‘She’s nothing like Isaboe,’ Lucian said.
Tesadora looked up at him. ‘How about you calm down the lads … and Vestie can tell me everything she knows about her new friend in the valley?’
I come close to our cave with hands drenched in hare’s blood. If they feast on fresh game for the first time in weeks, perhaps things may change and their hearts will be open. But the women are speaking, they’re fighting, they’re weeping, Froi. Their stone-hearted claws scratch at me whole. Though their voices are hushed, they scream with such hate. I hear them speak words, ‘We’ll kill in her sleep.’ The little King kicks, a beat of great fear, and he begs me to run from these wretches of malice. The Mont’s wife, she sees me, her face speaks of shame, and the hares in my hand are hurled in my fury.
And I run and I run, and I think of the girl child, the one they call Visti, and the trust in her eyes. I think of her voice, so much like Regina, my sister beloved who’s left me behind. But Froi, have you joined her at the lake of the half-dead? I fear that you have and she’s not sent you back. The last time I saw you, eight arrows were piercing. You couldn’t have lived; the gods aren’t that kind.
And I hide in the thistles that tear at my skin, but finally I see her, the white-headed Serker. She knows I am out here, but pretends she’s not looking. I know she is looking and pretend it’s a game. And finally I’m closer and I grip at her strange hair, the white of its strands a shroud around my fist. And my blood beats a dance because I’ve found it a kindred. So I vow to return and my smile aches my face. I know her: Tesadora. Will she love me regardless?
She knows me, she knows me, but does not turn away.
Phaedra of Alonso was running. Stumbling over an upturned stone once, twice. Praying with all her being for a glimpse of their strange princess. Up in the distance the whistle of the wind sang to her from the mountain. From Lucian’s mountain. It beckoned and taunted and she wanted to run towards it. To be enveloped in its coat of fleece and to hear its safe sounds.
And then she saw Quintana of Charyn and she stopped, almost crumbling from relief and fatigue and fear. It left room for anger, and Phaedra didn’t realise until that moment how much she disliked the Princess Abomination for what she had brought into their lives.
‘Your Highness,’ she said quietly, fearful that Donashe and his men would travel downstream and cross their path. Despite the distance from both the camp and the road to her father’s province, there was always a chance that someone would stray and discover their secret. From what Rafuel had told them, the one time he had managed to slip away since their ‘deaths’, the Monts were no longer acting as sentinels on the Lumateran side of the stream. So there was nothing to stop Donashe and his murderers from hunting in the woodlands and crossing the stream to where Phaedra and the women hid. Worse still, Rafuel had advised that one of Donashe’s men was feeling threatened by Rafuel’s presence around his leader. The man followed Rafuel and Donashe’s every move, which had made it difficult for Rafuel to slip away. So here Phaedra and the women were, a mile downstream from the Charynite valley dwellers, not knowing what was happening to their people upstream except that Phaedra’s father had stopped sending grain from Alonso.
Despite Phaedra’s warnings to stay put, the Princess crossed the stream most days. It was as if she was drawn to the Lumateran side with its gullies and tall tree canopies. The girl had a tendency to disappear for hours upon end, which unnerved them all. And then they’d be unnerved again by her return.
Phaedra didn’t know what was worse. Quintana of Charyn’s absence or presence. This afternoon’s behaviour was quite dramatic: she had tossed one of the hares at Florenza and ran off like a wild savage.
‘Her father’s daughter,’ Jorja had muttered. Jorja and her husband Harker despised the dead King more than anyone Phaedra had ever met, except for the Lumaterans.
Phaedra caught up with the Princess near a moss-covered stone.
‘You can’t wander away, Your Highness.’ Phaedra used a brisk tone, despite the fact that she was speaking to the daughter of a king. ‘We must keep to the cave. We’ve been beside ourselves with worry.’
The stare that met hers was hard and cold. Cora and the other women believed an entity inhabited Quintana of Charyn, and that deep inside, she was not quite human. It made Phaedra despair even more. What hope did Charyn have if this creature carried the first?
‘I’m the Queen, Phaedra of Alonso. Did I not mention that?’
Oh, you’ve mentioned it many, many times, Phaedra wanted to say. Once with a hand around Jorja’s neck, squeezing tight because Jorja had dared to question what type of authority the Princess had now that the King was dead.
‘And I’m not going back,’ announced the Princess or Queen or whoever she wanted to be. ‘They’ll kill me in my sleep. I heard them say.’
Phaedra sighed. ‘They said no such thing, Your Majesty.’
And there was the ice-cold stare again.
‘I heard the words,’ Quintana said, with a curl to her lip that spoke of a threat. ‘Are you calling me a liar, Phaedra of Alonso?’
Phaedra hesitated, choosing her next words wisely. ‘You frighten them,’ she finally said. ‘You snarl and rage and sometimes we believe that our sacrifice was for nothing. “She’ll kill us in our sleep.” That’s what you heard. Their fear is that you will kill us all.’
With as much courage as she could muster, Phaedra walked to the Princess and pulled her to her feet, dragging her along in much the same way she had seen a Mont mother drag her protesting boy towards the bathhouse. She was sick and tired of being the one to keep the peace between the women. It was about time everyone else did their duty. When they reached the stream, Phaedra tore a strip from Quintana’s dress and soaked it in the water, cleaning the girl’s bloodied hands and face. If Quintana of Charyn knew anything, it was how to hunt. A frightening thought in itself, but Phaedra had to admit that the hares had filled their empty stomachs for the first time in days. And there was the satisfaction of seeing one of the hares lobbed at Florenza’s nose. Jorja believed that she and her precious daughter were above everyone else, despite their journey through the sewers. ‘She was the most sought-after girl in our province,’ Jorja had boasted just the night before.
‘Yes, but where are these suitors now that Florenza has crawled through shit?’ Cora asked.
Each time Jorja and Florenza’s escape was mentioned, Florenza whimpered and made gagging sounds, and Ginny would laugh. Ginny laughed at anything that was mean. Phaedra had learned to dislike them all since their so-called deaths. If she had to hear Jorja boast, or Florenza whimper, or Cora mock, or Ginny being snide one more time, she’d find a hare or two to throw at them all herself.
‘What are you smiling about?’ the Princess asked, breaking Phaedra’s thoughts. Quintana sat on one of the stepping stones in the stream and Phaedra had no choice but to squat beside her. She felt the skirt of her dress soak, but refused to allow her discomfort to show.
‘It’s a grimace, not a smile,’ Phaedra said.
‘It was a smile.’
She felt Quintana’s strange gaze and met it. Months on the mountain had made Phaedra less afraid of bullies and no people knew how to intimidate her more than the Monts. But as she returned Quintana’s stare, all Phaedra saw was that the mother of their future King was nothing but a broken, bloodied girl.
‘I think he’s dead,’ the Princess said quietly.
Phaedra froze. ‘The babe?’
The Princess shook her head.
Phaedra waited, gently scrubbing Quintana’s face clean.
‘I looked back once,’ the Princess continued, ‘and counted eight arrows, and I heard his cries and saw his spirit fight to leave his body.’
Phaedra was confused. She had heard the Princess tell Rafuel that the father of her child, the heir Tariq of Lascow, had been slaughtered in the underground caves of the Citavita. Who was this ‘he’ she was speaking of?
‘Is there a chance
that Tariq of Lascow is alive?’ Phaedra asked, hope in her voice.
‘Tariq’s dead,’ Quintana said. ‘I saw his corpse. I saw them all. They died protecting me … protecting this,’ she said, pointing to her belly. ‘Maybe I’ll see your corpse, Phaedra of Alonso. Everywhere I go, I leave behind corpses.’ There were tears of fury in the girl’s eyes. ‘I left him behind, dying.’
Phaedra failed to hide a shudder. ‘Who are you speaking of?’ she dared to ask. She thought of Rafuel’s warning on the day Quintana of Charyn had entered their life. The less they knew, the better it was for them all.
‘Who, if not Tariq of Lascow?’ Phaedra persisted.
The Princess leaned forward, pressing her lips against Phaedra’s ear. Phaedra smelt the stench of hare’s blood.
‘Froi of Lumatere.’
Phaedra stumbled back into the water, stunned. She remembered the story she had heard of the rescue in the Citavita. He had swung through the air to save Quintana. The audacity of his actions had made Phaedra like Froi even more than she had the one or two times they had met on the mountain. She knew what he meant to Lucian and Tesadora, as well as Perri, the guard who shared Tesadora’s bed. Some said the Queen and her consort loved the lad as if he were a brother.
And then Phaedra remembered Rafuel’s strange words: Did you mate with the lastborn?
‘Is he the father?’ she asked, horrified. ‘Froi of Lumatere?’
‘Don’t let me have to kill you for knowing that, idiot girl,’ Quintana threatened. ‘Don’t let me hear you speak it out loud to those parrots in the cave.’
‘Then why tell me?’ Phaedra cried, getting to her feet and following the stepping stones across the stream to get as far away from the girl as possible. She couldn’t bear the idea of what the Lumateran’s death would do to those on the mountain and beyond. Worse still, it would mean true war between the two kingdoms.
When they returned to the cave, Phaedra heard the hushed fighting in an instant. They called it their prison. It was a small shrinehouse that from the outside looked like any other cave, much like those upstream, half-concealed with shrubs and vines. But once inside, there were two chambers. The larger one was dedicated to the Goddess Sagrami, a fact that unnerved them all. Sagrami was the goddess of blood and tears and was said to have cursed Lumatere. It was also further proof that despite Phaedra’s people being allowed in the valley, the earth still belonged to their Lumateran neighbours. Through a narrow walkway, the cave opened up to another smaller chamber. It had a wind hole that gave a view of downstream, but most of the time they kept it covered with vines and shrubs to keep out the cold. No one dared sleep in the shrine room, so here they were, living in too small a space for five women who could hardly endure each other’s company.
‘I can’t stand this,’ Phaedra heard Ginny cry. ‘I didn’t ask to save Charyn. When Rafuel returns I’m going to ask him to tell Gies that I’m alive. I don’t like being without my man.’
‘From the flirting I saw the fool do with those Mont girls, I dare say he’ll cope,’ Cora said in a nasty tone.
Cora loved nothing more than riling Ginny, whose only sense of worth came from having a man. Phaedra had known girls like Ginny in Alonso. The type who rarely took the side of women in an argument. They feared it would make them unpopular in the eyes of men. She remembered Ginny in the camp and realised that most of the acquaintances the girl had struck up were with the camp leaders Gies seemed drawn to.
‘You’re a liar,’ Ginny shouted at Cora, who was still taunting her about the Mont girls.
‘And you’re one of the greatest idiots I’ve come across, and believe me when I say I’ve come across many.’
‘Enough!’ Phaedra said from the entrance. ‘Our voices will carry upstream.’
They stared at the Princess over Phaedra’s shoulder.
‘Tell her to stay put,’ Cora said.
‘You’ll have to tell her yourself, Cora,’ Phaedra said firmly. ‘She’s not deaf to your voice, you know. Now, enough of this fighting. We have a little king to protect.’
‘If you ask me, the only thing keeping her alive is that little king,’ Ginny said. ‘That’s what my Gies would say.’
‘Shut it, you idiot girl,’ Cora said.
‘You shut it. You’re an ugly hag. There were women in my village just like you. Hags with nothing left to offer a man.’
‘Well, it’s a good thing the men in the village had you,’ Cora said.
‘Shut up, both of you,’ Jorja hissed. ‘I’d crawl through those sewers one hundred times over not to have to listen to any of you.’
This was Phaedra’s life now and she wondered what she had done to the gods for them to punish her in such a way. And in the corner, Quintana of Charyn sat staring at her, shaking her head. Phaedra recognised the look directed at her. She had seen it on the mountain before she had proven her worth. It was disappointment. You’re useless, Phaedra. Useless.
She closed her eyes and went to sleep with the sound of Florenza’s retching in her ears. And a small part of her begged the gods not to let her wake.
Froi was summoned to see the elder of the compound, Simeon of Nebia. The Priest had come to visit him once when he lay injured and in pain, but Froi remembered little of that time except for the constant questions regarding Quintana’s whereabouts.
But this time Froi was well enough to visit the leader’s residence and it was the first time he was able to study the underground galleries. They were unlike Tariq’s compound under the Citavita. Here the ceilings were high and the rooms were wide. Froi could see that they had not always been a hiding place. The archways seemed about six feet high and large enough for a pushcart to fit through them. The walls were made of limestone and Arjuro had mentioned the galleries were once used to quarry chalk.
They entered a long, wide corridor with a dozen or so small alcoves on either side where the collegiati slept. In each cubicle was a bedroll, a stool and books scattered around. The passageway led to another cavern referred to as the chamber of reflection, which was much like a small godshouse where they assembled for prayer or to find solitude. Froi watched as Arjuro stood at the wall and traced his finger against the stone, as if he was writing a secret message that only the gods could decipher.
‘What were you doing?’ Froi asked quietly as they stepped out of the chamber onto a landing.
‘That’s between me and them.’
They finally came to a vertical shaft that led down to a lower level, and it was there that Simeon lived.
‘I’ve not been invited,’ Arjuro said. ‘So speak to him as you would the Lumateran Priestking.’
‘I yell at the Priestking,’ Froi said. ‘I’ve thrown manuscripts at him when he’s forced me to read the jottings … or droppings, as I preferred to call them, of the ancients on their visit to the off lands. You do not want me speaking to the elder as I would the Priestking.’
Arjuro poked him in the shoulder.
Froi entered Simeon’s residence. It was covered from top to toe with brightly coloured shards of clay tiles. It was as if someone had smashed a plate to the ground and gathered the pieces to stick on the wall. On the ceiling were the most magnificent frescoes he had seen, better even than De Lancey’s or those in the locked wing of the Lumateran palace where Isaboe’s family had been slain. Simeon the elder was shelling broad beans beside a pot of boiling water. He acknowledged Froi with a tilt of his head and beckoned him close. He pointed at Froi’s cap.
‘Can you remove it?’
Simeon had a cold countenance, unlike the Priestking, and it was difficult to read his thoughts. But Froi had to respect a man who had succeeded in keeping a frightened community thriving not only after the slaughter in the Oracle’s godshouse, but during the years since the curse in Charyn.
Froi did as he was told and turned, knowing it was the lettering Simeon was interested in seeing.
‘Just as confusing as the mark of the lastborn women,’ Simeon mused. ‘But different.
’
‘Can I see the markings on one of your lastborn girls?’ Froi asked. Because Quintana’s hadn’t made sense to him, he had never truly studied them. Now he had a chance to compare.
Simeon shook his head.
‘Our lastborns have hidden in these caves for eighteen years, so they were not marked when they were of age. But we’ve had visitors from outside and I know the lettering well.’
Simeon stood and shuffled towards a bench of books piled high. He retrieved a piece of parchment and held it out for Froi to study.
‘Yours has stems on the round letters. Here and here,’ he said, pointing to the copy of the lastborn girls’ lettering. ‘I have a feeling that the idiot King’s riders copied it wrong on the girls. So all these years we’ve been trying to decipher words that don’t exist.’
‘Do you think you can decipher this?’ Froi said, pointing to his skull.
‘Not all Priests are gods’ blessed, Dafar,’ Simeon said. ‘Did you know that?’
Froi felt strange hearing his true name spoken by the Priest.
‘Arjuro says the gods close their eyes and point, and that he just happened to be in their line of vision that day,’ Froi said.
Simeon didn’t respond.
‘Are you?’ Froi asked. ‘Gods’ blessed?’
‘No,’ Simeon said. ‘I think I fooled myself as a younger man, but when you meet the likes of Arjuro of Abroi, you realise the difference between ordinary men and those the gods chose to lead us.’
‘It’s hard to believe just by looking at Arjuro,’ Froi said.
Simeon’s expression softened. ‘My grandson Rothen is gods’ blessed. He’s with Rafuel of Sebastabol in the Lumateran valley. We’ve not heard from them. We’re beginning to fear the worst.’
‘The Lumaterans would never harm them,’ Froi said.
‘You don’t know that.’
Simeon was not the sort of man to fool others with false hope. ‘It’s not only the Lumaterans we fear, Dafar. Arjuro mentioned Zabat of Nebia’s treachery.’