Froi of the Exiles

‘Our Matteo was convincing,’ Phaedra said to Jory a little uneasily as they rode home that day.

‘Too convincing,’ Jory muttered.

Phaedra continued to stay with Lucian on the mountain. It had always seemed strange to her that for one who led the Monts, Lucian kept his dwelling small. Yata, on the other hand, lived in what the Lumaterans referred to as the royal residence. It had many rooms and had once accommodated the whole of the Queen’s family when she was a child and spent the holy days in the mountains. It was secure and perfect for when the Queen and her consort and child came to stay. Lucian’s cottage had two rooms. When Phaedra lived here as his wife, she had shared his bed, or a corner of it anyway. Now, she slept on a cot near the fire.

Some mornings she’d wake and his bed would be empty and she’d wonder which of the Mont girls he lay with. On one such morning a man named Orly came knocking about a missing bull and she found herself traipsing through the mountain searching for the animal. When they dragged Orly’s bull back to his stable, Phaedra noticed that the cow shed had been left open, and pointed it out to him.

‘Didn’t understand a word you said,’ he said. ‘You should learn how to speak proper, like.’

‘I said,’ Phaedra repeated slowly, ‘that the door of your cow shed is open.’

He stared back at the shed. ‘The cow belongs to my wife,’ he said, irritated. ‘Fool of a woman.’

She saw his wife standing on the porch watching them both and, with a wave of her frozen hand, Phaedra walked away, feeling cold and miserable.

When she arrived back at the cottage it was still empty. The fire had died down and the room was cold. Try as she might, Phaedra couldn’t start it up again and she felt as useless as when she lived here as his wife. Lucian arrived soon after, grunting with displeasure at how cold the room was.

‘You couldn’t have made some porridge, I suppose?’ he snapped.

She watched him grab a bowl of cold stew she had left from the night before.

‘Your shalamar sent it over yesterday,’ she said, not having anything else to say.

‘Yata,’ he corrected, wolfing down his food. She noticed that when he was tired and cold and hungry he had the worst temper.

‘We say shalamar,’ she said.

‘Well, that’s a ridiculous word, and we say yata,’ he said firmly, the discussion finished as far as he was concerned.

‘And the word for shalamon?’ she persisted.

He refused to respond.

‘That’s our word for grandfather,’ she said.

‘Pardu,’ he muttered. ‘Are you happy now?’

‘A strange word.’

‘Not so strange at all,’ he said.

‘And you know better, do you?’ she asked, feeling her temper rise despite the fact that Phaedra had never been known as one with a temper.

‘Well, I’m not the one unable to say simple words,’ he said.

‘Well, actually, you are,’ she said, sitting opposite him.

‘Me?’ he asked, putting down his spoon and finally giving her his attention.

‘You say “Phedra” and my name is Phaedra.’

‘I do not. I say Phaedra,’ he insisted.

‘To your ears it sounds like Phaedra; to a Charynite it sounds like Phedra.’

‘I’ll call you whatever I like,’ he muttered.

‘Of course you will. You’re the King of the mountain. Why wouldn’t you do as you please?’

She stood up and searched for her shawl, preferring to be anywhere else.

‘King of the mountain?’ he shouted. ‘I’ve just spent a night birthing a foal. I’m frozen to the bone, my food is cold and it seems as if my wife has been bitten by a viper.’

‘I’m not your wife,’ she cried. ‘I’m just a fool Charynite girl you sent back, ridiculed by your people with not so much as a thank you for traipsing half the morning looking for that wretched bull.’

Lucian sighed. ‘Orly was here? You should have sent him away.’

‘Yes, that would have made me more well-liked than I already am.’

He looked at her hands clutching her shawl and then he sighed again, stood up and left the cottage. A little while later he returned with four small logs.

‘Come here,’ he said gruffly, and he showed her how to build a fire and light it. ‘This cold will only get worse and you can’t go around freezing half to death.’

That day in the valley she felt Rafuel’s eyes on her, whispering to Donashe and pointing her way. Later, when she was at the stream with some of the other camp dwellers, Rafuel approached.

‘You,’ he snapped, pointing to Phaedra. ’I want a word. There’s a set of rules you need to follow.’

Kasabian and Harker stood and Phaedra saw them turn to Jory.

‘Don’t let her out of your sight,’ Harker snapped. Both men were less than forgiving of Jory and his Mont cousins’ nightly excursions into their camp weeks ago. Jory had responded in turn by choosing to charm the Charynite women. ‘They don’t even know how to fight,’ he muttered once to Phaedra about the men. ‘So who am I to care what they think of me?’ But deep down she could tell the lad was desperate for their approval.

Phaedra waved their concerns away and followed Rafuel along the stream, with Jory trailing behind.

‘They are aligned to no one,’ Rafuel said quietly. ‘They’re scum who are travelling through the provinces searching for lastborn women after Quintana of Charyn’s failure at the coming of her age. On the road between the Citavita and Sebastabol these men were stopped by the King’s riders, or I should say, Bestiano of Nebia’s men. They were told that in the valley at the foot of the Lumateran mountains, a group of landless Charynites were camped and that amongst them were seven rebels led by Rafuel of Sebastabol. They knew this information because Bestiano’s men had apprehended a spy who I believe was Zabat.

‘Never,’ Rafuel said, grabbing Jory by the ear to bring him closer and to give the impression that he was reprimanding the Mont, ‘trust a whinger from Nebia.’

‘Matteo!’ Donashe called out. Rafuel and Phaedra turned and the man shook his head. ‘Don’t touch the Mont. We can’t have trouble.’

Jory pushed him away, but hid a smile all the same. ‘Yes, don’t touch the Mont, Matteo,’ he mocked.

‘Do you think they’re spying on Lumatere?’ Phaedra asked. ‘Or are they truly after you?’

‘These men are cutthroat opportunists. They have purpose. They think, much like Matteo of Jidia, that if they do the right thing they will be rewarded in the new Charyn. Perhaps be appointed palace riders. Here in the valley is the closest they can come to proving themselves. This land we stand on may be Lumatere’s, but they see the people as theirs to do with as they will. It’s all about power, Phaedra. Always about power and who grabs it first.’

‘Then tell your people to leave,’ Jory said. ‘They’d be idiots to stay. No one’s keeping them imprisoned.’

Rafuel stared at Jory as if he could not believe what he was hearing. ‘Do you not understand, Mont? These people have nowhere else to go. They will endure anything for the slightest chance that your queen will let them into Lumatere.’

Most nights, the Monts came to Lucian with all sorts of favours and complaints. As Phaedra fell asleep that night, she heard the slur of tiredness in Lucian’s voice and knew that if she was his proper wife, she’d order them all home. The next morning she heard Orly call out for his bull again and this time she hurried to the door before the man came knocking.

‘He’s sleeping,’ she said firmly.

Orly tried to look over her shoulder.

‘Then wake him up.’

‘Why, when I was able to help yesterday?’ she said briskly, grabbing her shawl. ‘Let’s go. We’re wasting time.’

This time Orly’s wife Lotte was with them. Her cow had managed to escape as well.

‘I hope wherever they are, they’re together,’ Lotte said.

‘Who?’ Phaedra asked.

‘Why, Bert and Gert. Who do you think, idiot girl?’