Quintana of Charyn

horse.’

Froi noticed Mort close by on his mount. Grijio was to travel with the Turlans, who would tear through Bestiano’s defences and get to the Lumateran valley in the hope of finding Quintana there. The Lasconians would stay behind and fight, and if all was true, the Desantos army would decimate the Nebians from the north. Regardless of everything, it meant more dead Charynite lads who didn’t know what they were fighting for, judging from Fekra’s hopelessness. But Froi couldn’t afford to care. He was one step closer to Quintana.

‘You take care of him, Mort,’ Froi said, holding a hand up to Grijio who shook it firmly.

‘Provincaro says I not to let Grij out of sight,’ Mort said.

‘Keep safe, Froi,’ Grijio said.

Froi patted Grijio’s mount and then walked back to De Lancey and Arjuro.

‘I’m going to see them off from the wall,’ De Lancey said in a low voice.

Arjuro and Froi watched him walk away.

‘Are you ready?’ Arjuro asked.

‘I’ve been ready since I left Lumatere,’ Froi said. He caught the expression on Arjuro’s face. ‘Why look so sad, Arjuro, when I promise I’ll return to you with some part of my body to sew up?’

Arjuro didn’t have a sense of humour that morning, and Froi walked away because saying goodbye to Arjuro was always hard.

Lirah waited for him by the well and they sat a while in silence watching Perabo organise the Lasconians. Unlike the time at the gate, Florik was ready. He held up a hand of acknowledgement to Froi and Froi returned the gesture.

He tried hard not to think of what would take place beyond any sort of rescue. All he could think of was seeing Quintana and not letting her go. But what would be Froi’s place in the new Charyn? Would he be a foot soldier in the army or one of Perabo’s palace soldiers? Would he live in the godshouse with Arjuro and Lirah? And who would he be? Froi of the Lumateran Exiles or Dafar of Abroi? Would he watch his son grow, thinking of him merely as an acquaintance? And what of Lumatere? If he left, did he ever have a chance of returning there again?

‘I was born from the union between my father … and his oldest daughter,’ Lirah said.

Froi flinched.

‘So my mother was in fact my sister, and oh, how she despised me. Who would blame her? The moment our father died, she sold me to feed her younger children. I was twelve. If I was less beautiful she would have sold me to a Serker pig farmer who needed the labour, but this face bought me a place in the palace.’

‘Labour on a pig farm isn’t so bad,’ he said, thinking of what she endured in the palace.

‘Yes, I agree, but if she had sold me to the farmer, I’d have been slaughtered with the rest of Serker not even seven years later. So let’s just say that this face bought me my life … ours.’

Ours. Froi belonged to Lirah. Ours. He would like that word from here on. It would mean something different, something more.

‘There was a woman in the pen with me. It’s what they called the cart we travelled in from Serker to the Citavita. The pen, because we were treated like animals. And through all the misery, she said that some of us in this lifetime experience a moment of beauty beyond reckoning. I asked her what that was, and she said, “If you’re one of the lucky ones, you’ll know it when you see it. You’ll understand why the gods have made you suffer. Because that moment’s reward will make your knees weak and everything you’ve suffered in life will pale in comparison.”’

Lirah stared at him. ‘Some women claim that moment happens at the sight of their child for the first time.’ She shook her head. ‘But I caught a glimpse of you when you were born and then you were gone. I felt nothing except more yearning and despair and misery.

‘And then … tonight you sang Charyn’s ballad with Arjuro and I thought, Ah, there it is. That’s why I’ve suffered all my life. For this moment of beauty and perfection.’ Her eyes pooled with tears. ‘It didn’t come from looking at you or even hearing your voice. It came from seeing the expression on Gargarin’s face. He was looking at the wonder of what we made together. Our son, Dafar of Abroi. I’d suffer it all again just to know that moment was there in my life.’

She gripped his hand.

‘You said to me once that you weren’t what I dreamed of. You were right. You surpass everything I dreamed of. Even the rot in you that’s caused you to do shameful things. Some men let the rot and guilt fester into something ugly beyond words. Few men can turn it into worth and substance. If you’re gods’ blessed for no other reason, it’s for that.’

And then she was gone, disappearing through the entrance that would take her to the room she shared with Gargarin. But not for long. A new Charyn meant that a gravina would lie between Lirah and Gargarin.

They heard a shout from one of the guards on the wall. Fekra had given his signal, which meant that the sentinel he replaced was well out of sight. Ariston and his men rode out first, followed by Perabo, who led the Lasconians. Froi rode last and his eyes met Gargarin’s, who stood at the gate.

‘Don’t take chances,’ Gargarin begged. ‘Do what you need to do and don’t take chances.’

Froi stopped, waiting until the others were out of hearing distance.

‘Will you promise me something?’ he asked.

Gargarin nodded and Froi could see he was shaking.

‘Allow me the honour to name my son,’ Froi said, his voice husky with emotion. ‘He’ll be called Tariq. Tariq of the Citavita.’

Chapter 34

‘It will be a boy,’ the oldest woman on the mountain told Isaboe. She had never once guessed wrong. It was all about the roundness of Isaboe’s belly and the shape of her face. As she stood naked among her kinswomen, she caught her yata’s eye and saw the flash of emotion. A boy. A king. Balthazar.

The women on the mountain had gathered in Yata’s home to watch the blessing of the unborn. It was a tradition among the Monts.

‘He’ll come into this world with secrets,’ the oldest woman on the mountain said. ‘But only few remember what they are by the time they are old enough to speak. Perhaps yours will be the one, my queen. Perhaps your son’s secrets will cure that which ails this land.’

Isaboe’s young cousin Agata held a small bowl of oil from a Mont olive tree, with a sprinkle of sage in it, and Isaboe shivered when she felt the old woman’s cold fingers on her skin. ‘Your milk is strong. It will feed a king.’

There was a murmuring of appreciation from the others. ‘He’s ready,’ the old woman said. ‘Wherever he is now, he’ll follow your voice home. Talk to him, my queen.’

Isaboe thought for a moment. She remembered her words to Jasmina before her daughter had entered this world. The oldest woman on the mountain had guessed right that time. ‘You will have a daughter and she longs to hear your voice.’ Later, after the birth, Isaboe had spoken to Finnikin about it. ‘I told Jasmina that she belonged to Lumatere’s rebirth and that she would be loved for the hope she brought to this kingdom.’

But what would she say to this babe, now that she could not get the Priestking’s words out of her head? That spirits have their own world and language long before they enter ours? Each night since Celie and the blessed Barakah had come to visit, Isaboe had studied the mad Yut’s chronicle and learnt to say the words in her heart so that her child could hear and understand.

Be my guide, beloved son. Rid me of my malice and my fury. Don’t let it be suckled from my breast.

‘I’ve smelt you all,’ Quintana said bluntly to Phaedra and the women late that afternoon in the cave. ‘This whole week. You’ve smothered me.’

‘Because our days of bleeding all came at the same time,’ Cora said. ‘It’s a sign. We need to bathe now that it’s over. Together.’

‘To cleanse ourselves?’ Florenza asked.