The Turlans rode into the fortress, splattered with blood, every fibre of their being pulsing with battle rage. Ariston gave his men the order to dismount, and they did so just as Gargarin entered the courtyard with Lirah and Arjuro. The Lasconians studied the Turlans, and they were studied in return. Two mountain clans, but different in so many ways.
Ariston and Gargarin embraced and then the leader of the Turlans turned to Lirah and bowed.
Ariston then held out a hand to Arjuro. Froi remembered the tension between the men when they had first met and was relieved to see it all but gone.
‘I thought you vowed you’d never come down that mountain,’ Gargarin said.
Ariston grimaced. ‘My woman discovered that I failed to provide a safe place for our Quintana when we had the chance,’ he said. ‘I’ve been banished from the bed until I find the girl.’
‘Smart woman,’ Gargarin said. He looked beyond Ariston and his men to where the Lasconians were watching carefully. ‘Does your wife know?’ he added quietly. ‘About the Oracle being a Turlan girl and the mother of the Princess?’
Ariston nodded. ‘I don’t keep secrets from my woman. The Lascow lot may claim the future cursebreaker as theirs, but we know that babe will belong to Turla on his mother’s side.’
Froi wanted to say more. That the future King belonged to Abroi. To Serker. To him.
‘And your men?’ Froi asked. ‘Do they know the truth? That Quintana belonged to a Turlan woman?’
Ariston shook his head regretfully.
‘They follow me regardless of who the little King belongs to.’
One of the Turlan lads approached and lifted Froi off the ground. Froi couldn’t help but laugh. He understood these lads with their grunts and strutting about, more than he did the Lasconians. They reminded him of the Monts.
‘My mob took a liking to our Quintana’s protector,’ Ariston said, glancing at Froi.
The Turlan lads were invited to share the great hall with the Lasconians but chose the stables instead. Froi figured he’d endure the smell of horse shit rather than spend another night with Florik and his lot, and joined the Turlans.
Florik and the other Lasconians cautiously retrieved their horses to make more room for the newcomers.
‘Why staring?’ one of the Turlans demanded of Froi. When they spoke amongst each other, it was in the Turlan dialect, but with Froi they used a broken Charyn.
‘Because they are desperate to compete with you,’ Froi whispered the lie. ‘It’s all they’ve spoken about since you arrived.’
The Turlan lads exchanged a look.
‘Tomorrow,’ Mort, the leader of the lads said. ‘We show ’em who stronger mountain men.’
Tomorrow was a good day for Froi. The Turlans had an energy that was awe-inspiring and Froi enjoyed keeping up with them. They wrestled. Jousted. Fought with practice swords. Hit targets. Grunted. Grunted some more. By the end of the day the Lasconian lads were decimated.
‘He’s on our team,’ Florik argued, pointing to Froi just before the second round was to commence. ‘You Turlans can’t just come in and take him!’
Mort placed a sweaty arm around Froi’s neck.
‘I fight you for ’im.’ Mort kissed the air in the direction of the Lasconians. Florik bristled. Froi laughed.
‘Turla saw him first,’ one of the Turlans said.
Gargarin and Lirah watched from the sidelines alongside Ariston and Dolyn. Froi saw irritation on Gargarin’s face, satisfaction on Lirah’s.
‘What is it with you and these lads?’ Gargarin demanded when Froi joined them for no other reason than to show them the ochre markings on his arm that displayed every win. ‘You turn primitive when you’re around them!’
Ariston ruffled Froi’s capped head. ‘We’ll take this one back to the mountain. He’s one of us, I tell you.’
‘The Lumaterans won’t be happy to hear that,’ Gargarin said pointedly. ‘Froi belongs to them. We don’t want to be waging a war with them over one of their Flatland sons.’
‘Flatlander,’ Dolyn said, impressed. ‘Doesn’t get better than that in Lumatere.’
Froi caught Gargarin’s eye. He would never know what this man was playing at. Sometimes he believed it was flippancy. Other times he could see a plan brewing in Gargarin’s head. Whatever it was, Froi never felt satisfied.
That night Perabo gathered everyone in the keep. Lasconians and Turlans stood at every level looking down from the archways to where their leaders and Gargarin stood at its centre below. Everyone jostled for space and Froi squeezed himself beside Arjuro on a level close to the floor of the keep, watching Gargarin raise a hand for silence.
‘I’ll have Ariston speak soon about what takes place beyond the little woods,’ Gargarin said. ‘But for now, I want to talk about the return of Quintana of Charyn.’
‘Our Quintana!’ one of the Turlans shouted from above, until they all joined in, and it became a chant that made the hair on Froi’s arms stand tall.
Gargarin held up a hand again and there was silence.
‘Yes. Our Quintana,’ he said. ‘The moment we know where she is, Ariston and his men will bring her and the child home to the Citavita.’
There was instant outrage from the Lasconians.
‘The heir belongs to us!’ one shouted.
‘It’s our right to place him on the throne,’ an elder argued. ‘On behalf of his father, Tariq of Lascow.’
Froi saw the quick flicker of Gargarin’s eyes towards him, not realising that Gargarin knew exactly where Froi stood amongst the crowd of men.
‘The Turlans are stronger warriors,’ Gargarin said. ‘When it comes to returning Quintana and her child to the palace, there will be no room for failure. We send in our best.’
Froi felt Arjuro lean close to him. ‘My brother’s a smart man,’ he whispered.
Froi had to agree. If the babe was a boy, the Turlans would be remembered for placing the King on the throne for as long as they lived. It was the closest Ariston and the Turlans would get to being respected in Charyn. Although they would never be acknowledged as kin, the little King would be brought up knowing he owed much to these feral mountain people. Perhaps when the boy was older, he would understand who they were to his mother.
Ariston’s head was bent in acknowledgement and Froi could see he was moved by the honour given to his people.
‘Perabo,’ Gargarin called out to where the man was standing at a higher archway opposite Froi’s. ‘You were once the keeper of the caves below the Citavita and soon you’ll be the keeper of the keys to the palace. The constable. You choose your men well.’
Perabo was surprised to hear the words. ‘I’ve despised the palace most of my life,’ he shouted back down at Gargarin. ‘I’ve always worked against it.’
‘You’ve been working to secure the safety of Tariq and Quintana for many years. For now, Quintana
Perabo shook his head reluctantly.
‘What of the Provincari?’ Dolyn of Lascow asked from where he stood. ‘For too long they’ve kept both our clans out of province affairs. Will they agree to your decisions, Gargarin?’
‘They may make the decisions on how to run the kingdom, but the safety of the little King will be in the hands of us all, and it begins now. Later, when we have Quintana of Charyn and her child secure in the palace, the riders will be made up of ten of the best of each province, including both mountain clans.’
‘But where is she?’ someone called out.
There was silence before Gargarin spoke.
‘We will find her. The best news we’ve had so far is no news. No news means no corpse.’
‘She’s simple. She’s not capable –’
‘Simple?’ Gargarin laughed sharply, searching for the speaker of the words. ‘She fooled the King and his men with stories to protect your lastborn girls. She survived the attack on Tariq’s compound. She helped secure an
