“The Mont!” someone said and suddenly Lucian was pushing between those standing before him. Phaedra sobbed with relief as he gathered her to him.
“You’ve got to trust me,” he told the women, whose instinct was to huddle around Quintana. “There’s so much confusion, and more than one army is about to enter. I’ll find a way to take Quintana to the little king and keep her safe on my side of the stream. I have to do it now, or it will be too late.”
“Whose army?” Cora asked.
Lucian shook his head. “Harker sent out a scout, but there’s little to see in this darkness. He says it looks like Nebia. So I need to be gone. If they know a Lumateran is on this side of the stream, it could trigger a crossing. Donashe and his men are turning on each other — some surrendering to Harker, others attacking anything that moves and never mind those caught in their way. Trevanion’s orders are that the moment I take the princess to safety, the Monts are to return up the mountain. Tesadora will stay with Quintana and the boy.”
Lucian pressed a kiss to Phaedra’s lips.
“If I get a chance —”
“Don’t!” she said. “Just keep her alive.”
Lucian picked Quintana up in his arms and the women wrapped her in blankets and cloaks, and then the two were gone.
“If he gets her safe across the stream, I’ll never call him an idiot again,” Cora said, and Phaedra could hear she was crying.
It was in the early hours of the morning that an army entered the camp. Phaedra heard the shouting, demanding surrender in the name of a united Charyn. Jorja said there was no such thing. Phaedra and Florenza crept to the outer cave and stole a look at the path behind them. A never-ending stream of horses and riders poured from the Alonso road. Phaedra took Florenza’s hand and they crawled on their bellies to the tip of the rock that overlooked the stream before them. And they wished they hadn’t.
Men lay dead, sprawled over lower cave ledges. The valley dwellers from below began to emerge, searching for their husbands, their sons, wailing at what was to be found. Florenza began to weep, but Phaedra’s throat was dry and it felt as though fear had torn and scratched away at its core. Had Quintana and Lucian made it across the stream?
Phaedra and the women made their way down with caution. There were soldiers rounding up Donashe’s men and questioning anyone else. The women heard whispers that an army from plague-ridden Desantos had arrived, and those from Turla and Avanosh as well, not to mention those from Nebia. Jorja recognized the uniform.
“Trust no one,” Cora said, grabbing a bloody sword discarded across their path. “Plague-touched or enemy.”
It was only Jorja’s cry of joy when she saw Harker speaking to one of the Nebian soldiers that brought the first hope and certainty of the day. Nebia was not the enemy. They watched as two of the camp leaders were being dragged in chains beyond the caves. One of them had taken part in the murder of the seven scholars. A soldier — Phaedra didn’t know if he was Turlan or Lasconian — said Donashe and his men would be handed over to the priests of Sebastabol for execution. The priests would want the seven lads avenged, and they would want to know the whereabouts of Rafuel. She saw Ginny in chains alongside Gies, and Phaedra walked away from Cora and the women and followed the soldiers between the caves to the Alonso road, where Donashe’s men and Ginny were being placed in a wagon. Ginny’s eyes widened the moment she saw her.
“Phaedra!” she screamed. “Save me, Phaedra, please. Please!”
But Phaedra could only think of being on her knees beside Florenza and Jorja as Donashe’s men held his sword to Cora on the day Ginny betrayed them. Once, her compassion had had no boundaries. The months since Donashe and his men entered the valley had changed that. So Phaedra turned away and walked back toward the caves. But suddenly she was dragged into a crevice and she found herself face-to-face with Donashe. There was a crazed look of fear in his eyes, and he held a filthy, bloody hand to her mouth.
“You tell them that I kept her safe in the end,” he said. “You tell them.”
He dragged Phaedra back toward the Alonso road, where more soldiers were arriving from the south.
“You tell them or I’ll make you pay,” Donashe threatened, his mouth close to her ear.
But when the new arrivals stopped to tether their horses, Phaedra broke free with a cry and it was then that she saw a figure limp toward them, an ax in hand. And his eyes met Phaedra’s, and she saw the vengeance that they promised, and knew exactly who he was. He was not a boy anymore, this lad who had placed her on his list of those he could trust.
“Keep running and don’t turn back, Phaedra,” Froi of Lumatere ordered, and she did as he asked, but stumbled, falling forward into the dirt.
“Did I not tell you I never forget a face, Donashe?” she heard Froi say and then there was a cry and the sick thud of ax hitting bone. And Phaedra lay there on the ground, weeping, until she felt a hand on her shoulder. She stared up to see another lad caked with mud before her. She took his hand, and he helped her to her feet.
“Don’t look down, miss,” he said, as he led her back to the camp. “It’s not a pretty sight.”
And then a sound rang out across the valley that unfroze hearts made of Charyn stone. A babe’s cry. And the newly arrived soldiers hurried to the sound and it led them to the stream. Phaedra followed. The cry rang out again, and the valley was still and those from the caves appeared, their eyes searching.
But the cry was drowned out by a roar of Quintana’s name that ripped through the camp, a cry so hoarse that Phaedra could have sworn the ground rumbled beneath her. She saw Froi of Lumatere drop to his knees. The wildest men she had ever seen circled him in sorrow and still the babe’s cry echoed across the valley, mingled with Froi’s pain.
“She dead?” one of the wild Turlan lads asked Phaedra. “If there’s king born, Scarpo say our Quintana dead, for sure.”
Before Phaedra could answer they heard a voice.
“Froi?”
Phaedra watched Froi freeze at the sound of his name. He stumbled to his feet, searching to see where it came from.
“Froi?”
It was Quintana’s voice from across the stream, and Froi of Lumatere walked toward it, his hands to his head, almost dazed in wonder. And Phaedra and the wild Turlan lads followed, and she heard the breath catch in their throats when they saw Quintana of Charyn across the stream, holding the little king. As Froi dragged himself across the water, Phaedra marveled at the look on the face of her queen.
“Do you think you love him?” Phaedra had once asked.
“I don’t know really what that is,” Quintana had responded in her cold, practical way.
Yes, you do, my queen, Phaedra wanted to say now. Quintana’s love was unabashed. Wondrous. The type of love that lit a strange, strange face and turned it into a beacon. Every man and woman in the valley saw the joy on the face of their king’s mother that day. He was born in love, this king of theirs. Phaedra watched as Froi reached Quintana and then he fell to his knees before her, weeping, his arms circling her waist as she held him to her with one hand, the screaming, squirming babe with the other. And there were sighs all around her, and she smiled to hear them come from such savage lads.
But everything changed so suddenly as the captain they called Scarpo of Nebia and his soldiers came riding across the stream in frenzy.
“We need to get you to the palace, Your Majesty,” he said, bellowing orders to the soldiers surrounding him. And they pushed Froi aside and wrested Quintana and the little king from out of his arms, and the savage lads beside Phaedra flew across the stream, shouting and cursing.
“Let him hold them! Let him!” one shouted.
“Froi!” Quintana cried.
One of the Nebian riders picked Quintana up in his arms; another tried to pull the babe from her grip.
“Froi!”
“You’re hurting her!” Froi shouted, trying to get to her. “She’s scared!”
Scarpo of Nebia leaped from
his mount and stood before Froi. “They are my orders,” Phaedra heard him say. “We need to get them both to the Citavita and secure their place there. You stay here, Lumateran. Gargarin’s orders are that you stay in Lumatere and wait. In weeks to come, do not make contact with the Charyn palace. You wait. ‘Trust me,’ he said. These were Gargarin’s words.”
But Froi fought like a madman, and the Turlan lads tried to protect him, tried to hold him down.
“Don’t hurt him. Please,” Quintana begged as she pulled free of the soldier’s arms and cowered on the ground, covering her babe’s head with her arms.
And then things got worse and Phaedra watched as Lucian and Jory and the Mont lads came charging out from between the copse of trees, swords in hand, ready to cut down any man who was a threat to Froi, and when the Turlans saw the Monts, they cocked their bows and raised their swords and Phaedra cried in fear of the blood that would be shed in this stream.
“Stop!” Froi shouted, stumbling between the Monts and the Turlans, arms outstretched. “Stop!”
And then there was silence. The Turlans stepped back across to the Charyn side of the stream, and Lucian and his Monts stood beside Froi.
Phaedra pushed through the Nebian soldiers and reached Quintana, who rocked in the mud with the screeching little king in her arms.
“Shh,” Phaedra said calmly, looking up at the captain of the Nebian army and his men. “You’re going to hurt her and the babe if you don’t restrain yourselves.”
Scarpo of Nebia hesitated and then nodded.
Phaedra looked across the water, and her eyes met Lucian’s. Their needs came second. It came from the privilege of being trusted.
But that doesn’t mean I love you less.
And she held a hand down to Quintana, who took it and stood, and they followed Scarpo of Nebia to the waiting cart that would take them back to the Citavita.
Froi began each day counting the moments that made his life breathable. The feel of soil in his hands. The colors of autumn in Lumatere. The murmuring between Lord August and Lady Abian on the porch each night. The sight of their eldest son, Talon, relieving one of the village women of the hay bale she carried. The priest-king’s belly laugh. The sound of Vestie’s voice when she asked about Kintana of Charyn. And then the next count would begin. Of everything that made his life unbreathable. And each time, it outnumbered the first.
It had been four months since he had arrived back in Lumatere, and most days he was able to put aside the ache and complete his work on Lord August’s farm. But today was different. It was the curse day. Their birthday. Charyn’s day of weeping. Let her be happy. Perhaps this would be the first of the birthdays she’d enjoy, for she had his son in her arms. The image of the two was etched in Froi’s memory, and although they had only those few moments together in the valley that day, he missed Quintana more than ever. And try as he might, Froi couldn’t get the scent of the boy off his hands. He began to understand Lirah and Gargarin, and the way they had coated their hearts with ice so they wouldn’t feel.
As if Finnikin had sensed his pain that morning, he came riding by with Jasmina.
“I’m going to teach her to swim,” Finn said. “Come with us. I’ll enjoy the company.” By the look on Jasmina’s face, the invitation was not extended to Froi, but he agreed all the same.
Trevanion joined them later. He kept a river cottage in Tressor, which was beginning to look like a village now, after all these years of grieving the Tressorians who were slaughtered in Sarnak. Froi watched the three from the riverbank and even found himself chuckling once or twice to see the authority the princess had over her father and Trevanion. Later, when the captain left, Froi and Finnikin lay on the grass under the last moments of the afternoon sun, Jasmina asleep in Finnikin’s arms.
“How is she?” Froi asked, and they both knew he was speaking of Isaboe.
“Bad days. Good days. Bad days.”
Finnikin looked at his daughter, pressing a kiss to her cheek.
“She doesn’t want Jasmina to see the bad days.”
Froi saw the dark circles of weariness under Finnikin’s eyes.
“You’re not trying to do it all on your own, are you, Finn?” he asked. “You should ask the women for help. Lady Beatriss would understand, and Lady Abian.”
“Oh, I’m not against begging,” Finnikin said. “I went to see Tesadora, you know. Me?” He laughed. “We’ve rarely exchanged a civil word. But I asked her if she would come to the palace and stay awhile.” Finnikin shrugged and smiled. “And she said yes. And then Celie returned, as you’d know. For this week anyway . . . especially for the feast tonight. And I asked her to stay, too, and she said yes.”
Tonight would be Isaboe’s first public outing since the death of the child, and Lady Abian had been preparing for weeks, demanding that those most loved by the queen attend. The whole week’s talk in the village had been about the feast and Celie’s return.
“Lord August thinks that Celie is spying for you in Belegonia,” Froi said quietly.
Finnikin glanced at him. “Celie is spying for us in Belegonia.”
“Don’t tell Lord August,” Froi said with a sigh. “Thinking is one thing. Knowing for sure is another. And then there’s the matter of the castle castellan searching Celie’s room when he suspected that she’d stolen a chronicle from the library and Lord August remembering the castellan of the Belegonian spring castle as a portly older man with a lot of facial lumps, and of course when he visited Belegonia three weeks past, he met the new castellan.”
“No facial lumps?” Finnikin asked.
“None at all. Nor was he old. Nor was he portly, and now Lord August is questioning how he would dare be in Celie’s room.”
“Ah,” Finnikin said, nodding. “No wonder Isaboe and Celie were locked up in our chamber all the day long when she arrived. They weren’t talking about Belegonian fleece. They were talking about the castellan.”
“According to Lady Celie, no,” Froi said. “She wants to outsmart him, not bed him.”
“And you?” Finnikin asked softly.
“No, Finn, I don’t want to bed the castellan of the Belegonian spring castle.”
Finnikin laughed, but soon his expression was serious.
“We don’t speak of it,” he said, “but I can’t imagine it being easy for you, Froi.”
Froi shrugged. He had received a letter from Lirah. It came via the valley one day, out of what seemed nowhere. Froi had opened it with shaking hands. Lirah had sketched him an image of Quintana and his son. And one of Gargarin. He knew it was his father and not Arjuro. Not because of his solemnity, but because of the look in his eyes. Froi would always recognize the desire in Gargarin’s eyes when he was looking at Lirah.
“It’s hard to explain . . . what they mean to me,” Froi said.
Finnikin’s smile was faint. “I can imagine.”
“Can you?”
“Froi, you have my wife’s name etched on your arm, and the only thing that stops me from skinning you are the other two names.”
Froi laughed and shook his head ruefully.
“Not many men can read the words of the ancients, my lord. I’ll have to remember that next time.”
They rode together until they reached the village of Sayles. The beauty of his home village always forced Froi to think of Gargarin. What would Gargarin think of the Flatlands? Would he be impressed by the water pipe that ran from the river into the fields? Would he ever share his plans for a waterwheel with Lord August? How would the two men get on? But with all those questions came bitterness. Not once had Gargarin attempted correspondence. And Froi couldn’t understand why. When Scarpo of Nebia had passed on Gargarin’s orders for Froi to stay behind that day at the stream, Froi hadn’t questioned it. Because Gargarin had once begged Froi to trust him and Froi had. But these days he felt like a beggar each time he visited the palace, asking if anything had arrived for him.
“Don’t forget the priest-king tonight,” Finnikin remind
ed.
“Why does everyone presume I’m going to forget the priest-king?” Froi said, irritated. He’d been feeling like the village idiot lately. His only chore for the night was to collect the priest-king, and if it wasn’t Lady Abian or Lord August or Trevanion reminding him, it was Finn.
“I’m just saying,” Finnikin said.
In the royal residence, Isaboe watched Tesadora pour more water into the tub.
“What say we wash that hair, beloved?” Tesadora said, her voice gentle but firm as she began to lather it. Tonight was special, Isaboe reminded herself. She would make the effort.
“Finnikin says he hasn’t seen it out for months,” Tesadora said practically, “and hair such as this should never be hidden.”
Isaboe tried not to think of her hair, because then she’d have to remember the red-gold strands of her son’s.
“I miss the color of mine,” Tesadora admitted. “Sagrami punished me for being so vain. It was brown and gold. Do you remember that, or were you too much of a child?”
“I don’t remember you,” Isaboe said. “I wish I did, but I know you’re somewhere there in my memories. I remember your mother, of course, but you were Seranonna’s mysterious half-wild daughter living alone in the forest of Lumatere.”
“Put your head back,” Tesadora said, and Isaboe felt the warm water blanket her head. She closed her eyes a moment.
“My brother, Balthazar, said he saw you once,” Isaboe said. “When he tried to describe you to my mother, he wept and she asked him why. He said it made him ache inside, and my sisters teased him for days. He would have been a romantic, my brother. Unlike Finnikin and Lucian. He would have worn his heart on his sleeve, and we would have found him sitting with the women and listening to their woes.”
“Yes, he would have been a romantic and a kind, kind man,” Tesadora said. “But this kingdom needs a great leader, and you, beloved, are a great leader.”
The Lumatere Chronicles Page 123