“Swiving,” Quintana finally announced. She never joined in, not having known the camp dwellers. She just watched with disdain. “That’s what she means.”
Ginny choked out a laugh, and the others flinched to hear the word. It was the second time Phaedra had heard the princess use it. She had only heard the word spoken by one of her father’s guards once, never out of the mouth of a woman. Matters of the body and the mysteries of what men and women did behind closed doors were not spoken about in such crude terms.
“You saw them mating?” Cora asked.
Phaedra looked away, nodding. She caught Quintana’s stare. It was almost curious. She heard an ugly laugh from Ginny.
“You’re not still intact, are you, Phaedra?” she mocked. When Phaedra didn’t respond, Ginny snorted. “But you are!”
The women were suddenly interested in what Ginny had to say. They waited for Phaedra’s response.
Phaedra’s face was burning now. “Of course I’m not,” she mumbled. “I was married.”
“Well, I heard . . .” Ginny shrugged and Phaedra saw spite in her face. “I heard the Mont sent you back because you didn’t satisfy him.”
Quintana stared at Phaedra with an I-told-you-so look in her eyes. She was the last person Phaedra wanted commiserating with her about spousal life.
“I’ve seen the Mont,” Ginny continued, relishing the attention of an audience. “If he was sharing my bed”— she shrugged — “there would be no sending me back.”
“You’re an idiot of a girl,” Cora said.
“There’s nothing wrong with enjoying it,” Ginny snapped. “There’s nothing wrong with bringing a man pleasure.”
Florenza looked at her mother. “Is that true?”
Jorja looked pensive and then brushed a lock of hair from Florenza’s pretty face.
“Of course, my princess. Don’t let anyone ever convince you otherwise. But we have to find you the right man first.”
“See?” Ginny said spitefully to Cora. “Even Lady Muck of the Sewers agrees.”
There was an exchange among them all, and the words hag and slut bounced off the cave walls. Quintana was strangely quiet, and Phaedra caught her staring at Jorja.
“She’s not a princess,” Quintana said, her voice cold. “Your daughter. Why is it that so many girls in this land presume to be one?”
“It’s just a word of endearment, Princess,” Jorja said disdainfully.
“Funny that when you use it to address me, it’s not endearing at all, Jorja of Nebia. And it’s Your Majesty, if you please. I was married to King Tariq. The title of Queen is mine.”
The mood in the cave changed, and Jorja had the good sense to look fearful. Quintana was a mystery to them still. They had no idea whom she was aligned to, or what lay behind the madness. Was it a façade? Worse still, they had no idea what she was capable of. But people like Jorja knew exactly what Quintana’s father had been capable of. Harker, Jorja, and their daughter had escaped a province aligned with the dead king. They had heard stories from the surviving Serkers. As much as Phaedra didn’t like the air of superiority enjoyed by Jorja and Florenza, she understood that they had a strong sense of right and wrong. They had given up everything for it. A place in the Nebian provincaro’s court. Land. Privilege. Everything Harker and Jorja had worked for all their lives. As hard as life in the valley seemed, Jorja was there because she had two weaknesses. Her husband and her daughter.
“I want to hear about Phaedra and her Mont,” Ginny said, and Phaedra didn’t know what was worse: the idea of what the queen of Charyn would do to Jorja or listening to more talk about her failure with Lucian.
“There’s nothing to say,” Phaedra mumbled.
“Did you at least enjoy it?” Florenza asked, curious.
Phaedra was silent.
“She didn’t enjoy it, poor girl,” Ginny continued. Ginny only came to life when talking about keeping a man happy.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed, Phaedra,” Florenza said, all too eager to hear the woes of Phaedra’s life. “Tell us more. It’s just certain words that we don’t use.”
Florenza sent a quick look at Quintana.
“Such as swiving?” Quintana asked bluntly, and Phaedra knew she was taunting the girl. She was like a cat Phaedra had once seen, playing with a mouse. Jorja nudged her daughter into silence.
“Well, if you must know, such things were never spoken about in my home,” Phaedra said. “My father would not have dreamed of mentioning it, and my mother . . . she died when I was ten. So let us say . . . it was quite a shock.” Phaedra hoped the discussion was now well and truly over.
“What was a shock?” Jorja asked.
Phaedra looked away. “It was. We’re no different from animals when you think of it.”
Cora rolled her eyes.
“Ah . . . it,” Ginny said.
Phaedra felt Quintana’s scrutiny. The princess had grown more savage-looking as the days had passed; her face was thinner, the untamed nature of her eyes more prominent. Sometimes when Quintana was consumed by her demons, she just sat in the corner of the cave and rocked with fury. There was no warning, not even weeping. Just pure unadulterated fury and pain. The fury was there now, accompanied by clenching of her fists. Phaedra thought it best to take Quintana outside, now that the rain was dwindling.
“We’ll go for a walk, Your Majesty,” she suggested. “You seem to be the only one of us who knows how to hunt, and we could do with something to fill our bellies.”
Phaedra held out a hand to Quintana.
And surprisingly, the princess took it, but by the time they were climbing down the rock face, Phaedra felt the nails of Quintana’s fingers digging into her skin.
“Did he ask first?”
Phaedra looked confused. “Who?”
“The Mont. Or was it force he used?”
“No! No, of course not,” Phaedra said, shuddering at the thought of any man taking a woman by force. “It may have been awful and primitive, but there was no force.”
Quintana let go of her hand and raced toward the stream.
“Where are you going?” Phaedra called out, catching her on the other side. She grasped her arm. “Don’t go too close to the Lumateran camp. It can be seen from the Charynite side.”
“Tesadora’s moved downstream,” Quintana said, satisfaction in her voice. “For me.”
They reached a small gully, and Phaedra smelled the cabbage first and then heard Tesadora’s voice. The novices and Tesadora were scrounging for roots and seeds while one of the Mont girls was stirring the pot.
Quintana tossed a stone toward them.
“Don’t!” Phaedra whispered, gripping her hand and pulling her down.
They waited, concealed behind a fallen log. Then they both peered into the place where Tesadora and her girls were glancing in their direction. Tesadora approached, and Phaedra saw a look of satisfaction on Quintana’s face.
“I hope you’re being careful, my little savage,” Tesadora said.
Quintana chuckled. Chuckled? All sharp teeth and wolfish smile. Tesadora didn’t seem afraid and held out a hand, which Quintana took. Phaedra followed them into the clearing and stopped short, stunned. Lucian was there, his back to them, studying the fetlock of his horse.
Tesadora held out a bowl of hot stew, and Quintana sat beside her, eating it up like the piglets Phaedra had seen on Orly of the Mont’s farm.
“Are they not feeding you?” Tesadora asked, looking at Phaedra with disapproval. “She needs to eat more, Phaedra.”
Lucian swung around, his eyes dark and hostile, surprised to hear her name.
“It’s not safe for us to be out here,” Phaedra said quietly, looking at everyone but her husband.
“Then don’t venture out of your cave,” Tesadora said. “For now you’re fine, though. Donashe and his men know Lucian is here checking up on us, and they won’t dare cross the stream. Come and eat, Phaedra. You look like the walking dead.” Tesadora’s tone
was one of irritation, and Phaedra grieved for the days when they had befriended each other, short as they were.
It was silent. There was much staring at both Quintana and Phaedra. Scowls from the Mont girls. Phaedra opened her mouth to speak a number of times, but had nothing substantial to say. Then the silence became ridiculous.
“She saw you swive,” Quintana said to Tesadora, pointing at Phaedra. “With a scarred man.”
Phaedra closed her eyes, wanting the earth to shake and swallow her whole.
“Swive?” Constance asked, looking at Lucian. “I’ve not heard that word.”
Lucian bluntly interpreted. The girls gasped, giggling. Tesadora’s eyes met Phaedra’s.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” Tesadora asked coolly. “Watching us . . . swive?”
Phaedra didn’t respond, the dirty strands of hair covering her face.
“She said it was quite primitive,” Quintana continued.
Phaedra could see that Quintana was going to speak again and she shook her head emphatically, with a look of warning. The moment she saw Quintana’s attention turn toward Lucian, Phaedra almost leaped over to gag her.
“You may not use force, but you rut like an animal,” Quintana said to Lucian coldly.
The Mont girls were agog, staring at Phaedra. They’d hate her even more for this. Feigning her death was one thing, but insulting a Mont lad in such a way?
“Have I not said that over and over again?” Constance said to anyone who would listen. “A few more tender words and a slower pace would work a treat, we Mont girls say.”
“All true,” Sandrine reassured Tesadora’s novices, who seemed most interested. “If you want to find a Lumateran man who takes the time for pleasantries, then go to the Rock,” she added, nodding with certainty. “And then perhaps the River.”
Tesadora made a rude sound. “The men from the Rock are useless.”
“A man has to pleasure you here, here, and here,” Constance said knowingly, pointing to her head, heart, and the place between her thighs. “It’s what my yata told me. Pity she didn’t tell you, cousin,” she teased Lucian.
Phaedra wondered for the umpteenth time what she could have possibly done to the gods to deserve the life she was living.
“Excuse me,” Lucian said calmly and politely. “I have an appointment in the palace village and need to be off.” He walked away, but then turned back, and Phaedra could see his rage. “I’m courting — did I mention that? A true Lumateran rose. A lady of discretion!”
Phaedra was stunned. Courting? Another woman? She must have made a sound, because suddenly everyone was staring at her.
“Well, it’s your fault for pretending you were dead and all, Phaedra,” Constance said. “We were all speaking of how hopeful things seemed to be between you and Lucian until you died of plague.”
Phaedra scrambled to her feet, her whole being trembling. Courting another woman.
“It’s getting dark now,” she managed to say. “It’s best we go. Come, Your Majesty,” she said briskly. She stared down at Quintana, cursing the awfulness this creature was able to cause merely by opening her mouth. Quintana didn’t take her hand. She wasn’t going anywhere by the look of things. Unable to bear being there another moment, Phaedra brushed down her skirt, to avoid giving the impression that she desperately wanted to cry. But then she could stand it no longer and rushed away, running through the undergrowth, wanting to get far away from them all. Behind her, she heard someone following, and suddenly her arm was seized and she knew it wasn’t the princess.
“Is that what you do with your people?” Lucian snapped. “Do you sit around and ridicule me? Call me an animal? Tell them I can’t pleasure my own wife?”
Phaedra looked away, shamed again.
“I said no such thing.”
“Then, what did you say?”
“Not the truth,” she cried. “I didn’t tell them the worst parts. That when we mated, you didn’t look at me. You didn’t say a word. Not once. And then you discarded me and lay with your Mont girls. So I’d have to hear the women in your village speak of how the Charynite girl was useless in all things.”
He pointed a finger at her face. “I don’t break bonds! I lay with no woman until you left. You. All this talk of the wife I sent back when it was your tears that begged me to send you back. Preferring to live in those filthy caves rather than share my home . . . my bed. Because I’m some animal.”
She stared at him through hot tears.
“That’s not what I —”
“And then you came back, and I thought things were different.” Lucian walked away, but then swung back around and she could see the hurt in his eyes.
“I grieved for you,” he blurted out, as if it was the last thing he wanted to admit. And Phaedra stepped back from him, frightened by the emotion of his words. She tripped on a raised tree root, and suddenly Quintana was there, flying at Lucian, a fist to his temple.
Tesadora reached them, trying to pull Quintana away. “Lower your voices,” Tesadora hissed. “We’re still close enough to Charyn for your words to be heard.”
Quintana’s other fist landed on Lucian’s arm.
“Stop!” Phaedra cried, gripping both of Quintana’s hands. “Stop,” she cried again. “All of you.”
She dared to glance up at Lucian, and he pointed at them both.
“Keep out of my sight,” he said, with such hatred in his voice, Phaedra had no idea whether he was speaking about her or Quintana. “Keep her out of my sight, or I don’t know what I’ll do.”
The ocean was a strange thing to Froi. He wasn’t much of an adventurer; he had discovered that about himself only after he was settled in Lumatere. He would have been happy to stay and never leave the confines of Lord August’s farm if he’d had the choice. Finnikin and Isaboe were different. Despite how ugly the world had been to them, they had both experienced the freedom of an open road for most of their life in exile. If his queen and her king had the chance, he knew they’d escape together to see the land on their terms.
The Ocean of Skuldenore would have made their heads spin.
They arrived late afternoon, and Froi had been surprised at just how close the underground community of Trist was to the port capital. Not even half a day’s ride. He thought of the collegiati and the feast of sights that would meet them once they escaped the confines of their safe prison.
Gargarin found them a room in a sea merchant’s cottage high above the city. The town steps down to the port of Sebastabol lay outside their lodging, and Froi questioned whether it was a good idea for Gargarin to attempt the steep climb.
“We’re better off at an inn down below,” Froi said.
Gargarin shook his head. “I want Lirah to have the view.”
Their room was on the top floor, and it had a balcony that indeed afforded them a spectacular view over the rooftops, the bustling port, and the ocean beyond. It seemed to stretch out forever and Froi heard Lirah’s gasp as she stared out at it. Gargarin stood behind her, his good arm around her body, his head close to hers.
“Did I not promise to show you the ocean one day?” he said softly, tenderly.
“Nineteen years is worth the wait,” she responded, her voice filled with emotion.
It only served to remind Froi that Lirah and Gargarin had been imprisoned a long time and most of their hopes of freedom had come from books. Stories, he thought. All they created was a yearning for faraway places.
He stayed inside, not wanting to intrude. Watching their intimacy made him feel awkward. He was born out of that intimacy, and all Froi’s life he had believed he’d come from something sordid. He had greater difficulty understanding the reality of this strange love than accepting the nightmare he had grown up believing to be truth.
“Don’t you want to see it?” Gargarin said, stepping aside to make room. So Froi joined them, because he wanted to be part of the contentment between the two. He could see that, much like in Paladozza, the townspeople of the port ci
ty of Sebastabol lived in dwellings built from quarried stone rather than carved out of caves. But he could also see that they were being spied on by at least one man disguised as a peddler, and another two outside a baker’s house.
“We have company,” he said.
Gargarin sighed. “People can’t seem to keep away from us,” he said. “How many are we talking about?”
“Three. Not in uniform, but definitely soldiers. What’s the provincaro’s security like?”
“Extensive. I’d be surprised if he hadn’t sent out a welcoming party.” Gargarin sounded more bored than annoyed. “The provincaro was always torn between thinking I was a spy for the king and wanting to move me into the residence as his adviser.” Gargarin stepped inside, and Froi followed.
“We’re going to have to pay a visit,” Gargarin said.
“Whatever you say.”
Now Gargarin looked truly irritated.
“No, I mean it,” Froi said. “I’m not trying to challenge you. Whatever you say.”
Lirah joined them inside, and Froi watched Gargarin send her a look that he couldn’t quite work out.
“What?” Froi asked, angry.
Gargarin didn’t respond. He collected his cloak and staff. “Lirah, you stay here,” he said. “Froi will come with me. Don’t let anyone in. If we fail to return, you wait a day and then make your way back to the priests and find Arjuro.”
“Why wouldn’t you return?” she asked sharply.
“Because this is Charyn,” Gargarin said, bitterness lacing his words. “People go and buy a loaf of bread and don’t come back.” He pressed a kiss to her mouth.
“If he returns wounded, I won’t be happy,” Lirah said, and Froi didn’t know whether she was speaking of him or Gargarin.
If not for the annoyance of being followed, Froi would have enjoyed Gargarin’s lessons about tacking and winds and the moon and the sun and the spring tide.
“Can you just hold that thought?” he told Gargarin, pushing him into an alleyway and waiting for the right time before his hand shot out to grab the throat of their pursuer, pressing the man against the stone wall beside Gargarin.