“I haven’t actually told you the worst of it,” Lucian interrupted.
The room grew quiet. Tense. Froi felt the hairs on his arm rise.
Lucian kept his stare focused on his cousin. “And may I stress that no one is hurt.”
There was a deadly silence in the room.
“This morning in the valley, a Charynite took a dagger to Japhra’s throat,” he said, referring to one of Tesadora’s novices.
Froi leaped to his feet. He heard the queen’s cry, Finnikin’s hiss of fury. The captain’s fists were clenched tight. Perri was gone from the room before another word was spoken.
“Japhra’s staying in Yata’s home for the night but insists on returning with Tesadora to the valley tomorrow.”
“And the Charynite?” Trevanion asked.
“He’s under guard.”
The queen looked at Finnikin. Froi saw fear in Isaboe’s expression that sickened him. The queen’s anxiety about a pos-sible attack from the Charynites had grown tenfold since the birth of her child.
“You go with your father and Perri,” she said to Finnikin.
Finnikin looked torn. “The Sarnak ambassador — ”
“I’ll speak to the Sarnak ambassador,” she said.
“No!” Finnikin shouted.
“And what would you prefer?” she asked him sharply. “That I travel up to the mountain and interview a potential Charyn assassin?”
“I’d prefer that Aldron take you and Jasmina back to the palace,” Finnikin said. “I’ll speak to the ambassador, shorten our meeting and then travel up to the mountain.”
“And while you’re at it, why don’t you plow every field in the kingdom and check the nets in the river?” she said sharply. “Then go up to the Rock quarry and break your back working alongside your kin. And perhaps work in the mines after that.”
She was no different from Finnikin. Froi knew everyone in the room wanted to say that. Both the queen and Finnikin refused to believe they had the privilege of palace life, and both could be found at any time working alongside their people during their visits across the kingdom.
“I don’t want you dealing with the Sarnaks, Isaboe,” Finnikin said. “Don’t let me have to imagine how it will feel for you to be in their presence.”
“And it feels any different for you?” she cried. “You can’t be everywhere at the same time, Finnikin. I will take care of Sarnak. They are no threat to us. You take care of Charyn, and perhaps sometime this week we may be able to pass each other on the road and wave from a distance.”
Finnikin sighed, and Froi watched the queen’s expression soften.
“This is an attack from the Charynites, my love,” she said. “Heed my words. This is the beginning.”
Chapter 2
Finnikin watched Isaboe from the entrance of the dining hall of the inn where she sat alongside Sir Topher and their ambassador. Standing behind Isaboe was her guard Aldron, and opposite was the ambassador of Sarnak, his scribe and two of his guards.
The atmosphere in the room was strained. The ambassador of Sarnak was used to speaking to Finnikin about matters between the two kingdoms, and Finnikin was used to keeping his wife from having to deal with Sarnak after what she had witnessed there in her fifteenth year.
“Come, Finn,” his father said quietly at his shoulder. “Lucian is waiting for us.”
Finnikin wanted to stay a moment longer. Isaboe had faced more hostile opponents since she came to power, but this was different.
The Sarnaks waited for her to speak. Finnikin imagined that her silence spoke of an arrogance to the visitors, a sort of play to show who had the power in these negotiations. But he knew what her silence meant.
She looked up and caught his eye. It wasn’t magic or curses, this thing that lay between them. It was more profound than that. He couldn’t even put it into words, and at times it made him want to walk away and take refuge from the ties that bound them both.
I can do this, he read in her eyes.
You can do anything, he was saying in return. But I wish you didn’t have to.
“My queen,” Sir Topher prodded gently.
She nodded in acknowledgment. “Gentlemen,” she began, her voice husky but strong. She had a habit of changing her words moments before a speech. Today seemed like one of those times.
“To be honest, these days I don’t know what to say,” she continued. “You see, our daughter is almost two years old, and she is speaking up a storm. I know the time will come when she’ll ask questions. And I won’t know what to tell her.
“When she asks why we don’t sleep in the larger chambers of the palace, will I find the words to tell her the most heinous of stories? That thirteen years ago, when I was a child of seven, assassins came into those rooms and murdered my father and my mother and my precious older sisters? She’ll want to know how I survived and perhaps I’ll have to hide the truth. You see, my brother Balthazar and I were doing the wrong thing that night. The only truth I may be able to tell Jasmina is that her uncle would have been a great king if he had lived beyond his ninth birthday but that he died saving me from the assassins who found us in the Forest of Lumatere.”
She stopped, unable to go on.
Look at me, Finnikin begged her with his eyes. Look at me, and I’ll give you the strength.
“She’ll be so sad, Jasmina will be,” she continued. “You see, she likes her stories to be magical. At the moment, her favorites are about rabbits that speak and horses with wings that take her across the sky to her favorite friends in the kingdom.”
A ghost of a smile appeared on her lips as she looked at the Sarnak ambassador across the table.
“You have a grandson yourself, sir?”
Finnikin watched the ambassador nod.
“They do love their tales of wonder,” he said, chuckling.
“But my tale has little such wonder,” Isaboe said. “I’ll have to tell her that I ran for my life and wasn’t there to see the days of the unspeakable that followed, but that her father recorded the events in his Book of Lumatere, stories of good people who turned their backs on their neighbors because they needed someone to blame. Stories of how her pardu, Trevanion, was accused of treason and sent to a foreign prison, separated from his son, her beloved father, who was no more than nine at the time. She’ll weep for her grandfather and for the sorry truth of how he believed that his love, Lady Beatriss of the Flatlands, had died in a filthy dungeon giving birth to their dead child, moments before she was to be burned at the stake.”
Finnikin heard the low intake of ragged breath from his father. Hearing his name and that of Beatriss would have told Trevanion enough despite his ignorance of the Sarnak language.
“And then the hardest part will be explaining Lumatere’s curse, for curses are not the easiest things to explain to a child: how half the kingdom was trapped inside the walls, while the other half walked the land in exile for ten long years. She’ll have to speak to Lady Beatriss to hear the depravity of what took place inside these cursed walls. How the impostor king and his army, trapped by the curse themselves, forced themselves into the beds of our women, hanged the children of men who chose to rebel, and burned our land over and over again.”
The ambassador bowed his head. He was a good man. Finnikin had come to realize that during these last three years of negotiations. But goodness in a man was not enough when it came to appeasing a kingdom that had lost so much.
“Both my king and I will have to tell our daughter what happened to our suffering people who traveled from kingdom to kingdom in exile. Begging for sanctuary.”
Her eyes fixed on the ambassador of Sarnak, and Finnikin shuddered at the force of her memory. “Begging your kingdom for sanctuary, sir.”
Her voice broke.
“Give me the words, Ambassador,” Isaboe pleaded. “Give me the words to explain to my child the fate of three hundred of our exiles from her grandfather’s village, who had taken refuge on your riverbank. Although I was there
to witness it, I still cannot find the words to explain what happens when a king turns his back and allows his people to do as they please. Give me the words to describe the mass grave her father saw at the crossroads of Sendecane. What a fever camp looks like, where bodies are piled onto each other in a pit, as I witnessed in Sorel.”
The tears pooled in her eyes, but Finnikin saw triumph in them as well.
“Knowing Jasmina, she’ll make me repeat over and over again the story of her father climbing a rock to find me at land’s end,” she continued, her dark gaze looking over the ambassador’s shoulder and fastening on Finnikin.
“But I know which part she’ll love best. That despite all the horror our people had to endure, we found a way. How her father and I and this good man who sits by my side traveled the land searching for the captain and his Guard and my Mont cousins. How Beatriss of the Flatlands and Tesadora of the Forest Dwellers found a means from within the kingdom to lead us home and reunite our people.”
There was silence, until Finnikin heard the ambassador of Sarnak clear his throat.
“We need each other, Your Majesty,” he implored. “Has my king not expressed his sorrow enough? The silence between our kingdoms has gone on for too long. Let us unite and fight a more cunning enemy.”
She leaned forward. “Do not bring me apologies from your king, sir. Bring me the news that the men who slaughtered my unarmed people on that riverbank have been brought to justice.”
She stood, her eyes never leaving the ambassador. “Do me that honor, sir, so that one day the princess of Lumatere may befriend the grandson of the Sarnak ambassador who convinced his king that great men make amends for wronging their neighbors.”
Finnikin felt his father’s hand on his shoulder. He must have made a sound, for Isaboe looked up again.
Go, he read in her eyes.
Finnikin turned and walked away.
Outside, as they mounted their horses alongside Lucian and his Mont cousins, Finnikin explained what had been spoken between Isaboe and the Sarnak ambassador.
“We might have to make do with nothing more than an apology,” Trevanion said quietly. “If what happened on the mountain is an attack from Charyn, we may need the Sarnaks now more than ever.”
Finnikin shook his head. “We’ve worked too long and hard for this,” he said. “She’ll not weaken on the matter. Mark my words. I know Isaboe. She will not give in until the Sarnaks give her what we want.”
Chapter 3
The Charynite was slight in build, but most Charynites Froi had seen were. His hair was worn long to the shoulders, and although he appeared to be older than Finnikin, it was hard to determine his age. His face was bruised and bleeding, and Froi knew from one of the Monts that the beating had come from Tesadora of the Forest Dwellers, tiny as she was, who now stood beside Perri with savagery in her eyes.
The wife that Lucian had sent back stood before them, trembling. She was small and plumpish with a sweet round face.
“My kinsman does not understand why you require me here, sir,” Phaedra said quietly, looking up at Lucian, her face reddening.
“We speak Lumateran,” Lucian said. “You speak for us. Understood?”
Meanwhile Trevanion crouched down close in front of the Charynite prisoner, studying the man with an unnerving intensity.
“Ask him the reason for the attack,” Trevanion ordered Phaedra, not taking his eyes from the Charynite.
Trevanion’s Charyn was weakest of everyone’s in the room; Perri’s a little stronger. Finnikin had insisted that they learn the Charyn tongue if they were to travel into the enemy kingdom to kill the king. Some days, Finnikin insisted that they speak nothing but Charyn for practice, although both Finnikin and Froi would become frustrated at how slowly they were forced to speak.
Phaedra repeated the question.
Froi saw the movement in the Charynite’s throat, the swallowing of fear. Nevertheless, he stared Trevanion in the eye.
“Because I had requested more than once to speak to the queen … or her king, and I was refused time and time again.”
Phaedra translated the words.
“So you take a dagger to Japhra’s throat?” Lucian asked in Charyn, forgetting his vow to speak only Lumateran.
The Charynite tilted his head to the side, looking beyond Trevanion to where Finnikin stood. “Well, it worked, did it not?”
Froi snarled, but didn’t realize he had done so aloud until the man looked toward him with little fear and a slight expression of … Was it satisfaction? It was a long moment before the prisoner looked away.
“We don’t need the girl,” the Charynite said quietly, indicating Phaedra. “Most of you can understand me clearly. True?” He looked from Froi to Lucian and then finally to Finnikin. “There aren’t too many men in this part of the land with hair that color, Your Majesty,” he said. “And everyone knows the Lumateran queen and her consort speak the language of every kingdom in this land.”
Finnikin stood coldly silent.
“Ask the girl to leave,” the Charynite repeated.
“We make the demands,” Lucian said. “Not you.”
“Ask her to leave,” the Charynite said tiredly. “For if she hears what I say, my men will have to kill her, and they are scholars, not killers. They hate the sight of blood.”
Despite the regret in the man’s voice, Froi knew he spoke the truth.
Lucian called out to one of the Mont guards. “Get her out of here,” he ordered. “Have one of the cousins take her down to the valley.” Lucian turned his attention to the girl. “Return to your father’s house, Phaedra. Once and for all. If I see you in the valley, I’ll drag you back to your province myself!”
The girl walked to the entrance of the cell, turning to look at the Charynite hesitantly.
“Go,” the man said gently. “You’ve risked enough, Little Sparrow, and we are grateful indeed.”
Lucian bared his teeth. The Charynite gave a small humorless laugh as Phaedra left the cell.
“Foolish of you to have let her leave your spousal bed, Mont. If she had been given the chance, Phaedra of Alonso would have been the first step to peace.”
“What makes you think we’re after peace with Charynites?” Lucian asked.
“Because Japhra of the Flatlands speaks of it in her sleep.”
Tesadora hissed with fury. “Don’t speak her name again, or you’ll be choking on your own blood.”
“Japhra’s a woman with worth beyond your imagining,” he continued as if Tesadora had not threatened his life. But Froi saw moisture gather on the Charynite’s brow and knew that Trevanion’s close proximity and Tesadora’s presence unsettled him more than he would care to admit.
“Some women learn to listen better when they speak little.” The Charynite’s eyes fixed on Finnikin again. “Did you not learn that from your queen in her mute days?”
Finnikin finally spoke. “You are pushing my patience, Charynite, and if you make one more reference to our women, including my queen, I will beg a dagger from my kinsmen and slice you from ear to ear. So speak.”
The Charynite kept his focus on Finnikin.
“My name is Rafuel from the Charynite province of Sebastabol. I’m here in the valley with seven other men.” He waited a moment for Lucian to translate. Rafuel met Trevanion’s stare. “I have a way of getting you into the palace, gentlemen. To do both our kingdoms a great justice.
“To kill the king of Charyn.”
Froi could sense that the others were as stunned as he was to hear the words, but there was little reaction.
“And why would we trust you, Charynite?” Finnikin asked.
“Because we have something in common, Your Majesty.”
“We have nothing in common.”
“Not even a curse?” Rafuel said calmly.
“Sagra!” Froi muttered. Another godsforsaken curse.
Rafuel’s eyes met Froi’s again.
“Our curse was first,” Rafuel of Sebast
abol said.
“Really?” Finnikin asked, sarcasm lacing his words. “Was it worse than ours?”
Rafuel sighed sadly. “If we sit and compare, Your Majesty, perhaps I may win, but we will all be left with very little in the end.”
Finnikin pushed past his father and grabbed the man to his feet, his teeth gritted. “How could you possibly win? My queen suffers with this curse.”
“And so does her king, I hear.”
The Charynite had the power of saying so much in the most even of tones.
“Did you not notice anything peculiar when you passed through Charyn during your exile?” the Charynite continued.
Finnikin regained his composure and shoved the man away. “I passed through Charyn three times only. The first was when I was ten and visited the palace with Sir Topher, the queen’s First Man. We were consigned to one chamber and spoke to no one. The second time was three years ago when we were searching for exiles and I can’t recall a friendly chat from a Charynite back then either. And the third time, a group of your soldiers took forty of our people hostage on the Osterian border and beat up our boy,” he said, pointing back to Froi.
“Your boy?” the Charynite questioned, his eyes meeting Froi’s. “Are you sure of that?”
Tesadora flew at him, but Perri held her back.
“Why does he still breathe?” she demanded. “It’s simple. Snap his neck.”
Rafuel was staring at her, almost in wonder. “That’s the Charyn Serker in you, Tesadora of the Forest Dwellers.”
This time Perri let her go, and Froi watched Tesadora throw herself at the Charynite, her fingers clawing his face. Froi had heard stories of her half-Charyn blood, but no one dared speak of it. Perri waited a moment or two, enough time for her to draw more blood. Only then did he calmly step forward to pull her away. Froi felt an instant regret that it was over so soon. Somehow he was always drawn to darkness, and no one in the room had a darker core than Tesadora.
Rafuel continued as if his face weren’t bleeding. “It is forbidden for a Charynite to speak to outsiders. Such a rule gets in the way of a ‘friendly chat.’ ”