“With my life,” he said.
The path to the front seemed never-ending.
“Excuse me.”
“Excuse me.”
“Out of the way.”
There was shoving and cursing, and Froi’s heart was pounding. Lady Abian was adjusting her dress and hair and swiping at the dirt on Lord August’s face.
“Blessed Barakah is going to faint,” Froi said, trying to hold on to the old man’s arm.
“They dragged me off the carriage as if I were a sack of potatoes,” the priest-king complained as they stumbled to a standstill at the front, facing a shocked provincari.
There was furious whispering all around him. Froi heard someone gasp.
“It’s the queen of Lumatere’s consort.”
“No!” another replied.
“Yes. Look at the hair.”
Froi glanced at Finnikin, and already his friend’s face was a mask of arrogance. Finn said it worked well in negotiations. Isaboe said she hardly recognized him when she first saw it appear with the Belegonians.
Before them the provincari and the other leaders were staring their way. Quintana stood to the side. Tariq was on the ground, tugging at Gargarin’s leg. Gargarin’s stare was fierce. Angry. Hopeful?
“Introduce me,” Finnikin ordered Froi in Charyn.
Froi cleared his throat.
“My lord Finnikin, consort of Her Majesty Queen Isaboe of Lumatere, may I present to you the provincari of Charyn.”
Froi held out a hand to indicate the Lumaterans.
“Lord August of the Flatlands. Lady Abian of the Flatlands; the lords Talon, Duret, and Ren of the Flatlands. Lucian, leader of the Monts. And the blessed Barakah of Lumatere.”
There was a stunned hush as the provincari leaped out of their seats to offer the priest-king one of theirs. But despite his limp, Gargarin beat them to it.
“You’re late,” he hissed, glaring at Finnikin.
“We had a slight problem . . . locating the letters you sent,” Finnikin whispered back. “Explanation later,” he added. “Go. Away.”
The provincari were staring at the visitors, intrigued.
“I’d prefer to speak Charyn so there’ll be no misunderstanding of our intention,” Finnikin said to the provincari. “I will be translating for Lord August and Lady Abian of the Lumateran Flatlands.”
Lord August stepped forward while Lady Abian was still swiping at his face with her kerchief. Finnikin gave the nod for Lord August to speak.
“As stated, my name is Lord August of the Flatlands. Today, my wife and my family present to you our eldest boy as a prospective consort to Quintana of Charyn.”
Froi was speechless. He thought he would be sick on the spot. He could hate anyone, but not Talon, who was a brother to him. Finnikin translated and glanced at Froi, who hadn’t taken a breath. Froi felt a pinch on his arm.
“Don’t you dare faint,” Finnikin whispered.
Lord August continued.
“My eldest boy may not share my blood, but he is part of our life and has been since the rebirth of our kingdom. When we chose four years past to give him our name, we never imagined that we would be presenting him to a foreign court.”
August caught Froi’s eye. Him? They were talking about him. Not Talon. But Froi had never been given Lord August’s family title. Who had hatched up this lie?
Before them, the provincari were bewildered by the turn of events. Gargarin wasn’t.
“That doesn’t count,” Vinzenzo of Avanosh said.
“How does that not count?” Lucian asked politely.
Finnikin nudged Froi. “Which one’s Paladozza?” he whispered.
“Fourth from right.”
Finnikin stepped forward.
“My father is the captain of the Lumateran Guard,” Finnikin said coldly. “Don’t let me have to go home and tell him that the child he calls his own is not a daughter to him just because she doesn’t share his blood.” He looked at De Lancey. “Provincaro De Lancey,” he continued. “I’ve been told your children are not of your blood. Do they not count?”
De Lancey was livid. “They’re my children,” he said through clenched teeth. “Regardless of blood ties, they have my name. They have my land. They have my title.” De Lancey stared across at Avanosh. “Are you questioning the rights of my children?”
“No one is questioning the rights of your children, De Lancey,” the provincara of Jidia said, trying to placate him.
“It’s not enough,” Vinzenzo of Avanosh shouted.
“He’s the son of a Lumateran Flatland lord,” the provincaro of Sebastabol said. “How much more do we want? The Belegonians turned down our invitation to be here today. It will turn them green with envy to have our Quintana wed to the son of a Lumateran Flatland lord.”
“Don’t trust a Lumateran,” the provincaro of Alonso said, eyeing Lucian. “They lie.”
This time Lucian stepped forward.
“For the sake of my beloved wife, I will forgive my father-in-law’s words,” Lucian said. “And offer a hand of friendship to my neighbors in Alonso.”
“Your wife?” Alonso shouted. “The one you sent back and then claimed was dead? And then let go to the palace? And where is she now? Is my daughter a toy to be passed around?”
“Your daughter is a woman who makes her own choices, sir,” Lucian said. “And it was her choice to sacrifice her safety for Quintana of Charyn in the valley, and it was her choice to rightfully travel here and settle the first mother and child of Charyn into their home. I would never ask my wife to choose me over her king.”
Lucian stepped forward and bowed to Quintana. “And I will always be indebted to Quintana of Charyn for allowing Phaedra to return.”
Froi was most impressed with Lucian.
“So you married her again?” Quintana demanded to know.
“Yes, I did.”
“Good,” she said, looking away.
“We don’t trust this lad,” Vinzenzo of Avanosh said, pointing to Froi. “He’s lied and he stole the princess from under us in Paladozza. I was there.”
There was more hushed talk.
“Louder!’ someone from the back called out. “We can’t hear.”
Froi felt as if he were part of a pantomime, placed in front of a crowd hungry for entertainment.
“I was there, too,” De Lancey said. “And I don’t recall her being stolen.” He looked across at Quintana. “Stolen, Your Highness?”
The Nebian provincaro spoke up. “If I may be so bold as to say that our Quintana may not be the best person to ask whether she was stolen or not?”
Finnikin made a rude sound of disbelief.
“Can I be even bolder and ask why she can’t be asked?” he shouted, for those at the back. “All we hear about is Quintana the brave, Quintana the mighty who broke the curse. It turns my queen’s stomach to hear all the praise. Yet here, a provincaro calls her a dimwit who can’t answer a question about whether she believes she was stolen or not!”
Finnikin received a round of applause. The crowd liked the ginger king.
“A dimwit?” De Lancey asked the Nebian provincaro.
“I didn’t call her one at all,” the man protested.
“What of a dowry?” the provincara of Jidia demanded to know. “What has your son got to offer Charyn, Lord August?”
Finnikin translated, but first answered himself.
“The benevolence of Lumatere,” he said. “Is that not enough?”
“And an invitation to your little king’s regent into the Belegonian court,” Lord August said. “If I understand rightly, the Belegonians refused your offer to be part of today’s proceedings.”
Finnikin translated. The provincari exchanged looks with one another.
“Nothing more than what the Osterians are offering,” the Nebian provincaro said. “Haven’t they promised to assist making peace with the Belegonians?”
Froi couldn’t imagine what else Finnikin had to offer.
> “The valley,” Lucian said, exchanging a look with Finnikin.
Froi shook his head with disbelief. “One moment!” he shouted, ushering the Lumaterans aside. There was a sound of irritation from some of the provincari and furious talking from the crowd. They wanted to hear every word.
“Land?” Froi whispered. “You’re giving them land? I’m not worth the valley.”
“You’re worth a kingdom,” Finnikin said, turning back to the crowd. He had a better chance of impressing them.
“We offer the valley between Lumatere and Charyn,” Finnikin shouted to the crowd.
There was a hushed silence. Even the provincaro of Alonso was speechless.
“With a stipulation,” Finnikin said.
“Charynite people, governed by Lumaterans?” Vinzenzo of Avanosh scoffed.
“Charynite people governed by their own provincaro,” Lucian said.
“And the stipulation?” Gargarin asked Finnikin.
“That under no circumstance will the valley ever accommodate an army. Yours or ours.”
“And what will you name the valley? Little Lumatere?” Sol of Alonso scoffed.
Froi noticed Arjuro push through to the front of the crowd. He wondered if one of the lads had gone to find him. Arjuro had professed that he’d have nothing to do with this day, but here he was.
“They will name it the Valley of Phaedra,” Quintana said, her eyes meeting Lucian’s. Froi could see that Lucian was moved by her words.
“I think my queen will approve,” Lucian said quietly.
Vinzenzo of Avanosh was whispering to Sol of Alonso. Froi knew that Avanosh could poison any bitter man’s heart, regardless of what was being promised.
Froi sighed loudly. “We need to hasten these proceedings, Father,” he said to Lord August. “And my king,” he added to Finnikin, who looked at him curiously.
Play along with me, Finn.
“Remember? The Osterian archduke’s daughter is receiving suitors in three days’ time, and we may have a better chance with her. You did spend many years in exile among the Osterians with Sir Topher of the Flatlands. And they do love you so.”
“True, true,” Finnikin said.
“No!” someone in the audience shouted.
Froi chanced a look at Quintana and saw a show of vicious little teeth.
“Let us go, Lumaterans,” Finnikin said, enjoying himself.
“No!” someone else in the crowd shouted out.
But it was Vinzenzo of Avanosh who was on his feet in an instant.
“No need for that. No need at all,” Avanosh said, adopting a good-natured tone. “Only testing your worth. I say we talk about this. Have we seen all the candidates?”
“One more question,” Orlanda of Jidia demanded. “What was the son of a Flatland lord doing in Charyn?”
Everyone stared at Finnikin and Froi, waiting. Finnikin stepped up to the platform and managed to address both the crowd and provincari.
“Why question what Froi of Lumatere was doing here?” he asked. “When you should be questioning what would have happened to Charyn if he hadn’t been here. Who else would have saved Gargarin of Abroi from the street lords? He’s now the little king’s regent,” he said, pointing to Gargarin. “Who would have saved Quintana of Charyn from hanging? Who would have rescued her from Tariq of Lascow’s compound? Who would have sent her to a safe place to birth the curse breaker? Blah, blah, blah. I’m bored now,” Finnikin said, looking around. “Are we here for a wedding, or are we off to Osteria for the archduke’s niece?”
“Daughter,” Froi corrected.
Finnikin stepped toward the provincari, and Froi could sense his friend’s anger.
“My queen offers you peace. Your dead king ordered the slaughter of her family, and his army tortured her people. This is our peace offering,” Finnikin said, pointing to Froi. “Take it or leave it. We’re busy people.”
He turned his back on the provincari and joined the Lumaterans.
The provincari and the other leaders rose and walked to a corner. Froi watched them argue vehemently. Suddenly Arjuro was there beside Froi and the Lumateran lot.
“This is all too much for me. My heart is hammering.”
The priest-king stood and the two men embraced and then Gargarin was there. He bowed to Lady Abian and turned to Lord August. Both men acknowledged each other with a wary nod.
Finnikin held out a hand. “How could you take such a risk?” Gargarin whispered angrily, shaking it hard. “I wrote to you months ago and you sent him here on an errand about water fountains.”
“He said you loved water fountains,” Finnikin argued, but when he saw the fury on Gargarin’s face, he sighed.
“We had an issue,” Finnikin said.
“What type of an issue?” Gargarin hissed.
“A very substantial one,” Finnikin said. Froi and Gargarin waited.
“If you must know . . . your letters went astray.”
“The Belegonians?” Gargarin asked.
Finnikin shook his head ruefully. “My daughter likes . . . red seals. She chews at them. She must have come across your correspondence in our residence.”
Sagra.
“Jasmina stole the letters he sent?” Froi asked.
“Ridiculous,” Gargarin whispered.
“Yes,” Finnikin said, leaning closer, “And your grandson is chewing the provincara of Jidia’s pearl shoes. Equally ridiculous. Try controlling him.”
Finnikin stepped away. “Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to speak to the king’s mother. Can you reintroduce us, Froi?”
Froi did just that, and Finnikin bowed to Quintana.
“A trinket from my wife to your son,” he said, holding out a little purse.
Quintana stared at it.
“A trinket?” she said. Froi could see she was hurt. She wanted more from Isaboe. “I would have preferred a letter addressed directly to me. If the queen of Lumatere wants a friendship between us, then she must learn to communicate, not send trinkets.”
“Hmm, yes, I’ll pass that on,” Finnikin said. “She’s always so appreciative of being told what to do.”
The provincari returned, and when they were all seated, Orlanda of Jidia stayed standing. Not a good sign, Froi thought. If it was good news, De Lancey would have been chosen. Not Orlanda. Froi’s stay in Jidia was disastrous. Lirah had attacked Orlanda; Orlanda had insulted Quintana and Lirah. Gargarin had rejected Orlanda. It couldn’t get much worse.
“We have many strong young men presented here today,” Orlanda said over the noise of the room. “All with so much to offer us, in what we call . . . our infancy. For we are infants in many ways, and we must choose well.”
She looked back at Quintana.
“If there is one thing I am certain of — we are all certain of, based on the events of this kingdom during the months before the little king’s birth — it’s that we need to ensure Charyn’s safety. There’s no better way of doing that than to keep the king well taken care of under the guidance of his mother’s consort . . .”
Her eyes met Froi’s.
“The Lumateran has already played a great role in Charyn’s peace and will play a greater role in our future.”
There was silence. Froi’s eyes met Quintana’s and then Gargarin’s. He blinked. Once. Twice. And there it was. The moment Lirah had spoken of that day in the fortress beyond the little woods. Froi shook his head with wonder. But then he saw Quintana’s face. She was confused. Disbelieving.
“One moment,” he called out.
There was an uproar.
“What? What’s he doing?” the Nebian provincaro asked.
“I would just like to speak to Quintana of Charyn. Can we have a moment or two? Talk among yourselves,” Froi suggested.
He leaped onto the platform and took her hand.
“What is it?” she whispered.
“Do you want this?”
“What a thing to ask, you fool!”
“I just want you t
o feel normal for a moment.”
She shook her head, confused. “Normal? Why are you using that word? To taunt me?”
He laughed. Only Quintana would consider being called normal a taunt.
“Will you be my wife?”
She looked taken aback.
“You’re asking me?”
“Well, no one else is.”
They turned back to see the entire room watching them.
“What are you doing over there?” the provincara of Jidia demanded to know. Froi shrugged.
“I just wanted to ask her to be my wife.”
“And what say you, Quintana?” the provincara of Jidia asked.
“Well, if the truth be known, I’d very much like him to be my husband,” Quintana said coolly.
And then everyone was shouting and jostling to surround them and Froi was separated from Quintana, and he found himself embraced by Lord August and Lady Abian and the boys, stunned by how quickly the events had unfolded.
“We lose you, Froi,” Talon said. “How can we celebrate when we lose you?”
“You will never, ever lose me,” he said.
Lord August took him by his shoulders.
“I’m angry at myself, Froi, because it wasn’t my idea,” he whispered. “It should have been. I should have done this years ago, but I didn’t. It was his. Gargarin of Abroi. In his letter, he wrote that I owed him because of the water system introduced by the Charynites that saved our first crop. He wrote, Give my son a name that will buy him happiness. Have I done that for you, Froi? Is this what you want?”
“It’s everything I want.”
And then the Charynite last borns were lifting Quintana on their shoulders and the Lumaterans had Froi on theirs, and she was laughing and he thought he’d never seen her look so beautiful. And over everyone’s head, Froi could see Gargarin and Arjuro staring up at her with their bittersweet smiles, and Froi imagined two boys with the same face all those years ago in a filthy cave beneath the swamps of Abroi, praying for a better life.
Later in the night, Finnikin was there, gripping his arm.
“We’ll be leaving tonight, Lucian and I, and Perri. We’ve invited the provincaro of Alonso to travel home with us, and Lucian wants to see Rafuel before he leaves. The others will stay.”
The Lumatere Chronicles Page 131