The Lumatere Chronicles

by Melina Marchetta

  “But Charyn has done little for both of you,” Froi said harshly.

  “Some of us weren’t born for rewards, Froi. We were born for sacrifices.”

  “I’ll not say my good-byes,” Froi said, walking away. “It might be best that I leave without ceremony.”

  “You saved her life,” Tariq said to Froi’s retreating back. “Charyn may forget that one day, but I won’t.”

  He got as far as the end of the tunnel of speckled light.

  “Froi!” he heard her cry. Froi turned to see Tariq gripping her hand and Quintana pulling away.

  “Where are you going?” she asked.

  He continued his way to the docked raft and began to untie the rope. She reached him.

  “Please, Froi. Only you can take care of us,” she wept. “Only you.”

  She held on to him and he tried to push her away gently, tried to get onto the raft, half lifting her back onto the landing.

  “Please,” she begged. “Please stay and protect us.”

  “You have an army coming, Quintana. Tariq doesn’t need me.”

  “But we need you, Froi. Not Tariq. We need you.”

  Froi sighed, pushing her gently away again. “Tariq!” he called out. But she tried to climb on board again, almost toppling into the water, weeping.

  “Let us come with you, Froi. Please.”

  Tariq reached them and tried to remove her from Froi, but Quintana held on fast, sobbing, “Please, please,” over and over again.

  “Quintana, you’ll hurt yourself,” Tariq said when she tried to board the raft a third time. “You’ll not survive a moment in the capital.”

  “He’ll protect us. He’ll make sure nothing happens to us.”

  She managed to cling to Froi, her arms clasped around him.

  “Can we have a moment, Your Majesty?” Froi asked Tariq, his heart hammering hard at what he was about to do. Tariq was hesitant, but then stepped away.

  Froi pulled free of Quintana, grabbing both her arms to shake her hard.

  “Listen and listen well, Princess,” he said through clenched teeth. “I was sent to assassinate you. Do you hear me? By the Lumaterans who despise you. I was sent to snap your neck and put this kingdom and mine out of their misery.”

  She recoiled, and Froi knew he would take this moment’s expression to his death.

  Quintana stepped back onto the landing, and her legs buckled. Froi reached to catch her, but Tariq was there, picking her up in his arms.

  “Go,” Tariq said. “On my word, I promise that I will not let anything happen to her. Go.”

  The Belegonian ambassador had outstayed his welcome. Finnikin knew it. Everyone in the room, including the ambassador’s own scribe and guard, knew it. It had been too long a day, with little compromise. No, the Lumaterans could not send fleece down the river through Belegonia to Yutlind. Belegonia now had a strong market selling their own fleece to wool merchants in Yutlind and Osteria. Did they not have the right during Lumatere’s curse to breed their own sheep for such purpose? And no, Lumatere should not expect the Belegonians to buy their ore when the kingdom of Sorel was selling it for half the price. Then there was the subject of Charyn. Belegonian conversation always came back to the subject of Charyn.

  “I will repeat this one more time, Your Majesty,” the Belegonian ambassador said. “My king is urging you to take up this opportunity. It’s what Lumatere has been waiting for.”

  “Do not presume to tell me what we’ve been waiting for, sir,” Isaboe said sharply.

  “The Charynite capital is in anarchy,” the Belegonian ambassador said. “The Osterians and Sarnaks have armies in place with our Belegonian soldiers standing by their side, ready to enter at any moment.”

  “The last I heard, one does not invade merely because another kingdom’s capital is in anarchy,” Finnikin said from the window overlooking the garden, where he could see Vestie of the Flatlands and Jasmina playing blindman’s bluff with Moss, who was guarding them.

  He turned back and saw the Belegonians exchange looks. They were going to change tack. He was certain they were going to mention Sorel. They always used that kingdom as a threat in their negotiations. Finnikin tried to catch his wife’s eye.

  “The Sorellians will take advantage of this,” the Belegonian ambassador said.

  “You know this for certain, do you?” she asked.

  “No, but our spies tell us that Sorel has been in constant discussion with those on Avanosh Island, who have claimed for hundreds of years that the Charyn throne was once theirs. The heir of Avanosh could be what the Charynite people want.”

  Isaboe looked to Sir Topher. “Why would these people of Avanosh be what the Charynites want?” she asked.

  “Because —” the Belegonian ambassador went to answer, but Isaboe held up a hand to stop him. Finnikin was used to the hand. The hand was held up at times when Jasmina tried to argue about what to wear on certain days, and the hand came into play when Finnikin tried to insist that Isaboe had no idea how to win a game of Kings and Queens fairly. His wife’s hand was mightier than a sword.

  “Because Avanosh is neutral,” Sir Topher explained. “During times such as this, a neutral leader will prevent Charyn’s provincari from going to war with each other if one tries to take the throne.”

  Isaboe stood and walked to Finnikin, by the window. She leaned against him, so unlike her when they were surrounded by foreigners. He reached out a hand and kneaded her shoulder. As much as he wasn’t allowed to say that she looked tired in front of others because No one walks around saying that men and kings look tired, Finnikin, he wanted to say the words all the same. Isaboe, you look tired. Isaboe, you work too hard. Isaboe, you can’t solve everyone’s problems. Isaboe, you are not responsible for the happiness of every person you meet.

  “Then why not leave the Charynites to be ruled by the Avanosh lot, who will keep their people from going to war?” Finnikin suggested.

  The Belegonian ambassador shook his head emphatically.

  “If the Avanosh heir ends up in the palace, the kingdom of Sorel will play a role in the running of Charyn,” the ambassador said. “We don’t want that.”

  “But you have absolutely no qualms buying Sorellian ore when they are undercutting an ally of yours?” Isaboe asked sharply.

  The Belegonian grimaced. “You are misunderstanding the matter, Your Majesty.”

  “I don’t misunderstand matters, sir,” she snapped. “I can’t afford to misunderstand matters. Each time a queen or king in this land misunderstands a matter, many people die. So I would advise you to think carefully of your words.”

  “Sorel and Charyn have been thorns in our side since the beginning of time,” the ambassador said. “Nothing can be worse news than if they unite.”

  “Not a thorn in your side, Sir Osver,” she said, her tone so frigid Finnikin hardly recognized it. “Not a thorn in the side of Belegonia. Perhaps the kingdoms of Osteria and Lumatere and Sarnak, but you share no border with the Charynites. Yet you stand to gain much if they are forced to surrender to these joint armies you have in place.”

  Finnikin watched his daughter, below, look up from her play, straight to their window. He moved Isaboe aside. If Jasmina saw them now, they would be ending one series of negotiations and entering another. At least they had a chance of winning against the Belegonians, but Jasmina was another matter.

  He watched as his father rode into the garden on his stallion. Vestie and Jasmina ran to him with excitement, and Moss lifted them, seating Vestie behind Trevanion and Jasmina in his lap. Trevanion proceeded to canter around the garden while both girls chortled with joy. It made Finnikin smile to see them. Who would ever have thought that Trevanion would be softened by two little girls?

  But Finnikin’s attention was brought back to the Belegonian ambassador.

  “The Charynites murdered your family! The Sorellians imprisoned your captain. The father of your consort. Take this opportunity, Your Highness.”

  Finn
ikin could see that Isaboe was speechless with fury at the mention of her family’s death.

  “Thirteen years ago,” he reminded her, “your king and the Charyn king, among others, stepped in and made a decision about who would run this kingdom. Did you see any good coming from that?”

  “Regardless of what has taken place in the past, Charyn will be ruled by her own,” she said.

  “A peasant heir from the mountains of Lascow or a Sorellian puppet from Avanosh?” the ambassador scoffed.

  “As opposed to a leader controlled by the strings of Belegonia?” Isaboe asked. “We won’t be part of that. Take that back to your king.”

  When they were finally gone, Isaboe sat back in exhaustion.

  “Give me names,” she begged Sir Topher, “of men inside Charyn who are prepared to be king. Fair men. Good men. If there is such a person, then I will be the first to offer them a neighbor’s recognition of their right to rule. Better that than a war among every kingdom of this land.”

  “I’ll find out what I can,” Sir Topher said, “but from what we know, Tariq of the Lascow Mountains could be our best chance for peace.”

  Finnikin watched a grimace cross Isaboe’s expression. “Did I do the right thing with the Belegonians?” she asked them both. “Or were my emotions ruling me?”

  “Nothing wrong with emotions ruling you,” Sir Topher said gently. “I think the important thing is to keep our ears open to the events in Charyn. If it’s true what they’re saying, we need to be cautious. A new king could be a good thing, but Sorel being involved causes me concern.”

  She looked at Finnikin.

  “Would you have made the same decision?” she asked. “That’s what I’m asking you, Finnikin.”

  “What I would have done differently . . .”

  She bit her lip, and he knew that look. They were never happier than in the moments when they acknowledged that they would have made the same decision.

  “. . . is that I would have told the Belegonians what they could do with their plan using different words.”

  “What words?”

  “Shut your ears, Sir Topher,” Finnikin said, then spoke the words. He saw a ghost of a smile on her face.

  “Ah, my wife likes it when I speak filth,” he said, and they all laughed.

  Sir Topher excused himself. “We need to prepare for the Fenton lot,” he reminded Finnikin.

  “The Fenton lot,” Finnikin muttered, kissing her a quick good-bye. “I forgot about them.”

  “I’ll walk with you,” Isaboe said.

  He was quiet as they made their way down to the garden. She spoke to each person they passed. She would ask about a husband’s health, comment about the bloom in one’s cheek, gently remind another that the hounds needed exercising, marvel at the taste of the grapes served that morning at breakfast. Their people, in turn, would walk away beaming, and sometimes Finnikin wished for the ease Isaboe possessed with the world.

  Outside in the garden, they watched Trevanion with Jasmina and Vestie.

  “I’m worried about my father,” he said. “I think he’s beside himself, although he’d rather not admit it. This thing with Beatriss. She’s not turned up for the last two meetings with the Flatland Lords and is rarely seen around her village. Lady Abian is out of her mind with worry.”

  “What’s he said?” she asked. “Trevanion?”

  “He can’t get past Tarah. Each time, she has said Beatriss is resting.”

  They watched Trevanion hand Jasmina to Moss before dismounting. A moment later, their daughter was hurtling toward them. She’d go to Isaboe first. She always went to her mother first. Lord August had once told Finnikin that there were years when his children were so attached to their mother that he could hardly approach for fear of being cursed by their wails. Finnikin knew those moments well.

  With her cheek pressed against Isaboe’s shoulder, his daughter stared at him. After a moment, she extended a hand and he pretended to bite at her fingers. Finally she smiled.

  Trevanion approached with Vestie clinging to his hand.

  “This situation in Charyn makes no sense,” his father said quietly.

  “Isn’t it exactly how we planned?” Isaboe asked.

  Trevanion shook his head and looked at the little girls.

  Isaboe placed their daughter on the ground. “Can you help Jasmina find a chestnut for Finnikin, Vestie?”

  Vestie took Jasmina’s hand and went searching.

  When the girls were a distance away, Trevanion continued. “They’re saying the king’s First Adviser, not a nameless assassin, has killed the king.”

  Finnikin and Isaboe exchanged a look.

  “Then where is our nameless assassin?” Finnikin asked, trying to keep the worry out of his voice.

  “If he killed the king, he should have been back by now,” Isaboe said.

  Trevanion nodded, and Finnikin knew his father didn’t want to voice their greatest fears.

  Isaboe sighed. “You may need to speak to the Charynite up in the mountains again.”

  “Easier said than done. Lucian sends word that the Monts are making threats against Rafuel of Sebastabol.”

  “Well, he’s going to have to control them,” Finnikin said, irritated with the Monts more than Lucian. “He has to be firmer. He can’t be one of the lads anymore.”

  Isaboe turned to Trevanion. “I want you to find out anything you can about what took place in the Charyn capital and keep an eye on the situation with my cousins. If it worsens, send Aldron to take care of it and warn the Monts that if I have to travel up to speak to them, the regret will be theirs.”

  When Froi arrived back in the capital, the streets were eerily quiet except for the strange autumn winds that had begun to shake the Citavita, whistling a tune that sent a chill through his bones. He found the godshouse ransacked, pages strewn everywhere, straw cots turned upside down, and Arjuro’s garden torn up, stomped with the madness of those who no longer believed in anything. He imagined that the street lords had come searching for him and Quintana, and prayed that the others had escaped without harm. He hoped they had at least managed to hide as many of the ancient manuscripts and Arjuro’s plants as possible.

  He traveled down below, to the bridge of the Citavita, which swayed dangerously from side to side over the gravina. Those who had been waiting in line for days were forced to choose between going back to their homes and losing their place, or staying in line, at the mercy of the elements. Froi knew he could easily take the chance and cross now, but something held him back.

  A week passed, and the winds continued, managing to tear the sand from the stone of the caves and almost blind those who ventured out to scrounge for food. Even the street lords kept inside, and Froi took his chance each day, wrapping a cloth around his face to search for Lirah and Arjuro.

  He didn’t dare question what he wanted from Lirah. Was it an acknowledgment that she loved the son she had grieved for so many years? Was it a declaration of love, such as Lady Abian’s daily words to her children? If Lady Beatriss could love the child of a man who had violated her, why couldn’t Lirah love Froi?

  Nevertheless, he scoured the streets and caves for any sign of them, but if there was one thing those of the Citavita knew how to do, it was hide. On a day he was about to give up and chance a crossing on the hazardous bridge, he noticed one of De Lancey of Paladozza’s guards duck into a cave house and followed. Once inside, stone steps tunneled down into the ground, and soon enough he heard voices and arguing and tracked the sounds into a hidden inn.

  The room was crowded, and Froi recognized more of De Lancey’s men and some of those who had taken refuge in the godshouse when the street lords first took control of the palace. At a corner set of benches, he saw De Lancey with his head down, speaking rapidly to the group of men surrounding him. Froi made his way toward the provincaro but was intercepted by one of his guards, who clearly recognized him from the attack in the godshouse corridors.

  “Leave,” the guar
d said. “We don’t need trouble here.”

  Froi pushed past him, but the man gripped his arm.

  “You have a very short memory,” Froi warned. “Don’t let me remind you of what I can do.”

  Suddenly De Lancey was between them.

  “Come,” he said to Froi, holding up a hand to his guard. “I’ll take care of this.”

  “Sir —”

  “I said I’ll take care of this.”

  Froi followed De Lancey as he pushed through the crowd and resumed his seat.

  “We’ll speak later,” the provincaro told the men at his table, who eyed Froi suspiciously. They walked away, turning at intervals until they left the room.

  “What don’t they trust more?” Froi asked bitterly. “The fact that they don’t know who I am, or the fact that I saved her life and they didn’t want it saved?”

  De Lancey didn’t respond.

  “Where’s Lirah?” Froi asked, not wasting time.

  The provincaro shrugged, an effortless movement. “I’ve not seen her since the day of the hanging.”

  “And Arjuro?”

  “I’ve not seen him either.”

  Froi shook his head, giving a humorless laugh. “You’ve been most helpful, Provincaro,” he said as he stood.

  “If you ask me where Gargarin is, I can tell you that,” the provincaro said, his voice silky in its lazy drawl.

  Froi stiffened. He wanted to walk away.

  “Sit,” De Lancey ordered.

  “I don’t —”

  “Now.”

  Froi sighed and sat, and they eyed each other a moment or two before De Lancey pushed over the carafe of wine.

  “I’d prefer food.” Froi hoped there wasn’t a plea in his voice. Food had been scarce during the week, and he had taken to stealing whatever he could, regardless of who he was taking it from. Those in the Citavita had made it clear that it was each out for his own. De Lancey signaled to one of his men and gave him an instruction before the man walked away.