Quintana of Charyn

hid the young novices of Lagrami, who went on to save the lives of many. I tell them their son was arrested and sentenced to hang while Arjuro was imprisoned for ten long years. And I tell them that I want to understand. I beg them to share it with me.

‘How do you raise a boy of substance?’ I ask her. ‘Will you stay and teach me?’ I look at them both. ‘Soon we’ll have a stable of the best horses in the kingdom, Hamlyn of Charyn. Is that not what you were known for? The best horse trainer outside Jidia? Will you and Arna stay and teach me how to raise a good man?’

My son wails in my arms. The little King wants to know, too. He wants to be that son.

And Arna holds out her hands to take Tariq in hers, her fingers going to his mouth, holding up his perfect lips and I see the rawness of his gums.

‘Your boy’s teeth are bringing him pain,’ she says quietly. ‘It’s why he cries. And he needs to be bathed.’

And so we bathe him, surrounded by his guards, just in case his little head slips. Tariq gurgles with laughter, his arms and legs flailing like the strange sea urchins I’ve seen in the books of the ancients. And Arna of Charyn places the cloth in my hand. ‘They love water,’ she says gently. ‘You try.’

We take Tariq from the tub and Dorcas holds up the blanket to wrap him, all the guards fussing. Arna shows me how to wipe him dry and I let Dorcas hold him. Because Dorcas is my favourite. He choked the life out of Bestiano of Nebia.

‘Can I hold him?’ Fekra asks.

‘Can I?’

‘Can I?’

But then I place Tariq in the crook of his shalamon’s arms and Gargarin’s mouth twists into its bittersweet beauty.

‘When a king hides behind the walls of a castle, his people are frightened,’ he says quietly.

So with Lirah and Arna by my side, surrounded by the riders, I travel through the Citavita and we jostle through the people, more people than I’ve ever seen except for the day of the hanging. I hear the weeping and the joy and I dare not look for the noose because Gargarin says it is not there to be found. But when a woman grips my arm, I jump from fear.

‘I’ve not bled for months, Your Highness,’ she sobs. ‘I’m weary all the time and I don’t know what to do. I’m frightened to squat over the privy in case a babe slips out.’

Dorcas gently guides me along, but I pull free.

‘Are you a fool?’ I demand to know of her. ‘It won’t be slipping out for months!’

So I order the girl up to the godshouse where Arjuro will soften her fears, but the next day in our chamber, I hear a bellow from across the gravina.

‘Quintana!’

And I step outside to the balconette where a furious Arjuro is standing on the other side of the gravina.

‘Here. In the godshouse. Now!’

When we reach the path up to the godshouse with our guards, Gargarin and Arna and I stop in shock.

‘He’ll kill you,’ Gargarin mutters, and I see the road is lined with women, weeping. Desperate. Every woman carrying a child in her belly, from the Citavita and beyond, is waiting to see Arjuro. And inside, we push through the long line of people and suddenly Lirah is there, taking Tariq in her arms.

‘Arjuro is furious,’ she said. ‘And to make matters worse the collegiati arrived today and they may be good at reading books about women carrying babies but they have no idea how to speak to women carrying babies.’

Day after day we spend our mornings at the godshouse. There’s too much confusion and shouting and crying, most of it coming from the collegiati. And then a week later while Arna shows the women how to hold Tariq so one day they’ll know how to hold their own, we hear a voice outside from the godshouse entrance.

‘I’m here, my loves. No need for despair,’ Tippideaux of Paladozza says, and by that afternoon she’s created rosters and assigned chambers and shouted orders and terrorised the collegiati into submission. She tells us all, because she does enjoy an audience, that since the betrayal of Olivier of Sebastabol, she has no trust in men except for her father and brother.

‘I swear I’ll die a barren woman and give my life to those whose wombs bear fruit.’

I see Arjuro and Lirah exchange a look.

‘Make peace with Olivier the traitor,’ Arjuro mutters. ‘Or I’ll kill you all.’

Later, Arjuro walks us down to the Citavita and I let him hold Tariq because it brings them both pleasure. We pass more women with swollen bellies hurrying towards the godshouse and Arjuro presses a kiss to Tariq’s outstretched fingers.

‘She’s mocking me, runt of our litter,’ Arjuro tells him. ‘The Oracle is mocking me for choosing a man to share my bed. And her punishment is that I spend the rest of eternity staring between the legs of women.’

And for the first time since I can remember, I laugh, and I watch my little king leap in his uncle’s arms at the sound of it.

Chapter 45

When Perri arrived at Lord August’s farm one morning while they were fixing the fence, Froi knew it was time.

‘Can we borrow him, Augie?’ Perri asked.

‘For how long?’ Lord August said, not looking up from his task.

Perri didn’t respond.

‘Last time you rode by to “borrow” him we didn’t see him for nine months and he returned with a body full of scars and an awful Charynite accent,’ Lord August complained, glancing at Froi. ‘When do you get to be ours for always?’ he asked, his voice low.

‘Do I have to be here to belong to you?’ Froi asked. ‘Can’t I belong to you wherever I am?’

In the kitchen making honey brew with the village women, Lady Abian had the good sense not to ask too many questions.

‘Is August blustering out there?’ she asked quietly.

‘A bit,’ Froi murmured. ‘A gentle early-winter bluster, I’d call it.’

She pressed a kiss to his cheek and he went to speak, but she held up a hand.

‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep.’

At the palace stable Perri insisted on Froi taking Beast as Trevanion fitted him with his weapons.

‘Your … Gargarin never wrote back,’ Finnikin said, standing beside Isaboe and Sir Topher.

‘After the letter Finnikin wrote promising to share ideas with Charyn about reservoirs and waterwheels and anything else we’ve been able to translate from the chronicles Celie stole … I mean, borrowed from Belegonia,’ Isaboe said.

Froi was confused. ‘Gargarin loves talk of reservoirs and waterwheels.’

Sir Topher handed him a satchel of documents. ‘Tell him we don’t beg and if he chooses not to respond to our attempts of peace, we don’t offer again.’

Finnikin nodded. ‘First time. Last time.’

Froi placed the satchel in the saddlebag.

‘You travel through the Osterian border. It’s quicker from here than if you travel from the mountain through the valley,’ Perri said.

Too many abrupt instructions.

‘You tell them that under no circumstances will the Queen travel to Charyn, so not to make that part of their terms,’ Finnikin said.

‘Anything else?’ Froi asked, mounting Beast.

‘Yes, you can at least look a bit upset about leaving,’ Isaboe said.

Froi rolled his eyes.