When everything was calm except for Jasmina’s quiet sobs, Tarah served them sweet bread and honey brew and they sat talking a while about Beatriss and Vestie’s time on the mountain.
Vestie came to stand by them, brushing Jasmina’s cheek with a gentle hand until the little sobs were merely hiccups.
‘Is it true I’m her aunt?’ Vestie asked.
‘Well, you’re Finnikin’s sister now, so I suppose that does make you Jasmina’s aunt,’ Isaboe said.
‘Can I look after her, then, Isaboe?’
Isaboe nodded. ‘Always, precious.’
‘I’ll take her to the valley to meet my new friend.’
Beatriss grimaced. ‘I said no more talk of that, Vestie.’
Isaboe could see Beatriss was still shaken by the incident. Isaboe had heard about it from the Guard that morning and it frightened her to think of how they almost lost Vestie.
‘Do you think Millie will cheer Jasmina up?’ Vestie asked, referring to her doll.
‘She cheers everyone up. Go get her,’ Beatriss said, and Vestie skipped away as Jasmina lifted her head to peer towards where her older friend had gone.
‘Are we sure she wasn’t taken from her bed?’ Isaboe asked quietly.
Beatriss shook her head. ‘Vestie went down the mountain on her own. She claimed … she claimed to have walked the sleep of the girl.’
Isaboe felt both women’s eyes on her.
‘Do you think she’s walking the sleep on her own?’ Beatriss asked.
Isaboe had no idea how to answer that. Not after the strangeness of her sleep. ‘What does Tesadora say?’
Beatriss seemed uncomfortable. ‘Not much really. She was very strange. Almost … bewitched, if one could ever imagine Tesadora bewitched.’
‘Tell us about this mad girl, Beatriss,’ Abian said.
‘She was so strange,’ Beatriss said with a shudder. ‘Tesadora was wonderful with her. She managed to disarm her. The poor girl is obviously hiding from the Charynites and Tesadora has taken it upon herself to take care of her.’
‘She’s seen her again?’ Isaboe asked.
‘As I was leaving the mountain, Tesadora was setting out for our side of the valley,’ Beatriss said.
Isaboe was disturbed to hear the news. She had sent message after message to Tesadora, asking her to visit. She had excused everyone’s mood after Phaedra of Alonso’s death, but to hear that Tesadora was back in the valley seemed wrong. Isaboe’s bond with Tesadora was strong. It had grown since Isaboe first walked the sleep with Vestie and the Other while in exile. The Other had been Tesadora, their protector and the person partly responsible for breaking the curse her mother had placed on the land. Tesadora and Beatriss had once been strangers to each other, but had worked tirelessly together to protect those trapped inside the kingdom. Through the benevolence of the Goddess they had found a way to lead Isaboe home. It had been Tesadora who had nursed her back to health after Trevanion and the Guard reclaimed Lumatere.
Vestie returned with her rag doll and Jasmina was happy to see it.
‘You’re a kind friend to this stranger, Vestie,’ Isaboe said, gathering the little girl towards her. Vestie placed her lips beside Isaboe’s ear and growled in a strange, savage way. She giggled.
‘Are you a little wolf, Vestie?’ Isaboe asked, bemused.
‘That’s what she sounds like,’ Vestie explained. ‘When I walk the sleep.’
Jasmina began to squirm and Isaboe placed her back on the ground, her attention on Vestie.
‘Tell me more about her,’ Isaboe said calmly, despite the fact that her heart was pounding. She remembered the feeling night after night of waking from the sleep.
Vestie shook her head.
‘Can we guess?’ Beatriss said. ‘Vestie so enjoys guessing games with her father.’
Vestie liked the idea and nodded emphatically. ‘Father guesses every time. He knows everything.’
‘Oh, wonderful,’ Isaboe said, winking at Beatriss. ‘Another besotted child of Trevanion’s.’
‘You’ll have to give us a clue,’ Abian said.
Vestie hesitated and then she took Jasmina’s hand and swung it. ‘She’s just like Jasmina.’
‘She’s pretty?’ Beatriss said.
‘She’s bossy?’ Abian said.
‘She’s incorrigible?’ Isaboe said.
Vestie giggled. ‘I don’t know what that means.’
Isaboe looked at her daughter, who loved nothing more than hearing her name. ‘Aren’t you incorrigible, beloved?’
Jasmina thought about it a moment and nodded emphatically, liking the word.
‘What else are you, Jasmina?’ Vestie asked, excited.
Jasmina thought another moment and everyone laughed to see her pensive face.
‘Pwincess.’
The others laughed again at the joy of hearing her speak and Vestie clapped with glee.
‘Yes. Yes.’
Isaboe froze, the hair on her arms standing tall.
‘Your friend in the valley is a princess?’
Vestie put a finger to her lips to silence herself, but nodded, giggling.
‘And does this princess have a name?’ Isaboe asked.
Beatriss shook her head at the same time as Vestie’s nod. Beatriss stared at her daughter, surprised.
‘You’ve not mentioned a name, Vestie,’ she said, worry in her voice. ‘You said she didn’t have one.’
‘It’s a secret.’
‘Whose secret?’ Beatriss asked, alarmed. ‘Who said it’s a secret?’
‘She did. And so did Tesadora when I told her. Tesadora said that the Charynites have the biggest ears in the whole world and even if I told someone my secret in Lumatere, they’d hear it.’
Isaboe, Abian and Beatriss exchanged looks.
‘All these secrets,’ Isaboe tried to jest. ‘Who said there were any secrets from me in Lumatere, Vestie?’
Isaboe bent down to her.
‘You can whisper it to me. The Charynites will never hear. I’ll make sure of that.’
Vestie took the time to think and then leant forward.
‘It’s a strange name, Isaboe. I can hardly say it.’
‘I’ll help you, my sweet.’
Vestie placed her lips against Isaboe’s ears.
‘Her name is … Kintana. Kintana of Charyn.’
Chapter 7
Arjuro insisted on escorting Froi for at least part of his journey. Their exit was through the cottage of a draper wed to one of the Priests. It lay on the northern outskirts of Sebastabol and as they crept out of the cellar into the early-morning blustery wind, Froi smelt a difference in the air, one that seemed foreign, yet still strangely familiar.
‘The ocean,’ Arjuro said. ‘We’re not even a half day’s walk from it to the east.’
The map Arjuro had drawn for Froi would take him across the centre of the kingdom to Charyn’s border with Osteria. Froi knew they would pass Abroi in the morning and Serker later that afternoon. He thought of Finnikin and Lucian and the pride they felt having come from the Rock and Mountain. Froi felt no such pride in the homes of his ancestors.
‘Stop thinking about it,’ Arjuro said, when Froi looked back over and over again after they passed north of Abroi.
‘How do you know what I’m thinking?’
‘I just know,’ Arjuro said. ‘Shit to the south and killing fields ahead. You want neither in your life.’
The terrain south of Serker was a slush of melted snow and dirt, and above them was a whirl of filthy clouds that lay low all the day long. A wind whistled an eerie tune and even the horses responded to the misery, tearing across the country as if they wanted to get as far from this place as possible.
‘Do you ever think of travelling through Serker?’ he asked Arjuro.
‘Nothing we can do,’ Arjuro said. ‘I have no chronicle of their names, so I can’t sing them home. Never have been able to.’
Which meant that Arjuro had tried. Froi pulled up a slee
ve and rubbed his arm, shivering at the raised hair on it. Arjuro stared at him.
‘The unsettled spirits are dancing on your skin.’
‘I thought we only danced for joy,’ Froi said.
‘Not in Serker, they don’t.’
When it was time to say goodbye they stood huddled by their mounts, fussing with reins and comforting the horses. Being with Arjuro these weeks had been Froi’s only relief from the torment of Quintana’s absence.
‘You died twice in my arms,’ Arjuro said quietly.
Froi looked up at him.
‘It would have been the last thing I could have endured.’ Arjuro said, his eyes filling with tears. ‘Your death would have been the very last I could have endured.’
Froi thought of those strange moments after the attack outside Paladozza. When he knew he was dying, he had heard the Reginita’s voice ordering him away.
‘When I was removing those barbs,’ Arjuro said, ‘and your thoughts and words were feverish, you wept and wept from the memories … from the horror of your memories in Sarnak.’
Froi saw the rage in Arjuro’s eyes, his clenched fists.
‘If I could find the men who did those things to you as a child I would tear them limb from limb.’
Froi embraced him.
‘One day,’ Froi said, clearing his voice of emotion, ‘I’ll introduce you to my queen and my king and my captain; and Lord August and Lady Abian, who have given me a home; and the Priestking and Perri and Tesadora and my friend Lucian; and then you’ll understand that I would never have met them if you hadn’t journeyed to Sarnak all those years ago, Arjuro. And if the gods were to give me a choice between living a better life, having not met them, or a wretched life with the slightest chance of crossing their path, then I’d pick the wretched life over and over again.’
He kissed Arjuro’s brow. Finnikin called it a blessing between two male blood kin. It always had made Froi ache seeing it between Finnikin and Trevanion.
‘I’d live it again just to have crossed all of your paths. Keep safe, Arjuro. Keep safe so I can bring your brother home to you.’
Froi felt an acute loneliness the moment Arjuro mounted his horse and rode away. The sleet half-blinded him and the cold brought a new sort of pain to his bones. But he travelled all day and night, not wanting to rest in a place where he couldn’t shelter from the malevolence of nature. This was ancient land, filled with spirits, and apart from his journey to Hamlyn and Arna’s farm, Froi hadn’t been alone since his days in Sarnak. He fought the need to weep, but blamed it on his aches.
On his second day alone, he saw lights from afar and knew he had reached the Charyn River and the road south to the Osterian border. He couldn’t bear another night of sitting in the saddle with only the horse and his fleece for warmth, and the lights promised everything. They delivered little but a rundown inn that was full to the brim. Froi’s heartbeat quickened when he saw the sign to Alonso. How easy it would be to change path and take the road home to Lumatere. But there was something about De Lancey’s news that made him uneasy. Gargarin was no fool, yet if there was a lesson Froi had come to learn from living with Lord August’s family, it was that the Belegonians could not be trusted.
So he paid a coin for a corner in a crowded stable a mile south of the inn. It was mostly filled with Citavitans who had not found refuge in Jidia and were heading upriver to Alonso. Froi knew how their journey would end. Alonso would turn these people away, forcing them to travel to the Lumateran valley. As he watched these desperate, landless people, he couldn’t fight the crippling fear that Quintana was somewhere out there on her own with no coins to trade, cold to the bone.
‘Any news from the Citavita?’ Froi asked the couple beside him. He had watched the husband tie their pack around his waist in case someone tried to steal their possessions.
‘I was there when the street lords took the palace, and fear for the lives of friends,’ Froi continued, eyeing the bundle of food tied up in an apron.
‘Street lords are gone,’ the woman told him. ‘Nothing left to take. The gods only know who has control over the palace. Every week, a different story.’
‘If Bestiano’s a smart man he’ll return now,’ a bearded man close by said. ‘Best thing for Charyn.’
‘How can you say that?’ another called out from his bedroll. ‘He’s a killer of kings.’
‘But strange that the moment the King was killed, there’s news of an heir to be born,’ the bearded man continued. ‘Perhaps the answer all along was to rid ourselves of the King. Bestiano could be the hero of this kingdom.’
Count to ten, Froi. Count to ten.
‘They say Bestiano is the father of the future king,’ a woman called out.
The bearded man made a sound of approval. ‘If he’s smart, he’ll take the poor mite out of that mad-bitch Quintana’s hands the moment it’s born.’
Froi flew across the space, landing heavily on the man, pounding his fists wherever he could land them. He felt arms drag him away, their fingers pressing deep into his wounds and he pulled free.
‘You dare talk about the Princess in such a way,’ he raged. ‘I challenge you to speak those words when the future king grows to be a man. I dare you to say them about his mother to his face!’
The bearded man cowered away. ‘Who are you with your fancy talk?’
‘Someone who knew them,’ Froi said. ‘Knew the heir Tariq of Lascow. Knew that he sacrificed his life to keep Quintana of Charyn safe. I defy you to dishonour his memory by claiming Bestiano a better man.’
The words felt like rough parchment in Froi’s mouth, but there was silence all around.
‘They breed good men in Lascow,’ the husband from the Citavita said. His wife stared at Froi. ‘Tariq of Lascow would have made a just king if he had lived,’ she said.
Later, the wife held out a dry strip of meat to Froi and he ate it, shamed that whether she had given it to him or not, it would have somehow ended up in his belly. She looked at him closely, confused. ‘You remind me of someone. I don’t know who,’ she said quietly. She reached over and he flinched, but her hand touched his face gently.
When she was asleep, Froi felt her husband’s eyes on him. ‘She doesn’t usually take to your kind,’ the man said.
‘My kind?’ Froi said coolly. Who wasn’t it safe to be now? A Lumateran assassin? A Serker lad? A defender of the Princess?
‘A young one,’ the man said. ‘My wife … she usually turns away. She bled on the day of weeping. It was close to being born, our child was. She bled it and has spent the last eighteen years turning her eyes away from lastborns or the young.’
The man looked down at his wife, but then back at Froi. Then he smiled. ‘It’s not your face. It’s something else. It’s in your spirit. I feel it as well.’
Froi relaxed for the first time since he left Arjuro, and lay down on the straw. Although he had been taught not to take chances, he had a sense that the couple beside him were not a threat.
‘How many inns are on the river border across this stretch heading towards Osteria?’ he asked the man softly in the darkness.
‘Three. One is closed for the winter, though. You’ll be lucky to get a bed. But I would not head that way, lad.’
‘I’ve no intention of returning to the Citavita,’ Froi said.
‘It’s not the Citavita you need to fear,’ the man said. ‘There’s talk that the Osterians have allowed the Belegonians to camp across the river. If they decide to cross, there’ll be nothing left of us. It’s why we’re heading towards Alonso. Don’t head south, lad. Come north with us.’
Froi sighed. Oh, to head north to Alonso. It would be so easy to follow these people. He was closer to Lumatere than he had been for the past five months and all night his dreams beckoned him home.
But in the morning the reality hadn’t changed. Quintana was still somewhere out there, and he needed to find Gargarin and Lirah. The three of them had a better chance of finding her if they joined forc
es.
When Froi walked his horse out of the stable, south to everyone else’s north, he felt the wife stare at him.
‘Are you gods’ blessed?’ she asked.
He shook his head, not meeting her eyes.
‘Do you know what I dreamt last night?’
Froi didn’t want to know. People’s dreams frightened him. But he looked up at her all the same.
‘I dreamt of my ma who died long ago. Her words are still singing in my ears.’ The woman’s smile was gentle. ‘She said, “The half-spirit of your unborn child lives in that lad.”’
Chapter 8
They arrived at the border of Osteria and Charyn five days after setting out from Lumatere, having stopped to meet with their ambassador in the kingdom of Osteria. Finnikin couldn’t help but think of the last time they were at this exact place. Isaboe … Evanjalin had been out there somewhere. With Froi. She had walked away from Finnikin because he hadn’t trusted her. Froi had followed. ‘She and me. We’re the same,’ Froi had said. Finnikin could hardly remember the boy Froi had been, except for his ability to let fly his emotions whenever they rose to the surface. Froi as a lad was easy to control. Froi as a man threatened Finnikin. He had restraint and an ability to play with his opponents. He would make a formidable enemy.
‘You’ve been quiet these past days,’ Trevanion said. ‘Are you going to tell me what the … exchange of words was about?’
‘Who said there was an exchange of words?’ Finnikin asked with irritation.
‘When a woman says “I hope you fall under your horse” and “catch your death then see if I grieve you”,’ Perri said, ‘then there’s been an exchange of words …’
Finnikin glared at him.
‘… in my humble opinion.’
‘It’s no one’s business but ours.’
‘Understandable,’ Trevanion said. ‘Although the entire Guard and palace village heard it.’
‘Perhaps the south of the Flatlands as well,’ Perri concluded.
Finnikin dismounted and they led their horses to the river. There was little teasing here. They stayed quiet, remembering the day three-and-a-half years ago when they faced Sefton and the village exiles held by the Charynites. They knew now that Rafuel of Sebastabol had been one of the soldiers, and if Finnikin closed his eyes he could imagine just where Rafuel had stood. Perhaps if he had looked at the soldiers and not their leader, he’d have seen fear and shame on their faces.
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