The Lumatere Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy

by Melina Marchetta

  And when I hold up the light and see her huddled in the corner of her filthy chamber, my hatred for her is even stronger.

  “I despise you,” I say. “I always did. I despised your lamenting. I despised your need to blame everyone for lost dreams. Poor, poor pathetic Ginny. What a life she could have had if not for the last borns,” I mock. “I despise your weakness. Your desire to satisfy the needs of men, but not your own. I despise that I can’t remove from my memory the image of Phaedra and Cora and Florenza and Jorja on their knees waiting for death.”

  And I’m weeping because I’m weak in that way. It’s another unwelcome gift the unborn savage spirits left me with: the need to cry for everything and everyone.

  Ginny crawls to the iron bars to speak.

  “Not a word,” I say. “I never want to hear your voice again, you wretch. I never want to see your face again.”

  And the day is announced by the cock that crows and she’s on her knees begging, sobbing, and I remember the time with the street lords when they took this palace and wiped out my bloodline. I remember the begging. Aunt Mawfa. The cousins. The stewards. The uncles. All begging for life and Gargarin in the cell beside me saying, “Close your ears, reginita. There’s nothing you can do to save them. We’re powerless.”

  But I’ll never be powerless again.

  “There’s a tailor passing through from Nebia,” I tell her, because today is not a day for dying. My son spoke that to me with his smile. “The tailor needs an apprentice, and you’re going to join him. And you’re going to learn everything you believe was taken away from you by the last borns. So when you fail again, you will have no excuse but your pathetic self.”

  And I reach a hand inside the bars and grip at the filth of her hair till it binds to my hand. “Don’t dare show your face in this Citavita or in Phaedra’s valley as long as I breathe, or I will have you cut in pieces and fed to the hounds.”

  “Phaedra’s valley.”

  I wake with those words on my lips on the day Grijio of Paladozza arrives and I know it’s a sign. I count so I can find a way to breathe, watching Phaedra of Alonso hold Tariq in her arms, and I know I have to do what is right, so I speak the words. And she weeps and she weeps and begs me, but I numb my heart to her cries.

  “Go back to where you came from, Phaedra,” I say. “You’re not needed anymore.”

  And for days after, I walk through that strange sleep with Tariq in my arms and he takes me places I don’t want to go. Searching for her. Isaboe of Lumatere. She with the stealth and she with the strength. And my son promises me that if we find her, I’ll sing my song again. He knows, because there’s a spirit inside him seeking her. But in Tariq’s waking hours, he wails, and it curdles my blood because I know what is true. They’ve poisoned my son. So we stay in my chamber, Tariq and I, day in and day out, a dagger in my hand as he wails with all his might. Until Gargarin comes and sits by my side and I see the sadness in his eyes and for the first time I’ve known him, Gargarin of Abroi weeps.

  “You’re letting the demons win, Quintana,” he says. “He won’t want this for you. Froi won’t want this for you.”

  And he holds out a hand and takes me down the tower steps to the courtyard, where travelers have arrived. A man and a woman, their faces gaunt and pale.

  “You sent for them,” Gargarin said. “Be gentle, they’re frightened.”

  And clutching Tariq to me, I walk to them, because I know who they are.

  “Your son was a traitor who was executed,” I tell them, and I hear Gargarin’s intake of breath beside me. I see the woman’s legs crumple beneath her as the man holds her upright.

  Tesadora says to coat my words. So I try again. I try a gentle voice. I use the voice that belonged to the reginita.

  I tell them about their son who was taken to Lumatere fourteen years past. I tell them that he and Arjuro hid the young novices of Lagrami, who went on to save the lives of many. I tell them their son was arrested and sentenced to hang while Arjuro was imprisoned for ten long years. And I tell them that I want to understand. I beg them to share it with me.

  “How do you raise a boy of substance?” I ask her. “Will you stay and teach me?” I look at them both. “Soon we’ll have a stable of the best horses in the kingdom, Hamlyn of Charyn. Is that not what you were known for? The best horse trainer outside Jidia? Will you and Arna stay and teach me how to raise a good man?”

  My son wails in my arms. The little king wants to know, too. He wants to be that son.

  And Arna holds out her hands to take Tariq in hers, her fingers going to his mouth, holding up his perfect lips, and I see the rawness of his gums.

  “Your boy’s teeth are bringing him pain,” she says quietly. “It’s why he cries. And he needs to be bathed.”

  And so we bathe him, surrounded by his guards, just in case his little head slips. Tariq gurgles with laughter, his arms and legs flailing like the strange sea urchins I’ve seen in the books of the ancients. And Arna of Charyn places the cloth in my hand. “They love water,” she says gently. “You try.”

  We take Tariq from the tub, and Dorcas holds up the blanket to wrap him, all the guards fussing. Arna shows me how to wipe him dry, and I let Dorcas hold him. Because Dorcas is my favorite. He choked the life out of Bestiano of Nebia.

  “Can I hold him?” Fekra asks.

  “Can I?”

  “Can I?”

  But then I place Tariq in the crook of his shalamon’s arms, and Gargarin’s mouth twists into its bittersweet beauty.

  “When a king hides behind the walls of a castle, his people are frightened,” he says quietly.

  So with Lirah and Arna by my side, surrounded by the riders, I travel through the Citavita and we jostle through the people, more people than I’ve ever seen except for the day of the hanging. I hear the weeping and the joy, and I dare not look for the noose because Gargarin says it is not there to be found. But when a woman grips my arm, I jump from fear.

  “I’ve not bled for months, Your Highness,” she sobs. “I’m weary all the time, and I don’t know what to do. I’m frightened to squat over the privy in case a babe slips out.”

  Dorcas gently guides me along, but I pull free.

  “Are you a fool?” I demand to know of her. “It won’t be slipping out for months!”

  So I order the girl up to the godshouse, where Arjuro will soften her fears, but the next day in our chamber, I hear a bellow from across the gravina.

  “Quintana!”

  And I step outside to the balconette and see a furious Arjuro standing on the other side of the gravina.

  “Here. In the godshouse. Now!”

  When we reach the path up to the godshouse with our guards, Gargarin and Arna and I stop in shock.

  “He’ll kill you,” Gargarin mutters, and I see the road is lined with women, weeping. Desperate. Every woman carrying a child in her belly, from the Citavita and beyond, is waiting to see Arjuro. And inside, we push through the long line of people and suddenly Lirah is there, taking Tariq in her arms.

  “Arjuro is furious,” she said. “And to make matters worse, the collegiati arrived today, and they may be good at reading books about women carrying babies but they have no idea how to speak to women carrying babies.”

  Day after day, we spend our mornings at the godshouse. There’s too much confusion and shouting and crying, most of it coming from the collegiati. And then a week later, while Arna shows the women how to hold Tariq so one day they’ll know how to hold their own, we hear a voice outside from the godshouse entrance.

  “I’m here, my loves. No need for despair,” Tippideaux of Paladozza says, and by that afternoon, she’s created rosters and assigned chambers and shouted orders and terrorized the collegiati into submission. She tells us all, because she does enjoy an audience — that since the betrayal of Olivier of Sebastabol, she has no trust in men except for her father and brother.

  “I swear I’ll die a barren woman and give my life to those whose womb
s bear fruit.”

  I see Arjuro and Lirah exchange a look.

  “Make peace with Olivier the traitor,” Arjuro mutters. “Or I’ll kill you all.”

  Later, Arjuro walks us down to the Citavita, and I let him hold Tariq because it brings them both pleasure. We pass more women with swollen bellies hurrying toward the godshouse, and Arjuro presses a kiss to Tariq’s outstretched fingers.

  “She’s mocking me, runt of our litter,” Arjuro tells him. “The oracle is mocking me for choosing a man to share my bed. And her punishment is that I spend the rest of eternity staring between the legs of women.”

  And for the first time since I can remember, I laugh, and I watch my little king leap in his uncle’s arms at the sound of it.

  When Perri arrived at Lord August’s farm one morning while they were fixing the fence, Froi knew it was time.

  “Can we borrow him, Augie?” Perri asked.

  “For how long?” Lord August said, not looking up from his task.

  Perri didn’t respond.

  “Last time you rode by to ‘borrow’ him, we didn’t see him for nine months and he returned with a body full of scars and an awful Charynite accent,” Lord August complained, glancing at Froi. “When do you get to be ours for always?” he asked, his voice low.

  “Do I have to be here to belong to you?” Froi asked. “Can’t I belong to you wherever I am?”

  In the kitchen making honey brew with the village women, Lady Abian had the good sense not to ask too many questions.

  “Is August blustering out there?” she asked quietly.

  “A bit,” Froi murmured. “A gentle early-winter bluster, I’d call it.”

  She pressed a kiss to his cheek and he went to speak, but she held up a hand.

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

  At the palace stable, Perri insisted on Froi taking Beast as Trevanion fitted him with his weapons.

  “Your — Gargarin never wrote back,” Finnikin said, standing beside Isaboe and Sir Topher.

  “After the letter Finnikin wrote promising to share ideas with Charyn about reservoirs and waterwheels and anything else we’ve been able to translate from the chronicles Celie stole — I mean, borrowed from Belegonia,” Isaboe said.

  Froi was confused. “Gargarin loves talk of reservoirs and waterwheels.”

  Sir Topher handed him a satchel of documents. “Tell him we don’t beg, and if he chooses not to respond to our attempts of peace, we won’t offer again.”

  Finnikin nodded. “First time. Last time.”

  Froi placed the satchel in the saddlebag.

  “You travel through the Osterian border. It’s quicker from here than if you travel from the mountain through the valley,” Perri said.

  Too many abrupt instructions.

  “You tell them that under no circumstances will the queen travel to Charyn, so not to make that part of their terms,” Finnikin said.

  “Anything else?” Froi asked, mounting Beast.

  “Yes, you can at least look upset about leaving,” Isaboe said.

  Froi rolled his eyes.

  “Did he just roll his eyes at me?” she asked the others.

  “I’ll be back in two weeks!” Froi said.

  “Yes, I think you said that last time we sent you off to meet with Gargarin of Abroi and he cast a spell on you,” she said.

  Froi held out a hand to her, and she looked away.

  “I don’t shake hands. I’m not a Charynite.”

  He sighed and dismounted, embracing her.

  “Trust me when I say that Gargarin of Abroi’s spell has well and truly worn off.”

  Phaedra and Grijio reached the rocky outcrop that marked the beginning of the road from Alonso to the Lumateran valley. They had left the Citavita days ago, and Phaedra’s heart had hardened the farther they traveled away from the palace. She didn’t know what faced her in the valley. It had been more than six months since she’d left, and she was frightened that everything had changed. But how could it have stayed the same, when she herself had changed? Who was Phaedra of Alonso after all this time? She had lived her entire existence as a last born, controlled by Quintana of Charyn’s curse.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to visit your father?” Grijio asked as they glimpsed the walls of Alonso in the distance.

  Phaedra nodded. “I need to write to him first. There is much distance between us, and it won’t be solved with a visit.”

  They continued riding toward the valley, and she felt the anger build up inside her.

  “I hate her,” she suddenly announced.

  Grijio stared at her, taken aback by the outburst.

  “You don’t mean that,” he said patiently.

  “Oh, I do,” Phaedra said. “She’s cruel and she’s cold and she doesn’t understand love. Look at the way she treated you, Grijio. You come for a visit and she sends you away instantly.”

  Grijio shrugged. “I can see her anytime. Gargarin’s offered me a place in the palace as an envoy. And anyway, I jumped at the chance to see Froi.”

  Grijio dismounted his horse and shuffled through his pack. When he found what he was looking for, he held out a letter to her.

  Phaedra recognized the writing and refused to take it. She refused to be controlled by another’s cruel plan or by a pledge made before she was born. But Grijio continued to hold out his hand.

  “Quintana gave me four absolute instructions,” he said firmly. “And I’m not to return until my work is done.”

  Phaedra walked away and sat on the rock face that gave her a view of the caves. On a clear day, she’d be able to see Alonso to the west, and she wondered if she would be better off there. Grijio came to sit beside her. He took her hand and placed the letter there.

  “She’s playing with you, Grijio,” Phaedra warned. “It’s what she’ll do now with the little power she has.”

  “If you say another word, Phaedra, I think you’ll have much regret,” he said sadly.

  Phaedra refused to open the letter. In the distance, she could see Lucian’s mountain, and she kept her gaze fixed ahead. The sun was setting early and her body was beginning to feel the cold, and all she could think of was Lucian’s fleece that made him resemble a bear.

  “Did I tell you that once I sat out on a rooftop in early winter and got a chill and almost died?” Grijio said with an exaggerated sniff. “We’re very fragile, us last borns.”

  She glanced at him and could see that, despite the soft, fair curls and gentle face, this lad was steadfast in his decisions, and she knew he would not move until she read the letter. So she opened it.

  Dearest Phaedra,

  I asked Grij not to give this to you until you reached the ridge before the valley, so you wouldn’t turn back. Because I know you well, and I couldn’t bear your not taking the journey back to the valley where I know you belong.

  I remember on the day I was separated from Froi outside Paladozza, I learned that I could be loved. That was his greatest gift to me. From you, I learned that I could love my people. Don’t ever underestimate the power of that. I needed to learn. How can I guide the little king without that lesson?

  We speak the words gods’ blessed again and again in this kingdom. I’m not sure what they mean. But know this. That what you have in spirit is a gift indeed, Phaedra of Alonso. It’s a true blessing from the gods. It’s one I will be grateful for each day of my life. My king will be raised with the privilege of his mother having known you.

  When I saw the list of consorts, I knew I would never have true happiness in my spousal bed. But you love your Mont, Phaedra. So it’s only fair that one of us finds deep happiness. You said repeatedly that you’d never leave me, and I knew you’d keep that pledge. But what I feared most is that you’d come to hate me for trapping you in the Citavita.

  As I write this, I feel as if I’m broken in all these pieces that only you and Froi and little Tariq can put together. I will miss your presence every day of my life.

 
Quintana of Charyn

  Phaedra stared at the words. Read them again and again. She scrambled to her feet, hurried to her horse, and mounted it.

  “Take me back, Grijio. I’m begging you.”

  Grijio shook his head and got to his feet.

  “She said that if I returned you to her, she’d never speak to me again.”

  “Take me back,” she cried. “Please. You don’t know her, Grij. You don’t know how lonely she can get.”

  “I’ve lost too many friends, Phaedra,” he said. “Through betrayal or distance or circumstance. I couldn’t bear to lose her.”

  Grijio was resolute as he mounted his horse. “My pledge to Quintana was that I’d get you to your valley.”

  They arrived later that afternoon, and her heart leaped to see the busyness of the camp dwellers’ day from where they were standing on the path behind the caves. Their lives seemed full of talk. It’s what she had noticed these past months. That Charynites had found their voices. But she wondered how long the valley dwellers would stay here. Perhaps a new Charyn meant there was a place for them across the kingdom. Gargarin’s focus was to bring the dry lands back to life for farming. It would take the pressure off the overcrowded provinces. In the months to come, when children were born to this valley, the people would have to leave and find a home, not a temporary camp. Phaedra wondered what would become of them all.

  She led Grijio between the caves and saw Cora and Jorja in a vegetable patch crowded with produce and color. Close by, a few of the men were roasting a boar on a spit, and women were scrubbing clothes by the stream. Phaedra’s heart leaped to see one or two of the camp dwellers with swollen bellies. She gave a sob of laughter, and then someone pointed up to where she sat astride the horse, and as Phaedra dismounted, the valley dwellers rushed to greet her from caves above and below. Cora and Jorja heard the commotion and turned, and suddenly she was running toward them and she was clasped in their arms, weeping.