Melina Marchetta - Quintana of Charyn

He caught Froi’s eye, a smile crossing his lips. Froi knew he was enjoying himself.

Someone ran a finger alongside the dent at the back of Froi’s head and Arjuro slapped the hand away. Froi had received an arrow to the head and they had been forced to crop his hair. Although not completely bare, it felt strange under his fingers. But what was even stranger was the collegiati ’s reaction to it. Not a day went by without a hand attempting to feel its way across the cleft at the back of Froi’s skull.

‘Are you going to tell me what’s there?’ he demanded of Arjuro.

‘A hard head,’ Arjuro responded and Froi saw the warning look he sent to the others. ‘It’s a good thing you have no brains and the arrowhead pierced nothing but empty space.’

It was the same joke each time and Froi rolled his eyes when the others laughed at it again.

‘Can I put on my trousers now?’ he asked. Never one to be bashful about his naked self, it felt different when the collegiati scrutinised every part of his body. The topic of foreskin was the most difficult to endure.

‘He grew up in Sarnak. It’s what they do to their male young. A snip and then it’s gone,’ Arjuro explained.

The men had flinched. The women were intrigued.

Arjuro ushered them all out.

‘Brother Arjuro, what of warts?’ one of the lads asked at the entrance of the cave. Nothing gods’ blessed about that one. Some were quite delusional when it came to the degree of their talents.

Arjuro stared at the young man.

‘I don’t heal warts. If you want to learn how to heal warts, go to the soothsayer and she’ll feed you with an old wives’ tale or two.’

When they were all gone, Froi pulled on his trousers.

‘They’re all half in love with you,’ he said. ‘Men and women.’

‘Yes, it’s a pity you didn’t inherit our looks,’ Arjuro said. ‘You too could be as popular.’

Froi hid a smile.

‘Gargarin was even more sought after,’ Arjuro explained, sketching today’s image of Froi’s gut wound into his journal. ‘It’s because he ignored the world and, in turn, the world believed he was playing games.’

‘Were you jealous of him?’

‘Gargarin?’ Arjuro looked up, surprised by the question. ‘Never. I told you. I was jealous of anyone who took him from me.’

‘He could be happy with Lirah in Paladozza,’ Froi said softly.

Arjuro sighed. ‘I can’t see my brother staying put while all this is happening.’

Froi imagined that ‘all this’ was the question of Quintana’s whereabouts. He watched Arjuro carefully. ‘You know I’m ready.’

‘I’ll tell you when you’re ready. Sit.’ Arjuro pressed hard on the puckered skin across Froi’s gut.

‘Does that hurt?’

Froi pressed two fingers against Arjuro’s shoulder with the same force.

‘Does that?’ he snapped in return.

‘Oh, so we’re bad-tempered this morning, as well. Always good to see the Abroi spirit living on in our sprog.’

This time Froi couldn’t resist a smile, but then he grabbed Arjuro’s hand and pressed it against the back of his skull.

‘What’s there, Arjuro? What are you hiding from me?’

Arjuro pulled his hand away with a grimace.

‘Nothing we don’t already know, Froi. It was just hidden for so long. You were born with a mop of hair. Did you know that? It’s probably been there your whole life and no one ever saw it.’

‘But what is it?’

‘It’s the same style of lettering as Quintana’s,’ Arjuro said finally. ‘We didn’t realise all this time that both of you were scorched by the gods or whoever it was.’

‘If not the gods, who else?’ Froi asked.

Arjuro shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I wish I did. I wish I knew what it meant.’

He placed a blue woollen cap over Froi’s head, almost covering his eyes and ears.

‘Make sure no one outside these caves see it. Charynites are used to the sign belonging to lastborn women,’ Arjuro said. ‘I don’t know what would happen if they knew the very last male born was walking amongst us.’

Arjuro put his journal away under his cot. Froi saw a note poking out from one of the pages. He watched for signs of news all the time, and during the past day, Arjuro had received new correspondence.

‘What’s in the letter?’ he asked.

Arjuro didn’t respond.

‘Tell me,’ Froi begged.

Arjuro sat on the cot and thought for a minute. ‘We’ve received word back from the Turlans. Quintana never reached them, Froi. She’s not in the Lascow Mountains either. We’ve sent out word to the Provincari. She may have gone back to Jidia.’

‘Orlanda made it clear she would not protect her,’ Froi said, referring to the Provincara of Jidia.

‘Regardless, if Orlanda’s hand is forced, she will protect the future King.’

‘What of De Lancey? Quintana went searching for Lirah that time in the Citavita. Maybe she returned to Paladozza.’

‘I’ve written to De Lancey. Let’s hope he responds with the news we want to hear.’

‘Arjuro –’

‘It’s all I know. Don’t ask me again!’

The hammering on Lucian’s cottage door woke him with a start.

‘Lucian! Lucian!’

The voices belonged to Lady Beatriss and Tesadora, he thought, stumbling from his bed. Something had happened to Yata . He felt the all-too-familiar taste of bile fill his mouth as his mind raced with images of the worst.

But Yata was there the moment Lucian opened the door, his relief cut short when he saw the looks on all three faces.

‘Vestie’s gone!’

‘Taken from her bed, Lucian!’

He grabbed his coat and ushered them out the door and he felt the sharp slap of wind against his cheeks. Winter was out-staying its welcome for yet another day. He had never known it to drag so long.

‘One at a time,’ he ordered as they travelled the path down to Yata ’s home. ‘And everyone calm down! No one on this mountain would hurt Vestie, so there has to be an explanation.’

Lady Beatriss nodded and tried to do as she was told, taking a deep breath that sounded more like a ragged sob.

‘I woke up and her bed was empty and then I woke Tesadora and we searched Yata ’s house. Nothing.’

‘The door was unlatched,’ Tesadora continued. ‘From the inside.’

They reached Yata ’s compound, which sat at the centre of the mountain, and Lucian hurried to the bell in the courtyard. It had only been rung once since their return, after the younger lads broke into the cellars and got drunk. It was unlike the bell that Isaboe had insisted be placed on the mountain halfway to Lumatere. That one was a means of alerting the guards stationed there that something was wrong on the Charyn border; Yata ’s bell could only be heard throughout the mountain village. Lucian rang it long and loud until the Monts emerged from their cottages, even from as far up as the slopes to the east.

Lucian’s eyes met Tesadora’s. She wasn’t one for dramatics, but she looked pale and he knew that Vestie of the Flatlands was precious to her. Very few people found a place in Tesadora’s heart. Finnikin spoke often about the love between Tesadora and Isaboe. Letters were exchanged between the two each week and it wasn’t rare to see Tesadora laughing as she read her correspondence. Both Isaboe and Tesadora’s bond with Vestie was strong because they had walked the sleep together during the curse. Lucian could not fathom the thought of what would happen if Vestie was hurt.

‘She could have responded to a knock,’ Lucian said.

Tesadora and Beatriss shook her head.

‘We would have heard it,’ Yata said. ‘There was no knock.’