The Lumatere Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy

by Melina Marchetta

  The queen allowed only Phaedra, Lirah, and Arjuro to hold the child. And Gargarin, but he refused each time, preferring to admire the little king over the shoulders of others.

  “Is he not the most perfect thing you’ve seen, Lirah?” Quintana asked. “Is he not just like Lirah, Gargarin?”

  “Thank the gods for that,” the little king’s regent murmured. Phaedra knew that Gargarin and Lirah were lovers. It was whispered in the hallways of the palace by the guards. But Phaedra hadn’t realized the two loved each other until Gargarin watched Lirah of Serker with the sleeping boy.

  “You can stay the night with Phaedra and me, Lirah,” Quintana said. “We can watch Tariq sleep.”

  Lirah and Gargarin exchanged a look, and Arjuro snorted a laugh.

  “Yes, I’ll sit with Gargarin and speak of waterwheels and privies.”

  Today, having lost the battle of Quintana leaving the palace, Phaedra watched as Gargarin decided to bring up the issue of chambers when they returned to her room.

  “There’s been enough time to settle in,” Gargarin said. “You can’t stay in here, Your Majesty. It’s not big enough for you all.”

  “But I can,” Quintana said dismissively. “This has always been my chamber.”

  Gargarin grimaced. “It holds bad memories for you, Your Majesty,” he said. “Awful.”

  Quintana picked up Tariq from his basket and clutched him to her. She did it often. Up and down he went. From her arms to the basket and then back into her arms. Sometimes Phaedra would see Quintana place an ear to Tariq’s lips to check for breathing.

  “This chamber holds the best of memories, too,” Quintana said quietly. “You forget that.”

  Gargarin sighed. “It’s best you take the solar. It’s large and well lit and the most comfortable place in the palace.”

  Quintana wanted to hear none of it. Instead, she held out Tariq to Gargarin. “It’s about time,” she said. She tried at least once a day to have the little king’s regent hold him, but always failed.

  “You move to the solar,” he said firmly instead.

  Phaedra believed that Quintana had all but lost this fight.

  “My idea is better,” Quintana said. “You take the solar, Gargarin. There’s the secret passage through the cellar that leads to it, and on the nights Perabo is on watch at the gatehouse, Lirah can visit you more easily there than meeting you here. She certainly won’t be seen by the parrots of the provinces. When he’s old enough, we can place Tariq in the chamber next door to here. We can hack an entrance just there,” she said, pointing to the wall. “We can place a desk near the window, just for you. The little king will have to get used to you, so it’s best you use his chamber as a study during the day. It means you’ll still be able to use it when the sun comes up to greet Arjuro and Lirah.”

  “Your Majesty —”

  She shook her head and placed her hands over the little king’s ears. “I slit my father’s throat in the solar, Gargarin. Not exactly the room I want my son sleeping in. And anyway, think of your satisfaction. You get the dead king’s sanctuary. You get what Bestiano wanted for himself. Lie back and relish it.”

  Gargarin was silent. Most of the time, Phaedra was frightened by him. Not that he had ever shown a violent trait and not because of words he had spoken, but because of the silence. He had a wounded spirit, and the only time she saw him happy was when he was in the company of Lirah and his brother and Tariq, despite not wanting to hold him. But then again, everyone was happy in the little king’s presence. Phaedra couldn’t bear to start her day without having him in her arms. He soothed her aching heart.

  “And I’ve made a decision about my title of Queen,” Quintana continued. “I’ve decided to relinquish it. In years to come, when Tariq marries, it will belong to his betrothed, and I’ll despise her enough for taking my son from me. It could get quite ugly if I get used to the title, and I may hate her twice over. I might want to kill her, and we do want to avoid future bloodshed in the palace.”

  There was a strange, twisted smile on Gargarin’s face. Phaedra didn’t understand their humor. It bordered on wicked when Arjuro joined them.

  “Then, Princess —”

  Quintana shook her head. “I can’t say I enjoyed being princess of this kingdom, either. It’s best that the people of Charyn forget that title until I have a daughter. She can be the spirited princess. The gentle princess. The sweetest princess in the land. The bravest. The feistiest. But when the people of the Citavita think of me as princess, they’ll remember the cursed princess. The Princess Abomination.”

  They waited.

  “I’ll be referred to as Quintana of Charyn, mother of the king. And Lirah of Serker will be referred to as shalamar of the king.”

  Gargarin sighed and then nodded, and then gave a twisted, shy smile again. It made him quite striking. “When did you work all this out?” he chided gently.

  Quintana looked down at Tariq. “Quite some time ago. Tariq loved the idea. We just thought we’d wait until you were ready, Gargarin. It’s about time and compromise.”

  Gargarin looked around the room, already imagining how the residence would be if they made an entrance between the two rooms. He walked to the wall and knocked hard.

  “In the fortress beyond the little woods where we hid with the Lasconians and Turlans, they had fireplaces on every floor without so much as a chimney,” Gargarin said. “They used vents in the wall. We’ll put fireplaces in both these chambers.” He liked the idea. “And I daresay I think we can make another entrance into the room adjoining the next. All three could make a strange private residence.”

  Quintana seemed pleased. She held Tariq out to Gargarin.

  “My arm —” he said.

  “You won’t drop him, Gargarin. Froi would want you to hold him.”

  Phaedra wondered what had taken place when Quintana escaped with Froi, Gargarin, and Lirah all that time ago. They shared a bond, a secret. She knew that Froi was the father of the child. Very few did, except for Lirah, Gargarin, Arjuro, Perabo, and the provincaro of Paladozza. But there was more, and she knew the answer lay with Froi of Lumatere.

  She tried asking once.

  “Better that we don’t tell, Phaedra,” Quintana said.

  “We’d have to kill you,” Arjuro added, “and we don’t really want to do that.”

  But regardless, Phaedra knew she was trusted by them all. She liked the priestling best. Arjuro was besotted by the little king and visited as often as possible.

  “Did you see that?” he asked Gargarin one time. “He stared straight at me with understanding when I explained the symptoms of gout. Pure genius.”

  But despite some of the compromises, Phaedra could see that Gargarin and Lirah and Arjuro feared for Quintana. The way she had imprisoned herself in the castle with Tariq, and her belief that an enemy had been sent to kill him. It meant that if Phaedra wanted to walk the streets of the capital, she did so with a guard, and not Quintana. At first she had been frightened that the stone walls would come tumbling down on her. As time passed, she was accompanied by Lirah, and she warmed to the people and wished Quintana could hear the yearning in their voices when they asked Phaedra and Lirah about the little king. But no one could convince Quintana. Not even Lirah, whose only means of seeing Tariq was through her nightly visits.

  “I’d love to see him during the light of the day, Quintana,” Lirah said one night.

  “But you see him from across the gravina, Lirah,” Quintana said coolly. “I hold him up every morning.”

  “You know that’s not enough,” Lirah said. “And you know that Dorcas and Fekra and Scarpo and Perabo and his men would never ever let anything happen to Tariq. Even I trust them. How many people have I trusted in my life?”

  Gargarin blamed it on the little sleep Quintana had. Arjuro and Lirah said they’d seen her this way before and were lovingly patient, despite not seeming to be lovingly patient people.

  “If I don’t guard Tariq, Lirah, they�
��ll kill him,” Quintana explained. “They’ll kill my guards to get to him.”

  “The only person I know who’ll get through those guards is Froi,” Lirah said. “Do you want him to return to this? To a frightened Quintana and an unwashed babe?”

  The washing of the babe had become an even bigger issue.

  “It’s been months, Quintana,” Phaedra pleaded. “It’s not enough to clean him with a cloth. You need to bathe him.”

  “I don’t want his head to go under the water,” Quintana whispered. “You see awful things down there. Those from the lake of the half dead are desperate for him.”

  Gargarin later explained to Phaedra about the soothsayer. The ritual that had happened each year before the day of weeping. And it shamed Phaedra even more to have known so little of Quintana’s suffering in the Citavita for all those years. It made her want to take back every moment of their time hiding in the valley when Phaedra and the women had dismissed her as nothing but a delusional, half-crazed girl.

  But memories of the valley were dangerous for Phaedra. It was deep in the night when she allowed herself to think of Lucian. Was he thinking of her? Had he moved on with his life? And she thought of the valley and realized that it was more of a home to her than Alonso was and that she missed its people in a way that she hadn’t missed those of her province. When she was young, she had been kept protected from the world outside her father’s compound. In the valley and mountain she had truly begun to live.

  And on one such night, Quintana lay beside her, tense with fear of what the unseen enemy would do to her little king. Sometimes when the breeze spoke from outside the balconette and the shadows played with their eyes, Phaedra would hear the hope in Quintana’s voice.

  “Froi! Is that you?”

  And then the disappointment. Phaedra would take her hand.

  “You need to sleep, dear friend.”

  “And dream of what, Phaedra?” Quintana asked, getting out of bed. “The provincari are beginning to make suggestions for a consort. Should I dream of choosing the one that turns my stomach least?”

  After Quintana had checked Tariq’s breathing for the umpteenth time, she crawled back into bed, exhausted.

  “I’ll never leave you,” Phaedra said, tucking the blanket around the princess. “The consort can find himself another chamber.”

  “I know you’ll never leave me,” Quintana said. “But when it comes to you, Phaedra, I’m afraid of worse.”

  Froi was led through the gilded doors and into the palace throne room. He had never been in here before and marveled at the rich tapestries of fierce men battling impressive boars with bare hands. On the ceiling was a fresco of women, stupendous in their girth and beauty, with serpents they had conquered beneath their feet. Froi understood with great clarity why he wasn’t meeting Finnikin and Isaboe in their private residence. But he had been waiting for this day. Regardless of his time spent with Finnikin, riding around the kingdom; and with Trevanion, fishing in the river; and with Perri and Tesadora down in the valley, laughing with the camp dwellers; and blessed Barakah, translating a journal in the shrine house; and with Isaboe, suggesting changes to her garden; and with Sir Topher, beating him in a game of kings — today they weren’t those people to him. They were the queen, her king, the captain of the Lumateran Guard and his second-in-charge, the queen’s First Man, and the priest-king.

  And he wasn’t Froi. He was their assassin who had spent nine months in an enemy kingdom. He had a head full of information they wanted, and this was the time to give it.

  “Was the palace exactly as Rafuel of Sebastabol sketched?” Finnikin asked when they were finally seated.

  Froi didn’t answer. He didn’t expect them to begin with that question. He had thought they’d skirt around things before they asked him that.

  “Froi?” Sir Topher prodded.

  “Do you not trust us with that information?” his queen asked.

  “I trust you with my life,” Froi said. “But if I answered your question, then the people I love in Charyn would never trust me again.” His eyes met hers and then Finnikin’s. “And in my whole time there, I never once betrayed Lumatere. So if there’s no reason for you needing to know how to enter my son’s home, I’d prefer not to speak of the Charynite palace.”

  There was silence. Perri was already on his feet, pacing the room.

  “Then, what shall we speak about?” Finnikin asked.

  “The weather is always a safe topic,” Froi said pleasantly. “It could lead to some vital information about the storage of rainwater and growing produce. We have different terrain from Charyn’s, and what we grow, they want, and what they grow, we may want.”

  “Anything else, Froi?” Finnikin asked dryly. “Any other suggestions?”

  “Well, you have invited me here for a reason,” he said with a shrug, “and I have become used to people asking my opinion, so it’s a bit difficult to hold my tongue.”

  Sir Topher sat forward in his seat. “And you gave your opinion readily?” he asked. “With them?”

  “Most times. I did lose my confidence once . . . after I was injured,” he said, remembering Gargarin discussing Froi’s self-doubt with Lirah that time in Sebastabol.

  “After you were betrayed by a Charynite . . . friend?” Isaboe asked.

  “Yes.”

  “An opportunist? This traitor friend?” Finnikin asked. “Did he do it for money? Lucian mentioned what greedy, ignorant Charynites they were, those who placed themselves in charge of the camp dwellers. Do most Charynites betray for money?”

  Froi felt himself bristling. “Well, first, I tend to refer to him just as a traitor these days,” he said. “Not a friend. And . . . no. Most Charynites don’t betray for money. Most Charynites want to stay alive and hold their children in their arms.”

  He regretted the words the moment he spoke them. Caught the pain in Isaboe’s eyes. But there was understanding there as well.

  “He —the traitor — didn’t do it for money,” Froi said quietly.

  “And you know this for certain?” Sir Topher asked. “Someone just wakes up one morning, Froi? And decides to betray those who trust him? But not for money? And you believe that?”

  Froi sighed. “No, sir. I’ll explain to you how betrayal happens. A bunch of lads come up with a plan. Quite noble, if naive,” he said, thinking of Grijio and Satch and Olivier. “And then what happens is that one of the lads gets kidnapped as part of a plan hatched between a neighboring enemy kingdom and a very secretive organization. . . .”

  Finnikin sighed. “If it’s Lumatere and Rafuel’s people you’re referring to, then let’s get rid of the cryptic references. I get so confused when I haven’t slept.”

  “Yes, let’s use names,” Isaboe said.

  Froi nodded. “I took Olivier’s place at your instruction, and meanwhile, he was held captive underground, guarded by a man, Zabat, who convinced him that he could make a difference. Except Zabat had switched sides and believed Bestiano of Nebia was the best chance for Charyn. And when Olivier of Sebastabol was released, he became what Zabat, not his original captors, wanted him to be. Which led to betrayal.”

  “In what way?” Sir Topher asked.

  “Olivier withheld the truth,” Froi said.

  Isaboe made a sound of annoyance.

  “He doesn’t seem so naive after all,” she said. “If you’re ever writing to the Charynites, Froi, tell them not to execute the smart ones. They do come in handy.”

  He looked up at her again. Would Froi’s rotten corpse be lying somewhere in a ditch in Sorel if Froi were less smart?

  Yes, of course it would be, her eyes told him.

  Froi smiled, half bitterly, half in amusement that he would think she had lost any of her fight or backbone. That he would think that Lumatere’s charming, loving queen and her king were any less than they presented. But they didn’t lie about who they were. They just omitted details.

  Finnikin retrieved a letter and passed it to Froi. Froi�
��s heart hammered at the thought of Gargarin finally writing.

  “This came to us yesterday, addressed to you.”

  Froi opened it, recognizing the writing from a letter Simeon had sent to Lucian.

  “The priests of Trist,” Froi said, reading quickly, his heart heavy by the end.

  “Rafuel?” Finnikin asked.

  Froi nodded. “They obtained information from one of Donashe’s camp leaders and found Rafuel outside Jidia in a mine shaft with no food and only a little water trickling from a stone — skin and bones. They don’t expect him to live. They want me to pass on the news to the women of the valley as well as Japhra and Tesadora. The priests of Trist found mad ramblings on the walls imprisoning Rafuel, and the names of the women of the valley were among them.”

  Froi heard Perri’s sound of regret.

  “Tell us about your correspondence with these priests,” Finnikin said.

  “The priests of Trist wrote to Lucian first, and I replied on Lucian’s behalf. They wanted to know how the scholars died.”

  “Why didn’t that order come from the Charyn palace?” Finnikin asked.

  “Because the palace is taking care of political traitors, not personal vengeance, and what happened with the scholars . . . and Rafuel is about personal vengeance. The priests had five camp leaders in their prison. They wanted to make sure those who murdered the lads were tried and executed, and they didn’t want to get it wrong, especially if there was a chance that Rafuel lived.”

  “Is Rafuel of Sebastabol’s being alive your business?” Trevanion asked, looking at Froi. “You hardly knew him except for the week he taught you about Charynite customs. You smashed his nose, last I remember.”

  Froi felt the regret he always did when he thought of Rafuel these days.

  “Let’s just say that Rafuel and I go back . . . nineteen years. If you remember anything about the events I spoke about in the letter I gave to Finn — Your Highness, it was that I was smuggled out of the palace as a babe.”

  “By a boy.”

  Froi shrugged. “Rafuel was that boy. So yes, his being alive is my business. And for all of your information, it won’t do us any harm finding allies in the priests.”