“A thief with strange un-Sarnak eyes and a very un-Sarnak name that reminded me too much of Dafar of Abroi, the last born of Charyn, known only to the priests and those who smuggled him out of danger on the first day of weeping eighteen years ago.”
“But you did nothing when they beat him,” Perri said. “We found him black and blue and tied up like a dog in your barracks.”
“There was nothing I could do,” Rafuel said. “But I swore on my life that he’d be rescued that night. Do you Lumaterans honestly believe it would have been that easy to enter the barracks undetected?” There was a certain look of victory in Rafuel’s eyes. “You got him out of there alive because I allowed it to happen. You killed two men on guard and our squad leader because I let it happen. And when I wrote to the priests of Trist afterward, they allowed you to have Dafar of Abroi for all of these years because we hadn’t found his purpose yet. We knew he’d be safer with you.”
Perri stared down at the Charynite. “You have no idea what you’ve done, confusing that boy’s bond,” he said. “If his corpse is returned to us because of the danger you’ve put him in, I will slice you from ear to ear.”
Rafuel gave a rueful smile.
“Do you expect me to have regrets?” he asked. “When it’s you Lumaterans who speak an unwritten law that makes the most sense to me.”
“And what is that, Charynite?” Tesadora asked.
“What needs to be done.”
Olivier of Sebastabol arrived a week later, riding into the courtyard of the provincaro’s compound with a flourish that Froi had failed to capture during his time in the palace impersonating the last born.
“How can someone travel three days and still be in good cheer?” Grijio asked, laughing up at his friend. Olivier dismounted, and Tippideaux was picked up off the ground and swung three times, giggling with delight. She and Olivier could have passed as siblings with their wide blue eyes, but there was a way Tippideaux flirted with Olivier that told Froi she wanted more than a brother’s affection from Sebastabol’s last born.
While the Sebastabol guards gathered Olivier’s belongings from one of the pack horses and disappeared inside the compound, the last born hesitantly held out a hand to Froi, who willingly shook it.
“What is the news?” Grijio asked as they walked inside, noticing the envelope in Olivier’s hand.
“We’ve heard that Bestiano has a large army camped outside Nebia,” Tippideaux said. “Tell us it’s not true, Olivier.”
“Perhaps Bestiano is not so bad for Charyn at the moment,” Olivier said. “I sense a more potent enemy at our gates.”
He glanced at Froi questioningly as they crossed into the visitor’s quarters.
“Then who is the enemy if not Bestiano?” Froi asked coldly, not liking the implication of his look.
“The moment Charyn falls into civil war, the surrounding kingdoms will invade as retribution for Lumatere,” Olivier said. “The Belegonian army has gathered outside their borders with Osteria and Lumatere, and waits for word from both kingdoms to join them.”
Tippideaux paled, and her brother placed an arm around her, sending a warning glance to Olivier, but the last born of Sebastabol was oblivious.
“Most of the people I’ve come across in my travels through Charyn are going underground, fearful of rape and pillage,” he continued. “The Lumaterans will exact their revenge.”
Froi grabbed Olivier by his vest, slamming him against the wall. “You dare to say such a thing, Charynite? No Lumateran soldier would take a woman by force.”
Grijio pulled Froi away from Olivier, and an uneasy silence settled around them.
“But will the Lumaterans invade, Froi?” Grijio asked quietly.
Froi had come to respect this even-tempered lad. “I’m not privy to the business of my kingdom,” he said honestly, “but invading Charyn was never part of the plan.”
Froi bent to pick up Olivier’s cap and handed it to the last born. Olivier took it, a solemn expression on his face.
“Pray that you know your queen and her consort well, Lumateran,” Olivier said. “A war between our two kingdoms is the last thing we all want.”
In the drawing room of the guest compound, Olivier was reintroduced to Quintana. His eyes roamed around the room surreptitiously before returning to her stomach.
Tippideaux patted Quintana’s dress around the waist, proudly. Froi saw Quintana’s lips curl. He had taught her a counting exercise the night before so she could control her savage rage when provoked. Froi could tell today that Quintana made it only as far as the number four before twisting Tippideaux’s fingers away.
“I shaped an outfit to disguise her belly,” Tippideaux continued, as though nothing had happened. “She’ll be showing soon, and we don’t want to draw attention to her. It’s all in the paneling, you know.” She looked at the others for approval. “Because of my gift with the needle, I’m called on frequently by the fatter women in Paladozza to design their outfits.”
Quintana had developed an impassive stare that she reserved solely for Tippideaux. During the last week, Grijio and Froi had taken bets on who of the two girls would look away first. Secretly, Froi was dying to see them both in hand-to-hand combat with a bit of hair-pulling thrown in.
“You look much better than the last time I saw you, Your Highness,” Olivier said cheerfully.
“Well, I suppose it was because I had a noose around my neck then, and they’re always so unattractive,” she replied bitingly.
There was a strained silence, and then Olivier had the good grace to grin.
“Then it’s true that you do have a sense of humor,” he said, placing an arm around both girls. Quintana stiffened, and Olivier had the sense to let go.
“I arrived at the same time as a troupe of actors, and their costumes and props looked a treat. What say you all that we go down to the vicinata and watch the greatest show in the land? That’s what it said on their caravan,” Olivier said.
Olivier’s good cheer was contagious, and they spent the day browsing through the stalls of the vicinata, talking to the merchants, snacking on corn sticks, looking through the armory. Froi noticed that Quintana was drawn to colorful things, and he watched her glance through the stalls where rolls of brightly hued cloth and carpets adorned the space. Olivier dragged Froi and Grijio to the window of an ale house, known to be the most disreputable in town.
“We’ll steal away and come here one of these nights without your father’s men knowing, Grij,” Olivier said. “It will be wild.”
Later, they stood in the crowd watching the actors perform and Froi’s sides ached from the laughter. He heard Quintana’s laughter, and it was not the endearing snorts of the reginita, but a sweet sound to his ears all the same. He managed to push closer to the front and place her before him, his chin leaning on her head, his arms around her to protect her against the jostling of the crowd.
The troupe was made up of five men who each played a number of characters. They covered everything from a witless fool’s amorous adventures to the comic feud between two neighbors over a pig named Herbert.
A few moments into another skit, Froi knew there was something wrong.
“Let us go,” Tippideaux said, urgently grabbing Quintana’s arm. “My father said not to be late for dinner.”
“Can we not wait for the next to finish?” Quintana asked.
“Let us go now!” Tippideaux pulled her away, and when Froi saw one of the troupe actors place a straw-colored broomstick of hair on his head, Froi understood Tippideaux’s persistence. Another actor wore a crown, and what they did onstage was lewd. The crowd laughed at their bawdy antics, and Froi wished he was with the indignant reginita. She would not have understood what she saw, but Quintana did and he could see the tears of rage and hurt in her eyes. He saw the shudder of her body.
Don’t let her think of Bestiano, he prayed to the most merciful of the gods, if one existed in Quintana’s life.
Few words were spoken on thei
r walk back to De Lancey’s compound other than Quintana’s ragged breathing and mutterings. But then her mutters became words. Numbers.
And then the numbers became grunts and she was weeping with fury, tearing at her hair. This was Quintana without Reginita to calm her down. All rage with little reason.
“We need to do something,” Grijio said as one or two of De Lancey’s neighbors emerged from their homes to see what the commotion was about. “If they suspect who she is . . .”
By now Quintana was shouting the words, pounding at her head with her palm. Froi grabbed hold of her, but she slipped out of his hands and onto the ground, crawling into a crevice in a wall, pressing herself into it as though she wanted to disappear inside the stone. He knelt, taking her face between his hands.
“It doesn’t go away if I count,” she said, sobbing. “Nothing goes away.”
“Then we’ll find something else,” he said gently, and placed his lips against her ear. “Think of her,” he whispered. “What would she say to you? Think of the reginita.”
And he watched as the fight left her body and only then did he look up at the others and see the horror and the sorrow in their expressions. Here was the mother of their heir. Their curse breaker. Did Charyn stand a chance?
“Do they think I’m that hideous?” Quintana finally asked in a broken voice. Her words made Froi’s heart twist even more. “Do they think I would have done such things with my father?”
The others chorused their no emphatically.
“Father has probably mentioned that I’m a genius at writing plays myself,” Tippideaux said. “Well, when I have the time, I will pen the true story of Quintana of Charyn.” She gave Quintana a determined nod. “And of her beautiful and faithful friend, Tippideaux of Paladozza.”
Tippideaux held a hand out to her. Quintana studied it. Froi feared she would bite the fingers off to the bone.
“Will Quintana of Charyn be beautiful in your play?” she asked quietly.
Tippideaux thought for a moment.
Just say yes, Tippideaux.
“She’ll be strangely intriguing,” Tippideaux said, her eyes far away. “With a touch of mystery and savagery that will bewitch only the bold and courageous among us.”
Froi and the lads held their breath.
After what seemed an eternity, Quintana took Tippideaux’s hand.
He spent each morning on the roof with Lirah, watching the sunrise. Most times it was to observe if Bestiano’s riders were heading for Paladozza. Despite there being no province walls, the land outside to the south was flat and Nebia’s powerful army would be seen from miles away.
In Paladozza a peculiar world of color existed on the roofs of people’s houses. Unlike Lumatere, with its lush greens and golds, here the strange landscape of stone cones and cave houses was colored in shades of light pink and soft brown and white. Once upon a time, stone had been stone to Froi. In Paladozza it had a beauty he was beginning to love.
One morning, De Lancey joined them and they sat appreciating the view.
“They say a volcano erupted thousands upon thousands of years ago,” De Lancey explained. “And the ash and rainwater made that stone. It’s called tufa.” He pointed to one stone house and then another. “That one is made of lava and that one out of sandstone. It’s why they differ in color.”
Lirah shivered, and Froi shared his blanket with her, placing it around them. They sat shoulder to shoulder in silence awhile.
“Where’s Gar?” De Lancey asked Lirah.
“Sleeping,” she said, getting to her feet and yawning. “Planning armies. Building water meadows. Writing letters.”
She tapped Froi on the head. “Gargarin said you write down ideas faster than anyone he knows. Make yourself useful today.”
She disappeared down the steps into the house.
“It’s a good thing that Lirah and Gargarin are on speaking terms,” Froi said. “For the sake of everyone.”
De Lancey gave a short laugh. “I think they’re doing more than speaking, Froi.”
Froi could hardly comprehend the idea of Lirah with Gargarin. Perhaps when they were young, but not now. De Lancey surely had it wrong.
“Will the brothers travel home to Abroi?” Froi asked.
“Abroi?” De Lancey said with disgust. “Abroi is a swamp of ignorance, and you don’t want Arjuro anywhere near that madman father of theirs. This is their home. And it’s the home of anyone who belongs to them. You and Lirah included.”
“I have a home,” Froi said.
“But does it speak to you in the same way Paladozza does?”
Froi turned to him, exasperated. “Speak? Sing? What is it with you Charynites?”
De Lancey stared at him shrewdly. “Do you honestly think that the queen of Lumatere followed a map home? She followed a song. Does Lumatere sing to you, Dafar?”
They were interrupted by the sound of horse hooves clattering on the courtyard stone, and they stood to see who it was.
“At this time of the morning, it could only be a messenger,” De Lancey said, a worried expression on his face. “Go find Gargarin.”
Froi knocked on Gargarin’s door and entered. In a corner, Lirah was tying a brightly colored braid of rope around the hips of her simple gown. Gargarin was at a desk, placing a wax seal on a letter. Only then did it occur to Froi that Lirah and Gargarin were sharing a chamber. He felt an anger beyond reckoning. Was he the last to know? Was Froi merely an insignificant part of their past, one they could easily overlook? Especially now that they were thinking of no one but themselves. He hated them both: Lirah for being stupid enough to believe Gargarin cared about anything, and Gargarin because it was easy to hate Gargarin, the weak and useless cripple.
“De Lancey wants you in the main hall,” he snapped before walking out.
Grijio and Olivier arrived at the same time as Gargarin, all waiting to hear the news.
“A letter from the provincaro of Sebastabol on behalf of the ambassador of the principality of Avanosh,” De Lancey said.
“Where’s Avanosh?” Froi asked. He tried to recall whether the priest-king or Rafuel had mentioned it.
“It’s a small island,” Grijio explained. “Off the coast of Sebastabol in the Ocean of Skuldenore.”
“Closer to the border with Sorel than to Paladozza,” Olivier said. “Those of Avanosh are the greatest bellyachers about who has the right to the throne based on an incident hundreds of years ago. In the past, they’ve sought the support of Sorel to secure the throne of Charyn.”
“Do they have the right?” Froi asked.
Gargarin shook his head. “Not anymore. But they are of royal blood dating back to the Ancients, and they are considered Charynites.”
“Then what do they want?” Lirah asked.
De Lancey turned back to the letter.
“According to the provincaro of Sebastabol, Feliciano of Avanosh is the perfect candidate to be the queen’s consort. A titled duke, unaligned.”
Froi stared from De Lancey to Gargarin, stunned. A consort for Quintana?
“The provincaro says that we need stability within our kingdom and the only way to achieve that is to appoint a neutral consort,” De Lancey said. “We also need to keep Belegonia and Lumatere from invading, and what better way than to have a consort with strong ties to a powerful neighbor like Sorel?”
“Gods,” Gargarin muttered.
“That’s not all,” De Lancey said. “The Avanosh entourage is a week’s ride from us as we speak.”
Phaedra was pleased that the queen of Lumatere had released Rafuel to the valley as a spy. Pleased, and somewhat flattered, because it was Phaedra’s plan they chose to follow, detail by detail. Rafuel would be escorted by the Monts downstream, and at a safe enough distance, he would cross and join Charynite exiles traveling toward the valley from Alonso. Rafuel was to ensure that he impressed the camp leaders and was to find out more about what was taking place in the Citavita and the rest of the kingdom.
&nbs
p; A week later, Rafuel and Donashe entered the cave where Phaedra was tending to a dying man from the valley. She felt their eyes on her as she kneaded the old man’s tired bones, but she refused to acknowledge them and continued her work. The old man had said he liked her voice, so Phaedra told him stories passed down to her in Alonso. She thought it sad and strangely wrong that her voice could be the last he heard in this world. When she was satisfied that the man slept, she stood to face Donashe.
“I demand that his wife be moved into this cave with him,” she said, trying to keep her voice strong and determined.
“Who is she to demand?” Rafuel asked coldly. It was as though Phaedra were facing a stranger and not the Rafuel she had come to know.
“She’s the wife of the Mont leader,” Donashe said, his eyes glancing at Jory, who was instantly at Phaedra’s side.
Rafuel whispered something in Donashe’s ear, and both men laughed. Phaedra’s face reddened with humiliation. She would have liked to demand to know what had been said, but instead she pointed back to the old man.
“He’s dying. Where is your compassion?”
Donashe seemed irritated by her pleas, but he agreed to let the man’s wife share the cave. Phaedra watched the camp leader place an arm around Rafuel’s shoulder as they walked away. “To be a good camp leader, you have to let them think they’ve won a few rounds, Matteo.”
“Our Matteo was convincing,” Phaedra said to Jory a little uneasily as they rode home that day.
“Too convincing,” Jory muttered.
Phaedra continued to stay with Lucian on the mountain. It had always seemed strange to her that for one who led the Monts, Lucian kept his dwelling small. Yata, on the other hand, lived in what the Lumaterans referred to as the royal residence. It had many rooms and had once accommodated the whole of the queen’s family when she was a child and spent the holy days in the mountains. It was secure and perfect for when the queen and her consort and child came to stay. Lucian’s cottage had two rooms. When Phaedra lived here as his wife, she had shared his bed, or a corner of it anyway. Now she slept on a cot near the fire.
The Lumatere Chronicles Page 81