Simeon’s stern face softened. “You spent the first month of your life in the safety of his arms. I’ve seen you both together these past weeks, and it is clear that the ties that bind you are still strong.”
The bond was strong because Arjuro was blood kin. Froi knew that more than anything else.
“Arjuro returned from Sarnak and lived here with us. He was as wild as ever and full of rage at the world. At himself. Over the next few years, we would hear news about you from the priestess of the Sarnak godshouse. You were Our Dafar,” he added. “If any of us ever experienced hardship, we would say, ‘At least Our Dafar is safe.’”
“But four years after we sent you to Sarnak, we received word that the godshouse of the Sarnak capital was destroyed by fire. All we knew at the time were the names of those who had perished. And that there was no child among the dead. So we sent a messenger to bring you home . . . but the messenger never reached Sarnak. Your fate was lost to us until Rafuel of Sebastabol sent word three years past that he believed he had found you in the woods on the Charyn-Osteria border.”
“Rafuel was there?” Froi asked. “In the barracks when I was taken by the Charynites?”
Simeon nodded. “Rafuel ran away from his father and the palace when he was fourteen years old. When he returned to the Citavita years later to find out what he could about the last born, he was rounded up with a group of lads and put to use in the army. And as fate had it, Rafuel was at the right place at the right time. And here you are, Dafar of Abroi.”
There was something about the way Simeon said his name this time that made Froi uneasy.
“What do you want from me?” Froi asked, because he knew he hadn’t been summoned to listen to Simeon’s stories.
“Find us the girl.”
The priest’s eyes were ice-cold.
“And then go back to being Froi of Lumatere. And no one need get hurt.”
That night, Froi sat opposite Arjuro in silence for the most part.
“What did he say?” Arjuro asked finally when the candle between them had burned low.
“I think he threatened me.”
“He sent Rafuel to find you, Froi. Rafuel is an assassin. A well-read assassin, but one all the same. When I first lived here with these people, one of their lovers in Nebia was murdered because she would not divulge their whereabouts. The retribution was bloody.”
“You never said you were the one who smuggled me out of Charyn when I was a babe,” Froi said softly. “Simeon said it was your idea.”
“Yes, well, that proved to be one of my better ones,” Arjuro said dryly. “Because Sarnak seems to have been a wonderful experience for you.”
“You blame yourself?” Froi asked.
“Well, I’m to blame for many things, so I try to make it easier on the gods and take responsibility for all of them.”
“Even for the war in the kingdom of Yutlind?” Froi teased.
“Oh, yes, my fault. Shouldn’t have told the northern king that he was far more handsome than his southern cousin.”
But with all the jesting, they were both quite somber, and Froi knew why.
“I’m ready to go, Arjuro,” he said softly. “You know that.”
“You’re safer with me.”
“You sound like your brother.”
“My brother?” Arjuro asked. “The one who happens to be your father?”
Froi thought of Simeon’s story that day. “I wouldn’t say that too loudly.”
Arjuro’s face was suddenly cold.
“If the priests and provincari will agree on one thing, it’s Gargarin’s fate,” Arjuro said. “Locking him up in the palace as the next king’s First Adviser.”
“But he’ll have Lirah by his side,” Froi said. And Quintana, he thought. And his son.
He saw the uncertainty in Arjuro’s expression.
“Do you think I should have stayed in Paladozza?” Froi asked. “That I put Quintana’s life at risk?”
Arjuro studied him and shook his head.
“There are so many awful possibilities. So many. But none worse than Quintana and the babe being in the hands of the Sorellians. Wasn’t that what you said Feliciano of Avanosh and his uncle planned?
“And if you had taken Gargarin with you, they would have trained their arrows on him first. Intelligence and goodwill are Bestiano’s greatest enemies; he will kill my brother before he kills anyone else in this land. Gar is Bestiano’s greatest competitor for a place in the palace, as reluctant as he is to return there. You did the right thing.”
“But I failed,” Froi said, pained to think of how much he had. “You don’t know how that feels.”
Arjuro’s laugh was humorless. “You are saying those words to the wrong man, Froi. Failure is more of a twin to me than my own brother.”
Two days later, a messenger returned from Paladozza with a letter addressed to Arjuro. Froi watched him open it and noticed that Arjuro’s hands trembled.
“Read it aloud. Hurry,” Froi ordered.
“What if it’s private?” Arjuro argued. “It’s addressed to me. See, Arjuro,” he added, pointing to his name on the note.
“Read!”
Arjuro sighed.
“Just so you know, De Lancey always gets carried away in his letters,” he muttered.
Froi tried to snatch the parchment from him, but Arjuro stepped away.
“Dear Ari,” he read. Arjuro cleared his voice, hesitating a moment. “Quintana is not with us. We, too, have sent out messengers to Jidia and the Turlan Mountains, as well as Lascow, but each returns with no idea of her whereabouts. She has disappeared from existence and we hold grave fears for her life.”
Froi held his head in his hands. When Arjuro didn’t read on, he looked up.
“Read,” he said quietly.
Arjuro continued. “Gargarin and Lirah have left. . . .”
“What?” Froi demanded, reaching for the letter. “Let me read.”
Arjuro held up a hand to silence him.
“Your brother has been corresponding with the Belegonians. After writing a countless number of letters to every contact he had in the palace, the Belegonians have finally responded. A messenger of the king has agreed to meet Gar at an inn on the Charyn-Osteria river border.”
Froi didn’t like the news at all. How could Gargarin imagine that he could protect Lirah and himself from enemies both inside and outside Charyn?
“He shouldn’t have left,” he raged at Arjuro. “He was supposed to stay safe in Paladozza.” Froi paced the cave, fearing the absolute worst. “Doesn’t he know how dangerous it is to be traveling through the kingdom these days?”
Arjuro looked just as unhappy about the news. He went back to the letter.
“You may want to know that two weeks ago, your moronic horse-arse father arrived, demanding to see you and Gar. My guard had his heinous self escorted from the province, cursing you both to oblivion. As much as your leaving angers me still, I was relieved you weren’t here to see him. . . .”
Arjuro stopped reading aloud.
“What?” Froi demanded. “What are you keeping from me?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re hiding something, Arjuro.”
Froi snatched the letter from Arjuro, furiously pointing a finger at his face.
“You keep nothing from me, do you hear?” Froi said, his eyes fixed on the page. An instant later, he handed back the letter sheepishly. There was a hint of a smile on Arjuro’s face.
“The letter was addressed to me, runt. See here,” he said, pointing. “Arjuro.”
Froi’s face felt warm. “Yes, well, I thought you left on bad terms. I didn’t expect him to express himself so . . . explicitly.”
Arjuro folded the letter. Something told Froi that Arjuro and De Lancey expressed themselves explicitly whether they were on speaking terms or not.
“Perhaps it’s best I read it in privacy,” Arjuro said.
Isaboe watched Jasmina and Vestie play among the child
ren of the Fenton house staff. After weeks of preparation, Beatriss had finally moved into the village. The manor house was large, and the children raced from room to room, giddy with excitement. Beatriss showed Isaboe the home while Lady Abian helped Tarah in the kitchen, listing every item that had arrived to stock the larder.
In the library, there was a portrait of Lord Selric and his family, and Isaboe studied their faces somberly.
“I’ve decided to keep it there,” Beatriss said softly. “They’re as much a part of this village as we are now.”
“I hardly remember them, you know,” Isaboe said. “Pretty girls.” She tried not to think how Lord Selric’s daughters would have been a year or two younger than her own sisters when the entire family died from plague during their exile in Charyn. She reached out to touch the painting. The replicas of Isaboe’s family in the palace had been desecrated during the curse by the impostor king. There was not one likeness left of them, and some days she could hardly recall their faces.
Abian called out from the kitchen, and they joined her there.
“Your husband comes to this union with one box?” she asked, glancing at Trevanion’s chest sitting on the bench.
Beatriss laughed. “Two uniforms. One image of me drawn when we were first betrothed fifteen years ago; one of Finnikin’s mother, Bartolina; a lock of Finnikin’s hair as a child; and a fishing rod. His kingdom, his river, and his family. ‘Who needs anything else?’ he says.”
“Where would you like them?” Abian asked.
“I’d like you to sit, Abian,” Beatriss said. “We’ve not spoken for so long, and I just want to sit and enjoy my time with my friends.”
“Yes,” Isaboe said shrewdly, glancing at Abian. “So would I. At times I think you’re avoiding me. Lord August, too.”
“Trevanion has spoken of the same thing,” Beatriss said with a meaningful look.
Abian continued her counting and recording of the grain sacks.
“Is your silence about Celie?” Isaboe asked.
Abian was not one for restraint, but finished what she was writing before giving them her full attention.
“August is livid,” she said. “And I can’t say I’m too happy about it, either. Our daughter spying on the Belegonians!”
“It’s not spying at all,” Isaboe said in a light tone with a shrug. “It’s stealing mail. Jasmina steals mail all the time. She loves the colorful seals on the notes, and days later, we find the most important of letters in obscure places around the palace.”
Abian seemed in no mood for humor, but Isaboe was in no mood for wasting time. “We would never put Celie’s life in danger. Stealing the mail was her idea. And this anger — your anger — is not about Celie. You and August distanced yourselves from me long before Celie gave us the news from Belegonia.”
Abian collected the records and placed them on a shelf built into the wall.
“This matter with Froi . . .”
Isaboe stiffened. She shook her head, not wanting to hear another word.
“Well, if you must know, it’s affected us all,” Abian said. “Froi’s been part of our family all these years, and then suddenly he was gone, sent away on some mission to Sarnak, which we then find out is Charyn. We’ve waited all autumn, and it’s almost winter’s end and still he’s not home. Now there’s talk about Froi collaborating with the tyrant who was behind the slaughter in this kingdom. Talon and the boys are furious to hear those words from others. Froi is a brother to them, and it’s too much to bear.”
“He doesn’t belong to you, Abian.”
“How can you say that, my queen? Does one have to be blood kin to be considered family? We love him as a son. Celie and the boys miss him terribly. Celie’s reckless actions are a reflection of how she’s feeling. She wants to know where the brother of her heart is and stays in the Belegonian court for any whiff of information about Charyn.”
“Celie has a reckless spirit, Abian. She inherited that from you, despite her pretty politeness and quiet ways. You should celebrate the fact that she’s her mother’s daughter.”
But Isaboe could see Abian didn’t want to hear it.
“Will it always be my children, Your Majesty? Augie’s and mine? First Froi and next Celie, and then the boys. Do you know what they say in the Belegonian and Sarnak and Osterian courts? Probably in Charyn, too? That the children of a Lumateran Flatland lord are a prize in this land. Sired by the gods themselves, and the perfect marriage match. It’s as close to Lumateran royalty as one can find. Are all my children going to be sacrificed for the protection of this kingdom?”
Isaboe heard a sad sigh from Beatriss, but she was too angry to care.
“Yes,” she said coldly. “Your children will be used to impress our neighbors, Lady Abian,” she added, stressing the formality. “And I’ll watch you closely, as will Finnikin. You and Lord August will be our guides. So when the time comes for our daughter to be given to a useless son of a foreign king to keep this kingdom safe, I’ll know how to hold back my tears because I will have learned from you!”
There was stone-cold silence in the room.
Jasmina and Vestie came racing back, giggling and panting with fatigue. But as they did, Jasmina tripped and fell, her head hitting the floor. Abian was closest and picked her up in her arms as they all crowded around, soothing Jasmina’s cries with words and soft kisses. Finally Abian placed her in Isaboe’s arms and pressed a kiss to both their cheeks.
“I spoke out of line.” Abian shook her head with regret. “But promise me that Trevanion and Perri have not been sent to Charyn to —”
“Abian, enough,” Beatriss said, sorrow in her voice. “Froi means everything to the Guard. To Isaboe and Finnikin and all of us. If he’s done any wrong, he will be dealt with here. Fairly.”
Isaboe rocked her daughter in her arms. “It always ends in tears, my love,” she murmured. “All this silliness ends in tears.”
When everything was calm except for Jasmina’s quiet sobs, Tarah served them sweet bread and honey brew and they sat talking awhile about Beatriss and Vestie’s time on the mountain.
Vestie came to stand by them, brushing Jasmina’s cheek with a gentle hand until the little sobs were merely hiccups.
“Is it true I’m her aunt?” Vestie asked.
“Well, you’re Finnikin’s sister now, so I suppose that does make you Jasmina’s aunt,” Isaboe said.
“Can I look after her, then, Isaboe?”
Isaboe nodded. “Always, precious.”
“I’ll take her to the valley to meet my new friend.”
Beatriss grimaced. “I said no more talk of that, Vestie.”
Isaboe could see Beatriss was still shaken by the incident. Isaboe had heard about it from the Guard that morning, and it frightened her to think of how they almost lost Vestie.
“Do you think Millie will cheer Jasmina up?” Vestie asked, referring to her doll.
“She cheers everyone up. Go get her,” Beatriss said, and Vestie skipped away as Jasmina lifted her head to peer toward where her older friend had gone.
“Are we sure she wasn’t taken from her bed?” Isaboe asked quietly.
Beatriss shook her head. “Vestie went down the mountain on her own. She claimed . . . she claimed to have walked the sleep of the girl.”
Isaboe felt both women’s eyes on her.
“Do you think she’s walking the sleep on her own?” Beatriss asked.
Isaboe had no idea how to answer that. Not after the strangeness of her own sleep. “What does Tesadora say?”
Beatriss seemed uncomfortable. “Not much, really. She was very strange. Almost . . . bewitched, if one could ever imagine Tesadora bewitched.”
“Tell us about this mad girl, Beatriss,” Abian said.
“She was so strange,” Beatriss said with a shudder. “Tesadora was wonderful with her. She managed to disarm her. The poor girl is obviously hiding from the Charynites, and Tesadora has taken it upon herself to take care of her.”
“She’s seen her again?” Isaboe asked.
“As I was leaving the mountain, Tesadora was setting out for our side of the valley,” Beatriss said.
Isaboe was disturbed to hear the news. She had sent message after message to Tesadora, asking her to visit. She had excused everyone’s mood after Phaedra of Alonso’s death, but to hear that Tesadora was back in the valley seemed wrong. Isaboe’s bond with Tesadora was strong. It had grown since Isaboe first walked the sleep with Vestie and the Other while in exile. The Other had been Tesadora, their protector and the person partly responsible for breaking the curse her mother had placed on the land. Tesadora and Beatriss had once been strangers to each other, but had worked tirelessly together to protect those trapped inside the kingdom. Through the benevolence of the goddess, they had found a way to lead Isaboe home. It had been Tesadora who had nursed her back to health after Trevanion and the Guard reclaimed Lumatere.
Vestie returned with her rag doll, and Jasmina was happy to see it.
“You’re a kind friend to this stranger, Vestie,” Isaboe said, gathering the little girl toward her. Vestie placed her lips beside Isaboe’s ear and growled in a strange, savage way, then giggled.
“Are you a little wolf, Vestie?” Isaboe asked, bemused.
“That’s what she sounds like,” Vestie explained. “When I walk the sleep.”
Jasmina began to squirm, and Isaboe placed her back on the ground, her attention on Vestie.
“Tell me more about her,” Isaboe said calmly, despite the fact that her heart was pounding. She remembered the feeling night after night of waking from the sleep.
Vestie shook her head.
“Can we guess?” Beatriss said. “Vestie so enjoys guessing games with her father.”
Vestie liked the idea and nodded emphatically. “Father guesses every time. He knows everything.”
“Oh, wonderful,” Isaboe said, winking at Beatriss. “Another besotted child of Trevanion’s.”
“You’ll have to give us a clue,” Abian said.
Vestie hesitated, and then she took Jasmina’s hand and swung it. “She’s just like Jasmina.”
“She’s pretty?” Beatriss said.
“She’s bossy?” Abian said.