The Lumatere Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy

by Melina Marchetta

  When they reached the point on the mountain where they could see the first glimpse of the Charynites in their caves, he heard her sigh.

  “What are we going to do about this valley, Lucian? If it’s true that Alonso has refused to send grain, I can’t take food from my own people to feed an enemy.”

  “Perhaps . . . they could fertilize the land and grow more of their own,” he said. “I’ve only allowed them a small patch, but they could grow much more along the stream and between the caves.”

  Hadn’t that been Phaedra’s idea?

  “Do you know how we fertilized Kasabian’s vegetable patch?” Phaedra had asked him with delight one time when they were traveling back up to the mountain. “We climbed to the higher caves and carved holes for the pigeons to . . . you know.”

  “No,” he had said, pretending ignorance. “I don’t.”

  “So they can . . . you know.”

  “So they can shit.”

  “Well, I would have put it more delicately.”

  “Trust me, Phaedra. There’s no delicate way to shit. It evens out the entire land. Humans and other creatures. Queens and peasants.”

  “Then we collect the pigeon . . . droppings and mix them with the water and soil, and that’s how we fertilize our garden,” she said proudly.

  It’s what he told Isaboe, without mentioning Phaedra.

  “People who plant gardens and vegetable patches become part of the land, Lucian,” Isaboe said. “We can’t have them forming an attachment. It means they’ll never go.”

  At her campsite on the Lumateran side of the stream, Tesadora was boiling a broth that smelled too repulsive to be considered dinner. She was surprised to see them but held out her arms to Isaboe.

  “Stomach upsets in the valley,” she said. She looked suspiciously at Aldron and the Guard as they began searching the area.

  “If you’re so worried about the dangers, why bring her down here?” she snapped.

  “Don’t talk about her as if she’s not here, Tesadora,” Lucian said.

  But no one seemed in a mood to jest.

  “You know they won’t risk crossing the stream,” Tesadora said, irritation in her voice and still watching Aldron and the Guard. She returned her attention to Isaboe and brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. “You look tired, beloved.”

  “I’m not sleeping too well these nights.”

  “I can imagine why,” Tesadora said. “Your husband’s an idiot. Have I not told you that many times?”

  Isaboe laughed, but Lucian could see worry in her eyes.

  “I sent for you, Tesadora, but you mustn’t have received my notes.”

  “Circumstances have been strange here since . . .”

  Tesadora sighed, looking at Lucian.

  Since Phaedra. Since Vestie traveled down a mountain on her own in the early hours of the morning. Since a strange, savage girl took up residence in their valley.

  “I wanted to talk to you about the sleep,” Isaboe said.

  Tesadora looked perplexed. “You still walk the sleep? But you’ve not bled. And I’ve not walked it with you.”

  “It’s odd,” Isaboe admitted. “Vestie walks it, too. Not alongside me. It’s as if we walk our own.”

  Tesadora was unnerved by the news, her beautiful face creased with worry.

  “I’ll come up the mountain with you tonight, and we’ll make a strong brew to ease those jitters,” she promised.

  Tesadora extinguished the fire under her pot, and Lucian helped her pack up.

  “I want to meet the girl, Tesadora,” Lucian heard Isaboe say. He watched Tesadora freeze.

  “Vestie says she’s a Charynite with no place to go,” Isaboe continued. “That she’s frightened of her own people.”

  “She’s no one,” Lucian said. “Just a stray who doesn’t want to be in the presence of Donashe and his cutthroats, if you ask me.”

  Tesadora covered the pot. “They’re arriving from all over these days,” she said dismissively. “Ever since the events in their capital. The girl can look after herself. You three,” she said to the guards, pointing to her pots and jars, “make yourselves useful and put these in my tent.”

  “And what if she can’t look after herself, Tesadora?” Isaboe continued. “What if there’s something I can do for her? All those people in the valley, waiting for my permission to climb this mountain. Perhaps she’s the one. She is on her own with no kin. Take me to her, Tesadora. We’ll ease her fear.”

  Lucian looked at Tesadora. As strange as the girl was, perhaps it was the first step. He liked the idea, but suddenly preferred that the conversation take place on the mountain and not down here in the valley.

  “Let’s get this over and done with,” he said finally. “I want us all in Yata’s house by the time the sun disappears. Lead the way, Tesadora.”

  Tesadora was reluctant, but finally she agreed.

  “I don’t want the girl frightened,” she said, looking at the Guard. “Lucian and Aldron only. The others can stay here.”

  They traveled half a mile downstream. It made Lucian wonder how much contact Tesadora had made with the mad girl since they had encountered her the morning Vestie went missing.

  “We don’t even know her name, Tesadora,” Aldron muttered. “If I get a blasting from Finn and Trevanion and Perri over this, I’ll blame you.”

  “Yes, well, I’m trembling at the thought,” Tesadora said, but Lucian could hear the strangeness in her voice.

  They passed the tree where they had first found the girl with Vestie. Farther downstream, shafts of light forced their way between tall pines. It was here that they found the girl on her haunches, close to one of the trees, with a blanket wrapped around her body that Lucian recognized as one of Tesadora’s. She was scrounging for something in the dirt, and he could see that at least she was eating well, looking rounded and fullfigured. When she heard the crunch of the pine needles under their feet, she scrambled to stand, her eyes wide with alarm.

  Tesadora stepped forward, holding out a hand to quell her fears, but the girl’s eyes fastened on Isaboe. Lucian saw a snarl curling her lips and then heard the bloodcurdling sound. Aldron stepped forward, a hand to his sword.

  “We won’t hurt you,” Tesadora called out meaningfully, for Aldron’s ears as much as the girl’s. “Step back, Aldron. You’re frightening her.”

  Aldron refused to move. The girl seemed poised to lunge.

  “Step back, Aldron,” said Isaboe, repeating Tesadora’s words. Reluctantly, Aldron did as he was told. Isaboe approached slowly, tentatively, and the girl stumbled back.

  “Your Majesty!” Aldron warned. Isaboe held up a hand, stepping closer and closer to the girl. Neither spoke, but there was a tension in the air that unnerved Lucian. He looked at Tesadora, and when she refused to meet his eye, he knew something was wrong. And then it happened quickly, the speed of it stunning them all. Isaboe’s hand snaked out and pushed the girl against the closest trunk, her fingers clenched around the Charynite’s throat.

  “Give me your sword, Aldron,” his queen ordered, her voice so cold.

  “Isaboe,” Tesadora hissed. “Let her go. You’re hurting her.”

  “Aldron,” Isaboe repeated. “Give me your sword.”

  “What’s happening here?” Lucian demanded as Aldron unsheathed his weapon and placed it in Isaboe’s hand. In an instant, his cousin had the blade pressed under the girl’s chin.

  “Isaboe, let her go!” Tesadora cried, stepping forward, but Aldron held her back.

  Lucian couldn’t see Isaboe’s face, but he saw the girl’s expression. With the blade to her neck, she was petrified. He reached out a hand to Isaboe’s shoulder, but she shrugged it away.

  “I was one of five children,” she said, speaking Charyn to the girl. “I want you to know that before you die. I want you to know their names. Evestalina. Rosemond. Jasmina. Balthazar. My mother’s name was Tilda. My father’s name was Carles. On the day he died, my brother, Balthazar, got in tro
uble for lying about breaking a vase in the reading room. My father said he was ashamed of him and so my brother went to his death thinking he had lost the king’s respect.”

  Lucian heard her voice break.

  “My sister Rosemond . . . We called her Rosie. She carved her name on the cherry-tree trunk in my mother’s garden, declaring her love for one of my father’s guards who later died in the prison mines of Sorel. I want you to think of them when you’re choking on your own blood, Quintana of Charyn.”

  Lucian’s pulse pounded to hear the name. Aldron stared at him, having no idea of the queen’s plan.

  “Isaboe!” Tesadora said, her voice desolate. “Do not do this. It will break your spirit.”

  With her hand still pressed against the girl’s throat and the weapon still in place, Isaboe looked back at Tesadora.

  “My spirit was broken long ago, Tesadora. And it was broken again yesterday when Vestie told me about your deceit. While I was begging you to come spend time with me, you were playing nursemaid to the daughter of the man who ordered my family’s slaughter.”

  Isaboe turned back to the girl. “Did you think you could find refuge in my valley, filthy Charynite?”

  Tesadora struggled in Aldron’s arms. Lucian knew that nothing would stop the queen. Wasn’t this exactly what Finnikin and Trevanion and Perri were doing in Charyn? Wasn’t this something they all had sanctioned?

  But it was horror Lucian felt when he saw Isaboe raise the blade to strike. The girl’s scream was hoarse and full of rage and fear. The sound of it would ring in Lucian’s ears for days to come. And just as Isaboe went to use the sword, something came flying out at them from the copse of trees.

  “No!”

  The voice made his knees almost buckle.

  Phaedra?

  Lucian watched, stunned, as Phaedra threw herself at Isaboe. And then it all happened so fast, and he did what he was taught to do in battle . . . when his queen was under attack. He acted on instinct. Lucian didn’t hesitate. Not for a single moment. His father’s sword was in his hand, pressed against the throat of his wife. He knew he’d kill anyone who was a threat to his queen. He knew he would kill Phaedra of Alonso. But Phaedra was on her knees, gripping the blade of Isaboe’s sword and pressing it to her own chest. Lucian could see its sharpness cutting into his wife’s hands. Until they dripped with blood.

  “Kill me,” she pleaded, her head pressed against Isaboe’s knees. “I’m begging, Your Majesty. Kill me. Please. If you want to avenge anyone, kill me. I’m a last born and daughter of a provincaro. Ride through Charyn and take every last-born girl to exact your revenge. But not her, Your Majesty. Charyn will cease to exist without her. We are nothing without the babe she carries.”

  Lucian watched Isaboe shudder. Even Tesadora was speechless at the sight of Phaedra.

  “They don’t stay dead, these Charynites, do they?” he heard Isaboe say, her voice so foreign to him. Compared to all the battles or deaths or sieges Lucian had ever witnessed, this was different. He swore later that the air changed, that there were spirits at play. That the Charyn gods and the goddess herself were damning Lucian for the blade he held. Damning them all. And then suddenly Isaboe stepped away, letting go of Quintana of Charyn and pulling free of Phaedra.

  “Get out of my valley,” Isaboe said. “Before I change my mind and slice you in half as your father’s assassin did my mother!”

  Lucian lowered his sword and stumbled back. Without hesitation, Phaedra gripped the girl’s hand and they ran for their lives, disappearing through the trees.

  For moments, all he heard was the sound of their own ragged breaths, but Lucian knew it wasn’t over yet. Phaedra was alive. He had held a sword to her throat while she knelt, begging for another’s mercy, her hands drenched with blood. He thought that the difference between him and Isaboe was that his love for a Charynite had sometimes made him forget. And he despised himself for it. He had forgotten the way Balthazar had died. His cousins. His aunt. His king and his father.

  “You’re to return home to the cloister in the forest,” Isaboe ordered Tesadora. “I forbid you to come here again. I’ll deal with you in my own time.”

  Tesadora gave a humorless laugh.

  “You forbid,” she mocked. “You’ll deal with me? I’m not yours to deal with, little girl. You’re mistaking me for someone else.”

  “Tesadora,” Lucian warned as she walked away.

  “If you return to this valley, Tesadora, you face the consequences,” Isaboe said.

  “I stay where I’m needed,” Tesadora said.

  “She’ll stay with the Monts,” Lucian said.

  “I stay here!” Tesadora shouted, turning to face them all, eyes blazing.

  Isaboe walked to her. She stood before Tesadora, shaking.

  “Is it the filthy Charynite inside of you that draws you to these people?” she asked, and Lucian knew there was no turning back from those words.

  “Oh, beloved,” Tesadora said, both rage and sadness in her voice. “Don’t force me to choose.”

  “Choose?” Isaboe said. “Between her and me? You’d choose her?”

  Tesadora leaned forward and cupped the queen’s face in both her hands.

  “Blood sings to blood,” Tesadora said. “And yours doesn’t carry a tune.”

  Isaboe stumbled back as if she had been struck, and then Tesadora was gone, and Lucian could only stare at his cousin. He wished Finnikin were here, because only he could tear that look from her eyes. Lucian had seen him do it. Walk into a room when the images in her head were too powerful to bear. Finnikin would take her in his arms and whisper the words and she’d choke out a cry, but she’d breathe.

  Lucian reached out to comfort her, but she stepped away. Being Evanjalin had trained her for years and years not to cry. It’s how she differed from the rest of the Monts. But he could see that she was still broken inside.

  “Let’s go,” he said quietly. “I need to get you home to Yata.”

  “Froi, put down the dagger!”

  “Finn first. Then we talk.”

  Later, Froi thought it would have looked strange to someone who stumbled across them in that clearing. Finnikin with an arm around Gargarin’s neck and a dagger to his throat. Froi with a blade to Finnikin’s back. Trevanion with his sword against the side of Froi’s neck, ready to strike the moment he moved. Froi was dizzy from the confusion and the rage and the despair of it.

  “Froi, put the dagger down!” Perri ordered.

  Froi chanced a look and saw Gargarin’s feet struggling to keep his body upright. Whether it was from pain or helplessness, it stirred Froi’s fury even more.

  “Let him go,” Lirah cried, struggling in Perri’s grip.

  Perri was strong enough to hold Lirah as he stepped forward and pressed the tip of his sword against Froi’s temple.

  “Put it down, Froi. You know I’ll do it,” Perri threatened softly. “You know it.”

  Because you don’t let emotion get in the way of what you’re doing. Isn’t that what Perri had once said?

  “Froi,” Gargarin said. “Put your sword down.” His voice was hoarse from the pressure of Finnikin’s dagger across his throat. “What good are you to us dead?”

  “And what good are you to all of us dead?” Froi asked in return. Stupid, filthy tears filled his eyes, and he felt weak and helpless. He had a blade to his king’s back. His king had a dagger to his father’s throat. The men he respected beyond question were threatening to kill him. Here at this place, where Perri had tenderly carried Froi in his arms after they had rescued him from the Charynites more than three years ago.

  “Just put the dagger down, Finn,” Froi begged. “He’s an architect. Nothing more.”

  “An architect of a path soaked in blood.” Finnikin spat out the words, tightening his hold on Gargarin. “That’s all Lumatere is to these people, Froi. A road.”

  Gargarin made a sound of regret. “I said what the Belegonians wanted to hear,” he said with bitterness.
“But you interfered, Lumateran. You interfered, and the blood of Charyn is on your hands the moment Belegonia crosses that river.”

  “What have you done to us, Finn?” Froi demanded.

  Froi heard Finnikin’s hiss of fury. “Us? Froi, we’re not them. You’re not them.”

  “He’s not who you think, Finn. If you put down the dagger, we’ll talk and you’ll hear it all.”

  Lirah bit Perri’s hand and tried to struggle free.

  “Don’t hurt her!” Froi shouted. He didn’t know whom to protect first. Where to look.

  “Do you know of this man’s promise to the Belegonians in his correspondence?” Finnikin demanded. “To eliminate Lumatere. To eliminate the people who gave you a home.”

  “You’re mistaken —”

  “Leave it to me, for I have a plan for Lumatere that will eliminate them as a threat,” Finnikin said. “His words. Not mine. And how were you planning to do that, Charynite?” he demanded, holding Gargarin closer to him. “March an army through my kingdom and rape my wife and child? It’s all Charynite men know how to do.”

  Froi watched Gargarin slump, his head bent in defeat.

  “There are more ways than killing and maiming to eliminate a threat, Your Highness,” Gargarin said, his voice low. “You misunderstood our use of weapon. Not a blade or an arrow, but Froi. We thought we could use him to eliminate Lumatere as a threat. His ties to you. His words.”

  How could Finnikin not have understood that? Froi begged the gods.

  “We offer Lumatere peace, my lord, and you trap the man who can make it possible?” Froi asked, gutted.

  Finnikin was silent. He loosened his grip on Gargarin slightly, and Froi waited, but there was nothing.

  “Finn, I’m begging you. Let him free.”

  “We have evidence that this man was behind the plan to annihilate Lumatere all those years ago,” Finnikin said.