‘Lord August thinks that Celie is spying for you in Belegonia,’ Froi said quietly.
Finnikin glanced at him. ‘Celie is spying for us in Belegonia.’
‘Don’t tell Lord August,’ Froi said with a sigh. ‘Thinking is one thing. Knowing for sure is another. And then there’s the matter of the castle castellan searching Celie’s room when he suspected that she stole a chronicle from the library and Lord August remembered the castellan of the Belegonian spring castle as a portly older man with a lot of facial lumps and of course when he visited Belegonia three weeks past, he met the new castellan.’
‘No facial lumps?’ Finnikin asked.
‘None at all. Nor was he old. Nor was he portly, and now Lord August is questioning how he would dare be in Celie’s room.’
‘Ah,’ Finnikin said, nodding. ‘No wonder Isaboe and Celie were locked up in our chamber all the day long when she arrived. They weren’t talking about Belegonian fleece. They were talking about the castellan.’
‘According to Lady Celie, no,’ Froi said. ‘She wants to out-smart him, not bed him.’
‘And you?’ Finnikin asked softly.
‘No, Finn, I don’t want to bed the castellan of the Belegonian spring castle.’
Finnikin laughed, but soon his expression was serious.
‘We don’t speak of it,’ he said, ‘but I can’t imagine it being easy for you, Froi.’
Froi shrugged. He had received a letter from Lirah. It came via the valley one day, out of what seemed nowhere. Froi had opened it with shaking hands. Lirah had sketched him an image of Quintana and his son. And one of Gargarin. He knew it was his father and not Arjuro. Not because of his solemnity, but because of the look in his eyes. Froi would always recognise the desire in Gargarin’s eyes when he was looking at Lirah.
‘It’s hard to explain … what they mean to me,’ Froi said.
Finnikin’s smile was faint. ‘I can imagine.’
‘Can you?’
‘Froi, you have my wife’s name etched on your arm, and the only thing that stops me from skinning you are the other two names.’
Froi gave a laugh, shook his head ruefully.
‘Not many men can read the words of the ancients, my lord. I’ll have to remember that next time.’
They rode together until they reached the village of Sayles. The beauty of his home village always forced Froi to think of Gargarin. What would Gargarin think of the Flatlands? Would he be impressed by the water pipe that ran from the river into the fields? Would he ever share his plans for a waterwheel with Lord August? How would the two men get on? But with all those questions came bitterness. Not once had Gargarin attempted correspondence. And Froi couldn’t understand why. When Scarpo of Nebia had passed on Gargarin’s orders for Froi to stay behind that day at the stream, Froi hadn’t questioned it. Because Gargarin had once begged Froi to trust him and Froi had. But these days he felt like a beggar each time he visited the palace, asking if anything had arrived for him.
‘Don’t forget the Priestking tonight,’ Finnikin reminded.
‘Why does everyone presume I’m going to forget the Priestking?’ Froi said, irritated. He’d been feeling like the village idiot lately. His only chore for the night was to collect the Priestking and if it wasn’t Lady Abian or Lord August or Trevanion reminding him, it was Finn.
‘I’m just saying,’ Finnikin said.
In the royal residence, Isaboe watched Tesadora pour more water into the tub.
‘What say we wash that hair, beloved?’ Tesadora said, her voice gentle but firm as she began to lather it. Tonight was special, Isaboe reminded herself. She would make the effort.
‘Finnikin says he hasn’t seen it out for months,’ Tesadora said practically, ‘and hair such as this should never be hidden.’
Isaboe tried not to think of her hair, because then she’d have to remember the red-gold strands of her son’s.
‘I miss the colour of mine,’ Tesadora admitted. ‘Sagrami punished me for being so vain. It was brown and gold. Do you remember that, or were you too much of a child?’
‘I don’t remember you,’ Isaboe said. ‘I wish I did, but I know you’re somewhere there in my memories. I remember your mother, of course, but you were Seranonna’s mysterious half-wild daughter living alone in the forest of Lumatere.’
‘Put your head back,’ Tesadora said and Isaboe felt the warm water blanket her head. She closed her eyes a moment.
‘My brother Balthazar said he saw you once,’ Isaboe said. ‘When he tried to describe you to my mother, he wept and she asked him why. He said it made him ache inside and my sisters teased him for days. He would have been a romantic, my brother. Unlike Finnikin and Lucian. He would have worn his heart on his sleeve and we would have found him sitting with the women and listening to their woes.’
‘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 cot 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 towards 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 an
d 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 Priestking, trying to shuffle him quickly out the door of what was now the shrinehouse of Sennington.
But the Priestking 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 Priestking asked. ‘An old man like me?’
Froi placed the oil lamp in the Priestking’s hand and hastened them towards the horse and cart he had prepared. Although the Priestking’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 Priestking 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 Priestking said, stopping a moment to wheeze. Froi flinched to hear the sound of it. Much had changed since he left, but he had only realised now just how frail the Priestking 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 acknowledgement. Things had changed between 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 Priestking 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 Priestking said. ‘You’ve become a surprisingly formidable young man, Froi. Nothing’s more frightening to others.’
On the porch, Perri was organising 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 Priestking, Perri pointed to the hall, which was rarely used except for large gatherings. One of the Guard 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 Priestking, 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 burnt 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 Priestking was pushing 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 laughed.
‘And if anyone dared 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 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, somewhat 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 favour
s.’
‘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.’