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.
‘Let’s go,’ Trevanion said quietly.
Gargarin of Abroi had instructed the Belegonians that he would be waiting in an inn five miles north of the Charynite barracks. It was the only ale house for miles upon miles and was frequented by the Charynite soldiers guarding the border, as well as people from a cluster of isolated villages. Finnikin had been advised by the ambassador that the Belegonian army was camped further upriver on the Osterian side with Osteria’s blessing, a sign of great intimidation and provocation to Charyn. Would the Belegonians be so ready for attack if they had received Gargarin of Abroi’s letter asking for an alliance? Instead, that letter had been intercepted by Celie and passed on to Finnikin. In trapping the man who had planned the slaughter of Isaboe’s family, had Lumatere inadvertently triggered a Belegonian invasion?
Finnikin stayed focused, and thought over the instructions given by Gargarin of Abroi. The man would carry a walking stick as a means of identification. He would greet them with the words, ‘You’re a far way from home.’ He would set out a treaty between Charyn and Belegonia which would acknowledge him as the one who would return the true heir to the palace. Finnikin remembered the words in the note. The Lumaterans need not know of our alliance. We’ll talk later about what to do with them. Leave it to me, for I have a plan for Lumatere that will eliminate them as a threat.
Finnikin’s blood chilled just to think of it again.
As they guided their horses through the trees he found himself back in the past. He thought he heard a whistle, and imagined the sight of her: Evanjalin of the Monts. Her hair cropped short, her arms hacked from her need to bleed so she could walk the sleep. He cursed himself for his weakness because what he felt for her then paled in comparison to how he felt now. Despite the fury at her speaking another man’s name that carved at his insides, Finnikin had never desired his wife as much as he did this moment.
Suddenly Trevanion held up a hand and they slowed their horses. Finnikin watched his father dismount. The smell of horse shit was overwhelming. Whoever had stopped at this place had not travelled alone.
‘A small army has been here, it seems,’ Trevanion said.
‘Could the Belegonians have already crossed?’ Perri asked.
Trevanion shook his head. ‘No. The Belegonians are on foot. This group has horses.’
‘The barracks are close by,’ Finnikin said.
‘This was a rest stop for someone travelling a distance.’ Trevanion looked up at them. ‘At least twenty. Pity whoever it is they’re after.’
They tethered the horses and set up camp in a clearing some distance from the inn. Quietly Finnikin changed his clothing. Trevanion and Perri would wait here, concealed, until Finnikin returned with the man, but Finnikin would have to look the part convincingly. The Belegonians wore their clothing more fitted, and bolder in colours.
‘Cover up, Finn,’ his father said and Finnikin pulled the cap over his head, covering every strand of his berry-coloured hair. If anything would give him away, it would always be its colour. He had to be careful. He had to steady his hand so Gargarin of Abroi would not see it shaking.
‘When the time comes, you don’t have –’ his father began to say.
‘It’s my duty,’ Finnikin interrupted. ‘What these people did to Isaboe’s family will haunt her for the rest of her life.’
He walked the trail to the inn. Charyn afternoons were eaten by an early darkness, lit with a strange moonless hue. Closer, he heard the voices and knew that soon enough he’d reach the isolated inn. This is where he would kill a man tonight. He’d lead Gargarin of Abroi back to this very place and slit his throat. And regardless of everything, he’d do it for her.
There were the usual stares as he walked in. But with the threat of Belegonia invading, the inn was frequented by travellers rather than soldiers. So the stares were not for long. And then Finnikin saw a man with a walking stick enter alongside a woman of great beauty. Every man in the room stared.
‘Mercy,’ Finnikin muttered. There was never any talk that Gargarin of Abroi would have a companion. The moment they were seated, Finnikin joined them, his eyes meeting the man’s cold stare. Cold, but handsome. Gargarin of Abroi’s hair was coal-black, which contrasted alarmingly with his pale skin and dark-blue eyes. There was silence and Finnikin felt studied by both of them. For all her beauty, there was little warmth in the woman. But in their fine pelt cloaks, the two looked regal. Apart from Trevanion and Beatriss, a more striking couple he had never seen.
‘You’re a far way from home,’ the man said in Charyn.
That I am, Finnikin wanted to say. He nodded.
‘I don’t trust him,’ the woman said to her companion.
The Charynite held up a hand to wave over the servant. When the lad arrived, Gargarin of Abroi turned to his woman.
‘I’ll order us food,’ he said quietly. Gently. He looked up at the lad. ‘What have you got?’
‘Leftovers.’
‘Always a favourite,’ Gargarin said dryly. Finnikin watched him reach a hand over to touch the women’s gaunt cheek. ‘I’m begging you to eat, Lirah.’
‘I can’t stomach food. I told you.’
‘If he sees you like this, he’ll blame me.’
The woman wrapped her arms around her body miserably. ‘Shouldn’t have let them go,’ she said quietly.
It was as though Finnikin didn’t exist and although he tried his hardest, he couldn’t keep his eyes off them both. Before him was love and contempt and yearning and it filled the air.
Then the food came, yet there was still no acknowledgement from the Charynites.
‘Did we organise to meet so I could watch you eat?’ Finnikin asked finally.
Gargarin lifted his eyes from his plate and stared. ‘Your army is waiting to cross the border from Osteria,’ he said, ice in his tone. ‘You have our people running scared. A strange turn of events since we exchanged letters.’
‘Yes, you’re quite the letter writer,’ Finnikin said, cursing the Belegonians for persisting with their plan to invade, despite Isaboe’s objections. ‘Give me something to offer my king and I may be able to speak to him about h
is eager soldiers.’
The woman spat at Finnikin.
‘Offer him that,’ she said.
Finnikin refused to allow his anger to surface. ‘That’s very rude,’ he said, wiping the spittle from his face. ‘Especially since, unlike you, leftovers are my least favourite.’
‘We promised you peace between our kingdoms, unheard of for at least thirty years,’ Gargarin said. ‘Why would Belegonia not take advantage of such a pledge?’
‘But what if Bestiano is offering Belegonia the same?’ Finnikin asked.
Through the information collected about Charyn, Finnikin knew that the battle for the palace would take place between two men. Bestiano of Nebia and Gargarin of Abroi.
‘Bestiano was the dead King’s advisor,’ Gargarin said. ‘Why would he offer Belegonia peace now when he had years to offer it while the King was alive? He wants something from you and he’ll promise you nothing but lies.’
‘And what do you want from us in return?’
‘A powerful ally. The Osterians are weak. They’ll give in to the Sorellians one day and we will all be left unprotected. What happens when the Sorellians cross the sea to invade your kingdom?’
‘We’ll have the Lumaterans. They’re our allies and neighbours.’
Gargarin of Abroi shrugged arrogantly. ‘Lumatere’s not a kingdom. It’s a road.’ He smiled. ‘Would you not agree?’
‘You’re forcing words in my mouth, sir,’ Finnikin said, keeping his tone even. ‘Is this a trap by the Lumaterans to test our allegiance?’
‘No, just a jest enjoyed by most Charynites and Belegonians I know.’
‘We must have a different sense of humour,’ Finnikin said, his hands clenched under the bench.
‘Oh no,’ the Charynite said. ‘Your kingdom and mine? Power and size ensures we have the same sense of humour. We all agree that Lumatere is insignificant except when it comes to its coal.’
That was all Lumatere ever was to Charyn. A road to Sarnak. A road to Belegonia and a coalmine. Murder Isaboe’s family, replace them with a puppet king who would give them a path to wherever they wanted to go. Finnikin swallowed, hardly able to speak from the fury.
‘So what will we get out of acknowledging you as regent?’ he asked Gargarin.
‘I never claimed to be regent. I’m here to speak for Charyn until the day that someone sound of mind is placed in charge. And you need an ally. Against Sorel to your east, and those Yut madmen to your south, who are going to bring the whole of Skuldenore down. United, we could be powerful. Divided, this land does not stand a chance.’
The only thing this Charynite and Finnikin had in common was the belief that Skuldenore would work better together than alone.
‘Call off the army,’ Gargarin said. ‘For now, that’s all we ask. Give us a chance to stand on our feet.’
Finnikin stood. ‘I’ll take you to the border. You may get the chance to call them off yourself.’
‘Then you accept the offer?’
‘I need to speak to the King,’ Finnikin said. ‘He didn’t seem to trust your letters and he wanted some sort of certainty that this wasn’t a trap.’
Finnikin held out a hand to shake.
‘But how do we know this isn’t a trap?’ Gargarin asked, not taking the hand outstretched. ‘That you aren’t playing Bestiano against us?’
‘You don’t. But many say that Bestiano of Nebia became First Advisor because the King sent his better men to Lumatere thirteen years ago, only to have them trapped by the curse. We don’t make treaties with last-resort advisors. You, however, were said to be everything a king wanted, and you walked away from it all. The Belegonian King is impressed.’
‘Well, there you go,’ Gargarin of Abroi said. ‘Always pleased to impress a foreign enemy. The King of Yutlind Nord remarked quite emphatically that he found me smarter than most men, and expressed great pity that he could not come to our assistance because he hated the Charynites as much as he hated his countrymen from the south.’
‘And how is it that you know the King of Yutlind Nord?’
‘Well, you see,’ Gargarin said, leaning closer to feign a conspiratorial whisper, ‘I’m a bit of a letter writer.’
Finnikin was being mocked. The only person who got away with mocking him was Froi and perhaps Perri. This man slightly intrigued him, which was unfortunate when Finnikin knew what was to take place this night. It actually made him feel sick to the stomach.
‘So when do I get to meet someone more important than you?’ Gargarin asked.
‘More important than me?’ Finnikin scoffed. ‘According to my wife, there is no one more important than me.’
A ghost of a smile appeared on the Charynite’s face.
‘Keep that wife.’
Finnikin stood.
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
‘Hand him his staff,’ the woman ordered.
Finnikin stared at it.
‘You need it?’ he asked Gargarin.
‘Yes, well, it is a walking stick, fool.’
Finnikin had never killed an unarmed man with a limp before. Apart from training with the Guard and an incident with drunk yokels in Sarnak the year before on palace business, he hadn’t used a weapon since the battle to reclaim Lumatere. He was good with a sword. Not as good as Trevanion’s Guard, but better than most men. But he had never assassinated a man. It made him think of all those times Trevanion, Perri and Froi had done so on palace orders over the years. His and Isaboe’s. Sometimes the men would return from their mission and he’d sense a change in his father. A mood so dark. Perri always disappeared for days after and Froi … Froi would have a vacant look in his eye. As if he had lost a bit of himself.
Outside the inn, Finnikin watched the man and woman before him. They were of the same height. Both reed thin. And they loved each other. That was the fact Finnikin wanted to forget. That he was about to assassinate a man who loved someone. Who was gentle with her and cared whether she ate or not. But Finnikin remembered the stories of past leaders from the books of the ancients. The kindest of fathers were often the greatest butchers of innocent women and children.
When they reached the clearing, Finnikin saw Perri and his father. Unlike Gargarin of Abroi, he knew where to look for them in the shadow of the trees. And before he could change his mind, Finnikin had one arm around the Charynite’s shoulders, the other hand holding a dagger at his throat. Finnikin kicked away the man’s staff and Gargarin of Abroi’s body slumped against him.
He heard a sound from the woman as Perri’s hand muffled her cry and pulled her away.
‘Don’t hurt her!’ Gargarin said. Almost ordered. ‘Just let her go. She’s of no use to Bestiano. She’s suffered enough. If you have any compassion, let her go.’
Finnikin tightened his grip. ‘I don’t follow your orders and I don’t follow Bestiano’s,’ he said. ‘I’m just a fool who comes from that road you call Lumatere.’
He silenced the man’s shout with a hand, pressing the dagger closer to his throat. But suddenly he heard the rustle of leaves underfoot behind him and felt the tip of steel pressed into his back.
‘Drop the dagger,’ he heard a hoarse whisper say. ‘Drop it now!’
Gargarin of Abroi tried to turn in Finnikin’s arms and Finnikin sensed his desperation. The knife he held to the Charynite’s throat drew blood as Gargarin struggled. Behind Finnikin, the sword dug deeper into his back.
‘I said drop it!’
Mercy!
And just when Finnikin thought the moment could get no worse, he heard his father’s voice. Cold. Hard. Anguished.
‘Put down the sword, Froi, or I’ll slice your head clear from your body.’
Lord Tascan and his family’s visit to the mountain was met with great enthusiasm. At first. Yata received them in her home and Lucian spent the afternoon showing them the dairy farms and the silo. Lucian was keen to set up an agreement between the Monts and the Flatland lords. The first of Lumatere’s market days with the Belegonians an
d Osterians had been a success for the kingdom, but the Monts had been absent, due to Phaedra’s death in the valley. Their hearts had not been in it. But Lucian believed it was time to show the rest of the kingdom that they were more than just sentinels.
And here Lord Tascan was, as keen as Lucian desired. But when the nobleman insisted he accompany Lucian alone on a tour of the stables, Lucian quickly came to understand the truth behind his visit.
‘I’m not going to waste time here, Lucian,’ he said, as they inspected the stalls. Lucian was hoping to show off the size of their boars to Lord Tascan, but he didn’t seem interested.
‘Since our return to Lumatere I’ve watched you carefully and have been impressed with your potential, lad. But then, of course, there was the unfortunate marriage to the Charynite. All behind you now.’
Lucian stiffened. When he had visited the palace village a week past, friends and acquaintances had approached, one after the other, with hearty congratulations.
‘It must be a relief,’ the weaver had said.
Relief?
The sun appearing after days of rain or darkness was a relief. Orly and Lotte’s news that Gert and Bert had finally found each other and would produce the finest calf known to the mountain was a relief. Phaedra of Alonso’s death was a never-ending pain that gnawed at his insides. It made him a prisoner in his own cottage.
‘Lucian, this kingdom would love nothing more than your betrothment to my daughter, Zarah.’
Sweet Goddess.
‘It will bring opportunity to both our villages and it will bring light back to this mountain. Isn’t that what you want, Lucian? I’ve seen your yata. This marriage to the Charynite darkened her doorstep.’
No, her death did, Lucian wanted to say. Yata had come to admire Phaedra. Even love her.
‘Zarah’s a good daughter, Lucian. The Osterian court held her in high regard when we lived there during the curse.’
‘I don’t want to offend your daughter, sir –’
Quintana of Charyn Page 7