“Perhaps two rooms for the brothers,” the leader of the Lasconians murmured, not acknowledging Lirah. “The lad can bunk with our young men. They’ll be pleased to see a new face.”
“He can stay with me,” Arjuro said, and it was left at that for the time being. But soon, Perabo took them aside.
“It’s best that he bunks down with the lads,” he said, referring to Froi. “They’ll understand your attachment to each other, but not to him.”
Gargarin dismissed him with an irritated hand. “It’s not an issue.”
“No,” Perabo said firmly. “It’s there in every unspoken word between you. The way you walk alongside each other. In your silence. You don’t see, but it speaks loudly that the Lumateran belongs to you all. Make things simple, Gargarin. In the new Charyn, we do not want complications.”
Froi shrugged, but he felt his face redden. He was once able to hide anything from anyone, but his emotions had made him dependent on Gargarin, Lirah, and Arjuro.
“I don’t care where I sleep,” Froi said. “A bed is a bed.”
Judging from the stares when Froi introduced himself to the Lasconian lads, he was going to regret those words.
The Lasconian lads bunked in the great hall each night after the supper tables were cleared. In those first days with them, Froi came to understand that they respected Gargarin and Arjuro, lusted after Lirah, but despised him.
He knew that because they spoke it with their fists. Because if he rounded a blind corner, he’d feel a blow to his stomach. Or if he waited in line for whatever scraps were available for supper, his plate became the plate of those who surrounded him. The Lasconian lads worked in numbers, never on their own. The leader, named Florik, rarely got his hands dirty. It was what Froi didn’t like about him. In Froi’s first encounter with Grij and the last borns, he had understood that their anger came from the fury and frustration of not having freed Quintana. With these lads, he suspected it came from envy and dissatisfaction. There seemed no group with more to prove than those born a year or two before the last born. They had come second to Tariq all their lives. Worse still, the heir had died in exile before these lads could get to know him and prove their worth. And with Froi, it was personal. He hadn’t just lost Tariq’s supposed unborn child; he had befriended the heir. Perabo had spoken of this to the Lasconians. That despite everything, Tariq’s last message had been to the Lumateran, Froi of the Flatlands. The heir had written part of Froi’s name in his own blood on the cold stone as he lay dying.
Regardless of their treatment, Froi silently pledged his bond to Tariq. He would endure anything from the Lasconians and never raise his fists against Tariq’s people. That wasn’t to say that Froi’s fists weren’t clenched the whole day long in fury, or that he was to do more counting to control his temper than he ever had. Even when he woke with a sack pressed over his face, threats in his ears, and the humiliation of untangling himself from the thick cloth, only to find them gone, Froi kept his bond. He missed Finn and Lucian. He missed Grij and Olivier. No, never Olivier. Not the traitor.
So he spent his days on the wall-walk, searching the trees that lined the little woods. Each day, he recorded the facts with precision, and when he was certain of movement in the woods, he called for Perabo.
“There,” he said. “See that rustle of shrubs? It means the army Dorcas spoke of is now passing through. They’re heading north. There,” he said, pointing to one of the trees, “someone’s watching us from up in the branches. More than one, but they take turns. They know we’re here, but they don’t seem interested in doing anything about it for the time being.”
Perabo nodded. “Good. I’ll let the others know.”
“Perhaps I can share a word with Gargarin, Perabo.”
The keeper of the caves waved Froi off and walked away, and the moment Perabo disappeared down the steps of the wall, Florik and two of his companions gripped Froi by the arms.
“Perabo, perhaps I can share a word with Gargarin,” Florik mimicked. “You’re a lord, aren’t you, with your fancy talk?”
Froi marveled bitterly at how strange life was. After being told all his young life that he was nothing but street filth, here he was, taunted for the way he spoke.
He struggled and pulled free. He didn’t want to lose control. Tariq was the first person ever to show kindness to Quintana. He saved her life, and Froi would never betray the memory of him.
“You think you’re better than us,” Florik sneered. “Just because we live on the mountain and belong to no province or precious flatland.”
“No, Florik, I think I’m better than you because you’re stupid and I’m not. Has nothing to do with provinces and flatlands and mountains, my friend. It’s all about up here,” Froi said, pointing to his head. It was a mistake, of course, but Froi knew he’d make plenty of mistakes in the days to come. He wanted to say more. That the lads followed Florik not because they believed him to be a leader, but because they hadn’t a thought of their own. They followed him because of their weakness, not Florik’s strength. But most days, Froi kept quiet and spent his time alone on watch, despairing at the weakness of this army. These lads had never seen battle. Tariq’s decision to go underground in the Citavita had kept war away from his people. They had experienced loss from afar. But they had never been forced to defend or be the sentinels of their kingdom as Lucian of the Monts had. So it made them lazy and proud of achievements that were small in comparison to those experienced in greater Charyn or Lumatere. Trevanion said often that there were some who shone brightly in a crowd of five, but very few could do so in a group of thousands. Froi imagined that Florik was one of the bright stars in a small crowd and somehow he had chosen Froi as the one he needed to pound into the ground to win. No one else around the Lasconian tried to compete. Florik, he learned, was betrothed to the prettiest girl on the mountain. And Florik, he learned, was the best archer on the mountain. And Florik was the mountain’s messenger because of his speed. Froi found that out every time Florik’s fist caught him in the face, as two of his lackeys held Froi down.
But what he could endure the least was being kept out of the talks held in the great hall between Gargarin and the elders of Lascow during the day. He knew Gargarin was appeasing them and they were working on a treaty that would have a Lascow elder represented among the provincari. Since Froi’s time in Charyn, he had always been part of the decision making, but here among the Lasconians, his opinion was not required. He especially felt the sting of Arjuro and Gargarin spending all their free time together, leaving him to his own devices. From the entrance of the great hall that day, Froi could see the two brothers surrounded by the Lasconians and answering questions thrown at them from all corners of the room.
“Back outside,” a guard ordered when Froi tried to step inside the hall.
“I’m with Gargarin and Arjuro of Abroi.”
“You will be told what you need to be told. Run along.”
He went to find Lirah, who was at a desk in the room she shared with Gargarin. The chronicles Perabo had given her from Serker were spread before her.
“They wouldn’t let me in,” he said, furious, sitting on the corner of her desk. “I couldn’t even step inside to listen.”
“Yes, well, try being me,” she said, not looking up. Pushing the chronicles aside, she reached for her own journal. “I need you to go through that conversation you had with Quintana about whom she trusted.”
Froi was sick and tired of Lirah’s questions. When he didn’t speak, she looked up, her eyes narrowing. “What’s happened to your face?” she asked, reaching out a hand. Froi pushed it away.
“It’s nothing,” he muttered.
“No, it’s not.”
“Enough, Lirah,” he said, irritated. “It’s nothing.”
She stood up. “Well, I’m going down to the bailey to have a word with this ‘nothing.’”
Froi stared at her, horrified. “Lirah, are you insane? You’ll ruin my life.”
??
?I ruined it long ago,” she said. “Come on. Take me to him. Point him out.”
Froi responded with a stony silence, and she sighed, pointing to a stool beside her desk. “Sit. We can’t spend all our time here idle. Tell me everything you spoke to Quintana about.”
“Lirah, how many times do I have to repeat myself?” he shouted with frustration at her. At everyone.
“As many times as it takes us to work out where she is, Froi! Do you think you’re going to discover the truth in a crowded room with a bunch of men who will spend days quibbling about what your son should be named?”
Froi froze. He saw her regret, and she looked back down.
He gritted his teeth with frustration. “This is what Quintana spoke about. She trusts me, you, Gargarin, and Arjuro. Remember how I said that yesterday and the day before and the day before that? You should find something better to do with your time, Lirah.”
This time when she looked up, her eyes were fierce. “Well, let me see, Froi. I could walk down to the barracks and hear one of the lads point out that ‘she was the king’s whore,’” Lirah said, feigning a whisper. “Or I could walk through the crowd you’re so desperate to be part of and have one of the elders order me to his room because, ‘If Gargarin of Abroi is having her, why can’t anyone else?’ Or perhaps I can sit here and write out a list of all my options of where to live if Quintana is ever returned to the palace with the little king. I’m actually thinking of the soothsayer’s cave. No? How about the Crow’s Inn near the bridge? I think the landlady took a liking to me.”
She didn’t speak after that, and it was shame that made him walk out of her chamber.
As he descended the stairs and reached the landing, Gargarin was there with Perabo and Dolyn and another elder, still arguing.
“You know that if any of the provincaro’s armies are the first to get to her, they will claim it as a victory for years to come,” Dolyn argued. “They will have the greatest favor with the new king. So I say it’s my men who return Quintana of Charyn to the palace. No one else.”
“We’ll speak of this later, Dolyn,” Gargarin said. “The safety of Quintana and her child is more important than who will have the greatest favor with the new king in years to come. For now we pray that she’s kept herself alive.”
I keep my eyes shut, surrounded by fear, and I know what to do. You taught me that time, and I know what you’d say if you were here by my side: “Five seconds, Quintana, just as I taught you” . . . but it’s the man with the noose and I forget to be brave. . . . He’s here in the cave, Froi, and I’m scared for our lives. . . . Keep shouting your words . . . “Plunge it into the side” . . . Don’t leave me alone . . . “from one ear to the other” . . . I hear you, I hear you, but it’s the man with the noose! . . . I’m frightened to death, Froi, he’s here for our son. If I can open my eyes I’ll tear him to pieces . . . but when I open my eyes, gods! Why so much blood?
The corpse in their cave had lain uncovered for most of the day.
No one had spoken yet. No one could find it within themselves to get close enough to cover the mangled flesh of the intruder. Instead, fussing wordlessly over Florenza gave them all something to do. The intruder had used his fists on her because Florenza had been outside the cave when he snuck up on them. She had fought like a demon trying to stop him from entering, and her pretty face was all bruised, her nose broken.
Jorja rocked her daughter in her arms the whole day, and finally Phaedra heard a sob escape her. It was the first show of emotion since the screaming and crying that had taken place when the man first entered. Ginny began to blubber then, and even Cora’s ragged breathing joined in with the rest. While Jorja cried and clutched her daughter, Quintana raised her head. She had spent the day curled up in a ball, her hands tight around her belly.
“You can call her your princess, Jorja,” Quintana said quietly. “I’ll let you.”
It only made Jorja cry even more. But her tears had awakened their cold, strange princess, who crawled on all fours to be beside Jorja and Florenza.
“You tell Florenza that she’ll be rewarded one day for trying to save the little king.”
Phaedra trembled to see the sorrow in Jorja’s eyes.
“And what of your life, Princess? What is the reward for saving the life of the little king’s mother?”
Quintana was confused by the question, almost scornful.
“You’d barely get a piece of silver for that, Jorja,” she said. “It’s better to ask for more in this life.”
Phaedra watched Quintana struggle to her feet, her belly so round and ripe.
“Where are you going?” Cora asked. “Lie down, you silly girl.” There was a gentleness in her voice that Phaedra hadn’t heard before.
“To find Tesadora,” the princess said. “She’ll know what to do.” Quintana held out a hand to Phaedra. “Come, Phaedra, we can’t stare at a corpse all night. It’s dark now, and no one will see us. We’ll take the weapons.”
The idea of holding a weapon made Phaedra sick to her stomach. She shook her head, refusing to move.
“Don’t go out there, Your Majesty,” Jorja said. “Another could be watching.”
“Why would you think that?” Ginny asked with a cry. She had been the most hysterical of them all.
“You stay,” Cora said quietly to Quintana. “Ginny, come with me.”
And then they were gone and Phaedra dared to look at what lay in the center of the room and her eyes found Quintana’s and there it was. The savage satisfaction in her eyes, a glimpse of pleased little teeth showing through her lips.
Much later, they heard a sound and Florenza whimpered. Jorja was on her feet in an instant, the spear in her hands. She looked like one of those crazed women who lived by the swamp in Phaedra’s province. They all did. They were all filthy and wild, and Phaedra hardly recognized what they had become.
Cora and Ginny entered first and then Tesadora, Japhra, Rafuel. And Lucian.
Tesadora walked to the corpse, and Phaedra saw her flinch at the state of the body. It had taken strike after strike to stop the intruder from coming toward Quintana. Fifteen strikes — Phaedra had counted. Quintana had told her just the other day that counting kept Froi focused, so Phaedra had counted the blows.
The man had known exactly who he was looking for. He had grabbed Quintana by the hair and pulled her to her feet. The viciousness of his movements had awakened something in all of them.
“What will we do with it?” Cora asked.
Lucian stepped forward to study the corpse.
“Bury him,” he said.
The women gasped.
“It’s not the Charynite way,” Phaedra said quietly.
“When you’re hiding a corpse, it’s the only way.”
With Rafuel’s help, Lucian lifted the body and carried it away, and when Phaedra saw the blood on the stone, she took the bucket and traveled down to the stream in the dark once, twice, three times. More. She wanted the blood gone. She wanted to scrub it from existence.
The men returned, and Phaedra couldn’t bear to look at them. She knew Lucian was watching her. She felt it. If she had imagined herself to be in love with him during those last days on the mountain before Quintana’s arrival, now it made her ache. Once, she believed misery was a half-dead kingdom, or living among hostile people. Now she knew it also included loving a man who she’d never have.
She felt Quintana’s hand on her shoulder, but Phaedra shrugged it free.
“Just go rest, Your Majesty,” she said, unable to look her in the eye. “All this can’t be good for the babe.”
When Phaedra was a child, she had watched her father and his men drag home the carcass of a boar. They hadn’t killed it for sport but because it had raced toward them and attacked a young cousin. Upon seeing the lad’s mangled body, her father and his men had leaped off their horses and clubbed the boar in fury. “So it will never do harm again,” her father had said. But later she heard him speak to her mother, his voice
soft. Telling her that killing the boar required no thought, no logic, just instinct. “In the end, we’re just animals ourselves,” he said.
Kneeling on the cold, blood-soaked stone, Phaedra had never understood her father’s words so much.
Lucian studied the women carefully. He was still unsure of what he had walked into. A last-minute trip down the mountain to see that all was well with his two cousins and Tesadora’s girls had led to this. He watched Rafuel crouch before Quintana of Charyn and hold out a hand to her. She gripped his fingers and drew him close.
“Did they tell you what I did?” Quintana said. “I couldn’t move.”
Rafuel nodded. “Everything will be fine, Your Majesty. As long as you’re not hurt, everything will turn out fine. You know what they’re whispering about? Armies. Not just one, but many. For you and the little king.”
Lucian studied her face. He had never looked at her closely. She was strangely fascinating, all cold suspicion with a quick flash of fear thrown in once in a while. Suddenly her attention was on Lucian.
“I froze,” she said again. “Don’t tell Froi I did. He’ll be disappointed. I promised I’d stay alive, that I’d protect the little king. But it was the hangman from the Citavita. He had put a noose over my head, and when I saw his face, I froze.”
Lucian glanced at Rafuel, confused.
“They tried to hang her in the Citavita. Galvin was the hangman.”
Lucian remembered the story from Phaedra’s excited whispers that time on the mountain. Hearing adventurous stories about Froi saving princesses was one thing, but this was different. There was nothing exhilarating about a girl with a noose around her neck.
“Then, if he was the one who put the noose over your head, it’s only right that he lies in the ground,” Lucian said. He stole a look at Phaedra, who was scrubbing the ground and refusing to look at him.
“Tell her to stop,” he said to Tesadora softly.