Donashe pushed Phaedra and the women toward the stone steps that led to the highest cave, a place Phaedra knew they would never escape from.
“Did you hear me, Charynite?” Tesadora shouted, following. “These are my demands. Return Phaedra of Alonso to the mountain. Release Quintana of Charyn to my care. Let my girls see to Rafuel’s wounds.”
Phaedra gasped and swung around, searching for him. Rafuel? How could she have forgotten him?
“Oh, Rafuel. Rafuel,” Quintana cried.
And Phaedra truly began to understand the horror of the day as they climbed the steep ascent to the top. In front of the caves below, at the start of the road to Alonso, they saw him. Rafuel was tied to a horse, his face beaten to a pulp, his legs barely able to hold him upright. One of Donashe’s men mounted the horse, and it was only then that Phaedra began to weep. Because she knew there was no hope for him . . . the boy with a basket of cats, this man who had never forsaken their kingdom when others had.
“Everything for Charyn,” Rafuel cried, and they dragged him away.
Lucian dined late that night with Yata and Isaboe in Yata’s private chamber.
“You do us an honor each time you birth your children here, cousin,” Lucian said.
Isaboe reached over to take Yata’s hand. “I sometimes feel my mother’s presence here more than in the palace.”
She was teary. Finnikin was settling Jasmina with his aunt Celestina in the rock village, and Lucian knew she missed them both already. She had never spent a night away from her daughter.
“Finn will be here soon,” he said quietly.
They heard voices outside the hall, and Isaboe stumbled to her feet. “That’s him,” she said.
But it was their cousin Constance who entered, the girl’s eyes wild and swollen with tears. She had been in the valley, and her distress could only mean that something had happened to Tesadora and the girls. Or Phaedra.
“Constance?” Lucian said, hurrying across the room to meet her just as her legs buckled. They all cried with alarm, and Lucian caught her in his arms.
“Speak, Constance,” Isaboe ordered gently.
Yata held out a small bowl of water to Constance, who took it, weeping.
“They’ve arrested Phaedra.”
“Who?” Lucian demanded. “Who?”
“Donashe and his men,” Constance said. “They knew where to find the cave, and there was a terrible scene as they dragged the women back upstream. Tesadora fears for all their lives. And Rafuel . . . They know he’s been hiding the women and they suspect he had a hand in the death of the hangman and they beat him black and blue before our very eyes.”
Sweet goddess.
“We can bring them all up the mountain,” Constance said, “and protect —”
“No!”
This came from Yata.
“We don’t bring war onto this mountain again,” Yata said firmly. “If we give refuge to their queen, Charyn will attack. You know that, Isaboe.”
Isaboe nodded. “There will be no talk of Quintana of Charyn finding refuge in Lumatere,” she said wearily. “I’ve spent almost four years avoiding war. I won’t have it declared over the life of my enemy’s spawn.”
She stood unsteadily on her feet.
“Where’s my king?” she asked, and Lucian heard the desperation in her voice. He didn’t want to leave her, but he needed to see Phaedra and he was desperate to go.
“Finnikin will be here soon,” Yata said gently. “It’s a full day’s ride from the Rock, but he’ll be here soon.”
Isaboe turned to Lucian. “Go,” she said firmly. “Take Jory with you. Make Lumatere’s presence known.”
It was deep into a starless night by the time Lucian and Jory reached the foot of the mountain. A sick moon did little to guide their path to the stream, and once there, they saw the flicker of lights from the caves where the Charynite valley dwellers huddled together in fear. Or perhaps in hope. They may have witnessed horror in the valley, but for many, the sight of Quintana of Charyn had given them hope and there would be little sleep among them this night.
“Lucian!” he heard Harker’s voice in the dark once they crossed the stream. “Is that you?”
“Yes, with Jory,” Lucian responded. He heard the crunch of footsteps on dry earth, then light from a lantern appeared, and soon Harker and Kasabian were before them.
“Have you spoken to the women?” Lucian asked.
“Briefly,” Kasabian said, “but with Donashe and his men at our shoulders, there was no time for anything but a few words.”
“What they did to my girls, Lucian —” Harker said, and Lucian heard the break in the man’s voice. “My Florenza’s face bruised and swollen, and Jorja’s hand crushed.”
Harker led them to the path that would take them to the highest cave.
“Stay with Kasabian,” Lucian said to Jory. “You know what to do if I don’t return.”
With only Harker’s lantern to light the path, they began the climb. Each cave they passed brought with it the sound of whispering. Higher up, they could hear sobbing and cursing.
“Ginny, the traitor,” Harker said. “She’s hysterical and under guard.”
“And Rafuel?” Lucian asked quietly. “Were you able to find out anything?”
“He’s a dead man walking, Lucian. A dead man walking.”
It was a strange sort of grief Lucian felt for Rafuel. He wondered when these people had begun to feel like kin. When their fate had become his responsibility.
They continued climbing, using their hands to steady themselves, reaching a rock ledge where Lucian made out the shadow of one man, then two. But he knew that they had a way to go if Phaedra and the women were placed in the highest cave. Worse still, he was certain there was little chance of getting past the camp leaders without incident on so narrow and dark a path. But Lucian felt desperate to see Phaedra, and he kept on walking.
“Don’t come any farther, Mont,” he heard Donashe say. “This is Charynite business, not yours.”
“You have my wife,” Lucian said as Donashe stepped out onto the ledge, an oil lamp in his hand. “That’s my business, not Charyn’s.”
“Your wife is under arrest for hiding a king killer.”
“Why so concerned about a king killer, Donashe?” Lucian said. “The way I hear it, you managed to finish off the rest of the king’s family in the Citavita. So what does that make you?”
Lucian saw the fervor in the man’s eyes, but also the desperation. With Quintana in his camp, the Charynite was never so close to the prize. But from what Lucian knew, Donashe had been betrayed by his men before and he would be desperate not to take chances.
“I’m going to give you a warning, Mont,” Donashe said. “In days to come, Bestiano of Nebia and the entire Nebian army will be arriving in this valley. Don’t let me have to tell them that the Lumaterans were hiding the king killer for all these months, because, unlike me, they’ll cross that stream and they won’t stop at your mountain. They’ll follow the path to your palace.”
“I want to see my wife,” Lucian said, keeping his voice even. “And if I don’t see my wife tonight, I’m going to give you a warning. In the hours to come, I can have the whole Mont army in this valley. Don’t let me have to tell them that you just made a threat to their cousin the queen, her consort, and their child, because, unlike me, they’ll tear you to pieces.”
Donashe allowed the threat to register.
“The white witch and her girl is with them. Haven’t I allowed enough, friend?” he asked.
“I’m not leaving until I see my wife,” Lucian said.
Donashe turned to his companion. Lucian heard the whispering and watched the man leave with Donashe’s oil lamp, the light bobbing all the way to the top. It was nothing less than a prison, and there would be no easy way of getting the women off this rock. No hope for their escape.
“Luc-ien!”
“Phaedra?” He leaped up the steps, but Donashe was there to sto
p him.
“You speak to her from here.”
“I can’t see her!” Lucian said, through gritted teeth.
“Lucian,” he heard Tesadora call out. “Don’t bring danger to the mountain. For now, do as they say.”
“Are you free to come and go, Tesadora?”
“Yes, but Phaedra and the women aren’t.”
“Phaedra,” he called out again, cursing the stars and the moon for being on a tyrant’s side tonight. He just wanted to see her face.
“Yes, Luc-ien.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No, just frightened. I’m very frightened. We all are.”
There was a tremble in Phaedra’s voice, and it shattered something inside of Lucian to hear it.
“I’ll come again tomorrow,” he said. “I promise.”
Donashe gripped his arm.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Mont.”
Lucian pulled free.
“I never make promises I can’t keep, Donashe. And I promise you this: if you so much as lay another hand on these women, I will kill you. It will happen when you least expect it. It will be an arrow to your heart, and its precision will remind you that if my father hadn’t been killed at the hands of a Charynite, I would not be leading his people. I would be an assassin in the Queen’s Guard because I don’t miss a mark.”
And with those words, he began his descent down the rock with Harker, taking each step slowly for fear of tumbling into the darkness.
“I hate to be grateful for other people’s misfortune, Lucian,” Harker said quietly, “but our greatest consolation may have been the death of your father. I can’t imagine what would have happened to my people if you weren’t leading the Monts.”
Lucian stared down the steep stone steps, all the way to the bottom, and his throat tightened with emotion. The valley dwellers stood on each side of the path, holding either a lantern or candle, lighting Harker and Lucian’s way.
“My father would never have forsaken a neighbor,” Lucian said. “Never.”
“Then he taught his son well, lad. He taught his son well.”
“Nebia! Surrender!”
Froi couldn’t hear.
At first he thought the rage of battle was eating the voices, but then he knew it was inside of him. A chilling silence. It made the horror surrounding him all the worse.
He had ridden with Dorcas and Fekra, desperate to reach the battle between the two hills. To put a stop to Charynites killing Charynites. It was under a waning light that the three entered the field of carnage. Once the sun set, it would be next to impossible to put an end to it all, and they were fighting for time. It was his voice that had done it. “Nebia! Surrender!” hollered with a might that splintered something inside his ear.
And then all he could see was Fekra’s mouth moving, but nothing coming out. He watched Dorcas and Fekra pull off their cloak and tunics, and it was how the two rode into that valley: with white undershirts on their swords.
White flags of surrender.
But it didn’t stop arrows from hitting their marks and men falling to their knees, and it didn’t stop axes from wedging themselves into the sinews of men’s throats, or swords slicing an arm clear off a body. Froi dismounted to stand amid battle rage that had men in a frenzy, their senses attuned to nothing but killing and surviving. Not surrendering. In battle rage, no one was searching for a way to end fighting. It was pure instinct, and the instinct here was to kill. And leading Dorcas and Fekra, Froi knew he had to find a way, and perhaps he spoke the question out loud, because he saw Fekra’s mouth holler and he read the instruction on his lips. Find Scarpo.
So Froi made his way through the mute scene, not knowing whom he was looking for. And he saw familiar faces sprawled across this blood-drenched piece of land. He was a farmer, and he could tell it was fertile land. It was a place for growing, not dying. And he found Joyner, whose gods’ blessed hands had toiled at the etchings on Froi’s body, and beside Joyner lay the Turlan lad who had won the tournament against the Lasconians. And on and on Froi stumbled. He knelt by the corpse of Florik’s cousin and most loyal friend. Faces that had stared at him as he sang alongside Arjuro.
Don’t let me find Grij, he prayed. Please don’t let me find Grij. Don’t let me have to tell De Lancey that his beloved son is dead.
And it was from where he knelt that he saw a mighty soldier to be reckoned with. A mountain of a man, stumbling away from one kill and searching for the next. It was Trevanion, but it wasn’t. It was a man born for battle. Captains mostly were. And Froi stood and turned back to Dorcas and pointed ahead, and Dorcas nodded. Froi stepped over the dead, limping his way toward the man, and he thought of the story Gargarin and Finnikin had told them about the Haladyans. His father and his king. A surrender for a surrender, they had said. And Dorcas later said that the gods must have protected Froi, because he walked through the battle like a man in a daze, his weapon in its scabbard, his arms above his head. What was Froi’s instinct amid the battle rage? It was what his instinct always would be. From the moment he was born. Find a way to live. And as he limped toward the Nebian captain, he asked himself over and over again, what would Trevanion do? If he saw a lad walking toward him in a futile battle where Lumaterans were slaughtering Lumaterans? Would a captain’s pride have him fight on till the end, knowing his men would follow him to the grave rather than give in? Froi knew the moment the captain of the Nebian Guard saw him, because the big man dragged the Lasconian soldier along to where Froi stood with his arms still raised in surrender. He thought he heard Dorcas by his side, but the world seemed a haze.
“Bestiano is dead,” Froi said. “Gargarin of Abroi is our only hope.”
And the captain of the Nebian army lowered Froi’s hands and took the white flag from Dorcas and hollered, and when Froi’s hearing returned, his head felt as if it had burst into fragments and he fell to the ground, writhing in pain. But with that pain came the words he was waiting for, from a captain perhaps no different from his own.
“Nebia surrenders!”
Later, he watched Dorcas check the corpse of every man they passed, manically searching for life.
“Is he going to be all right?” Froi asked Fekra quietly as they stood under a cruel sun that shone its brilliance, illuminating every fatal wound and blank stare of death.
Fekra shook his head. “We’re the last. Of the palace, I mean. Dorcas. Me. Remember all those people when you arrived that day in the Citavita? The king’s men and family and palace soldiers? The riders? Everyone’s dead, except for Dorcas and me.”
“And Quintana,” Froi reminded him.
They reached a section of the valley where Perabo and a group of the Lasconian lads were guarding the surrendered army. Gargarin arrived with Arjuro and De Lancey on horseback, and Froi could see De Lancey staring around at the carnage in desperation. With Fekra’s arm around him for support, Froi hobbled to them.
“He’s not here, De Lancey. You have nothing to fear, for now.”
Arjuro stared down at Froi’s leg and bent to inspect it. “It’s nothing,” Froi said. “Just get me onto my horse.”
“You’re not going anywhere until I see to this leg,” Arjuro said.
“There are men dying, Arjuro. See to them.”
Gargarin was gravely studying the surrendered Nebian army before him.
“How many dead?” he asked one of the Lasconian lads who was guarding.
“Ours or theirs, sir?”
Gargarin sent the lad a scathing look.
“They’re all ours, you fool! They’re all Charynites! How many dead?”
Froi shivered at a memory of what had happened in Lumatere on the day they entered the kingdom. Trevanion had counted the dead. Young men and not so young. The captain had visited every family who lost a loved one in the battle to reclaim Lumatere. Froi recognized the same pain in Gargarin’s face now. He had given the order for this.
Before them, the Nebian army was kneeling in rows,
placed in some sort of order that made no sense to Froi. Those who were wounded lay down.
It was here that Froi got a better look at Scarpo of Nebia. He was a thickset man with solemn eyes that made little contact with the world, slightly younger than Trevanion.
“Can you get to your feet?” Gargarin asked.
The captain of the Nebian army rose.
“You surrendered easily,” Gargarin said.
There was no response.
“Some will see you as a coward,” Gargarin said.
Froi looked at Scarpo’s men. Their eyes blazed to hear the words.
“Then, let that title be mine and not my men’s, sir,” Scarpo said. “They followed orders. They are assembled in the order of rank. All I ask is that you follow the conventions of surrender and that no harm comes to my men, sir. At no time have they behaved disorderly or without honor. If you choose to take their land from them, sir, I ask that you take into consideration those who are sole providers of elderly kinsfolk. If I would also ask that those closest to where we stand are attended to with alacrity, sir. Their wounds are dire and if we are to agree on anything today, it’s that Charyn can ill afford to lose another man.”
“You have much to say. . . . What’s your name?”
“Scarpo of Nebia, sir. Captain of the Nebian Guard.”
“Former captain of the Nebian Guard, Scarpo.”
“As you please, sir.”
“The queen needs a captain,” Gargarin said flatly. “And I don’t have many candidates, so you’re it.”
Froi saw the startled surprise in the expression of a man who thought he was to die this day.
“Agreed?”
“Your order, sir.”
“Join Ariston of Turla and his men, and bring us back the queen and her child.”
Surprise again, and then a grimace.
“The queen, you say?”
“He said the queen,” Froi shouted. “Are you hard of hearing?”
The man grimaced again. Froi studied him and walked toward where he was. “What is it you’re not telling us, Nebian?”