Quintana of Charyn

Arjuro’s eyes met Gargarin’s. ‘And of course we have the palace architect here, so if he can’t find a way of getting you into the palace some nights without the useless Provincari nobility’s spies watching, well, he can’t exactly be labelled the smartest man in the Citavita, can he?’

They all turned to Lirah, waiting.

‘We’ll kill each other, Priestling,’ she said softly, but her eyes were bright.

‘I’ll win most arguments, but you’ll get used to it,’ he said.

She came to him and pressed a kiss to his cheek. ‘Thank you.’ She kissed De Lancey as well. ‘And thank you.’

Gargarin took her hand. ‘And what about mine?’ he asked. ‘I’m the brilliant architect.’

They spent the rest of the evening together and with all the turmoil awaiting them beyond the first hill, Froi was surprised at how normal life could seem with their door closed to the rest of the fortress. They spoke of all things, including the girls.

‘At least you know where Tippideaux is,’ Gargarin said. ‘Olivier of Sebastabol’s actions placed Quintana in grave danger.’

‘Yes, well, it’s not that cut and dry,’ De Lancey said. ‘He has become more of a help than a hindrance.’

‘I don’t care what part Olivier’s played in helping,’ Gargarin said. ‘He gets tried as a traitor. The kingdom is going to be full of men and women who turned sides, and the palace is going to have to make decisions about what to do with them.’

‘Yes, but still, our runt of the litter would be dead if the lad hadn’t acted,’ Arjuro said.

There was more arguing. Froi suddenly heard a gasp from Lirah. She looked up from her page, her eyes on Froi’s, blazing with excitement. Froi stood and walked towards her. She gripped his hand.

‘How did Phaedra of Alonso die of a plague that doesn’t exist?’

Froi shook his head, confused, and Lirah pointed to her page where she had recorded every word Froi spoke, after weeks and weeks of her questioning.

And there he saw Phaedra’s name.

‘We keep asking the wrong question,’ she said.

By now, the others had heard and were crowded around her work.

‘What is it, Lirah?’ Gargarin asked.

‘We keep asking where Quintana would go. She had nowhere to go. She knows no one. But you, Froi, trusted how many? Thirty? It’s what you spoke of that last night together.’

She pointed to Phaedra’s name. ‘You trusted Phaedra of Alonso because of her kindness.’

Froi’s heart began to hammer inside of him and Lirah saw his realisation and nodded.

‘We keep asking where she would go. Our girl is a mimic. What we should be asking is where would you go, Froi?’

‘I’d go west,’ Froi said. ‘You know that.’

Lirah nodded.

‘I think our Quintana’s gone to Lumatere, and Phaedra of Alonso is hiding her.’

Chapter 32

Isaboe woke with a start. She had felt her again. She knew it was Quintana of Charyn who crept into her dreams.

      I know you’re there!

Keep away from my son!

She had no idea which were her own words, and which belonged to that insidious intruder. At times it seemed as if they were one.

Isaboe heard a sound. Thought she imagined it. But then Finnikin was out of bed, placing a dagger in her hand.

‘Stay,’ he whispered. ‘I’m going out onto the balconette. Someone’s in the courtyard. The moment you hear my shout, take Jasmina and hide.’

They were expecting no one tonight. Trevanion was in Fenton and Perri was on duty, and only Lucian and Yata had the authority to be in the courtyard outside the residence. But before Isaboe could imagine the death of any of her beloveds on the mountain, or an assassin in their garden, Finnikin was back at the bed, relief in his expression.

‘It’s the Priestking and Celie.’

‘At this hour of the night?’

‘Sefton let them in at the gatehouse and they took a wrong turn and ended up in the garden facing the end of Perri’s sword. They’re on their way up.’

She groaned, holding out a hand to him. ‘I need a catapult to get me out of this bed.’

The Priestking and Celie entered the residence, lugging chronicles in their arms, all apologies but flushed with excitement.

‘How long have you been home without seeing me, Celie?’ Isaboe asked, embracing her.

‘I arrived not even two days past and have spent the whole time with blessed Barakah. Not even Mama or Father or the boys have seen me.’

‘Blessed Barakah, you shouldn’t be out at this time of the night,’ Isaboe said.

‘Sit, sit,’ the Priestking said. ‘We’ve worked it out.’ His voice was full of emotion.

Perri joined them and then Sir Topher entered and they all sat around the long bench. The Priestking held a parchment out to Isaboe. Finnikin reached over to steady the old man’s hand. But it was excitement more than age that caused his trembling.

‘The markings on the nape and skull are written in a language very few know about,’ he said. ‘I searched everywhere. Had chronicles sent from Osteria and Sarnak, and Celie agreed to … deliver one home from Belegonia.’

‘Deliver?’ Isaboe asked Celie.

Celie and the Priestking were silent for a moment.

‘Perhaps … smuggle would be the correct word,’ Celie said.

Sir Topher buried his head in his hands and Isaboe heard the word ‘Augie’ muttered.

‘And no one suspected?’ Isaboe asked.

‘Well … the castellan of the palace searched my room. He’s very suspicious. But I was clever. And I wept, of course. You see, he accused me of theft in front of the King’s men.’ Celie looked pleased with herself. ‘My tears are very convincing. There was some quite pathetic snivelling.’

‘Oh so underrated, the sob and the snivel,’ Isaboe said. ‘I wish I had been taught. I would have used them more often in exile.’

‘If you had sobbed and snivelled when Sir Topher and I first found you in Sendecane, we wouldn’t be here today,’ Finnikin said. ‘I would have left you behind.’

‘Yes, because you had so much control over the situation, my love.’ Isaboe laughed.

‘Can we get back to why they’re here at this time of the morning?’ Perri asked politely. ‘I almost tackled blessed Barakah to the ground.’

‘Then let’s begin with insanity,’ the Priestking said. ‘All great curses do. Because you will always find some sort of genius amidst it. I found an interesting passage in one of my books from the Osterians. Three thousand years ago there was a Yut touched by the gods. He was mad – those most touched by the gods are – and his greatest claim was remembering the moment of his birth.’

‘Mad, indeed,’ Finnikin said.

The Priestking shook his head. ‘You didn’t see your daughter come into the world, Finnikin. It’s our most savage entry into any place on this earth. One that killed your own mother. Imagine the state of one’s mind if they were to recall its details. All those months cocooned and then the onslaught of this ugly world. Light and noise and strangeness. It’s no wonder we scream with terror at our birth.’

‘And you found all this in the Osterian chronicle?’