Once they were ready, they sat in the shelter, working at creating a spearhead out of flint, using the hammer stone. Phaedra enjoyed hearing nothing but the sounds of their labor.
Once or twice she felt Quintana’s eyes on her, but she didn’t want to look up. It was too small a space to endure her stare, so Phaedra kept her head down.
“I only enjoyed it with the Lumateran . . . Froi,” Quintana said quietly.
“What?”
“It.”
Phaedra’s peace was over. She felt an anger rise up inside her at the memory of her humiliation that day with Lucian and the Lumaterans.
“You’re mocking me.”
“I’m not at all.”
Phaedra studied her suspiciously, hoping that any conversation about mating would not take place again. She was happy when they continued their work in silence. But not for long.
“Even if he did live,” Quintana said, her hands clenched fiercely around the hammer stone and flint spearhead, “there’s no life for us together.”
Don’t let me want to like her, Phaedra pleaded with the gods. Don’t let her bewitch me like she’s bewitched Vestie of the Flatlands and Tesadora.
The princess glanced down at her belly. “One of the many blessings of this is that I don’t ever have to lie with a man again. If they don’t kill me, they’ll wed me to some idiot nobleman, and do you know what I’ll say on my wedding night? I’ll say, ‘Charyn already has an heir and curse breaker. Leave me to my peace.’”
Quintana sounded weary of the world, and her focus was back on her task.
“How did you learn to do that?” Phaedra asked quietly, watching her shape the stone.
“I have a good head for detail. I watch. I learn.”
There was arrogance in her voice, as if everyone else was a total fool.
“Then, if you watch and learn, why is it that you can’t do your hair? Something so simple?” Phaedra tried to lighten the mood.
Quintana looked up questioningly.
“I think you’re being mean.”
“No, actually I spoke in jest,” Phaedra said.
“Well, you’re not very good at being funny, Phaedra. Don’t try it again.”
And they left it at that.
They worked for the rest of the afternoon, scraping stone against stone, sharpening the flint on each side. By the time the sky began to darken, Phaedra’s hands were bloody, every line and crevice filled with filth. Quintana stood, handed Phaedra the tree limb of her length, and they both forced the stone into the end of the branch until it was secure. Quintana gripped the branch at its center and made a move to jab at Phaedra, her savage teeth showing a hint of glee. Phaedra stumbled back, her throat constricting. Their very mad princess was now armed. Apart from Donashe and his men finding them, Phaedra couldn’t think of anything more frightening.
“You try,” Quintana said, and Phaedra held the weapon. Quintana adjusted Phaedra’s hand until her grip on the spear was firm.
“If the Mont holds a dagger to your throat again,” the princess promised coldly, “I’ll rip him from crown to heel.”
Phaedra shivered. She saw the vicious teeth appear again in a smile of satisfaction.
“Let’s go slaughter something,” Quintana said. “We’ll see if they call me useless with their bellies filled.”
“You’ve got to stop saying that,” Phaedra said quietly. “About the women thinking you’re useless.”
“You’re the one who’s said it yourself about both of us,” Quintana taunted. “And I’m sure you and the women have called me other names. An abomination? A whore? Have I missed anything? Go on! Speak the truth.”
Phaedra swallowed hard. Oh, all those words and more. Mad. Indulged. Delusional. Cold. Vicious. Broken.
“It doesn’t matter what we’ve said in the past; you need to endear yourself to your people, Your Majesty,” Phaedra said.
Quintana leaned forward conspiratorially, as if someone were close by. “I’m not too fussed about that title, really, Phaedra. It’s what they used to call my father, and I only stress the use of it when I’m dealing with the likes of those fishwives in the cave. You may refer to me as . . .”
She thought for a moment, her brow creased in thought.
“You may refer to me as Your Highness instead.”
Phaedra couldn’t stop a laugh.
“I think I’m going to call you Quintana, actually.”
Quintana’s eyes narrowed.
“Only because the queen of Lumatere is referred to as Isaboe by those close to her.” Phaedra nodded, enjoying herself. “Froi called her Isaboe as well. If the queen of Lumatere discovers that those close to the queen of Charyn use such a formal title . . . well, she’ll think that the queen of Charyn can’t make friends.”
Quintana’s contemplation was thorough.
“She’s not as beautiful as people say, you know,” Quintana said. “But the little person Vistie was.”
“Vestie.”
“The little person has a voice . . . much like someone I once knew . . . my sister, if you’d like to know.”
Phaedra was surprised. “I didn’t realize you had a sister.”
“In here, I did,” Quintana said, pointing to herself.
Phaedra thought a moment. “I understand about Vestie. The little ones on the mountain — they made me feel a joy and sadness beyond reckoning.”
“Is that how you feel about your Mont?”
“I don’t want to talk about him,” Phaedra said quietly.
“He’s very handsome.”
Phaedra had to agree, and glancing at Quintana, she thought that perhaps the princess wasn’t so bad, after all.
“It’s a pity about his swiving, though.”
And Phaedra saw her smile, with a hint of mischief in it, and she couldn’t help smiling herself and then she was laughing. They both were, and the savage teeth were the most joyous sight Phaedra had seen for a long time. It was as if they were dancing. There it was. Suddenly the strangeness of Quintana of Charyn’s face made sense. Because it was a face meant for laughing, but it had never been given a chance. It robbed Phaedra of her breath.
In the palace village, Lucian said his good-byes to Lord Tascan. He had come to the capital for discussion with Finnikin and Sir Topher that had been a great success. Finnikin’s market day would be open to other kingdoms for the first time since the end of the curse. It would bring to Lumatere cloth merchants from Belegonia, drapers from Osteria, weavers from Sarnak. All interested in Mont fleece, which every Mont knew was second to none in the kingdom, even the land. Added to that was Lord Tascan’s suggestion of a possible exchange of goods. His villagers grew sugar beet and barley.
“We’ll talk on market day. I’m to judge the barley,” Lucian said. “A neutral eye is required, according to our consort.”
Suddenly Lady Zarah was there beside her father.
“What a surprise to see you here, Father,” she trilled softly. She said something to Lucian, but he could hardly hear and was forced to move closer. There was too much noise in the palace village today.
“Just saying my good-byes to the lad here,” Lord Tascan said, handing Lucian a flask.
“The best wine this land has to offer,” he promised. “A gift from the king of Osteria for my service to him.”
Lucian thanked him and placed the wine in his pack.
“I’ll walk you to your horse,” Lady Zarah said. She held a hand to his sleeve, and Lucian instantly felt every pair of eyes in the palace village on them.
“Will you always live in your dark little cottage?” she asked as they reached his mount. “It’s sweetly quaint.”
“It suits me,” he said. “And I love my yata, but I wouldn’t want to be living with her and the aunts in the big house.” He chuckled at the thought.
Lady Zarah laughed, too, but it seemed forced. She was a pretty girl, and he could grow to love her. He knew that. She was a Lumateran, and he could grow to love any Lumateran gi
rl. But he was already imagining himself trapped inside his cottage with no room to breathe and having to stand so close just to hear her voice. Sweet as it was.
He saw Finnikin with Perri at the tannery and took Zarah’s hand.
“I see my cousin,” he said, kissing her hand gently because the Mont girls had taught him that a lady liked to have her hand kissed. “I’ll come visit the next time I’m in the village.”
“I’ll look forward to that, Lucian,” she said.
Not Luc-ien.
“Sweet, sweet girl,” Finnikin said politely when Lucian reached him. They watched as Zarah walked away, whispering to her father.
“Oh, yes, the sweetest.”
“Yes, yes. Very sweet. I say it all the time. What a sweet girl.”
“Hmm.”
And then the discussion of Zarah was complete because there wasn’t much else to say and Finnikin mentioned a hunt and Lucian was relieved to speak of something that had his heart racing. Close by, Perri was saddling a horse that wasn’t his own.
“He’s been strangely wounded in spirit since we returned,” Finnikin said quietly about the guard. “First this thing with Froi, and then returning to find out about Tesadora’s estrangement from Isaboe. Why didn’t you put a stop to it, Lucian?”
Lucian couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“There were daggers, Finn. Women with daggers. Not just any women. Your wife. Tesadora.”
They watched Perri walk the horse toward them, stopping to speak to the priestess of the Lagrami novices. Through his ties with Tesadora, Perri had a friendship with the novices and the priestess, and it was known that he visited both cloisters in the village and forest on occasion. It was strange to think of Perri sitting and drinking tea and eating cake with such women, as though he were civilized. But Perri had always been difficult to work out.
“He’s on his way to the valley to see Tesadora, so finish your business and go with him,” Finnikin whispered quickly as Perri approached. “It will be good for him not to be on his own.”
As much as Lucian enjoyed Perri’s company, he had wanted serenity on his journey home. He desired nothing more than silence as a companion and truly hoped Perri wanted the same. Trips home to the mountain were long, and there was nothing worse than someone chewing at his ears with words.
“. . . and then, not only am I dealing with the fact that she feigned her own death,” he said to Perri as they passed the inn of Balconio hours later, “I also find out that she discusses our marriage with her companions. Our spousal bed. And do you want to know the truth, Perri? Without going into infinite detail about what took place between us those nights — two nights — did I mention that it was only two times? Have you seen how small she is? She reaches here,” Lucian said, pointing to his chest. “What was I to do? The first time, she cried, and the second time, I know I hurt her. No woman had ever wept in my bed, so I spent some nights at Yata’s to relieve her of the fear, and now I discover that she believed I was lying with one of the Mont girls. . . .”
When they reached the mountain, all seemed calm among the Monts, so Lucian decided to accompany Perri down to the valley.
“No, you stay. It’s fine,” Perri said, and Lucian heard weariness in his voice.
“No, no. I’ll travel with you. It’s a good thing, because you seem quite drowsy.”
“Pity . . . because I believe you’re needed on this mountain, Lucian,” Perri said. “Here comes Potts.”
“Ignore him.”
They took the path down to the valley.
“Anyway, what I was saying,” Lucian continued, “is that this business with Lord Tascan’s family has now become an issue because when I started seeing his daughter Zarah, I believed that my wife was dead and now she’s not, and although I know that all I need to do is see my cousin Isaboe to speak of the marriage with the Charynite . . . do you notice how I say that now? How I don’t refer to her by her name? Well, I know that Cousin Isaboe can sever this marriage based on the grounds of our separation and the fact that the union brought no peace between our kingdoms.”
“Then why don’t you do that?” Perri finally spoke bluntly.
“Do what?”
“Have the marriage severed?”
Lucian stared at him, stunned. “With . . .”
“With the Charynite,” Perri said. “Have the marriage with the Charynite severed.”
“Phaedra?”
“I’d hate to refer to her by name, Lucian. Isn’t that what you want?”
Lucian bristled. “I think you should keep silent now, Perri. You’ve said too much.”
Lucian didn’t speak for the rest of the journey into the valley until they saw Tesadora’s tent in the hollow and he thought it wise to warn Perri.
“She’s angry and she’s hurt,” he said. “She’ll be very frosty in her response to you because of your duty to the queen, and you might just find yourself back up that mountain, because when Tesadora’s furious, you have to give her space.”
Perri stared at Lucian impassively.
“Yes, we’ve actually become friends . . . almost,” Lucian continued, “and I think she’s beginning to trust me. She’s not going to want to talk about what happened with the queen, and she’s especially not going to like the fact that you’ve come down this mountain with not so much as a note from Isaboe. So let me do the talking, Perri. This may not end well for you if you act too prematurely.”
Lucian watched as Tesadora stepped out of her tent, having heard their horses. Perri leaped off his horse, and a moment later, she was in his arms and they were kissing in a way that had even the horses tossing their manes in surprise.
“Where’s Beast?” she asked, staring at the strange horse.
“A very long story,” Perri said.
They walked into the tent, perhaps to talk about the queen or where Beast was.
Lucian thought it best not to follow.
Serker was a wasteland. Cracked earth, dead stumps of trees, and not a speck of fertile land as far north as the eye could see. Worse still were the piercing shrieks that sliced at Froi’s ears.
“Can you hear that?” he shouted to Gargarin, who rode with him that day. Lirah was riding ahead on Beast. It was only fitting that she entered her province on a Serkan horse.
“The wind has a bite in these parts,” Gargarin said.
“It’s not the wind I hear.”
Froi dismounted, his knees buckling, fatigued by the sounds of the damned that called to him. He took in his surroundings, unable to fathom the horror of what had taken place in Serker nineteen years past. Low ruins of cottages burned to the ground. Other dwellings so intact — an even crueler reminder that a people once existed here. Skeletal remains lay where people had been slaughtered. The once-thriving town void of breath. Even the air seemed to have stilled to nothing.
“The land is so flat,” Froi said, looking up at Gargarin. “How can an army possibly be hiding here?”
“You know better than to ask that when you’ve spent so much time living as a trog these past months,” Gargarin said.
But there was doubt even in Gargarin’s voice. What were the chances of an army and their horses hiding in this strange place? The only army Froi knew of was the one he had glimpsed in a valley between Sebastabol and Serker earlier that morning. He hadn’t told Gargarin and Lirah. He saw no reason to alarm them.
“How could they not have seen the king’s army coming?” Froi asked.
Gargarin didn’t respond, and Froi could see he was watching Lirah up ahead as she followed the road to the colossal theater they had glimpsed the moment they entered Serker.
“The Serker army was too busy attacking up north,” Gargarin said. “They were lied to and misinformed by a spy that the northern province of Desantos was set to invade. That was Serker’s weakness. They’d fly into any skirmish at a moment’s notice, always to prove their power. Later, when the people saw the horses approaching from the north, they believed them to be t
heir own returning soldiers. They didn’t realize it was the king’s men who had circled the province. And by the time the real Serkan army returned home, they didn’t realize they were walking into a trap and that most of their people were already slaughtered.”
Froi continued to walk alongside Gargarin in silence. He tried to remember Arjuro’s song calling the dead so he could sing it in his heart and perhaps stop the shrieks of the spirits that only he could hear, but it would not come to mind. And then finally they reached the place once called Il Centro, an open-air stage surrounded by tiered steps reaching so high that they disappeared beneath the low, filthy clouds. It was as if Serker had built a way to touch the gods.
“I’ve never seen anything so mighty before,” Froi said.
“As young men, Arjuro, De Lancey, and I traveled here to listen to great lectures about the planets and the philosophy of the ancients,” Gargarin said. “It wasn’t rare to meet a Lumateran here, and if you ask your priest-king and the priestesses of your cloisters, you’ll find they’ll all have visited Serker in their day.”
Froi wondered if Tesadora’s mother, Seranonna, had come to this place and lain with a Serkan.
“It’s where most of the people of this province died,” Gargarin said.
“How did they all come to be there?” Froi asked.
Gargarin put a finger to his lips as they approached Lirah and Beast. She had slowed down and seemed in her own world.
“The census,” Gargarin said quietly. “The provincaro called one, which meant that every Serkan had to travel to Il Centro. The seneschal had recorded the name of every soldier who had gone off to fight, so what better time to complete the task of a province-wide reckoning? The people of Serker were all assembled in this great place of learning, waiting to have their names recorded. But it never happened, and those names are lost. Almost the entire population was annihilated. It’s been said that those who survived later crawled out from under the bodies of their loved ones and have been hiding ever since.”
They listened to Lirah crooning to Beast.
“Nineteen years ago, we had children and babes in Charyn,” Gargarin said.
Froi wanted to smash his head with a fist to keep the images from entering his mind.