The queen didn’t respond, but Beatriss could see the tears threatening to fall and so she embraced her.
“I was supposed to come here for you,” Isaboe said. “Yet you’re my strength today, Beatriss.”
“Then let’s be strength for each other.”
There was a knock at the door. Isaboe quickly wiped her eyes and stood, smoothing down her dress. Tarah was there with one of the Guard to take Isaboe back to the palace.
“Will you accompany me home this afternoon?” the queen said. “I’d enjoy more time to talk.”
When they reached the palace, Finnikin was arriving on horseback with Sir Topher. Beatriss watched as he kissed his queen and then whispered in her ear.
“Yes, she knows,” Isaboe said as Finnikin turned to embrace Beatriss.
“Isaboe’s convinced it’s a boy with the same certainty that she was convinced Jasmina was a girl,” he said to Beatriss.
“Oh, my beloveds,” Beatriss said, cupping a hand to both their faces.
“Mercy,” Finnikin said, grinning from ear to ear. “We’re going to have a bed full of children, and I’ll have to holler out to my wife, ‘Hello there! It’s been a long time since we last spoke!’”
Isaboe laughed. It had been some time since Beatriss had seen the two so relaxed.
“And she doesn’t bleed for nine whole months,” Finnikin said.
When the queen bled, she walked the sleep of all of Lumatere, and when she walked the sleep, she shared with Finnikin the fears and worries of their people. Vestie walked the sleep with her, and Beatriss remembered how carefree her daughter had been during the time when Isaboe carried Jasmina. The thought lifted her spirits even more.
Beatriss spent the rest of the afternoon in the main village at the toy-maker’s cottage, wanting to buy something special for Vestie. She had decided with Isaboe that it was time for her daughter to come home.
As she walked out of the cottage, she bumped into Genova, the wife of Makli. They ignored each other, and with her head down, Beatriss made her way to the bakery.
“Lady Beatriss,” Genova called out.
Beatriss stopped and turned back to the woman.
“I’m sorry about my husband’s behavior,” the woman said. “I can’t speak for my boy because he’s a child, but according to Kie, your daughter told him he had the face of a witch’s wart, which gave great offense.”
Beatriss had heard the term come from Vestie’s mouth once or twice. Her daughter had spent too much time with Tesadora, who loved nothing better than teaching Vestie new insults each time they saw each other.
“It’s hard for Makli, and that’s not to excuse his words at all, but we were in the camp with Lord Selric and his family. In Charyn. It was very fast, the way the plague took them.” The woman looked away.
Beatriss walked to her, reaching out a hand to Genova’s arm for comfort.
“The children went first and then his wife. The goddess was cruel in that way, for it should never be in that order.”
Beatriss nodded.
“One of the last things Lord Selric asked Makli was to ensure that Fenton stayed alive and united. Yet here we are with half of us gone, and in these past three years, no one has dared purchase the village, which is ridiculous, really. Could you imagine Lord Selric preferring that Fenton go to ruin rather than someone else raising it to its glory? I think Makli believes that he failed his lord, and he thinks those of you who were trapped inside don’t understand the pain of those in exile.”
Genova had a singsong way of speaking, cool and practical.
“The man I love suffered greatly in exile,” Beatriss said. “So strong is his pain that it drives us apart. I understand what you went through more than you can imagine.”
Genova nodded curtly. “My husband’s a good man. He’s too proud to say he regrets his words to you, so I’ll say it for him.”
“And I will speak to Vestie about the witch’s wart.”
When she returned to Sennington with Vestie by her side, Beatriss looked out at her land and thought of the priest-king and his school and of Tarah and Samuel and Makli and his family and Lord Selric. Two villages, both half of what they once were. But the queen was right. This land was dead, and she and Vestie could not continue dying with it. But could she live in the palace? So close to Trevanion and the memories of what took place there, both the good and the awful? Perhaps she’d be better off in the main village. Some said she had a gift with a needle and thread, and she had a good eye for fabrics. Isaboe had expressed that they were poor country cousins in more ways than one, especially in their dress. “When I see the Belegonians come with their finery and even those tedious Osterians with their fashions, I feel as if they return home and tell others of our dowdiness,” the queen had told her on their journey home. But would Beatriss feel stifled in the palace village without the Flatlands surrounding her?
Traveling toward them was the priest-king on his donkey and cart, and suddenly Beatriss found herself smiling as Vestie ran toward him, zigzagging from side to side, her arms outstretched as if they were the wings of a bird. Isaboe had said that the priest-king would come visit the moment he got word of Beatriss’s acknowledgment of his offer.
Sennington would be a place of learning, guided by a man who had journeyed step by step with their cursed people and managed to find his way again. Beatriss watched as Vestie reached him, and she already felt the spirit of the first Evanjalin soaring alongside them.
Their plans were changed the next morning by Quintana.
“We go over the mountains,” she said. “The dying man of Turla is waiting.”
The others exchanged a look. When the cold Quintana spoke, there was an uneasiness in them all, even Lirah, who knew her best.
“I say we choose another time for that, Your Highness,” Gargarin said in a firm but polite voice. “It will add at least a few days’ ride to our journey if we take the mountains to Paladozza and not the underground pass.”
“There will be no other time,” she said dismissively, looking at Arjuro. “Are you ready, priestling? I have a sense that the gods are leading us there for a reason.”
She walked away toward the three horses they had been given, and Froi knew the decision was final.
“I like it better when I’m blessed Arjuro,” Arjuro muttered.
With great patience, Gargarin put away the map he had studied all night.
“Let’s all agree that we’re going to try to get out of Turla with no marriage contracts, no broken bones, and no body parts sacrificed to the gods,” he said.
He poked a finger at Froi’s shoulder. “And you’re going to have to control any need to prove yourself as a man.”
“I’ve never had to prove my worth as a man to people I don’t care for.”
Gargarin sighed. “Then you’ve not met a Turlan.”
Lirah easily mounted one of the horses, and Froi followed suit, directing it to where Quintana stood. But she wordlessly chose to travel with Lirah, and Froi saw no reason to get on the wrong side of both women today.
“You’re going to have to ride with me,” he told Gargarin.
“If you’re one of those reckless fools with a need for speed, I will travel with Arjuro.”
Arjuro’s horse had already taken off with little control from its rider, so Gargarin had no other choice but to clumsily climb onto the horse.
“How does our path differ from your plans yesterday?” Froi asked, grabbing Gargarin by the sleeve of his coarse undershirt to secure him on the horse.
“We go over the mountain and not under. It’s about a day’s ride to the peak.”
“You need to hold on tighter,” Froi ordered as Lirah and Quintana galloped past them.
“Why?”
“Because I’m one of those reckless fools with a need for speed.”
Halfway up the Turlan mountains, Froi knew they were being watched. He pulled at the reins and stopped their horse, looking around at rock, wild tufts of dull
brown grass, and little else. Someone who knew how to stay concealed was out there, and Froi was not taking chances. He steered his horse to Quintana and Lirah’s, circling them.
“If I say bolt, you head down the mountain,” he said quietly to Lirah, who was holding the reins. “Regardless of what she says,” he added, his eyes meeting Quintana’s.
Arjuro rode up beside them. “This is a mistake,” Arjuro said. “There’s something strange here, and that’s not the coward in me speaking. It’s the gods’ blessed.”
“Which is exactly why we’re here, Priestling,” Quintana said.
Gargarin made a sound of displeasure. “They’ve not come down this mountain to speak for themselves for more years than I can remember, Your Majesty,” he said. “So they’re going to be suspicious of anyone traveling through their land.”
“Find me someone in Charyn who is not suspicious,” she said. “Come. We’re wasting time.”
Later that afternoon, they came across a lone cottage, and a hound accompanied them for a stretch before turning back. Froi could see that the peak of the mountain was at least another day’s ride and that they would have to stop soon to set up camp. The autumn days were short, and he didn’t want them traveling in the dark. Soon after, however, they reached a village, and from where they sat astride their horses, Froi could see views of Jidia below. Depending on the Turlan numbers, any army that chose to ride up that mountain didn’t stand a chance.
In an instant, they were joined by one man after another — from cottages, stables, and farther up the mountain — and as Froi had suspected, some of the men had followed them from the mountain below. They were accompanied by their goats and cattle, and even a family of ducks decided to join in. But no women. Froi cared little for the way they stared at Lirah and Quintana. Although there was no trace of the malevolence seen in the Citavitan street lords, the Turlans were ripe with a barely suppressed spirit that unnerved Froi. They were called mountain goats by the rest of the kingdom, and in his entire existence, Froi had never seen men with so much hair sprouting from heads, faces, arms, chests. They were solid, unlike most Charyn men he had come across.
When they dismounted, Gargarin led Froi and the others to what looked like an outdoor ale house. The younger Turlans shoved at Froi as he passed them.
“They’re just playing with you,” Gargarin said quietly. “Do not react.”
“I was never one for playing with others,” Froi snarled.
His anger seemed to excite the Turlan lads even more.
A man clothed in calf hide and a fleeced coat approached, his hair long and coarse and fair.
“We’re on our way to Paladozza and hoped to beg a place to stay for the night,” Gargarin said. Froi was impressed by the lack of fear in his voice and his very practical aim of securing accommodations for them all.
Before another word was spoken, the man walked to Arjuro and backhanded him across the face. Arjuro toppled to the ground, and Froi charged for the Turlan. Instantly, two others grabbed both his arms. Gargarin was at his brother’s side, fury in his expression.
“We come in peace and you greet us like the enemy!” he shouted.
The man spoke a strange dialect, and Froi watched Gargarin shake his head in confusion. Arjuro tried to lift himself from the ground.
“We have no one you want,” Quintana said. She turned to Gargarin. “That’s what he said. ‘We have no one you want.’”
Arjuro sat up, wiping blood from his mouth.
“We are searching for the dying man of Turla,” Quintana announced coldly.
The man stared, as if noticing her for the first time. He walked toward her and roughly grabbed Quintana’s face in his hand. She snarled and bit his hand, and Froi struggled against those holding him back.
“Why travel over the mountain when you can take the pass?” The man spoke in Charyn. He seemed to be the authority in the village. Perhaps even the mountain. His question was directed at Gargarin.
“The girl dreams of the dying man of Turla. That’s all we can tell you,” Gargarin said with honesty. “My brother is the last priestling of the Citavita godshouse and a physician. It may be that he has a purpose here.”
The Turlan leader continued to study Quintana’s face. “Is she a last born?” he asked warily. There was silence until Quintana nodded. There was regret on the Turlan’s face, and he shook his head.
“We will not protect her, so don’t even ask,” he said. “We have enough of our own to protect.” He stood before Arjuro, who was still on the ground.
“My name is Ariston, and I’m leader of this village,” he said. “The first time I saw the dying man of Turla, I was a boy. That was forty-five years ago, and the one thing I remember him shouting was not to trust the men in black robes, for they will take your children.” The Turlan’s eyes were hard. “We may not have children to speak of, Priest, but if you bring harm to any of my people, I will choke you by the hood of your robe.”
Arjuro stared. “The priests would never take a child.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” Ariston asked.
“No,” Arjuro said. “I’m saying you’re mistaken.” He looked at Quintana. “Now more than ever, I need to meet this dying man to know the truth.”
Ariston of Turla studied them all. “The dying man lives on the other side of the mountain, half a day’s ride from here. I’ll lead you there myself soon enough.” He turned his attention back to Gargarin. “Your name.”
“Gargarin of Abroi.”
There was a snicker. One of the Turlans made a sheep sound at the word Abroi. Froi started counting. The moment they let him go, he was going to have to hurt someone.
“And your women?” Lirah asked tersely. “Are they not here to greet us?”
Ariston appraised her with satisfaction.
“At this time each year, the women travel up the mountain before they make a sacrifice to the goddess of winter to protect us through the cold months. They cleanse their spirits, for the goddess will not accept their gifts if they smell of the stench of man.”
“A wise goddess indeed,” Lirah said. “You have no reason to hold back our lad, so let go of him now.”
Ariston gave a signal to his men to let go of Froi.
“Tomorrow we hunt the wild boar to prepare a feast for the women. Your lad there looks strong. It’s a privilege that we allow him to join us.”
“Joust!” one called out. Another stepped forward to shove Froi back. Another thumped at his own chest twice.
“Our younger men have felt a need to relieve the tension.” Ariston laughed.
“Our lad isn’t one for fighting,” Gargarin said in a dismissive tone.
“Who are you trying to fool, Gargarin of Abroi? Your lad came up this mountain with a fight in his spirit and an eye out for danger.”
There was a shrewd, questioning look on Ariston’s face. They may have been mountain goats, but they were no fools.
“We might want to keep him for ourselves.”
They weren’t quite savage, Froi thought the next day. Just untamed. As though up in these mountains they had become one with the wild. They were coarse, and quick with a bow, and he managed to please them by taking part in the hunt and contributing at least one arrow to the boar they caught. But for all their fierceness and skill, they were vain. Froi had seen peacocks once, and the men of Turla resembled them in the way they strutted. Sometimes, back in Lumatere, Finnikin would imitate the way the Mont lads walked. He’d take off his shirt and pound at his chest, and he’d walk in the same way they had seen birds walk in Yutlind. The queen and Froi would laugh at the sight of his lanky milk-white body. But the Monts had nothing on these men.
Display followed display of their might, yet they never tired of competing or showing off. A joust. Sword challenges. Target practice. Races of speed. Races of endurance. Every sentence spoken between them was a challenge.
That night there was a feast, but still no women. The ale was plentiful, and that made
Arjuro happy, at least.
After dinner was wrestling, just in case the men of Turla had not had enough of an opportunity to show their skills and attributes. They had an annoying habit of finding any opportunity to walk around Quintana and Lirah with bare chests and their trousers worn low. Rings pierced their bodies in places that made Froi wince at the thought of the pain inflicted. Lirah did nothing more than roll her eyes with irritation, but Quintana seemed strangely relaxed with the Turlans in a way Froi hadn’t seen before. Then one of the younger men decided to carry over a litter of pups to her, and Froi thought Quintana the Indignant was back when she allowed the dogs to lick her face. He’d prefer Quintana the Indignant to appear right about now. She was an innocent when it came to men. This Quintana understood desire. She had proven it that night they were together. And now, in the way she allowed the Turlan lads to stand so close.
“It’s a primitive bond,” Arjuro explained. “They’re mad. She’s mad. Don’t try to compete.”
“Why would I possibly want to do that?” Froi snapped, eyeing the way her face lit up each time a Turlan spoke to her, young or old. He could see from gestures that one was explaining the rules of wrestling to her, which was ridiculous because there were no rules at all. The young Turlan even dared to place an arm around her shoulders as he pointed at what was taking place in the match. Froi wanted nothing more than to pull the ring on the man’s chest through the flesh and cause as much pain as was humanly possible.
After what seemed like an hour of men in bare chests rolling around in dirt, a stocky lad with an abundance of hair came to stand before Froi. He waved two hands toward himself in an invitation to fight.
“A friendly wrestle, perhaps?” Ariston called out from where he sat beside Gargarin.
Gargarin waved the offer away on Froi’s behalf.
“Our lad is bashful,” he said.
The Turlan who sat beside Quintana heard the words and whispered something in her ear. Froi saw her lip curl in amusement.