The valley dwellers wept when they were told about the barley and crowded around Lucian and Jory as if they were gods. Lucian’s attention was on Harker and Kasabian. The men cut a sad picture working on the vegetable patch that Cora had planted. Jory worked alongside them for a while, and Lucian couldn’t stay angry at his young cousin for too long. Then they followed Kasabian to his cave, and Lucian saw Rafuel and Donashe watching carefully from their place by the rock face, Rafuel’s expression tense and questioning. Inside the cave, Lucian removed the bottle of ale Lord Tascan had given him from his pack and handed it to Harker to take a swig.
“To my wife and my daughter,” Harker said, his voice a hoarse whisper. Lucian winced to think of what he kept from him. Harker handed the bottle to Kasabian.
“To my sister Cora.”
The flask was back with Lucian, and the men waited. Lucian realized he was to drink to the memory of his wife. Jory watched him questioningly.
“To Phaedra,” Lucian said.
Jory held out a hand, and Lucian reluctantly gave it to him. The lad took a confident swig, but then choked, not so grown-up after all.
“Arm us,” Harker said quietly.
Lucian sighed.
“I can’t do that, Harker. You know that. Whatever happened to the women was not at the hands of Donashe.”
Harker’s stare was hard. Lucian had come to realize that this man would have been a leader much like his own father. The type of man born for it.
“My actions are not determined just by my sorrow,” Harker said. “Donashe and his murderers are going to bring a bloodbath to this valley. I’ve seen this before.”
As if they knew they were being spoken of, Rafuel and Donashe and a third man entered the cave. There was an arrogance in the way they stood in Harker and Kasabian’s dwelling, but Lucian and the others refused to acknowledge their presence.
“I mentioned to Donashe that I didn’t trust you here, Mont,” Rafuel finally said. “And that I’d question what you were doing.”
“My valley. My cave,” Lucian said with a shrug. He knew Rafuel feared what Lucian knew about the fate of the women.
“I was hoping to convince Harker and Kasabian to go hunting with me,” he added. “As well as this grain, I’m willing to allow one or two of you on my side of the stream to catch an elk.”
“I’d say it’s a better idea if you take Matteo,” Donashe said. Lucian noticed the bitter jealousy in the expression of the third man watching the exchange between Donashe and Rafuel. “These two are useless old men,” Donashe added, dismissing Harker and Kasabian with a sneer.
“Get out of my cave,” Harker said.
“This moping and silence of yours are dampening camp spirits.”
Harker leaped to his feet, and it took Lucian and Jory and Kasabian to hold him back.
“We don’t need lessons on how to move on,” Harker cried. “Those lads you slaughtered and the deaths of our women have crushed this camp’s spirit.”
Rafuel stood between Donashe and Harker, pushing Harker back.
“Let’s accept the offer to hunt for elk, Donashe. Before these fools force the Mont to take back his words. It will feed us for days.”
Donashe kept his stare on Harker, but Harker was not a man to look away.
“When it’s time for the hunt, Mont,” Donashe said, “Matteo here will accompany you across the stream.” Donashe clasped Rafuel’s arm before leaving the cave, his lapdog following.
Lucian felt the full force of Rafuel’s stare.
“You’ve turned into a hard man, Rafuel,” Jory said. “Don’t you trust us anymore?’
“Rafuel?” Harker’s head shot up in surprise.
Lucian sent Jory a warning look.
“Matteo,” Jory muttered.
“Rafuel was the name of the leader of those poor slaughtered lads,” Harker said.
A muscle in Rafuel’s cheek twitched with emotion.
“You have a good memory for names, Harker,” Jory said.
“And you have a tongue that needs to be cut off,” Lucian said to his cousin.
Lucian could see the confusion on Kasabian’s and Harker’s faces. Jory held the bottle out to Rafuel, who hesitated, but then took a swig and passed it on.
“Phaedra’s alive, isn’t she?” Jory asked, barely able to contain his excitement.
Rafuel stepped closer to them all. “Quintana of Charyn is hiding downstream,” he whispered.
Kasabian and Harker stared at him, stunned. Lucian could tell even Jory couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
Harker gripped Rafuel’s coat, his fists clenched and trembling.
“Did my wife and daughter die to keep the spawn of that wretched king alive?” he asked.
“Well, the spawn of our wretched king is going to spawn another hopefully not-so-wretched king in less than three months. . . .”
Lucian heard their intake of breath. He could see that Kasabian and Harker didn’t seem to know what to believe. He took the flask from Rafuel and raised it.
“To the women . . . and whoever it is they’re protecting.”
“Yes!” Jory hissed, lifting Rafuel off his feet.
“My sister Cora is alive?” Kasabian asked, tears in his eyes.
Lucian nodded.
Kasabian clenched a fist and pressed a kiss to it, a thanks to the gods.
Rafuel shoved Jory away with affectionate irritation.
“And this is why they couldn’t know,” he said, pointing to Harker and Kasabian. “Look at them. Do they look like grieving men?”
Harker caught Rafuel in an embrace and Lucian watched as Rafuel held the older man in his arms, tenderly. “I’ve lost them twice,” Harker wept. “I sometimes wake in the night and can barely breathe.”
“We’ll have to tell that idiot Gies,” Kasabian said. “He’ll want to know that his Ginny is alive.”
Rafuel shook his head emphatically.
“Gies has become one of Donashe’s men. We cannot trust him. I need to go now. Trust no one.”
The men embraced again.
“It may be some time before you see the women,” Rafuel said. “I beg your patience, friends. Nothing gets in the way of Quintana of Charyn’s safety. She is the only hope we have left in this kingdom, and she is as helpless as the babe she carries.”
Phaedra watched as Quintana waited and then pounced, saw the satisfaction on their strange princess’s face as she removed the writhing trout from her spear and tossed it onto the ground. Phaedra tried next and almost succeeded, but it was always Quintana who caught them.
“I almost had it,” Phaedra said.
“Almost isn’t enough, Phaedra,” Quintana said.
The women had joined them today, much to Quintana’s annoyance, but all seemed well behaved. Florenza showed a great talent for trout spearing, and by the end of the afternoon, she was looking as savage as Quintana. Ginny, on the other hand, did little to help.
“Is there anything you’re good at except for complaining and pining for men?” Cora asked Ginny as she scaled the fish with one of Quintana’s sharp stones.
“Well, if you really must know, I’m a great seamstress,” Ginny said.
“Oh, good, good. Much needed at the moment,” Jorja said. “When we get invited to that feast at the Nebian ambassador’s home, you’ll be the first person we have in mind, Ginny.”
“Why would you move from your village if you had such a talent?” Phaedra asked, trying to grip a wriggling fish in both hands and failing. It hit the water with a plonk, and she dared not look at Quintana.
“Because I’m not privileged or born last, Phaedra,” Ginny said, spite in her voice, as if speaking to a fool. “I had the misfortune of living in a village where the girls closest to me in age were last borns. Five of them. Five!” she said, as if the disbelief of it all was still raw. “Most villages had one, maybe two. But five?”
“Five, you say?” Quintana murmured, not looking up. Phaedra hid a smile.
&nbs
p; “If you weren’t a last-born girl in my village, you were nothing,” Ginny continued, oblivious to Quintana’s mockery. “They were given gifts all the year long. Even the privy cleaner’s daughter was considered better than me. The privy cleaner’s daughter! When they turned ten, the village threw the grandest of celebrations. I played with the last borns every day of my life and was given nothing.”
Quintana seemed genuinely confused.
“I’m not quite sure what your point is, Ginny,” she said. “Were you poisoned? Were you pinned under the heaving body of a man who smelled of pig fat and onions? Was your head held under water so the half dead could clamber for your spirit?”
They stared at Quintana, horrified. Was she speaking of her experiences or those of others?
“It’s very easy for you to be so offhand, Your Majesty,” Ginny said. “When there were those of us in Charyn who truly suffered while you enjoyed a privileged life in the Citavita.”
“But you haven’t actually come to the point where you’ve suffered yet,” Quintana said. “Apart from not getting as many presents when you turned ten. So I’m getting quite bored, Ginny, and I’m going to be tempted to slice off your tongue any moment now.”
Quintana was gutting the fish with savagery, and Phaedra thought she would surely carry out her threat.
“I was good with dyes, if you must know,” Ginny continued. “What I could do with fabric was a gift from the gods. My mother was an alchemist who worked with colors, and one time I made a dress of indigo.”
Florenza, who loved pretty things, seemed the only one interested.
“What color is that?” she asked.
“A much richer shade than the sky. The darkest of blue.”
Florenza liked the idea of it.
“If we ever attend a feast again, Mother, I’ll have Ginny make me a gown.”
“You crawled through shit, Florenza,” Ginny said, her voice nasty. “Do you honestly think the nobility is going to invite you anywhere ever again?”
Florenza began to gag, and they all sent Ginny scathing looks. Apart from what the memory of the sewers did to Florenza, it was a sickening sound to listen to. Jorja placed an arm around her daughter, fussing quietly.
“You have the prettiest face in Charyn,” she reassured Florenza. “The Lumateran nobility won’t be able to resist you when they let us in.” But Florenza began to retch again, and Jorja held her daughter’s hair from her brow. Phaedra wondered how long it would take Jorja to accept that the queen of Lumatere was never going to allow any of them into her kingdom.
“You people of privilege understand nothing,” Ginny said.
“I thought last borns understood nothing,” Quintana said, but her attention was on Florenza, who was still retching.
“All of them. The privileged. The last borns. The hags who could never get a man,” Ginny added, looking at Cora.
“Yes, well, I curse the gods every day for that one,” Cora said, her tone dry.
“The tailor’s sister was a hag,” Ginny continued. “When the day came for the tailor to choose his apprentices, guess whom he chose. A last-born girl. Our precious ones,” she mimicked. “I hardly existed until Gies came traveling through the village last autumn. Some men don’t care whether you’re last borns or not.” Ginny looked smug. “Not when they enjoy the pleasure you can bring to them. If you ever get the Mont back, Phaedra, I’ll teach you a thing or two about how to hold on to him.”
Phaedra’s face smarted, but she watched Quintana get to her feet, one hand on her belly, the other on her back. The princess walked to where Florenza was still retching and weeping. When Jorja noticed Quintana approaching her daughter with the spear, she put a shaking hand on Florenza’s shoulder to quiet her. No one spoke as Quintana bent before Florenza, gripping the girl’s face with one hand, studying it hard.
“Our spirit is mightier than the filth of our memories, Florenza of Nebia. Remember that, or you’ll be vomiting for the rest of your life.”
Florenza stared up at Quintana, and something passed between them as she nodded solemnly and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“And Tippideaux of Paladozza, the provincaro De Lancey’s daughter, has the prettiest face in Charyn,” she continued to inform them all. “Not you. So don’t believe a word your mother says.”
She stood up and looked down at their bounty of fish, satisfied.
“If we can build a fire tonight, we’ll eat well,” she said. “Phaedra and I will collect the kindling.”
“Do you think that’s wise?” Cora asked. “You’re beginning to waddle with that load.”
“Waddling helps me clear my head of your voices,” Quintana responded. “It lessens my need to kill you all.”
“Then, off you go,” Cora muttered. “Keep an eye on her, Phaedra.”
Quintana was up to something. That Phaedra knew. All the same, she followed her into the undergrowth, picking up anything that could pass as kindling. There was plenty to choose from, and Phaedra hummed as she worked, pleased with what she was able to collect.
“I’m getting good at this,” she said to Quintana, holding up her bundle of twigs for emphasis.
They reached a steep slope that afforded them a view of a lower clearing.
“Put it down,” Quintana ordered. “Let’s go.”
Phaedra stared at her stash. “Go where?” she asked.
Quintana was already gripping a vine and half sliding down the incline. Phaedra dropped the kindling and quickly followed.
“You’re going to hurt yourself!”
“He’s down there,” Quintana whispered when Phaedra caught up with her, both of them hiding behind a waterberry tree.
“Who?”
“He’ll arm us. I know he will.”
“Who?”
Quintana pointed down. In a deep, narrow gully, Tesadora was bent over, tugging at the exposed roots of plants growing around its edges. But it was her lover, Perri, that Quintana was pointing at. He sat with his back against a tree, in some sort of contemplation. Quintana started to step out, but Phaedra dragged her back.
“If you dare mention what I saw them do, I will —”
They both heard a sound and looked up to see the Lumateran on his feet, alerted to their presence.
Tesadora noticed them as well and climbed to where her lover stood, whispering to him, her eyes on Quintana with unbridled love.
“You there, Lumateran,” Quintana called out. “You’re to make me a few scabbards.” Phaedra cringed, listening to the demand spoken in Charyn as if the queen’s guard would understand every word.
Quintana walked closer, handing Phaedra her spear to hold.
“Like the ones you made him. Here. Here. And here.” She pointed to both wrists and her shoulders. “So when they come to attack, I’ll . . .”
And then she did a quick show of what she’d do. Phaedra was quite enthralled. Perri studied Quintana, and then a chuckle escaped from his lips. Quintana reached him, and he held out a hand to gently touch her face. “What have we got here?” he said in strange wonder.
Tesadora’s eyes filled with tears. “Tell her,” she urged her lover. “Tell her about Froi. She’ll want to know.”
Quintana heard the name and clenched her fists so tight that Phaedra found herself dropping the spear and gripping both the girl’s hands, loosening her fingers.
“You’re going to draw blood. Stop it.”
And blood she drew, but not her own. Quintana’s nails dug deep into Phaedra’s hands.
“Let Phaedra go,” Tesadora ordered gently. “You’re hurting her, Quintana.”
But she didn’t let go, and Phaedra fought hard not to cry out in pain. And then Quintana was a heap on the ground before them as if she had willed the breath inside her to stop. Tesadora and Phaedra fell beside her. Perri didn’t speak, but when Quintana looked up to him, his smile was bittersweet.
“So you’re the one Froi is running around Charyn searching for?”
“Did he say my name?” she asked, her voice cold. But Phaedra had learned to listen to the words and not the voice. The words craved love. The words were those that Phaedra thought over and over again at night. Did Lucian say her name? Did he think it or murmur it in his sleep like she did his?
Phaedra translated the queen’s words, but Perri understood them well enough.
“Did he have to?” he asked Quintana. “When your name is written all over his heart?”
A smile appeared on Tesadora’s face. “Ah, you’re getting soft in your old age,” she said to him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. Perri held out a hand to Quintana and helped her to her feet, inspecting her wrists, as if measuring them for the scabbards.
“You too, Phaedra,” Perri said, and her face flushed at the sound of his saying her name. She hadn’t even realized he knew who she was, despite the nights he had come up to the mountain and shared her table with Lucian.
He made a gesture with his hand, asking them to turn around.
“I don’t know how to use a weapon,” Phaedra said over her shoulder.
“You’re a Mont’s wife,” he said gruffly. “So you better learn.”
She heard an intake of breath and turned to watch as he traced a finger along the lettering on Quintana’s nape. He then traced along the marks on Phaedra’s.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“The mark of the last borns,” Quintana said.
“I thought they were supposed to be exactly the same,” he said to Tesadora in Lumateran.
Phaedra felt Tesadora’s coarse fingers on her neck.
“They got it wrong,” Tesadora insisted, surprise in her voice. “Those fools copied the same lettering onto every last born, but it’s different from yours, Quintana. Yours has stems on some of the letters. And a strange mark or two that seems nothing more than a dot.”
Phaedra thought of all those years when the priests and her father’s advisers had tried to work out the meaning of the strange lettering. “It makes no sense,” they’d say. To think that Quintana’s differed from hers and those of the rest of the last borns frightened her. It made the princess seem even less of this world.
“On my thirteenth day of weeping, when they grabbed me and tried to keep me down to copy the lettering, I was a snake,” Quintana said. “I squirmed and I squirmed and I bit any man who dared come close.” There was glee in her voice at the memory, her sharp little teeth showing. “I knew what they’d do to the last-born girls, so I made a decree.”