Quintana of Charyn

‘Make sure you speak to him. You know what he’s like. And Sir Topher, too. They’re not men for talking, and they’ll lock it up inside themselves until it burns a hole in their hearts.’

He nodded again.

‘And Tesadora?’ she asked, her voice wavering. ‘Has she come?’

He couldn’t bear to hear her sound so broken.

‘They’ve gone down to the valley to search for her,’ he said. ‘Because I can’t imagine anything keeping her away from you.’

Isaboe took his hand and placed it on her belly.

‘Look. It’s still so round,’ she said. ‘I’m frightened that I’ll wake in the morning and think he’s still there.’

One of the aunts came to the curtain.

‘Finnikin,’ she said gently. ‘Come along now, let her sleep.’

‘Just a moment more,’ he said, because he was sick of being strong and talking about the death of their child as if they were discussing the Osterians, and he just wanted to hold Isaboe. He wanted their sorrow to be only theirs, not to share it with the entire kingdom.

‘Come now, Finnikin,’ another spoke. ‘You have people to see outside. They’ve come up to the mountain to express their sorrow.’

And so he left and spoke in polite sentences all the night long, and listened to words that brought him no comfort. That his son was in a better place. A better place than Isaboe’s arms? That Lumatere had another spirit to take care of them. Didn’t they have enough? They had Isaboe’s entire family. His mother. His baby sister. The entire village of Tressor. Lord Selric and his family. Every Lumateran found in a mass grave.

Is that not enough? he wanted to shout.

On the floor of Lucian’s cottage he closed his eyes and slept briefly. And when he woke, having dreamt the strangest of dreams, he returned to Yata’s home to be with Isaboe, to hold her hands so she wouldn’t wake to place them on her belly.

‘Finnikin,’ she said softly when she opened her eyes. ‘I’m going to have to go down to the valley.’

His stomach lurched to hear her say the words.

When the others heard their talk, the women were there hovering around her.

‘I’m going down to the valley,’ Isaboe said to her aunts and cousins who gasped and cried out in horror.

‘What are you saying, my queen?’ Cousin Alda said.

‘Rest, beloved,’ Yata said.

Isaboe shook her head and sat up slowly.

‘I have to go down to the valley,’ she repeated, pushing the hands aside and finding Finnikin’s to grip. ‘It’s what our son told me to do.’

There was wailing and protest and one of the cousins ran from the room and soon enough Trevanion and Perri and Lucian were there.

‘Isaboe, you don’t know what you’re saying,’ Trevanion said as Isaboe placed her feet on the ground. ‘Finnikin, help her back onto the bed.’

Isaboe held up a hand to stop everyone. ‘My son begged me to go down to the valley,’ she said firmly, tears blazing in her eyes. ‘Are you going to have me defy him?’

They turned their pleas to Finnikin, but he couldn’t take his eyes from her.

‘Find your queen her clothes, Constance,’ he ordered quietly.

He heard more gasps and cries.

‘Finnikin!’

‘They’ve lost their wits. Both of them.’

Trevanion took Finnikin by the arm gently and led him away from the fussing, crying women.

‘She is distraught,’ Trevanion said. ‘You both are. Tell her to rest, Finnikin. She needs to rest or else she will drive herself to madness.’

‘We’re going to the valley,’ Finnikin said calmly.

‘Because you dreamt of your son telling you to do so?’ his father demanded, anguished.

‘No,’ Finnikin said. ‘I didn’t dream of our son. Isaboe did. I dreamt of Bartolina. My mother came to me, Trevanion. She’s come to you and Aunt Celestina and I think she’s even come to Jasmina, and although I’ve sensed her in my dreams these past years, she’s never spoken to me. Except for this night. And Bartolina of the Rock said, “Finnikin, you must go down to the valley.”’

Lucian led his cousins to the stream. They were flanked by Trevanion, Perri, Aldron, Jory and at least six other Monts. There was no room for anger, only confusion and sorrow. Lucian had seen the sorrow when Trevanion arrived on the mountain and Lady Beatriss had been there to meet him by the entrance of Yata’s home. She had taken the Captain’s hand and led him away to a private place. In Lucian’s cottage, Aldron and Perri had sat with their heads in their hands.

‘I feel useless!’ Aldron had shouted, kicking a chair across the room.

As confusing as this journey to the valley was for them all, Lucian was grateful for something to do.

‘Don’t speak the truth to the Charynites,’ Isaboe said quietly. ‘They’ll see us at our weakest.’

The truth was that the babe had been taken from them. Not in an act of war, or violence, or because of a mistake, or due to an illness. Lady Abian said it had happened to many women before the Queen and it would happen again. The gods were cruel, but just. Death chose the powerful and the weak. It chose the seamstress and it chose the Queen. All the wealth in the world made no difference.

‘It will make her stronger,’ one of the cousins said.

‘She was strong enough!’ Yata snapped.

Regardless of how strong she was, Perri bent and scooped the Queen up in his arms and carried her across the water.

The valley dwellers were frightened to see them all. Lucian imagined it had been a terrifying time since the arrest of the women and, despite their hope in Quintana of Charyn’s child, they had seen too much death here.

Donashe and his men sat on the landing that led to the high caves. And Lucian wanted to kill him. He wanted to kill someone, and the person he hated most in the world was Donashe. He was an idle man unless he was threatening or murdering someone. Lucian’s father had warned him to fear idle men. Without the pride gained from a good day’s work, they were left to their vices and the doubts that crowded their head. Their hatred. Their envy. Lucian saw it each time he came face to face with the camp leaders.

Lucian led the Queen and their party up the steps towards Donashe’s men. He didn’t want to. He wanted his cousin safe from the malice of idle men, but he had no choice. Donashe and the camp leaders were on their feet in an instant, swords in their hands and suspicion on their faces as they watched Lucian and his people approaching. One of the men whispered in Donashe’s ear and the suspicion turned to surprise, as Donashe’s eyes fastened on the Queen.

‘An honour for Little Charyn, Your Majesty,’ he said to Isaboe when she reached the landing. Finnikin’s arm was around her and Lucian could see his friend’s fists were clenched.

‘And so close to the birth of your child.’

‘The last I heard, this valley is still part of Lumatere,’ Isaboe said coldly. ‘Not Little anything.’ She stared up at the highest cave. ‘I’ve come to see Quintana of Charyn. As a sign of peace between two queens.’

Donashe laughed.

‘A queen? You’re mistaken. The girl’s no queen. Just a princess.’

‘I’m not sure what you mean by that,’ Isaboe said. ‘My daughter’s a princess. Are you saying my daughter is unimportant, Charynite? Are you saying she means little to my kingdom? That she holds no power? That she is worthless?’

Lucian could see the unease in Donashe’s expression, the realisation that Isaboe could not be charmed into submission. Donashe’s eyes met Lucian’s.

‘Then can I stress to you, Your Majesty, as I did when you sent your Mont to discuss the imprisonment of his wife,’ Donashe said with a politeness that hid a threat, ‘that our princess is a political prisoner of the acting house of Charyn, and under no circumstances will she be removed from these caves. Quintana of Charyn is under arrest for the murder of her father, the King.’

‘Be careful, Charynite,’ Isaboe said. ‘With news such as that, you’re going to make me like your princess and