Melina Marchetta - Quintana of Charyn

‘Has she a gift?’ Florenza asked.

‘Yes,’ the Queen said, her tone dry. ‘The gift for …’

‘… stubbornness,’ Finnikin said.

More people arrived from over the mountain, and on a cold night under a full moon, Phaedra found herself wed to Lucian for the second time. He wore a royal-blue doublet and his trousers tucked into his buskins and Phaedra’s dress was fitted to the waist in soft pink. She wore flowers from Yata ’s garden in her hair. He was very solemn; she wasn’t. Phaedra couldn’t stop smiling.

While the celebrations continued well into the night, they sat by the stream alone.

‘I think this party will last for days,’ he said. ‘And we’ll never be alone together.’

‘Soon enough,’ she said. ‘I don’t think tonight is just about us.’

He pressed a kiss to her lips.

‘We’ll have to visit my father, Lucian. There’s too much anger between us all and I can’t begin my life with you this way.’

He nodded. ‘Then we’ll visit your father soon,’ he promised.

Suddenly Finnikin was at Lucian’s shoulder.

‘Lucian, we have a problem,’ the Queen’s Consort said, holding the letter from the Charynite palace in his hand. ‘A big one.’

‘Can it not wait until the morning?’ Lucian asked.

‘Apparently some of our mail has gone astray.’

Lucian laughed, his eyes never leaving Phaedra’s.

‘Finnikin, unless it affects the future of this kingdom, I’m going to have to say no to whatever you’re about to ask me to do,’ her husband said firmly.

Finnikin placed an arm around them both.

‘Cousins, I’m afraid it affects the future of both our kingdoms.’

On the day the Provincari of Charyn were to choose Quintana’s consort, Froi sat on the roof of the Crow’s Inn with Mort and Florik, the lads staring down at every potential suitor who arrived in the Citavita. Each candidate brought with them a large enough entourage to impress, and Froi’s heart sank with every step they took closer to Quintana and his son.

‘The Osterians,’ Florik said sombrely, indicating the procession crossing the bridge with great ceremony. Froi had come to realise that the more banners a kingdom had, the more useless they were.

‘They say he could be the one,’ Froi said. ‘The Osterian.’

‘Why?’ Mort asked.

‘Apparently no mad blood or inbreeding for the past hundred years.’ Froi watched the Osterian prince as he stepped onto the rock of the Citavita.

Mort stood and walked to the edge of the roof. ‘Easy if a bolt flew out of my longbow right between Osterian’s legs. Accidents happen, lads.’

‘You’d start a war with the only kingdom who hasn’t gone to war for its whole existence,’ Florik said. ‘Not your best idea, Mort.’

Mort looked back at Froi and managed a grin. ‘Gods are smiling, Froi. Think I see our Grij.’

It was both Grij and Satch who arrived, and Froi had never been so happy for their company.

‘Why did you stay, Froi?’ Grij begged to know as they made their way up to the castle, arms around each other’s shoulders.

‘She w … w … won’t want you th … th … there,’ Satch said. ‘T … too painful.’

‘Then what are you both doing here?’ he asked.

Satch shrugged.

‘C … couldn’t bear for her to b … be alone this day.’

When they reached the drawbridge they lined up behind a crowd of foreigners, waiting to enter. They had left their weapons with Mort and the lads, knowing only the little King’s palace guards would be allowed into the palace armed. Everyone who travelled through the gates, whether prince or servant, was checked for weapons. Today, every soldier in the palace was on guard and tension was high among Scarpo and his men. Froi finally reached the portcullis, but Olivier appeared before him. He had seen glimpses of the lastborn since his arrival five days ago, but it was the first time they had come face to face.

‘Let me pass,’ Froi said, his tone cold.

Oliver looked beyond Froi to where Satch and Grijio stood.

‘You call yourself his friends and you bring him here?’ Olivier demanded.

‘You try stopping him,’ Grij said.

‘It’s not right!’ Olivier said.

‘Let me pass,’ Froi said again, but he couldn’t find the anger anymore. He just felt the tears biting at his eyes.

Inside the great hall, there was barely room to move. Froi and the lads found themselves close to the back, fighting for space among horses and hounds. Some of the suitors had animals with them, until Perabo ordered anything on four legs to be taken to the stables or their two-legged owners would be removed themselves. The fool Feliciano of Avanosh joined them soon after, and Grijio, always diplomatic, allowed him to stay.

When Quintana entered the great hall holding the little King, a hush came over the room. Some had never seen Tariq before. As the only babe in Charyn, people were in awe of him wherever he went. The Provincari followed and each acknowledged Quintana and the boy with a bow before being seated on a raised platform. Froi was pleased to see Ariston and Dolyn there to represent the rights of Turla and Lascow. He watched Tariq squirm in Quintana’s arms and she placed him on the ground and Dorcas and Fekra had a hard time trying to keep up with him as he crawled between the Provincari’s feet.

‘They’re saying the Prince from Osteria will win the day,’ Feliciano said.

‘We’ve heard,’ Froi muttered.

‘He’s brainless, according to my father,’ Grij explained.

‘Exactly what the P … Provincaro wants,’ Satch said. ‘Someone they can all control.’

‘And why aren’t you in contention?’ Froi asked Feliciano coldly.

‘My uncle owes money,’ Feliciano admitted. ‘A lot of it. He believes we have a better chance of paying his debts if I marry the daughter of the Osterian archduke. We’re in with a very strong chance. They’re taking marriage requests for her in three days’ time.’

‘Then why are you here?’ Froi asked.

‘Avanosh has been accepted as a province. My uncle will have a vote in the decision.’

Another candidate and his entourage entered through the great doors behind Froi and his friends. They were from Sarnak. Froi would know a Sarnak in his sleep. They had ruddy cheeks and high foreheads. And they married young.

‘I don’t have much experience determining the age of people younger than us,’ Grij said, catching a glimpse of the new arrivals, ‘but is he …’

‘Twelve. Possibly thirteen,’ Froi said.

‘F … F … Froi,’ Satch said quietly. ‘L … let’s go. This will only end in heart … b … break.’

Froi dismissed the suggestions. Whether he stayed or went, the heartbreak would be the same.

They saw Olivier again, pushing through to oversee the ever-growing crowd by the doors.

‘Olivier!’ Grij called out. ‘Olivier. What are they saying? We can’t hear a thing.’

Olivier reached them, trying to catch his breath after being squeezed between two large Sorellians.

‘The Yuts of the Nord walked out,’ Olivier said. ‘Your father, Grij, asked them what they had done with the heir of Yutlind Sud. They didn’t like the question.’

The crowd surged forward. There seemed to be a commotion at the entrance. Olivier was gone within moments.

Froi’s eyes followed him.

‘What’s happened to his family? The Provincaro of Sebastabol claimed to have expelled them from the province.’

Satch and Grij exchanged a look.

‘Desantos has t … taken them in,’ Satch said. ‘I will always underst … st … stand your anger, Froi, but in t … trying to make amends, he risked his life again and again.’