“Why forbidden?” Lucian asked. “What have your people to hide that we don’t already know of you?”
Rafuel gave a small humorless laugh. “I could fill a chronicle of what you don’t know about us, Mont. But I leave such things to Phaedra, who writes of the arrival of our people on your land with a fairer hand than I ever will.” Rafuel of Sebastabol turned to Tesadora. “I see you writing your chronicles from time to time, too. Have you not noticed anything strange about the valley? All those people, hundreds of them?”
Trevanion asked for a translation. Rafuel was speaking too fast.
They turned to Tesadora, whose cold blue eyes looked even more sinister.
“What is it?” Finnikin asked her.
Tesadora shook her head. Perri let go of her arm, and for the briefest moment Froi saw her lean against him. He knew they were lovers despite a savage history between them, but like Tesadora’s Charyn blood, no one spoke of it.
“There are no children,” Tesadora guessed quietly. Lucian repeated the words in Charyn, and they all looked to Rafuel for confirmation. Rafuel nodded.
“Where are they?” Finnikin asked, stunned.
“They’re all grown up,” Rafuel said.
Finnikin advanced toward him again with frustration. “I’d prefer not to have to guess, Charynite. If you’ve gone to all the trouble to get me up this mountain, then make it clear to us. Speak to us as if we are as ignorant as a Charynite.”
Something in Rafuel’s expression flickered. “We’re not all ignorant, Your Majesty,” he said coldly, “and I don’t know how to make it clearer to you. Our women are barren. Our men, seedless. A child has not been born to Charyn for eighteen years.”
Again there was a stupefied silence as they tried to grasp Rafuel’s words. Froi caught the confused look that passed between Finnikin and Trevanion.
The Charynite turned to Lucian. “It is probably yet another thing that shames Phaedra,” he said. “That she believes you spoke the truth when you called her worthless all those times.”
“You seem to know too much about my wife,” Lucian said, fury in his tone.
“Last I heard, you denounced her as your wife,” Rafuel of Sebastabol said. “So one would presume you forfeit the right to be indignant about my knowledge of her feelings.”
Froi marveled at this fool’s lack of fear.
“That first time I visited with Sir Topher,” Finnikin said, his voice full of disbelief, “I remember children in the streets. There was one in the palace as well.”
“If you were ten at the time, the youngest child in Charyn would have been six,” Rafuel said. “Her Royal Highness, Princess Quintana,” he added.
“I never met her,” Finnikin said.
The Charynite took a deep ragged breath. “It’s where the story of the curse begins. With her birth.”
“We’re not here for a story,” Finnikin said, frustrated. “Go back to the part where you get us into the palace without betraying us.”
“I want to hear what he has to say,” Tesadora said flatly. “More important, your wife will want to, my lord,” she said, turning to Finnikin with slight mockery in her expression.
“I thought you wanted him dead a moment ago,” Finnikin said.
There was little love lost between Tesadora and Finnikin. Froi put it down to jealousy. The queen shared a bond with Tesadora, and Finnikin was envious of anyone who had a bond with the queen. Froi knew that more than anyone.
Finnikin turned to the Charynite. “Then tell us a story, Rafuel of Sebastabol, and make it quick.”
Rafuel kept his eyes on Trevanion. “Could you perhaps ask your father to step back, Your Highness? I’m a small man and it’s not as if he can’t snap me in two from the other side of the cell.”
“He’s more comfortable where he is,” Finnikin said.
Rafuel sighed. “The year before the birth of Quintana, the oracle’s godshouse was attacked and the priestlings were murdered,” he began. “The oracle queen survived, but her tongue and fingers were cut off. So she could not speak or write the truth. A young priestling named Arjuro of Abroi was absent from the godshouse on the night of the attack and was charged with assisting the murderers.”
Finnikin quickly translated.
“Your priest-king is your spiritual leader, but the oracle of Charyn was more than that for us. Since the beginning of life in Charyn, most decisions made by the king and the provinces had to be sanctioned by the oracle. The oracle and the gods house were Charyn’s moral and intellectual beacons.” Rafuel’s eyes flashed with fervor. “You’re a scholar, I hear. Then you’ve not seen anything until you’ve seen the books once translated by our priestlings. They will take your breath away, Your Highness.”
“I have seen ancient books, you know,” Finnikin said defensively. “In the Osterian palace. I spent more than a summer there.”
Rafuel made a rude sound. “Osteria? A more tedious race of people I’ve never come across. I can imagine their translations. You know what we say in Charyn? That man learned to snore by being in the presence of an Osterian.”
Froi could see that Finnikin was trying to hold back a smile. Finnikin and Isaboe’s favorite pastime was outdoing each other with insults about the Osterians.
“But everything changed nineteen years ago,” Rafuel continued. “The provincaro of Serker died, and his successor refused to pay taxes to the palace. The Serkers claimed that the palace was robbing them blind. The king, in turn, stationed his army outside Serker. It was a step toward a war in which Charynites would kill Charynites, and the oracle’s greatest fear was that the other provinces would take sides in such a war. The oracle ordered the king to remove his army from outside Serker, and she ordered the provincaro of Serker to pay his taxes to the king and swear allegiance. If not, she threatened to remove the oracle’s gods house from the Citavita and the sacred library from Serker. You could not imagine a bigger insult to the capital or to Serker.
“That spring, the oracle’s godshouse in the capital was attacked, and we lost the brightest young minds of our kingdom when the priestlings were slaughtered. They were young men and women trained to be physicians, educators, philosophers. They died unarmed and savagely. On that day, every priest, priestess, and order went underground and have stayed there.”
“Mercy,” Finnikin said.
Froi knew that Finnikin was a lover of books and history and stories. It was Finnikin who had written the chronicles of their kingdom in his Book of Lumatere, which was now being added to with the stories recorded by Tesadora and Lady Beatriss. When Finnikin stayed silent, Froi translated the words.
“The palace blamed Serker,” Rafuel continued. “As punishment for the godshouse slaughter, the king of Charyn razed the province to the ground. It sits in the center of Charyn and has been a wasteland ever since.”
“What about the people?” Lucian asked. “Where did they go?”
“How many Forest Dwellers do you have left after the Charynite invasion?” Rafuel asked.
Froi saw the stunned look on Finnikin’s face.
“No Charynite has ever claimed that the five days of the unspeakable were part of a Charyn invasion,” Finnikin said huskily.
“The palace has never claimed it,” Rafuel corrected quietly. “But what took place in Lumatere thirteen years ago is Charyn’s shame. Mothers wept for the sons forced into the army that was sent into your kingdom alongside the man you call the impostor king. Now a generation of last-born sons weep for the stories they have heard of what their fathers did.”
Rafuel’s eyes met Finnikin’s. “Silence is not just about secrecy, Your Majesty. It is grief and it is shame.”
No one spoke. No Lumateran wanted to see worth in a Charynite. Especially not a Charynite who had taken a dagger to one of their women.
“Fifty-four,” Tesadora said.
The others turned to her.
“Fifty-four Forest Dwellers were known to survive the days of the unspeakable.”
Rafuel was pensive. “The number of those who survived the Serker massacre nineteen years ago is even more heartbreaking. We know there to be one for certain. The king’s Serker whore. She lived in the palace at the time of the attack and is the mother of the princess, Quintana.”
“The rest?” Lucian asked.
“He had them slaughtered.”
“His own people?” Finnikin asked, stunned.
“Hundreds upon hundreds of them,” Rafuel said. “Although there are rumors that a handful survived and have spent all this time hiding in the underground cities.”
Rafuel looked bitter. “Most of Charyn sanctioned it. They wanted revenge for what took place in the oracle’s godshouse. But others believed that it was the palace behind the slaughter of the priestlings. Regardless, after the carnage in the gods house, the king took the oracle queen into the palace to protect her. Or so he claimed. It put him in good favor with the people, who were inconsolable about what had happened to their goddess of the natural world. But nine months later, on the day the king’s Serker whore gave birth to Quintana of Charyn, the oracle queen threw herself out of her palace chamber into the gravina below.”
“Gravina?” Finnikin asked.
“Ravine,” Froi responded without thinking. The priest -king’s education had been thorough, and when it came to the languages of Charyn and Sarnak, Froi was the stronger speaker, although in Finnikin and Isaboe’s presence, he always pretended that he wasn’t. He felt both Rafuel and Finnikin’s stare and looked away.
“We don’t know what took place first,” Rafuel said. “The birth of the princess or the death of the oracle, but from that moment on, the fertility of the land ended.”
“I don’t understand. How does childbirth just end one day?” Lucian asked.
“On that day, every woman who carried a child in her belly …” The Charynite swallowed hard, unable to finish the thought.
Lucian, engrossed in what Rafuel had to say, shook his head with frustration. “What? What happened?”
“Can someone translate?” Trevanion snapped.
Finnikin cleared his throat and there was emotion in his voice as he repeated Rafuel’s words. “On that day, every woman who carried a child in her belly …”
“They bled the child from their loins,” Tesadora said, her voice low and pained. Perri stared at her as though someone had punched him in the gut. Tesadora took a ragged breath. “I need to see to that fool girl, Japhra.”
Rafuel looked up. “Tell her — ”
“Don’t!” Tesadora said through clenched teeth. “You keep away from her.”
A moment later, she was gone. Too many things were happening that Froi didn’t understand.
“Go on,” Lucian ordered Rafuel.
“When Quintana of Charyn was six years old, the first sign was said to appear, written on her chamber walls in her own blood: The last will make the first. The words were written in godspeak. No one but the gods’ blessed is gifted with godspeak. Then on the thirteenth day of weeping — which is what we call her birthday — the king decreed that every last-born girl in the kingdom was to be marked.”
“Marked?” Lucian asked, horrified.
Rafuel pointed to the back of his neck, the shackles around his wrist clattering.
“Quintana of Charyn was born with strange lettering scorched onto the nape of her neck.”
“But why mark the last borns at thirteen and not at birth?” Finnikin asked.
“Why do you think?” Rafuel asked. “At thirteen, the girls were of child-bearing age.”
Froi was relieved that Tesadora was out of the room for that piece of information.
“Quintana of Charyn also claimed that she was the chosen vessel after her thirteenth birthday. And that only she was meant to carry the first in her belly. A boy child. A king and curse breaker fathered by her betrothed, Tariq.”
“At thirteen? Betrothed?” Lucian asked with disgust.
“Your yata was betrothed at fourteen, Lucian,” Finnikin said.
“Quintana claimed that the birth of the child would take place before she came of age and if any other male dared to break the curse with a last-born female, the goddess of fertility would set Charyn alight.”
“She’s obviously mad,” Finnikin said. “And those who believe her are just as mad.”
“As mad as a queen who claims she can walk the sleep of her people?” Rafuel said boldly. “As mad as those who believe her?”
An intake of furious breath sounded off the walls. Lucian grabbed the Charynite just as Froi was about to fly across the room and land a fist to his jaw.
Finnikin stayed calm as he walked toward Rafuel of Sebastabol.
“I’d really like to know what took place, Charynite, and I’d hate to have to kill you before that moment. So perhaps you can refrain from bringing up my queen.”
Rafuel of Sebastabol had the good sense to look contrite. After a while, he nodded. “Next month Quintana of Charyn comes of age. The last-born male from the province of Sebastabol will travel to the Citavita, the capital, and he will bed the princess in an attempt to plant the seed. One last born from each of the provinces has done so for the last three years. Before that, it was her betrothed, Tariq. But when Quintana was fifteen, he was smuggled out of the palace by his mother’s kin after his father mysteriously died. He is the king’s cousin and only male heir.”
“Are they gifted, the last borns?” Lucian asked.
Rafuel was amused by the question. “They are actually quite … useless. They were precious to us and some were spoiled as children and others stifled. Most fathers feared the worst for their sons and they were kept out of harm’s way. It’s hard to find a last-born male who can use a weapon or ride a horse. The daughters are confined to the home. Some are the most frivolous girls you will ever meet, while others are the most timid and shy. I would say most of their kin are about to send them underground for fear of what will take place when the princess comes of age.”
Finnikin rubbed his eyes, shaking his head. After a moment he said, “A sad tale, Charynite, but I still don’t understand why you’re here.”
“Because you have a lad who speaks our language, who is of the same age as a last born, and who is not so useless. More important, he is trained as an assassin.” Rafuel’s eyes caught Froi’s. “Yes?”
No one spoke. Froi stiffened, his eyes locked with the Charynite’s. Froi could see that the man was hiding something. He had been trained to notice the signs.
“Gentlemen, your kingdom or mine could not have asked for a more perfect weapon to rid ourselves of this most base of kings. Your lad from the Flatlands is our only hope.”
Chapter 4
In Isaboe and Finnikin’s private chamber, away from the prying eyes of their people and the world of their court that forced them to be polite and restrained, they spoke of Charyn and Froi and Rafuel of Sebastabol and curses and last borns and Sarnak, and then Charyn again and taxes and empty Flatland villages, and then Charyn again. When all that talk was over, they stood before each other ready for the mightiest of battles, which they had saved until last.
Finnikin would describe the situation as tense. Isaboe didn’t describe situations. She described how she was feeling during the situation. Then they would argue about what was less important. Facts or feelings. Tonight it was about both.
“How do you expect to rule a kingdom and be so weak in this matter?” he said, trying to keep censure out of his tone. He saw her face twitch at the mention of the word weak.
“Not now,” she said. “Another day. Perhaps next week.”
“And then perhaps the week after that and then the week after that,” he suggested with little humor.
He saw the pain flash across her face.
“Do it, Isaboe. You must show strength!” Finnikin could see her softening, and he nodded. “Now,” he urged in a whisper.
Isaboe took a ragged breath before crouching to the floor. Finnikin knelt down beside her. Their daughter
looked from one to the other. She had Finnikin’s face and Isaboe’s hair, and now that she was nearing the age of two, she was showing some of Trevanion’s temperament, which was beginning to alarm both of her parents.
“Jasmina, my beloved. Finnikin and I …”
Isaboe’s eyes met Finnikin’s and he nodded at her with encouragement.
“We’ve had the most beautiful of beds made for you. So beautiful that every little girl in the whole of our kingdom wants to sleep in it. Tonight we thought you could sleep in the most beautiful bed in Lumatere, and Finnikin and Isaboe could sleep on their own. Together.”
Together. Finnikin smiled at Isaboe. He was proud of his queen. Proud of them both. Jasmina meant everything to them, and he couldn’t imagine their lives without this blessing. He did imagine frequently, however, sharing a bed with just his wife while their little blessing was asleep in another room.
Their daughter stared from Finnikin to Isaboe. He beamed at her, his shoulders relaxing for the first time in days.
Jasmina’s bottom lip began to tremble.
“Do you think she’s going to be smarter than us?” he asked as they lay in bed later that night. He could see the moon through the balconette doors before them, looking almost close enough to grab, and as usual, it made him wonder about all things strange and mysterious. And about how insignificant he was in the scheme of things.
Finnikin turned to see Isaboe bending to kiss Jasmina’s brow as she slept between them. “Most probably,” she murmured.
“Then she won’t need us one day.”
“What a thing to say, Finnikin,” Isaboe said, “when I feel a need for my father and mother now, more than I ever have.”
“True enough,” he said gently. “It may have to do with such attachments belonging to women,” he added.
When Finnikin added words, he always regretted it. He was regretting it now because the flames from the fireplace illuminated his wife’s stare of disbelief.
“Your father lives in the chamber beside us, Finnikin. You speak to him every night and every morning, and if for some reason you can’t sleep through the night, you speak to him then as well. Do you not see that as an attachment?”