One of the girls clicked her tongue with dismay. “Whether you reach the mountain tonight or early tomorrow won’t make a difference, Lucian. Stay.”
He shook his head. “My father never spent a night away from his people.”
He mounted his horse, and then he was gone, leaving Phaedra on the enemy side of the stream with the white witch staring at her in the dark.
“You’ll never find your dwellings across the stream,” she said. “You’ll sleep here tonight.”
Later, when everyone slept, Phaedra was awoken by the sound of a horse. She had heard the same sound from her side of the stream on other nights and had wondered who would ride down the mountain at such a time. She heard a shuffling at the entrance of the tent and then the flap was pulled back, revealing the Lumateran Guard they referred to as Perri the Savage. In the light of the moon she could see the hideous scar across his crown, saw his cold dark eyes search the room. Phaedra whimpered. She was a fool not to believe that it had been a plot all along. They had sent the most brutal of the Guard to deal with her, after all.
She watched him creep stealthily across the space, and she squeezed her eyes shut, praying to Ferja, the goddess of courage.
“What was that sound?” she heard the Savage whisper.
“Probably the wife Lucian sent back,” the white witch responded sleepily. “Thinking you’re going to torture her.”
He snorted. “After more than a week without a break and a day on the road?”
Phaedra heard the rustle of clothing being removed.
“You were a fool to come without resting,” the white witch said quietly.
“I’ll find time to rest when you come home,” he murmured, and Phaedra’s face was aflame as she heard sounds that had little to do with torture and more to do with pleasure.
“We have a home, do we?” the white witch asked.
“I’ll build you one.”
This time it was Tesadora who sighed. “Sleep. You’re too tired to be of any use to me tonight.”
He chuckled and soon they slept and Phaedra was comforted that such a man would build a woman a home. That such a woman would speak words with tenderness.
She was forced to spend a second night on the Lumateran side of the stream, translating her chronicles of the Charynites who arrived each day in the valley for Tesadora and the novices.
“I hope you’re not promising them anything,” Tesadora snapped from her bedroll as the others slept.
“It wouldn’t matter if I did,” Phaedra said. “Charynites don’t trust promises.”
The next morning, she woke to a party of people arriving with more soldiers than she had ever seen. They came with women and children and some of the Mont girls she remembered from her time in the mountains. She felt uncomfortable with their stares and would have done anything to be on her side of the stream. The women who sat in the tent were dressed for the cool mountain air. Phaedra could see that they were women of wealth. She had no idea how to determine the age of a child after seeing so few in her life, but the smallest was a tiny cherub with the grayest of eyes, her hair covered by an oversize cap. She stared solemnly from her mother’s lap. The other little girl was older and so beautiful, it made Phaedra’s heart ache.
“What a strange way to live,” one of the younger Monts said, coming into the tent after having observed Phaedra’s people across the stream.
“No different from the trogs up on Finnikin’s Rock,” Tesadora said.
It was a noisy room of talk and giggles and hushed gossip. Tesadora laughed heartily at what the young woman with the gray-eyed child had to say. There was love among these people, and, as always, Phaedra felt so far removed and lonely from every one, even her own.
The conversation among them changed constantly and finally settled on the Charynite camp.
“They’re so dirty,” one of the Mont girls said. “I tell you, I spent a day helping Tesadora, and I could barely stand the stench when I stood beside a group of women.”
“Constance,” a fair-haired girl warned.
Then there was silence, and the Mont girl’s eyes flickered to Phaedra. Phaedra’s face felt as though it were on fire. So many eyes suddenly on her, pity in some. But what shamed her more were the stares from the children.
“The wife Lucian sent back,” she heard one of them explain in a whisper.
“Spent two whole weeks crying when he first brought her to the mountain,” another said.
She heard hisses of “Shhhh” and “Enough!” The stares continued and then more silence, so much of it that even the Lumaterans looked uncomfortable.
“They escaped through the sewers,” Phaedra said quietly.
Phaedra felt the eyes of every person in the tent on her. Although she had never been called outspoken, she had an awful habit of speaking out of nervousness. “Enough now, Phaedra, my sweet,” her father would say.
Still no one spoke.
“They were imprisoned in the province of Nebia,” she said, her voice small and insignificant. “The woman Jorja and her daughter Florenza. Jorja’s husband, Harker, had information about a number of Serkers who are said to live underground, and Harker was arranging to have the Serkers smuggled to the province of Alonso. What he didn’t know was that his contact was a spy for the palace.”
Enough now, Phaedra, my sweet.
“His wife and daughter found this out only after they were arrested in Harker’s place. They escaped through the sewers of their city.”
Phaedra looked at the Mont girl who had spoken. “That’s why you could barely stand the stench of them. Because they escaped through the shit of their people to save the life of Harker and twelve Serkers.”
Phaedra caught the wary stare of the young woman with the gray-eyed child.
Enough now, Phaedra.
“If you believe us to be filthy demons, then it is wrong of you to bring your precious babes into danger,” Phaedra said, looking at the woman and her child. “If they were ours, we’d never place them in harm’s way.”
The young mother stared back at Phaedra with fury. She stood, placing her daughter on her hip. “Now I have Charynites telling me how to bring up my child!” she said, before walking out.
The fair-haired young woman stood instantly to follow, but another took her hand. “Let her go, Celie.”
“I meant no offense,” Phaedra said, hanging her head with shame.
A handsome woman with kind eyes shook her head. “She’s tired. Leave her.”
“But, Lady Abian, someone should go to her,” one of the Mont girls said.
Lady Abian smiled ruefully. “In my early days with Celie, Augie’s mother persisted in telling me what to do all the time. The poor queen may not have a mother-in-law, but every person in Lumatere has something to tell her about how to rear a child.”
Phaedra turned away in horror. She had insulted Queen Isaboe of Lumatere.
“Finnikin’s great-aunt told her that she should no longer have Jasmina in their bed,” the one named Beatriss said. Phaedra had heard of her. Once, she had been betrothed to the captain of the Guard.
“And that Jasmina is too old to still be at the breast,” a Mont girl joined in.
“Well, I have to agree there,” said another.
The women chatted on, and Phaedra was forgotten. She slipped out of the tent and looked between the trees to where the queen stood with her consort’s arms around her. Phaedra recognized him from the day in Rafuel’s cell. They were speaking to the captain, who had the little princess sitting on his shoulders. The little princess pulled her shalamon’s ears, and it was strange to see the captain laugh.
Phaedra watched as her Mont husband arrived from the mountain. He dismounted and walked toward the small party. He tugged the queen’s cap over her eyes, and the queen of Lumatere laughed. Phaedra saw a beauty that she had not recognized in the tent. Secretly, she had always felt shame that her Mont husband’s cousin had not thought Phaedra significant enough to visit on the mountain.
Or invite to the palace.
“They meant no harm,” she heard Tesadora say at her shoulder.
Phaedra walked away, scrubbing away tears, not realizing that she was crying. She was tired of feeling shame. She was tired of feeling helpless all the time.
“Did you hear what I said?” Tesadora asked, gripping her arm.
“They say we’re dirty,” Phaedra cried, pulling free. “Luci-en says we’re useless. Your queen says we’re murderers. I overheard the Mont lads say we should be rounded up and set aflame. We’re barren. We worship too many gods. Our bread is tasteless. Our faces are plain. We cry too much. Our fathers abandon us. We don’t understand kinship. We’re pitiful!”
Phaedra shook her head. “If your people mean no offense, they should not speak their thoughts out loud in front of their children, Tesadora. Because it will be their children who come to slaughter us one day, all because of the careless words passed down by their elders who meant no harm.”
Tesadora stared a moment, and then a ghost of a smile appeared on her face.
“Strange things happen when we stand face-to-face with our enemy, don’t they, Phaedra of Alonso?”
Tesadora leaned forward and sniffed at Phaedra’s clothing.
“Why, you’re not so dirty after all.” She smiled mockingly. “And you just called me Tesadora, so that must mean I’m not the white witch anymore.”
The queen returned to the mountain with her consort that night, but the others stayed. Phaedra had not been dismissed, so she spent a third night on the Lumateran side of the stream. She had little desire to sleep among the women in Tesadora’s tent and chose to sleep under the stars in a bed of leaves, feeling lonelier than she ever had in her life.
She was awoken in the morning by the sounds from across the stream in the camp. During the night, someone had placed a blanket over her, and she now folded it carefully to return it to the tent. The Lumaterans were already awake, and soldiers of the Guard, including the captain, were swarming the forest.
She approached the others, who were pottering around a fire, being served tea by Tesadora’s girls, when suddenly Tesadora stopped, staring in the direction of the stream. She stood and then her eyes met Phaedra’s.
“Something’s wrong,” she said.
Phaedra listened a moment. It was unnaturally silent. The world of the cave dwellers seemed to have stopped.
“Trevanion!” Tesadora called out.
The captain and his Guard were there in an instant. “The stream,” Tesadora said.
Phaedra and Tesadora followed the Guard. The silence could mean only one thing, that someone had arrived unannounced. Perhaps it was the riders from the Citavita searching for last borns.
They reached the stream and came to an instant halt. Across the water, every camp dweller stood staring back at her. No, not her. They were staring at the little girl the Lumaterans called Vestie, who stood beside Lady Beatriss of the Flatlands. In the eyes of her fellow Charynites, Phaedra saw so much wonder and despair.
Lady Beatriss held her daughter’s hand while the captain stood beside her. They would have been a striking couple in their youth, and Phaedra had heard that it was Lumatere’s sadness that these two had still not announced a bonding day.
Lady Beatriss turned to Phaedra and Tesadora questioningly.
“We came to splash some water on our faces,” she said quietly. “Please speak our sorrow if they are insulted that we used the stream.”
Phaedra shook her head, unable to speak. The Mont girls arrived and stared across at the Charynites, bewildered.
“Do we have mud on our faces?” one asked. “The way they’re staring is strange.”
Celie of the Flatlands looked at Phaedra for an answer.
“Phaedra?” she prodded gently.
Phaedra’s face burned from the attention. “When Luci-en first took me up to the mountain, I cried for days and weeks,” she said, “every single time I saw a child. I had not seen one before, and I suddenly understood in my whole being what drove our people to madness. For the beauty of a child took my breath away.”
The Lumateran women looked confused.
“Have they not told you? Your captain and his men?” she asked. “It’s part of our curse. We’ve not birthed a child in Charyn for eighteen years.”
Celie of the Flatlands and the Mont girls gasped in horror.Lady Beatriss caught her breath, her eyes wide with shock. She stared up at the captain, who looked away.
“You’re pale, Lady Beatriss,” Phaedra said.
Lady Beatriss held two hands to her face.
“It’s been a tiring trip,” she said. Phaedra could see she was lying. Even Tesadora looked away.
A moment later, Lady Beatriss seemed to have recovered and she held out a hand to Tesadora. “Would you accompany me across the stream?” she asked. “I’d like to make their acquaintance.”
“You’re better off with Lucian’s wife. They think I’m going to curse them.”
Then little Vestie held a hand to Phaedra and she took it, her skin tingling at how small and soft it felt.
“They’re very withdrawn, so please do not take offense at their ways,” Phaedra explained. “I’m trying to find a way to have them all speak to each other, but they tend to keep to their own dwellings. The vegetable patches have worked to bring them together to a certain degree.”
“I’m sure you’ll think of a way,” Lady Beatriss said.
The journey down the mountain was silent, and Beatriss found it hard to swallow. It was as though something sour was lodged in her throat and she could not release it. Trevanion rode beside her and more than once she tried to speak, but the words failed.
When they reached the road that passed through Sennington, she clicked at her horse to stop.
“You don’t have to come in,” she said to him. “I’ll take her.” Vestie had insisted on riding with Trevanion and had fallen asleep in his arms.
“I’ll carry her inside,” was all he said.
They rode down the path through the village and past the cottage of Jacklin and Marta. Beatriss saw all their worldly goods packed onto their mule, and her heart sank. They had come to her only days before, heartbroken to have to say the words that they could not stay in Sennington. They had been offered work in Lord Freychinet’s village. Their departure would mean that Beatriss’s village was now down to fifteen people. Three years ago, there were forty-nine of them, all determined to put the past behind and work tirelessly on the crop. But the crop had failed to yield for three years, and it was selfish of Beatriss to keep her village tied to a dead soil.
When they arrived back at the long house, Trevanion followed her into Vestie’s room and she watched him place her daughter on the bed before he followed her down into the kitchen.
“Ask me,” she said quietly.
He didn’t respond.
“It’s what you have wanted to do since you found out about the Charynites. So ask me.”
He stood, dwarfing his surroundings, as he always did in her mind. When she was a young woman, his presence had consumed every part of her. She couldn’t bear being with him in a room because everyone in it disappeared from existence, except for him. Even parts of her disappeared.
“I have to go,” he said quietly, walking out of Vestie’s chamber and down the stairs.
“Ask me,” she cried. “Ask me something. You never ask me of the past, and without questions, I can’t speak, Trevanion. These unspoken words choke me inside.”
He looked at her, shaking his head with despair at not being able to release the words himself.
“What do you want me to ask you, Beatriss?” he said, anguish in his voice.
“Who her father is. It must have been the first question to pass through your mind. If the Charynites have not produced children, who is the father of Vestie?”
But Trevanion did not ask and did not speak. Whatever had happened to him in exile had broken a part inside of him that she could not mend.
Instead, he turned and walked away and left Beatriss standing alone in her kitchen. It had always been her favorite part of the house. Here, during those long ten years, she had cooked for her whole village. They had stayed united because of it. When people supped together, they shared more than food, regardless of their station in life. She stared at the large pot that was able to feed so many, and knowing what she had to do, with a deep regret in her heart, Beatriss sat down and began to pen a letter to Phaedra of Alonso.
Chapter 15
Froi waited in the courtyard of the palace to visit the Citavita. It had been ten days since he had arrived in the palace, but it felt longer. At times, it seemed as though he couldn’t breathe from the weight of the stone walls surrounding him. The Citavita, at least, provided him with some kind of reprieve and a certain fascination. He had become accustomed to coming and going these last few days, and although there was not one specific hour when the drawbridge was raised, he spent most of his time on the lookout. Today he felt Bestiano’s eyes on him, staring down from one of the upper walkways. Froi bowed respectfully, but there was no response from Bestiano.
From behind him, he heard the horses come out of the stables, and as suddenly as the drawbridge was raised, more than a dozen palace riders rode past Froi toward the gates, followed by a heavily armed horse-drawn carriage. He stepped aside, curious about who was inside, and when the carriage rolled past him, he heard the name “Olivier!” spoken with a whimper.
“Quintana?” he said, following it down the drawbridge as it lurched and rolled away. “Are you in there?” he shouted. He continued to trail the carriage down the wall of the Citavita, but it was too narrow a stretch of path to share with the riders and the townspeople. Froi pressed against the rock to stop himself from being crushed. He recognized Dorcas riding close to the carriage and broke into a slow run to keep alongside the guard.
“Dorcas,” he shouted. “Where are you taking her, Dorcas?”
“Soothsayer,” Dorcas replied. “It’s a custom each year before the day of weeping.”
“A custom to do what?” Froi snapped.
Froi of the Exiles Page 18