But in the morning the reality hadn’t changed. Quintana was still somewhere out there, and he needed to find Gargarin and Lirah. The three of them had a better chance of finding her if they joined forces.
When Froi walked his horse out of the stable, south to everyone else’s north, he felt the wife stare at him.
‘Are you gods’ blessed?’ she asked.
He shook his head, not meeting her eyes.
‘Do you know what I dreamt last night?’
Froi didn’t want to know. People’s dreams frightened him. But he looked up at her all the same.
‘I dreamt of my ma who died long ago. Her words are still singing in my ears.’ The woman’s smile was gentle. ‘She said, “The half-spirit of your unborn child lives in that lad.”’
Chapter 8
They arrived at the border of Osteria and Charyn five days after setting out from Lumatere, having stopped to meet with their ambassador in the kingdom of Osteria. Finnikin couldn’t help but think of the last time they were at this exact place. Isaboe … Evanjalin had been out there somewhere. With Froi. She had walked away from Finnikin because he hadn’t trusted her. Froi had followed. ‘She and me. We’re the same,’ Froi had said. Finnikin could hardly remember the boy Froi had been, except for his ability to let fly his emotions whenever they rose to the surface. Froi as a lad was easy to control. Froi as a man threatened Finnikin. He had restraint and an ability to play with his opponents. He would make a formidable enemy.
‘You’ve been quiet these past days,’ Trevanion said. ‘Are you going to tell me what the … exchange of words was about?’
‘Who said there was an exchange of words?’ Finnikin asked with irritation.
‘When a woman says “I hope you fall under your horse” and “catch your death then see if I grieve you”,’ Perri said, ‘then there’s been an exchange of words …’
Finnikin glared at him.
‘… in my humble opinion.’
‘It’s no one’s business but ours.’
‘Understandable,’ Trevanion said. ‘Although the entire Guard and palace village heard it.’
‘Perhaps the south of the Flatlands as well,’ Perri concluded.
Finnikin dismounted and they led their horses to the river. There was little teasing here. They stayed quiet, remembering the day three-and-a-half years ago when they faced Sefton and the village exiles held by the Charynites. They knew now that Rafuel of Sebastabol had been one of the soldiers, and if Finnikin closed his eyes he could imagine just where Rafuel had stood. Perhaps if he had looked at the soldiers and not their leader, he’d have seen fear and shame on their faces.
‘Let’s go,’ Trevanion said quietly.
Gargarin of Abroi had instructed the Belegonians that he would be waiting in an inn five miles north of the Charynite barracks. It was the only ale house for miles upon miles and was frequented by the Charynite soldiers guarding the border, as well as people from a cluster of isolated villages. Finnikin had been advised by the ambassador that the Belegonian army was camped further upriver on the Osterian side with Osteria’s blessing, a sign of great intimidation and provocation to Charyn. Would the Belegonians be so ready for attack if they had received Gargarin of Abroi’s letter asking for an alliance? Instead, that letter had been intercepted by Celie and passed on to Finnikin. In trapping the man who had planned the slaughter of Isaboe’s family, had Lumatere inadvertently triggered a Belegonian invasion?
Finnikin stayed focused, and thought over the instructions given by Gargarin of Abroi. The man would carry a walking stick as a means of identification. He would greet them with the words, ‘You’re a far way from home.’ He would set out a treaty between Charyn and Belegonia which would acknowledge him as the one who would return the true heir to the palace. Finnikin remembered the words in the note.
Finnikin’s blood chilled just to think of it again.
As they guided their horses through the trees he found himself back in the past. He thought he heard a whistle, and imagined the sight of her: Evanjalin of the Monts. Her hair cropped short, her arms hacked from her need to bleed so she could walk the sleep. He cursed himself for his weakness because what he felt for her then paled in comparison to how he felt now. Despite the fury at her speaking another man’s name that carved at his insides, Finnikin had never desired his wife as much as he did this moment.
Suddenly Trevanion held up a hand and they slowed their horses. Finnikin watched his father dismount. The smell of horse shit was overwhelming. Whoever had stopped at this place had not travelled alone.
‘A small army has been here, it seems,’ Trevanion said.
‘Could the Belegonians have already crossed?’ Perri asked.
Trevanion shook his head. ‘No. The Belegonians are on foot. This group has horses.’
‘The barracks are close by,’ Finnikin said.
‘This was a rest stop for someone travelling a distance.’ Trevanion looked up at them. ‘At least twenty. Pity whoever it is they’re after.’
They tethered the horses and set up camp in a clearing some distance from the inn. Quietly Finnikin changed his clothing. Trevanion and Perri would wait here, concealed, until Finnikin returned with the man, but Finnikin would have to look the part convincingly. The Belegonians wore their clothing more fitted, and bolder in colours.
‘Cover up, Finn,’ his father said and Finnikin pulled the cap over his head, covering every strand of his berry- coloured hair. If anything would give him away, it would always be its colour. He had to be careful. He had to steady his hand so Gargarin of Abroi would not see it shaking.
‘When the time comes, you don’t have –’ his father began to say.
‘It’s my duty,’ Finnikin interrupted. ‘What these people did to Isaboe’s family will haunt her for the rest of her life.’
He walked the trail to the inn. Charyn afternoons were eaten by an early darkness, lit with a strange moonless hue. Closer, he heard the voices and knew that soon enough he’d reach the isolated inn. This is where he would kill a man tonight. He’d lead Gargarin of Abroi back to this very place and slit his throat. And regardless of everything, he’d do it for her.
There were the usual stares as he walked in. But with the threat of Belegonia invading, the inn was frequented by travellers rather than soldiers. So the stares were not for long. And then Finnikin saw a man with a walking stick enter alongside a woman of great beauty. Every man in the room stared.
‘Mercy,’ Finnikin muttered. There was never any talk that Gargarin of Abroi would have a companion. The moment they were seated, Finnikin joined them, his eyes meeting the man’s cold stare. Cold, but handsome. Gargarin of Abroi’s hair was coal-black, which contrasted alarmingly with his pale skin and dark-blue eyes. There was silence and Finnikin felt studied by both of them. For all her beauty, there was little warmth in the woman. But in their fine pelt cloaks, the two looked regal. Apart from Trevanion and Beatriss, a more striking couple he had never seen.
‘You’re a far way from home,’ the man said in Charyn.
That I am, Finnikin wanted to say. He nodded.
‘I don’t trust him,’ the woman said to her companion.
The Charynite held up a hand to wave over the servant. When the lad arrived, Gargarin of Abroi turned to his woman.
‘I’ll order us food,’ he said quietly. Gently. He looked up at the lad. ‘What have you got?’
‘Leftovers.’
‘Always a favourite,’ Gargarin said dryly. Finnikin watched him reach a hand over to touch the women’s gaunt cheek. ‘I’m begging you to eat, Lirah.’
‘I can’t stomach food. I told you.’
