Quintana of Charyn

she saw a figure limp towards them, an axe in hand. And his eyes met Phaedra’s, and she saw the vengeance that they promised, and knew exactly who he was. He was not a boy anymore, this lad who had placed her on his list of those he could trust.

‘Keep running and don’t turn back, Phaedra,’ Froi of Lumatere ordered and she did as he asked, but stumbled, falling forwards into the dirt.

‘Did I not tell you I never forget a face, Donashe?’ she heard Froi say and then there was a cry and the sick thud of axe hitting bone. And Phaedra lay there on the ground, weeping until she felt a hand on her shoulder. She stared up to see another lad caked with mud before her. She took his hand and he helped her to her feet.

‘Don’t look down, miss,’ he said, as he led her back to the camp. ‘It’s not a pretty sight.’

And then a sound rang out across the valley that unfroze hearts made of Charyn stone. A babe’s cry. And the newly arrived soldiers hurried to the sound and it led them to the stream. Phaedra followed. The cry rang out again and the valley was still and those from the caves appeared, their eyes searching.

But the cry was drowned out by a roar of Quintana’s name that ripped through the camp, a cry so hoarse that Phaedra could have sworn the ground rumbled beneath her. She saw Froi of Lumatere drop to his knees. The wildest men she had ever seen circled him in sorrow and still the babe’s cry echoed across the valley, mingled with Froi’s pain.

‘She dead?’ one of the wild Turlan lads asked Phaedra. ‘If there’s King born, Scarpo say our Quintana dead, for sure.’

Before Phaedra could answer they heard a voice.

‘Froi?’

Phaedra watched Froi freeze at the sound of his name. He stumbled to his feet, searching to see where it came from.

‘Froi?’

It was Quintana’s voice from across the stream and Froi of Lumatere walked towards it, his hands to his head, almost dazed in wonder. And Phaedra and the wild Turlan lads followed and she heard the breath catch in their throats when they saw Quintana of Charyn across the stream, holding the little King. As Froi dragged himself across the water, Phaedra marvelled at the look on the face of her queen.

‘Do you think you love him?’ Phaedra had once asked.

‘I don’t know really what that is,’ Quintana had responded in her cold, practical way.

Yes, you do, my queen, Phaedra wanted to say now. Quintana’s love was unabashed. Wondrous. The type of love that lit a strange, strange face and turned it into a beacon. Every man and woman in the valley saw the joy on the face of their king’s mother that day. He was born in love, this king of theirs. Phaedra watched as Froi reached Quintana and then he fell to his knees before her, weeping, his arms circling her waist as she held him to her with one hand, the screaming, squirming babe with the other. And there were sighs all around her and she smiled to hear them come from such savage lads.

But everything changed so suddenly and the captain they called Scarpo of Nebia and his soldiers came riding across the stream in frenzy.

‘We need to get you to the palace, Your Majesty,’ he said, bellowing orders to the soldiers surrounding him. And they pushed Froi aside and wrested Quintana and the little King from out of his arms, and the savage lads beside Phaedra flew across the stream, shouting and cursing.

‘Let him hold them! Let him!’ one shouted.

‘Froi!’ Quintana cried.

One of the Nebian riders picked Quintana up in his arms, another tried to pull the babe from her grip.

‘Froi!’

‘You’re hurting her!’ Froi shouted, trying to get to her. ‘She’s scared!’

Scarpo of Nebia leapt from his mount and stood before Froi. ‘They are my orders,’ Phaedra heard him say. ‘We need to get them both to the Citavita and secure their place there. You stay here, Lumateran. Gargarin’s orders are that you stay in Lumatere and wait. In weeks to come, do not make contact with the Charyn palace. You wait. “Trust me,” he said. These were Gargarin’s words.’

But Froi fought like a madman and the Turlan lads tried to protect him, tried to hold him down.

‘Don’t hurt him. Please,’ Quintana begged, as she pulled free of the soldier’s arms and cowered on the ground, covering her babe’s head with her arms.

And then things got worse and Phaedra watched as Lucian and Jory and the Mont lads came charging out from between the copse of trees, swords in hand, ready to cut down any man who was a threat to Froi, and when the Turlans saw the Monts, they cocked their bows and raised their swords and Phaedra cried in fear at the blood that would be shed in this stream.

‘Stop!’ Froi shouted, stumbling between the Monts and the Turlans, arms outstretched. ‘Stop!’

And then there was silence. The Turlans stepped back across to the Charyn side of the stream and Lucian and his Monts stood beside Froi.

Phaedra pushed through the Nebian soldiers and reached Quintana, who rocked in the mud with the screeching little King in her arms.

‘Shh,’ Phaedra said calmly, looking up at the Captain of the Nebian army and his men. ‘You’re going to hurt her and the babe if you don’t restrain yourselves.’

Scarpo of Nebia hesitated and then nodded.

Phaedra looked across the water and her eyes met Lucian’s. Their needs came second. It came from the privilege of being trusted.

But that doesn’t mean I love you less.

And she held a hand down to Quintana, who took it and stood, and they followed Scarpo of Nebia to the waiting cart that would take them back to the Citavita.

Part Three Tariq of the Citavita

Chapter 41

Froi began each day counting the moments that made his life breathable. The feel of soil in his hands. The colours of autumn in Lumatere. The murmuring between Lord August and Lady Abian on the porch each night. The sight of their eldest son Talon relieving one of the village women of the hay bale she carried. The Priestking’s belly laugh. The sound of Vestie’s voice when she asked about Kintana of Charyn. And then the next count would begin. Of everything that made his life unbreathable. And each time, it outnumbered the first.

It had been four months since he had arrived back in Lumatere, and most days he was able to put aside the ache and complete his work on Lord August’s farm. But today was different. It was the curse day. Their birthday. Charyn’s day of weeping. Let her be happy. Perhaps this would be the first of the birthdays she’d enjoy, for she had his son in her arms. The image of the two was etched in Froi’s memory and although they had only those few moments together in the valley that day, he missed Quintana more than ever. And try as he might, Froi couldn’t get the scent of the boy off his hands. He began to understand Lirah and Gargarin, and the way they had coated their hearts with ice, so they wouldn’t feel.

As if Finnikin had sensed his pain that morning, he came riding by with Jasmina.

‘I’m going to teach her to swim,’ Finn said. ‘Come with us. I’ll enjoy the company.’ By the look on Jasmina’s face, the invitation was not extended to Froi, but he agreed all the same.

Trevanion joined them later. He kept a river cottage in Tressor, which was beginning to look like a village now after all these years of grieving the Tressorians who were slaughtered in Sarnak. Froi watched the three from the riverbank and even found himself chuckling once or twice to see the authority the Princess had over her father