‘Who says?’ Froi asked.
‘She say. She don’t get much power, but she picks whoever protects Citavita, and our Quintana pick the Turlans.’
Smart girl. No one would protect Quintana and Tariq better than her kin.
‘How are things here?’ Froi asked.
How is Quintana and Gargarin and Lirah and Arjuro and my son? he meant.
‘Gettin’ there slow-wise,’ Mort said. ‘But gettin’ there all the same.’
‘What you doin’ here, Froi?’ another Turlan asked. ‘You here for the –’
The lad was nudged into silence. Froi saw their unease, so he held up his pack. ‘Palace business from Lumatere,’ he said.
Mort shoved Froi playfully. ‘Told you lads this one no soldier boy. He’s a palace big man.’
Froi laughed at the description.
‘We’d take you up there, but Scarpo would skin us if we left our post,’ Florik said.
Mort pointed up to the roof of the Crow’s Inn. ‘That’s where I aim from and if there a problem, fastest lad in Charyn here races to the castle and let ’em know,’ he said, shoving at Florik’s head.
Florik looked slightly sheepish. ‘Second fastest.’
‘Did you see Grij on your travels?’ one of the lads from Lascow asked. ‘He was on his way to Lumatere to deliver Phaedra of Alonso back to the valley.’
Froi shook his head, annoyed to think he missed seeing Grij in Lumatere of all places.
‘He would have travelled another path,’ he said. ‘I came through Osteria.’
‘He’ll be back soon,’ Florik said. ‘So you wait for him, Froi. He’ll not like missing you twice.’
‘And come see us at our post.’
Froi promised to return to the inn and made his way up the city wall to the road that led to the godshouse. He couldn’t avoid seeing the castle battlements, but he forced himself to look away.
On the path above the caves towards the godshouse, he was bewildered to see a cluster of women coming and going.
The Priestling’s a busy man, the soldier had said. Busy doing what?
Inside the godshouse it was stranger still. More women, as well as the collegiati Froi recognised from his days in the caves under Sebastabol. The entire lower level of the godshouse was bustling with activity. Questions were being asked, orders were being given. And then Froi noticed the swollen bellies and understood why.
He gently pushed past the women up the steps, and at each floor Froi glimpsed well-lit rooms and once-empty cells now decorated with a sense of home. He thought of these steps. Where he had first discovered that Gargarin was his father. The cells where he had found out for certain that Lirah was his mother. Each flight he climbed was a memory and the closer he got to the top, the more hurried his steps became. Because he had missed them all with an ache that had never gone away and he was desperate to see them. That was it, he convinced himself. Just one glance at them all. The higher he climbed, the less noise he heard, and by the time he reached the Hall of Illumination, the godshouse had returned to its quiet self.
Inside the room, he could see through the windows out onto the Citavita, and from the balconette out onto the palace.
Arjuro sat at a long bench, head bent over his books; plants and stems spread across the space before him. Froi caught his breath.
‘If you’re here about the Jidian invitation, tell them I’d rather swive a goat,’ Arjuro murmured, not looking up.
Froi stepped closer.
‘Must I, blessed Arjuro?’
Arjuro looked up in shock.
Froi grinned. ‘For those of us at the godshouse are well known for swiving goats and I’d prefer not to give them weapons of ridicule.’
Arjuro stood and grabbed Froi into an embrace, his arms trembling. Froi pushed him away, unable to get rid of the grin on his face.
‘Sentimental, Arjuro? You of all people.’
Arjuro studied his face. ‘Me of all people can be as sentimental as he pleases.’
And then he was taking Froi’s hand, leading him to the steps of the roof garden.
‘Lirah,’ Arjuro called out. ‘Come down and greet our guest.’
Froi caught his breath again.
‘If it’s about the Jidian invitation, I said no,’ she shouted back.
‘The Jidian Provincara’s in town, I’m supposing,’ Froi said quietly.
‘They’re all coming to town,’ Arjuro said with a grimace. ‘And everyone wants to visit the godshouse.’
Froi nodded, and suddenly he understood. It’s what Mort and Florik stopped the lad from saying outside the inn.
‘They’re here for her betrothment?’ Froi asked.
Arjuro nodded. ‘Five days from now, they decide who he is.’
‘Lirah!’ Arjuro bellowed again. He pointed up, rolling his eyes. ‘They say the Ambassador of Nebia’s wife has taken over Lirah’s roof garden in the palace.’
‘Lirah’s prison garden, you mean,’ Froi said.
‘Lirah says it’s her garden. She’s livid. So she’s determined to make our garden better.’
Our? Froi shook his head with disbelief. The idea of Arjuro and Lirah having something together was too strange.
‘Are you not going to come down for me, Lirah?’ Froi called out softly. ‘I’ve come a long way and I’d hate to return to the Lumaterans and tell them how inhospitable you are here in Charyn.’
There was no response but suddenly Lirah peered down the steps, the sun behind her illuminating her face. She had kept her hair short and without the grime of travel and with her sea-blue dress, she looked regal.
She descended the steps and Froi helped her down the last few and then she was there before him.
‘What’s this?’ she asked gruffly, touching the fluff of hair on his chin.
‘A pathetic attempt at a beard,’ he said. ‘It’s not working, is it? Which is so unfair when you think of the face of hair Arjuro had when I first met him.’
She smiled. ‘Regardless of their might as warriors, the Serkan lads could never grow one.’
Lirah reached out and touched Froi’s face as if she couldn’t believe he was standing before her.
‘Wait until you see him,’ she said, and there were tears in her eyes. ‘Wait until you see the wonder that’s our boy. Sometimes when they smuggle me into the palace we lie there, Gargarin and I, with this little bundle between us and we count all his fingers and toes. And in all the joy it’s only a reminder of how much we lost and there are some days that I don’t think he can bear the memory.’
Froi took her hand and pressed a kiss to it.
‘Gargarin thought he found a way,’ she said. ‘But now he believes it’s lost and he’s bitter, Froi. Why were your Lumaterans so cruel? If they loved you, they would not have been so cruel.’
‘Cruel?’ he asked. ‘Lirah, Gargarin left me behind without a thought. That’s cruel. The Lumaterans have proved themselves to me over and over again. What has he done?’
Arjuro joined them with a jug of brew and a bowl of broth.
‘Have you seen our guest?’ Lirah asked quietly, and Froi shook his head and followed her into a chamber. Its walls were adorned with rugs on one side, books stacked high on the other. A cot and fireplace occupied one corner. At first Froi thought there was a child lying on the bed, but then he realised the truth.
‘You can speak to him. He can hear you.’
Froi took a step closer, wincing at the skeletal figure that lay before him.
‘Hello, Rafuel. Do you remember me?’ Froi asked, his voice catching to see the man in such a state.
Lirah took Rafuel’s hand. ‘He’s to save his breath and get himself well,’ she said. ‘If anyone can get you back on your feet, it’s Arjuro, isn’t that so, Rafuel?’
There was no response. Just the stare. Rafuel was all eyes in a shrunken body. His left eye was half-closed and there was a scar across his lip.
‘Let’s get you seated upright,’ Arjuro said to Rafuel. Fro
i helped, suddenly overcome by emotion. He couldn’t recognise Rafuel as the same animated man who had shown him the way a Charynite danced, even though he had been in chains. Froi sat down beside Rafuel on the bed.
‘This one loves nothing better than when the little King visits,’ Arjuro said, placing a spoon to Rafuel’s mouth. ‘His eyes light up like a beacon.’
Froi looked away, unable to watch. He had never seen a man look so much like death. It almost seemed too cruel to keep him alive.
‘How did you come to be here, Rafuel?’ Froi asked, knowing that it would be one of the others who would answer. But he didn’t want to insult the man into believing he didn’t exist.
‘Gargarin demanded it the moment we found out he lived,’ Lirah said. ‘Rafuel belongs here with us. It all began with him, didn’t it, dear friend, with those silly cats? Where would we all be without Rafuel?’
‘I can take over here,’ Froi said, holding his hand out for the bowl. ‘I’ve got much to tell you, Rafuel. About the valley and the women who beg for news of you.’
He returned to where Lirah and Arjuro sat in the hall, his emotions ragged.
‘Will he get better?’
Arjuro shrugged. ‘We don’t know what’s broken inside of him up here,’ he said, pointing to his head. ‘We don’t know how much of it came from the beating he received upon his arrest or from being left for dead in that mine shaft.’
‘But when he first arrived, he could barely open his eyes,’ Lirah said. ‘Quintana visits with Tariq every day and it’s been a revelation to see how much he’s changed in the presence of the boy.’
Froi was suddenly envious of them all. Even Rafuel with his decrepit body. They had each other, despite the fact that they lived in separate places. Quintana and Tariq and Lirah and Arjuro and Gargarin and even Rafuel hadn’t needed Froi. They had begun to thrive without him.
‘Will she want to see me?’ he asked quietly.
Lirah didn’t respond.
‘Would that stop you?’ she asked.
‘That means she doesn’t want to.’
‘I didn’t say that at all.’ Lirah sighed. ‘I think … I think Quintana believes you’ve forsaken her.’
‘Me?’ he asked. ‘I’ve been waiting for Gargarin to do something. He promised to do something! I’ve been waiting.’
‘Gargarin said he wrote,’ Lirah said.
‘Well, he didn’t. He lied.’
‘No,’ Lirah said firmly, ‘he doesn’t lie to me.’
Froi made a sound of disbelief.
‘Especially about our son!’
Froi was on his feet pacing.
‘Do you think you can get me into the palace without the Provincari’s people knowing?’ he asked
Arjuro chuckled. ‘It’s our favourite sport,’ he said, winking at Lirah. ‘And you’ve picked an easy night.’
An easy night, Froi learnt, was when Perabo was on watch. The keeper of the keys studied him intently at the gatehouse, a lantern in his hand held up to Froi’s face.
‘You took your time,’ Perabo muttered as he escorted him to the second tower. ‘Head down. Let them think you’re Arjuro.’
It was Fekra who guarded the second level of the second tower. His eyes flashed with surprise to see Froi.
‘We have to be careful of the Provincari’s people,’ Fekra told him. ‘They don’t have a life of their own, so they’re fascinated with everyone else’s.’
Once they reached her chamber, Fekra poked his shoulder with a finger.
‘Don’t wake the boy. It took Dorcas all night to get him to sleep.’
Froi tiptoed into her room. At first he wondered why Gargarin would have kept her in this chamber and not a larger residence. Until he saw the fireplace and then the archway between Quintana’s chamber and the room Froi once shared with Gargarin. He crept to its entrance. He knew what was in there … who was in there. He could hear the steady breathing of the boy, the strange little sounds of sleepy satisfaction.
An arm was instantly around his neck. A dagger to his throat. A savage noise in his ear. Sagra. How he missed her.
‘You’ll only make a small hole there,’ he whispered. ‘Not fatal. Inconvenient, really.’
He leant his head back onto her shoulder, exposing his throat to her blade. He felt her arm linger, her cold cheek against his. They stayed there for a time with trembling bodies.
And then he turned to face her. How could he ever have thought this face plain? How could he ever have imagined that the savagery would leave her, just because she birthed a child?
‘You’re a stranger,’ she said coldly, but her body spoke of warmth, pressed so close that the thin fabric of her shift seemed not to exist.
He saw tears in her eyes, anger. Sadness. He searched her face in the light from the godshouse across the gravina, his fingers on her cheeks, mouth.
‘Who do you see?’ she demanded. ‘Am I a stranger in return?’
He took her hand and linked his fingers with hers.
‘Why say that?’ he asked.
‘Because I calculated,’ she said coolly. ‘I’ve become good with your counting. You and I have known each other for fewer days than we haven’t.’
‘Does that matter to you?’ he asked as she clenched their hands together. He sensed his arousal, knew she felt it strongly pressed against her.
‘I can live without you,’ she said. ‘I can live without a man I’ve only known for one hundred and eighty days.’
‘And how have those calculations helped?’ he demanded to know.
She didn’t respond except for a look down her nose at him and a curl of her lip. So much for the angry half-spirits being responsible for the savages within them both. This was pure Quintana.
‘Then step away,’ he taunted. ‘If you can live without me, step away.’
He felt her warm breath on his throat.
‘Because you can’t,’ he said. ‘You think you can, but we’re bound, and not just by the gods or by a curse or even by our son. We are bound by our free will. And you can’t step away, because you are not willing.’
He bent, his mouth close to hers.
‘Step away,’ he whispered. ‘If you step away I’ll learn from you. I’ll find the desire in me to live without you. Much the same as you want to live without me.’
‘I didn’t say I wanted to live without you,’ she said, angry tears springing in her eyes. ‘Only that I can. I’ve practised. I’ve been very good in that way.’
She stepped away, but not too far and his eyes travelled down her nightdress, transparent in the moonlight. He could see the fullness of her beneath it all. He reached out a tentative hand to her breast, but she flinched and this time he stepped away.
‘It’s full of milk, fool,’ she said. ‘It’s tender. You’ll have to find another place to put your hand.’
‘You tell me where?’ he said, his voice soft. ‘Because it’s not in me to be gentle.’
‘Then you’ll just have to learn, won’t you?’
She swayed towards him, playing with him. Had she turned temptress, this cat of his? And then their mouths were fused, the cloth of her nightdress bunched in his hands, his arm a band around her body, lifting her to him as one tongue danced around the other, until her legs straddled his hips and he dragged the shift over her head, desperate to remove anything that lay between them, his mouth not wanting to leave hers as he fumbled with the drawstring of his trousers. Soon they were skin against skin and he tried to be gentle; chanting it inside his head while saying her name and they rocked into each other with a rhythm played out by the gods who had guided their wretched way. Where have you been? Where have you been? I’ve lost our song, he thought he heard her cry inside his heart, until finally Froi felt her shudder, her fingers gripping the place her name was etched across his shoulders.
‘Our bodies aren’t strangers,’ he said, his voice ragged. ‘Our spirits aren’t strangers.’ He held her face in his hands. ‘Tell me what part of me is strang
er to you and I’ll destroy that part of me.’
And she wept to hear his words.
Later, as they lay in silence, Quintana kissed each one of his scars from the eight arrows.
‘Do you want to see him?’
He nodded like a hungry man, and they shivered naked in the cool night air as she led him into the other room.
‘We’re not to wake him,’ she said firmly. ‘I’m very strict about rules, you know.’
She lit a candle, and Froi stared into the cot and saw the most amazing creature he had ever seen, the babe facing them, his arms outstretched.
‘What kind of rules?’ he whispered.
‘Well, I don’t wake him just because I want to hold him. I wait until he wakes on his own. And I only give him four or five cuddles a day. Sometimes a few more if he’s fretful. We don’t want to spoil him.’
He smiled.
‘And look,’ she said. She pointed above the little King’s cot where a cut-out piece of parchment hung from the ceiling. Froi’s eyes followed her finger across the ceiling to the wall where the light from the moon made a shape of a rabbit.
And because Froi was overwhelmed with emotion, he buried his head into her shoulder.
‘Are you crying?’ she asked.
He didn’t respond, but his tears were wet against her and he felt her pat his back. ‘He likes me to do this,’ she said, her voice practical. ‘It calms him down if he wakes up with the night terrors.’
They watched Tariq for a long time until he woke and Quintana reached out to pick him up, and Froi’s son suckled as she fed him on her bed.
‘Does it hurt?’ he asked, fascinated.
‘It did to begin with.’
When she was finished and Tariq burped in a way that would have made Arjuro proud, she held him out to Froi. He took his son gently and Quintana placed his hand securely against Tariq’s head.
‘It used to roll all over the place if I didn’t put my hand there. Sometimes I fear it still will,’ she said and he stared in amazement as Tariq stared back at him.
‘Sagra,’ he muttered. ‘You’ve gone and stolen Lirah’s face, you thief.’
The three fell asleep in each other’s arms, and when the sun began to rise, Froi woke and kissed Quintana and Tariq, then dressed quickly. He stepped out into the hallway and found himself face to face with Gargarin.
Quintana of Charyn Page 42
