The Lumatere Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy

by Melina Marchetta

  Froi waited, looking to Perabo for answers.

  “I can’t have you riding into battle,” Gargarin said. “We need you for something else.”

  Gargarin’s stare was deadly.

  “You’re going to steal into that camp and put him down, Froi.”

  Froi heard Perabo’s hiss of satisfaction.

  “We want Bestiano dead.”

  When the sun rose and every soldier in the fortress was in place, Froi found Grijio in the bailey. The last born was with the Turlans, sitting on his horse, waiting for word.

  “Are you frightened?” Froi asked.

  “Of course I’m frightened,” Grij said, looking over Froi’s shoulder to where De Lancey was watching them from the entrance of the keep.

  “Gargarin won’t let my father come along,” he said. “Dolyn and Ariston agree.”

  “Well, he’s injured.”

  “It’s not that. They can’t afford to lose a provincaro who will favor the palace in the future. Father ordered that I stay, too, but I told him I couldn’t. I made these plans with Tariq and Satch . . . and even Olivier. That we’d save her. I can’t do that hiding behind my father’s title. And I may not be good with a sword, but I’m fast with a horse.”

  Froi noticed Mort close by on his mount. Grijio was to travel with the Turlans, who would tear through Bestiano’s defenses and get to the Lumateran valley in the hope of finding Quintana there. The Lasconians would stay behind and fight, and if all was true, the Desantos army would decimate the Nebians from the north. Regardless of everything, it meant more dead Charynite lads who didn’t know what they were fighting for, judging from Fekra’s hopelessness. But Froi couldn’t afford to care. He was one step closer to Quintana.

  “You take care of him, Mort,” Froi said, holding a hand up to Grijio, who shook it firmly.

  “Provincaro says I not to let Grij out of sight,” Mort said.

  “Keep safe, Froi,” Grijio said.

  Froi patted Grijio’s mount and then walked back to De Lancey and Arjuro.

  “I’m going to see them off from the wall,” De Lancey said in a low voice.

  Arjuro and Froi watched him walk away.

  “Are you ready?” Arjuro asked.

  “I’ve been ready since I left Lumatere,” Froi said. He caught the expression on Arjuro’s face. “Why look so sad, Arjuro, when I promise I’ll return to you with some part of my body to sew up?”

  Arjuro didn’t have a sense of humor that morning, and Froi walked away because saying good-bye to Arjuro was always hard.

  Lirah waited for him by the well, and they sat awhile in silence, watching Perabo organize the Lasconians. Unlike the time at the gate, Florik was ready. He held up a hand of acknowledgment to Froi, and Froi returned the gesture.

  He tried hard not to think of what would take place beyond any sort of rescue. All he could think of was seeing Quintana and not letting her go. But what would Froi’s place in the new Charyn be? Would he be a foot soldier in the army or one of Perabo’s palace soldiers? Would he live in the godshouse with Arjuro and Lirah? And who would he be? Froi of the Lumateran Exiles or Dafar of Abroi? Would he watch his son grow, thinking of him merely as an acquaintance? And what of Lumatere? If he left, did he ever have a chance of returning there again?

  “I was born from the union between my father . . . and his oldest daughter,” Lirah said.

  Froi flinched.

  “So my mother was in fact my sister, and oh, how she despised me. Who would blame her? The moment our father died, she sold me to feed her younger children. I was twelve. If I was less beautiful, she would have sold me to a Serker pig farmer who needed the labor, but this face bought me a place in the palace.”

  “Labor on a pig farm isn’t so bad,” he said, thinking of what she endured in the palace.

  “Yes, I agree, but if she had sold me to the farmer, I’d have been slaughtered with the rest of Serker not even seven years later. So let’s just say that this face bought me my life . . . ours.”

  Ours. Froi belonged to Lirah. Ours. He would like that word from here on. It would mean something different, something more.

  “There was a woman in the pen with me. It’s what they called the cart we traveled in from Serker to the Citavita. The pen, because we were treated like animals. And through all the misery, she said that some of us in this lifetime experience a moment of beauty beyond reckoning. I asked her what that was, and she said, ‘If you’re one of the lucky ones, you’ll know it when you see it. You’ll understand why the gods have made you suffer. Because that moment’s reward will make your knees weak and everything you’ve suffered in life will pale in comparison.’”

  Lirah stared at him. “Some women claim that moment happens at the sight of their child for the first time.” She shook her head. “But I caught a glimpse of you when you were born and then you were gone. I felt nothing except more yearning and despair and misery.

  “And then . . . tonight you sang Charyn’s ballad with Arjuro and I thought, Ah, there it is. That’s why I’ve suffered all my life. For this moment of beauty and perfection.” Her eyes pooled with tears. “It didn’t come from looking at you or even hearing your voice. It came from seeing the expression on Gargarin’s face. He was looking at the wonder of what we made together. Our son, Dafar of Abroi. I’d suffer it all again just to know that moment was there in my life.”

  She gripped his hand.

  “You said to me once that you weren’t what I dreamed of. You were right. You surpass everything I dreamed of. Even the rot in you that’s caused you to do shameful things. Some men let the rot and guilt fester into something ugly beyond words. Few men can turn it into worth and substance. If you’re gods’ blessed for no other reason, it’s for that.”

  And then she was gone, disappearing through the entrance that would take her to the room she shared with Gargarin. But not for long. A new Charyn meant that a gravina would lie between Lirah and Gargarin.

  They heard a shout from one of the guards on the wall. Fekra had given his signal, which meant that the sentinel he replaced was well out of sight. Ariston and his men rode out first, followed by Perabo, who led the Lasconians. Froi rode last, and his eyes met Gargarin’s, who stood at the gate.

  “Don’t take chances,” Gargarin begged. “Do what you need to do, and don’t take chances.”

  Froi stopped, waiting until the others were out of hearing distance.

  “Will you promise me something?” he asked.

  Gargarin nodded, and Froi could see he was shaking.

  “Allow me the honor to name my son,” Froi said, his voice husky with emotion. “He’ll be called Tariq. Tariq of the Citavita.”

  “It will be a boy,” the oldest woman on the mountain told Isaboe. She had never once guessed wrong. It was all about the roundness of Isaboe’s belly and the shape of her face. As she stood naked among her kinswomen, she caught her yata’s eye and saw the flash of emotion. A boy. A king. Balthazar.

  The women on the mountain had gathered in Yata’s home to watch the blessing of the unborn. It was a tradition among the Monts.

  “He’ll come into this world with secrets,” the oldest woman on the mountain said. “But only few remember what they are by the time they are old enough to speak. Perhaps yours will be the one, my queen. Perhaps your son’s secrets will cure that which ails this land.”

  Isaboe’s young cousin Agata held a small bowl of oil from a Mont olive tree, with a sprinkle of sage in it, and Isaboe shivered when she felt the old woman’s cold fingers on her skin. “Your milk is strong. It will feed a king.”

  There was a murmuring of appreciation from the others. “He’s ready,” the old woman said. “Wherever he is now, he’ll follow your voice home. Talk to him, my queen.”

  Isaboe thought for a moment. She remembered her words to Jasmina before her daughter had entered this world. The oldest woman on the mountain had guessed right that time. “You will have a daughter and she longs to hear your voice.” Late
r, after the birth, Isaboe had spoken to Finnikin about it. “I told Jasmina that she belonged to Lumatere’s rebirth and that she would be loved for the hope she brought to this kingdom.”

  But what would she say to this babe, now that she could not get the priest-king’s words out of her head? That spirits have their own world and language long before they enter ours? Each night since Celie and the blessed Barakah had come to visit, Isaboe had studied the mad Yut’s chronicle and learned to say the words in her heart so that her child could hear and understand.

  Be my guide, beloved son. Rid me of my malice and my fury. Don’t let it be suckled from my breast.

  “I’ve smelled you all,” Quintana said bluntly to Phaedra and the women late that afternoon in the cave. “This whole week. You’ve smothered me.”

  “Because our days of bleeding all came at the same time,” Cora said. “It’s a sign. We need to bathe now that it’s over. Together.”

  “To cleanse ourselves?” Florenza asked.

  “There’s nothing dirty about us,” her mother said. “It’s a blessing. We’ve been given a gift of unity. It’s our gift to Quintana of Charyn and her child. The coming of the blood is renewal. So we celebrate it together.”

  “Bathe?” The princess stared at Cora, all savage teeth. “If you place my head under water, I’ll —”

  “Yes, yes. You’ll slice us from ear to ear,” Cora said, dismissively. “We’ve heard it before. Up you get.”

  Despite the warmer spring days, the evening air was cool. They undressed by the rocks on the stream, hanging their clothing on the branches nearby.

  “I don’t like to put my head in the water,” Quintana said for the umpteenth time.

  “A bit of water over your head never hurts, and if —” Cora stopped, a sort of horror and wonder in her eyes. The others followed her gaze, and in the half light of the moon, they stared in fascination at Quintana’s bare, scarred body.

  “It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen,” Ginny said, referring to the belly. Phaedra had to agree. Sometimes when she was walking behind Quintana, it was difficult to believe she was carrying anything. But it was Quintana’s scars that made Phaedra want to weep, a cruel reminder of what the princess had endured at the hands of Charyn.

  Phaedra suddenly felt conscious of her own bareness. They all did, except for Ginny, who was pleased with her form, as one would expect her to be. Charynite women were not like their Lumateran sisters. It was the way they were raised. Phaedra wondered if the curse had made them all more inhibited or whether it had been like that since the beginning of time.

  Florenza was the first to wade into the stream, squealing from the cold. Phaedra thought that she was being precious, and then she stepped in and squealed herself, until they all were there, shushing each other but laughing all the same.

  No matter how hard she scrubbed, Phaedra couldn’t remove the layers of dirt and grime, but after a while she didn’t care anymore. They all seemed bewitched by the moon’s glow on the water and they waded toward a place in the center of the stream where its shimmering surface beckoned them. They held on to each other, arms around shoulders, in a circle of something so strange that it made Phaedra feel a lightness of being.

  “Did you like Florenza when you first saw her, Jorja?” Quintana asked, teeth chattering as she gripped Phaedra and Cora around the neck.

  “We won’t let your head go under, so you mustn’t hold so tight,” Cora said. At first, Quintana refused to listen, but then Phaedra felt her hold loosen.

  “What a thing to ask,” Florenza said with a laugh. “Of course Mother liked me.”

  “What I fear most is that I won’t like him,” Quintana continued. “I don’t know what I’ll say to the little king when I first see him.”

  “You’ll know what to feel and say the moment you first see him and not a moment before,” Jorja promptly said.

  “But what if Florenza was the ugliest babe in the world and you couldn’t bear to touch her?” Quintana demanded to know.

  “Well, she was quite ugly, come to think of it,” Jorja said, and Florenza laughed even more. “All babies are quite ugly.”

  Jorja pressed a kiss to Florenza’s cheek. Despite Florenza’s broken nose and bruised face, Jorja still looked at her daughter as if she were the most beautiful creature the gods had ever made. Phaedra remembered her mother looking at her in such a way, those days before the plague took her. If Phaedra had been certain of anything, it had been of her mother’s love.

  “How did it feel, Jorja?” Phaedra asked. Never had she dared imagine Lucian’s child in her arms. It was too cruel a dream. “To hold your babe for the first time, I mean?”

  Jorja thought a moment. “I cried for my mother. I was a very spoiled young girl, and my mother and the servants had done everything for me.”

  They heard a snap of a twig, and Ginny cried out softly.

  “We’ll be safe. Don’t you worry,” she blurted out, staring into the semi-darkness.

  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 that 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 neighbors would have on theirs. To be honest, I did it more for him than for 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.” Jorja 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. 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.”

  “Luc-ien?” Phaedra said, surprised to hear suc
h 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 travelers 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 traveler 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.