‘Bestiano is dead,’ Froi said. ‘Gargarin of Abroi is our only hope.’
And the Captain of the Nebian army lowered Froi’s hands and took the white flag from Dorcas and hollered, and when Froi’s hearing returned, his head felt as if it had burst into fragments and he fell to the ground, writhing in pain. But with that pain came the words he was waiting for, from a captain perhaps no different from his own.
‘Nebia surrenders!’
Later, he watched Dorcas check the corpse of every man they passed, manically searching for life.
‘Is he going to be all right?’ Froi asked Fekra quietly as they stood under a cruel sun that shone its brilliance, illuminating every fatal wound and blank stare of death.
Fekra shook his head. ‘We’re the last. Of the palace, I mean. Dorcas. Me. Remember all those people when you arrived that day in the Citavita? The King’s men and family and palace soldiers? The riders? Everyone’s dead, except for Dorcas and me.’
‘And Quintana,’ Froi reminded him.
They reached a section of the valley where Perabo and a group of the Lasconian lads were guarding the surrendered army. Gargarin arrived with Arjuro and De Lancey on horseback and Froi could see De Lancey staring around at the carnage in desperation. With Fekra’s arm around him for support, Froi hobbled to them.
‘He’s not here, De Lancey. You have nothing to fear, for now.’
Arjuro stared down at Froi’s leg and bent to inspect it. ‘It’s nothing,’ Froi said. ‘Just get me onto my horse.’
‘You’re not going anywhere until I see to this leg,’ Arjuro said.
‘There are men dying, Arjuro. See to them.’
Gargarin was gravely studying the surrendered Nebian army before him.
‘How many dead?’ he asked one of the Lasconian lads who was guarding.
‘Ours or theirs, sir?’
Gargarin sent the lad a scathing look.
‘They’re all ours, you fool! They’re all Charynites! How many dead?’
Froi shivered at a memory of what had happened in Lumatere on the day they entered the kingdom. Trevanion had counted the dead. Young men and not so young. The Captain had visited every family who lost a loved one in the battle to reclaim Lumatere. Froi recognised the same pain in Gargarin’s face now. He had given the order for this.
Before them the Nebian army was kneeling in rows, placed in some sort of order that made no sense to Froi. Those who were wounded lay down.
It was here that Froi got a better look at Scarpo of Nebia. He was a thickset man with solemn eyes that made little contact with the world, slightly younger than Trevanion.
‘Can you get to your feet?’ Gargarin asked.
The Captain of the Nebian army rose.
‘You surrendered easily,’ Gargarin said.
There was no response.
‘Some will see you as a coward,’ Gargarin said.
Froi looked at Scarpo’s men. Their eyes blazed to hear the words.
‘Then let that title be mine and not my men’s, sir,’ Scarpo said. ‘They followed orders. They are assembled in the order of rank. All I ask is that you follow the conventions of surrender and that no harm comes to my men, sir. At no time have they behaved disorderly or without honour. If you choose to take their land from them, sir, I ask that you take into consideration those who are sole providers of elderly kinsfolk. If I could also ask that those closest to where we stand are attended to with alacrity, sir. Their wounds are dire and if we are to agree on anything today, it’s that Charyn can ill afford to lose another man.’
‘You have much to say … what’s your name?’
‘Scarpo of Nebia, sir. Captain of the Nebian Guard.’
‘Former Captain of the Nebian Guard, Scarpo.’
‘As you please, sir.’
‘The Queen needs a captain,’ Gargarin said flatly. ‘And I don’t have many candidates, so you’re it.’
Froi saw the startled surprise in the expression of a man who thought he was to die this day.
‘Agreed?’
‘Your order, sir.’
‘Join Ariston of Turla and his men and bring us back the Queen and her child.’
Surprise again, and then a grimace.
‘The Queen, you say?’
‘He said the Queen,’ Froi shouted. ‘Are you hard of hearing?’
The man grimaced again. Froi studied him and walked towards where he was. ‘What is it you’re not telling us, Nebian?’
The Captain shook his head with regret. ‘Bestiano issued an order to every spy, every street lord, and every barbarian outside the province …’ Scarpo swallowed hard. ‘She’s not to live.’
Froi stared at him, his gut twisting.
‘If she’s given birth to the child, then grieve Quintana of Charyn,’ Scarpo said. ‘Because it means her throat’s already been cut.’
Almost two days after Donashe’s men stormed their hiding place, Phaedra sat in their prison cave with an arm around Quintana and a tremble in her body that refused to stop. Despite Donashe’s men standing guard outside their cave, she knew they were prisoners of a man more powerful than the street lord. Harker had been given permission to see them for a short time that day. He had warned them that a messenger had been dispatched to advise Bestiano that the Princess was in the valley.
‘Will they take us to the Citavita?’ Jorja asked her husband.
He shook his head. ‘They reveal little.’
He glanced at Phaedra. ‘I’ve sent word to your father. Perhaps an army from Alonso will secure your release.’
‘There is no army in Alonso,’ she said quietly. ‘And why would my father believe I lived after being told I was dead all this time?’
Harker ushered his wife and Phaedra to the outer cave under the suspicious stare of Quintana. She had been frighteningly quiet since Rafuel had been dragged away.
‘One of the men has also been sent to the Sarnak border,’ Harker whispered. ‘To find a woman with a babe.’
‘Why?’ Phaedra asked. ‘Do they think none of us, including Tesadora and Japhra, can take care of a newborn?’
Harker looked away, pained.
‘Harker,’ Jorja asked. ‘What does this mean?’
They heard a sound behind them and turned to find Quintana leaning against Cora, her hand clutching her belly.
‘She’ll be here to feed my son,’ Quintana said. ‘Won’t she?’
Harker didn’t respond.
‘It’s what they do when a mother dies and leaves a babe behind. They find a woman with breasts full of milk.’
Quintana’s eyes filled with tears.
‘I’ve become greedy. I’ve always thought it was enough to birth him. But I want to see his face. Promise me I’ll see his face.’
Later, Ginny entered their cave, fear and pity etched on her face. Was it fear of them, or Donashe and his men who guarded the cave outside? She held a large bowl of a thick substance that she placed in front of Quintana.
‘You need to eat, Your Highness.’
‘Majesty,’ Cora hissed. ‘You refer to her as Your Majesty. She’s your queen.’
Ginny pushed the bowl towards Phaedra.
‘They say she must eat. They don’t want the little King dead before his birth.’
Phaedra heard a pitiful sound come from deep within Quintana, and then a mutter of heart-wrenching desperation spoken so fast that all Phaedra understood was the plea in her voice and the name Froi spoken over and over again.
‘I meant no harm,’ Ginny said quietly. ‘Gies came searching for his friend when the hangman failed to return to camp. It was chance. It was chance,’ she sobbed. ‘And I was so happy to see him. I told him to keep our secret like Harker and Kasabian and the Mont were allowed to keep yours.’ Ginny’s hands wrung. ‘I would never bring harm to you. To any of you. I’m sorry,’ she wept. ‘I’m sorry.’
Florenza stood and approached Ginny and slapped her hard across the face. Ginny cried out and stumbled, stepping onto the
bowl and snapping it in half. Phaedra watched the warm liquid spread against the stone.
One of Donashe’s men entered the cave.
‘What’s taking you so long?’ he shouted at Ginny. ‘Clean up this mess.’
Ginny fell to her knees, gathering the pieces in her hands, hurrying to collect the rest. She watched the man leave and looked up quickly.
‘They say the Lasconians and the Turlans are camped across the hill from Bestiano’s army, two days’ ride from here,’ she whispered before getting to her feet. ‘And that the Lumateran is travelling with them.’
When Ginny left the cave, Cora placed a bony arm around Quintana’s shoulders, soothing her.
‘See? He’s two days’ ride from here. He’s coming for you and from the way I see it, watch anyone who gets in the way of the Lumateran and his precious girl.’
But Quintana was shaking her head with despair beyond reckoning.
‘How long does it take to birth a child, Jorja?’ she asked, her voice small and broken.
‘Sometime hours, sometimes almost a day, brave girl.’
‘I’m not very brave, Jorja,’ Quintana whispered. ‘Not at all. When they put the noose around my neck, I was the least brave girl in Charyn.’
Florenza crouched before Quintana and took her hands in hers.
‘I will cut out the tongue of anyone who says that Quintana of Charyn is not the bravest girl in the kingdom! I will carve it on every piece of stone in Charyn, so everywhere the little King looks he will see the words Quintana the Brave.’
‘What if I don’t hold him in my arms?’ Quintana lamented. ‘What if I never get to see his face?’
‘You must stop thinking that,’ Phaedra soothed. ‘Froi and his army will be here in two days and when you give birth, you’ll have all the time in the world with the little King.’
Quintana squeezed tight her legs and Phaedra saw the water puddle around her. She heard Quintana’s whimper.
‘Don’t fret, my queen. There’s no shame in soiling yourself,’ Phaedra fussed.
But Jorja stared in horror.
‘She hasn’t soiled herself,’ Jorja said. ‘Her water has broken. The babe is coming.’
It was a boy, as they had always suspected. They said he looked as if he was sleeping, and it was the only thing that brought any reprieve to them. It was the cord, they said, that had wrapped around his little neck.
He didn’t remember much about that day except those who engulfed him in an embrace to comfort him, but then they’d weep themselves. And that the women wouldn’t allow him to see his wife until they cleaned the blood from her body and the walls. And then later, people began to arrive on the mountain from Balconio and beyond; August and Abian and Celie arrived from the Flatlands and then Beatriss and Vestie and the Priestking. His father was coming from the palace, so Finnikin knew it would be some time more before he saw him.
Each time a visitor arrived, the women disappeared inside Yata’s home, and the men stayed outside. Some of the younger Mont lads wept, others paced with fury at an unseen enemy. Lucian stayed by Finnikin’s side. It’s what Finnikin remembered most in days to come. And that the wound at his thigh, created as a pledge between Lucian, Balthazar and him to protect Lumatere all those years ago, began to seep.
And then Yata was there before them.
‘Finnikin,’ she said, ‘you can see them now.’ He felt the tremble in the old woman’s hands as she took his. How many children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren had she outlived?
Inside the large chamber, the Mont cousins and aunts stood weeping around a basin, bathing the little, still body in the water they had gathered from the river mixed with the sap of a forest tree and the sage grown on a Flatland farm. It was to prepare the babe for his place in the arms of the Goddess who had once come from the ground. Finnikin had told the children of the Rock that story months before. Or was it years? It felt a lifetime ago. One of Isaboe’s aunts placed the babe in Finnikin’s arms and he pressed a kiss to its brow, a blessing between a father and a son. And then he returned the babe to the Priestking and followed Yata to where Isaboe lay behind the curtain. Her eyes were closed, not in sleep, but weariness. Apart from everything else, she was exhausted. The birthing had lasted most of the day and night.
‘Did you see him?’ she asked quietly when she opened her eyes.
He nodded.
‘I told Beatriss that I want him buried alongside your sister, baby Evanjalin. It will be good for their spirits to be together.’
He nodded again.
‘Where’s Jasmina?’
‘With Aunt Celestina.’
‘Good. She’ll be kept happy. You know what your aunt is like. She’ll not let anyone upset her.’
Isaboe looked so small and pale, he reached out to touch her cheek. But still he couldn’t speak. Everyone had told him to be strong for her, but Finnikin didn’t know how to be strong for himself.
He felt one of the women at his shoulder, and Finnikin wanted to shout at them to leave. He wanted to be with his wife. Hold her in his arms.
‘And your father? Have you seen him?’ she asked.
Finnikin shook his head.
‘Make sure you speak to him. You know what he’s like. And Sir Topher, too. They’re not men for talking, and they’ll lock it up inside themselves until it burns a hole in their hearts.’
He nodded again.
‘And Tesadora?’ she asked, her voice wavering. ‘Has she come?’
He couldn’t bear to hear her sound so broken.
‘They’ve gone down to the valley to search for her,’ he said. ‘Because I can’t imagine anything keeping her away from you.’
Isaboe took his hand and placed it on her belly.
‘Look. It’s still so round,’ she said. ‘I’m frightened that I’ll wake in the morning and think he’s still there.’
One of the aunts came to the curtain.
‘Finnikin,’ she said gently. ‘Come along now, let her sleep.’
‘Just a moment more,’ he said, because he was sick of being strong and talking about the death of their child as if they were discussing the Osterians, and he just wanted to hold Isaboe. He wanted their sorrow to be only theirs, not to share it with the entire kingdom.
‘Come now, Finnikin,’ another spoke. ‘You have people to see outside. They’ve come up to the mountain to express their sorrow.’
And so he left and spoke in polite sentences all the night long, and listened to words that brought him no comfort. That his son was in a better place. A better place than Isaboe’s arms? That Lumatere had another spirit to take care of them. Didn’t they have enough? They had Isaboe’s entire family. His mother. His baby sister. The entire village of Tressor. Lord Selric and his family. Every Lumateran found in a mass grave.
Is that not enough? he wanted to shout.
On the floor of Lucian’s cottage he closed his eyes and slept briefly. And when he woke, having dreamt the strangest of dreams, he returned to Yata’s home to be with Isaboe, to hold her hands so she wouldn’t wake to place them on her belly.
‘Finnikin,’ she said softly when she opened her eyes. ‘I’m going to have to go down to the valley.’
His stomach lurched to hear her say the words.
When the others heard their talk, the women were there hovering around her.
‘I’m going down to the valley,’ Isaboe said to her aunts and cousins who gasped and cried out in horror.
‘What are you saying, my queen?’ Cousin Alda said.
‘Rest, beloved,’ Yata said.
Isaboe shook her head and sat up slowly.
‘I have to go down to the valley,’ she repeated, pushing the hands aside and finding Finnikin’s to grip. ‘It’s what our son told me to do.’
There was wailing and protest and one of the cousins ran from the room and soon enough Trevanion and Perri and Lucian were there.
‘Isaboe, you don’t know what you’re saying,’ Trevanion said as Isaboe
placed her feet on the ground. ‘Finnikin, help her back onto the bed.’
Isaboe held up a hand to stop everyone. ‘My son begged me to go down to the valley,’ she said firmly, tears blazing in her eyes. ‘Are you going to have me defy him?’
They turned their pleas to Finnikin, but he couldn’t take his eyes from her.
‘Find your queen her clothes, Constance,’ he ordered quietly.
He heard more gasps and cries.
‘Finnikin!’
‘They’ve lost their wits. Both of them.’
Trevanion took Finnikin by the arm gently and led him away from the fussing, crying women.
‘She is distraught,’ Trevanion said. ‘You both are. Tell her to rest, Finnikin. She needs to rest or else she will drive herself to madness.’
‘We’re going to the valley,’ Finnikin said calmly.
‘Because you dreamt of your son telling you to do so?’ his father demanded, anguished.
‘No,’ Finnikin said. ‘I didn’t dream of our son. Isaboe did. I dreamt of Bartolina. My mother came to me, Trevanion. She’s come to you and Aunt Celestina and I think she’s even come to Jasmina, and although I’ve sensed her in my dreams these past years, she’s never spoken to me. Except for this night. And Bartolina of the Rock said, “Finnikin, you must go down to the valley.”’
Lucian led his cousins to the stream. They were flanked by Trevanion, Perri, Aldron, Jory and at least six other Monts. There was no room for anger, only confusion and sorrow. Lucian had seen the sorrow when Trevanion arrived on the mountain and Lady Beatriss had been there to meet him by the entrance of Yata’s home. She had taken the Captain’s hand and led him away to a private place. In Lucian’s cottage, Aldron and Perri had sat with their heads in their hands.