bone.
‘Will Quintana of Charyn be beautiful in your play?’ she asked, quietly.
Tippideaux thought for a moment.
‘She’ll be strangely intriguing,’ Tippideaux said, her eyes faraway. ‘With a touch of mystery and savagery that will bewitch only the bold and courageous amongst us.’
Froi and the lads held their breaths.
After what seemed an eternity, Quintana took Tippideaux’s hand.
He spent each morning on the roof with Lirah watching the sunrise. Most times it was to observe if Bestiano’s riders were heading for Paladozza. Despite there being no province walls, the land outside to the south was flat and Nebia’s powerful army would be seen from miles away.
In Paladozza a peculiar world of colour existed on the roofs of people’s houses. Unlike Lumatere with its lush greens and golds, here the strange landscape of stone cones and cave houses was coloured in shades of light pink and soft brown and white. Once upon a time, stone had been stone to Froi. In Paladozza it had a beauty he was beginning to love.
One morning, De Lancey joined them and they sat appreciating the view.
‘They say a volcano erupted thousands upon thousands of years ago,’ De Lancey explained. ‘And the ash and rain water made that stone. It’s called tufa.’ He pointed to one stone house and then another. ‘That one is made of lava and that one out of sandstone. It’s why they differ in colour.’
Lirah shivered and Froi shared his blanket with her, placing it around them. They sat shoulder to shoulder in silence awhile.
‘Where’s Gar?’ De Lancey asked Lirah.
‘Sleeping,’ she said, getting to her feet and yawning. ‘Planning armies. Building water meadows. Writing letters.’
She tapped Froi on the head. ‘Gargarin said you write down ideas faster than anyone he knows. Make yourself useful today.’
She disappeared down the steps into the house.
‘It’s a good thing that Lirah and Gargarin are on speaking terms,’ Froi said. ‘For the sake of everyone.’
De Lancey gave a short laugh. ‘I think they’re doing more than speaking, Froi.’
Froi could hardly comprehend the idea of Lirah with Gargarin. Perhaps when they were young, but not now. De Lancey surely had it wrong.
‘Will the brothers travel home to Abroi?’ Froi asked.
‘Abroi?’ De Lancey said with disgust. ‘Abroi is a swamp of ignorance and you don’t want Arjuro anywhere near that madman father of theirs. This is their home. And it’s the home of anyone who belongs to them. You and Lirah included.’
‘I have a home,’ Froi said.
‘But does it speak to you in the same way Paladozza does?’
Froi turned to him, exasperated. ‘Speak? Sing? What is it with you Charynites?’
De Lancey stared at him, shrewdly. ‘Do you honestly think that the Queen of Lumatere followed a map home? She followed a song. Does Lumatere sing to you, Dafar?’
They were interrupted by the sound of horse hooves clattering on the courtyard stone and they stood to see who it was.
‘At this time of the morning it could only be a messenger,’ De Lancey said, a worried expression on his face. ‘Go find Gargarin.’
Froi knocked on Gargarin’s door and entered. In a corner, Lirah was tying a brightly coloured braid of rope around the hips of her simple gown. Gargarin was at a desk, placing a wax seal on a letter. Only then did it occur to Froi that Lirah and Gargarin were sharing a chamber. He felt an anger beyond reckoning. Was he the last to know? Was Froi merely an insignificant part of their past, one they could easily overlook? Especially now that they were thinking of no one but themselves. He hated them both: Lirah for being stupid enough to believe Gargarin cared about anything, and Gargarin because it was easy to hate Gargarin, the weak and useless cripple.
‘De Lancey wants you in the main hall,’ he snapped before walking out.
Grijio and Olivier arrived at the same time as Gargarin, all waiting to hear the news.
‘A letter from the Provincaro of Sebastabol on behalf of the Ambassador of the principality of Avanosh,’ De Lancey said.
‘Where’s Avanosh?’ Froi asked. He tried to recall whether the Priestking or Rafuel had mentioned it.
‘It’s a small island,’ Grijio explained. ‘Off the coast of Sebastabol in the Ocean of Skuldenore.’
‘Closer to the border with Sorel than to Paladozza,’ Olivier said. ‘Those of Avanosh are the greatest bellyachers about who has the right to the throne based on an incident hundreds of years ago. In the past they’ve sought the support of Sorel to secure the throne of Charyn.’
‘Do they have the right?’ Froi asked.
Gargarin shook his head. ‘Not any more. But they are of royal blood dating back to the Ancients and they are considered Charynites.’
‘Then what do they want?’ Lirah asked.
De Lancey turned back to the letter.
‘According to the Provincaro of Sebastabol, Feliciano of Avanosh is the perfect candidate to be the Queen’s Consort. A titled duke, unaligned.’
Froi stared from De Lancey to Gargarin, stunned. A Consort for Quintana?
‘The Provincaro says that we need stability within our kingdom and the only way to achieve that is to appoint a neutral Consort,’ De Lancey said. ‘We also need to keep Belegonia and Lumatere from invading and what better way than to have a Consort with strong ties to a powerful neighbour like Sorel?’
‘Gods,’ Gargarin muttered.
‘That’s not all,’ De Lancey said. ‘The Avanosh entourage are a week’s ride from us as we speak.’
Chapter 35
Phaedra was pleased that the Queen of Lumatere had released Rafuel to the valley as a spy. Pleased, and somewhat flattered, because it was Phaedra’s plan they chose to follow, detail by detail. Rafuel would be escorted by the Monts downstream and at a safe enough distance he would cross and join Charynite exiles travelling towards the valley from Alonso. Rafuel was to ensure he impressed the camp leaders and was to find out more about what was taking place in the Citavita and the rest of the kingdom.
A week later, Rafuel and Donashe entered the cave where Phaedra was tending to a dying man from the valley. She felt their eyes on her as she kneaded the old man’s tired bones, but she refused to acknowledge them and continued her work. The old man had said he liked her voice, so Phaedra spoke to him stories passed down to her in Alonso. She thought it sad and strangely wrong that her voice could be the last he heard in this world. When she was satisfied that the man slept, she stood to face Donashe.
‘I demand that his wife is moved into this cave with him,’ she said, trying to keep her voice strong and determined.
‘Who is she to demand?’ Rafuel asked coldly. It was as though Phaedra was facing a stranger and not the Rafuel she had come to know.
‘She’s the wife of the Mont leader,’ Donashe said, his eyes glancing at Jory, who was instantly at Phaedra’s side.
Rafuel whispered something in Donashe’s ear and both men laughed. Phaedra’s face reddened with humiliation. She would have liked to demand what had been said, but instead she pointed back to the old man.
‘He’s dying. Where is your compassion?’
Donashe seemed irritated by her pleas, but he agreed to let the man’s wife share the cave. Phaedra watched the camp leader place an arm around Rafuel’s shoulder as they walked away. ‘To be a good camp leader, you have to let them think they’ve won a few rounds, Matteo.’
