Hundreds upon hundreds of tents crowded the small valley between the two hills, outnumbering those in the Lasconians’ fortress ten to one. Soldiers were everywhere, huddled before campfires, dragging on their clothing and preparing for the day, and Froi wondered if there were any men left in the province of Nebia. He watched their morning drills, so much like those of the Lumateran Queen’s Guard in the palace. These men were professional. Not a lazy or sloppy soldier among them, except for their late sentinel, who was now climbing the hill toward where Froi was lying behind a boulder. He had only moments to get back to the concealment of the woods and then to the fortress before the sentinel was back up in the lookout. But Froi needed more. He needed to get closer, to see if she was there. So he stayed pressed against the stone until the soldier passed him. He recognized the man. Fekra from the palace? Was that his name?
When the man had disappeared into the little woods, Froi moved from where he was hiding and climbed back to the top of the hill. Spotting a well shaft closer to the camp, he took a chance and crawled on his belly toward it, curling himself behind the stonework to stay hidden. At the foot of the hill was the largest of the tents, surrounded by four guards. Was it to protect Bestiano and the provincaro of Nebia? Or was it to hide Quintana?
In the distance, Froi saw a horseman ride down into the valley from the second hill. And so he waited. He couldn’t go back with so little. Something was bound to reveal itself if he stayed here longer, and then he would have to work out a way to get past Fekra. Closer and closer, the horseman rode through the camp, and it wasn’t until he stopped at a water barrel that Froi saw who it was. Olivier. The traitor dismounted, placed his hands in the barrel, and then pressed them against his face before walking toward the grand tent. Froi watched him exchange a word with one of the guards, who then disappeared inside, leaving Olivier to wait. A short time later, Bestiano emerged to speak to the last born of Sebastabol, and it took all of Froi’s might to stop himself from flying down the hill and tearing them both apart. How could he have forgotten the hate he felt for Bestiano? Or that smug repulsive smirk Bestiano wore as he had greeted Gargarin and Froi on the drawbridge when they first arrived in the Citavita? Or his grip around Quintana’s hair as he dragged her out of the great hall that heinous day when Froi witnessed Bestiano’s attack on her body and spirit?
Do it, he begged himself. Forget the plan and kill them both now. It would be so easy.
But he hesitated too long, and suddenly there was shouting and much pointing north. Bestiano was issuing orders, and soldiers were mounting their horses. Something was definitely happening beyond the second hill.
Froi turned and crawled back to the little woods. Gargarin and Ariston and Perabo would have to understand that the plan had changed. Froi wanted answers, and they weren’t going to come from his surveillance on the hill. Perhaps he needed answers from a lazy sentinel, who for years had been easily bribed by Quintana and Lirah to be their go-between. In the little woods, he crept toward the lookout tree and saw that Fekra was settled comfortably. Froi picked up a stone and hurled it into the distance. Instantly, Fekra was alert, standing between two limbs, staring in the direction of where the stone had landed. Froi crept to the bottom of the tree and looked up, waiting for him to settle himself again.
“Fekra!” he finally called out.
The dead king’s former house guard almost fell out of the tree in shock, his hands fumbling for his crossbow.
“It’s Froi . . . actually, Olivier. You wouldn’t know me as Froi. I’m the Olivier who lived in the palace. Remember?” Froi needed to unnerve the sentinel. He was matter-of-fact, as if he were reintroducing himself to one of Isaboe’s kin.
Silence followed. Then a gruff, “I know who you are.”
“Good. Good. I thought I’d have to explain my lineage. Ah, Fekra, I can’t begin to tell you how complicated it all is.”
Silence again.
“I don’t have a weapon, Fekra. It means that I’m probably going to have to climb up and kill you with my bare hands, which may be drawn out and painful. I’m quicker with a weapon, but still thorough without. I’d say our best scenario would be if you came down and we made some sort of arrangement.”
“I’m the one with the weapon,” Fekra reminded him.
“Yes, but I’m not the only one down here,” Froi lied. “During your tardy exchange with the other guard, at least a dozen of us made our way from the fortress into the little woods, and the only reason they sent me was because I assured them I had a better chance of making an arrangement with you. They’re Lasconians. Tariq of Lascow’s people. You’re a member of the former king’s army. They’ll want you dead immediately, and I think Gargarin would prefer you alive.”
“I don’t believe a word you’re saying. Why would they allow you to come out here unarmed?” Fekra asked, his voice flat and controlled.
Good question.
“Well, you have me: I’m lying. Because they didn’t ask me to come along,” Froi said, almost truthfully. “I just took a chance, hardly dressed for the day, really. But I knew the moment they came across you, they’d kill you, and to tell you the gods’ honest truth, Fekra, I don’t want you to die. I need information from you. So if you trust me and surrender, I’ll do all I can to keep you alive.”
“And you expect me to believe you?”
“Fekra, trust me when I say that if I wanted you dead, you’d be dead by now.”
Froi heard a grunt of irritation.
“You’re a bit of a gnat in the arse, Froi . . . or Olivier, or whoever you choose to be today,” Fekra said. “It’s what they call you in the barracks. That gnat in the arse that won’t go away. The lads are feeling a bit of an attachment.”
“Fekra, stop the flattery now, or you’ll have me weeping by the time I get you to that gate.”
Fekra didn’t challenge Froi’s lies about a dozen men in the little woods. Instead he stayed quiet as they crossed the clearing toward the fortress, shrugging himself once or twice from Froi’s grip. When they were close enough to see the faces of everyone staring down at them from the outer wall, Fekra stopped. The Lasconians and Turlans aimed.
“We don’t know what we’re fighting for anymore,” Fekra said quietly to Froi. “Do you?”
“Oh, I’ve always known what I’m fighting for,” Froi replied. “Quintana of Charyn and her child. Nothing else matters, Fekra.”
The portcullis was raised, and Froi wasn’t surprised to see the bailey filled with almost everyone from inside the castle. Gargarin was limping toward them, fury in his expression. Lirah’s eyes were swollen with tears.
“Did we not have a plan?” Gargarin shouted at Froi.
“I thought a hostage would give us more accurate information,” Froi said, deciding to be the calm one. He looked beyond them to where Florik stood.
“I’m sorry I took away your glory, Florik. I wanted the task for myself and never gave you the chance. It’s in my nature to compete and win.”
Florik didn’t respond. His lads glowered at Froi instead.
“Where’s our girl?” Gargarin demanded of Fekra, his expression cold and hard.
“We were hoping she was with you, sir.”
“Really? Bestiano was hoping she was with me?”
Fekra shook his head. “No, sir.”
“So there’s more than one ‘we’?” Gargarin asked.
Fekra shrugged free of Froi. “We’re being attacked from the north, sir,” he reported to Gargarin, chatty all of a sudden. “It can’t be from the provinces, because Alonso has no army and Desantos has plague. Bestiano believes that the Sarnaks and Lumaterans are advancing toward us.”
Froi saw the horror on everyone’s face. He knew it could not possibly be Lumatere. But Sarnak, yes.
“Which means, sir, that the Belegonians may have taken the south.”
The memory of what he saw in the cave with the women haunted Lucian all week. Phaedra scrubbing blood off stone. Harker’s daughter sobbing agai
nst her mother, the girl’s face battered by a man’s fist. Worse still was Quintana’s look of despair. Lucian knew that her body had swung its way close to oblivion months ago in the Charyn capital. What terror and madness went through the mind of one who knew she was moments from death? Had she ever imagined that Froi would save her? And with those thoughts, Lucian felt contempt for himself. He should have been able to protect his own wife, and he didn’t. When he first saw Phaedra in the woods with the princess, he should have dragged her kicking and screaming up the mountain, but he allowed his pride to get in the way.
Days later, when he found time to escape, he traveled down to the valley. Tesadora and the girls were across the stream, and he joined them as they were about to enter the cave of a dying man. He noticed even more fear among the Charynites, and Tesadora glanced up high and then back to Lucian as a warning. On one of the rock ledges above, he could see a furious exchange between Donashe and his men. Rafuel was with them. When they noticed Lucian, Donashe climbed down to where he stood.
“One of my men seems to have disappeared, Mont. Galvin of Jidia. You would have seen him with me.”
“And that fool Gies insists on searching for him,” Tesadora said as Rafuel and the rest of Donashe’s men joined them.
Lucian kept his expression impassive. He knew Tesadora was warning him that Gies had crossed the stream.
“This man who’s disappeared?” Lucian demanded. “Let’s hope he doesn’t think he has a chance of getting up my mountain. He’ll pay with his life.”
“I heard Galvin’s grumbling from time to time, Donashe,” Rafuel said. “And he’s a lazy one. If he’s chosen to run off, we’re better without him. I’d go through all your things to make sure he didn’t take any with him.”
Donashe thought for a moment.
“He has challenged me from time to time. Even in the Citavita, he wanted all the control.”
“Why would he leave?” one of Donashe’s men asked.
“Why wouldn’t he?” Rafuel said. “It’s a large reward the First Adviser Bestiano is paying for the return of Quintana of Charyn. Perhaps Galvin realized he was wasting his time in these parts and has been given an inkling of where she is in the north country.”
Lucian secretly applauded Rafuel for the doubt he was planting in the camp leader’s head. He hoped it worked. It meant that Donashe would steer the search for Galvin the hangman far from the women.
He spent the rest of his time in the valley with Kasabian and Harker. The men had learned half the facts of what had taken place in the cave.
“Arm us,” Harker begged. “The people here are frightened. Donashe has become even more violent since Galvin disappeared. He says he trusts no one. And there’s talk that an army is two days’ ride from here, among the three hills of Charyn. Along with hundreds of men much like Donashe, who answer to no captain but the promise of gold. It will end in this valley, Lucian. I feel it in my bones. Arm us, so we can better protect the princess and our women.”
Lucian shook his head, frustrated.
“Don’t ask me to do that, Harker. That decision belongs to my queen and her consort.”
Instead of returning home, Lucian found himself riding away from the mountain. It was close to her cave that he found Phaedra, not realizing that he had gone searching. He was on higher ground and could see her below in the gully. And when Phaedra heard the horse, she cried out in alarm, dropping the bucket of water she was carrying. Lucian dismounted and slid down the slope toward her, and they stood apart, facing each other, neither speaking. Once, when Lucian had returned from Alonso to argue the so-called promise between his father and the provincaro, a cousin had asked him to describe Phaedra. He had shrugged. “There’s nothing about her to remember.” Looking at his wife now, there was so much about her he couldn’t forget. Her soulful eyes. The roundness of her face. The pinch of red on her cheeks. Lucian wanted nothing more than to take her home.
It was Phaedra who walked to him, and Lucian lifted her with an arm around her waist, so they were eye to eye. He wanted to go back to the first time they met. He wanted to change that one night in Alonso when he was expected to take the rights of a husband. He knew he hadn’t used force. Was careful not to. But he hadn’t acknowledged her fear of being alone with a man for the first time in her life. She was no Mont girl, unabashed and earthy and used to swimming naked in the river with the lads. He had mistaken so much for weakness, yet there was nothing weak about Phaedra of Alonso.
“Why are you here?” she asked quietly in Lumateran.
“Because I couldn’t keep away,” he replied in Charyn.
Lucian felt her study him.
“You have a scar,” Phaedra said. “On the lid of your eye. It looks as if it’s been there some time, but I never noticed.” There was a sadness to her words. “Did you receive it at the hands of a Charynite?”
“I received it at the hands of my cousin Balthazar when we were children,” he said. “Or one of his ideas, anyway. He decided that we’d swing from one tree to another to save Isaboe and Celie of the Flatlands from the silver wolf we imagined in the forest.” He chuckled. “It didn’t end well.”
He watched a smile appear on her face. “Silly boys,” she said. “Brave, silly boys.”
She shrugged out of his arms, took his hand, and drew him away, and Lucian let himself be led until they reached a small shelter made of ferns. She crawled inside first, and then he followed.
“Is this yours?” he asked as they knelt before each other in the small space.
“I share it with Her Majesty,” she said, as if it was the most natural thing to do with the strange princess.
Lucian waited, thinking that perhaps he’d like to speak. To tell Phaedra that he loved her, because it didn’t seem so hard to think the words.
“Do you love me?” he asked instead. “Because if you don’t, I’d wait until you did. I’d wait weeks and months and years.”
Phaedra traced his jaw with a finger, then his cheeks, the space around his eyes, the lump in his throat.
“No need to wait,” she said. “Perhaps I’ve loved you for weeks and months and years. When I was a young girl in Alonso, my father told me about a Lumateran lad who would keep me safe, and perhaps I loved you then.”
She reached for the frayed edges of his tunic, and when it was removed, she traced a finger against the scars: some from the battle to take back Lumatere, some from the skirmishes with his cousins.
“The gods drew you well,” she said.
He chuckled softly.
“Can I be reminded of how the gods drew you?” he said. She nodded and he slowly fumbled with her clothing and she was naked before him and suddenly it all felt new. He copied her actions, tracing her body with a shaky finger. No scars but a small purple birthmark on her breast. A bruise or two on her body.
“I’ve made windows in the cottage so we can see the entire mountain,” he murmured. “For you.”
“Speak Lumateran,” she said. “When you speak Charyn, you sound so strangely distant. Our voices sound kinder in the skin of our own language.”
He cupped her face in his hands and he kissed her open-mouthed and he imagined that she had never been kissed before, but they kissed all the same until their lips felt bruised and swollen and then she lay back and his hand found its place between their bodies and she gasped, and Lucian thought he’d never heard a sound so promising.
Later, they lay talking, her head on his shoulder. They spoke all day and night as if they didn’t have time left in the world. About the cottage and its views and Orly and Lotte’s pregnant cow and of Yata, who was excited about his cousin Isaboe’s decision to birth the babe on the mountain soon, as she had done with Jasmina. They spoke of the valley, and Harker’s and Kasabian’s sadness and joy, and of her father’s fury and whether Lucian could find a way to send word to the provincaro that Phaedra was still alive without putting her life or that of the women at risk. She spoke of the women, and he could hear in her vo
ice that she had grown to love them in a way. And they spoke of Quintana of Charyn and of every scar on her body, and of the hangman who twice tried to take her life.
“I’m no better than an animal,” Phaedra said after talking about the man’s death.
“And no worse,” he said. “It’s what I’ve always liked about our four-legged friends. They act on what’s inside here.” He placed her hand against his heart. “It’s their instinct and their need to survive. No malice, nothing.”
He brushed the back of his finger across her cheek.
“I didn’t kill my first man until the battle to take back Lumatere. All those years of practice and my father’s pride in the great warrior I was.” Lucian shook his head. “But nothing prepares you for the real thing. In practice, there was no blood spraying into my eye and blinding me, and there were no sounds quite like an ax wedging itself into a man’s flesh. And in practice, there was no rage for —”
He bit his tongue to stop himself from saying the word.
“For Charynites?” she asked.
He took her hand. “For the Charynite king. For his family. I wanted all of them dead. And four years on . . . I’m protecting her in this valley.”
“Despite everything, Luc-ien,” Phaedra said softly, “she is worth protecting.”
“Is she as mad as she seems?” he asked.
“Oh, not at all,” Phaedra said. “Which doesn’t mean she’s not the strangest person I’ve ever met, but those deemed mad in Alonso have no control over their minds. Quintana of Charyn has total control over everything she does.” He noticed the smile on Phaedra’s lips.
“I told her once that I constantly hear my mother speaking to me. Guiding me. In my head, I ask her questions all the time. Quintana understood perfectly what I was talking about. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, ‘They’re most helpful, the half-dead spirits are. I only wish I knew where mine came from.’”