Melina Marchetta - Quintana of Charyn

And then things got worse and Phaedra watched as Lucian and Jory and the Mont lads came charging out from between the copse of trees, swords in hand, ready to cut down any man who was a threat to Froi, and when the Turlans saw the Monts, they cocked their bows and raised their swords and Phaedra cried in fear at the blood that would be shed in this stream.

‘Stop!’ Froi shouted, stumbling between the Monts and the Turlans, arms outstretched. ‘Stop!’

And then there was silence. The Turlans stepped back across to the Charyn side of the stream and Lucian and his Monts stood beside Froi.

Phaedra pushed through the Nebian soldiers and reached Quintana, who rocked in the mud with the screeching little King in her arms.

‘Shh,’ Phaedra said calmly, looking up at the Captain of the Nebian army and his men. ‘You’re going to hurt her and the babe if you don’t restrain yourselves.’

Scarpo of Nebia hesitated and then nodded.

Phaedra looked across the water and her eyes met Lucian’s. Their needs came second. It came from the privilege of being trusted.

But that doesn’t mean I love you less.

And she held a hand down to Quintana, who took it and stood, and they followed Scarpo of Nebia to the waiting cart that would take them back to the Citavita.

Froi began each day counting the moments that made his life breathable. The feel of soil in his hands. The colours of autumn in Lumatere. The murmuring between Lord August and Lady Abian on the porch each night. The sight of their eldest son Talon relieving one of the village women of the hay bale she carried. The Priestking’s belly laugh. The sound of Vestie’s voice when she asked about Kintana of Charyn. And then the next count would begin. Of everything that made his life unbreathable. And each time, it outnumbered the first.

It had been four months since he had arrived back in Lumatere, and most days he was able to put aside the ache and complete his work on Lord August’s farm. But today was different. It was the curse day. Their birthday. Charyn’s day of weeping. Let her be happy . Perhaps this would be the first of the birthdays she’d enjoy, for she had his son in her arms. The image of the two was etched in Froi’s memory and although they had only those few moments together in the valley that day, he missed Quintana more than ever. And try as he might, Froi couldn’t get the scent of the boy off his hands. He began to understand Lirah and Gargarin, and the way they had coated their hearts with ice, so they wouldn’t feel.

As if Finnikin had sensed his pain that morning, he came riding by with Jasmina.

‘I’m going to teach her to swim,’ Finn said. ‘Come with us. I’ll enjoy the company.’ By the look on Jasmina’s face, the invitation was not extended to Froi, but he agreed all the same.

Trevanion joined them later. He kept a river cottage in Tressor, which was beginning to look like a village now after all these years of grieving the Tressorians who were slaughtered in Sarnak. Froi watched the three from the riverbank and even found himself chuckling once or twice to see the authority the Princess had over her father and Trevanion. Later, when the Captain left, Froi and Finnikin lay on the grass under the last moments of the afternoon sun, Jasmina asleep in Finnikin’s arms.

‘How is she?’ Froi asked and they both knew he was speaking of Isaboe.

‘Bad days. Good days. Bad days.’

Finnikin looked at his daughter, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

‘She doesn’t want Jasmina to see the bad days.’

Froi saw the dark circles of weariness under Finnikin’s eyes.

‘You’re not trying to do it all on your own, are you, Finn?’ he asked. ‘You should ask the women for help. Lady Beatriss would understand, and Lady Abian.’

‘Oh, I’m not against begging,’ Finnikin said. ‘I went to see Tesadora, you know. Me?’ He laughed. ‘We’ve rarely exchanged a civil word. But I asked her if she would come to the palace and stay a while.’ Finnikin shrugged and smiled. ‘And she said yes. And then Celie returned, as you’d know. For this week anyway … especially for the feast tonight. And I asked her to stay too and she said yes.’

Tonight would be Isaboe’s first public outing since the death of the child, and Lady Abian had been preparing for weeks, demanding that those most loved by the Queen attend. The whole week’s talk in the village had been about the feast and Celie’s return.

‘Lord August thinks that Celie is spying for you in Belegonia,’ Froi said quietly.

Finnikin glanced at him. ‘Celie is spying for us in Belegonia.’

‘Don’t tell Lord August,’ Froi said with a sigh. ‘Thinking is one thing. Knowing for sure is another. And then there’s the matter of the castle castellan searching Celie’s room when he suspected that she stole a chronicle from the library and Lord August remembered the castellan of the Belegonian spring castle as a portly older man with a lot of facial lumps and of course when he visited Belegonia three weeks past, he met the new castellan.’

‘No facial lumps?’ Finnikin asked.

‘None at all. Nor was he old. Nor was he portly, and now Lord August is questioning how he would dare be in Celie’s room.’

‘Ah,’ Finnikin said, nodding. ‘No wonder Isaboe and Celie were locked up in our chamber all the day long when she arrived. They weren’t talking about Belegonian fleece. They were talking about the castellan.’

‘According to Lady Celie, no,’ Froi said. ‘She wants to out-smart him, not bed him.’

‘And you?’ Finnikin asked softly.

‘No, Finn, I don’t want to bed the castellan of the Belegonian spring castle.’

Finnikin laughed, but soon his expression was serious.

‘We don’t speak of it,’ he said, ‘but I can’t imagine it being easy for you, Froi.’

Froi shrugged. He had received a letter from Lirah. It came via the valley one day, out of what seemed nowhere. Froi had opened it with shaking hands. Lirah had sketched him an image of Quintana and his son. And one of Gargarin. He knew it was his father and not Arjuro. Not because of his solemnity, but because of the look in his eyes. Froi would always recognise the desire in Gargarin’s eyes when he was looking at Lirah.

‘It’s hard to explain … what they mean to me,’ Froi said.

Finnikin’s smile was faint. ‘I can imagine.’

‘Can you?’

‘Froi, you have my wife’s name etched on your arm, and the only thing that stops me from skinning you are the other two names.’

Froi gave a laugh, shook his head ruefully.

‘Not many men can read the words of the ancients, my lord. I’ll have to remember that next time.’

They rode together until they reached the village of Sayles. The beauty of his home village always forced Froi to think of Gargarin. What would Gargarin think of the Flatlands? Would he be impressed by the water pipe that ran from the river into the fields? Would he ever share his plans for a waterwheel with Lord August? How would the two men get on? But with all those questions came bitterness. Not once had Gargarin attempted correspondence. And Froi couldn’t understand why. When Scarpo of Nebia had passed on Gargarin’s orders for Froi to stay behind that day at the stream, Froi hadn’t questioned it. Because Gargarin had once begged Froi to trust him and Froi had. But these days he felt like a beggar each time he visited the palace, asking if anything had arrived for him.

‘Don’t forget the Priestking tonight,’ Finnikin reminded.

‘Why does everyone presume I’m going to forget the Priestking?’ Froi said, irritated. He’d been feeling like the village idiot lately. His only chore for the night was to collect the Priestking and if it wasn’t Lady Abian or Lord August or Trevanion reminding him, it was Finn.