It was neither five nor ten nor seven days. Kasabian guessed it right.
“When the lad sorts out what he needs to sort out, he’ll come for you, Phaedra.”
Everyone was on their feet in shock and surprise when Lucian appeared on the third day. Phaedra watched him cross the stream, his eyes taking in the large party staring his way with curiosity. She could see by the set of his shoulders that he was dreading whatever he was about to face.
He greeted them all politely with a nod of his head.
“I want to speak to Phaedra,” he said, his eyes firmly on hers. She could read nothing in them. No, there it was. Panic.
“Alone,” he said, holding out a hand to her.
No one moved.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Cora said, pulling Phaedra away. “Kasabian’s her chaperone in the place of her father.”
Florenza snorted out a laugh. “That is so not true —”
But Jorja hushed her daughter.
“What you have to say to Phaedra you can say in front of everyone, cousin,” Constance said. She received instant approval from the camp dwellers, who understood exactly what she was saying.
“I agree,” Pitts the cobbler said. He came down most days to enjoy Jorja’s hospitality.
Phaedra took pity on Lucian and held out her hand. He looked too nervous for any of this to turn out right, and she had an awful feeling that she was going to cry in front of everyone.
“This is a matter of privacy between two people,” she said firmly.
There was a chorus of disapproval at the suggestion, but she could feel the tears burning her eyes and she wanted to leave. Lucian was staring down at her, horrified.
“Enough!” he shouted at the crowd. “You’ve all made her cry.”
“I’m not crying,” she cried.
“You’re the one who made her cry, running off to the palace the moment she arrived,” Constance said.
Lucian was shaking his head with exasperation.
“I thought it best that we make our marriage official,” he blurted out. “The first time it was in Alonso and . . . quite a miserable affair. My cousin insists we make it less miserable, and I couldn’t agree more.”
“Your cousin Jory?” Phaedra asked, her heart hammering to hear the words.
“No,” he said with a sigh and Phaedra could see how uncomfortable he was under everyone’s scrutiny.
“What cousin?” Cora asked.
Lucian pointed across the stream. Isaboe of Lumatere stood on the other side of the stream with her child on her hip and her consort by her side, surrounded by the Lumateran Guard.
“That one.”
The queen looked annoyed. “Lucian!” she called out. “What’s happening over there?”
Lucian turned back to Phaedra and the others. “The priest-king is coming, too. To conduct the ceremony,” he said.
Lucian waved the royal party over, and suddenly Jorja was taking deep breaths from the shock of seeing the queen of Lumatere walking toward her cave.
“I don’t want any fanfare,” Lucian said gruffly when his cousin reached them. “Nor does Phaedra. Is that clear, everyone?”
“You can’t speak for her,” Constance said.
“I don’t want any fanfare,” Phaedra said, and she caught Lucian’s grateful smile.
“No, none at all,” the queen of Lumatere joined in, accepting Jorja’s invitation to sit down. “Although we’ll have to wait for everyone on the mountain to come down. Balconio, too. They’ve all promised to travel up . . . and down for the wedding. As has August and Abian and their lot and Trevanion and the rest of the Guard. Very small. Compared to ours.”
The queen turned to her consort.
“I think the whole kingdom came to that one, didn’t they, my love?”
“No, some of the Flatland lords boycotted it because they thought you were marrying beneath you,” Finnikin of Lumatere advised her.
Jorja was looking flustered, and Phaedra knew she had little to serve as refreshments.
“The groom’s family is responsible for the feast,” Isaboe of Lumatere said, “and they’ll be arriving with the food soon.”
Phaedra knew the tradition was the exact opposite in Lumatere, but she didn’t dare challenge the queen.
“While we wait for the arrivals, we thought we could take time to speak of matters,” Finnikin said to Harker, and Phaedra watched everyone’s stillness as the valley dwellers gathered close.
“To be honest, it’ll be a long time indeed before Charynites live in Lumatere. The wounds cut very deep. But we —” Finnikin looked at the Queen. “My queen and I thought we’d speak to you about ideas for this valley. Perhaps it’s time to build and make plans . . . for permanency.”
There was silence from the valley dwellers.
“It needs a leader, Harker,” Isaboe said. “And you seem to be that man.”
Perhaps it wasn’t exactly what Harker and Jorja and the rest of the valley dwellers had journeyed here for, all that time ago, but they were interested in what the queen and her consort had to say.
“The way we see it, this valley will have the best that Lumatere and Charyn have to offer,” the queen said. “It could become a thriving place of progress. A place where both kingdoms meet.”
Jorja suddenly gasped and jumped to her feet. “How could we have forgotten? It’s a good thing you’ve visited, Your Majesty,” she said. “The Charyn palace has sent a letter. Go get it, Florenza. And then we’ll find you a pretty dress, Phaedra, for the ceremony.”
“Well, if I may,” the queen of Lumatere said, “I brought a dress that belonged to my sister, Evestalina. Lucian was her favorite, do you remember that, cousin? She’d let you get away with anything. Even more than our brother, Balthazar.”
Phaedra saw the emotion on Lucian’s face. The queen rarely spoke of the past, and everyone present knew the importance of her speaking her family’s names on the Charynite side of the stream.
“Well, she would have wanted your wife to have it.” The queen looked at Phaedra. “It shames me that it has taken me so long to acknowledge you, Phaedra of Alonso.”
Phaedra shook her head. “It shames me to have spoken to you the way I did in the caves after you put your life at risk for Quintana of Charyn.”
“Enough said.” The queen’s voice was brisk but filled with emotion.
Florenza returned with the letter and handed it to the queen. The princess Jasmina cried to have it.
“Jasmina likes the pretty seals on the letters,” the queen explained, “especially those that are red.” There was much oohing and aahing from the valley dwellers, who were besotted by the little princess.
The princess Jasmina took a liking to Florenza, gripping her hand tightly, trying to drag her away.
“Be careful,” the queen said firmly. “She’ll try to control you.”
“Has she a gift?” Florenza asked.
“Yes,” the queen said, her tone dry. “The gift for . . .”
“Stubbornness,” Finnikin said.
More people arrived from over the mountain, and on a cold night under a full moon, Phaedra found herself wed to Lucian for the second time. He wore a royal-blue doublet and his trousers tucked into his buskins, and Phaedra’s dress was fitted to the waist, in soft pink. She wore flowers from Yata’s garden in her hair. He was very solemn; she wasn’t. Phaedra couldn’t stop smiling.
While the celebrations continued well into the night, they sat by the stream alone.
“I think this party will last for days,” he said. “And we’ll never be alone together.”
“Soon enough,” she said. “I don’t think tonight is just about us.”
He pressed a kiss to her lips.
“We’ll have to visit my father, Lucian. There’s too much anger between us all, and I can’t begin my life with you this way.”
He nodded. “Then we’ll visit your father soon,” he promised.
Suddenly Finnikin was at Lucian’s shoulder
.
“Lucian, we have a problem,” the queen’s consort said, holding the letter from the Charynite palace in his hand. “A big one.”
“Can it not wait until the morning?” Lucian asked.
“Apparently some of our mail has gone astray.”
Lucian laughed, his eyes never leaving Phaedra’s.
“Finnikin, unless it affects the future of this kingdom, I’m going to have to say no to whatever you’re about to ask me to do,” her husband said firmly.
Finnikin placed an arm around them both.
“Cousins, I’m afraid it affects the future of both our kingdoms.”
On the day the provincari of Charyn were to choose Quintana’s consort, Froi sat on the roof of the Crow’s Inn with Mort and Florik, the lads staring down at every potential suitor who arrived in the Citavita. Each candidate brought with them a large enough entourage to impress, and Froi’s heart sank with every step they took closer to Quintana and his son.
“The Osterians,” Florik said somberly, indicating the procession crossing the bridge with great ceremony. Froi had come to realize that the more banners a kingdom had, the more useless they were.
“They say he could be the one,” Froi said. “The Osterian.”
“Why?” Mort asked.
“Apparently no mad blood or inbreeding for the past hundred years.” Froi watched the Osterian prince as he stepped onto the rock of the Citavita.
Mort stood and walked to the edge of the roof. “Easy if a bolt flew out of my longbow, right between Osterian’s legs. Accidents happen, lads.”
“You’d start a war with the only kingdom who hasn’t gone to war for its whole existence,” Florik said. “Not your best idea, Mort.”
Mort looked back at Froi and managed a grin. “Gods are smiling, Froi. Think I see our Grij.”
It was both Grij and Satch who arrived, and Froi had never been so happy for their company.
“Why did you stay, Froi?” Grij begged to know as they made their way up to the castle, arms around each other’s shoulders.
“She w-w-won’t want you th-th-there,” Satch said. “T-too painful.”
“Then what are you both doing here?” he asked.
Satch shrugged.
“C-couldn’t bear for her to b-be alone this day.”
When they reached the drawbridge, they lined up behind a crowd of foreigners waiting to enter. They had left their weapons with Mort and the lads, knowing that only the little king’s palace guards would be allowed into the palace armed. Everyone who traveled through the gates, whether prince or servant, was checked for weapons. Today, every soldier in the palace was on guard and tension was high among Scarpo and his men. Froi finally reached the portcullis, but Olivier appeared before him. He had seen glimpses of the last born since his arrival five days ago, but it was the first time they had come face-to-face.
“Let me pass,” Froi said, his tone cold.
Olivier looked beyond Froi to where Satch and Grijio stood.
“You call yourself his friends and you bring him here?” Olivier demanded.
“You try stopping him,” Grij said.
“It’s not right!” Olivier said.
“Let me pass,” Froi said again, but he couldn’t find the anger anymore. He just felt the tears biting at his eyes.
Inside the great hall, there was barely room to move. Froi and the lads found themselves close to the back, fighting for space among horses and hounds. Some of the suitors had animals with them, until Perabo ordered anything on four legs to be taken to the stables or their two-legged owners would be removed themselves. The fool Feliciano of Avanosh joined them soon after, and Grijio, always diplomatic, allowed him to stay.
When Quintana entered the great hall holding the little king, a hush came over the room. Some had never seen Tariq before. As the only babe in Charyn, people were in awe of him wherever he went. The provincari followed, and each acknowledged Quintana and the boy with a bow before being seated on a raised platform. Froi was pleased to see Ariston and Dolyn there to represent the rights of Turla and Lascow. He watched Tariq squirm in Quintana’s arms, and she placed him on the ground and Dorcas and Fekra had a hard time trying to keep up with him as he crawled among the provincari’s feet.
“They’re saying the prince from Osteria will win the day,” Feliciano said.
“We’ve heard,” Froi muttered.
“He’s brainless, according to my father,” Grij explained.
“Exactly what the p-provincaro wants,” Satch said. “Someone they can all control.”
“And why aren’t you in contention?” Froi asked Feliciano coldly.
“My uncle owes money,” Feliciano admitted. “A lot of it. He believes we have a better chance of paying his debts if I marry the daughter of the Osterian archduke. We’re in with a very strong chance. They’re taking marriage requests for her in three days’ time.”
“Then why are you here?” Froi asked.
“Avanosh has been accepted as a province. My uncle will have a vote in the decision.”
Another candidate and his entourage entered through the great doors behind Froi and his friends. They were from Sarnak. Froi would know a Sarnak in his sleep. They had ruddy cheeks and high foreheads. And they married young.
“I don’t have much experience determining the age of people younger than us,” Grij said, catching a glimpse of the new arrivals, “but is he —”
“Twelve. Possibly thirteen,” Froi said.
“F-F-Froi,” Satch said quietly. “L-let’s go. This will only end in heart-b-break.”
Froi dismissed the suggestions. Whether he stayed or went, the heartbreak would be the same.
They saw Olivier again, pushing through to oversee the ever-growing crowd by the doors.
“Olivier!” Grij called out. “Olivier. What are they saying? We can’t hear a thing.”
Olivier reached them, trying to catch his breath after being squeezed between two large Sorellians.
“The Yuts of the Nord walked out,” Olivier said. “Your father, Grij, asked them what they had done with the heir of Yutlind Sud. They didn’t like the question.”
The crowd surged forward. There seemed to be a commotion at the entrance. Olivier was gone within moments.
Froi’s eyes followed him.
“What’s happened to his family? The provincaro of Sebastabol claimed to have expelled them from the province.”
Satch and Grij exchanged a look.
“Desantos has t-taken them in,” Satch said. “I will always underst-st-stand your anger, Froi, but in t-trying to make amends, he risked his life again and again.”
“He’ll never be the same lad,” Grijio said. “He refuses to befriend any of the Guard and keeps to himself. He’s a stranger, this Olivier. I don’t think he’ll ever forgive himself for what he did.”
There was a surge forward again and shouts of exasperation. At the front of the hall, people were oblivious to the disturbance at the back.
“Probably another mountain goat from Osteria and his herd,” Grijio muttered.
The noise at the entrance became louder.
“Something’s happening back there,” Grijio said. “Hitch me up so I can see.”
Froi and Satch hitched Grijio up onto their shoulders, and he peered over their heads toward the grand entrance. Grij’s peering turned into shock as he looked back down to Froi.
“What is it?” Feliciano asked.
“Froi,” Grijio said calmly. “I think I recognize your queen’s cousin from my time in the valley after the battle. He’s just shoved his way into the hall.”
“What?”
Grij climbed down, and they lifted Froi up onto their shoulders. He looked toward the crowded entrance. He could see nothing but an irate crowd being pushed forward. Olivier and one of the guards were attempting to shove their way through the crowd to see what was taking place.
And then Froi saw Lucian.
And Finn.
And Perri. Th
e three of them were searching above the heads of those around them.
Sagra!
“Here!” Froi shouted, holding up a hand. “Lucian!”
The Lumaterans had managed to cause a small riot near the entrance, and there was too much noise to be heard. Meanwhile, the onlookers standing around Froi yanked him down.
“We can’t hear a thing, you fool,” one snapped.
Froi climbed back up again, slapping away at the hands that were pulling at him.
“What can you see?” Grij shouted.
Froi could still see Olivier shoving his way toward the entrance to investigate the small brawl that seemed to have taken place.
“Olivier!” he shouted. The last born must have heard, because he turned, and Froi pointed toward the entrance and then to himself.
“Lumaterans! They’re with —”
He was yanked off Grijio’s and Feliciano’s shoulders before he could speak another word. So he pushed headfirst into the crowd, telling himself he could have imagined one, but not all three. Close to the entrance, he hit a wall of a man. One who was determined Froi would not pass him by. Until a hand covered the face of the man and shoved him out of the way.
“Lucian? What are you doing here?” Froi asked.
Grij, Satch, and Feliciano had followed, staring at the Lumaterans just as incredulously. Lucian waved away the question with irritation.
“You,” Lucian said, pointing to Feliciano. “Get your jacket off,” he ordered the Avanosh heir. Feliciano pointed to himself, stunned. Lucian stared down at Feliciano’s tights. “Just the jacket.”
When Feliciano was too slow, Finnikin was there, yanking Feliciano’s arms out of the sleeves.
“Follow everything we say, Froi,” his king said. “Put this on. Ask no questions.”
And then Lord August stumbled through the crowded entrance, followed by Lady Abian and Talon and the younger boys, their faces soaked with perspiration. And just when Froi thought nothing could shock him more, he saw the priest-king.
The Lumaterans looked disheveled. Froi was so confused, his arm half stuck in a jacket that was far too small.
“You,” Lucian said, pointing to Olivier. “Get us to the front.”