“He did,” Rafuel said. “He made a pact with an enemy leader eighteen years ago to protect his daughter from this very moment. He sent her to Lumatere.”
Phaedra watched from where she knelt beside Florenza of Nebia. As a last born, she had known that this day would come, and had always told herself she’d be brave. Perhaps it was the wish of the gods for her to be taken by the men of the palace to create the first. But after what she had witnessed this day, she could not imagine the gods sanctioning such cruelty and horror.
Her only reprieve was that no girl in this valley had the mark of the last born. Phaedra had checked them all herself. No girl but her, and here she was on her knees, five women away from whatever it was that Quintana of Charyn had been called on to do for all these years. The last will make the first. What if there was nothing left of the spirit of the last to give to the first?
The men were almost upon her when the leader of the horsemen looked up across the stream. Phaedra could only see Kasabian and Cora from where she knelt, and on a day when she didn’t think hope existed, she saw it in their eyes.
“Introduce yourself, stranger,” the leader of the horsemen ordered.
“I’m no stranger,” her Mont husband said, astride his horse. “I’m Lucian of the Monts, the custodian of this valley. State your business here, Charynite.”
She hadn’t realized until that moment that she had always enjoyed the sound of her Mont husband’s voice. It was strong and gruff, and it spoke with little nonsense and a good deal of substance.
“Regardless of whose valley it is, these people are ours and we do as we’re ordered,” Donashe said.
“Ordered by whom?” Lucian asked. “The palace?”
The man hesitated.
“State your purpose, Charynite. Is this palace business?” Lucian demanded, pointing to where Phaedra and the others knelt. “Are these girls palace business?”
“We’re searching for our last borns —”
“Last borns?”
“We’ve come from the Citavita, friend,” the man said, trying to keep a civil tone. “These are uneasy times in Charyn. We’re collecting any last born to ensure their safety.”
Lucian nodded, watching the man closely.
“Wise of you, Charynite. I would do the same to protect the young women of my kingdom. I invite you to take any last born you can find. But you have the wife of a Mont leader, who also happens to be cousin of the Lumateran queen, there before you.”
Lucian clenched his teeth. “On. Her. Knees.”
The Charynite stared at him with disbelief.
“Your wife?”
Lucian pointed down to where Phaedra knelt.
“Why would your wife be a Charynite in the valley, Mont?”
Lucian trotted his horse around the horseman to where Phaedra knelt and held out a hand.
“The first step to peace between Lumatere and the closest province of Charyn was the betrothment of myself and the provincaro of Alonso’s daughter.”
Phaedra raised herself onto trembling feet.
Donashe stared at them both. “Why would you allow your wife out of your sight, Mont?”
Lucian bent and grasped Phaedra’s arm, dragging her onto the horse.
“She claims that the blood of her people in the valley sing to her each day, and if I don’t allow her to come down the mountain, she gives me grief.” Lucian placed his arms around Phaedra. “Let us say that I’m a very indulgent man and my Little Sparrow is most convincing.”
With that, Lucian steered the horse toward the stream.
“Then we look forward to speaking to your Little Sparrow tomorrow,” the horseman called out, “about the well-being of her people.”
Phaedra cried out at the threat in those words. She looked back to where the camp dwellers stood.
“That was a warning, Luci-en. About what he is going to do to these people.”
“Not your concern,” he said.
“It is my concern,” she cried. “I’m a provincaro’s daughter. It is our duty that we protect those not born with our privilege.”
They didn’t speak for most of the journey up the mountain, but his grip around her was tight and she felt the tremble in his body.
“I saw it all,” he said, as if he could no longer contain it. “I saw it all and did nothing.”
What would his father have done?
The first person Lucian could see when he reached his village on the mountain was Rafuel, crouched in the dirt with his head in his hands, weeping. The Charynite was surrounded by Tesadora and Aldron and Tesadora’s girls. The Monts who had been there to see the prisoner off were here to see him return. They watched in tense silence.
Lucian could tell that they had been told of the day’s events, for they all seemed shaken. He lowered Phaedra to the ground and a moment later Yata was there with a blanket around the girl.
“I sent one of the lads to the palace,” Yata said. “Let’s hope the Guard will arrive tomorrow with instructions.”
“What happened, Lucian?” his cousin Yael asked.
“Are we at war?” another called out.
“I don’t understand,” Alda said. “What are those Charyn riders doing in the valley, Lucian?”
He looked at Rafuel and then Aldron. “I think it’s safer for him to be back in the cell.”
Aldron shook his head. “He’ll just find a way to smash his head apart against the stone wall.”
No one knew what to say about the Charynite. He was weeping, chanting the names of his lads over and over again.
“I don’t understand,” Jory said, staring down at Rafuel. “Tell him to stop.”
But Lucian understood. He grabbed Jory and dragged him to the younger lads who followed Jory day in and day out.
“See these seven, Jory,” he asked, fury in his voice. “Well, imagine you were on one side of the stream hiding, while on the other side of the stream someone slaughtered your lads and cousins, right in front of you. And there was nothing you could do, Jory, because we were holding you down to stop you from being slain yourself.”
Lucian then grabbed Phaedra.
“Lucian!” Yata warned.
“And see this woman, Jory,” he said, turning Phaedra around gently and revealing the strange lettering on her neck. “This woman is just like our queen. Marked as a slave to do things we don’t want to imagine happening to our own.”
Lucian pulled Jory toward Phaedra. “Treat her as you would beloved Isaboe, Jory. Follow her everywhere she goes. Down the valley and across the stream. Everywhere. And if any man touches her, Mont or Charynite, you put a sword through his heart. Do you hear me?”
Jory stared at Lucian and then at his father. His father nodded.
“Take your pardu’s sword,” Yael said quietly.
Lucian looked around, searching for the older lads.
“I want one of you in every tree in that valley. Not concealed. I want those animals to see us. I want them to know that if they dare slaughter anyone on our land, they die.”
And then he walked to Rafuel and gripped him by the arm. Lucian pulled him to his feet and took the Charynite to his home.
That’s what Saro of the Monts would have done.
Chapter 27
In a mostly deserted village outside Jidia, Froi broke into a stable. He needed a horse, and this dusty village of sunken empty wheel ruts and a wind that cried out its grief seemed his only option. Despite what these people had possibly endured, Froi’s necessity was greater, and he felt little remorse at what he was about to take from them. That, in itself, brought him relief. He had become too soft in the palace and needed to find the ruthless warrior inside that Trevanion and Perri marveled at.
“You’re probably best not doing that,” he heard a voice behind him say. Froi hoped that the man wasn’t holding a weapon. He was desperate to get home, and a man with a gentle voice was going to get in his way.
He turned to see a couple standing at the entrance of the barn
. They were perhaps in their middle years, but it was hard to tell. Reed thin from the sorrow of life, they leaned against each other as though nothing else could hold them up but the other.
“It will get you no farther than half a day’s ride away,” the man continued. “He’s an old thing, Acacia is. Belonged to our boy and refuses to die.”
Froi sighed. Why did everyone in Charyn seem to have a story in their eyes? And when had he started caring?
“Have you come from the Citavita?” the man asked.
“No,” Froi lied. “From Alonso.”
Both the man and woman studied him cautiously. “We watched you arrive, lad. You came from the south, not the north.”
Don’t let me hurt you, old man. Don’t let me hurt you both.
He knew he could easily fight these people and win. If he wanted the horse, he could take the horse. He had the power, regardless of who owned the stable. Power was everything. Until he realized that law belonged to the street thugs who had brought him up on the streets of Sarnak’s capital. Not Trevanion. Power, the captain had told him, meant nothing whether in someone’s home or their village or their kingdom or their palace. Respect and honor meant everything.
“Can I beg of you a place to sleep in your stable, then?” Froi asked. “And a plate of food? I’m good for a day’s work, and if your second field isn’t weeded soon, you’ll have planted for nothing.”
So Froi worked alongside the man and woman all day. They were a quiet couple, and like many of those Froi had met in Charyn, there was a sadness in their whole beings that was years in the making. It was in the way they walked and toiled. It was in their silence, and it was in their words. They grew barley and broad beans and cabbage. Not to trade, but to survive. The soil was poor from little rain, much the same as the rest of the kingdom outside the walls of the provinces. There was no future for them out here. Froi wondered what had happened to the rest of the villagers. He counted eight cottages in total but could see that it had been quite some time since they were lived in.
The man, named Hamlyn, asked him about his family, but Froi didn’t respond.
He could have lied to himself and said that he had thought little of Quintana, Lirah, Arjuro, and Gargarin these past few days, but he didn’t. He had thought of the four of them every moment. But he was too close to home for regrets, and he owed them nothing.
That night, he waited on the porch for his food but none came until Hamlyn stepped outside with an expression of irritation on his face.
“We are hungry, lad. We can’t wait much longer for you,” Hamlyn said before disappearing inside.
Froi entered the small cottage and looked around. It was plain and as clean as could be found in a place so dry and dusty. There was one bed at the end of the room. Outside he had noticed the woodfire oven, but inside was a large pot, from which Hamlyn’s wife dished out a bowl of barley soup. When Froi saw the plate set for him at their table, he felt shame. Who was he to deserve their hospitality after what he had planned to do? Hamlyn’s wife placed a large chunk of bread at the side of his plate, but none beside hers or Hamlyn’s.
“Life on a farm is hard enough,” Froi said after a slurp, dividing his bread into three and placing a piece by both their plates. “Why stay here and not inside the walls of Jidia?”
Hamlyn’s wife looked up for a moment, and then she went back to her soup.
When neither responded, Froi asked about news from the capital.
“There’s confusion,” Hamlyn said. “We had visitors ride through here seven days past. Their stories differed. Some claimed that one of the provincari planned the murder of the king and that Bestiano is our only hope. Another believed it was the hidden priests who managed to get an assassin inside. One or two of them whispered that Bestiano had killed the king and that his riders are occupying the base of the gravina and raising an army from Nebia.”
“And what are your thoughts?” Froi asked.
Hamlyn shrugged. “We have nothing left of worth for a king’s army,” he said bitterly.
Later, Hamlyn’s wife gave Froi a blanket, and Hamlyn accompanied him to the stable.
“I found it easy to break inside here,” Froi said quietly when Hamlyn handed him the lantern. “Tomorrow I’ll secure some of these old planks.”
Hamlyn nodded. Froi couldn’t help but notice how large the stable was. How empty it was except for Acacia. Hamlyn caught the question in his eye.
“I worked with horses,” he said. He smiled at the memory. “Some would say that once I was the best in the outer reaches of the province. In the days before they put the walls around Jidia, men would travel for days to purchase a good horse from me.”
Hamlyn held out a handful of oats to Acacia, and Froi watched the old horse nuzzle against its owner.
“Thirteen years ago, the king’s riders came through this land, and they took our horses,” he said quietly. “And they took our sons. They took all the lads. Mine was of your age.”
“Took him to the palace?” Froi asked.
“No,” Hamlyn said. “They needed an army to support the new king of Lumatere.”
Froi fought hard to hide his shock.
“For ten years we wondered what happened to him inside those walls,” Hamlyn continued, as though he had waited a lifetime to speak. “When the Lumateran curse lifted, we waited for him. One or two of our neighbors’ sons returned. The Lumaterans had released them, but the lads came back broken. They had shame in their eyes.”
Froi couldn’t speak. How much despair had this man’s son created in Lumatere? Worse still, had he died at Froi’s hands?
“And then we began to hear the stories. Of what the Luma terans claimed our sons did during those ten years.”
Not claims, Froi wanted to shout. What the impostor king’s army did to the Lumaterans was more than claims.
“It keeps us awake at night,” Hamlyn said. “What did a boy who was brought up with such kindness and love do to those people?”
Froi finally looked at Hamlyn.
“You thought I was your son returning?”
Hamlyn gave a painful smile. “Foolish thoughts. He’d have reached his thirtieth year by now.” He closed his eyes a moment, as though to recover himself. “But I dreamed of him two nights past. And in my dreams he told me a lad would arrive with the words of our gods written all over him.”
Froi flinched to hear Quintana’s words spoken by another.
“The only thing written over me are my wrongdoings, Hamlyn,” he said.
Froi tossed and turned half the night, but then he slept and dreamed, and when he woke, he couldn’t remember the dream. He could only remember its force. He convinced himself that he only dreamed because of Hamlyn’s words the night before. But the dream teased him all day, as though it were going to reveal itself any moment. All day he hacked at the earth with frustration alongside Hamlyn and his silent wife, trying to recall even a sliver of what had gone through his mind while he slept.
When Hamlyn’s wife walked toward the well, Hamlyn watched her, wiping the sweat from his brow.
“It’s her way to be quiet and gentle,” he said, and Froi heard love in the man’s voice. “Long ago, she claimed to have lost her purpose.”
“Because your son was gone?”
Hamlyn shook his head. “No. Long before that.” They both watched her lower a pail into the well.
“Arna was the midwife for all of Jidia, as well as our village.”
A horse handler with no horses and a midwife in a barren kingdom.
“She can be spirited at times. When she carried our son in her belly, she slept with a dagger, I tell you. A she-wolf, she was. She would have sliced open any man who was a threat to her boy.”
And here in this infertile field with two broken people, Froi remembered his dream.
Hamlyn’s wife, Arna, returned and gave a bowl of water to each of them, and Froi drank thirstily.
“I need to travel to the Citavita,” he said, wiping his m
outh with the back of his hand.
“Not a good idea,” Hamlyn said.
“I need to be with my family,” he said quietly. “They are hiding in the caves at the base of the gravina.”
“Why would they be hiding in the same place as the king’s riders?” Hamlyn asked.
“For reasons that could get you killed if you knew the truth.”
The next morning, Froi woke to find Hamlyn and his wife standing before him. He had dreamed again. This time it was of Arna, a she-wolf guarding her young. Except the teeth and snarl were those of Quintana. Arna crouched and handed him a pack, and he smelled fresh bread and cheese and smoked meats. Hamlyn gave him a map.
“Have you heard of the stairs to Jidia?” Hamlyn asked.
“They say there’s no such thing,” Froi said.
“Who says?” Hamlyn said with a smile.
Froi dressed quickly and placed the food and map in his pack. He looked at Arna, then placed his arms around her, and she held on tight as though she held the son who would never return and he held the mother Lirah would never be to him.
“You’re hiding something, Froi,” Hamlyn said, handing him a crossbow with the letter J etched into the wood.
“Everyone is hiding something, Hamlyn,” Froi said. He shook the man’s hand. It was a Charynite’s gesture. “But it’s best you do not know what it is.”
He walked away but turned back once.
“What was the name of your son?” he asked, his finger tracing the groove in the weapon they had given him.
“John,” the man said. “John, son of Hamlyn and Arna of Charyn.”
Chapter 28
Froi had been on his own now for the better part of the day, traveling through a labyrinth of caves as he followed Hamlyn’s map, which was peppered with a series of twists and turns and strange markings. He marveled each time he came face-to-face with a matching symbol carved into a crevice or the image of a bison scratched onto the ground, its hump pointing him in the direction of the people he needed to be with. Hamlyn had explained that the underground caves were built thousands upon thousands of years ago, when those of Sendecane had taken on the worship of the goddess Lagrami. They had been persecuted by their godless king and escaped across two kingdoms to hide in Charyn, preferring to burrow their way into the earth rather than give up their faith. In later years, their descendants settled aboveground in the kingdoms of Charyn, Lumatere, and Sarnak. The Rock people of Lumatere were fair in skin and gold of hair, much like Grijio of Paladozza and Hamlyn and Arna of Jidia. Froi had grown up among those in the Sarnak capital with the same coloring. Had they come from the same Sendecanese who had hidden in these caves in the past? Was it why Finnikin’s people settled themselves on a rock and not the Flatlands or Mountains? He thought of Quintana, who looked different from everyone Froi had come across. She was every color of Charyn stone. Flecks of browns and grays and golds.