Contents
Prologue
Part One: The Curse Maker
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part Two: The Reginita
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
To Laura
For conversations in Ravenna
and New York playlists
Prologue
They call her Quintana the curse maker. The last female born to Charyn, eighteen years past.
Reginita, she claims to be. The “little queen.” Recipient of the words writ on her chamber wall, whispered by the gods themselves. That those born last will make the first, and blessed be the newborn king, for Charyn will be barren no more.
And so it comes to be that each autumn since the fifteenth day of weeping, a last-born son of Charyn visits the palace in a bid to fulfill the prophecy. But fails each time.
They weep for fear of hurting her. But she has no tears for herself. “Come along,” she says briskly. “Be quick. I’ll try to think of other things, but if your mouth touches mine, I will cut it out.”
Most nights she concentrates on the contours of the ceiling, where light from the oracle’s godshouse across the gravina shines into her chamber. She holds up a hand and makes shapes in the shadows. And inside of her, in the only place she can hide, Quintana sings her song.
And somewhere beyond the stone that is Charyn, the blood of a last born sings back to her.
Part One
The Curse Maker
Chapter 1
Froi’s head was ringing.
A fist against his jaw, an elbow to his nose, a knee to his face, and they kept on coming and coming, these old men, he had called them. They came for him one after the other, and there was no mercy to be had this day. But Froi of the Exiles wasn’t born for mercy. Not to receive nor to deliver it.
Behind his attackers was a sycamore tree waiting to die, its limbs half dragging on the dry ground beneath it, and Froi took his chance, diving high between two of the men, his hands reaching for one of the branches, his body swinging, legs jutting out. A boot to a face, one man down, then he pounded into another before the branch collapsed under his weight. He pulled it free from the tree, swinging the limb high over his head. A third man down and then the fourth. He heard a curse and a muttered threat before the flat of his palm smashed the next man who came forward. Smashed him on the bridge of the nose, and Froi danced with glee.
Until he was left facing Finnikin of Lumatere and Froi felt the feralness of his nature rise to the surface. “No rules,” they had declared, and the dark goddess knew that Froi loved to play games with no rules. And so with eyes locked, they circled each other, hands out, waiting to pounce in the way the wolves in the Forest of Lumatere fought for their prey. Froi saw a bead of sweat appear on the brow of the man they called the queen’s consort, saw the quick fist come his way, and so he ducked, his own fist connecting with precision. But all it took was the thought of the queen, her head shaking with bemusement and a smile entering her eyes, to make Froi think again about where to land his second blow. In that moment’s hesitation, his legs were kicked out from under him and he felt his face pressed into the earth.
“You let me win,” Finnikin growled, and Froi heard anger in his voice.
“Only because she’ll kill me if I bruise that lily-white skin,” Froi mocked through gasps.
Finnikin pressed harder, but after a moment, Froi could feel that he was shaking from laughter. “She’ll thank you for it, knowing Isaboe.” Finnikin leaped to his feet. They exchanged a grin, and Froi took the hand held out to him.
“Old man, did you call me?” Perri, the captain’s second-in-charge, asked behind him. “Because I’m sure I heard those words come out of your mouth.”
“Not out of my mouth,” Froi said, feigning innocence and spitting blood to the ground from a cut in his lip. “Must have been someone else.”
Around the sycamore, soldiers of the Guard were picking themselves up, curses ringing the air while the lads in training began collecting the practice swords and shields.
“If he goes for my nose again, I fink I’ll hang him up by his little balls,” one of the Guard said, getting to his feet. Froi tried to ignore the mockery.
“Nothing little about me,” he grunted. “Don’t take my word for it, Hindley. Ask your wife. She seemed happy last night, you know, with the size and all.”
Hindley snarled, knowing there was no truth in the words, but the danger was in having spoken them. Froi saw the snarl as an invitation, and all hope of ignoring it failed as he lunged at the man, wanting nothing more than to connect a fist to Hindley’s nose for the third time that day. Because no matter what, the taunts still stung. Three years ago, when he hardly knew a word of Lumateran, his tongue would twist around all the strange pronunciations of his new language, causing great amusement among those who saw Froi as nothing more than street scum. Here comes the feef wif nofing to show for, they’d taunt. Finnikin had once told Froi that the greatest weapon against big stupid men was a sharp mind. It was one of the reasons Froi had agreed to continue his lessons with the priest-king. Three years on, he had exceeded everyone’s expectations, including his own.
Today they had set up their drills in a meadow close to the foot of the mountains. Finnikin and Sir Topher had business with the ambassador from the neighboring kingdom of Sarnak, and they had chosen the inn of Balconio as the meeting place.
“You’re not as nimble as you used to be,” Perri said as they walked toward the horse posts by the rock hedges of a Flatland farm that had long been deserted. Lumatere was filled with empty farms and cottages, a testament to those who had died during the ten years of terror, which ended three years ago, when Finnikin and the queen broke the curse and freed their people.
“He’s talking to you,” Finnikin said with a shove.
“No, he’s talking to you,” Froi replied with an even greater shove. “Because I’d probably kill a man who called me nimble.”
Perri stopped in his tracks, and Froi knew he had gone too far. Perri had a stare that could rip the guts out of a man, and Froi felt it now. He knew he would have to wait it out under Perri’s cold scrutiny.
“Except if it came from you, Perri,” he said seriously. “I’d prefer the word swift, though. And you can’t say I’m not swift.”
“What have I told you about talking back?” Perri’s voice was cold and hard.
“Not to,” Froi muttered.
He knew he should have counted. It was the rule to count to ten in his head before he opened his mouth. It was the rule to count to ten if he wanted to smash a man in the face for saying something he didn’t
like. It was the rule to count to ten if instinct wasn’t needed but common sense was. It was part of his bond to Trevanion and Perri and the Queen’s Guard. Froi did a lot of counting.
They began walking again, silent for what seemed too long a time. Then Finnikin shoved him with a shoulder and Froi stumbled, laughing.
“He’s filling out more than we imagined, Perri,” Finnikin said. “Perhaps it’s true what they say, after all. That he comes from River folk.”
“Wouldn’t mind being known as a River man,” Froi said.
Still nothing from Perri.
“Not as a Flatlander?” Finnikin asked.
Froi thought about it for a moment. “Perhaps both.”
He saw Perri’s look of disapproval.
“You can’t stay working on Augie’s farm much longer,” Perri said firmly. “Sooner or later, you’ll have to join the Guard.”
The topic of where Froi belonged came up more often these days. What had begun as a roof over his head three years ago with Lord August and his family had become home. And Froi’s kinship with the village of Sayles had strengthened as he toiled alongside them, day in and day out, to restore Lumatere to what it had been before the unspeakable. But Froi’s place was also with the captain and Perri and the men of the Guard in the barracks of the palace, protecting the queen and Finnikin and their daughter, Princess Jasmina. Once a boy with no home, Froi now found himself torn between two.
“I can do both.”
“No, you can’t,” Perri said.
“I can do both, I tell you!”
“You’ve a warrior’s instinct and the skill of a marksman, Froi,” Perri said. “You’re wasted as a farm boy. It’s what I tell Augie every time I see him.”
“Lady Abian says I’m probably eighteen by now, so you’ll have to start treating me as one of the men,” Froi muttered. He hated being called a boy.
This was followed by another stare from Perri. Another round of counting to ten from Froi.
“I’ll treat you like a man when you act like one,” Perri said. “Agreed?”
Finnikin shoved him again, and Froi tried not to laugh because Perri hated it when Froi didn’t take things seriously.
“When I’m as old as my father, they’ll still be calling me a boy,” Finnikin said. “So why shouldn’t you endure the indignity of it all as well?”
“Oh, Finn, Finn, the indignity of it all,” Froi mocked, and Finnikin grabbed him around the neck, squeezing tight.
At the horse posts, Froi tossed the stable boy a coin as they collected their mounts. The boy gave Finnikin a note, and Froi saw irritation and then a ghost of a smile appear on his friend’s face.
“I’ll ride ahead to the inn,” Finnikin said.
“Not unescorted, you won’t,” Perri said.
“It’s around the bend in this road. Nothing can happen to me from here to there.”
Froi rubbed noses with his horse. He knew this argument would last a moment or two.
“Anything can happen,” Perri said.
“Suppose around the bend are ten Charynite scumsters, waiting to jump you,” Froi said, mounting the horse.
Finnikin shot Froi a scathing look. “You’re supposed to be on my side, Froi. And how do you suppose Charynite — ”
“Scumsters,” Froi finished.
“How do you suppose Charynite scumsters got up the mountain and passed the Mont sentinels?”
“All it takes is for one of them to slip through,” Perri said.
But Finnikin was already on the horse, trotting away.
“I’ll see you at the inn,” he called out over his shoulder. He broke into a gallop and was gone.
“I think he forgets his place sometimes,” Perri murmured, staring after Finnikin. “He still believes he can come and go as though he’s some messenger boy.”
There was silence between them again as they rode to the inn. Froi watched Perri carefully. He wondered if Perri would stay mad for long. Despite most things from Froi’s mouth coming out wrong, he hated disappointing Perri or the captain.
“I can take leave from the farm, Perri,” he said quietly. “Especially when it comes time to travel into Charyn and do what we have to do.”
Perri was silent for a moment. “What makes you think I’m taking you to Charyn?”
“Because you’ve taught me everything I know about …” Froi shrugged. “You know.”
“Killing,” Perri said bitterly.
“And when I’m not training with you or working on the farm, then I’m with the priest-king being taught to speak the tongue of our enemy.” He gave Perri a sideward glance. “So the way I see it, that says you’re taking me to Charyn.”
Perri was silent for a moment. “You know what the priest-king says?”
“Sagra!” Froi cursed. He knew he was going to get another serving from Perri.
“He says that you don’t have time for your studies anymore. That you think there’s no merit in learning and stories.”
“I’ve learned all I need to,” Froi said. “Studies and learning and stories won’t protect the kingdom, and they won’t reap harvests.”
Perri shook his head. “I would have given anything to be taught at your age. The priest-king says you’re a natural, Froi. That you pick up facts and foreign words and that you understand ideas that are beyond many of us. Who would have thought that hidden beneath all the talking back and fighting was a sharp mind? But it means nothing to the captain or me when you show little control over your actions and words.”
Froi took a deep breath and counted, making sure he didn’t take it out on the horse.
“You’re not training anyone else, are you, Perri?” he managed to ask, trying to hold back his fury at the thought. “Not Sefton or that scrawny fool from the Rock? They think too much. You can see it on their faces. And they’d never bear a torture. Never.”
Perri looked at him and Froi saw his eyes soften.
“And you would?”
“You know me, Perri,” Froi said fiercely. “You know that if you wrote me a bond and told me what to bear, I’d bear it. You know me. Have I let you or the captain down once these past three years, hunting those traitors?”
In the distance, a Flatlander was harnessed to his plow, working a field on his own. Froi and Perri held up a hand in acknowledgment, and the man waved back.
“When the time comes, we will have only one chance to get into that palace,” Perri said. “There will be no room for mistakes. Their army combined is more than our entire people, and if we make the slightest of errors, there will be a war to end all wars across this land.”
There was a flash of anguish on Perri’s face. Froi saw it in everyone’s expression once in a while, especially those who remembered life as it once was. Froi didn’t feel the sadness. Despite Isaboe and Finnikin’s belief that he was one of the children lost to the kingdom thirteen years ago, when the impostor king took control, Froi remembered nothing about Lumatere. All he had known was life on the streets in another kingdom, where a chance meeting with Finnikin and the queen changed his life. In a secret part of him, Froi reveled in what he had gained from Lumatere’s curse. He never looked back, because if he did, he would have to think of the shame and the baseness of who he had once been without his bond. He would do anything to prove his worth to the queen and Finnikin. Even kill. It was what he had been taught to do these past years. Over and over again.
Although every Lumateran had been trained to use a bow to defend the kingdom, Froi had stood out and was handpicked by Trevanion and Perri to work alongside them. He was swift and had mastered any skill thrown his way. The first time Froi was sent into the home of a traitor with a dagger and sword, Captain Trevanion had made him vow it would not end with death. They needed the man alive. What they required was information about the bodies of ten Flatland lads who had gone missing in the fifth year of the curse under the cruel reign of the impostor king. Froi studied the information and had gone in with vengeance in his heart. This
man had been a traitor, a collaborator. He had spied for the impostor king and betrayed his neighbors. In the end, Froi had kept the man alive. Barely. From the information he forced out of him, they found the remains of the lads and were able to put them to rest seven years after they were slain. If the lads had lived, they would have been a year or two older than Froi today. Despite the passing of time, the grief from the families on the day of the burials was indescribable. What Froi had done to get that confession was worse.
But the punishment of most other traitors was different. When the palace was certain beyond doubt of their guilt, Captain Trevanion and Perri would ensure that retribution was quick and out of plain sight of the people of Lumatere, who had already seen enough bloodshed.
“Don’t you just want to tear out their hearts?” Froi had asked both his captain and Perri one day when they had marked a traitor from a distance and shot an arrow into his chest. That the man died quickly with no fear or pain disturbed Froi.
“You can’t go around feeling too much,” Captain Trevanion had explained, watching a moment to ensure that the man was indeed dead. “Because if you feel too much, enough to want to kill them so savagely, then one day you’re going to feel enough to spare their lives. Don’t ever let emotion get in the way. Just follow orders. Most times the orders you follow will be the right ones.”
Most times.
Sometimes it was a snap of the neck. Other times a dagger across the throat or a blade piercing the heart. But it was always clean and quick. More than once they had found a small band of the dead impostor king’s soldiers in hiding, deserters from his army, seeking refuge in the forest at the far corner of the western border. Many of them had fled when Trevanion and his Guard had entered the kingdom to set their people free. Although the impostor king was half Lumateran, he was also a Charynite and his army was mostly made up of Charynites. Those soldiers now filled Lumatere’s prison while Finnikin and Sir Topher endeavored to prove guilt or innocence by collecting evidence and testimonials. More than a hundred prisoners had been released and returned to Charyn.
Perri and Froi came to the outskirts of Balconio, where cottages began to appear. They passed a fallow field, and Froi heard Perri murmur words that he had heard over and over again each time anyone passed a fallow field. It was a prayer to the goddess that the soil would regain its fertility. In the last days of the curse, the impostor king had set alight most of the Flatlands.