Quintana of Charyn

Gargarin later explained to Phaedra about the soothsayer. The ritual that had happened each year before the day of weeping. And it shamed Phaedra even more to have known so little of Quintana’s suffering in the Citavita for all those years. It made her want to take back every moment of their time hiding in the valley when Phaedra and the women had dismissed her as nothing but a delusional, half-crazed girl.

But memories of the valley were dangerous for Phaedra. It was deep in the night when she allowed herself to think of Lucian. Was he thinking of her? Had he moved on with his life? And she thought of the valley and realised that it was more of a home to her than Alonso was, and that she missed its people in a way that she hadn’t missed those of her province. When she was young, she had been kept protected from the world outside her father’s compound. In the valley and mountain she had truly begun to live.

And on one such night Quintana lay beside her, tense with fear of what the unseen enemy would do to her little king. Sometimes when the breeze spoke from outside the balconette and the shadows played with their eyes, Phaedra would hear the hope in Quintana’s voice.

‘Froi! Is that you?’

And then the disappointment. Phaedra would take her hand.

‘You need to sleep, dear friend.’

‘And dream of what, Phaedra?’ Quintana asked, getting out of bed. ‘The Provincari are beginning to make suggestions for a Consort. Should I dream of choosing the one that turns my stomach least?’

After Quintana had checked Tariq’s breathing for the umpteenth time, she crawled back into bed exhausted.

‘I’ll never leave you,’ Phaedra said, tucking the blanket around the Princess. ‘The Consort can find himself another chamber.’

‘I know you’ll never leave me,’ Quintana said. ‘But when it comes to you, Phaedra, I’m afraid of worse.’

Chapter 43

Froi was led through the gilded doors and into the palace throne room. He had never been in here before and marvelled at the rich tapestries of fierce men battling impressive boars with bare hands. On the ceiling was a fresco of women, stupendous in their girth and beauty, the serpents they had conquered beneath their feet. Froi understood with great clarity why he wasn’t meeting Finnikin and Isaboe in their private residence. But he had been waiting for this day. Regardless of his time spent with Finnikin, riding around the kingdom; and with Trevanion, fishing in the river; and with Perri and Tesadora down in the valley, laughing with the camp dwellers; and blessed Barakah, translating a journal in the shrinehouse; and with Isaboe, suggesting changes to her garden; and with Sir Topher, beating him in a game of kings – today they weren’t those people to him. They were the Queen, her king, the Captain of the Lumateran Guard and his second-in-charge, the Queen’s First Man, and the Priestking.

And he wasn’t Froi. He was their assassin who had spent nine months in an enemy kingdom. He had a head full of information they wanted, and this was the time to give it.

‘Was the palace exactly as Rafuel of Sebastabol sketched?’ Finnikin asked when they were finally seated.

Froi didn’t answer. He didn’t expect them to begin with that question. He had thought they’d skirt around things before they asked him that.

‘Froi?’ Sir Topher prodded.

‘Do you not trust us with that information?’ his queen asked.

‘I trust you with my life,’ Froi said. ‘But if I answered your question, then the people I love in Charyn would never trust me again.’ His eyes met hers and then Finnikin’s. ‘And in my whole time there, I never once betrayed Lumatere. So if there’s no reason for you needing to know how to enter my son’s home, I’d prefer not to speak of the Charynite palace.’

There was silence. Perri was already on his feet, pacing the room.

‘Then what shall we speak about?’ Finnikin asked.

‘The weather is always a safe topic,’ Froi said pleasantly. ‘It could lead into some vital information about the storage of rain-water, and growing produce. We have different terrain to Charyn and what we grow, they want, and what they grow, we may want.’

‘Anything else, Froi?’ Finnikin asked dryly. ‘Any other suggestions?’

‘Well, you have invited me here for a reason,’ he said with a shrug, ‘and I have become used to people asking my opinion, so it’s a bit difficult to hold my tongue.’

Sir Topher sat forward in his seat. ‘And you gave your opinion readily?’ he asked. ‘With them?’

‘Most times. I did lose my confidence once … after I was injured,’ he said, remembering Gargarin discussing Froi’s self-doubt with Lirah that time in Sebastabol.

‘After you were betrayed by a Charynite … friend?’ Isaboe asked.

‘Yes.’

‘An opportunist? This traitor friend?’ Finnikin asked. ‘Did he do it for money? Lucian mentioned what greedy, ignorant Charynites they were, those who placed themselves in charge of the camp dwellers. Do most Charynites betray for money?’

Froi felt himself bristling. ‘Well, firstly, I tend to refer to him just as a traitor these days,’ he said. ‘Not a friend. And … no. Most Charynites don’t betray for money. Most Charynites want to stay alive and hold their children in their arms.’

He regretted the words the moment he spoke them. Caught the pain in Isaboe’s eyes. But there was understanding there, as well.

‘He … the traitor didn’t do it for money,’ Froi said quietly.

‘And you know this for certain?’ Sir Topher asked. ‘Someone just wakes up one morning, Froi? And decides to betray those who trust him? But not for money? And you believe that?’

Froi sighed. ‘No, sir. I’ll explain to you how betrayal happens. A bunch of lads come up with a plan. Quite noble, if not naive,’ he said, thinking of Grijio and Satch and Olivier. ‘And then what happens is that one of the lads gets kidnapped as part of a plan hatched between a neighbouring enemy kingdom and a very secretive organisation …’

Finnikin sighed. ‘If it’s Lumatere and Rafuel’s people you’re referring to, then let’s get rid of the cryptic references. I get so confused when I haven’t slept.’

‘Yes, let’s use names,’ Isaboe said.

Froi nodded. ‘I took Olivier’s place at your instruction, and meanwhile he was held captive underground, guarded by a man, Zabat, who convinced him that he could make a difference. Except Zabat had switched sides and believed Bestiano of Nebia was the best chance for Charyn. And when Olivier of Sebastabol was released, he became what Zabat, not his original captors, wanted him to be. Which led to betrayal.’

‘In what way?’ Sir Topher asked.

‘Olivier withheld the truth,’ Froi said.

Isaboe made a sound of annoyance.

‘He doesn’t seem so naive after all,’ she said. ‘If you’re ever writing to the Charynites, Froi, tell them not to execute the smart ones. They do come in handy.’

He looked up at her again. Would Froi’s rotten corpse be lying somewhere in a ditch in Sorel if Froi was less smart?

Yes, of course it would be, her eyes told him.

Froi smiled, half bitterly, half in amusement that he would think she had lost any of her fight or backbone. That he would think that Lumatere’s charming, loving Queen and her king were any less than they presented. But they didn’t lie about who they were. They just omitted details.

Finnikin retrieved a letter and passed it to Froi. Froi’s heart hammered at the thought of Gargarin finally writing.

‘This came to us yesterday, addressed to you.’

Froi opened it, recognising the writing from a letter Simeon had sent to Lucian.