Melina Marchetta - Quintana of Charyn

‘Any news from the Citavita?’ Froi asked the couple beside him. He had watched the husband tie their pack around his waist in case someone tried to steal their possessions.

‘I was there when the street lords took the palace, and fear for the lives of friends,’ Froi continued, eyeing the bundle of food tied up in an apron.

‘Street lords are gone,’ the woman told him. ‘Nothing left to take. The gods only know who has control over the palace. Every week, a different story.’

‘If Bestiano’s a smart man he’ll return now,’ a bearded man close by said. ‘Best thing for Charyn.’

‘How can you say that?’ another called out from his bedroll. ‘He’s a killer of kings.’

‘But strange that the moment the King was killed, there’s news of an heir to be born,’ the bearded man continued. ‘Perhaps the answer all along was to rid ourselves of the King. Bestiano could be the hero of this kingdom.’

Count to ten, Froi. Count to ten.

‘They say Bestiano is the father of the future king,’ a woman called out.

The bearded man made a sound of approval. ‘If he’s smart, he’ll take the poor mite out of that mad-bitch Quintana’s hands the moment it’s born.’

Froi flew across the space, landing heavily on the man, pounding his fists wherever he could land them. He felt arms drag him away, their fingers pressing deep into his wounds and he pulled free.

‘You dare talk about the Princess in such a way,’ he raged. ‘I challenge you to speak those words when the future king grows to be a man. I dare you to say them about his mother to his face!’

The bearded man cowered away. ‘Who are you with your fancy talk?’

‘Someone who knew them,’ Froi said. ‘Knew the heir Tariq of Lascow. Knew that he sacrificed his life to keep Quintana of Charyn safe. I defy you to dishonour his memory by claiming Bestiano a better man.’

The words felt like rough parchment in Froi’s mouth, but there was silence all around.

‘They breed good men in Lascow,’ the husband from the Citavita said. His wife stared at Froi. ‘Tariq of Lascow would have made a just king if he had lived,’ she said.

Later, the wife held out a dry strip of meat to Froi and he ate it, shamed that whether she had given it to him or not, it would have somehow ended up in his belly. She looked at him closely, confused. ‘You remind me of someone. I don’t know who,’ she said quietly. She reached over and he flinched, but her hand touched his face gently.

When she was asleep, Froi felt her husband’s eyes on him. ‘She doesn’t usually take to your kind,’ the man said.

‘My kind?’ Froi said coolly. Who wasn’t it safe to be now? A Lumateran assassin? A Serker lad? A defender of the Princess?

‘A young one,’ the man said. ‘My wife … she usually turns away. She bled on the day of weeping. It was close to being born, our child was. She bled it and has spent the last eighteen years turning her eyes away from lastborns or the young.’

The man looked down at his wife, but then back at Froi. Then he smiled. ‘It’s not your face. It’s something else. It’s in your spirit. I feel it as well.’

Froi relaxed for the first time since he left Arjuro, and lay down on the straw. Although he had been taught not to take chances, he had a sense that the couple beside him were not a threat.

‘How many inns are on the river border across this stretch heading towards Osteria?’ he asked the man softly in the darkness.

‘Three. One is closed for the winter, though. You’ll be lucky to get a bed. But I would not head that way, lad.’

‘I’ve no intention of returning to the Citavita,’ Froi said.

‘It’s not the Citavita you need to fear,’ the man said. ‘There’s talk that the Osterians have allowed the Belegonians to camp across the river. If they decide to cross, there’ll be nothing left of us. It’s why we’re heading towards Alonso. Don’t head south, lad. Come north with us.’

Froi sighed. Oh, to head north to Alonso. It would be so easy to follow these people. He was closer to Lumatere than he had been for the past five months and all night his dreams beckoned him home.

But in the morning the reality hadn’t changed. Quintana was still somewhere out there, and he needed to find Gargarin and Lirah. The three of them had a better chance of finding her if they joined forces.

When Froi walked his horse out of the stable, south to everyone else’s north, he felt the wife stare at him.

‘Are you gods’ blessed?’ she asked.

He shook his head, not meeting her eyes.

‘Do you know what I dreamt last night?’

Froi didn’t want to know. People’s dreams frightened him. But he looked up at her all the same.

‘I dreamt of my ma who died long ago. Her words are still singing in my ears.’ The woman’s smile was gentle. ‘She said, “The half-spirit of your unborn child lives in that lad.”’

They arrived at the border of Osteria and Charyn five days after setting out from Lumatere, having stopped to meet with their ambassador in the kingdom of Osteria. Finnikin couldn’t help but think of the last time they were at this exact place. Isaboe … Evanjalin had been out there somewhere. With Froi. She had walked away from Finnikin because he hadn’t trusted her. Froi had followed. ‘She and me. We’re the same,’ Froi had said. Finnikin could hardly remember the boy Froi had been, except for his ability to let fly his emotions whenever they rose to the surface. Froi as a lad was easy to control. Froi as a man threatened Finnikin. He had restraint and an ability to play with his opponents. He would make a formidable enemy.

‘You’ve been quiet these past days,’ Trevanion said. ‘Are you going to tell me what the … exchange of words was about?’

‘Who said there was an exchange of words?’ Finnikin asked with irritation.

‘When a woman says “I hope you fall under your horse” and “catch your death then see if I grieve you”,’ Perri said, ‘then there’s been an exchange of words …’

Finnikin glared at him.

‘… in my humble opinion.’

‘It’s no one’s business but ours.’

‘Understandable,’ Trevanion said. ‘Although the entire Guard and palace village heard it.’

‘Perhaps the south of the Flatlands as well,’ Perri concluded.

Finnikin dismounted and they led their horses to the river. There was little teasing here. They stayed quiet, remembering the day three-and-a-half years ago when they faced Sefton and the village exiles held by the Charynites. They knew now that Rafuel of Sebastabol had been one of the soldiers, and if Finnikin closed his eyes he could imagine just where Rafuel had stood. Perhaps if he had looked at the soldiers and not their leader, he’d have seen fear and shame on their faces.

‘Let’s go,’ Trevanion said quietly.

Gargarin of Abroi had instructed the Belegonians that he would be waiting in an inn five miles north of the Charynite barracks. It was the only ale house for miles upon miles and was frequented by the Charynite soldiers guarding the border, as well as people from a cluster of isolated villages. Finnikin had been advised by the ambassador that the Belegonian army was camped further upriver on the Osterian side with Osteria’s blessing, a sign of great intimidation and provocation to Charyn. Would the Belegonians be so ready for attack if they had received Gargarin of Abroi’s letter asking for an alliance? Instead, that letter had been intercepted by Celie and passed on to Finnikin. In trapping the man who had planned the slaughter of Isaboe’s family, had Lumatere inadvertently triggered a Belegonian invasion?

Finnikin stayed focused, and thought over the instructions given by Gargarin of Abroi. The man would carry a walking stick as a means of identification. He would greet them with the words, ‘You’re a far way from home.’ He would set out a treaty between Charyn and Belegonia which would acknowledge him as the one who would return the true heir to the palace. Finnikin remembered the words in the note. The Lumaterans need not know of our alliance. We’ll talk later about what to do with them. Leave it to me, for I have a plan for Lumatere that will eliminate them as a threat.