“Your father lives in the chamber beside us, Finnikin. You speak to him every night and every morning, and if for some reason you can’t sleep through the night, you speak to him then as well. Do you not see that as an attachment?”
She waited for his response, and he chose not to reply because then they’d get into a discussion about why Trevanion had not announced his betrothment to Beatriss yet, which would lead back to a discussion about empty Flatland villages. Then they would both fall asleep thinking of neighborless Flatlanders and Finnikin would wake up in the dark, despairing for his kingdom. Not able to get back to sleep, he’d knock on his father’s door, because Trevanion didn’t sleep either, and then Isaboe would win this argument.
“True enough,” he said with a sigh. He could see her mind was already elsewhere and he knew exactly where.
“Sleep and don’t think about it,” he said. He was sick and tired of the subject of Charyn.
“How can I not?” she asked. “Barren wombs and curses. If you ask me, they’ve poisoned all their children.”
“If only you did believe that, then we could kill the Charynite in the mountain and banish those in the valley and not send Froi into the unknown.”
Isaboe turned to face him. “But you must think it’s all strange?”
“Isaboe,” he said, exasperated. “Unbeknownst to us, our neighboring kingdom has not birthed a child for eighteen years. How can I not think it strange?”
She placed a finger to her lips as a sign for him to lower his voice. “I know you,” she whispered. “I know you’re trying to find reason where there is no place for it.”
“Reason failed halfway down that mountain,” he said. “I think Rafuel of Sebastabol speaks sincerely.”
“Then you seriously want me to consider this plan for Froi?”
“I don’t think we will ever get into that fortress any other way,” he said.
“It’s too perfect,” she said. “We want the king dead. They want the king dead. They need an assassin who is of age and speaks Charyn. We have an assassin who is of age and speaks Charyn.”
She looked at him, pained. “How would they have known?” she whispered. “Do you think we have Charyn spies in Lumatere?”
They had spoken often of spies in the early days after the curse was lifted. Exiles had entered the kingdom with nothing to vouch for the fact that they were indeed Lumateran. Anyone could have been a spy. They both knew that there was still a lack of trust between those who had been trapped inside and the exiles. Regardless of the years of progress, it would be some time before their kingdom was back to what it once was.
Finnikin sighed and reached over to blow out the candle, and they lay silent, listening to Jasmina’s breathing.
“I hate them,” she said moments later. “It hurts to hate this much, but I do. I want them all dead, especially everyone in that cursed palace. I think of that abomination of a princess, and I want her dead as much as her father. Because I want to lie down to sleep and not imagine them coming over our mountain and annihilating my yata and Mont cousins first. I don’t want to imagine them clearing the Flatlands, turning our river into a bloodbath, storming your Rock village. I want to stop thinking of them coming through the castle doors and doing to our daughter what they did to my sisters and my mother and father.”
He felt her breath on him as she leaned close.
“Promise me, my love. Promise me that if they come through the palace doors and there’s no hope, you do what you have to do. You make it quick for her so she doesn’t suffer.”
Finnikin swallowed hard. He remembered the first time he was forced to make Isaboe such a heinous promise as Jasmina suckled from her breast.
“Let’s not talk of these things, Isaboe.”
He gathered them both to him, and he felt her lips against the back of his hand. At times like this, he ached for her, but sometimes there was more between them than their daughter.
“I’ve never spoken of this,” she said quietly in the dark, “but when we lost Froi in Sprie that first time, I didn’t return for the ruby ring he stole from me. It was as if I was sent there to search for him.”
Finnikin was quiet. He had always felt threatened by the bond between Isaboe and Froi. They shared a desperation to survive, and there was a feralness and a darkness about them that he envied fiercely, though he was frightened by what this might mean.
“I’ve questioned the intentions of the goddess these past three years, and she has whispered to me over and over again, ‘You will lose him.’” He felt Isaboe shudder. “I have a bad feeling about this, Finnikin.”
He leaned over and kissed her. “And I have a bad feeling that I’ll never have a moment on my own with you again,” he murmured. He heard a sound coming from Jasmina, and he lay back down on his side again.
“Tomorrow,” she whispered, “between me seeing the Flatland lords about the cistern system and you placating the fishmongers about the taxes, I think we may be close to the guest closet on the third landing before I have to go off and speak to the ambassador about Belegonia and you have to speak to Beatriss about Sennington.” She paused. “We’ll have time.”
He sighed. “So I’m reduced to taking my wife up against a wall in a palace closet?”
She chuckled in the dark.
“And why do I have to speak to Beatriss?” he asked with a groan. “I’d rather speak to the ambassador about Belegonia.”
“She may not have given birth to you, but Beatriss loved you as a mother in the years she was betrothed to your father, and still does. Perhaps you’re the best person to speak to her, or Tesadora if she returns to her senses and comes back up the mountain. Beatriss can’t live in that dead village any longer, Finnikin.”
He was pensive a moment. “Tesadora reacted strangely to the news of the Charynite. She was not surprised about the curse, and then she left all of a sudden and I could swear it seemed as though she would cry.”
“Tesadora doesn’t cry.”
“And you should have seen Perri’s face. He was quiet through our whole journey home.”
She sat up and lit the candle by her bedside.
“Why didn’t you ask him what was wrong?” she asked, alarmed. “If Tesadora was almost crying and Perri was stranger than usual?”
He shrugged. “What would I have said?”
She made a rude sound.
“What?” he asked.
“You men are useless.”
Finnikin sighed. “We choose to mind our business and we’re useless?”
She shook her head. “Do you know the difference between you and me?”
“An obvious one or not so obvious?”
She ignored the question. “I speak to other women about life and death and what upsets us and what confuses us and what we’d want to change in our lives. And you, my love, talk to men about what the terminology is for this.” She made a strange movement with her hands.
“Is that a death blow to the nose?”
She gave him a withering look, blowing out the candle.
“That’s harsh, Isaboe. We talk about more than that.”
“Such as?”
“Life,” he snapped. “Life . . . things. Things to do with life.”
“Then have you spoken to your father about when he is going to have a bonding ceremony with Beatriss?”
He sighed.
“Because that’s life, Finnikin. The life of two people very dear to me. And I believe your father is going to ruin everything by not speaking of the past. Still not talking about it after three years.”
“Do they have to talk about the past?” he asked.
“Yes. They were lovers once. She gave birth to his babe, rest that precious soul. Yet they haven’t grieved together.”
“This is not your concern, Isaboe.” He thought for a moment. “Although Trevanion was strangely quiet on the way home. Everyone was strange.”
“I’m not just speaking for Beatriss, Finnikin. I’m speaking for Trevan
ion. He is your father, and in my heart, he is the only father I have. I want him to be happy, and I know that without her, he isn’t.”
“He’s wonderful with Vestie,” he said, thinking of Beatriss’s daughter, who was born under horrific circumstances during the curse. “He would do anything for her.”
“And I commend him for that. I could imagine how hard it would be for him to feel so strongly about another man’s child. A tyrant’s child. But it’s Vestie who will be hurt the most, Finnikin. Find out what you can.”
“Ah, so I’m not going to see Beatriss to speak about Sennington. I’m going to speak about my father?”
She pressed her lips against his shoulder.
“I’ve married the smartest man in Lumatere.”
“And I’ve married the most scheming woman in the whole of the land.”
She feigned a haughty sniff, moving away. “If it all seems like a scheme, I may have to withdraw my offer of a tryst in the closet tomorrow.”
This time Finnikin chuckled.
“Withdraw the offer and I will dash my head against a stone wall.”
Froi took leave from Lord August’s village and spent the next week in the mountains with Trevanion and Perri, interrogating the Charynite. Although the Captain hadn’t confirmed for certain that Froi was going to Charyn, Froi knew he was there with them for reasons other than his skill with the Charyn language.
“It’s one of the best-defended castles in the entire land,” Rafuel explained to them, “and it has little to do with the Guard or soldiers and everything to do with the actual stone and structure.” The Charynite drew them a picture, and Froi committed it to memory, translating the information to Trevanion and Perri.
“Ask him more about the last borns,” Trevanion requested.
“First, there is Quintana of Charyn,” Rafuel began when Froi asked. “She was the very last to be born to the entire kingdom on the day of weeping.”
“Only her?” Froi asked. “Was there no one else born that day?”
“Then there are those born last to their province,” Rafuel continued, ignoring the question. “Grijio of Paladozza and Olivier of Sebastabol, for example, were born to their provinces three days and five days prior to Quintana’s birth. Tariq was born to his people a month before Quintana. Satch of Desantos was born last in his province six months before. And every girl born in the same year as Quintana is marked as a last-born.”
“Gods,” Trevanion muttered. “He better be speaking the truth when he claims those girls have gone to ground.”
Froi repeated Trevanion’s words. He saw Rafuel’s teeth clench.
“Do you Lumaterans believe you protect your women better than we protect ours?” he asked.
“The captain judges Charynite men by the way they treated Lumateran women. His beloved was dragged into the beds of your men time and time again and gave birth during the curse,” Froi said.
“Not my men,” Rafuel said bitterly. “Mine are peaceful scholars down in that valley. And the Charyn army may have raped. That I won’t deny. But it’s not only our women who are barren,” Rafuel said. “The seed of a Charynite male is useless. Whoever fathered Beatriss of the Flatlands’ child is no Charynite.”
Froi stared at him, stunned. He looked up at Trevanion and Perri. Through the mere mention of Beatriss’s name, they would have comprehended Rafuel’s words, regardless of the speed at which Rafuel was speaking. Perri had paled. Worse still, Froi saw the truth on Trevanion’s face. The captain already knew. He would have known from the moment Rafuel of Sebastabol revealed the curse days ago.
“Ask him about their gods,” Trevanion said, as if nothing had occurred.
Rafuel spent the rest of the day speaking mostly of Charyn customs and their beliefs, their produce and their gods. There were too many gods to learn by heart. In Lumatere, there was Lagrami and Sagrami, one goddess worshipped as two deities for hundreds of years. Even in Sarnak, where Froi had grown up, Sagrami was worshipped. Sagra, he grew up cursing. Once or twice the word would slip out in the presence of the queen, who despised the way Froi’s Sarnak mentors had butchered the name of the goddess.
“It’s sacrilege,” she’d say coldly.
Listening to Rafuel now, Froi was intrigued by the idea that at the age of thirteen, Charynites chose the god who would guide them for the rest of their days. Rafuel’s was Trist, the god of knowledge. Froi imagined he would choose a warrior god.
From the third day on, Trevanion and Perri whispered between themselves unless Froi had to convey some crucial information to them.
“Are you listening to me?” Rafuel said.
Froi nodded.
“You dip and you taste,” Rafuel continued. “Not the way Lumaterans eat.” Rafuel did a somewhat rude impersonation of a man hoarding his food to himself and shoveling it down his throat.
“Are you calling us pigs?” Froi asked, watching as Rafuel winced for the tenth time at the formality of Froi’s Charyn.
Rafuel thought for a moment and then nodded.
“Actually yes, I am. Piglike.”
Froi turned back to Trevanion and Perri, who were discussing the need for longbow training in the Rock village.
“What is it?” Perri asked Froi.
“He said we eat like pigs.”
Trevanion and Perri thought about it for a moment and then went back to their conversation.
Sometimes Lucian would join them if he wasn’t down in the valley, or quelling a feud or two between the Monts, or settling trade with the Rock elders who wanted a herd of cattle grazing on the mountain in exchange for the quarried stone they supplied for the Mont huts.
“You seem interested in our ways, Mont,” Rafuel said the third time Lucian visited.
“Most interested,” Lucian said. “Best way to find the weakness of the enemy is to understand their ways.”
Rafuel sighed and returned to his explanation about the etiquette of dancing. He stood to demonstrate, the iron shackles clattering around his wrists. “Hips must beckon while arms are in the air. Never lose eye contact with your partner.”
Lucian made a snorting sound. “Ridiculous. It will make Froi look like a woman.”
Froi growled. “Not dancing with no one,” he said in Lumateran.
“It’s a seduction, Mont. Not like the dancing of Lumatere and Belegonia, where you stomp as though you’re making wine.”
Froi turned back to Trevanion and Perri.
“What did he say this time?” Trevanion asked, irritated.
“That we don’t know how to dance.”
Trevanion and Perri went back to their talk.
The Charynite taught Froi words and phrases the priest-king had failed to pass on. Horse’s arse was Froi’s favorite. Sheep-swiver, was another. Sheep-swiver or any other type of swiving worked best accompanied by a gesture.
“You speak too formally because you were taught by the holy man,” Rafuel accused again and again. “The lad you will be replacing comes from my province of Sebastabol. He was raised on the docks. We’re a bit on the crass side, if you ask me. And we don’t speak in full sentences. Keep it short and to the point.”
“When shall he be traveling from his province?”
“Shall?” Rafuel stared at him. “Are you listening to me, fool? Olivier of Sebastabol can charm. Can provide entertainment. Can irritate. But he can’t say words like shall.”
“I cannot help sounding as if I have something stuck up my arse,” Froi snapped. “Is that crass enough for you?”
Rafuel sighed. Trevanion and Perri looked over at Froi with irritation. They sighed. There would be more sighing done that day.
Most nights, Froi traveled down to the valley with Perri to watch over Tesadora and the three novices who had followed her there at the end of winter. Sometimes he would sit alone with her if Perri was out checking the stream for trespassing Charynites. The unspoken rule was that the Charynites stayed on the other side of the stream. Any attempt to cross it would be seen as a t
hreat to Tesadora and her girls.
Froi was used to Tesadora from the early days of the new Lumatere, when she lived in the forest cloisters with the novices and priestess. She was a Forest Dweller, and no group of people had been more shunned in Lumatere. It had been her mother, Seranonna, who cursed the kingdom thirteen years ago as she burned at the stake, but those trapped inside Lumatere had come to respect Tesadora for what she had done to save their young women and help break the curse. She was a hard woman who trusted few people, especially men. Lord August always joked that he would be a fool to find himself in a room alone with her. Lady Abian, who had come to love Tesadora dearly these past three years, claimed that if Lord August found himself in a room alone with any woman, he would have his wife to fear.
“It doesn’t seem as if they’re going to leave any time soon,” Froi told Tesadora as they sat high on a rock face, staring across the stream to where the Charynite camp dwellers had set up their homes in caves.
“I just wish they’d go home where they belong and get out of my sight,” she said.
Froi stared at her. “You hate them?”
“Despise them.”
“Then why are you here? You were happy with the novices in the Cloisters out in the forest.”
“I’m not a priestess,” she said. “It was only my place to take care of the novices during the curse.”
“And this is better?” he asked angrily. “Perri has to travel almost two days to be with you. He’s only seeing you every day now because of the Charynite prisoner in the mountains.”
“Poor Perri doesn’t have to do anything,” she said, standing and holding her arms around her body to stop the shivering. Summer was fading, and the mountains and valley were the first to feel the bite of the cold.
Tesadora was tiny for a Lumateran, and her face was shaped differently from the other Forest Dwellers. Her hair had gone white from the terrors she witnessed when she walked the sleep alongside the queen during the ten years of the curse, although she was no older than Lady Beatriss. Sometimes Froi had to stop himself from staring at her. She had a beauty that could weaken men if they weren’t already weakened by their fear of her.
The Lumatere Chronicles Page 40