The Lumatere Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy

by Melina Marchetta

  “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.”

  Isaboe swallowed hard. “My people are in despair,” she said, trying to conceal the break in her voice. “I sense it in their sleep.”

  Tesadora brushed a strand of hair out of Isaboe’s eyes. “Your people can be selfish, indulgent grumblers at times, Isaboe. And you may feel the hardship of their sleep, but you are the reason they sleep at night. Because they know that their queen will never forsake them. And they grieve that little babe for more reasons than losing a future king. Your people are sad, beloved, because they know your sorrow and they feel helpless. ‘How can we help?’ I hear them ask throughout the kingdom.”

  Isaboe looked away, to the corner of the residence where the crib would have stood.

  “Sometimes I think I can bear it,” she said, “and then Jasmina will look at me with so much confusion and she’ll touch my belly and ask me where it’s gone. ‘Where’s baby?’ she cries. She looks for it everywhere we go.” Isaboe felt the tears bite her eyes. “On the mountain just the other day, we went to visit Yata and one of the girls had just birthed and Jasmina threw the mightiest of tantrums and insisted we take the babe home, because she believed it to be ours. In her sweet mind, I went to the mountain to have a baby and I came home with none. So she believes we left it behind.”

  She looked up at Tesadora in anguish. “And later that night, I heard him weeping. My king is not one for tears. I only saw him cry once, when we came across the fever camp in Speranza. But that night on the mountain, he wept and it broke me to hear it.”

  Isaboe stepped out of the tub, and Tesadora helped her dress, securing the ties of her gown at her wrist.

  “You are strong and young, and you will find a way out of this darkness. But that path will belong to you. No one else.”

  They heard a sound at the door, and Isaboe quickly wiped her tears and turned to the entrance, where Finnikin stood watching her with Jasmina drowsy in his arms.

  “And don’t let me ever have to admit this out loud,” Tesadora said in an exaggerated whisper, walking toward the door, “but you lead this kingdom with a good man by your side . . . as stubborn and annoying as he is. A man who has proven himself to have courage and compassion. The Charynite valley dwellers believe that if they could find a man as good as yours to marry Quintana of Charyn, their kingdom would stand a chance.”

  Isaboe watched Finnikin grip Tesadora’s hand as she passed him, pressing a kiss against it.

  Jasmina woke up, sleepy and shy, and looked up from her father’s shoulder.

  “Tell Mama what you did today,” he said, approaching Isaboe. Jasmina hid her face in his neck, and he chuckled and whispered in her ear until she looked up again.

  “Tell Isaboe,” he urged. “Go on.”

  Isaboe leaned closer to hear Jasmina whisper, “I put my head in the wiver.”

  Isaboe gasped with delight. “Do I not have the bravest girl in the kingdom? Did Fa tell you that I didn’t put my head in the river until I was a grown girl in Yutlind Sud?”

  Jasmina was pleased by the attention and held her arms out to Isaboe, and then Rhiannon was at the door.

  “She put her head in the river,” Isaboe told her.

  Rhiannon gasped on cue and held out a hand to Jasmina.

  “Then I think Miss picks out her own dress for tonight.”

  Isaboe watched them leave and felt Finnikin’s eyes on her. Sometimes she felt as shy as Jasmina with this man. Grief stripped her of a veneer. Sometimes she wanted it back.

  “You’re beautiful,” he said, and it surprised her to hear those words. She always felt his love when he was present, but Finnikin wasn’t one for words of endearment. It was because he came from the Rock. People there were practical and very contained.

  They heard Jasmina’s laughter from down the hall, and she caught Finnikin’s smile at the sound of it. Isaboe pressed fingers to his lips. He didn’t smile enough, and the sight of it always caught her breath.

  “What if she’s all I give you in this life of ours, my love?” she asked quietly.

  “Then I’ll shout at the goddess in fury,” he said fiercely. “I’ll beg to know why I’ve been given so much when other men have so little.”

  “We’re going to be late,” Froi told the priest-king, trying to shuffle him quickly out the door of what was now the shrine house of Sennington.

  But the priest-king was fumbling with the key.

  “Let me do that,” Froi said. “You know Lady Abian hates people being late.”

  “You want me to hurry, do you?” the priest-king asked. “An old man like me?”

  Froi placed the oil lamp in the priest-king’s hand and hastened them toward the horse and cart he had prepared. Although the priest-king’s house was in use all the day long, most of Sennington village was still empty, and once the sun set, there was nothing but the moon to light their road to the village of Sayles.

  “Froi, slow down,” the priest-king said.

  “Half the mountain’s come down, blessed Barakah, and you know the Monts. They’ll eat all the food before we get there, and Lady Abian’s made those rolls of pork and cheese.”

  “Wonderful. I’m going to be forced into my deathbed because of pork-and-cheese rolls,” the priest-king said, stopping a moment to wheeze. Froi flinched to hear the sound of it. Much had changed since he left, but he had only realized now just how frail the priest-king was.

  When they reached the feast, most of the guests were already inside, except for some of the Guard, who merely raised a hand in acknowledgment. Things had changed among them, Froi thought. In the past, there would have been mockery or jest, but it was as if they could barely look him in the eye. Did they see him as a Charynite now? Would he be a stranger in every land? Not a Sarnak or a Charynite or a Lumateran?

  “You’re gritting your teeth,” the priest-king said as they made their way to the entrance.

  “I liked it better when they used to call me a filthy little feef,” Froi said bitterly.

  “And they probably liked it better when you had little control,” the priest-king said. “You’ve become a surprisingly formidable young man, Froi. Nothing’s more frightening to others.”

  On the porch, Perri was organizing another shift of the Guard. Froi could understand the caution. Lord and Lady Abian’s home had little protection for such a royal guest list, and Trevanion’s men had to ensure that every entrance and corner of the village was secure. Upon seeing Froi and the priest-king, Perri pointed to the hall, which was rarely used except for large gatherings. One of the guards pushed past them and hurried along without so much as a grunt of apology. Froi bit his tongue and held out a hand to the priest-king, who moved slowly. It made Froi wince.

  “I want you to see Tesadora now that she’s spending a little time in the palace,” Froi said to him. “She may be able to give you something.”

  “For being old? There’s a cure, is there?”

  “And don’t stand around too long,” Froi ordered. “Everyone’s going to want to talk to you, and next minute you’ll be tottering.”

  “I’ve never tottered a day in my life. You’re annoying me, Froi.”

  “Yes, well, I’m annoying everyone these days.”

  They reached the hall and stepped inside. They all were suddenly standing in silence. Staring at him. It was awkward, and it made him feel uncomfortable and a stranger. Angry tears burned at the back of his eyes.

  He saw the queen first. Froi had seen little of her since arriving home, and knew it would take her some time to heal. But tonight there seemed more of a bloom in her cheek. She bent to whisper something in Vestie’s ear. Vestie took Jasmina’s hand, and they ran to Froi, beckoning him to bend to their level. Bemused, Froi crouched beside them.

  “Happy birthday, Froi,” Vestie said proudly.

  And then everyone was shouting it, and the priest-king was p
ushing him forward, not weak at all, and Froi was engulfed in embraces and kisses, with friends pressing gifts in his hand.

  Jasmina clutched his arm all night, abandoning her reserve from earlier in the day.

  “It’s all about your gifts,” Finn said. “She thinks they’re hers. She’s stealing everything. Even letters addressed to us. She loves the pretty seals.”

  Froi laughed, caught Lord August’s eye, and shook his head.

  “You, sir, are deceitful.”

  Lord August embraced him, and then Celie was there with Talon and his brothers.

  “Mother’s been planning it for weeks,” Talon said, laughing.

  “And if anyone dared to say a word, I think she would have had the boys strung up,” Celie said.

  Froi was jostled from one person to another until he found himself with Lucian, quietly watching the revelry. Finnikin had expressed a suspicion to Froi that Lucian was in love with Phaedra of Alonso and missed her deeply. From what he had heard these past months, Froi knew that Phaedra had been everything he imagined her to be. Kind. Loyal. And currently, Quintana’s only companion. Froi itched to ask.

  “No,” Lucian said, reading his mind. “Only letters from the priests of Sebastabol. They want to know how the seven scholars died. Every detail. Why would you want every detail of the way seven men died?” he added, irritation in his voice.

  “They’re the priests of Trist,” Froi corrected. “And if one of the Monts died in Charyn, wouldn’t you want to know every detail? It’s the same for them. One of the lads, Rothen, was the grandson of the head priest.”

  “Rothen. I remember him,” Lucian said quietly.

  “Then, tell them everything you know. It’s not a trap, Lucian. It’s just people wanting to know how their loved ones died.”

  “You know them?” Lucian asked. “The priests?”

  Froi nodded. Lucian looked at him shrewdly. “You seem to have had a very busy year, Froi.”

  “Almost as busy as yours, Lucian.”

  Lucian was steered away by one of the Flatland lords, and Froi caught Isaboe’s eye as she excused herself from speaking to Beatriss. He fought hard to stop the wave of emotion that always came over him in the queen’s presence.

  “Will your husband come charging across the room if I do this?” he said, catching her in an embrace. He felt her fists clenched with emotion against his back, and the shudder in her breath. They hadn’t spoken about the death of her son and her part in the birth of his. There were no words, just the certainty that he would love Isaboe of Lumatere for the remainder of his life.

  “So you heard about his outburst in our residence?” she asked huskily, stepping away after a while and eyeing Finnikin across the room.

  “Yes, well, he did beat me black and blue on the Osteria-Charyn border.”

  “Strange that he left that part out,” she said dryly.

  They were awkwardly silent for a moment or two.

  “Thank you for all of this,” he said, looking around the room, knowing she was involved as much as Lady Abian. Then his eyes met hers. “Thank you . . . for everything you did . . . for her.”

  Isaboe’s stare was fierce. “I did it for you. I don’t do Charynites favors.”

  “I’m a Charynite,” he reminded her softly.

  She shook her head emphatically. “I don’t care what your blood sings, Froi. You belong to us. You’re a Lumateran.”

  And he was. How could he feel both so strongly?

  She took his hand, and they walked to where Jasmina was playing under the long table with the village children. The little girl was giddy with the sort of hysteria he noticed in those her age.

  “All the laughing will end in tears,” Isaboe said, sitting down while the children crawled between her feet. Froi sat down beside her.

  “Did blessed Barakah tell you about the spirits and the Yut madman’s theory?” she asked quietly.

  “Oh, yes,” Froi said, his tone dry. “He decided to tell me in front of Perri, who didn’t cope at all.”

  They both laughed at the thought, but then she was serious again.

  “Is it true that you can sing spirits home, Froi?” she asked.

  He didn’t know how to answer that.

  “I don’t know what’s true,” he said, awkward at hearing the words. “I know my . . . uncle . . . Arjuro can.”

  “Can you tell . . . if a spirit is lost?” Isaboe asked.

  Froi saw the sadness in her eyes.

  “Is that what you think?” he asked. “That your boy’s spirit is lost?”

  She winced, but he could also see her confusion. “When I was carrying him in my belly . . . I’d sense her . . . Quintana . . . but not like when I walked the sleep with Vestie and Tesadora. This was different. More distant in a way, and I think it’s because . . .”

  She couldn’t finish. She looked away, pained, and Froi tried to search the room for Finnikin because he knew his friend understood Isaboe’s despair better than anyone. But Finn wasn’t there, and Froi could see that Isaboe wanted to speak.

  “Do you still walk her sleep?” he asked softly.

  She shook her head. “Quintana and I do not have a connection, Froi. But I think our sons walked each other’s sleep . . . and I don’t know whether I was desperate for a sign or whether all this talk of spirits has played with my mind, but I sensed him. . . . I sensed my boy in your boy’s eyes. Isn’t that what you wrote in the letter about the husband and wife you shared a barn with? She said the half-dead spirit of her child lived in you.”

  He nodded. Tesadora told him how Quintana had spoken the same words to her. Froi’s mind had been filled with sorrow for the families of the lost Charynite babes. He wondered if they still would sense those spirits within him or Quintana now, or had they been passed to Tariq?

  “I think you’re wrong about Quintana and you,” he said to Isaboe. “Because I first heard a voice four years past in Sarnak. It was on the bleakest day of my existence, at a time that I almost gave up. Almost. Until I heard her song. I didn’t know what it was at the time. But it told me to go to Sprie. Sprie? You saw it. Why such a nowhere place in Sarnak? I could have chosen any place in the land, but not Sprie. And it’s taken me all these years to realize that she was singing me to you. And Finn. And Sir Topher.” He looked around the room. “And this, Isaboe. And all this, led me to Charyn. Blessed Barakah says our paths aren’t straight, and they make little sense. But Quintana heard my pain, and she led me to you. Which means that your connection with her existed long before the sons you both carried.”

  “You don’t know that, Froi,” Isaboe said, her voice cool.

  “No, I don’t. But your plan for revenge on Charyn led me straight into Gargarin of Abroi’s path. And I crossed a gravina to be with Arjuro of Abroi, and I climbed a tower to be with Lirah of Serker. Call it coincidence, but I’ve spent a year questioning what I know and what I sense, and sometimes what I sense overpowers everything.”

  Isaboe sighed. Jasmina’s head popped up between her feet again, and they both laughed.

  “Well, let’s hope they’re making a fuss over your Quintana today,” Isaboe said, gathering her daughter to her.

  Froi grimaced. “She’s not very good with . . . fuss,” he said.

  “Every princess is good with a little fuss,” she said, kissing Jasmina. “Aren’t you, my love?”

  Froi sighed. Yes, but Quintana wasn’t exactly the most normal of princesses.

  “Perhaps they’ve thrown her a party.”

  Sagra! He couldn’t think of anything more frightening for her. Or for those who tried.

  “You’re not thinking of throwing me one of those odious surprise parties, are you?” Quintana asked coldly, clutching the little king. “If you do, I’ll lock myself and Tariq in our room and never come out.”

  Phaedra looked from Quintana to Gargarin of Abroi. “Well, it’s not as if you don’t already do that, Your Majesty,” Gargarin said. His eyes met Phaedra’s. They had managed to coax Q
uintana out of her self-imposed prison and into the courtyard to greet those who now lived in the palace. Phaedra and Gargarin hoped they could lead her farther, to the portcullis and perhaps down the drawbridge and into the Citavita.

  “Could I suggest that we visit the town square and greet those who have traveled here for your birthday?” Phaedra said.

  “The town square?” Quintana asked. Phaedra watched Gargarin wince, as if he knew the following words would not be pleasing to the ear.

  “The town square where they once set up the gallows and jeered when the street lords placed a noose around my neck? Brayed for my blood?”

  And this was how they had begun each day since they had arrived all those months ago.

  “It’s about time and compromise,” Gargarin of Abroi had said to Phaedra outside Quintana’s chamber one morning. He had said those words after yet another failed attempt to have her join them outside the palace. “Let’s give her the time she needs.”

  Time, Phaedra noted, was spent in Quintana’s cold, sparse chamber. Its only appeal was a balconette that looked over the gravina. Phaedra was fascinated with the way the godshouse opposite tilted toward them, not to mention the hollering that took place between Quintana, Gargarin, the priestling Arjuro, and Lirah of Serker. The provincari’s people who had settled in the palace tower on both sides of theirs complained the whole day long about the early-morning and late-night shouting. Phaedra would have died of boredom without it. As she would have without the nocturnal visits from the godshouse residents.

  On the second night in the palace, she was introduced to two priests, both in robes and cowls. She was soon to discover that one was Arjuro and the other Lirah of Serker. Perabo, the keeper of the keys of the palace, had smuggled Lirah in with Arjuro, far from the prying eyes of those they called the provincari’s parrots.

  Lirah of Serker was the most beautiful woman Phaedra had ever seen apart from Tesadora. They reminded her of each other. Especially in their disdain for the world, until they were in the presence of someone they loved.

  As long as she lived, Phaedra would never forget the first moment Lirah of Serker held the little king in her arms.