings them both pleasure. We pass more women with swollen bellies hurrying towards the godshouse and Arjuro presses a kiss to Tariq’s outstretched fingers.
‘She’s mocking me, runt of our litter,’ Arjuro tells him. ‘The Oracle is mocking me for choosing a man to share my bed. And her punishment is that I spend the rest of eternity staring between the legs of women.’
And for the first time since I can remember, I laugh, and I watch my little king leap in his uncle’s arms at the sound of it.
When Perri arrived at Lord August’s farm one morning while they were fixing the fence, Froi knew it was time.
‘Can we borrow him, Augie?’ Perri asked.
‘For how long?’ Lord August said, not looking up from his task.
Perri didn’t respond.
‘Last time you rode by to “borrow” him we didn’t see him for nine months and he returned with a body full of scars and an awful Charynite accent,’ Lord August complained, glancing at Froi. ‘When do you get to be ours for always?’ he asked, his voice low.
‘Do I have to be here to belong to you?’ Froi asked. ‘Can’t I belong to you wherever I am?’
In the kitchen making honey brew with the village women, Lady Abian had the good sense not to ask too many questions.
‘Is August blustering out there?’ she asked quietly.
‘A bit,’ Froi murmured. ‘A gentle early-winter bluster, I’d call it.’
She pressed a kiss to his cheek and he went to speak, but she held up a hand.
‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep.’
At the palace stable Perri insisted on Froi taking Beast as Trevanion fitted him with his weapons.
‘Your … Gargarin never wrote back,’ Finnikin said, standing beside Isaboe and Sir Topher.
‘After the letter Finnikin wrote promising to share ideas with Charyn about reservoirs and waterwheels and anything else we’ve been able to translate from the chronicles Celie stole … I mean, borrowed from Belegonia,’ Isaboe said.
Froi was confused. ‘Gargarin loves talk of reservoirs and waterwheels.’
Sir Topher handed him a satchel of documents. ‘Tell him we don’t beg and if he chooses not to respond to our attempts of peace, we don’t offer again.’
Finnikin nodded. ‘First time. Last time.’
Froi placed the satchel in the saddlebag.
‘You travel through the Osterian border. It’s quicker from here than if you travel from the mountain through the valley,’ Perri said.
Too many abrupt instructions.
‘You tell them that under no circumstances will the Queen travel to Charyn, so not to make that part of their terms,’ Finnikin said.
‘Anything else?’ Froi asked, mounting Beast.
‘Yes, you can at least look a bit upset about leaving,’ Isaboe said.
Froi rolled his ey
es.
‘Did he just roll his eyes at me?’ she asked the others.
‘I’ll be back in two weeks!’ Froi said.
‘Yes, I think you said that last time we sent you off to meet with Gargarin of Abroi and he cast a spell on you,’ she said.
Froi held out a hand to her and she looked away.
‘I don’t shake hands. I’m not a Charynite.’
He sighed and dismounted, embracing her.
‘Trust me when I say that Gargarin of Abroi’s spell has well and truly worn off.’
Phaedra and Grijio reached the rocky outcrop that marked the beginning of the road from Alonso to the Lumateran valley. They had left the Citavita days ago and Phaedra’s heart had hardened the further they travelled away from the palace. She didn’t know what faced her in the valley. It had been more than six months since she left and she was frightened that everything had changed. But how could it have stayed the same, when she herself had changed? Who was Phaedra of Alonso after all this time? She had lived her entire existence as a lastborn, controlled by Quintana of Charyn’s curse.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to visit your father?’ Grijio asked as they glimpsed the walls of Alonso in the distance.
Phaedra nodded. ‘I need to write to him first. There is much distance between us and it won’t be solved with a visit.’
They continued riding towards the valley and she felt the anger build up inside her.
‘I hate her,’ she suddenly announced.
Grijio stared at her, taken aback by the outburst.
‘You don’t mean that,’ he said patiently.
‘Oh, I do,’ Phaedra said. ‘She’s cruel and she’s cold and she doesn’t understand love. Look at the way she treated you, Grijio. You come for a visit and she sends you away instantly.’
Grijio shrugged. ‘I can see her anytime. Gargarin’s offered me a place in the palace as an envoy. And anyway, I jumped at the chance to see Froi.’
Quintana of Charyn Page 40
