“I never make promises I can’t keep,” he said.
She sighed. How many times had she heard those words from her father?
“Luci-en, I think Lotte has been letting the bull out of its pen. It’s why no one has been caught yet or confessed. Orly won’t let Gert breed with Bert, and his wife has been hoping that if both animals are free to wander, they’ll find each other.”
Lucian turned in the saddle to look at her, stunned, and then he shook his head and laughed.
“I have the smartest wife in Lumatere and Charyn combined.”
The talk of a consort made Froi tense. It made Quintana tense. She called him fool more often. He called her a coldhearted cat. If she wandered away from his protection in the vicinata, he would snap at her. If she walked away and Froi didn’t follow, she’d accuse him of placing her life in danger. If she removed her clothing in front of him at night, as though he were some eunuch, his words would be cruel. If she told him to turn the other way or go to his quarters while she undressed, he’d remind her that there was no part of her body he was yet to see. In the palace when Princess Indignant had been about, she would break the tension between them. He realized that the desire between Quintana and Froi had always been there and that Reginita had balanced it with her innocence.
“Bed the girl,” Olivier said with exasperation. “Put us out of our misery.”
And then there was the matter between Arjuro and De Lancey. Froi feared what the friction would lead to and wished that Gargarin would intervene, but now more than ever, the gulf between the brothers was wide and the hurt too deep.
“What do you think they’re talking about?” Grijio asked one morning as they peered out of the grand window of the hallway into De Lancey’s private garden. Tippideaux was squeezed in between them.
“Whatever it is, it’s making Arjuro angry,” Froi said.
“He’s not choking your father, is he, Grij?” Olivier asked.
“Gods. You don’t think they’re kissing, do you?”
“That’s a shove.”
“Looks like an embrace from here.”
All agreed the next moment was a shove.
“How appalling!” Tippideaux said. “I think the priestling just punched Father in the mouth. Where are the guards?”
They heard a sound behind them, and all four were reluctant to move away but turned to Quintana.
“I’m looking for Lirah,” she said coolly. “What are you doing up there?”
“We’re spying on Father and Arjuro,” Grijio said, making room for her. “Care to join us?”
“Don’t be so rude. Get down, all of you.”
“That’s definitely kissing,” Olivier said with authority, having turned back to the window.
Quintana pushed herself in beside Froi, shoving Tippideaux to the side. She had never been able to resist the drama Arjuro brought into their lives, whether it was on the balconette of the palace or here in De Lancey’s compound.
“Did you see the way she did that as if she owns this window?” Tippideaux sniffed.
Quintana stood on tiptoes beside them. Froi hoisted her up around her legs. She placed her arm around his shoulders for support.
They all watched the two below for a while. For a long while, actually, and Froi heard Tippideaux sigh because it was romantic in a strange way. Froi wanted them to keep on watching because if he turned his head a fraction, it would be buried in Quintana’s neck, an area of her body he had ignored all those nights they shared a bed. She looked down at him, and he dared not look away. She was all twitches and gold-speckled brown eyes today.
“I caught Gargarin and Lirah kissing in such a way one morning,” she said. “As if they wanted to consume the soul of the other.”
The mention of Lirah and Gargarin infuriated Froi, and he let her go abruptly and walked away.
He spent the rest of the day in the library, penning a letter to Finnikin and Isaboe. If there was ever a chance of getting something to them, it could be from Paladozza. Gargarin entered later, and Froi stood to gather his pages, wordlessly leaving Gargarin’s quill on the desk where he found it.
“Keep it. I have another,” Gargarin said. “I’ve not seen you all these days, Froi. Stay so we can talk.”
“About rainfall?” Froi said sarcastically. “And garderobes?”
Gargarin gave him one of his piercing stares. “Ah, so we’re in that type of a mood.”
“Not in any mood at all.” Froi shrugged nonchalantly, walking to the door.
“We need to build her an army,” Gargarin said.
Froi stopped.
“This business with the Avanosh people disturbs me,” Gargarin continued. “The last thing we want is Sorel running our country through a puppet consort.”
“Knowing Sorel, they probably will,” Froi said.
Gargarin looked bemused. “You’re an expert on Sorel, are you?”
Froi walked back to where Gargarin had laid out a map on the desk, then watched as he marked the provinces they could trust. There weren’t many.
“Let’s just say I was a guest in Sorel,” Froi said. “A guest of one of their slave traders.”
Gargarin’s hand froze.
“The slave traders of Sorel?” Gargarin asked, his eyes registering the horror of what Froi was saying. The stories of the traders and the fate of their victims were well known across the land.
Froi shrugged again and looked away.
“Don’t tell Lirah,” Gargarin said quietly.
Froi shook his head, not believing what he was hearing. “Wouldn’t want to upset Lirah with my sordid past.”
Gargarin hissed with frustration. “Froi, what has gotten into you? Be angry at me, but don’t shut her out. If she doesn’t know how to speak the right words with you, it’s because she doesn’t know what you want from her.”
“But she knows what you want from her, doesn’t she, Gargarin?” Froi spat.
Arjuro walked into the room, putting an end to the discussion. Froi could see that the priestling’s body was tense with fury as he reached Gargarin and examined his map.
“So where to next?” Arjuro demanded to know.
Gargarin didn’t respond but rolled up the chart quietly.
“You’re in a hurry, are you?” Arjuro asked. “To walk away?”
The brothers’ eyes were fixed on each other with bitter regret. At that moment, they could not have looked more different.
“You think I don’t see it every time you look at me?” Arjuro asked. “The contempt.”
“Not contempt, brother. Just sadness,” Gargarin said, limping away from both Froi and Arjuro.
Arjuro grabbed Gargarin and threw him to the wall. “Say the words,” Arjuro hissed. “Say you despise me for what I allowed to happen to you, because I see fury in your eyes, despite your soft tone.”
Froi stepped between them, a hand to both their chests. Gargarin shoved them both from him.
“I don’t despise you for what you allowed to happen to me,” Gargarin said through clenched teeth. “I despise you because when I was released, you refused to be found and I needed you more than anything in my life. Not to mend my broken bones, Arjuro. I needed my brother to mend my broken spirit.”
The next day, Arjuro was not to be found. His belongings were gone and no message was left. De Lancey sent his men to search, and Froi waited the whole day in the courtyard for them to return. The moment the guards arrived, De Lancey and Gargarin came down the steps, desperate for answers. But Arjuro had become a ghost.
“What about the godshouse?” Froi asked. “He’d wave to you and Gargarin every night when he was at school there.”
“It was the first place we looked,” one of the guards said.
Gargarin looked defeated and limped away. De Lancey followed.
“Did you know that someone stripped the flesh from his back and branded the word traitor across his shoulder blades?” Froi called out.
Both Gargarin and De Lancey looked back,
anguish in their expressions. Froi nodded. “I saw him one night in the godshouse baths of Jidia. I think it’s why he keeps himself covered up.”
“We will find him,” De Lancey said.
Gargarin shook his head. “No. We won’t. If there is someone who knows how to disappear without a trace, it’s my brother.”
Apart from searching for Arjuro, Froi spent the days awaiting Feliciano of Avanosh’s arrival and avoiding Quintana, Lirah, and Gargarin. Most times he was in the company of Grijio and Olivier. Grijio knew of a cave with a long straight tunnel where Froi could teach them to hit a target with an arrow.
“It was my secret place for target practice when we planned to save Quintana,” Grijio explained. “I’d leave a bow and a quiver of arrows there so the guards would not see me walking out of the compound holding a weapon. If they knew, they would have told my father for certain.”
“Did you . . . ever actually hit a target?” Froi asked politely.
Grijio grinned. “No. Not once. My eyes are not good. They never have been.”
The cave tunnel was long indeed, and Froi set up a target and gave his first lesson.
“You’ll never get it this far back,” Olivier said, straining to see where the target was in the dark of the cave.
“A wager?” Froi asked, steadying his hand, one eye closed. The lads loved a wager.
“One piece of silver a hit,” Olivier offered.
Froi succeeded first go and held out his hand, laughing.
Then the others tried. Grijio was all thumbs and fingers while Olivier seemed a natural, although it was a while before he hit the perfect target.
When they weren’t practicing hitting targets, they would sit on the roof of Grijio’s secret cave overlooking the province and answering a string of Olivier’s theoretical questions.
“What if you were given a choice between being the captain of the Guard or the king’s First Adviser? Which would you choose?”
“King’s First Adviser,” Grijio said. “Or ambassador, at least.”
“Captain, of course,” Froi said.
Olivier thought of his own question. “I don’t enjoy taking charge, so I’d be hopeless at both. But I’m good on a mount, and if I knew how to fight, I’d be honored to be a royal rider.”
They continued their quizzing as they walked home. Grijio hollered a “Hello there” to everyone he passed.
“What if you had to choose between the most beautiful girl in the land, who was stupid, and the ugliest girl in the land, who was smart?” Olivier asked, running out of intelligent things to ask.
“Why can’t there be one in between?” Grijio asked, dismayed. He sighed, thinking. “The problem with being a last-born male is that there aren’t many women to pick from,” he said. “I’d like her to be as smart as I am. Someone who doesn’t just place worth on the build of a man or his ability to fight.”
“That’s very smart of you, Grij. Because your build and ability to fight are not your strong points,” Olivier said.
Froi laughed and, on Grijio’s behalf, jabbed Olivier with the arrow he was holding.
“One who knows the languages of the other kingdoms,” Grijio continued. “Who doesn’t believe the world ends at our borders. One who is kind.” He looked at the others pensively. “We don’t have enough kindness in this land.”
“You’re describing the queen of Lumatere,” Froi said.
“Is she as beautiful as they say?” Olivier asked.
“She is indeed.”
“Is your queen what you are searching for in a woman, Froi?” Grijio asked.
Froi thought for a moment. “I never imagined I was looking for something in a woman. But if I did, I’d have to judge her by the way I felt lying beside her before I went to sleep at night and how I felt in the morning waking up to her.”
“Oh, too profound, my friend,” Olivier mocked. “Much too profound.”
When Froi arrived in the compound, he found Quintana in the courtyard. She had taken a liking to the pups there. When she spoke to them, he heard the reginita’s indignant voice and for a moment, he thought she had returned. But Quintana had learned that pups and people reacted better to the sound of her sister’s voice than her own.
“They like it if you do this,” Froi said, his voice husky as he tickled the belly of one. She tried herself and laughed at her pup’s antics.
“Do you have one back home?” she asked.
“No, but Finn and Isaboe do. A massive hound. Finn calls her the bitch of Lumatere.”
Quintana smiled a moment. “Finn and Isaboe,” she said quietly, her eyes meeting his. “They seem so real when you name them.”
He followed her into De Lancey’s courtyard and up a passageway, a shortcut to their quarters. As she walked before him, he couldn’t help reaching out and touching the exposed place at the back of her neck. She stopped but didn’t turn. And it was as if she were waiting for something. Before he could stop himself, his arm snaked out to pull her toward him, his tongue tracing the writing at her nape. She shuddered in his arms.
When she turned to face him, Froi’s mouth was on hers. His hand crawled up the skirt of her dress, his fingers finding their mark gently. Be gentle, Froi, he hummed to himself and the Serker inside of him shouted for more, but he took only what she would offer. He felt her hand find its way to the band of his trousers and he groaned aloud, trying to swallow the sound with their mouths.
But then she was gone, pushing him away.
“Why?” he asked, anguish in his voice.
She walked away, but he followed, a shaky hand to her shoulder. A servant came down the passageway toward them, and Froi turned, needing to conceal his arousal. Quintana took the chance to escape up the stairs.
By the time he reached the chamber where she lay on the bed, he was furious. He walked into his quarters and slammed the door, kicking it once, twice. He turned the key in the lock, fearful of where this rage would go. Always fearful. He wondered when he would ever trust that his anger was just anger and not a desire to hurt another, or a reminder of his past misdeeds. The bruised look in Quintana’s eyes would also serve as a prompter. Each time he saw it, Froi would be reminded that the brutal actions of men were designed to break the spirits of the others. It was what he had tried to do in a Sorellian barn with Isaboe of Lumatere. Although a voice inside had chanted to stop that night, Froi would never know if he would have. And he wanted to know. He wanted to say the words, “I would not have gone through with it.” But he’d never know, and that was his punishment. That, and being in love with a girl whose spirit had been broken by men like Froi.
Later, when dinner was called, he stepped outside his room to where she still lay on her bed with her back to him. He walked stonily past her to the door, but her voice stopped him leaving.
“Because I remembered your words,” she said quietly. “I remembered that you liked me least. You said it in my palace chamber. ‘Have one of the others wake me, for I like you least.’”
She turned to face him and brushed tears fiercely from her face. “Sometimes when I see what’s left of Quintana of Charyn through my own eyes, I think I can learn to love her. But when I see her through your eyes, I despise her.”
If she saw Quintana of Charyn through Froi’s eyes, he knew she’d see a part of himself.
“Come,” he said huskily, holding out a hand. “You need to eat.”
The day came when the Avanosh party arrived. Froi, Grijio, Olivier, and Tippideaux stood at the window watching the entourage ride into the courtyard. There were twelve of them, dressed in bright silks and carrying banners representing the ocean god.
The moment the youngest of the party dismounted, Froi and the others snorted with laughter.
“What is he wearing?” Tippideaux gasped.
“Could they be any tighter?” Grijio said.
“Where would you hide a weapon with such stockings?” Froi said.
“I can tell you where it looks like he’s hiding a weap
on from here,” Olivier responded.
They watched De Lancey greet Feliciano of Avanosh and his people with a shake of a hand to each male and a kiss to the hand of each woman. Feliciano presented De Lancey with a small box, and Froi and the others watched De Lancey open it.
“Father’s very unimpressed,” Tippideaux said. “I can tell by his shoulders.”
Dinner that night was a tedious affair, with Gargarin noticeably absent and the introductions going for far too long. There was handshaking and more handshaking, and boisterous laughter from the Avanosh uncle and aunt that had no substance. Froi had heard enough empty laughter in his lifetime not to trust it.
Feliciano was a handsome young man who constantly looked at his uncle before he spoke. He was seated beside Quintana, who in turn was polite and restrained.
“You are the light of our lives; you know that, don’t you?” Feliciano said to her. “I’ve heard such words all across Charyn. The birth of your child is a gift only deserving of you.”
Olivier made a sound of disbelief and stole a look at Froi, making a motion as if he was going to be ill.
“Thank you, Feliciano,” she said politely, reaching over to take a piece of pheasant from his plate.
“They spoke of the insanity of your hair, but not once did they mention a sweet face and pretty eyes.”
More looks between Froi and the others.
Tippideaux whispered her intense dislike of the whole situation to Froi and the lads. “When a woman has not received much flattery in her life, she will be seduced.”
“It’s Quintana,” Froi murmured in reply, watching the idiot Feliciano flick a piece of hair from his eyes. “She’ll never be taken in by charm and lies.”
De Lancey introduced his children first and then Olivier of Sebastabol and Froi of Lumatere.
“A Lumateran in these parts?” the Avanosh uncle said. “From what part of Lumatere?”
“I was found in exile, sir,” Froi said.
“You speak Charyn like a nobleman.”
“It’s not that hard to do anything like a Charyn nobleman,” Froi responded, eyeing Feliciano.
The Lumatere Chronicles Page 83