Melina Marchetta - Quintana of Charyn

‘Then you accept the offer?’

‘I need to speak to the King,’ Finnikin said. ‘He didn’t seem to trust your letters and he wanted some sort of certainty that this wasn’t a trap.’

Finnikin held out a hand to shake.

‘But how do we know this isn’t a trap?’ Gargarin asked, not taking the hand outstretched. ‘That you aren’t playing Bestiano against us?’

‘You don’t. But many say that Bestiano of Nebia became First Advisor because the King sent his better men to Lumatere thirteen years ago, only to have them trapped by the curse. We don’t make treaties with last-resort advisors. You, however, were said to be everything a king wanted, and you walked away from it all. The Belegonian King is impressed.’

‘Well, there you go,’ Gargarin of Abroi said. ‘Always pleased to impress a foreign enemy. The King of Yutlind Nord remarked quite emphatically that he found me smarter than most men, and expressed great pity that he could not come to our assistance because he hated the Charynites as much as he hated his countrymen from the south.’

‘And how is it that you know the King of Yutlind Nord?’

‘Well, you see,’ Gargarin said, leaning closer to feign a conspiratorial whisper, ‘I’m a bit of a letter writer.’

Finnikin was being mocked. The only person who got away with mocking him was Froi and perhaps Perri. This man slightly intrigued him, which was unfortunate when Finnikin knew what was to take place this night. It actually made him feel sick to the stomach.

‘So when do I get to meet someone more important than you?’ Gargarin asked.

‘More important than me?’ Finnikin scoffed. ‘According to my wife, there is no one more important than me.’

A ghost of a smile appeared on the Charynite’s face.

‘Keep that wife.’

Finnikin stood.

‘Let’s go,’ he said.

‘Hand him his staff,’ the woman ordered.

Finnikin stared at it.

‘You need it?’ he asked Gargarin.

‘Yes, well, it is a walking stick, fool.’

Finnikin had never killed an unarmed man with a limp before. Apart from training with the Guard and an incident with drunk yokels in Sarnak the year before on palace business, he hadn’t used a weapon since the battle to reclaim Lumatere. He was good with a sword. Not as good as Trevanion’s Guard, but better than most men. But he had never assassinated a man. It made him think of all those times Trevanion, Perri and Froi had done so on palace orders over the years. His and Isaboe’s. Sometimes the men would return from their mission and he’d sense a change in his father. A mood so dark. Perri always disappeared for days after and Froi … Froi would have a vacant look in his eye. As if he had lost a bit of himself.

Outside the inn, Finnikin watched the man and woman before him. They were of the same height. Both reed thin. And they loved each other. That was the fact Finnikin wanted to forget. That he was about to assassinate a man who loved someone. Who was gentle with her and cared whether she ate or not. But Finnikin remembered the stories of past leaders from the books of the ancients. The kindest of fathers were often the greatest butchers of innocent women and children.

When they reached the clearing, Finnikin saw Perri and his father. Unlike Gargarin of Abroi, he knew where to look for them in the shadow of the trees. And before he could change his mind, Finnikin had one arm around the Charynite’s shoulders, the other hand holding a dagger at his throat. Finnikin kicked away the man’s staff and Gargarin of Abroi’s body slumped against him.

He heard a sound from the woman as Perri’s hand muffled her cry and pulled her away.

‘Don’t hurt her!’ Gargarin said. Almost ordered. ‘Just let her go. She’s of no use to Bestiano. She’s suffered enough. If you have any compassion, let her go.’

Finnikin tightened his grip. ‘I don’t follow your orders and I don’t follow Bestiano’s,’ he said. ‘I’m just a fool who comes from that road you call Lumatere.’

He silenced the man’s shout with a hand, pressing the dagger closer to his throat. But suddenly he heard the rustle of leaves underfoot behind him and felt the tip of steel pressed into his back.

‘Drop the dagger,’ he heard a hoarse whisper say. ‘Drop it now!’

Gargarin of Abroi tried to turn in Finnikin’s arms and Finnikin sensed his desperation. The knife he held to the Charynite’s throat drew blood as Gargarin struggled. Behind Finnikin, the sword dug deeper into his back.

‘I said drop it!’

Mercy!

And just when Finnikin thought the moment could get no worse, he heard his father’s voice. Cold. Hard. Anguished.

‘Put down the sword, Froi, or I’ll slice your head clear from your body.’

Lord Tascan and his family’s visit to the mountain was met with great enthusiasm. At first. Yata received them in her home and Lucian spent the afternoon showing them the dairy farms and the silo. Lucian was keen to set up an agreement between the Monts and the Flatland lords. The first of Lumatere’s market days with the Belegonians and Osterians had been a success for the kingdom, but the Monts had been absent, due to Phaedra’s death in the valley. Their hearts had not been in it. But Lucian believed it was time to show the rest of the kingdom that they were more than just sentinels.

And here Lord Tascan was, as keen as Lucian desired. But when the nobleman insisted he accompany Lucian alone on a tour of the stables, Lucian quickly came to understand the truth behind his visit.

‘I’m not going to waste time here, Lucian,’ he said, as they inspected the stalls. Lucian was hoping to show off the size of their boars to Lord Tascan, but he didn’t seem interested.

‘Since our return to Lumatere I’ve watched you carefully and have been impressed with your potential, lad. But then, of course, there was the unfortunate marriage to the Charynite. All behind you now.’

Lucian stiffened. When he had visited the palace village a week past, friends and acquaintances had approached, one after the other, with hearty congratulations.

‘It must be a relief,’ the weaver had said.

Relief?

The sun appearing after days of rain or darkness was a relief. Orly and Lotte’s news that Gert and Bert had finally found each other and would produce the finest calf known to the mountain was a relief. Phaedra of Alonso’s death was a never-ending pain that gnawed at his insides. It made him a prisoner in his own cottage.

‘Lucian, this kingdom would love nothing more than your betrothment to my daughter, Zarah.’

Sweet Goddess.

‘It will bring opportunity to both our villages and it will bring light back to this mountain. Isn’t that what you want, Lucian? I’ve seen your yata . This marriage to the Charynite darkened her doorstep.’

No, her death did, Lucian wanted to say. Yata had come to admire Phaedra. Even love her.

‘Zarah’s a good daughter, Lucian. The Osterian court held her in high regard when we lived there during the curse.’

‘I don’t want to offend your daughter, sir –’

‘Then good.’ Lord Tascan thumped Lucian on the back heartily. ‘It’s settled. No need to rush into anything formal just yet. But we’ll expect you for supper when you visit for market day. You can stay the night in the palace. I’m sure the Queen will enjoy seeing a beloved cousin. Perhaps there will be an invitation for my family to join you.’

Lucian forced a smile. Lord Tascan had waited a month. Not to talk hogs and mutton. But to talk unwed daughters. How could Lucian have been so stupid not to notice?

After a long goodbye the guests departed, demanding promises he would come visit them, and Lucian returned home. From where he stood outside his cottage, he could see Lord Tascan’s people disappearing down the mountain trail and he felt nothing but great relief. Since Phaedra’s death, his cottage had become his refuge. Sometimes he imagined her there beside him. She had once told Lucian that she liked how high his home sat on the mountain, overlooking the other cottages and farms. She had loved the dips and slopes of the land in the distance, the smoke that came from Orly’s home, and the sight of Miro’s herd of sheep on a neighbouring property.