Melina Marchetta - Quintana of Charyn

‘I’m just saying,’ Finnikin said.

In the royal residence, Isaboe watched Tesadora pour more water into the tub.

‘What say we wash that hair, beloved?’ Tesadora said, her voice gentle but firm as she began to lather it. Tonight was special, Isaboe reminded herself. She would make the effort.

‘Finnikin says he hasn’t seen it out for months,’ Tesadora said practically, ‘and hair such as this should never be hidden.’

Isaboe tried not to think of her hair, because then she’d have to remember the red-gold strands of her son’s.

‘I miss the colour of mine,’ Tesadora admitted. ‘Sagrami punished me for being so vain. It was brown and gold. Do you remember that, or were you too much of a child?’

‘I don’t remember you,’ Isaboe said. ‘I wish I did, but I know you’re somewhere there in my memories. I remember your mother, of course, but you were Seranonna’s mysterious half-wild daughter living alone in the forest of Lumatere.’

‘Put your head back,’ Tesadora said and Isaboe felt the warm water blanket her head. She closed her eyes a moment.

‘My brother Balthazar said he saw you once,’ Isaboe said. ‘When he tried to describe you to my mother, he wept and she asked him why. He said it made him ache inside and my sisters teased him for days. He would have been a romantic, my brother. Unlike Finnikin and Lucian. He would have worn his heart on his sleeve and we would have found him sitting with the women and listening to their woes.’

‘Yes, he would have been a romantic and a kind, kind man,’ Tesadora said. ‘But this kingdom needs a great leader and you, beloved, are a great leader.’

Isaboe swallowed hard. ‘My people are in despair,’ she said, trying to conceal the break in her voice. ‘I sense it in their sleep.’

Tesadora brushed a strand of hair out of Isaboe’s eyes. ‘Your people can be selfish, indulgent grumblers at times, Isaboe. And you may feel the hardship of their sleep, but you are the reason they sleep at night. Because they know that their queen will never forsake them. And they grieve that little babe for more reasons than losing a future king. Your people are sad, beloved, because they know your sorrow and they feel helpless. “How can we help?” I hear them ask throughout the kingdom.’

Isaboe looked away to the corner of the residence where the cot would have stood.

‘Sometimes I think I can bear it,’ she said, ‘and then Jasmina will look at me with so much confusion and she’ll touch my belly and ask me where it’s gone. “Where’s baby?” she cries. She looks for it everywhere we go.’ Isaboe felt the tears bite her eyes. ‘On the mountain just the other day, we went to visit Yata and one of the girls had just birthed and Jasmina threw the mightiest of tantrums and insisted we take the babe home, because she believed it to be ours. In her sweet mind, I went to the mountain to have a baby and I came home with none. So she believes we left it behind.’

She looked up at Tesadora in anguish. ‘And later that night I heard him weeping. My king is not one for tears. I only saw him cry once when we came across the fever camp in Speranza. But that night on the mountain, he wept and it broke me to hear it.’

Isaboe stepped out of the tub and Tesadora helped her dress, securing the ties of her gown at her wrist.

‘You are strong and young and you will find a way out of this darkness. But that path will belong to you. No one else.’

They heard a sound at the door and Isaboe quickly wiped her tears and turned to the entrance where Finnikin stood watching her with Jasmina drowsy in his arms.

‘And don’t let me ever have to admit this out loud,’ Tesadora said in an exaggerated whisper, walking towards the door, ‘but you lead this kingdom with a good man by your side … as stubborn and annoying as he is. A man who has proven himself to have courage and compassion. The Charynite valley dwellers believe that if they could find a man as good as yours to marry Quintana of Charyn, their kingdom would stand a chance.’

Isaboe watched Finnikin grip Tesadora’s hand as she passed him, pressing a kiss against it.

Jasmina woke up, sleepy and shy, and looked up from her father’s shoulder.

‘Tell Mama what you did today,’ he said, approaching Isaboe. Jasmina hid her face in his neck and he chuckled and whispered in her ear until she looked up again.

‘Tell Isaboe,’ he urged. ‘Go on.’

Isaboe leaned closer to hear Jasmina whisper, ‘I put my head in the wiver.’

Isaboe gasped with delight. ‘Do I not have the bravest girl in the kingdom? Did Fa tell you that I didn’t put my head in the river until I was a grown girl in Yutlind Sud?’

Jasmina was pleased by the attention and held her arms out to Isaboe, and then Rhiannon was at the door.

‘She put her head in the river,’ Isaboe told her.

Rhiannon gasped on cue and held out a hand to Jasmina.

‘Then I think Miss picks out her own dress for tonight.’

Isaboe watched them leave and felt Finnikin’s eyes on her. Sometimes she felt as shy as Jasmina with this man. Grief stripped her of a veneer. Sometimes she wanted it back.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he said and it surprised her to hear those words. She always felt his love when he was present, but Finnikin wasn’t one for words of endearment. It was because he came from the Rock. People there were practical and very contained.

They heard Jasmina’s laughter from down the hall and she caught Finnikin’s smile at the sound of it. Isaboe pressed fingers to his lips. He didn’t smile enough and the sight of it always caught her breath.

‘What if she’s all I give you in this life of ours, my love?’ she asked quietly.

‘Then I’ll shout at the Goddess in fury,’ he said fiercely. ‘I’ll beg to know why I’ve been given so much when other men have so little.’

‘We’re going to be late,’ Froi told the Priestking, trying to shuffle him quickly out the door of what was now the shrinehouse of Sennington.

But the Priestking was fumbling with the key.

‘Let me do that,’ Froi said. ‘You know Lady Abian hates people being late.’

‘You want me to hurry, do you?’ the Priestking asked. ‘An old man like me?’

Froi placed the oil lamp in the Priestking’s hand and hastened them towards the horse and cart he had prepared. Although the Priestking’s house was in use all the day long, most of Sennington village was still empty and once the sun set, there was nothing but the moon to light their road to the village of Sayles.

‘Froi, slow down,’ the Priestking said.

‘Half the mountain’s come down, blessed Barakah , and you know the Monts. They’ll eat all the food before we get there and Lady Abian’s made those rolls of pork and cheese.’

‘Wonderful. I’m going to be forced into my deathbed because of pork-and-cheese rolls,’ the Priestking said, stopping a moment to wheeze. Froi flinched to hear the sound of it. Much had changed since he left, but he had only realised now just how frail the Priestking was.

When they reached the feast, most of the guests were already inside except for some of the Guard, who merely raised a hand in acknowledgement. Things had changed between them, Froi thought. In the past there would have been mockery or jest, but it was as if they could barely look him in the eye. Did they see him as a Charynite now? Would he be a stranger in every land? Not a Sarnak or a Charynite or a Lumateran?

‘You’re gritting your teeth,’ the Priestking said as they made their way to the entrance.

‘I liked it better when they used to call me a filthy little feef,’ Froi said bitterly.

‘And they probably liked it better when you had little control,’ the Priestking said. ‘You’ve become a surprisingly formidable young man, Froi. Nothing’s more frightening to others.’