Melina Marchetta - Quintana of Charyn

‘I can’t stand this,’ Phaedra heard Ginny cry. ‘I didn’t ask to save Charyn. When Rafuel returns I’m going to ask him to tell Gies that I’m alive. I don’t like being without my man.’

‘From the flirting I saw the fool do with those Mont girls, I dare say he’ll cope,’ Cora said in a nasty tone.

Cora loved nothing more than riling Ginny, whose only sense of worth came from having a man. Phaedra had known girls like Ginny in Alonso. The type who rarely took the side of women in an argument. They feared it would make them unpopular in the eyes of men. She remembered Ginny in the camp and realised that most of the acquaintances the girl had struck up were with the camp leaders Gies seemed drawn to.

‘You’re a liar,’ Ginny shouted at Cora, who was still taunting her about the Mont girls.

‘And you’re one of the greatest idiots I’ve come across, and believe me when I say I’ve come across many.’

‘Enough!’ Phaedra said from the entrance. ‘Our voices will carry upstream.’

They stared at the Princess over Phaedra’s shoulder.

‘Tell her to stay put,’ Cora said.

‘You’ll have to tell her yourself, Cora,’ Phaedra said firmly. ‘She’s not deaf to your voice, you know. Now, enough of this fighting. We have a little king to protect.’

‘If you ask me, the only thing keeping her alive is that little king,’ Ginny said. ‘That’s what my Gies would say.’

‘Shut it, you idiot girl,’ Cora said.

‘You shut it. You’re an ugly hag. There were women in my village just like you. Hags with nothing left to offer a man.’

‘Well, it’s a good thing the men in the village had you,’ Cora said.

‘Shut up, both of you,’ Jorja hissed. ‘I’d crawl through those sewers one hundred times over not to have to listen to any of you.’

This was Phaedra’s life now and she wondered what she had done to the gods for them to punish her in such a way. And in the corner, Quintana of Charyn sat staring at her, shaking her head. Phaedra recognised the look directed at her. She had seen it on the mountain before she had proven her worth. It was disappointment. You’re useless, Phaedra. Useless.

She closed her eyes and went to sleep with the sound of Florenza’s retching in her ears. And a small part of her begged the gods not to let her wake.

Froi was summoned to see the elder of the compound, Simeon of Nebia. The Priest had come to visit him once when he lay injured and in pain, but Froi remembered little of that time except for the constant questions regarding Quintana’s whereabouts.

But this time Froi was well enough to visit the leader’s residence and it was the first time he was able to study the underground galleries. They were unlike Tariq’s compound under the Citavita. Here the ceilings were high and the rooms were wide. Froi could see that they had not always been a hiding place. The archways seemed about six feet high and large enough for a pushcart to fit through them. The walls were made of limestone and Arjuro had mentioned the galleries were once used to quarry chalk.

They entered a long, wide corridor with a dozen or so small alcoves on either side where the collegiati slept. In each cubicle was a bedroll, a stool and books scattered around. The passageway led to another cavern referred to as the chamber of reflection, which was much like a small godshouse where they assembled for prayer or to find solitude. Froi watched as Arjuro stood at the wall and traced his finger against the stone, as if he was writing a secret message that only the gods could decipher.

‘What were you doing?’ Froi asked quietly as they stepped out of the chamber onto a landing.

‘That’s between me and them.’

They finally came to a vertical shaft that led down to a lower level, and it was there that Simeon lived.

‘I’ve not been invited,’ Arjuro said. ‘So speak to him as you would the Lumateran Priestking.’

‘I yell at the Priestking,’ Froi said. ‘I’ve thrown manuscripts at him when he’s forced me to read the jottings … or droppings, as I preferred to call them, of the ancients on their visit to the off lands. You do not want me speaking to the elder as I would the Priestking.’

Arjuro poked him in the shoulder.

Froi entered Simeon’s residence. It was covered from top to toe with brightly coloured shards of clay tiles. It was as if someone had smashed a plate to the ground and gathered the pieces to stick on the wall. On the ceiling were the most magnificent frescoes he had seen, better even than De Lancey’s or those in the locked wing of the Lumateran palace where Isaboe’s family had been slain. Simeon the elder was shelling broad beans beside a pot of boiling water. He acknowledged Froi with a tilt of his head and beckoned him close. He pointed at Froi’s cap.

‘Can you remove it?’

Simeon had a cold countenance, unlike the Priestking, and it was difficult to read his thoughts. But Froi had to respect a man who had succeeded in keeping a frightened community thriving not only after the slaughter in the Oracle’s godshouse, but during the years since the curse in Charyn.

Froi did as he was told and turned, knowing it was the lettering Simeon was interested in seeing.

‘Just as confusing as the mark of the lastborn women,’ Simeon mused. ‘But different.’

‘Can I see the markings on one of your lastborn girls?’ Froi asked. Because Quintana’s hadn’t made sense to him, he had never truly studied them. Now he had a chance to compare.

Simeon shook his head.

‘Our lastborns have hidden in these caves for eighteen years, so they were not marked when they were of age. But we’ve had visitors from outside and I know the lettering well.’

Simeon stood and shuffled towards a bench of books piled high. He retrieved a piece of parchment and held it out for Froi to study.

‘Yours has stems on the round letters. Here and here,’ he said, pointing to the copy of the lastborn girls’ lettering. ‘I have a feeling that the idiot King’s riders copied it wrong on the girls. So all these years we’ve been trying to decipher words that don’t exist.’

‘Do you think you can decipher this?’ Froi said, pointing to his skull.

‘Not all Priests are gods’ blessed, Dafar,’ Simeon said. ‘Did you know that?’

Froi felt strange hearing his true name spoken by the Priest.

‘Arjuro says the gods close their eyes and point, and that he just happened to be in their line of vision that day,’ Froi said.

Simeon didn’t respond.

‘Are you?’ Froi asked. ‘Gods’ blessed?’

‘No,’ Simeon said. ‘I think I fooled myself as a younger man, but when you meet the likes of Arjuro of Abroi, you realise the difference between ordinary men and those the gods chose to lead us.’

‘It’s hard to believe just by looking at Arjuro,’ Froi said.

Simeon’s expression softened. ‘My grandson Rothen is gods’ blessed. He’s with Rafuel of Sebastabol in the Lumateran valley. We’ve not heard from them. We’re beginning to fear the worst.’

‘The Lumaterans would never harm them,’ Froi said.

‘You don’t know that.’

Simeon was not the sort of man to fool others with false hope. ‘It’s not only the Lumaterans we fear, Dafar. Arjuro mentioned Zabat of Nebia’s treachery.’

Froi nodded. ‘But your lads keep to themselves. If they’re as cunning as Rafuel –’

‘But they’re not,’ Simeon said, his voice grave. ‘They don’t have the nature of Rafuel. Rothen is … a dreamer.’

‘Is he a physician?’

A faint smile appeared on Simeon’s face. ‘No. He’s an artist.’ He pointed to the walls and then the roof above them.