Melina Marchetta - Quintana of Charyn

When she heard the voices from the entrance of the chamber, Isaboe wrapped her fleece around her body and pulled across the curtain that separated their bed from the rest of the room. Informal meetings with Sir Topher and Trevanion always took place here in their private residence. It was Isaboe’s favourite place in the castle, and when she had first seen the vastness of the room she had insisted they include a dining bench and settees to accommodate the closest of their friends when they came to visit. It was beautifully decorated with rich tapestries and ceiling frescoes, and Isaboe was proud of how at ease those nearest to her heart felt in her home. But there was little of that today.

She watched her lady’s maid serve hot brew to Trevanion and Perri, who were hovering near the doorway.

‘Your shoes, my queen!’ Rhiannon reprimanded, turning her attention to Isaboe and staring down at Isaboe’s bare feet.

She hadn’t noticed. She only noticed Finnikin brooding by the window. Isaboe greeted Trevanion, who embraced her, and she felt the icy wetness of his coat. Taking his hand, she led him closer to the fire where Finnikin’s hound pressed himself against Trevanion’s leg in recognition.

‘Where are your shoes, Isaboe?’ he asked with disapproval.

Finnikin’s father had one gruff tone for everything and she was finally becoming used to it after all these years.

A bleary-eyed Sir Topher entered with a knock and then they were all huddled before the warmth.

‘Sit,’ Isaboe ordered everyone and they made themselves comfortable before the fire.

‘Rafuel of Sebastabol has become somewhat difficult to get alone these past weeks,’ Trevanion said. ‘Impossible, actually.’

‘Since Phaedra of Alonso …’ Isaboe said.

Trevanion nodded.

‘How are they all?’ she asked quietly. It had been three weeks since the death of Lucian’s wife.

‘Grieving. I left Beatriss and Vestie with them.’

‘ Yata sent a letter,’ Isaboe said. ‘Tesadora is taking it hard, I hear,’ she added, looking at Perri. He nodded, but said nothing more. Isaboe had never known him to speak of Tesadora. Whatever it was that they shared was a private matter.

‘Tesadora and her girls insist on going down to the valley again,’ Trevanion said.

Isaboe shook her head. ‘I want Tesadora here keeping me company until I deem it safe for her to return to her work with those Charynite valley dwellers.’

She noticed the flicker of annoyance on Perri’s face and stared at him questioningly.

‘Tesadora claims they are suffering greatly,’ Trevanion said.

‘The Monts?’ Isaboe asked.

‘The valley dwellers.’

‘Why so much concern for the valley dwellers?’ she asked, exasperated. ‘They’re not our problem.’

‘Well, they may just be,’ Trevanion continued. ‘The province of Alonso has stopped sending grain carts. The valley dwellers are sharing meagre rations and it’s beginning to show. Tesadora says that in their weakened state and in this cold, they’re more at risk of illness. The older ones are beginning to die far too quickly.’

‘Why would the Provincaro of Alonso leave them to starve?’ she asked angrily.

‘Grief,’ Sir Topher said. ‘He believes his daughter’s death would have been avoided if she wasn’t in the valley. He blames the valley and he blames us. Perhaps if we write to offer our –’

‘I don’t grieve for Charynites,’ Isaboe said, her voice cold. ‘I don’t recall receiving a letter from the Provincaro of Alonso when my family were slaughtered, nor was there a note of sympathy when my uncle Saro of the Monts was killed. I owe the Provincaro nothing. He, on the other hand, owes Lumatere for relieving him of the problem of a crowded province. Write to him, Sir Topher, and demand that he feed his people. I will not have them dropping like flies on my land!’

Rhiannon returned with Isaboe’s slippers and another shawl, and they all waited until she stopped her fussing.

‘You’re quiet, Finnikin,’ Sir Topher said after Rhiannon had left the room.

‘I agree with Isaboe,’ he said, his voice flat. ‘Regardless of whose problem they are, the valley dwellers are Charynites, and Alonso has no right to stop the grain carts. Explain to the Provincaro that every death in the valley will be recorded, and one day when a benevolent king sits on the Charynite throne, Alonso will be held accountable.’

It was the wavering in Finnikin’s voice that marked the difference between them both. Isaboe knew that. He was the better person. He wrote the letters of outrage to the King of Yutlind Nord about the injustices in Yutlind Sud. He wrote the letters to every leader of the land challenging the Sorellian laws of slavery. He was the only person she had ever known to use the word Skuldenorian. As if those in the land of Skuldenore were one people. But Isaboe could not think of being one with their enemies. Not with the memory of what had been done to her family. Finnikin’s father was close at hand. Hers was dead and she had prayed these past years for the grace of forgiveness, but the Goddess refused to send it.

‘We’re not here to speak of the valley dwellers,’ Isaboe said. ‘What else have we discovered about Gargarin of Abroi?’

Trevanion indicated for Perri to speak first.

‘I’ve interrogated every Charynite prisoner we have,’ Perri said, leaning forward in his seat. The blaze of the hearth illuminated the scar that ran across his brow. ‘Those who have heard of Gargarin of Abroi all speak the same thoughts. He was the King’s favourite advisor in the palace eighteen years ago. The Charynites in our prison say that the King favoured Gargarin of Abroi’s opinion over all others. It was well known in the capital that if young Gargarin of Abroi had a plan, the King would follow it.’

‘And what does the Charynite in possession of Froi’s ring have to say?’ Finnikin asked.

‘Every word that comes out of his mouth seems a lie, so he’s not the most reliable of sources, but he certainly knows who Gargarin of Abroi is.’

Trevanion and Perri exchanged looks. ‘According to the Charynite, the ring was given to him by a lad to bargain for Gargarin of Abroi’s life. And the province leaders paid three hundred pieces of gold as ransom to have Gargarin of Abroi returned to them when he was held hostage by these men called the street lords.’

There was an uneasy silence in the room.

‘Are we suspecting that Froi has joined the enemy?’ Isaboe asked, trying to keep her voice even.

‘We’re suspecting anyone can be an enemy to Lumatere,’ Trevanion said. ‘If it was Froi who bargained with the ring, then he was begging for the life of a man who could easily have been the mastermind behind events in this palace thirteen years ago.’

‘Easily have been?’ Isaboe asked. ‘If we’re going to hunt a man down, we need to be more certain than that.’

‘Gargarin of Abroi dazzled the King with his ideas,’ Sir Topher said. ‘Perhaps he has a way about him.’

‘Froi is the least likely to be dazzled by another,’ she said. ‘Even when he had a choice between life and death, he refused to be influenced by powerful men. His choices are about survival.’

She heard a sound come from Finnikin and dared to glance at him.

‘How is it that you came to speak about such things with him?’ her husband asked.

She shrugged. ‘We were exchanging stories of horror from our childhood. I told him about my time as a slave in Sorel and he shared with me some of his more … sordid moments on the streets of the Sarnak capital.’

Again she felt Finnikin’s cold stare. How could a man who stared so coldly possess a smile that made her mood change in an instant? But that smile was far away now.