The Lumatere Chronicles

by Melina Marchetta

  Florik and the other Lasconians cautiously retrieved their horses to make more room for the newcomers.

  “Why staring?” one of the Turlans demanded of Froi. When they spoke among one another, it was in the Turlan dialect, but with Froi they used a broken Charyn.

  “Because they are desperate to compete with you,” Froi whispered the lie. “It’s all they’ve spoken about since you arrived.”

  The Turlan lads exchanged a look.

  “Tomorrow,” Mort, the leader of the lads said. “We show ’em who stronger mountain men.”

  Tomorrow was a good day for Froi. The Turlans had an energy that was awe-inspiring, and Froi enjoyed keeping up with them. They wrestled. Jousted. Fought with practice swords. Hit targets. Grunted. Grunted some more. By the end of the day, the Lasconian lads were decimated.

  “He’s on our team,” Florik argued, pointing to Froi just before the second round was to commence. “You Turlans can’t just come in and take him!”

  Mort placed a sweaty arm around Froi’s neck.

  “I fight you for ’im.” Mort kissed the air in the direction of the Lasconians. Florik bristled. Froi laughed.

  “Turla saw him first,” one of the Turlans said.

  Gargarin and Lirah watched from the sidelines alongside Ariston and Dolyn. Froi saw irritation on Gargarin’s face, satisfaction on Lirah’s.

  “What is it with you and these lads?” Gargarin demanded when Froi joined them for no other reason than to show them the ocher markings on his arm that displayed every win. “You turn primitive when you’re around them!”

  Ariston ruffled Froi’s capped head. “We’ll take this one back to the mountain. He’s one of us, I tell you.”

  “The Lumaterans won’t be happy to hear that,” Gargarin said pointedly. “Froi belongs to them. We don’t want to be waging a war with them over one of their Flatland sons.”

  “Flatlander,” Dolyn said, impressed. “Doesn’t get better than that in Lumatere.”

  Froi caught Gargarin’s eye. He would never know what this man was playing at. Sometimes he believed it was flippancy. Other times he could see a plan brewing in Gargarin’s head. Whatever it was, Froi never felt satisfied.

  That night, Perabo gathered everyone in the keep. Lasconians and Turlans stood at every level looking down from the archways to where their leaders and Gargarin stood at its center below. Everyone jostled for space, and Froi squeezed himself beside Arjuro on a level close to the floor of the keep, watching Gargarin raise a hand for silence.

  “I’ll have Ariston speak soon about what takes place beyond the little woods,” Gargarin said. “But for now, I want to talk about the return of Quintana of Charyn.”

  “Our Quintana!” one of the Turlans shouted from above, until they all joined in, and it became a chant that made the hair on Froi’s arms stand tall.

  Gargarin held up a hand again and there was silence.

  “Yes. Our Quintana,” he said. “The moment we know where she is, Ariston and his men will bring her and the child home to the Citavita.”

  There was instant outrage from the Lasconians.

  “The heir belongs to us!” one shouted.

  “It’s our right to place him on the throne,” an elder argued. “On behalf of his father, Tariq of Lascow.”

  Froi saw the quick flicker of Gargarin’s eyes toward him, not realizing that Gargarin had known exactly where Froi stood among the crowd of men.

  “The Turlans are stronger warriors,” Gargarin said. “When it comes to returning Quintana and her child to the palace, there will be no room for failure. We send in our best.”

  Froi felt Arjuro lean close to him. “My brother’s a smart man,” he whispered.

  Froi had to agree. If the babe was a boy, the Turlans would be remembered for placing the king on the throne for as long as they lived. It was the closest Ariston and the Turlans would get to being respected in Charyn. Although they would never be acknowledged as kin, the little king would be brought up knowing he owed much to these feral mountain people. Perhaps when the boy was older, he would understand who they were to his mother.

  Ariston’s head was bent in acknowledgment, and Froi could see he was moved by the honor given to his people.

  “Perabo,” Gargarin called out to where the man was standing at a higher archway opposite Froi’s. “You were once the keeper of the caves below the Citavita, and soon you’ll be the keeper of the keys to the palace. The constable. You choose your men well.”

  Perabo was surprised to hear the words. “I’ve despised the palace most of my life,” he shouted back down at Gargarin. “I’ve always worked against it.”

  “You’ve been working to secure the safety of Tariq and Quintana for many years. For now, Quintana is the palace. Would you forsake her your protection?” Gargarin asked.

  Perabo shook his head reluctantly.

  “What of the provincari?” Dolyn of Lascow asked from where he stood. “For too long they’ve kept both our clans out of province affairs. Will they agree to your decisions, Gargarin?”

  “They may make the decisions on how to run the kingdom, but the safety of the little king will be in the hands of us all, and it begins now. Later, when we have Quintana of Charyn and her child secure in the palace, the riders will be made up of ten of the best of each province, including both mountain clans.”

  “But where is she?” someone called out.

  There was silence before Gargarin spoke.

  “We will find her. The best news we’ve had so far is no news. No news means no corpse.”

  “She’s simple. She’s not capable —”

  “Simple?” Gargarin laughed sharply, searching for the speaker of the words. “She fooled the king and his men with stories to protect your last born girls. She survived the attack on Tariq’s compound. She helped secure an escape from Bestiano’s armed men at the bottom of the gravina by concealing weapons at her wrists and on her back. She traveled from Jidia to Turla to Paladozza with a babe in her belly and not so much as a whimper. And as we speak, she’s hiding in this kingdom, keeping our king safe. She’s not simple. Anything but simple.”

  Arjuro moved closer to Froi. “Not to mention her ability to kill a king in five seconds,” he whispered.

  Gargarin stepped aside, and Ariston spoke next about what had taken place in the little woods.

  “Bestiano ordered the flanks of his army to guard the entrance to the woodlands.”

  Ariston was quiet a moment.

  “They were young men. Strong lads. He’s sending them out to fight like lambs to slaughter,” Ariston said, his voice full of sorrow. “Bestiano and his generals are camped between the first two hills of Charyn, but they send out their youngest and strongest to fight their own people, and Charyn loses more of its lifeblood.”

  “How is it you came this way?” Dolyn asked.

  “There’s talk throughout Charyn of what took place on the lake,” Ariston said, looking up at the elder. Froi heard anger in his voice. “That Bestiano was willing to sacrifice the last priestling. We also knew Lasconians were taking refuge in this fortress and that Bestiano’s army was heading north. The slaughter of Tariq of Lascow’s compound was felt by us all. We fight to avenge your kinsmen, Dolyn. We fight to avenge the young King Tariq who never had a chance to prove his worth.”

  And they fight to protect their own, Froi thought. Ariston was here for the oracle, Solange of Turla’s daughter and grandchild.

  “I say we get a look at what’s happening between those two hills and decide on the chances we’ll take,” Ariston continued. “We need to find out what they know and what they think we know before we slaughter each other for no reason.”

  “Have you seen their sentinels?” Froi called out. “Those in the tree?”

  Ariston nodded. “One saw us coming and left his post. For the time being, they are there to keep an eye on this fortress. But after last night’s events, things may change.”

  “So we attack?” Dolyn aske
d.

  Ariston shook his head. “We need to see what takes place between those hills and how big that army truly is. I’m presuming that they know as little as we do about our Quintana. So for now, they watch us, and we need to do the same to them.” He looked at Gargarin. “We have to find a way to blind the sentinel.”

  Froi bunked down with his horse in the stables with the rest of the Turlans. One of the lads, called Joyner, whose upper body was covered with etchings, was marking another lad, using a bone needle and ocher mixed with earth. Froi had heard the Lasconians scornfully say that etchings were only for slaves and lastborn girls, but the Turlan lads were neither.

  “What have you chosen?” Froi asked the Turlan, who winced with pain each time the needle channeled the ink into his flesh.

  “First time kill beyond little woods,” the lad said quietly. “Mine a tainted spirit now. Keep it safe with name of my girl.”

  “Ariston’ll kill you,” Mort said. He looked at Froi, shaking his head. “His girl Ariston’s niece.”

  “Most beautiful girl on Turla. And strongest. She beat any Lasconian today.”

  The lad winced again.

  Mort showed Froi his etching. Froi saw the name Jocasta.

  “My mother. Most beautiful woman on Turla,” he boasted.

  “There must be a lot of beautiful women on the mountain,” Froi said.

  There was a chorus from all the Turlan lads in agreement.

  He watched the etching and thought of what Quintana had told him once. That Lirah was marked with the name of the man who owned her.

  Later, Froi went to visit Arjuro in his chamber.

  “Can you write these names in the language of the ancients?” Froi asked quietly.

  Arjuro wrote them neatly, and Froi marveled at how powerful the ancient words looked compared to those in Charyn and Lumateran.

  “What are they for?” Arjuro asked.

  Froi patted his arm. Arjuro grimaced.

  “It can’t be removed,” Arjuro said. “You know that. The stigma stays with you.”

  “My feelings will never change,” Froi said. He started to walk away but turned back.

  “Where did you see the writing that time? On my back?”

  Arjuro traced a finger across where the writing had started just below Froi’s shoulder blade.

  Froi returned to the stables, where he was next in line. He handed Joyner the parchment.

  “What say it?” Joyner said out of curiosity.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Froi said. “Here. Here. And here.” He pointed to the exact place he wanted each individual word to be. Both arms and across his shoulders. “But don’t go here,” he said, indicating where Arjuro had once seen the message from the gods.

  “Goin’ to hurt,” Joyner said.

  Joyner worked well into the night. He was precise and had the steadiest of hands. Despite the pain, Froi was pleased with what he saw on both his arms. Like the lettering on his scalp and on his back, he would never see the name across his shoulders, but he’d feel it. He’d know what it meant. He knew it linked him to her.

  The Turlan lads looked impressed the next morning.

  “Joyner says you gods’ blessed,” Mort said quietly, away from the others.

  Froi shook his head. “What would make him say that?”

  “Bit of a gift himself, our Joyner. He say your back was aflame. Was something there not of this world.”

  The other lads suddenly looked up, and Froi followed their gaze to where Lirah stood at the entrance. He saw the fury on her face before she turned and walked away. Froi followed her out into the courtyard. He kicked at the dirt on the ground, waiting for whatever it was she had to say.

  “Are you a slave?” she asked harshly. “In Serker, only slaves are etched.”

  “With the names of the men that own them,” he said, his eyes meeting hers. It sickened him to think of Lirah being owned by anyone.

  “I’m a Serker, Lirah,” he said softly. “My body is etched with the names of the three women who own me. My queen. My mother. My woman.”

  He took Lirah’s hand and placed it where Joyner had written her name on his arm, and he saw tears in her eyes. She traced the lettering with a finger, then quickly pressed a kiss against it and hurried away.

  Froi smiled to himself and was about to climb up to his watch when Perabo called from above.

  “Get Gargarin.”

  Moments later, Froi stood on the wall, looking out into the little woods with Gargarin, Ariston, Perabo, and Dolyn.

  “It’s too far away to see anything but movement,” Perabo said. “But I’ve noticed a difference in the changeover of the guards. There are three of them. Guard one takes the day post. Guard two arrives in the evening to replace him for the night. The next morning, guard three fails to turn up on time. Every day since we’ve arrived. So guard two, after spending a whole night in the tree, always leaves his post and returns to camp instead of waiting. I presume he is forced to wake guard three. Or perhaps by the time he reaches the camp, guard three is on his way and they pass by each other. Any which way, for a short time early each morning, we have no one watching us.”

  Ariston looked out toward the little woods. “So we can take advantage of those moments? We can send out a scout, the fastest lad we have, to see what is taking place between the two hills, where Bestiano is camped.”

  Gargarin shook his head. “I don’t like it. It’s too much of a risk. We can’t guarantee that tomorrow will be the same as today. If Bestiano’s men capture whoever we send out, they’ll use torture to find out what our lad knows.”

  “He’s right,” Dolyn said. “It’s too much of a chance. We may lose our scout at the hands of one of those guards, or, worse still, at the hands of Bestiano and his riders.”

  “And if we don’t, her life stays in danger,” Froi said. “The captain of the Lumateran Guard would never question which of his men would be tortured or captured when it came to keeping the queen safe.”

  Ariston barked out a laugh of disbelief. “From what I’ve heard of Trevanion of Lumatere, I doubt he’d send out his son, the consort.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing we have no sons among us to send out,” Dolyn said.

  Perabo gathered everyone in the great hall and spoke of what he had seen.

  “All we need is to work out what takes place between those hills. Whether they have Quintana of Charyn. Whether they have an army as powerful as we fear.”

  He turned to Ariston. “Who is fastest of your lads?”

  Ariston shook his head. “They’re built to defend, but not for speed, I’m afraid, and for this task speed is everything.”

  “The Lumateran is fast,” one of the Lasconians called out.

  Froi heard Arjuro’s sharp intake of breath beside him.

  “The lad from Lascow is the fastest,” Lirah’s voice rang out. Everyone stared at her. “Him,” she said, pointing at Florik. “He beat Froi in the race around the wall. The lad who won the prize is the perfect soldier for the task.”

  Froi’s eyes met Florik’s across the way. Mort nudged Froi. “If come tomorrow the Lasconian sees the gods,” he whispered, “pray it’s a sentinel’s arrow and not Nebian torture.”

  No one spoke. Froi could see that the Lasconians didn’t want to give up their own. Perhaps they had good reason. They had lost Tariq’s compound in the Citavita and couldn’t afford to lose others. Finally, Dolyn nodded.

  “Good. Then that’s decided,” Gargarin said. “We’ll try for the morning.” He walked away before another word was spoken.

  Early the next day, Froi woke and made his way up to the great hall, where the Lasconian lads slept. They were all awake, standing around Florik while Dolyn and Ariston fitted him with his weaponry, speaking to him in low, calm voices.

  “You’ve got the speed, Florik,” Dolyn reassured. “Just stay focused and get to that lookout and take in everything, every single detail, and then you run for your life. Don’t let them see you. We’
ll want this chance again, but for now, all we need to know is the strength of their army and what lies between those hills.”

  Florik nodded. His elder had a hand to his shoulder. “How many times have you run the mountain, Florik? How many times?”

  Florik followed Ariston and Dolyn as if he were a prisoner walking to the gallows. When the Lasconian lads tried to follow, Ariston ordered them back.

  “He needs to empty his head of all your talk.”

  But Froi followed Florik into the bailey, to the fortress gate. Up above, Perabo was in the gatehouse, watching the little woods for the departure of the guard from the tree. Ariston gave the order to raise the gate.

  Froi could see the tremble in Florik’s hand.

  “Now!” Perabo shouted out.

  Florik hesitated.

  “Now.”

  One moment. Two. Three. Three too many.

  Froi’s fist caught Florik in the face. He bolted before any of them could stop him. He ran with the shrill wind in his ears, the little woods before him. He tried to prepare himself for the worst, although Perri always said that if you had an objective, think of nothing but getting there. Anything else would slow you down. But from the moment Froi knew that Bestiano was between those hills, he had wondered if Quintana was held captive in the camp. Knew there was nothing he could do if she was. Him up against an army? He stumbled at the thought. See? Perri’s voice shouted in his ear. It’ll slow you down, Froi, and what good will you be to her then?

  He reached the woods, tree limbs flying in his face and half-concealed burrows catching him unaware. He remembered the time Finnikin and Isaboe freed him from the slave traders in that forest in the town of Speranza, how they had sprinted through its half-hidden trails, desperate to reach the valley that would lead them to Trevanion and Sir Topher. Finnikin’s coat had been secure around Froi’s otherwise naked body. They had come back for him, and the memory of it spurred him on as he untangled himself from vines that clung, leaped over fallen logs, and caught his first glimpse of the hill beyond the copse of trees. Froi clambered up the hill’s unmarked track, praying that no soldier was on the path back to the lookout tree, desperate to catch his breath and find answers to what lay beyond.