“Mercy,” Finnikin muttered. There was never any talk that Gargarin of Abroi would have a companion. The moment they were seated, Finnikin joined them, his eyes meeting the man’s cold stare. Cold, but handsome. Gargarin of Abroi’s hair was coal-black, which contrasted alarmingly with his pale skin and dark-blue eyes. There was silence, and Finnikin felt studied by both of them. For all her beauty, there was little warmth in the woman. But in their fine pelt cloaks, the two looked regal. Apart from Trevanion and Beatriss, a more striking couple he had never seen.
“You’re a far way from home,” the man said in Charyn.
That I am, Finnikin wanted to say. He nodded.
“I don’t trust him,” the woman said to her companion.
The Charynite held up a hand to wave over the servant. When the lad arrived, Gargarin of Abroi turned to his woman.
“I’ll order us food,” he said quietly. Gently. He looked up at the lad. “What have you got?”
“Leftovers.”
“Always a favorite,” Gargarin said dryly. Finnikin watched him reach a hand over to touch the women’s gaunt cheek. “I’m begging you to eat, Lirah.”
“I can’t stomach food. I told you.”
“If he sees you like this, he’ll blame me.”
The woman wrapped her arms around her body miserably. “Shouldn’t have let them go,” she said quietly.
It was as though Finnikin didn’t exist, and although he tried his hardest, he couldn’t keep his eyes off them both. Before him was love and contempt and yearning, and it filled the air.
Then the food came, yet there was still no acknowledgment from the Charynites.
“Did we organize to meet so I could watch you eat?” Finnikin asked finally.
Gargarin lifted his eyes from his plate and stared. “Your army is waiting to cross the border from Osteria,” he said, ice in his tone. “You have our people running scared. A strange turn of events since we exchanged letters.”
“Yes, you’re quite the letter writer,” Finnikin said, cursing the Belegonians for persisting with their plan to invade, despite Isaboe’s objections. “Give me something to offer my king, and I may be able to speak to him about his eager soldiers.”
The woman spat at Finnikin.
“Offer him that,” she said.
Finnikin refused to allow his anger to surface. “That’s very rude,” he said, wiping the spittle from his face. “Especially since, unlike you, leftovers are my least favorite.”
“We promised you peace between our kingdoms, unheard of for at least thirty years,” Gargarin said. “Why would Belegonia not take advantage of such a pledge?”
“But what if Bestiano is offering Belegonia the same?” Finnikin asked.
Through the information collected about Charyn, Finnikin knew that the battle for the palace would take place between two men. Bestiano of Nebia and Gargarin of Abroi.
“Bestiano was the dead king’s adviser,” Gargarin said. “Why would he offer Belegonia peace now when he had years to offer it while the king was alive? He wants something from you, and he’ll promise you nothing but lies.”
“And what do you want from us in return?”
“A powerful ally. The Osterians are weak. They’ll give in to the Sorellians one day, and we will all be left unprotected. What happens when the Sorellians cross the sea to invade your kingdom?”
“We’ll have the Lumaterans. They’re our allies and neighbors.”
Gargarin of Abroi shrugged arrogantly. “Lumatere’s not a kingdom. It’s a road.” He smiled. “Would you not agree?”
“You’re forcing words in my mouth, sir,” Finnikin said, keeping his tone even. “Is this a trap by the Lumaterans to test our allegiance?”
“No, just a jest enjoyed by most Charynites and Belegonians I know.”
“We must have a different sense of humor,” Finnikin said, his hands clenched under the bench.
“Oh, no,” the Charynite said. “Your kingdom and mine? Power and size ensure that we have the same sense of humor. We all agree that Lumatere is insignificant except when it comes to its coal.”
That was all Lumatere ever was to Charyn. A road to Sarnak. A road to Belegonia and a coal mine. Murder Isaboe’s family, and replace them with a puppet king who would give them a path to wherever they wanted to go. Finnikin swallowed, hardly able to speak from the fury.
“So what will we get out of acknowledging you as regent?” he asked Gargarin.
“I never claimed to be regent. I’m here to speak for Charyn until the day that someone sound of mind is placed in charge. And you need an ally. Against Sorel to your east, and those Yut madmen to your south, who are going to bring the whole of Skuldenore down. United, we could be powerful. Divided, this land does not stand a chance.”
The only thing this Charynite and Finnikin had in common was the belief that Skuldenore would work better together than alone.
“Call off the army,” Gargarin said. “For now, that’s all we ask. Give us a chance to stand on our feet.”
Finnikin stood. “I’ll take you to the border. You may get the chance to call them off yourself.”
“Then you accept the offer?”
“I need to speak to the king,” Finnikin said. “He didn’t seem to trust your letters, and he wanted some sort of certainty that this wasn’t a trap.”
Finnikin held out a hand to shake.
“But how do we know this isn’t a trap?” Gargarin asked, not taking the hand outstretched. “That you aren’t playing Bestiano against us?”
“You don’t. But many say that Bestiano of Nebia became First Adviser because the king sent his better men to Lumatere thirteen years ago, only to have them trapped by the curse. We don’t make treaties with last-resort advisers. You, however, were said to be everything a king wanted, and you walked away from it all. The Belegonian king is impressed.”
“Well, there you go,” Gargarin of Abroi said.”Always pleased to impress a foreign enemy. The king of Yutlind Nord remarked quite emphatically that he found me smarter than most men and expressed great pity that he could not come to our assistance, because he hated the Charynites as much as he hated his country men from the south.”
“And how is it that you know the king of Yutlind Nord?”
“Well, you see,” Gargarin said, leaning closer to feign a conspiratorial whisper, “I’m a bit of a letter writer.”
Finnikin was being mocked. The only person who got away with mocking him was Froi and perhaps Perri. This man slightly intrigued him, which was unfortunate when Finnikin knew what was to take place this night. It actually made him feel sick to his stomach.
“So when do I get to meet someone more important than you?” Gargarin asked.
“More important than me?” Finnikin scoffed. “According to my wife, there is no one more important than me.”
A ghost of a smile appeared on the Charynite’s face.
“Keep that wife.”
Finnikin stood.
“Let’s go,” he said.
“Hand him his staff,” the woman ordered.
Finnikin stared at it.
“You need it?” he asked Gargarin.
“Yes, well, it is a walking stick, fool.”
Finnikin had never killed an unarmed man with a limp before. Apart from training with the Guard and an incident with drunk yokels in Sarnak the year before on palace business, he hadn’t used a weapon since the battle to reclaim Lumatere. He was good with a sword. Not as good as Trevanion’s Guard, but better than most men. But he had never assassinated a man. It made him think of all those times Trevanion, Perri, and Froi had done so on palace orders over the years. His and Isaboe’s. Sometimes the men would return from their mission and he’d sense a change in his father. A mood so dark. Perri always disappeared for days after, and Froi . . . Froi would have a vacant look in his eye. As if he had lost a bit of himself.
Outside the inn, Finnikin watched the man and woman before him. They were of the same height. Both reed thin. And they love
d each other. That was the fact Finnikin wanted to forget. That he was about to assassinate a man who loved someone. Who was gentle with her and cared whether she ate or not. But Finnikin remembered the stories of past leaders from the books of the ancients. The kindest of fathers were often the greatest butchers of innocent women and children.
When they reached the clearing, Finnikin saw Perri and his father. Unlike Gargarin of Abroi, he knew where to look for them in the shadow of the trees. And before he could change his mind, Finnikin had one arm around the Charynite’s shoulders, the other hand holding a dagger at his throat. Finnikin kicked away the man’s staff, and Gargarin of Abroi’s body slumped against him.
He heard a sound from the woman as Perri’s hand muffled her cry and pulled her away.
“Don’t hurt her!” Gargarin said. Almost ordered. “Just let her go. She’s of no use to Bestiano. She’s suffered enough. If you have any compassion, let her go.”
Finnikin tightened his grip. “I don’t follow your orders, and I don’t follow Bestiano’s,” he said. “I’m just a fool who comes from that road you call Lumatere.”
He silenced the man’s shout with a hand, pressing the dagger closer to his throat. But suddenly he heard the rustle of leaves underfoot behind him and felt the tip of steel pressed into his back.
“Drop the dagger,” he heard a hoarse whisper say. “Drop it now!”
Gargarin of Abroi tried to turn in Finnikin’s arms and Finnikin sensed his desperation. The knife he held to the Charynite’s throat drew blood as Gargarin struggled. Behind Finnikin, the sword dug deeper into his back.
“I said drop it!”
Mercy!
And just when Finnikin thought the moment could get no worse, he heard his father’s voice. Cold. Hard. Anguished.
“Put down the sword, Froi, or I’ll slice your head clear from your body.”
Lord Tascan and his family’s visit to the mountain was met with great enthusiasm. At first. Yata received them in her home and Lucian spent the afternoon showing them the dairy farms and the silo. Lucian was keen to set up an agreement between the Monts and the Flatland lords. The first of Lumatere’s market days with the Belegonians and Osterians had been a success for the kingdom, but the Monts had been absent, due to Phaedra’s death in the valley. Their hearts had not been in it. But Lucian believed it was time to show the rest of the kingdom that they were more than just sentinels.
And here Lord Tascan was, as keen as Lucian desired. But when the nobleman insisted he accompany Lucian alone on a tour of the stables, Lucian quickly came to understand the truth behind his visit.
“I’m not going to waste time here, Lucian,” he said as they inspected the stalls. Lucian was hoping to show off the size of their boars to Lord Tascan, but he didn’t seem interested.
“Since our return to Lumatere, I’ve watched you carefully and have been impressed with your potential, lad. But then, of course, there was the unfortunate marriage to the Charynite. All behind you now.”
Lucian stiffened. When he had visited the palace village a week past, friends and acquaintances had approached, one after the other, with hearty congratulations.
“It must be a relief,” the weaver had said.
Relief?
The sun appearing after days of rain or darkness was a relief. Orly and Lotte’s news that Gert and Bert had finally found each other and would produce the finest calf known to the mountain was a relief. Phaedra of Alonso’s death was a never-ending pain that gnawed at his insides. It made him a prisoner in his own cottage.
“Lucian, this kingdom would love nothing more than your betrothment to my daughter, Zarah.”
Sweet goddess.
“It will bring opportunity to both our villages, and it will bring light back to this mountain. Isn’t that what you want, Lucian? I’ve seen your yata. This marriage to the Charynite darkened her doorstep.”
No, her death did, Lucian wanted to say. Yata had come to admire Phaedra. Even love her.
“Zarah’s a good daughter, Lucian. The Osterian court held her in high regard when we lived there during the curse.”
“I don’t want to offend your daughter, sir —”
“Then, good.” Lord Tascan thumped Lucian on the back heartily. “It’s settled. No need to rush into anything formal just yet. But we’ll expect you for supper when you visit for market day. You can stay the night in the palace. I’m sure the queen will enjoy seeing a beloved cousin. Perhaps there will be an invitation for my family to join you.”
Lucian forced a smile. Lord Tascan had waited a month. Not to talk hogs and mutton. But to talk unwed daughters. How could Lucian have been so stupid not to notice?
After a long good-bye, the guests departed, demanding promises that he would come visit them, and Lucian returned home. From where he stood outside his cottage, he could see Lord Tascan’s people disappearing down the mountain trail and he felt nothing but great relief. Since Phaedra’s death, his cottage had become his refuge. Sometimes he imagined her there beside him. She had once told Lucian that she liked how high his home sat on the mountain, overlooking the other cottages and farms. She had loved the dips and slopes of the land in the distance, the smoke that came from Orly’s home, and the sight of Miro’s herd of sheep on a neighboring property.
“It’s a pity you can’t see it all from inside,” he heard her say. “Windows would give you the greatest view all around.”
“Why would I want to see more of everyone?” he said. “Then they’d never leave me alone. The walls blocking out the mountain work just fine for me, Phaedra. It means I don’t have to see the sadness of their faces now that you’re gone.”
He spoke aloud to her often. This is what he was reduced to. Speaking to the ghosts of his father and his wife.
He was about to walk inside his cottage when he saw the horses traveling up the trail from the village of Balconio. Was it Lord Tascan returning? Lucian would have to hide, if so. But then he realized it was the Queen’s Guard, and fearing the worst, Lucian walked down the path back to Yata’s compound and waited for their arrival. As they ventured closer, he saw his cousin Isaboe among them. They were usually forewarned that she would be staying so that Yata could organize her quarters. But he also knew that sometimes his cousin craved to be with her mother’s kin, because no one fussed over Isaboe like Yata and the aunts. She was still their little Mont girl despite being queen of them all.
When she arrived with Jasmina and the Guard, he helped her dismount and they embraced. She seemed to want to hold on a moment longer and he let her. He took Jasmina from one of her other guards, Moss, and placed the imp on his shoulders.
“Should you be riding?” he asked Isaboe.
“I’m with child, Lucian,” she said dryly, “not dying. And I’m actually on my way down to the valley.”
“What?” Lucian asked, stunned, looking up at her guard Aldron, who grimaced.
“I’d appreciate your talking the queen out of doing that, Lucian,” Aldron said.
“And I’d appreciate your not talking about me as if I’m invisible,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“Did the queen of this kingdom just roll her eyes?”
“She’s been doing it all the way up the mountain,” Aldron muttered.
“And still you’re talking about me as if I’m not present!” she said.
Lucian exchanged a look with Moss. No one seemed to like the idea of Isaboe traveling to the valley.
“Stop doing that! All of you,” she said firmly.
Lucian held up a hand in surrender.
“If this is about your fight with Finn —”
Aldron was shaking his head at Lucian in warning.
“My conversations with your beloved friend are no one’s business,” she said.
“How come Finnikin’s my beloved friend whenever you fight and he’s your beloved husband all other times?”
Isaboe stared at him, unamused. “Take me to the valley, Lucian, or I’ll have Aldron, here, rela
y the conversation I just had with Lord Tascan as we passed each other. The one where he suggests an invitation to the palace next time you’re in town. With his daughter in attendance.”
Lucian sighed. Isaboe would do it to spite him.
“Moss, can you take Jasmina to Yata and tell her we’ll be staying the night?” she said, taking Jasmina’s little fingers and kissing each and every one of them. “I’m off to see Tesadora. I’ve not seen her for such a while.”
“Then, I’ll send Jory to fetch her,” Lucian said. Moss and Aldron nodded, liking the idea. “Tesadora can eat with us on the mountain tonight.”
“No,” his cousin insisted. “Tesadora’s not one for fetching, and I want to surprise her.”
Lucian insisted that Isaboe share his mount. Yata spoke often about the babe arriving at the end of spring. When Jasmina was born, the kingdom had been in a state of euphoria for months. Lucian couldn’t bear the idea of the horses getting skittish and something happening to the queen.
They rode down the mountain with Aldron and two of the other guards. He had forgotten how much he enjoyed his cousin’s company and how little time they had spent together lately. After sharing family gossip, they spoke of market day in the palace village and Lord Tascan.
“Be careful,” she said. “Lady Zarah trills. Finnikin used to flirt with her when he’d visit the Osterian court during his exile.”
“Yes, but that was before he met you.”
“I overheard Finnikin once telling Sir Topher that Lady Zarah’s voice was a soothing sound.”
“Hmm, soothing voices are in decline on the mountain . . . and in the palace, the way I hear it,” Lucian said. He peered over his shoulder for her reaction.
Isaboe’s eyes narrowed. “If I had the power to make anyone in this kingdom mute, I’d begin with her trilling voice,” she said. “Nothing soothing about it. She speaks softly so men must step closer to ask her to speak again.”
“You’re mean,” he said with a laugh.
“It’s true,” she protested. “The first time Jasmina heard her voice, she held her hands to her ears and cried.”
He reached back and poked her side with a finger, and they both laughed again. But the closer they came to the valley, the more silent they became. He knew he would never speak the words out loud to her, but he had been disappointed that she hadn’t acknowledged Phaedra as his wife. After her death, Isaboe had sent her condolences, but Lucian wished that she had come to know Phaedra in life.