‘What is it?’ she asked, as if facing a stranger, not her king. And because she feared the malevolence of Finnikin’s gaze, she gathered Jasmina into her arms and carried their daughter away, settling her to sleep in a moonlit corner of the room. There was a sound behind her, and Finnikin’s shadow was on the wall. Isaboe despaired at the wickedness that had crawled into their lives this night.
‘What?’ she demanded to know, her mood only eased by the smile of sleepy satisfaction on Jasmina’s face.
Finnikin didn’t respond and this time she turned to face him, the light of a cruel moon mocking her belief that she had nothing to fear from her king.
‘You wake with another man’s name on your lips and you ask me what the matter is?’ he said.
Froi?
She could hardly remember it now, but she had certainly dreamt that she had heard his name.
‘It’s the walk,’ she said, pressing a kiss against the soft skin of her daughter’s cheek. ‘Every night now it seems as if I’m in another’s sleep, but they reveal nothing.’
Unable to stand his accusing stare, she brushed past him and returned to their bed. ‘It’s a mind full of strangeness,’ she mused. ‘There’s cunning beyond reckoning there. Snarls. Whispers. And something else. I can’t explain it.’
‘You’ve not bled for months, Isaboe,’ Finnikin said, his voice blunt. ‘Since you began carrying the child. How can you walk the sleep if you don’t bleed?’
And then fear left her and anger set in and she matched the grey stoniness in Finnikin’s eyes with dark rage.
‘Are you calling me a liar?’ she asked softly. ‘Because I’d be careful of that, my love.’
They heard the sound of horses in the courtyard outside and she suspected it was Trevanion and Perri returning from the mountains where she had sent them to question Rafuel of Sebastabol. Finnikin walked away, without so much as a word. They had all been tense these past weeks after the return of Froi’s ring by a Charynite brigand. They had also received news from inside the kingdom of Belegonia about the man who may have planned the slaughter of Isaboe’s family, thirteen years past: Gargarin of Abroi. Isaboe had insisted they were to collect information about the suspect. She knew what her next order would be. Slowly, every man responsible for Lumatere’s pain would be gone, and she prayed to the Goddess that it would bring her peace.
When she heard the voices from the entrance of the chamber, Isaboe wrapped her fleece around her body and pulled across the curtain that separated their bed from the rest of the room. Informal meetings with Sir Topher and Trevanion always took place here in their private residence. It was Isaboe’s favourite place in the castle, and when she had first seen the vastness of the room she had insisted they include a dining bench and settees to accommodate the closest of their friends when they came to visit. It was beautifully decorated with rich tapestries and ceiling frescoes, and Isaboe was proud of how at ease those nearest to her heart felt in her home. But there was little of that today.
She watched her lady’s maid serve hot brew to Trevanion and Perri, who were hovering near the doorway.
‘Your shoes, my queen!’ Rhiannon reprimanded, turning her attention to Isaboe and staring down at Isaboe’s bare feet.
She hadn’t noticed. She only noticed Finnikin brooding by the window. Isaboe greeted Trevanion, who embraced her, and she felt the icy wetness of his coat. Taking his hand, she led him closer to the fire where Finnikin’s hound pressed himself against Trevanion’s leg in recognition.
‘Where are your shoes, Isaboe?’ he asked with disapproval.
Finnikin’s father had one gruff tone for everything and she was finally becoming used to it after all these years.
A bleary-eyed Sir Topher entered with a knock and then they were all huddled before the warmth.
‘Sit,’ Isaboe ordered everyone and they made themselves comfortable before the fire.
‘Rafuel of Sebastabol has become somewhat difficult to get alone these past weeks,’ Trevanion said. ‘Impossible, actually.’
‘Since Phaedra of Alonso …’ Isaboe said.
Trevanion nodded.
‘How are they all?’ she asked quietly. It had been three weeks since the death of Lucian’s wife.
‘Grieving. I left Beatriss and Vestie with them.’
‘
‘Tesadora and her girls insist on going down to the valley again,’ Trevanion said.
Isaboe shook her head. ‘I want Tesadora here keeping me company until I deem it safe for her to return to her work with those Charynite valley dwellers.’
She noticed the flicker of annoyance on Perri’s face and stared at him questioningly.
‘Tesadora claims they are suffering greatly,’ Trevanion said.
‘The Monts?’ Isaboe asked.
‘The valley dwellers.’
‘Why so much concern for the valley dwellers?’ she asked, exasperated. ‘They’re not our problem.’
‘Well, they may just be,’ Trevanion continued. ‘The province of Alonso has stopped sending grain carts. The valley dwellers are sharing meagre rations and it’s beginning to show. Tesadora says that in their weakened state and in this cold, they’re more at risk of illness. The older ones are beginning to die far too quickly.’
‘Why would the Provincaro of Alonso leave them to starve?’ she asked angrily.
‘Grief,’ Sir Topher said. ‘He believes his daughter’s death would have been avoided if she wasn’t in the valley. He blames the valley and he blames us. Perhaps if we write to offer our –’
‘I don’t grieve for Charynites,’ Isaboe said, her voice cold. ‘I don’t recall receiving a letter from the Provincaro of Alonso when my family were slaughtered, nor was there a note of sympathy when my uncle Saro of the Monts was killed. I owe the Provincaro nothing. He, on the other hand, owes Lumatere for relieving him of the problem of a crowded province. Write to him, Sir Topher, and demand that he feed his people. I will not have them dropping like flies on my land!’
Rhiannon returned with Isaboe’s slippers and another shawl, and they all waited until she stopped her fussing.
‘You’re quiet, Finnikin,’ Sir Topher said after Rhiannon had left the room.
‘I agree with Isaboe,’ he said, his voice flat. ‘Regardless of whose problem they are, the valley dwellers are Charynites, and Alonso has no right to stop the grain carts. Explain to the Provincaro that every death in the valley will be recorded, and one day when a benevolent king sits on the Charynite throne, Alonso will be held accountable.’
It was the wavering in Finnikin’s voice that marked the difference between them both. Isaboe knew that. He was the better person. He wrote the letters of outrage to the King of Yutlind Nord about the injustices in Yutlind Sud. He wrote the letters to every leader of the land challenging the Sorellian laws of slavery. He was the only person she had ever known to use the word Skuldenorian. As if those in the land of Skuldenore were one people. But Isaboe could not think of being one with their enemies. Not with the memory of what had been done to her family. Finnikin’s father was close at hand. Hers was dead and she had prayed these past years for the grace of forgiveness, but the Goddess refused to send it.
‘We’re not here to speak of the valley dwellers,’ Isaboe said. ‘What else have we discovered about Gargarin of Abroi?’
Trevanion indicated for Perri to speak first.
‘I’ve interrogated every Charynite prisoner we have,’ Perri said, leaning forward in his seat. The blaze of the hearth illuminated the scar that ran across his brow. ‘Those who have heard of Gargarin of Abroi all speak the same thoughts. He was the King’s favourite advisor in the palace eighteen years ago. The Charynites in our prison say that the King favoured Gargarin of Abroi’s opinion over all others. It was well known in the capital that if young Gargarin of Abroi had a plan, the King would follow it.’
‘And what does the Charynite in possession of Froi’s ring have to say?’ Finnikin asked.
‘Every word that comes out of his mouth seems a lie, so he’s not the most reliable of sources, but he
