The Lumatere Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy

by Melina Marchetta

  Perri and Froi came to the outskirts of Balconio, where cottages began to appear. They passed a fallow field, and Froi heard Perri murmur words that he had heard over and over again each time anyone passed a fallow field. It was a prayer to the goddess that the soil would regain its fertility. In the last days of the curse, the impostor king had set alight most of the Flatlands.

  “There’s talk that Isaboe and Finn will sell the village of Fenton,” Froi said.

  “Queen Isaboe and the queen’s consort,” Perri corrected.

  Froi made a rude sound. “Every time I call Finn the consort anything, he wrestles me, and he’s no skinny thing anymore.”

  “It’s hard for him,” Perri said quietly. “No matter how strong his union with the queen, he has much to prove.”

  “He doesn’t have to prove himself to her,” Froi said.

  “But he has to prove himself because of her.”

  Froi was distracted a moment by the rotted crop of cabbage that lined the road. He leaped off his horse and crouched, feeling the soil, shaking his head at the waste of it all. This year Lord August had decided to use a water system created by a soldier in the impostor king’s army. It was the only thing of worth the enemy had contributed, apart from some of the most stunning horses Froi had ever seen. But many of the Flatlanders refused to adopt the Charynite methods, despite the fact that their crops were dying.

  “They are fools,” Froi said, looking up at Perri.

  “Don’t underestimate how deeply felt the hatred is,” Perri said. ‘They see it as the method of an enemy, and they don’t want a part of it.”

  “So they’d prefer that their crops die and their people half starve! I told Gardo of the Flatlands that he was a horse’s arse just the other day. What kind of man wastes his crop for the sake of pride?”

  “You need to refrain from insulting the villagers, Froi,” Perri said, laughing. “They have daughters. You’re going to have to bond yourself to one of them sooner or later.”

  Froi stiffened. “I have a bond to my queen.” He mounted his horse and steered it back onto the road.

  He heard Perri sigh. “Froi, it was a worthy promise at the time, but you can’t spend the rest of your life refusing the pleasures of lying with a woman.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it alters nothing of the past,” Perri said firmly. “You can’t change who you were. If anyone realizes that, I do.”

  Froi looked away. He didn’t know how much Perri knew. Didn’t want to know, really. It brought him too much shame. Three years ago on their travels, when the queen was disguised as the novice Evanjalin, and Froi was a filthy thief they had picked up along the way, he had tried to force himself on her. On the streets of the Sarnak capital, where he grew up, the men had taught him that power was survival. The Lumaterans had spent three years trying to unteach what he knew. Some nights he woke in a sweat remembering what he had done. The queen had spoken about it only once since they entered Lumatere. It was when a member of her Guard, Aldron, was sent on palace business with Finnikin, and Froi had been chosen to replace Aldron.

  “Are you sure?” he had asked her quietly as they stood at the bailey, watching Finnikin and Aldron ride away.

  “That you can protect me?” she said, her eyes still out in the distance where Finnikin and Aldron were tiny specks on the horizon. “Trevanion claims there’s no one better than you, Froi. But if you’re asking if I’m sure you won’t hurt me, then yes, I am.”

  Froi had felt pride and relief.

  Her dark eyes were suddenly on him, and he shivered at the memory of their fierceness. “But I’ve told you before, I will never forget. Ever. And nor will you. It’s part of the bond you made to me that day we freed you from the slave traders. Do you remember?”

  Froi would never forget. “That if I ever harm a woman, you’ll have me hanged and quartered.” And she would. That he knew.

  Most days, he feared that a monster of great baseness lived inside him, fighting to set itself free. Killing the traitors of Lumatere for Isaboe made sense. But killing also fed the monster. He could not bear the idea of letting that monster free among the girls of Lumatere. So Froi kept away from them.

  “It’s the only way of proving myself to the queen,” he muttered to Perri as they entered Balconio.

  “Find another way,” Perri said.

  Froi shook his head. “I don’t trust myself.”

  They reached the inn, where they would wait until Finnikin’s meeting with the ambassador of Sarnak was over. The village of Balconio sat on the Skuldenore River, at the foot of mountains. It could easily have been a village of ghosts. Many of its people had died in exile. But the queen and Finnikin had decided that an inn in such a place would attract customers and give life to Balconio. They had approached the people of one of the surviving villages and proposed their plan. Froi had once heard Lord August tell Lady Abian that it was a smart decision. One day, when the gates of Lumatere were open to the rest of the land, the inn would be the perfect place for trade. Despite their wariness of foreigners, the queen and Finnikin knew that to survive they would have to do business with neighbors. This inn and the export of silver from the mines to their neighboring allies, Belegonia and Osteria, was the first step. Most nights, the Balconio Inn was filled with Monts on their way to the palace village or merchants and farmers trading their goods and skills, but this past year, the people of the neighboring villages had begun to venture out of their homes for enjoyment rather than necessity. It helped that the inn also boasted the best ale in the kingdom.

  Captain Trevanion met them at the gate of the inn. He was one of the most impressive men Froi had ever seen: mighty in build, with a face that even men would call handsome. He was Finnikin’s beloved father, and Froi knew they still felt the pain of having been separated from each other when Finnikin was a lad of nine. The captain had also believed for ten long years that his beloved Lady Beatriss was dead, but she had lived, and during the past three years, there had been much talk about whether they would rekindle their love.

  “We’re old men, I hear,” Trevanion said, cuffing Froi.

  Froi laughed. “If you and some of the Guard weren’t old men, then being called old men wouldn’t insult you so much.”

  “We’re only some forty years, Froi.”

  “He calls Aldron an old man, and he’s not even ten years older than him,” Perri mused, looking around. “Where’s Finn?”

  “I thought he was with you.”

  “He rode ahead.”

  Froi watched the two men exchange worried looks and followed them into the inn.

  Inside, they jostled through a crowd. Tonight it was mostly filled with the Queen’s Guard, but Froi also recognized a handful of Rock villagers and the lads who traveled with the queen’s cousin, Lucian of the Monts, which meant the Mont leader was somewhere in the vicinity.

  In a corner close to where the innkeeper was serving from barrels of ale, Froi saw the Monts speaking tensely among themselves. Most were cousins to Finnikin through his marriage to the queen, but Finnikin and Lucian were nowhere to be seen. Froi sensed Trevanion and Perri’s unease and followed them to the bar. The lad assisting the innkeeper looked up when they approached. He was young and nervous, and it was evident that he had never come face-to-face with the captain of the Guard before.

  “You’re new,” Trevanion said.

  “Yes, sir. Just started.”

  “Did you recognize the queen’s consort?”

  “No . . . no, sir, but he introduced himself.”

  Trevanion looked relieved. “Where is he?”

  “He’s with a . . . a . . . w-w-woman, sir.”

  Perri, Froi, and Trevanion stared at the lad in disbelief.

  “A woman?” Trevanion snapped. “What woman?”

  “A woman waiting in his room, sir. She had left a message.”

  “What room?” Trevanion demanded, already halfway up the staircase.

  Perri dragged the nervous la
d along with them. “Was she armed?” Perri barked.

  “What message?” Trevanion shouted.

  “She said, ‘Tell my king I’m w-waiting in his chamber.’”

  Trevanion stopped just as they reached the top of the stairs. Froi watched the captain’s expression change from fear to exasperation.

  “Her king?”

  Trevanion muttered his favorite string of curses. The captain had spent years in a foreign prison among lowlifes from every kingdom of the land, and at times, even the Guard flinched at some of his expressions.

  A palace soldier stood outside one of the chamber doors, shrugging haplessly when he saw his captain.

  “I can’t control her any more than you can control him, sir,” he tried to say. Trevanion pushed him out of the way, knocking sharply before entering the room.

  Near the window, Finnikin stood with both hands against the wall, his head bent over her. As always, the intimacy between them made Froi ache.

  “I promise you,” Finnikin said. “I’ve already shouted at her and used a very, very reprimanding tone.”

  “I was quivering,” the queen said, stepping out from behind Finnikin.

  Froi hid a grin, but Trevanion and Perri failed to hide their anger.

  Isaboe was dressed more for comfort than for style, but still she managed to take Froi’s breath away. When he had first laid eyes on her in that Sarnak alleyway, her head had been bare. Now her hair was thick and black and fell down her back, contrasting with the deep purple of her simple dress that fell loosely, from her shoulders.

  “Surround the entire inn and send away every person who does not belong to the Guard or the Mont cousins,” Perri barked to the soldier outside. Trevanion disappeared with the man.

  “That will make us popular,” Finnikin said, his arm around his wife. “Not only have we finally decided to collect taxes, but now we’re getting in the way of their drinking.”

  Isaboe caught Froi’s eye. She grabbed Finnikin’s face to reveal to Froi an already purple eye.

  “You?”

  Froi pointed to himself questioningly, feigning surprise and hurt.

  “Where are his bruises?” she asked Finnikin.

  Froi made a scoffing sound at the thought.

  Trevanion returned to the room. “Where’s Jasmina?”

  “In the next chamber,” the queen said, “and if any of you wake her, Captain, I will have to kill someone tonight.”

  “I need to check —”

  “No,” both Isaboe and Finnikin said.

  Trevanion stared at them.

  “I’ll see that —”

  “No,” the queen said again. “You can see your granddaughter when she wakes up.”

  Trevanion looked disgruntled.

  “She’ll know it’s you the moment you walk in,” Finnikin complained, “and she’ll think it’s a game and call out ‘Pardu Twevanion’ all night. I’ve not slept for two years!”

  Trevanion fixed his stare on the queen, his anger still present.

  “I finished the business with the Osterians earlier than predicted,” she explained with a sigh. “I thought I’d come and visit before Finnikin’s meeting with the Sarnaks. Coincidentally, Lucian is also here, so I get to see my husband and my cousin. I’m very lucky in that way.”

  Finnikin and Froi laughed. Trevanion and Perri didn’t.

  “Where is Lucian?” Trevanion asked.

  “Apparently checking the privy and mouse holes for Charynites.”

  “I’m glad you’re amused about the safekeeping of this family, my queen,” Trevanion said.

  The queen regarded him coolly, and in an instant the mood in the room changed.

  “Not amused at all, Captain,” she said. “I’m never amused about the safety of our family.”

  Froi saw a flicker of regret on Trevanion’s face.

  “It’s just safer for you and the child to be in the palace, Isaboe,” he said, his voice softening.

  “I’m sorry,” she said with remorse. “But it seemed so harmless, and you know what it feels like after three days speaking about mines and goats with the Osterians. It’s what keeps them protected from invasion — the ability to bore the enemy to tears.”

  There was a knock, and without so much as an invitation to enter, Lucian of the Monts joined them, his stare going straight to the bruise on Finnikin’s face. Although not as tall as the River lads, Lucian had an imposing build and a temper to match. There was ruddiness to his cheeks, courtesy of the mountain weather, and a bluntness in all things about him that set Lucian apart from the other leaders of Lumatere. Froi remembered little of Lucian from those few days he spent with the Monts before Lucian’s father died in the battle to reclaim Lumatere. But many believed he was a changed lad since. Lord Augie said over and over again to Lady Abian that he was too young to control his kin on the mountain and protect the kingdom from the Charynites.

  “Bastard,” Lucian said, turning to Froi. “Bastards, both of you. Fists only?”

  “Bit of wrestling thrown in,” Finnikin said. “You can’t see his bruises, but I promise they’re there.”

  Lucian had been the childhood companion of both Finnikin and Isaboe’s brother, Balthazar. The two friends still spoke of the slaughtered heir to the throne as if he were there among them, but Froi had never heard them mention Balthazar in front of Isaboe.

  “How’s Yata?” she asked, pecking her cousin’s cheek with a kiss.

  Lucian sighed. “The Guard is going to have to come up the mountain after all,” he said, not wasting time. “There’s been an incident.”

  Froi recalled the tenseness of the Mont lads downstairs. He knew it could only mean one thing. At the foot of Lucian’s mountain on the Charyn side was a cavernous valley that belonged to Lumatere. Half a day’s ride east on horseback was the closest Charyn province, and at the end of winter, Charynites had begun to take refuge in the caves that perched over the valley and alongside the stream. A bold, desperate few had sent messages through Lucian, asking for refuge in Lumatere. The queen declined, but the Charynites refused to go away and their numbers grew each day.

  Froi saw fear on the queen’s face. The threat of the Charynites was always, always on her mind.

  “For two weeks now, we’ve had a message sent up from the valley through Tesadora. A Charynite, through a contact, has requested to meet with the queen or Finnikin.”

  “Since when does a Charynite request anything of us?” the queen demanded. “They’re fortunate enough to be using our valley.”

  “Who is the contact?” Finnikin asked.

  Lucian looked away, and Froi realized he was avoiding the question.

  “Lucian?” the queen ordered.

  The Mont turned back to her and still there was a moment of hesitation. “Phaedra.”

  The room was quiet for a moment.

  “The wife you sent back?” the queen asked.

  “Do not call her that,” Lucian snapped.

  “Watch your tone, Lucian,” Finnikin warned.

  The Charynite girl was an unspoken source of tension between the Monts and the queen. At the beginning of spring, the leader of Alonso, the closest Charynite province, had traveled up the mountain with his daughter Phaedra in tow, insisting on a meeting with Lucian. The provincaro claimed that when his daughter was born, he had entered a pact with Lucian’s father to betroth their children. After almost two years of petty skirmishes between the Mont lads and the sentinels of Alonso, and talk that the provincaro of Alonso was out of sorts with his own king, Finnikin and Isaboe had agreed that perhaps they could use the situation to Lumatere’s advantage. Lucian had been furious. The girl was said to be frightened of her own shadow, spending most of her day sobbing in the corner of Lucian’s cottage. Froi had met her once. She had politely spoken to him in Lumateran about the endless rain, her pronunciation poor at times. Froi had repeated to her a lesson taught by the priest-king about what to do with particularly strange pairings of sounds. Phaedra had thanked him,
and he saw gratitude and kindness in her eyes.

  The Monts despised Phaedra for more than being a Charynite. Mont women were strong and walked side by side with their men. Phaedra could barely boil water. Six weeks later, the girl left. Some said that Lucian threw her out, others that she walked out herself, but this was the first time her name had been mentioned by Lucian.

  “And what is Phaedra doing in an unprotected valley when one would presume she should be back in her province living with her father?”

  “She works alongside Tesadora as a translator and registers the newcomers as they arrive.”

  Froi watched the queen pretend to be confused. He knew that Lucian didn’t stand a chance in this exchange.

  “Let me get this right. Phaedra failed at being a good Mont wife, but she can run a camp of hundreds of fleeing Charynites, translate for Tesadora, and has somehow managed to be affiliated with a faction demanding a meeting with my king and me?”

  Lucian turned to Finnikin for support.

  “Don’t look at me, Lucian,” Finnikin said. “Don’t even try to involve me in this one.”

  Lucian held up his hands in exasperation. “She was useless, I tell you! Even Yata would agree.”

  “Why is she still in the valley?” Isaboe demanded.

  Froi watched the flicker of regret cross the Mont’s face.

  “According to Tesadora’s girls, the provincaro refused to take his daughter back into his home. Phaedra lives in the caves now.”

  The queen nodded. Froi knew that nod. It was the gesture she used when simmering with fury.

  “The wife of the Mont leader is living in a filthy cave?”

  “You show respect for her now, my queen,” Lucian said angrily. “Yet you failed to attend my bonding ceremony.”

  “You married her in Alonso, Lucian.” The stare she sent him was cold, and apart from Finnikin, Lucian was the only man who ever dared to match it. Isaboe and her Mont cousins did this often. All of them. They fought fiercely. Loved each other fiercely. Laughed fiercely. Finnikin said it was best to leave the room and let them shout. It would all blow over soon, but for Lucian’s sake, Froi would have welcomed sooner rather than later.