The Lumatere Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy

  “Is there something we can help you with?” Froi asked politely.

  “The provincaro requests your presence,” the man wheezed.

  “Well, what a coincidence,” Gargarin said. “We were just going to visit him.”

  “Yes,” Froi said. “Tell your friends to come along and join us. The more, the merrier.”

  The provincaro’s man hesitated, opened his mouth to deny the presence of the others, but then seemed to change his mind and made a signal. In no time, four other men joined them.

  “Five of them?” Gargarin asked Froi. “You said there were only three. You’re slipping in your old age.”

  Froi shrugged, and they continued walking.

  “Where was I?”

  “Neap tides.”

  “Ah, yes, the neap tides . . .”

  The provincaro’s fort was perched at the end of a long stone pier that jutted out to sea. Froi could see it was a treacherous coastline and could not understand anyone’s desire to leave dry land.

  “Sagra! You’d be a fool to sail out there,” he said.

  “It’s a life of uncertainty for the sailors,” Gargarin said. “There’s been many a wreck against those rocks.”

  A good deterrent for those planning to attack Sebastabol from sea.

  By the time Froi and Gargarin reached the entrance, a welcoming party that included De Lancey and his guards was waiting there for them.

  “Any news?” De Lancey asked urgently. “Do you know where she is?” he demanded of Froi. Was there accusation in his voice?

  Froi looked away. He had been dreading this meeting and hadn’t expected to see the provincaro of Paladozza so soon.

  “We’ll find her,” Gargarin said. He eyed De Lancey suspiciously. “You made no mention of this meeting with the provincari when I was in Paladozza.”

  De Lancey waved a hand of irritation. “Gargarin, don’t pick a fight. I’m annoyed enough with all of you,” he said. “How did you know I was here, anyway?” he added.

  “We’re not in Sebastabol for you, De Lancey. We’re here to pass on a message from the priests of Trist, who aren’t too happy about such a gathering taking place without them.”

  De Lancey ushered them in, and they followed him up a set of winding steps.

  “This is a provincari’s meeting, last I was told,” De Lancey argued. “Since when do the priests make decisions in this kingdom, Gargarin?”

  “Since when do the provincari?” Gargarin responded.

  De Lancey reached the top of the steps, staring down at them both. “Since we don’t have a king and our princess has disappeared, carrying the possible heir!”

  Froi stiffened, knowing he wasn’t mistaken in hearing an accusation.

  “I hope this means you’re combining your armies,” Gargarin said.

  De Lancey hesitated and shook his head.

  “It just means we’re finding common ground,” he replied. “And you’re here at the right time. They were overjoyed to hear you had been sighted.”

  They walked down a long torchlit passageway, from which Froi could see a short walkway leading into another section of the residence.

  “Just agree to everything they say, Gargarin,” De Lancey said softly. “We need to be unanimous about matters, and you seem to be the only thing we agree upon.”

  “Is Grij here with you?” Froi asked quietly.

  De Lancey shook his head. “I’ve sent him and Tippideaux to . . . a safe house. We’re going to ground in Paladozza. Bestiano is desperate to find Quintana, and with the help of Nebia’s army, he may just do so.” De Lancey’s expression was bleak. “Did you know the Belegonians are on our doorstep, Gar? I thought you were traveling to the border to strike up a deal.”

  “Things changed,” Gargarin said. “But for now, Lumatere, at least, is not a threat to us. I can’t speak for the future, but their immediate plan is not to invade from the north.”

  They stepped inside a large hall that afforded them a view of the ocean from three sides of the room. In its center was a long bench that sat at least eight people. The individual guards of each province stood close to their provincaro, watching suspiciously for any threat from another. At the head of the table was an older man, with skin weathered by the sea, who was presumably the provincaro of Sebastabol. He stood and walked toward them, extending a hand to Gargarin.

  “It’s as if we conjured you up, Gargarin,” he said. The man’s eyes rested on Froi.

  “Is this the Lumateran impostor?” the man asked. “How could he have ever passed as a Sebastabolian?”

  “How could a Sebastabolian last born betray the mother of our curse breaker?” Gargarin asked in return.

  The provincaro’s mouth was a thin line of anger.

  “Olivier no longer exists for us. He will never have a place here again, and his entire family has been banished. He has a price on his head, and if he shows his face, there’ll be a noose to greet him.”

  Froi wasn’t expecting to hear such a definitive punishment. It made his stomach lurch regardless of how he felt about Olivier of Sebastabol.

  “Who is he really?” the provincaro asked Gargarin, indicating Froi with a toss of his head.

  “Froi of the Lumateran Flatlands,” Gargarin replied without missing a beat. “He’s my personal guard, if you must know. But from a Lumateran perspective, he was sent as a spy, so until we can get him back to his people, we’re going to have to keep him safe.”

  Part of it was truth and part a lie. Gargarin’s purpose, however, was unclear. Why was it so important to Gargarin that the provincari knew Froi was a Lumateran?

  The provincaro was studying Gargarin suspiciously. “And you trust him?”

  “He does me a favor. I do him a favor,” Gargarin said. “It’s a good arrangement.”

  The provincaro indicated the room. Froi recognized one or two faces, and then he froze at the same time Gargarin spoke.

  “What’s he doing here?” Gargarin demanded. “He’s not a provincaro.”

  Vinzenzo of Avanosh was sitting smugly beside Orlanda of Jidia. Froi had met him in Paladozza and hadn’t trusted him from the moment the man arrived with his family and nephew, Feliciano. Avanosh was an island off Charyn and Sorel, considered neutral despite being part of Charyn long ago. When the Avanosh lot had come with talk of Feliciano being Quintana’s consort and rumors the island was aligned with the kingdom of Sorel, Froi had decided to escape with Quintana.

  “In these times of turmoil, we all agree that Avanosh has much to offer Charyn,” Vinzenzo of Avanosh said. “I’m afraid we didn’t get to meet in Paladozza, Gargarin. You were ill, I hear.”

  Vinzenzo looked around the table. “Yes, I do recall the dead king’s Serker whore mentioned it.”

  There was whispering among those sitting around the table, and Froi watched Gargarin’s hand clench his staff.

  “Sit, Gargarin,” De Lancey ordered.

  Froi wasn’t invited to sit, so he waited for a signal from Gargarin, who merely handed him the staff. Froi took it and went to stand beside one of De Lancey’s guards by the entrance.

  “We’re here to make decisions about the new Charyn,” the provincaro of Sebastabol said, once he was seated again. “A new Charyn that will exist, both if a king is born and if she gives birth to a girl child —”

  “Her Majesty Quintana of Charyn,” Gargarin interrupted.

  They all looked at him questioningly.

  “She is the queen,” Gargarin continued. “She was married to Tariq of Lascow, the heir. So it’s best that we refer to her as the queen of Charyn. I stressed that to Orlanda and De Lancey when we were guests in their provinces.”

  The provincari looked uncomfortable, and Froi watched them find each other’s eyes across the table.

  The provincaro of Sebastabol cleared his throat. “What’s important is that we decide —”

  “What’s important,” Gargarin interrupted again, “is that Quintana of Charyn is acknowledged as the queen. She is car
rying the curse breaker and possibly our future king.”

  “Regardless of her title, she has no power,” Orlanda of Jidia said.

  “Move on,” one of the other men ordered gruffly. It could only have been the provincaro of Alonso. Phaedra’s father. Grief-stricken and bitter.

  Froi watched Gargarin push back his chair and stand, slightly unbalanced on his feet. Froi reached him and handed him his staff.

  “Then my time here is wasted,” Gargarin said.

  There was dismay from most occupants of the room.

  “What are you doing, Gargarin?”

  “Sit, sit.”

  Gargarin shook his head. “I’m here to pass on a message from the priests of Trist, who believe that they have a role in the new Charyn. It would be to your best advantage to include them. The people of Charyn will want the oracle’s godshouse reopened and working alongside whoever is in the palace. That is my duty done. But if you would like me to stay to discuss the new Charyn, which will exist after the queen of Charyn gives birth to the curse breaker, then I will stay.”

  Everyone nodded, except Vinzenzo of Avanosh.

  “But only if Quintana of Charyn is acknowledged as the queen,” Gargarin continued. “Are you writing that down, scribe? We have a queen, and regardless of how powerless she is, that is her title. It will be the title her people will become used to, and a strange thing happens when people become used to good things. They forget who she was in the past and get used to who she will be in the future. The mother of the king. The first mother of Charyn. Trust me, gentlemen, and Orlanda, if Quintana of Charyn survives, she will be the new Charyn. She will have the people of the Citavita eating out of her hands. One hand, anyway. The other will be holding the curse breaker, a reminder that he or she has ended eighteen years of barren misery.”

  He swayed, not having taken his staff, and Froi placed Gargarin’s arm around his shoulder to prop him up.

  “You want to make a good king?” Gargarin asked. “One of sound mind? One who knows he was loved so he can love his people in return? One who understands justice and the sacrifice of those who came before him? Then treat his mother as a queen.”

  Froi watched the others, his heart pounding with a truth he had never acknowledged before.

  He loved Gargarin of Abroi. Never more than this moment.

  No one spoke.

  The provincaro of Sebastabol cleared his throat. “I want us to make a good king.”

  “As do I,” De Lancey said.

  “As we all do,” Orlanda said.

  Gargarin waited for everyone’s agreement.

  “Then allow Quintana of Charyn to raise her child. Acknowledge her as the queen until her son takes a bride. Teach the people of Charyn that there is order in that palace — not what we have experienced for the last three generations, where kings either refused to wed the mother of their children or did as they pleased. We need Belegonia and Osteria and Lumatere and every other kingdom to look up to our throne and see dignity and a new order.”

  Gargarin held out his hand for his staff, and Froi gave it to him.

  “When you have something to offer the future of this kingdom,” Gargarin said, “I may just agree to be who you want me to be.”

  “What are you truly hoping to achieve here?” Froi asked quietly as they made their way out of the residence.

  “That they give us an army to go search for her,” Gargarin said. “What are your thoughts?”

  “You’re right,” Froi said.

  Gargarin stopped, his stare hard. “Why am I right all of a sudden, Froi?”

  Froi didn’t know how to respond.

  “What now?” he mumbled instead.

  “Let’s take Lirah out for a treat.”

  Sebastabol wasn’t as pretty a city as Paladozza. It was seedier and filthier in parts, but Froi liked the winding cobblestoned paths and the liveliness of it all. Despite the blistering cold, the sea breeze was invigorating, and he could almost taste the salt on his tongue as they walked along the shore. The port was bustling as men lugged merchandise off ships.

  “We were obsessed,” Gargarin said, holding Lirah close to him for warmth as they sat on the shore. “Arjuro and I. We were convinced we’d live a life at sea. We’d build ourselves a boat and head off into the beyond.” He grinned at them. “The closest we came was Arjuro drawing it all on the walls of our hovel.”

  “I was on a boat on the straits once,” Froi said, looking out to where men were carrying willow pots of strange-looking orange sea creatures from one of the barges.

  Lirah and Gargarin seemed surprised.

  “Yes, yes. Good times, indeed. I spent most of the trip with my head over the side, vomiting.” Froi nodded. “True. And then we came around the straits and traveled upriver into Yutlind Sud, and the spirit warriors attacked and killed our crew and wounded Finn, who would have died if it wasn’t for Isaboe . . . well, Evanjalin. She begged for his life.” Froi sighed. “I miss those days.”

  “What a ridiculous story,” Lirah said.

  “It’s true!” He laughed.

  They stood among the fishermen, watching them store the writhing eels in barrels of salt. One of the men held out a basket of strange shells to them, and Gargarin took a handful and broke one open, slurping the sluglike substance down his throat. Froi nearly gagged to watch him. Gargarin offered one to Lirah, who seemed just as disgusted.

  “It’s an ormer,” he said, laughing. “The look on both your faces is priceless. Go on,” he said, offering one to Froi.

  “I’d rather eat dirt.”

  Gargarin laughed again, and there was something so normal about them all being together.

  They arrived back at their inn early that evening, still laughing about the strength of Gargarin’s stomach after his consumption of some of the vilest food Froi had ever seen.

  “Morsels,” Gargarin corrected as they climbed the steps to their room. Froi stopped suddenly, holding up a hand to silence them both. They waited and heard the creak of the floorboards above. Theirs was the only room up these final steps, and Froi silently retrieved a dagger and crept up to the top, where the door of their room was ajar. He turned back to the others, holding up his hand again to still them, and seconds later, he kicked open the door and came face-to-face with De Lancey, the provincaro of Sebastabol, and their guards.

  “Bit dramatic, these Lumaterans,” De Lancey murmured, getting to his feet. “Gar!” he called out.

  Gargarin and Lirah appeared at the top of the steps, looking hesitant. De Lancey stepped out onto the landing to greet them. “Promise you’ll agree to everything, Gar,” he said quietly.

  “I won’t promise anything at all until I hear what you have to offer and you agree to what I want,” Gargarin replied.

  Inside the room, the provincaro of Sebastabol looked slightly uncomfortable in so small a space.

  “We’ll make this brief, Gargarin,” he said.

  “Please do.”

  “Quintana of Charyn will be referred to as the queen and will raise her child in the palace.”

  Froi felt hopeful, but when his eyes caught De Lancey’s, the provincaro looked away.

  “She will hold no power, of course,” the provincaro of Sebastabol said. “And she will be wed to the right consort when she’s settled in the palace with the child. A man of title, but not a Charynite. We must let nothing divide the provinces, and there must not be an imbalance of power in the palace. This consort will provide guidance and stability in the life of the king, if it’s a boy she births. If it’s a girl, let’s hope that if she succeeded the first time, she — the queen — can do it again with the man she is wed to.”

  Froi could hardly breathe. He always knew it would come to this, but it shattered him to hear the words that some other man would raise his son and father another child of Quintana’s.

  “The little king, if one is to be born, will be instructed by a regent until the age of fifteen. A regent unaffiliated to any province. When he comes of a
ge, the little king will take control of Charyn. Until that time, decisions on how to run this kingdom will be made by the provincari together. They will each have an ambassador living in the palace . . . to keep an eye on things.”

  De Lancey still refused to meet any of their eyes, and Froi knew the worst was yet to come.

  “We will have no control over the oracle’s godshouse, but hope that the union between the palace and the godshouse will be strong,” the provincaro of Sebastabol continued. “We believe this is possible if Arjuro of Abroi is made head priest of the godshouse and you, Gargarin, are the regent of the little king.”

  Gargarin was silent.

  “Take time to think it over,” the provincaro of Sebastabol said. “You’ll be staying awhile, I presume.”

  Gargarin nodded. “We’ll speak soon, then.”

  The provincaro shook Gargarin’s hand and walked to the door.

  “One more thing,” the man said.

  “There’s always one more thing,” Gargarin muttered, and they waited.

  “Most agreed . . . that the Serker whore is prohibited from living in the palace, regardless of her motherly ties to the queen.”

  The only relief Froi felt at the provincaro’s words was that no one suspected the strange circumstances of Quintana’s and Froi’s births. As far as the kingdom was concerned, Lirah had birthed Quintana, not the oracle queen.

  “It was you who gave us that idea, Gargarin,” the provincaro said. “We will be teaching our people new ways, and it’s best that we teach them that a whore did not beget their queen. We will show our neighboring kingdoms that our palace is not a place of ill repute. So that one day they’ll forget. A whore has no place in a palace.”

  Froi flew at the man but was pulled away and held down by the guards. The room was silent except for the sound of Froi’s own breathing, rasping with fury.

  “You take back calling Lirah a whore,” Gargarin said, his tone ice-cold.

  “They were not my words,” the provincaro said. “I was merely repeating —”

  “Then use your own words, coward,” Gargarin said.

  The provincaro of Sebastabol shook his head with regret. “Lirah of Serker will not live in the palace. I’ve said my piece.”