The Lumatere Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy

by Melina Marchetta

  “The queen of Lumatere complains constantly of her nose. ‘Too big,’ she says. Finnikin just shrugs and says, ‘What would I do with a queen who has a little nose?’”

  Quintana laughed, and she leaned her head against his chest. “He’s supposed to say she doesn’t have a big nose.”

  “I know, but Finnikin was brought up by men. If it wasn’t the Guard for the first ten years, it was Sir Topher for the next nine. He knows very little about women.”

  “So what do you say when the queen of Lumatere comments about her nose?”

  He flicked a finger at her nose. “I tell her I’ve seen much bigger.”

  “You are a smart man, Dafar of Abroi.”

  He shuddered with pleasure to hear his name spoken by her.

  “Froi?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t trust the Avanosh party,” she whispered. She moved closer to his ear. “I’ve allowed them to believe that all is civil between us, but I think they are planning something wicked. There’s too much whispering, and Feliciano doesn’t seem to have control. His uncle does. He reminds me of Bestiano.”

  She shuddered, and Froi held her closer.

  “Don’t let them take away our little king, Froi. Not the Avanosh people or Bestiano. I’m begging you, Froi.”

  That she had to speak the words broke something inside of him.

  “I will protect you,” he whispered. “I will never let anything happen to you or our child.”

  And he would come to realize sooner rather than later that it was the greatest lie he had ever spoken aloud.

  He went to see Gargarin in his chamber the next morning. It was almost a miniature compound, with two bedrooms and a library. Gargarin was writing with vigor, and Froi could hear Lirah pottering around in the other room. They’d be safe and comfortable here. Despite his bitterness, at least he could take that away with him.

  “I don’t trust the people of Avanosh,” Gargarin said, his head still bent as he wrote.

  “Nor do I.”

  Gargarin sighed, and their eyes met. Froi saw relief in Gargarin’s. “Good. I have a plan.”

  Froi shook his head. “I have a plan. I’m taking her. Probably to Turla.”

  “Excellent. My plan exactly. If anyone can hide us, it’s Ariston. We can leave —”

  “I’m taking her alone.”

  Froi heard a sound behind him and saw Lirah standing at the dividing door. She looked at Gargarin.

  “I can’t look after you,” Froi said. “I can’t protect you and Lirah and Quintana.”

  “But I can protect you, Froi,” Gargarin said. “I’ve written to every provincaro. Every ambassador. I’ve attempted to contact every Mountain tribe. We can build an army, bigger than Bestiano and Nebia’s. Her army, Froi. Without one, she has no power.”

  Froi shook his head. “You’ll slow us down,” he said bluntly.

  “But if we get caught, you will be protected by my name,” Gargarin said. “I’m beginning to realize that at a time like this it means something.”

  “Your name is nothing,” Froi argued. “You can’t protect me. Neither of you can. You never did!”

  Lirah stood watching them. “We stay together. We need you both,” she said firmly.

  “He can’t even protect himself,” Froi shouted. “Did he save you from harm? Or me? Do you want to know what they did to me in Sarnak, Gargarin? Do you want to know what they made me do?”

  Tears of rage spilled from Froi’s eyes. Because he loved them and he hated them. Because he wanted them safe and he wanted to hurt them beyond anything else. So he spoke the words he had never dared to speak aloud. About the men who controlled the backstreets of the Sarnak capital and made him sing on street corners because his voice was sweet and high and a gift from the gods. How the rich merchants would pay to take him home. And he spoke of the time in that stable in Sorel when he tried to take Isaboe of Lumatere. He watched Lirah and Gargarin flinch, as though his words were Gargarin’s cane beating them over and over again until nothing much was left of Gargarin’s and Lirah’s spirits.

  “You couldn’t protect me, so why would I trust you with Quintana and my son?”

  He knocked on Olivier’s door moments later. The last born of Sebastabol looked worse for the wear, having had little sleep the night before.

  “Let’s talk about what we spoke of last night in the inn,” Froi said.

  Olivier looked down the hallway and ushered him in.

  “When can you be ready?”

  “We are ready.”

  They planned to meet the others in the courtyard under the pretense of an excursion into the vicinata. They were to take no possessions with them, for it would draw attention and cause suspicion, and Grijio felt it best that they invite Feliciano along as well.

  “We’re going to see the last days of the greatest show in the kingdom,” Grijio called out with a wave to his father on the balcony, beside the uncle from Avanosh.

  Froi felt De Lancey’s eyes on him, and there was something in his stare that told Froi he knew what would take place. That Gargarin had already spoken to him.

  “Grij?” De Lancey called out. They were almost out the gate and they nervously looked back up at the provincaro.

  “If you and Tippideaux aren’t back in time, I’ll send the guards to come search for you.”

  It was a father’s warning. That whatever the plan was, it would not involve his children.

  As they traveled down the road to the vicinata, Tippideaux clutched Quintana’s arm.

  “I’m not feeling myself today,” Tippideaux sniffed, and Froi could see she was weeping, truly weeping and not just acting out her part in their charade. “All this anger from Father about your nonsense, Grij. It’s upset us all. Upset the queen.”

  Grijio stopped and held out a hand to Quintana. She took it, and he pressed a kiss to it. In the eyes of Feliciano, it was an apology. In the eyes of the others, a farewell.

  “You’ve never offered anything but friendship, Grijio,” Quintana said. “One day I’ll repay it tenfold despite your poor form these past nights.”

  Quintana turned her attention back to Feliciano and linked her arm with his, while taking one moment more to clutch Tippideaux’s fingers before walking ahead with the heir of Avanosh.

  When they reached the lane that would take them into the vicinata, Olivier indicated the fletcher’s cottage with a slight toss of his head.

  “Be safe, friends,” Grijio said, quickly embracing Froi and Olivier.

  “Everything is for Charyn,” Olivier said somberly, his voice breaking from emotion. “Everything.”

  Tippideaux quickly hugged Froi. “Keep her warm. She’s awfully bad-tempered when she’s cold.”

  And then they all caught up with Quintana and Feliciano, full of pretend laughter and talk of the greatest show in the kingdom.

  “Feliciano,” Tippideaux said in a hushed tone, with a wink toward the stalls they could see at the entrance of the vicinata. “Trinkets. A perfect gift for a blushing betrothed.”

  He nodded, unaware of what was brewing, and Tippideaux dragged him away.

  Froi grabbed Quintana’s hand, and then they were running for the fletcher’s cottage.

  “Can we trust this man?” Froi asked Olivier.

  “Just trust that he will do anything to protect the princess and the babe,” Olivier said as they entered the house.

  “This way,” they heard someone say.

  Froi followed the voice down into the cellar, his hand never letting go of Quintana’s. An oil lamp was lit, and he saw the fletcher and his wife standing before them.

  “Quick. Help me with this,” the fletcher said.

  It took the weight of Olivier, Froi, and the fletcher combined to push aside the stone, revealing a tunnel that would lead to the hills just outside the province to the north.

  “It will take you no longer than a day,” the man said. “I’ll travel behind you soon to replace the stones.”

&nbs
p; Olivier handed over a purse of coins.

  “Paladozza must not fall,” Olivier said firmly.

  The fletcher’s wife took the purse of coins from her husband.

  “Can I see?” she asked, reaching out a hand to Quintana. Froi froze. Don’t touch her, he prayed. The last thing they needed was Quintana’s savage strangeness frightening those who were here to help. But Quintana took the woman’s hand and pressed it against her belly and the woman wept. In return, she placed the purse of coins inside Quintana’s hands.

  “Keep them,” the fletcher’s wife said. “They will come to good use. You can return the favor when you’re settled in the palace with the heir.”

  “We need to go,” Olivier said.

  “Weapons?” the man asked.

  “I have a sword and two daggers,” Froi said.

  “We’re wasting time,” Olivier hissed, pulling Froi and Quintana away.

  “Here,” the man said, giving Froi and Olivier a bow each and a quiver of arrows. “Protect her with your life, lads.”

  Beatriss traveled through the Flatlands with Tarah and Samuel to see how her villagers were faring. They were scattered across the kingdom, some as far away as the Rock village, quarrying stone, or the River villages, gutting fish. Most expressed sadness when they heard she would be moving into the palace with Vestie. “Always thought we’d be able to return to you,” they said. “We may have work here, but we don’t have a home, Lady Beatriss.”

  As they passed the road that led to the village of Fenton, she saw a crowd. The Queen’s Guard was there as well, and among them Trevanion sat astride his horse. Beatriss remembered Isaboe’s words the day the queen visited and they had traveled back to the palace together. That she was not to expect Trevanion to reveal his feelings of the past. “They’re not like us women, Beatriss. For all their strength and might, any talk of the past pains them, and if you’re waiting for him to speak words you want to hear, then make the decision to live without him now. For you may never hear them.”

  “What do you think is happening there?” she asked Samuel.

  “Why, the palace is auctioning the village, Lady Beatriss,” Samuel said gently. “Did you not know? The surviving Fenton villagers will all receive ten pieces of gold to resettle elsewhere or stay if they wish. The queen says it’s what Lord Selric would have wanted.”

  “The queen and Finnikin mentioned as much. What are the villagers saying?”

  Tarah made a rude sound. “Those of Lord Freychinet’s village are saying they wished he was dead in a ditch someplace in Charyn and they had ten apiece.”

  “Doubt anyone will stay in Fenton, though,” Samuel said. “Not if Lord Nettice buys.”

  Beatriss shuddered at the thought.

  “Let’s stop awhile,” she said quietly. “I see dear friends.”

  She approached Abian and August, who kept their distance from the other lords and ladies. Abian hugged her tightly.

  “Sad day,” August said. “If they waited until spring, I’d have the money from the crop. Selric would have hated any of that lot getting hold of his land and people.”

  Beatriss knew from Abian that August felt he had let his neighbor down. She squeezed his arm. “You’ve taken on more of his villagers than you can afford to, August. He would have been grateful.”

  They watched Lord Nettice and his cronies, who were laughing among themselves. Already they were thumping Nettice’s back with congratulations, as though he already owned Fenton.

  “What I don’t understand is where he got his gold from,” Lady Abian said, bitterness in her voice.

  “He made his money shamelessly under the impostor king’s rule,” Beatriss said quietly.

  Her eyes met Genova’s. She was huddled with her husband, Makli, and the survivors of Fenton. As was the case with Sennington, the village of Fenton once boasted sixty-four people and was now down to twenty-eight. Most had died in the Charyn plague. What was ten pieces of gold worth to them when they were still grieving the loss of neighbors?

  A moment later, Trevanion approached and dismounted. Beatriss felt her face warming up under the intensity of his stare.

  “Honestly, Trevanion, can’t you arrest them for their smugness?” August said.

  Abian’s fury could hardly be contained. “If any of their wives come near me to boast the purchase, you’re going to have to bail me out of the palace dungeon tonight, Augie, because I don’t know what I’ll do to them.”

  Trevanion laughed. He looked at Beatriss. “Would you like me to arrest Lord Nettice for purely existing, Beatriss?”

  Beatriss’s stomach churned at the mention of his name. She was unable to join in the jest, and all too soon Trevanion’s smile was gone and he was off to oversee the growing crowd.

  It was all a farce, really. The poor Fenton lot had pooled together their promised amount, deciding that perhaps they would try to buy it together, but Lord Nettice doubled the amount the moment it began and it was humiliating to watch. Humiliating. Beatriss stared at the man, the word thundering inside her head. Humiliating. Humiliating. Her anger grew. She felt its rage, but there was no longer shame in it.

  What had her fellow Lumaterans said about her during those early years of the impostor king’s cruel reign? That she gave them courage. That each time his men ruined her land, Beatriss the Bold refused to stop planting.

  “Four hundred pieces of gold,” she shouted. It was what the priest-king had promised her for Sennington.

  There was a stunned silence around her. August and Abian stared at her as if she had lost her senses. It wasn’t that they doubted she had money, but to buy a village? Beatriss looked across at where Lord Nettice stood with his wife alongside Lord Freychinet and their acquaintances.

  “Five hundred,” Lord Nettice said, and her heart dropped.

  Every person standing on the field stared back at her, but Beatriss knew she could not match the price. The auctioneer waited.

  “Five hundred and ten, Lady Beatriss?” the auctioneer called out, searching for her through the crowd. “Perhaps another go?”

  “End this,” Lord Nettice shouted at the man, but the auctioneer refused to be rushed.

  Suddenly Makli and Genova were there beside Beatriss, as were the rest of the Fenton villagers.

  “End this,” they heard Lord Nettice shout again.

  “Lady Beatriss,” the auctioneer called out, his voice anxious. “Another bid, perhaps.”

  “We have two hundred and eighty coins between us,” Genova said. “Use it, Lady Beatriss. Use it all. If he wins the bid, Fenton is lost to us. The pride of Lord Selric and his beloved girls are lost to us.”

  Beatriss caught Makli’s eye and she saw sorrow there and before she could stop herself, she pushed through the crowd and reached the front, her stare fixed on Lord Nettice.

  “I bid six hundred and eighty pieces of gold!” she said. “Do you have the nerve to outbid me, Lord Nettice?”

  “Nerve?” Lord Freychinet laughed, looking at his friend. “What has nerve to do with it? I’ll lend you the rest, Nettice.”

  Lord Nettice hesitated, and Beatriss dared the coward to be the first to look away. For it would not be her. Never again would she look away from this man. She stepped closer, until she was almost nose to nose with him.

  “I defy you to outbid me,” she said. “I defy you.”

  There was a hush from the crowd, filled with confusion and anticipation and hope.

  “Sold to Lady Beatriss for six hundred and eighty pieces of gold,” the auctioneer shouted, his words slicing through the silence.

  “What?” There was outrage from Lord Freychinet and their companions.

  “Too fast,” Lord Freychinet shouted at the man. “Too fast.”

  “End this. End this,” the auctioneer mimicked. “Is that not what you shouted? Make up your mind. I’m finished for the day.”

  “This is an outrage!” Lady Milla said.

  “Nettice! Do something,” his wife said.


  “Leave it,” Lord Nettice said to his entourage, his tone cold and bitter. “Leave it. She’s paid too much for it, anyway. Fenton was always the runt of the villages.”

  Through the crowd Beatriss could see Trevanion, his eyes on Nettice as if he wanted to tear the man apart. But a moment later, she was surrounded by those of Fenton and lost sight of him. Abian and August were there too, as were Tarah and Samuel and anyone present from Sennington. They all seemed stunned at the quick outcome of the day’s events. Beatriss could hardly find the words to speak.

  “Did I just buy a village?” she asked.

  Then Makli laughed. “You did indeed, Lady Beatriss. You did indeed.”

  That afternoon her home was filled to the brim with those from Sennington and Fenton. Even the auctioneer had returned with them when he heard of the ale and the sweets to be served.

  “May I make a toast?” Beatriss called out when the sun was beginning to set and it was time for her guests to leave. Silence came over the room.

  “A toast to Lord Selric and Lady Milla and Lady Hera and Frana and Lestra. And a toast to those others we lost from Fenton and Sennington.” Beatriss’s eyes blazed with tears. “We won’t have a moment’s rest this coming year, dear friends. Not a moment’s rest, but we break our backs in their names.”

  There was a cheer for her words, and she stood among them overwhelmed with fear and exhilaration. What had she gotten herself into? What would people say? One moment refusing to step outside her house, next moment buying a village.

  Later, the man who had conducted the sale approached and took her hand, and she smiled.

  “I gather you weren’t a big supporter of Lord Nettice after what you did today?” she asked. “Did he do you wrong, sir?”