‘Yes.’
‘An opportunist? This traitor friend?’ Finnikin asked. ‘Did he do it for money? Lucian mentioned what greedy, ignorant Charynites they were, those who placed themselves in charge of the camp dwellers. Do most Charynites betray for money?’
Froi felt himself bristling. ‘Well, firstly, I tend to refer to him just as a traitor these days,’ he said. ‘Not a friend. And … no. Most Charynites don’t betray for money. Most Charynites want to stay alive and hold their children in their arms.’
He regretted the words the moment he spoke them. Caught the pain in Isaboe’s eyes. But there was understanding there, as well.
‘He … the traitor didn’t do it for money,’ Froi said quietly.
‘And you know this for certain?’ Sir Topher asked. ‘Someone just wakes up one morning, Froi? And decides to betray those who trust him? But not for money? And you believe that?’
Froi sighed. ‘No, sir. I’ll explain to you how betrayal happens. A bunch of lads come up with a plan. Quite noble, if not naive,’ he said, thinking of Grijio and Satch and Olivier. ‘And then what happens is that one of the lads gets kidnapped as part of a plan hatched between a neighbouring enemy kingdom and a very secretive organisation …’
Finnikin sighed. ‘If it’s Lumatere and Rafuel’s people you’re referring to, then let’s get rid of the cryptic references. I get so confused when I haven’t slept.’
‘Yes, let’s use names,’ Isaboe said.
Froi nodded. ‘I took Olivier’s place at your instruction, and meanwhile he was held captive underground, guarded by a man, Zabat, who convinced him that he could make a difference. Except Zabat had switched sides and believed Bestiano of Nebia was the best chance for Charyn. And when Olivier of Sebastabol was released, he became what Zabat, not his original captors, wanted him to be. Which led to betrayal.’
‘In what way?’ Sir Topher asked.
‘Olivier withheld the truth,’ Froi said.
Isaboe made a sound of annoyance.
‘He doesn’t seem so naive after all,’ she said. ‘If you’re ever writing to the Charynites, Froi, tell them not to execute the smart ones. They do come in handy.’
He looked up at her again. Would Froi’s rotten corpse be lying somewhere in a ditch in Sorel if Froi was less smart?
Yes, of course it would be, her eyes told him.
Froi smiled, half bitterly, half in amusement that he would think she had lost any of her fight or backbone. That he would think that Lumatere’s charming, loving Queen and her king were any less than they presented. But they didn’t lie about who they were. They just omitted details.
Finnikin retrieved a letter and passed it to Froi. Froi’s heart hammered at the thought of Gargarin finally writing.
‘This came to us yesterday, addressed to you.’
Froi opened it, recognising the writing from a letter Simeon had sent to Lucian.
‘The Priests of Trist,’ Froi said, reading quickly, his heart heavy by the end.
‘Rafuel?’ Finnikin asked.
Froi nodded. ‘They obtained information from one of Donashe’s camp leaders and found Rafuel outside Jidia in a mine shaft with no food and only a little water trickling from a stone – skin and bones. They don’t expect him to live. They want me to pass on the news to the women of the valley as well as Japhra and Tesadora. The Priests of Trist found mad ramblings on the walls imprisoning Rafuel and the names of the women of the valley were amongst them.’
Froi heard Perri’s sound of regret.
‘Tell us about your correspondence with these Priests,’ Finnikin said.
‘The Priests of Trists wrote to Lucian first and I replied on Lucian’s behalf. They wanted to know how the scholars died.’
‘Why didn’t that order come from the Charyn palace?’ Finnikin asked.
‘Because the palace is taking care of political traitors, not personal vengeance, and what happened with the scholars … and Rafuel is about personal vengeance. The Priests had five camp leaders in their prison. They wanted to make sure those who murdered the lads were tried and executed and they didn’t want to get it wrong, especially if there was a chance that Rafuel lived.’
‘Is Rafuel of Sebastabol being alive your business?’ Trevanion asked, looking at Froi. ‘You hardly knew him except for the week he taught you about Charynite customs. You smashed his nose, last I remember.’
Froi felt the regret he always did when he thought of Rafuel these days.
‘Let’s just say that Rafuel and I go back … nineteen years. If you remember anything about the events I spoke about in the letter I gave to Finn … Your Highness, it was that I was smuggled out of the palace as a babe.’
‘By a boy.’
Froi shrugged. ‘Rafuel was that boy. So yes, him being alive is my business. And for all of your information, it won’t do us any harm finding allies in the Priests.’
Isaboe stood and walked to Froi’s side, sitting before him.
‘And that is why we need you, Froi. Talk us through it. What if we want to take a step towards peace? Who has the most power? Gargarin of Abroi? The Provincari? The godshouse?’
‘The Provincari united have the power,’ Froi said. ‘My advice is that you go to Gargarin, but you also establish a relationship with the individual Provincari. Deep down, they’re slightly impressed with Lumateran nobility. Take advantage of that. And then remember that the godshouse is important to the people and if you’re going to impress Charyn, you’re going to want to impress the godshouse.’ He looked at the Priestking. ‘They want nothing more than absolution from the blessed Barakah. They understand the pain that took place here at the hands of Charyn’s army and they know they can’t change the past, but they want to acknowledge it.’
‘How strong is their army now, Froi?’ Trevanion asked.
Froi was dreading that question. His eyes met Trevanion’s.
‘Very strong. United, it’s even stronger.’
‘If they were ever to attack …’ Isaboe asked.
‘We wouldn’t stand a chance.’
He heard the sharp intakes of breath around the room.
‘So the way I see it, we try very, very hard not to be attacked by them,’ Sir Topher said.
‘Well, we could see the situation from the side of wonder,’ Froi said.
‘Oh, there’s a side of wonder in all of this?’ Finnikin asked, sarcasm lacing his words. ‘Charyn has a new army large enough to decimate us and he tells us we’re going to look on the brighter side.’
They all stared at Froi as if he was some foolish child.
‘If we make friends with them, we’ll have a powerful ally in Charyn,’ he said.
‘Very simplistic,’ Isaboe said.
Froi shook his head with frustration. ‘It’s the way I see things now,’ he said. ‘The simpler it is to keep peace, the better our lives are. You don’t want Lumaterans to die, my queen. They don’t want Charynites to die. Trust me on that. A powerful Nebian captain surrendered and was on his knees because he didn’t want one more Charynite to die. He knew the man he surrendered to was a good man who did not want one more Charynite to die. So when good leaders don’t want their people to die, they spend quite some time trying to work out how to achieve things without going to war. It’s that simple!’
He needed to walk. He needed to count, because his blood was jumping. But most of all he needed to show them that he had control over himself. No counting. You can do this without the counting.
‘At the moment Charyn has a stable alliance between the Provincari and the way I see it, they want peace,’ he continued. ‘They need it. They may have the power to decimate a neighbouring kingdom, but they need that power to mend their decimated people.’
Isaboe took his hand. ‘You’d be our perfect envoy to them, Froi, and regardless of who … she is married to, you would still have an opportunity to … see her. Each time you visit.’
‘An arrangement that would work for us all,’ Finnikin said wi
th a shrug. Froi shook his head, wondering if his king would ever understand.
‘That’s very easy for you to say, my lord,’ he said in an even tone. ‘You’re married to the woman you love and your daughter sleeps between you.’
‘Well, if you’d really like to know, she’s getting used to her own bed now, and I wish everyone would stop going on about it,’ Isaboe said.
‘Froi –’ Finnikin said.
But Froi stood. He needed air.
‘Sit,’ Finnikin ordered. Gently.
Froi sat.
‘So you get half the dream, Froi,’ Finnikin said. ‘You can’t have the whole thing because they won’t let you. Not us. So why the anger towards Lumatere?’
‘I’m not angry at you, Finn,’ Froi said, frustrated. ‘But you can’t go around expecting me to spy and be happy with halves and whatnots while you get the whole dream.’
‘I don’t get the whole dream,’ Finnikin said. ‘My whole dream is that my wife wakes in the morning and doesn’t have to worry about an entire kingdom. That all she has to worry about is … I don’t know … looking after her husband and child.’
Isaboe choked out a laugh.
‘Or her husband looking after her, then,’ Finnikin said.
‘Wonderful. I get reduced to either a slave or a helpless idiot,’ she said, with a smile towards Finnikin. But then she was all seriousness. ‘In the games of queens and kings,’ she said to Froi, ‘we leave our dreams at the door and we make do with what we have. Sometimes if we’re fortunate, we still manage to have a good life.’
She thought about her own words for a moment and smiled.
‘We don’t want you in the Charyn palace to spy, Froi,’ she said. ‘Regardless of what you think of the situation with Celie, she is in Belegonia to provide us with an opportunity to talk. Without talk between past adversaries, we don’t stand a chance.’
‘If you want peace, you begin with the valley, then,’ Froi argued back. ‘You begin at the foot of your mountain, Isaboe!’
‘But there’s more to all of this than the valley, Froi,’ Isaboe argued. ‘If Gargarin of Abroi is as smart and noble as I’m sick of hearing he is, why has the man not written to us? To you?’
Why indeed? Froi wondered angrily.
‘When the time comes, will you travel to Charyn and begin talks between the kingdoms?’ she said.
‘When?’ Froi asked.
‘Not now. Let’s take the time to get the treaty right. As you said, perhaps we speak his language first. Water and land and how we can learn from each other. In the meantime you can write Gargarin of Abroi a letter –’
‘No,’ Froi said.
They all stared at him. Regardless of Froi’s fury and betrayal, it had been Gargarin’s order not to make contact with any of them and Froi’s pride demanded he honour that.
‘I’ll write the letter,’ Finnikin said. ‘Let it be seen that Lumatere was the first to make contact.’
In the weeks that followed, Froi found himself travelling to almost all corners of the kingdom. In the forest of Lumatere he attended a remembrance ceremony with Tesadora and the novices of both Lagrami and Sagrami. During his first year in Lumatere, Froi had spent much of his time with Perri guarding Tesadora, the Priestess and the girls. He had accompanied them when they moved their cloister back to the forest of Lumatere after ten years near the Sendecane border. Froi knew back then that he had earned trust from these women at a time when he was desperate for it, and each year when they had the remembrance ceremony, they invited Froi along.
The tree of remembrance had been planted in honour of the Charynite who had smuggled the Lagrami novices out of the palace village. It meant more to Froi now, knowing that Arjuro had been part of the escape. That morning he stood with the Priestess watching Perri carry earth to the separate plots surrounding the cloister. The novices had grown a spectacular garden of healing and Froi knew that Lumaterans from across the kingdom came to these women to cure their ailments.
‘Tesadora says you’re acquainted with the Charynite holy man who took us to her,’ the Priestess said.
Froi nodded. ‘His name’s Arjuro,’ he said. ‘He never spoke of his time in Lumatere.’
‘Yes, well who can blame him?’
‘What happened?’ Froi asked.
The Priestess held out her hand and he took it, escorting her for a walk around the gardens.
‘We met him through John, the Charynite soldier who smuggled us out of the village,’ she said. ‘The lad was working as a scout for the impostor King and heard of the heinous plans in the barracks. They wanted women in the palace as their … playthings and what better girls to have than those of the Lagrami cloister, who were close by in the palace village, and not protected by fathers and brothers?’
‘How did this … John make Arjuro’s acquaintance?’ Froi asked.
‘Earlier that month, John had been sent on a scouting mission by the impostor King’s captain to check the rest of the kingdom. The Charynites were hoping that the Sendecane and Sarnak borders were free of the curse. Your friend the holy man was camping close to the Sarnak border when John came across him. Despite the distance to the cloisters on the Sendecane border, Arjuro took John to meet Tesadora, for no other reason than that the holy man had read an instruction to lead the boy to the novices in his dreams. It would be a most symbolic meeting between them all because weeks later John of Charyn made a decision that would cost him his life. He smuggled us out of the village, for he had found the perfect place to hide us. He took us to your friend the holy man first but the palace riders had followed and we had little time for further acquaintance. The man we now know as Arjuro of Abroi drew us a map to where Tesadora was hiding the Sagrami novices, and then he and John became the decoys. We never saw them again. John of Charyn was seventeen years old when he died. Strange to think he’d be a man of more than thirty today.’
Froi looked out at the garden so similar to Arjuro’s on the roof of the godshouse.
‘Well, Arjuro survived. He’s a brilliant physician,’ Froi said, ‘and if there’s ever peace between Charyn and Lumatere, he’d welcome some of your girls as his students of healing. Your novices are smarter than the collegiati I came across in Charyn.’
Tesadora and Japhra joined them soon after and the Priestess took Tesadora’s hand. Two very different women stood before Froi, but the respect between them was fierce.
‘Are you ever going to allow him a bonding ceremony?’ the Priestess asked shrewdly.
‘Who? Froi?’ Tesadora asked and Froi laughed.
‘You know who she’s talking about,’ he said, looking over to where Perri was working.
‘She asks you every year,’ Japhra said, her voice soft.
‘I don’t need a ceremony,’ Tesadora said.
‘And what if a child comes to your union?’ the Priestess asked.
Tesadora sent her an annoyed look, but the Priestess persisted.
‘The end of the curse for Charyn means the end of the curse for you, Tesadora,’ she said.
‘I’m past the age,’ Tesadora said. Japhra made a sound of disbelief.
‘My mother birthed me at the same age as you,’ the Priestess said. ‘And the Queen’s beloved mother gave birth to her fourth and fifth children well past your age. He’s very virile, Tesadora.’
As if Perri suspected he was being spoken about, he looked across at them from where he was digging.
‘If you allow that man into your bed, be prepared to hold a child at your breast one day.’
‘Remember what John of Charyn said, Tesadora,’ one of the novices joined in. ‘That his mother was a midwife and women came to her at all ages.’
‘Yes, and his father was a man of horses and old mares dropped dead when they were carrying,’ Tesadora said, her tone tart. ‘Enough. All of you.’
Froi accompanied Tesadora and Japhra and two of their girls back up to the mountain that afternoon, his mind going over the talk of the day. There were names and f
acts he couldn’t get out of his head, for some reason.
Japhra was quiet and when they were well ahead of the others, he asked her about Rafuel.
He had spoken to Japhra about Rafuel last time he was in the valley and she had introduced him to Quintana’s women of the cave.
‘Do you love him?’ he had asked. ‘Rafuel?’
‘Does it matter?’ Japhra said. ‘My heart belongs here with Tesadora and my work, and his heart belonged in Charyn with the Priests and their work.’ She smiled. ‘But he helped me heal and one day I want to do something to repay him.’
Down in the valley, he was taken again to the women who once shared Quintana’s cave. Froi always found it hard to believe Quintana had bonded with these three: two who grumbled and argued, one who giggled and preened. But Cora, Jorja and Florenza loved his girl and they had taken care of her. If there was any reason to spend time with them, it was that. More than anything, he loved the valley. Because the valley was Lumatere and Charyn. Forest and rock and mountain.
‘If I write a letter to the palace,’ he said quietly to Cora, ‘will you sign your name to it?’
‘Why can’t you sign your own name to it?’ she demanded, making a rude sound any time he attempted to take a blade to one of the weeds in her vegetable garden that now lined the path along the stream.
‘Because I promised I wouldn’t,’ Froi said.
Florenza of Nebia nudged Cora.
‘Of course, you’ll do it, Cora. Or I will. I want to write to Phaedra anyway.’
Cora grumbled.
‘Don’t you go upsetting our little savage,’ Cora warned. ‘That’s all you men are good for. Upsetting women.’
‘What’s the letter about?’ Jorja asked.
‘It’s just a story I heard that may interest them,’ Froi said. ‘About a young man named John. John of Charyn.’
I start my day counting. And it slows down the rage. And only then, when the rage is a melody, do I go see the little King, so he’ll hear a hum of joy the moment I speak. He knows me, this strange little creature. And it feels goods to be known this well. It makes me less lonely. Because I think I’ve lost my song to Froi. It was taken when the spirits of the unborn babes went away. I miss them. I miss blaming them for the rage and my cold, cold heart. In the end, the sum of my vices is all me. I was sired by a tyrant and a gods’ blessed. Sometimes, I’ve no idea which part of me is more frightening.
Quintana of Charyn Page 39