“It may count for nothing,” Phaedra said to the women. “And I make no excuses for my father’s behavior, turning his back on anyone who begged at Alonso’s wall, but there were some nights I’d hear him weep as he prayed to the gods and to my dead mother. I never imagined that a man so proud could weep.”
Ginny was already bored with their talk and decided it was time to return to the cave. She waded away with Florenza, and the others began to follow.
“I saw my father weep before me,” Quintana said to the others. “When he was dying.” She was pensive. “Do you want to know something about tyrants? When faced with death, they weep and they beg just like the rest of us.”
Phaedra’s eyes met Cora’s and then Jorja’s, who warned her with a quick shake of her head.
At the rocks, they collected their clothes and wrapped themselves in blankets, hurrying back to the cave to dry. Jorja gripped Phaedra and Cora as they were about to follow the others.
“If you value your lives . . . and hers, never repeat what you heard her say here today,” Jorja said.
“She couldn’t possibly have —” Cora said.
“Couldn’t she? We would always hear of her madness. And these weeks, I’ve understood it is anything but that. It’s survival. She has a madness to survive now. What more could we want from a little king’s mother?”
Up ahead, Phaedra saw Quintana shiver despite the blanket covering her body. Phaedra dressed quickly, her body still damp, and hurried toward Quintana. She wrapped her own blanket around the princess, fussing over her. She felt Quintana’s gaze, and their eyes met.
“You were his thirtieth, Phaedra.”
“Thirtieth?” Phaedra asked absently, leading Quintana along the uneven ground before them. “I don’t understand. Whose?”
“Froi’s, of course. He said, “Phaedra of Alonso is kind.” So he chose you to be on his list of those he trusted. It’s why I came to you.”
Phaedra stopped them both, her hand still gripping Quintana’s arm. “You came here for me? Here, in the valley?”
“Well, it’s not as if I could have gone to any of the other twenty-nine on his list,” Quintana said bluntly.
“Me?”
“Have I not already said that?”
Phaedra was speechless.
“He was half right, of course,” Quintana said.
Phaedra wanted to weep. She would have done a better job if she’d known. She would never have left Quintana alone or snapped at her or rolled her eyes to the heavens. She would have been a better protector.
“There’s much more to you than kindness,” Quintana continued. “That day after I arrived in the valley and you visited, the other women were all flustered when they saw my baby belly. Until you walked into the cave and you thought fast. And then that time with the queen of Lumatere . . . well, make no mistake of this. She would have used that sword. I’ve killed a man, Phaedra. I imagine the look in my eye was just like hers. A bit of justice. Self-loathing. Hatred. Pity. We’re not so different, me and the queen of Lumatere.”
Quintana pulled free of Phaedra’s grip and moved ahead to Jorja and Florenza. Both mother and daughter had taken to fussing over her, and Quintana was a cat who went to anyone who showed her affection. Phaedra stood, shivering in her wet shift. And she did weep.
“Phaedra! Don’t stray,” Jorja called out.
Phaedra hurried to catch up and gripped Quintana’s hand tightly.
“You’ll have to take your blanket back, Phaedra,” Quintana said, stopping to wrap it around her, imitating Phaedra’s earlier fussing. “You’ll catch your death, and it’ll cause hysteria.”
Their eyes met for a moment, and Phaedra nodded with a smile.
“Yes, my queen. I think you’re right.”
Froi watched as Ariston and his men thundered through the Nebian camp, taking the soldiers by surprise. The army had been in the middle of their morning drills and duties, and the Turlans’ speed on their horses meant that they were halfway to the second hill before Bestiano’s men had even mounted theirs. Froi’s orders were clear: to wait until the battle was dragged well away from the camp to enable him a clear path to Bestiano. By then, Ariston and his men would be heading toward the Lumateran valley while Perabo and the Lasconians would join the battle against the Nebians.
From where he knelt, concealed by the old well on the first hill overlooking the camp, Froi could see at least four men guarding Bestiano’s tent. Beside him, Fekra was nervous, and Froi had come to learn that a nervous man either had something to hide or made mistakes.
“Who’s protecting Bestiano inside?” Froi asked.
“His guard. One of the rogue brigands Bestiano managed to acquire somewhere outside the Citavita. He speaks the language of gold and more gold.”
“So, he’s not part of the army?”
“No. The army is under the orders of Scarpo, captain of the Nebian Guard.”
“Easily controlled?”
“Scarpo is a soldier, so he follows orders,” Fekra said. Froi could tell that Fekra liked a man who followed orders. It was why Fekra didn’t particularly like Froi.
“But he takes care of his men,” Fekra continued. “According to Dorcas, Scarpo did question Bestiano’s decision regarding the execution of the riders. And when Bestiano ordered one hundred men to fight the Turlans in the little woods, Scarpo questioned why so many. The lads are merely numbers for Bestiano. For Scarpo, they are more than that.”
“It’s a pity I’m going to have to kill this Scarpo.”
“You may not have to,” Fekra said as they watched the Turlan horses trample the clearing just as Perabo and his men entered the fray. “Scarpo may be long dead at the hands of your friends. If Desantos arrives from the north, Scarpo’s army will be destroyed.”
Froi heard the regret in Fekra’s voice.
“Is Scarpo for Nebia or is he for Charyn?” Froi asked.
“Nebia is Charyn,” Fekra argued. “Don’t judge them harshly. Including the provincaro. He’s sitting in a province with no protection because his entire army is here. What would the provincari of Paladozza or Sebastabol or any other have done if they were kin to the king’s First Adviser and he came to them asking for an army after the king was murdered?”
“You’re obviously a Nebian, Fekra. So let me rephrase the question. Is Scarpo a madman?”
“He’s not one much for talking. But his men will die for him, and he makes sure, in turn, that his men don’t die from bad decisions made by others.”
Men were dying around them now. Both Ariston and Perabo had succeeded in dragging the battle from the Nebian camp into the valley beyond, where Froi could hear the sickening tune of cries and shouts and the clang of steel against steel. All that was left here were the dead or dying.
“Froi!” Fekra said, pointing down to Bestiano’s tent.
A man stepped outside, exchanging a word with those who guarded the tent. He was armed with at least two swords and a dagger at his ankle. He mounted his horse and headed toward the second hill.
“Bestiano’s guard,” Fekra whispered.
Which meant Bestiano could be alone. But for how long?
“Let’s go,” Froi said. He slithered down the hill, his eyes fixed on those protecting the former king’s adviser. He remembered what Trevanion and Perri would say each time he hesitated. “Dead men don’t come back to kill you, Froi. They don’t shout out warnings. Make sure you do it right the first time.” And that was how simple it was. The type of simplicity that turned his stomach. At the perfect vantage point, he dropped on one knee. One longbow. Four arrows. Four dead men. He heard Fekra’s ragged breath beside him.
“You knew them?” Froi asked.
“Does it matter?” Fekra asked. “If I didn’t, someone else did.” He shook his head with regret. “How do you get used to it? All the killing?”
“Who says you do?” Froi asked, and bolted for the tent.
He reached the entrance.
No mistakes,
Froi. No mistakes.
He stepped inside. Bestiano looked up, startled, his hand instantly reaching for his sword, but Froi was faster, leaping on the table and flying across the space to knock him down. Make it fast. Don’t waste time. Don’t take chances. Every second counts. Yet the sight of Bestiano, with his mottled skin and weak mouth and ever-present smirk, changed everything. Froi wanted every second to last. He wanted to inflict pain. No mercy. And by not using his sword, Froi knew he was making the first mistake of many. But he didn’t care. His fist connected with Bestiano’s cheek and the man’s head flew back, causing him to fall to the ground. Froi leaped, straddled him, and pounded into his nose, mouth, cheek. There was no counting. All rage. Blood, flesh, and might, and cries of pain and grunts of fury. He snapped both the man’s wrists, the howl ringing through his ears. And on and on he pounded, landing his blows with precision. Froi wanted Bestiano to feel his rage.
For that morning he witnessed Bestiano in Quintana’s chamber.
For not allowing her to make shapes on her wall.
For trying to capture her spirit.
For trying to break it.
For all the times Froi didn’t see.
And then Froi’s head burst with his own memories of Sarnak. A strike for every man who had held him down under the force of their own weight. A strike for the hatred he would always feel for himself when he remembered Isaboe’s face that night in the barn in Sorel. This is what Froi would do to that boy he once was. Blow after blow. He wanted him dead.
A clean kill, Froi. Always a clean kill.
He felt his knuckles crack from the force, but this would not be a clean kill. And when Bestiano had almost passed out from the pain of it all, Froi pulled him forward to speak in his ear.
“You were never able to break her. She is the stone of this kingdom.”
Suddenly, there was a sound behind him, and Froi let go of Bestiano and leaped onto the table. Too slow. The blade of a sword tore into the skin at his thigh, and Froi crumpled in pain, kicking the intruder with his other leg. But past wounds betrayed him, and his legs gave way. It was all the time Bestiano’s guard needed. Froi felt the tip of a sword pierce the wound already in his thigh, and he cried out, mustering up the strength he had left to kick the man between the legs. And although Bestiano’s guard faltered a moment, the sound of another entering changed everything.
“Kill him!”
Dorcas.
What had Gargarin said all that time ago? That he didn’t want to die at the hands of someone like Dorcas, who only knew how to follow orders.
Above him, Froi could see Bestiano’s man step back to strike.
“Wait,” Froi croaked. He closed his eyes a moment, felt the dirt and grime in his tears.
“Dorcas, tell him to wait.”
He could hear the heavy breathing of those who stood in the room, but he was too weary to open his eyes. Too heartsick at the thought of never seeing her again. But he needed to find a way to speak a bond to his son and this weak, pathetic rider was Froi’s only messenger.
“Listen to me, Dorcas . . . listen well. . . . If all you can do in this life is follow orders, then these are the orders of a man who’s to die. Take care of the little king . . . tell him he was made from love and hope. . . . That is your bond to him, Dorcas. If you’re good for nothing else, follow a bond that makes him a good king.”
Froi raised himself, opening his eyes. He turned to look at Dorcas, who was kneeling beside Bestiano. The palace rider’s hand reached out to Bestiano’s injured face.
“I said, kill him,” Dorcas ordered, looking toward where the guard stood over Froi. Froi heard the surprised gasp, the gurgle of blood and then felt the weight of the man fall across him as Fekra revealed himself with a dagger in his shaking hand. And then Dorcas pressed a hand over Bestiano’s mouth and pushed down hard. Bestiano’s body jerked against it with force, but Dorcas held it there for a very long time, until finally he looked over to Froi.
“Tell the little king yourself, Lumateran.”
Ginny entered the cave long after she had left to find some kindling.
“Where have you been?” Phaedra asked.
“I thought I heard something and went to look,” Ginny said. “We can’t be too careful.”
“Only squirrels,” Cora said. “Our fear will turn us into madwomen.”
“And we’re not already?” Phaedra watched Ginny fussing with the entrance of the cave, concealing it with some of the shrubs and branches she’d dragged back.
“Come closer and eat before our piglet gobbles everything up,” Cora said gruffly.
The piglet didn’t defend herself; instead, she tugged at the meat on the bone. Since finding it more difficult to move around outside the cave because of her belly, Quintana had taken to setting traps for the hares that boldly came to their entrance, and there was a glee to her when she held up their lifeless forms.
“There’s nothing more harmless than food you catch yourself,” Quintana said. “Free of hemlock and whatnot. I’ve never enjoyed eating so much as I have these past months.”
“Wipe your hands and come and sit against me,” Jorja said to her. “I’ll rub your back. It’s a heavy load you carry there.”
Phaedra tried to wipe the filth from Quintana’s hands and face. The soak in the stream had done little to remove their grime, and it shamed Phaedra to think that Charyn’s first child would be born in a cave.
“Harker would rub my back when I was carrying Florenza, and it always was such a relief,” Jorja said when Quintana was sitting comfortably between her knees.
Perhaps this was better than the luxury of another place, Phaedra thought, watching them all. Florenza caught her eye and smiled.
And that’s how Phaedra would remember the moment before it all changed. In her province, the tailor’s wife would speak about before and after the curse. One moment, she was carrying a baby in her belly, and the next, there was a puddle of blood on the ground between her legs and screams sounding across the city. The tailor’s wife knew that nothing would ever be the same again. Phaedra understood the truth of those words when she heard the voices outside the cave. She saw the horror of understanding in Florenza’s eyes and then chanced a look at the others. They all knew. Because they smelled the violence of the intruders. The malevolence. And when Donashe and his men stormed in with their swords and ugliness, there was no screaming or crying this time. Phaedra and the women clambered around Quintana. Wordlessly, they clasped their hands together as a shield. As if that would be enough, foolish women that they were. They thought that would be enough.
One of the men beat at Jorja’s hand with the edge of his dagger until it was a bloody pulp. But still Jorja didn’t let go. And worst of all, Phaedra saw Ginny, who was holding no one’s hand, but staring at her man Gies with horror, and then Quintana’s eyes met Phaedra’s. What had she once whispered in her ear? “I do believe we’re going to have to kill that piece-of-nothing girl, Ginny.” And as long as Phaedra would live, she’d never forgive herself for not cutting the girl from ear to ear.
And then Donashe and his men dragged them out of the cave and forced them to their knees except for Quintana and Ginny, who was weeping her pitiful, treacherous tears. Phaedra felt Jorja’s bloody hand take hers and Florenza’s because this was how they’d die, with shaking hands, in putrid clothes. But Cora stood. She said there was no way she was going to die on her knees at the feet of a man. Donashe’s men trained their weapons on Cora, because it was as she had always said: men would destroy first what they could not control. And Phaedra was begging them, begging, please, please. She’d stay on her knees with hands clenched together and beg until her last breath and she could hear Florenza’s sobbing and Jorja’s voice. Hush now. Hush now, my beautiful girls. That would be Jorja’s gift to them when facing death. Calmness.
But then they heard a sound so primitive in its savagery that it chilled the soul and stopped the man’s blade from slashing Cora’s throat. A guttural
fury that rivaled the cry of every creature within miles. Through eyes drenched with filthy sweat, Phaedra could see Quintana, could see her madness as the air was pierced with her never-ending roar. Donashe pressed an elbow against her throat and the cry was gagged, but Quintana bit his arm hard, blood on her lips that she spat to the ground.
“I’ll will this babe to die!”
Phaedra heard both the gods and the demons in Quintana’s voice and the sound frightened her more than the death she was facing.
“I’ll bleed it from the inside. Just you watch me. Watch me!”
Donashe stared down at the blood on his arm where her teeth had cut into his flesh, and he raised a hand to her.
“Do it!” Quintana taunted. “Do it and watch what I can do in return.”
“Kill them,” Donashe ordered the man holding Cora. And Quintana’s shrill scream sounded again and Ginny was crying, clasping hands to her ears.
“I’ve seen what she can be,” Ginny sobbed. “She’s gods’ blessed and cursed, and there’ll be no reward for any of you if they die.”
Donashe’s men dared to look at the filthy princess whose eyes spelled death. Charyn’s abomination. Its savage. Its curse maker. And the frightened men shook their heads and stepped away.
“You kill them, Donashe. I’m not doing it.”
“She’s a mad bitch and she’ll burn us all, Donashe.”
“They’ve promised us gold for a living babe. Not for a puddle of blood.”
Donashe gripped Quintana’s arm and dragged her along.
“You’re weak. All of you,” he shouted over his shoulder, and the men grabbed Phaedra and the women and followed Donashe to camp.
In the valley, Phaedra saw Tesadora first and then she saw Japhra and the Mont girls and then she saw the valley dwellers. The way they stared in horror and awe at Quintana. The tears on Japhra’s face and the rage in Tesadora’s eyes as she approached Donashe. Tesadora looked so small, and Phaedra feared for the Lumateran woman’s life. Feared for them all.
“You are holding the wife of a Mont leader,” Tesadora warned. “If Phaedra of Alonso is not released, the wrath of the Monts will be felt across Charyn. Explain that to whomever you answer to.”