‘Can I tell you something without you beating me up?’ he asked.
Finnikin nodded.
‘Isaboe … she told me about her time as a slave because we were speaking of shame. She had seen awful things. What men did to their slaves and what some of the other girls had done to keep her safe. I told her worse things … what I’d done and what I’d allowed others to do to me.’
Froi shook his head, wanting to clear his mind of it all.
‘She said that she couldn’t bear sharing more of her misery with you, Finn. She’ll never forget her curse and that you suffer everything she feels when she walks the sleep. She couldn’t add more suffering to someone she adores with every ounce of her being. Her words.’
Froi looked up, feeling wonder. ‘You’re loved with every ounce of another’s being, Finn. How could you doubt her?’
Finnikin grimaced, shook his head.
‘You have a strong bond with Isaboe, Froi,’ he said, uneasily. ‘Don’t deny it.’
‘I have an equally strong bond with you, my friend,’ Froi said. ‘It’s not that I desire one of you over the other. It’s that I want what you have together. I know that despite everything … it must eat at your heart that you’re her consort and not her king …’
Finnikin shook his head again.
‘It’s not about having power over her,’ Finnikin explained. ‘If I was the King, I could take care of her. I could keep her free from the troubles of Lumatere, which seem endless. And so trite. Honestly, Froi, ours are such ungrateful people at times. Despite our hard work, all we hear are complaints and woe and who suffered most and whose soil deserves more. Why can’t they just be happy with what we’ve got? We have our kingdom back, but no one seems truly happy, and I’m frightened that it’s now in our blood. That we’ll pass on that dissatisfaction to our children and our children’s children and that we’ll be the ancients one day and our descendants will say, “Ah yes, a melancholy dour lot.”’
Froi let him speak. He knew Finnikin would never express these feelings to others.
‘And if I was the King, she could spend afternoons making friends and having them over for sweet cakes and hot brew. Do you know her greatest sadness? That she may have Beatriss and Lady Abian and Tesadora, but she would love friends her own age. She could have had Celie, but Isaboe made a sacrifice allowing Celie a life in Belegonia, and Isaboe hangs on every word of Celie’s adventures with the young people of the Belegonian court. She’s a queen and a mother, but I think she grieves the young girl she never got to be.’
Froi couldn’t help thinking of Quintana. Of the girl she never got to be. Isaboe and Quintana had more in common than anyone chose to believe.
Finnikin sighed and stood, looking over Froi’s shoulder at the others. ‘What are we going to do about them? Your Gargarin is going to provoke Perri into beating him to a pulp.’
Froi looked back at Gargarin, who was still exchanging stares with Perri.
‘Could you just tell Perri to ignore him?’ Froi said. He could protect Gargarin from the enemy, but not these men.
Finnikin gave a short laugh.
‘You know what Perri’s like. He’s not going to stop until he works out where he knows him from.’
‘He doesn’t know him,’ Froi insisted.
Froi couldn’t bear an entire night of this silence.
‘Do something, Finn. Talk to them. You’re good at making conversation.’
Finnikin stood and Froi followed him back to the others. He stoked the fire, although it was fine as it was. An owl hooted and Froi wished that everyone would just turn in.
‘Perhaps we can have a word, sir?’ Finnikin said to Gargarin.
Froi shook his head in warning. First mistake.
‘I’m not a sir,’ Gargarin snapped.
‘Can I draw you something?’ Finnikin said, retrieving parchment from his pack. ‘An idea I have for a drainage system I want to introduce to the Flatlands in my kingdom.’
Gargarin didn’t respond. Finnikin glanced at Froi, who nodded. A lack of response from Gargarin was not a bad thing, all things considered. Especially when someone was speaking about drainage.
Finnikin sketched for some time and then handed the parchment to Gargarin. Lirah looked over Gargarin’s shoulder to study what was there.
‘Where did you get the idea from?’ Gargarin asked. Froi could see he was impressed.
‘The ancient Haladyans,’ Finnikin replied.
‘Those goat swivers,’ Lirah said.
Gargarin chuckled. ‘I’ve never quite believed those tales. Remember, they were written by Aristos, Lirah. Not much of a fan of the Haladyans.’
‘Aristos was jealous,’ Finnikin said, glaring at Lirah, and Froi could see he was bristling on behalf of the Haladyans.
‘I’ve always said that those who underestimate the worth of the Haladyans are fools indeed,’ Gargarin said.
Finnikin made a sound of satisfaction and looked at Trevanion. ‘Have I not always said that?’
‘Are they the ones who lost?’ Trevanion asked.
‘Not quite lost. It was all about the surrender,’ Gargarin said.
‘A surrender for a surrender,’ Finnikin confirmed and Gargarin nodded.
They seemed to be the only two interested in a Haladyan battle that ended when two sides surrendered to each other.
‘Ridulous,’ Perri muttered, walking away.
Finnikin turned back to Gargarin. ‘My wife claims the Haladyans were a bunch of men in skirts who made too many mistakes,’ he said. ‘And that the surrender-for-surrender battle is a myth made up by men who enjoy crying over campfires and telling battle stories.’
Gargarin made a hissing sound of irritation. ‘Ah yes, that wife.’
But the conversation had broken the ice, and the two spoke well into the night while Froi penned a letter to the Priestking and to Lord August, laughing when Lirah said something to irritate Finnikin. Froi had always respected his king’s intelligence, but had never appreciated it as much as on this night. He hadn’t seen Gargarin so relaxed in conversation before. There was nothing forced between these two men. In another life they would have been friends.
‘Can you sketch something else, Finn? And take it back to the Priestking with this letter?’ Froi asked.
Finnikin nodded, pen poised to begin.
‘This,’ Froi said, removing his cap and showing them the markings on his skull.
He heard Lirah’s gasp and suddenly they were all around him, tracing the lettering with inquisitive fingers.
‘You’ve been injured,’ Perri said, not the least bit interested in the lettering. Froi felt Perri’s fingers on the dent caused by the arrow.
‘I ran into a bit of trouble weeks ago. All good now,’ Froi said.
He watched Finnikin copy the lettering.
‘How did you possibly catch a bolt to the head?’ Trevanion asked.
‘It was an ambush,’ Gargarin said. Regardless of how little Lumateran Gargarin understood, it was clear what was being asked.
Finnikin looked at Gargarin. ‘What’s he not telling us?’ he demanded. ‘About this ambush?’
‘There’s more,’ Gargarin said. Froi grimaced, shaking his head.
‘It’s finished,’ Froi said. ‘I’m cured. Leave it.’
‘I told you,’ Perri said to Trevanion. ‘He never favours his left from right and there was no reason for him not to have held onto the branch.’
The five waited and Froi reluctantly removed his tunic and undershirt. They stared in horror.
Gargarin reached over and traced his hand gently across the scar on Froi’s chest.
‘He sewed you.’
‘He thinks he’s a genius,’ Froi said and laughed reluctantly. There was a pained smile on Gargarin’s
