Quintana of Charyn

out his son, the Consort.’

‘Well, it’s a good thing we have no sons to send out amongst us,’ Dolyn said.

Perabo gathered everyone in the great hall and spoke of what he had seen.

‘All we need is to work out what takes place between those hills. Whether they have Quintana of Charyn. Whether they have an army as powerful as we fear.’

He turned to Ariston. ‘Who is fastest of your lads?’

Ariston shook his head. ‘They’re built to defend, but not for speed, I’m afraid, and for this task speed is everything.’

‘The Lumateran is fast,’ one of the Lasconians called out.

Froi heard Arjuro’s sharp intake of breath beside him.

‘The lad from Lascow is the fastest,’ Lirah’s voice rang out. Everyone stared at her. ‘Him,’ she said, pointing at Florik. ‘He beat Froi in the race around the wall. The lad who won the prize is the perfect soldier for the task.’

Froi’s eyes met Florik’s across the way. Mort nudged Froi. ‘If come tomorrow the Lasconian sees the gods,’ he whispered, ‘pray it’s a sentinel’s arrow and not Nebian torture.’

No one spoke. Froi could see that the Lasconians didn’t want to give up their own. Perhaps they had good reason. They had lost Tariq’s compound in the Citavita and couldn’t afford to lose others. Finally, Dolyn nodded.

‘Good. Then that’s decided,’ Gargarin said. ‘We’ll try for the morning.’ He walked away before another word was spoken.

Chapter 29

Early the next day Froi woke and made his way up to the great hall where the Lasconian lads slept. They were all awake, standing around Florik while Dolyn and Ariston fitted him with his weaponry, speaking to him in low, calm voices.

‘You’ve got the speed, Florik,’ Dolyn reassured. ‘Just stay focused and get to that lookout and take in everything, every single detail, and then you run for your life. Don’t let them see you. We’ll want this chance again, but for now all we need to know is the strength of their army and what lies between those hills.’

Florik nodded. His elder had a hand to his shoulder. ‘How many times have you run the mountain, Florik? How many times?’

Florik followed Ariston and Dolyn as if he were a prisoner walking to the gallows. When the Lasconian lads tried to follow, Ariston ordered them back.

‘He needs to empty his head of all your talk.’

But Froi followed Florik into the bailey, to the fortress gate. Up above, Perabo was in the gatehouse, watching the little woods for the departure of the guard from the tree. Ariston gave the order to raise the gate.

Froi could see the tremble in Florik’s hand.

‘Now!’ Perabo shouted out.

Florik hesitated.

‘Now.’

One moment. Two. Three. Three too many.

Froi’s fist caught Florik in the face. He bolted before any of them could stop him. He ran with the shrill wind in his ears, the little woods before him. He tried to prepare himself for the worst, although Perri always said that if you had an objective, think of nothing but getting there. Anything else would slow you down. But from the moment Froi knew that Bestiano was between those hills, he had wondered if Quintana was held captive in the camp. Knew there was nothing he could do if she was. Him up against an army? He stumbled at the thought. See, Perri’s voice shouted in his ear. It’ll slow you down, Froi, and what good will you be to her then?

He reached the woods, tree limbs flying in his face and half-concealed burrows catching him unaware. He remembered the time Finnikin and Isaboe freed him from the slave traders in that forest in the town of Speranza, how they had sprinted through its half-hidden trails, desperate to reach the valley that would lead them to Trevanion and Sir Topher. Finnikin’s coat had been secure around Froi’s otherwise naked body. They had come back for him and the memory of it spurred him on as he untangled himself from vines that clung, leapt over fallen logs and caught his first glimpse of the hill beyond the copse of trees. Froi clambered up the hill’s unmarked track, praying that no soldier was on the path back to the lookout tree, desperate to catch his breath and find answers to what lay beyond.

Hundreds upon hundreds of tents crowded the small valley between the two hills, outnumbering those in the Lasconians’ fortress ten to one. Soldiers were everywhere, huddled before campfires, dragging on their clothing and preparing for the day, and Froi wondered if there were any men left in the province of Nebia. He watched their morning drills, so much like those of the Lumateran Queen’s Guard in the palace. These men were professional. Not a lazy or sloppy soldier among them, except for their late sentinel who was now climbing the hill towards where Froi was lying behind a boulder. He had only moments to get back to the concealment of the woods and then to the fortress before the sentinel was back up in the lookout. But Froi needed more. He needed to get closer, to see if she was there. So he stayed pressed against the stone until the soldier passed him. He recognised the man. Fekra from the palace? Was that his name?

When the man had disappeared into the little woods, Froi moved from where he was hiding and climbed back to the top of the hill. Spotting a well shaft closer to the camp, he took a chance and crawled on his belly towards it, curling himself behind the stonework to stay hidden. At the foot of the hill was the largest of the tents, surrounded by four guards. Was it to protect Bestiano and the Provincaro of Nebia? Or was it to hide Quintana?

In the distance, Froi saw a horseman ride down into the valley from the second hill. And so he waited. He couldn’t go back with so little. Something was bound to reveal itself if he stayed here longer, and then he would have to work out a way to get past Fekra. Closer and closer the horseman rode through the camp, and it wasn’t until he stopped at a water barrel that Froi saw who it was. Olivier. The traitor dismounted, placed his hands in the barrel and then pressed them against his face before walking towards the grand tent. Froi watched him exchange a word with one of the guards, who then disappeared inside, leaving Olivier to wait. A short time later, Bestiano emerged to speak to the lastborn of Sebastabol and it took all of Froi’s might to stop himself from flying down the hill and tearing them both apart. How could he have forgotten the hate he felt for Bestiano? Or that smug repulsive smirk Bestiano wore as he had greeted Gargarin and Froi on the drawbridge when they first arrived in the Citavita? Or his grip around Quintana’s hair as he dragged her out of the great hall that heinous day when Froi witnessed Bestiano’s attack on her body and spirit?

Do it, he begged himself. Forget the plan and kill them both now. It would be so easy.

But he hesitated too long and suddenly there was shouting and much pointing north. Bestiano was issuing orders and soldiers were mounting their horses. Something was definitely happening beyond the second hill.

Froi turned and crawled back to the little woods. Gargarin and Ariston and Perabo would have to understand that the plan had changed. Froi wanted answers and they weren’t going to come from his surveillance on the hill. Perhaps he needed answers from a lazy sentinel, who for years had been easily bribed by Quintana and Lirah to be their go-between. In the little woods, he crept towards the lookout tree and saw that Fekra was settled comfortably. Froi picked up a stone and hurled it into the distance. Instantly, Fekra was alert, standing between two limbs, staring in the direction of where the stone had landed. Froi crept to the bottom of the tree and looked up, waiting for him to settle himself again.

‘Fekra!’ he finally called out.

The dead King’s former house guard almost fell out of the tree in shock, his hands fumbling for his crossbow.

‘It’s Froi … actually, Olivier. You wouldn’t know me as Froi. I’m the Olivier who lived in the palace.