Melina Marchetta - Quintana of Charyn

Finnikin’s blood chilled just to think of it again.

As they guided their horses through the trees he found himself back in the past. He thought he heard a whistle, and imagined the sight of her: Evanjalin of the Monts. Her hair cropped short, her arms hacked from her need to bleed so she could walk the sleep. He cursed himself for his weakness because what he felt for her then paled in comparison to how he felt now. Despite the fury at her speaking another man’s name that carved at his insides, Finnikin had never desired his wife as much as he did this moment.

Suddenly Trevanion held up a hand and they slowed their horses. Finnikin watched his father dismount. The smell of horse shit was overwhelming. Whoever had stopped at this place had not travelled alone.

‘A small army has been here, it seems,’ Trevanion said.

‘Could the Belegonians have already crossed?’ Perri asked.

Trevanion shook his head. ‘No. The Belegonians are on foot. This group has horses.’

‘The barracks are close by,’ Finnikin said.

‘This was a rest stop for someone travelling a distance.’ Trevanion looked up at them. ‘At least twenty. Pity whoever it is they’re after.’

They tethered the horses and set up camp in a clearing some distance from the inn. Quietly Finnikin changed his clothing. Trevanion and Perri would wait here, concealed, until Finnikin returned with the man, but Finnikin would have to look the part convincingly. The Belegonians wore their clothing more fitted, and bolder in colours.

‘Cover up, Finn,’ his father said and Finnikin pulled the cap over his head, covering every strand of his berry-coloured hair. If anything would give him away, it would always be its colour. He had to be careful. He had to steady his hand so Gargarin of Abroi would not see it shaking.

‘When the time comes, you don’t have –’ his father began to say.

‘It’s my duty,’ Finnikin interrupted. ‘What these people did to Isaboe’s family will haunt her for the rest of her life.’

He walked the trail to the inn. Charyn afternoons were eaten by an early darkness, lit with a strange moonless hue. Closer, he heard the voices and knew that soon enough he’d reach the isolated inn. This is where he would kill a man tonight. He’d lead Gargarin of Abroi back to this very place and slit his throat. And regardless of everything, he’d do it for her.

There were the usual stares as he walked in. But with the threat of Belegonia invading, the inn was frequented by travellers rather than soldiers. So the stares were not for long. And then Finnikin saw a man with a walking stick enter alongside a woman of great beauty. Every man in the room stared.

‘Mercy,’ Finnikin muttered. There was never any talk that Gargarin of Abroi would have a companion. The moment they were seated, Finnikin joined them, his eyes meeting the man’s cold stare. Cold, but handsome. Gargarin of Abroi’s hair was coal-black, which contrasted alarmingly with his pale skin and dark-blue eyes. There was silence and Finnikin felt studied by both of them. For all her beauty, there was little warmth in the woman. But in their fine pelt cloaks, the two looked regal. Apart from Trevanion and Beatriss, a more striking couple he had never seen.

‘You’re a far way from home,’ the man said in Charyn.

That I am, Finnikin wanted to say. He nodded.

‘I don’t trust him,’ the woman said to her companion.

The Charynite held up a hand to wave over the servant. When the lad arrived, Gargarin of Abroi turned to his woman.

‘I’ll order us food,’ he said quietly. Gently. He looked up at the lad. ‘What have you got?’

‘Leftovers.’

‘Always a favourite,’ Gargarin said dryly. Finnikin watched him reach a hand over to touch the women’s gaunt cheek. ‘I’m begging you to eat, Lirah.’

‘I can’t stomach food. I told you.’

‘If he sees you like this, he’ll blame me.’

The woman wrapped her arms around her body miserably. ‘Shouldn’t have let them go,’ she said quietly.

It was as though Finnikin didn’t exist and although he tried his hardest, he couldn’t keep his eyes off them both. Before him was love and contempt and yearning and it filled the air.

Then the food came, yet there was still no acknowledgement from the Charynites.

‘Did we organise to meet so I could watch you eat?’ Finnikin asked finally.

Gargarin lifted his eyes from his plate and stared. ‘Your army is waiting to cross the border from Osteria,’ he said, ice in his tone. ‘You have our people running scared. A strange turn of events since we exchanged letters.’

‘Yes, you’re quite the letter writer,’ Finnikin said, cursing the Belegonians for persisting with their plan to invade, despite Isaboe’s objections. ‘Give me something to offer my king and I may be able to speak to him about his eager soldiers.’

The woman spat at Finnikin.

‘Offer him that,’ she said.

Finnikin refused to allow his anger to surface. ‘That’s very rude,’ he said, wiping the spittle from his face. ‘Especially since, unlike you, leftovers are my least favourite.’

‘We promised you peace between our kingdoms, unheard of for at least thirty years,’ Gargarin said. ‘Why would Belegonia not take advantage of such a pledge?’

‘But what if Bestiano is offering Belegonia the same?’ Finnikin asked.

Through the information collected about Charyn, Finnikin knew that the battle for the palace would take place between two men. Bestiano of Nebia and Gargarin of Abroi.

‘Bestiano was the dead King’s advisor,’ Gargarin said. ‘Why would he offer Belegonia peace now when he had years to offer it while the King was alive? He wants something from you and he’ll promise you nothing but lies.’

‘And what do you want from us in return?’

‘A powerful ally. The Osterians are weak. They’ll give in to the Sorellians one day and we will all be left unprotected. What happens when the Sorellians cross the sea to invade your kingdom?’

‘We’ll have the Lumaterans. They’re our allies and neighbours.’

Gargarin of Abroi shrugged arrogantly. ‘Lumatere’s not a kingdom. It’s a road.’ He smiled. ‘Would you not agree?’

‘You’re forcing words in my mouth, sir,’ Finnikin said, keeping his tone even. ‘Is this a trap by the Lumaterans to test our allegiance?’

‘No, just a jest enjoyed by most Charynites and Belegonians I know.’

‘We must have a different sense of humour,’ Finnikin said, his hands clenched under the bench.

‘Oh no,’ the Charynite said. ‘Your kingdom and mine? Power and size ensures we have the same sense of humour. We all agree that Lumatere is insignificant except when it comes to its coal.’

That was all Lumatere ever was to Charyn. A road to Sarnak. A road to Belegonia and a coalmine. Murder Isaboe’s family, replace them with a puppet king who would give them a path to wherever they wanted to go. Finnikin swallowed, hardly able to speak from the fury.

‘So what will we get out of acknowledging you as regent?’ he asked Gargarin.

‘I never claimed to be regent. I’m here to speak for Charyn until the day that someone sound of mind is placed in charge. And you need an ally. Against Sorel to your east, and those Yut madmen to your south, who are going to bring the whole of Skuldenore down. United, we could be powerful. Divided, this land does not stand a chance.’

The only thing this Charynite and Finnikin had in common was the belief that Skuldenore would work better together than alone.

‘Call off the army,’ Gargarin said. ‘For now, that’s all we ask. Give us a chance to stand on our feet.’

Finnikin stood. ‘I’ll take you to the border. You may get the chance to call them off yourself.’