Quintana of Charyn

‘We go to war tomorrow for a Charyn Tariq believed in, sir,’ one of the Lasconians shouted out boldly from one of the upper balconies.

  Arjuro shook his head, his expression weary. ‘I miss my sisters and brothers in the godshouse,’ he called back in response. ‘I don’t care whose voice rang clear in the crowd. I sang Charyn’s ballad alongside them … and now they’re gone. I don’t sing … except for the dead.’

  ‘Then perhaps we can speak it out loud,’ a Turlan lad said. ’As a blessing before battle.’

  There was a half-hearted mumble and then words were spoken, disjointed and feeble.

  ‘… the stone we shaped with hands of hope to build a kingdom of might … the roads we paved with the blood of our toil …’

  Something inside Froi’s head jolted. He knew this song. The Priestking had taught him. The old man had taught him everything about Charyn. ‘It’s a song of their hubris … a song to show off their talents,’ the Priestking had murmured, but he made Froi listen to it each time they were together. ‘Sing with me, Froi,’ he would say. But Froi had refused. He sang for no man. Not since his days on the streets of the Sarnak capital. But now he understood. Had the Priestking guessed who Froi was all along and taught him this song, not to conquer an enemy, but to find his own people? Clever, wicked man. Froi had never loved the Priestking more.

  There’s a song in your heart, Froi. You must unleash it or you will spend your days in regret.

  ‘I’ll sing it with you, Arjuro,’ Froi called out, and everyone searched for him in the crowded keep.

  ‘I know it … I was taught by the blessed Barakah of Lumatere,’ he said loudly for everyone to hear. ‘He believed … a well-rounded education was the best,’ he continued to explain, partly with a lie.

  A silence came over the room as they waited for Arjuro’s reaction. But somewhere in the crowd Arjuro and Froi found each other and stood side by side. Men crouched around them. From above, Gargarin’s eyes seemed to pierce into Froi’s. As long as he lived, Froi would never be able to determine his father’s thoughts.

  He waited for the cue from Arjuro. It was a song for more than one to sing and Arjuro began alone, his voice robust, his warble perfect, a sound still so youthful despite the years. Froi felt a catch in his throat thinking of the young gods’ blessed Arjuro, who would have bewitched the hardest of spirits. He was still bewitching De Lancey of Paladozza now. The love on the Provincaro’s face was potent. Catching. Froi waited, ready to commence with the second stanza. His voice had been deep for some years now. Not as a boy. Back then it was high and pure and it fetched him a price. Back then he didn’t understand the words he sang. All he understood was an empty stomach that needed to be filled. But now, as he started his song, he knew exactly what he was singing, and his voice reached depths that he hadn’t known existed. And when Arjuro’s voice joined in, it was a communion, a blood tie, and Froi felt the strength that both their voices gave to those listening. He watched men place clenched hands to their chests; he saw tears spring to surprised eyes. He saw Lirah push her way through the men on the balcony above, transfixed. Froi’s voice felt like a caress for his battered soul. Because he sang for Quintana of Charyn. He sang for the misery of her life, the poison in her body, the scars on her skin and the courage in her character. And he sang for the child he would never call his own. He sang for the Charyn he would leave behind and he felt his hand clench in a fist at the thought of such a kingdom. It made his voice soar with Arjuro’s, to a height that matched its earlier depth. And when it was over and he pushed through the crowd, he felt hands clap his back, ruffle his cap, shake his hand as he moved between them. He felt their euphoria.

  He returned to his post on the wall, looking out into the darkness and wondering what the next day would bring. Death. Of course there’d be death. Would it be him? Grij? Who would live and who would die?

  Perabo joined him with Gargarin.

  ‘Your lad here is lethal,’ Perabo said. ‘Let’s hope a bit of that blood runs through the little King.’

  ‘Say it louder and I’ll cut out your tongue,’ Gargarin snapped.

  Perabo gripped Gargarin to him and Froi stepped between them.

  ‘Your secrets, whatever I may believe they are, die with me,’ Perabo said through clenched teeth. ‘Doubt me or threaten me again and you’ll have to find yourself another constable.’

  Gargarin cupped the man’s shoulder, his hand shaking. Froi could see that something wasn’t right, but to Perabo, at least, Gargarin seemed contrite.

  ‘You’re the only constable I want, Perabo. No more doubts or threats. Make sure the names of the lads going into battle are recorded.’

  Perabo nodded, glancing at Froi. ‘This one needs to rest. Ariston is going to want Froi by his side.’

  ‘He won’t be going with Ariston and his men,’ Gargarin said.

  Froi stared at him, stunned.

  ‘What are you saying?’ he shouted. ‘You know I’m as good as a Turlan. You’re only doing this because …’

  ‘Because what?’ Gargarin hissed. ‘Because you’re my son? You’re mistaking me for someone with choices, Froi. I don’t have choices.’

  Froi waited, looking to Perabo for answers.

  ‘I can’t have you riding into battle,’ Gargarin said. ‘We need you for something else.’

  Gargarin’s stare was deadly.

  ‘You’re going to steal into that camp and put him down, Froi.’

  Froi heard Perabo’s hiss of satisfaction.

  ‘We want Bestiano dead.’

  When the sun rose and every soldier in the fortress was in place, Froi found Grijio in the bailey. The lastborn was with the Turlans, sitting on his horse, waiting for word.

  ‘Are you frightened?’ Froi asked.

  ‘Of course I’m frightened,’ Grij said, looking over Froi’s shoulder to where De Lancey was watching them from the entrance of the keep.

  ‘Gargarin won’t let my father come along,’ he said. ‘Dolyn and Ariston agree.’

  ‘Well, he’s injured.’

  ‘It’s not that. They can’t afford to lose a Provincaro who will favour the palace in the future. Father ordered that I stay, too, but I told him I couldn’t. I made these plans with Tariq and Satch … and even Olivier. That we’d save her. I can’t do that hiding behind my father’s title. And I may not be good with a sword, but I’m fast with a horse.’

  Froi noticed Mort close by on his mount. Grijio was to travel with the Turlans, who would tear through Bestiano’s defences and get to the Lumateran valley in the hope of finding Quintana there. The Lasconians would stay behind and fight, and if all was true, the Desantos army would decimate the Nebians from the north. Regardless of everything, it meant more dead Charynite lads who didn’t know what they were fighting for, judging from Fekra’s hopelessness. But Froi couldn’t afford to care. He was one step closer to Quintana.

  ‘You take care of him, Mort,’ Froi said, holding a hand up to Grijio who shook it firmly.

  ‘Provincaro says I not to let Grij out of sight,’ Mort said.

  ‘Keep safe, Froi,’ Grijio said.

  Froi patted Grijio’s mount and then walked back to De Lancey and Arjuro.

  ‘I’m going to see them off from the wall,’ De Lancey said in a low voice.

  Arjuro and Froi watched him walk away.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Arjuro asked.

  ‘I’ve been ready since I left Lumatere,’ Froi said. He caught the expression on Arjuro’s face. ‘Why look so sad, Arjuro, when I promise I’ll return to you with some part of my body to sew up?’

  Arjuro didn’t have a sense of humour that morning, and Froi walked away because saying goodbye to Arjuro was always hard.

  Lirah waited for him by the well and they sat a while in silence watching Perabo organise the Lasconians. Unlike the time at the gate, Florik was ready. He held up a hand of acknowledgement to Froi and Froi returned the gesture.

  He tried hard not to think of what would take place beyond any
sort of rescue. All he could think of was seeing Quintana and not letting her go. But what would be Froi’s place in the new Charyn? Would he be a foot soldier in the army or one of Perabo’s palace soldiers? Would he live in the godshouse with Arjuro and Lirah? And who would he be? Froi of the Lumateran Exiles or Dafar of Abroi? Would he watch his son grow, thinking of him merely as an acquaintance? And what of Lumatere? If he left, did he ever have a chance of returning there again?

  ‘I was born from the union between my father … and his oldest daughter,’ Lirah said.

  Froi flinched.

  ‘So my mother was in fact my sister, and oh, how she despised me. Who would blame her? The moment our father died, she sold me to feed her younger children. I was twelve. If I was less beautiful she would have sold me to a Serker pig farmer who needed the labour, but this face bought me a place in the palace.’

  ‘Labour on a pig farm isn’t so bad,’ he said, thinking of what she endured in the palace.

  ‘Yes, I agree, but if she had sold me to the farmer, I’d have been slaughtered with the rest of Serker not even seven years later. So let’s just say that this face bought me my life … ours.’

  Ours. Froi belonged to Lirah. Ours. He would like that word from here on. It would mean something different, something more.

  ‘There was a woman in the pen with me. It’s what they called the cart we travelled in from Serker to the Citavita. The pen, because we were treated like animals. And through all the misery, she said that some of us in this lifetime experience a moment of beauty beyond reckoning. I asked her what that was, and she said, “If you’re one of the lucky ones, you’ll know it when you see it. You’ll understand why the gods have made you suffer. Because that moment’s reward will make your knees weak and everything you’ve suffered in life will pale in comparison.”’

  Lirah stared at him. ‘Some women claim that moment happens at the sight of their child for the first time.’ She shook her head. ‘But I caught a glimpse of you when you were born and then you were gone. I felt nothing except more yearning and despair and misery.

  ‘And then … tonight you sang Charyn’s ballad with Arjuro and I thought, Ah, there it is. That’s why I’ve suffered all my life. For this moment of beauty and perfection.’ Her eyes pooled with tears. ‘It didn’t come from looking at you or even hearing your voice. It came from seeing the expression on Gargarin’s face. He was looking at the wonder of what we made together. Our son, Dafar of Abroi. I’d suffer it all again just to know that moment was there in my life.’

  She gripped his hand.

  ‘You said to me once that you weren’t what I dreamed of. You were right. You surpass everything I dreamed of. Even the rot in you that’s caused you to do shameful things. Some men let the rot and guilt fester into something ugly beyond words. Few men can turn it into worth and substance. If you’re gods’ blessed for no other reason, it’s for that.’

  And then she was gone, disappearing through the entrance that would take her to the room she shared with Gargarin. But not for long. A new Charyn meant that a gravina would lie between Lirah and Gargarin.

  They heard a shout from one of the guards on the wall. Fekra had given his signal, which meant that the sentinel he replaced was well out of sight. Ariston and his men rode out first, followed by Perabo, who led the Lasconians. Froi rode last and his eyes met Gargarin’s, who stood at the gate.

  ‘Don’t take chances,’ Gargarin begged. ‘Do what you need to do and don’t take chances.’

  Froi stopped, waiting until the others were out of hearing distance.

  ‘Will you promise me something?’ he asked.

  Gargarin nodded and Froi could see he was shaking.

  ‘Allow me the honour to name my son,’ Froi said, his voice husky with emotion. ‘He’ll be called Tariq. Tariq of the Citavita.’

  ‘It will be a boy,’ the oldest woman on the mountain told Isaboe. She had never once guessed wrong. It was all about the roundness of Isaboe’s belly and the shape of her face. As she stood naked among her kinswomen, she caught her yata’s eye and saw the flash of emotion. A boy. A king. Balthazar.

  The women on the mountain had gathered in Yata’s home to watch the blessing of the unborn. It was a tradition among the Monts.

  ‘He’ll come into this world with secrets,’ the oldest woman on the mountain said. ‘But only few remember what they are by the time they are old enough to speak. Perhaps yours will be the one, my queen. Perhaps your son’s secrets will cure that which ails this land.’

  Isaboe’s young cousin Agata held a small bowl of oil from a Mont olive tree, with a sprinkle of sage in it, and Isaboe shivered when she felt the old woman’s cold fingers on her skin. ‘Your milk is strong. It will feed a king.’

  There was a murmuring of appreciation from the others. ‘He’s ready,’ the old woman said. ‘Wherever he is now, he’ll follow your voice home. Talk to him, my queen.’

  Isaboe thought for a moment. She remembered her words to Jasmina before her daughter had entered this world. The oldest woman on the mountain had guessed right that time. ‘You will have a daughter and she longs to hear your voice.’ Later, after the birth, Isaboe had spoken to Finnikin about it. ‘I told Jasmina that she belonged to Lumatere’s rebirth and that she would be loved for the hope she brought to this kingdom.’

  But what would she say to this babe, now that she could not get the Priestking’s words out of her head? That spirits have their own world and language long before they enter ours? Each night since Celie and the blessed Barakah had come to visit, Isaboe had studied the mad Yut’s chronicle and learnt to say the words in her heart so that her child could hear and understand.

  Be my guide, beloved son. Rid me of my malice and my fury. Don’t let it be suckled from my breast.

  ‘I’ve smelt you all,’ Quintana said bluntly to Phaedra and the women late that afternoon in the cave. ‘This whole week. You’ve smothered me.’

  ‘Because our days of bleeding all came at the same time,’ Cora said. ‘It’s a sign. We need to bathe now that it’s over. Together.’

  ‘To cleanse ourselves?’ Florenza asked.

  ‘There’s nothing dirty about us,’ her mother said. ‘It’s a blessing. We’ve been given a gift of unity. It’s our gift to Quintana of Charyn and her child. The coming of the blood is renewal. So we celebrate it together.’

  ‘Bathe?’ The Princess stared at Cora, all savage teeth. ‘If you place my head under water, I’ll –’

  ‘Yes, yes. You’ll slice us from ear to ear,’ Cora said, dismissively. ‘We’ve heard it before. Up you get.’

  Despite the warmer spring days, the evening air was cool. They undressed by the rocks on the stream, hanging their clothing on the branches nearby.

  ‘I don’t like to put my head in the water,’ Quintana said for the umpteenth time.

  ‘A bit of water over your head never hurts, and if –’ Cora stopped, a sort of horror and wonder in her eyes. The others followed her gaze and in the half-light of the moon, they stared in fascination at Quintana’s bare, scarred body.

  ‘It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen,’ Ginny said, referring to the belly. Phaedra had to agree. Sometimes when she was walking behind Quintana it was difficult to believe she was carrying anything. But it was Quintana’s scars that made Phaedra want to weep, a cruel reminder of what the Princess had endured at the hands of Charyn.

  Phaedra suddenly felt conscious of her own bareness. They all did, except for Ginny, who was pleased with her form, as one would expect her to be. Charynite women were not like their Lumateran sisters. It was the way they were raised. Phaedra wondered if the curse had made them all more inhibited, or whether it had been like that since the beginning of time.

  Florenza was the first to wade into the stream, squealing from the cold. Phaedra thought she was being precious and then she stepped in and squealed herself, until they all were there, shushing each other, but laughing all the same.

  No matter how hard she scr
ubbed, Phaedra couldn’t remove the layers of dirt and grime, but after a while she didn’t care anymore. They all seemed bewitched by the moon’s glow on the water and they waded towards a place in the centre of the stream where its shimmering surface beckoned them. They held onto each other, arms around shoulders, in a circle of something so strange that it made Phaedra feel a lightness of being.

  ‘Did you like Florenza when you first saw her, Jorja?’ Quintana asked, teeth chattering as she gripped Phaedra and Cora around the neck.

  ‘We won’t let your head go under, so you mustn’t hold so tight,’ Cora said. At first Quintana refused to listen, but then Phaedra felt her hold loosen.

  ‘What a thing to ask,’ Florenza said with a laugh. ‘Of course Mother liked me.’

  ‘What I fear most is that I won’t like him,’ Quintana continued. ‘I don’t know what I’ll say to the little King when I first see him.’

  ‘You’ll know what to feel and say the moment you first see him and not a moment before,’ Jorja promptly said.

  ‘But what if Florenza was the ugliest babe in the world and you couldn’t bear to touch her?’ Quintana demanded to know.

  ‘Well, she was quite ugly, come to think of it,’ Jorja said and Florenza laughed even more. ‘All babies are quite ugly.’

  Jorja pressed a kiss to Florenza’s cheek. Despite the broken nose and bruised face, Jorja still looked at her daughter as if she was the most beautiful creature the gods had ever made. Phaedra remembered her mother looking at her in such a way, those days before the plague took her. If Phaedra had been certain of anything, it had been of her mother’s love.

  ‘How did it feel, Jorja?’ Phaedra asked. Never had she dared imagine Lucian’s child in her arms. It was too cruel a dream. ‘To hold your babe for the first time, I mean?’

  Jorja thought a moment. ‘I cried for my mother. I was a very spoilt young girl and my mother and the servants had done everything for me.’

  They heard a snap of a twig and Ginny cried out softly.

  ‘We’ll be safe. Don’t you worry,’ she blurted out, staring out into the semi-darkness.