Quintana of Charyn (3 page)

He nodded. ‘I’ll send Moss.’

‘Hunt Gargarin of Abroi down,’ she said to Trevanion. ‘I don’t want him alive. And I don’t want him in Lumatere. What needs to be done.’

She spoke a few moments more with Sir Topher about their upcoming market day and then turned to find Finnikin packing.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked. ‘Where are you going?’

He refused to speak and continued to place items in his pack.

‘What is wrong with you?’ she cried.

She grabbed the cloak from his belongings and threw it back into the chest.

He stood her aside and retrieved the cloak and placed it back in his pack before pulling on calfskin trousers, which she knew he only used for travel.

‘I’m going with my father and Perri.’

‘No!’

He laced up his boots, continuing to dress as if she hadn’t spoken.

‘You’re not going to Charyn, Finnikin.’

‘I don’t follow a wife’s orders,’ he said.

‘I’m not speaking to you as your wife,’ she shouted. ‘I’m speaking to you as your queen, and my order is that you are not going to Charyn.’

In her corner, Jasmina awoke and began to cry.

‘Ah, so that’s what is meant by the “Queen’s Consort”,’ Finnikin said with bitterness. ‘A page who answers to her demands.’

She grabbed his arm, but he shook it free.

‘Is that what this is about?’ she asked. ‘Being my consort?’

He ignored her.

‘Answer me!’

‘You spoke another man’s name in my bed!’

She stared at him, stunned. He had shouted at her this way once before when she had been disguised as the novice Evanjalin. It was almost four years past when he discovered the truth about Balthazar and had accused her of sedition.

‘I go to Charyn with my father and Perri,’ he said, his voice hard. ‘Because I speak the language in a way they don’t and if we are fortunate enough to cross the path of our wayward lad, I’ll bring him home to you safe and sound. Perhaps you can murmur his name to him while he shares your bed.’

She slapped his face with a cry of outrage and he pulled her close to him, his arms shaking.

‘You’ve never spoken to me of your time in Sorel as a child,’ he said, and she saw tears in his eyes. ‘You’ve always said it was too painful. That apart from Balthazar’s death and what you witnessed in Sarnak, it was your worst memory. Yet you told him. You trusted another man with your pain.’

He shook his head, anguished and full of fury. ‘I’ve told you everything. Every fear I have. How can we be equals in this union if you can’t trust me?’

‘Not telling you about Sorel has nothing to do with trust, Finnikin!’ she said.

He walked out the door before she could speak another word.

Soon after, she saw his fleece on their bed and knew he would freeze without it. Let him, she thought. Let him. But she grabbed the fleece and walked outside, flinging it over the balcony down to where Finnikin was already mounting his horse in the courtyard alongside his father and Perri. It caught him in the face and her only satisfaction was that the weight of it almost toppled him from his horse.

‘And don’t expect any sympathy if you catch your death out there,’ she shouted. ‘You didn’t even pack an undershirt.’

‘I expect nothing from you,’ he shouted back.

She was determined he would not get the last word and shouted a whole lot more until she had no idea what she was saying.

Inside, she walked to Jasmina’s bed, thinking of her dream again. Not of the savageness and not of the confusion, but of the part that she remembered most of all. That it wasn’t Tesadora and Vestie who had walked the sleep with her, as they had each month before her pregnancy when it was Isaboe’s time to bleed. It was a different spirit now, one that almost shared her heartbeat. She stared down at her daughter, but knew it hadn’t been Jasmina. She felt a kick in her belly and almost buckled, imagining the truth.

Had she walked the sleep of some savage beast with her unborn child?

 

 

‘
F
roi?’

‘Yes?’

‘Are you awake?’

‘I am now.’

‘I can’t sleep.’

‘What are you thinking?’

‘About sad things, really. What if I never get to meet our little king, Froi?’

‘Don’t say that. Don’t think it!’

‘He’ll never know that the time I felt most brave was when I knew he was in my belly.’

‘You were brave long before that, Quintana. Sleep.’

‘Quintana?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you awake?’

‘I am now.’

‘I can’t sleep,’ he said.

‘What are you thinking?’

‘That time … that time you let go of my hand in the Citavita,’ he said, ‘when you thought I would hurt you and the babe, where would you have gone?’

‘Wherever our little king guided me.’

‘He speaks to you?’

‘No. But he used to speak to my sister, the Reginita. He liked the sound of her voice. He’s very clever in that way. I think he’s gods’ blessed like Arjuro.’

‘And where did our little king suggest you all journey without me?’

‘You’ll not believe it.’

‘But I will.’

‘Promise you won’t think me a fool.’

‘With all my heart.’

‘Then you’ll have to come closer, Froi. We can’t have the Avanosh lot hearing.’

Quintana? I can’t hear you. Speak louder. You’ve got to speak louder. I can’t hear you. Quintana!

‘Froi!’

Don’t wake up.

‘Froi!’

Fight it. Don’t let her go again.

‘Froi, wake up!’

The times he loved most were when his eyes were closed. So he could imagine he was still in his quarters in Paladozza on that long night when they talked and talked and lay naked against each other. They were like a cocoon, she said. She had seen one in the gardens of their compound and had sat and watched it for hours. So there they lay with her rounded belly between them, protecting their little king, studying each other’s face as if trying to work out which part of them would belong to the babe.

With eyes closed shut, Froi could also imagine Gargarin and Lirah down the hall in De Lancey’s home and he could go back to that room time and time again and change everything that happened. Take back every word he spoke.

But sleep was already gone and with its loss came truth and a flatness to his spirit that rendered him motionless. Barely opening his eyes, he could see Arjuro crouched beside him, a cup of brew in the Priestling’s hands that was sure to turn Froi’s stomach.

‘She whispered it to me, Arjuro,’ he said, his voice hoarse, and Arjuro lifted the cup to Froi’s lips. ‘I could almost hear her. I could almost hear the words telling me where she’d hide.’

‘Drink,’ Arjuro ordered gently. ‘She’s just about told you every night, Froi. For weeks now. You beg her in your sleep over and over again. Let it rest or you’ll drive us both mad.’

Arjuro lit another of the oil lamps, and then two more, and placed them in the crooks of the wall. It was the only light Froi had seen these past weeks and he wondered what it did to a spirit to not feel sun on the skin or the wind on one’s face.

Although he shared the cavern with Arjuro, passages linked it to every other cavern in the underground godshouse of Trist. The rest of Charyn had been led to believe that the Priests were hiding somewhere in the caves outside Sebastabol, but instead they lived beneath the city itself. It was a labyrinth so extensive it had three main entrances: one through a grate in the ceiling that led to a hospital for travellers, and two through cellars of Sebastabolians who had an allegiance to the Priests. It was outside one of those homes where Froi’s bloody body was left.

‘You have a habit of turning up on our doorstep, Dafar of Abroi,’ Simeon the Head Priest had told him the first time Froi woke. ‘Creating havoc in the kingdom beyond understanding.’

They were unable to tell him who his saviour was. ‘You were
left and he was gone without a word,’ they said.

Froi dragged himself out of his bedroll and walked to the basin, dampening a cloth and wiping it over his face. Each morning had been a measure of how quickly he was healing and his only relief today was that there was less pain than the day before.

‘I’m ready,’ he said to Arjuro.

‘You said you were ready the day you woke up with eight barbs wedged in your body,’ Arjuro muttered, mixing a paste that he coated on Froi’s wounds each morning. It produced a stench that made them both want to retch, but Arjuro insisted the scars would fade and Froi would heal quicker. The faster Froi healed, the closer he came to finding her.

‘Arm up,’ Arjuro ordered.

Froi held up his arm as Arjuro smeared the paste onto the deepest of the wounds on Froi’s side. ‘It’s the one that brought you closest to death,’ Arjuro said most days, and Froi would hear the break in the Priestling’s voice each time.

The paste and Arjuro’s fingers were cold on his skin and Froi flinched more than once, although he tried hard not to. It was Arjuro who had to be convinced of his strength. Arjuro, Froi had come to understand, was respected by the compound of Trist, and Froi could see the Priests and their families were desperate to keep him. He was the last of the Oracle’s Priestlings and he still held a fascination for them all.

‘Are you ready for the
collegiati
?’ Arjuro asked. ‘You’re the most exciting thing that’s happened to them for quite some time.’

‘You mean my injuries are,’ Froi said.

‘Yes, I suppose they will miss your wounds when you leave,’ Arjuro chuckled.

Each morning, a group of young men and women, a little older than Froi, came to visit their quarters. Although not lastborns, some were in hiding because they were believed to be
gods’ blessed. Others were the children of the Priests and Priestesses who had hidden their families all those years ago when the Oracle’s godshouse was attacked. That a school for the brightest minds in Charyn existed in the bowels of a province didn’t surprise Froi. In the nook of any given cave in this kingdom were a people refusing to give up.

‘The way they grovel to you makes me sick to my stomach,’ Froi said as he watched Arjuro arrange his tools of healing. Froi thought of them more as tools of torture. When he had first awoken from his injuries, one of the
collegiati
had told Froi how excited all in the compound had been when Arjuro returned to them.

‘He was considered the greatest young surgeon in Charyn before the attack on the Oracle’s godshouse,’ the girl, Marte, had explained to Froi. ‘My mother was one of his teachers in Paladozza and said that even as a boy he showed brilliance.’

Marte and her fellow
collegiati
were hungry for any type of learning and they hovered around the entrance of Arjuro’s chamber all day long, just for a chance to spend more time with the Priestling.

Arjuro found them as annoying as he found most people and would tell them exactly where he would prefer they go. But they returned each day while he treated Froi’s wounds, which they analysed and discussed, poking at Froi as if he was nothing but a slab of mutton. Froi would see their eyes blaze with excitement each time they saw his scars.

Whoever had taken him to these caves had tried to yank out the arrows, but once the shafts were pulled, they had come unstuck from their stems and Froi was left with eight arrowheads lodged inside his body.

‘Cat gut goes a long way, blessed Arjuro,’ Marte said that morning when they all shuffled in. ‘The stitching is perfect.’

‘But how did you remove the barbs, Brother Arjuro?’ a
collegiato
asked in awe.

‘An arrow spoon,’ Arjuro said, showing them the instrument.

There was much oohing and aahing.

‘The spoon is inserted into the wound and latches onto the arrowhead,’ Arjuro said, looking at Froi. ‘You might want to close your ears for this next bit, Froi.’ Arjuro turned back to the others. ‘Next moment, the barb is ripped out and look what we have?’ Arjuro said. ‘Beautiful.’

This was what produced joy for Arjuro. Inflicting pain.

‘It’s a work of art, Brother Arjuro,’ an annoyingly fawning
collegiata
said. ‘You’re a genius.’

‘Yes, I’m going to have to agree,’ Arjuro said, pleased with himself. ‘See how clean this one is,’ he said, pointing to Froi’s shoulderblade. ‘But I think it could have been a tighter stitch. I only wish I had a chance to do it again. If I could get myself some bronzed wire, rather than using sheep bone, I think I could have done a neater job of this sewing.’

He caught Froi’s eye, a smile crossing his lips. Froi knew he was enjoying himself.

Someone ran a finger alongside the dent at the back of Froi’s head and Arjuro slapped the hand away. Froi had received an arrow to the head and they had been forced to crop his hair. Although not completely bare, it felt strange under his fingers. But what was even stranger was the
collegiati
’s reaction to it. Not a day went by without a hand attempting to feel its way across the cleft at the back of Froi’s skull.

‘Are you going to tell me what’s there?’ he demanded of Arjuro.

‘A hard head,’ Arjuro responded and Froi saw the warning look he sent to the others. ‘It’s a good thing you have no brains and the arrowhead pierced nothing but empty space.’

It was the same joke each time and Froi rolled his eyes when the others laughed at it again.

‘Can I put on my trousers now?’ he asked. Never one to be bashful about his naked self, it felt different when the
collegiati
scrutinised every part of his body. The topic of foreskin was the most difficult to endure.

‘He grew up in Sarnak. It’s what they do to their male young. A snip and then it’s gone,’ Arjuro explained.

The men had flinched. The women were intrigued.

Arjuro ushered them all out.

‘Brother Arjuro, what of warts?’ one of the lads asked at the entrance of the cave. Nothing gods’ blessed about that one. Some were quite delusional when it came to the degree of their talents.

Arjuro stared at the young man.

‘I don’t heal warts. If you want to learn how to heal warts, go to the soothsayer and she’ll feed you with an old wives’ tale or two.’

When they were all gone, Froi pulled on his trousers.

‘They’re all half in love with you,’ he said. ‘Men and women.’

‘Yes, it’s a pity you didn’t inherit our looks,’ Arjuro said. ‘You too could be as popular.’

Froi hid a smile.

‘Gargarin was even more sought after,’ Arjuro explained, sketching today’s image of Froi’s gut wound into his journal. ‘It’s because he ignored the world and, in turn, the world believed he was playing games.’

‘Were you jealous of him?’

‘Gargarin?’ Arjuro looked up, surprised by the question. ‘Never. I told you. I was jealous of anyone who took him from me.’

‘He could be happy with Lirah in Paladozza,’ Froi said softly.

Arjuro sighed. ‘I can’t see my brother staying put while all this is happening.’

Froi imagined that ‘all this’ was the question of Quintana’s whereabouts. He watched Arjuro carefully. ‘You know I’m ready.’

‘I’ll tell you when you’re ready. Sit.’ Arjuro pressed hard on the puckered skin across Froi’s gut.

‘Does that hurt?’

Froi pressed two fingers against Arjuro’s shoulder with the same force.

‘Does that?’ he snapped in return.

‘Oh, so we’re bad-tempered this morning, as well. Always good to see the Abroi spirit living on in our sprog.’

This time Froi couldn’t resist a smile, but then he grabbed Arjuro’s hand and pressed it against the back of his skull.

‘What’s there, Arjuro? What are you hiding from me?’

Arjuro pulled his hand away with a grimace.

‘Nothing we don’t already know, Froi. It was just hidden for so long. You were born with a mop of hair. Did you know that? It’s probably been there your whole life and no one ever saw it.’

‘But what is it?’

‘It’s the same style of lettering as Quintana’s,’ Arjuro said finally. ‘We didn’t realise all this time that both of you were scorched by the gods or whoever it was.’

‘If not the gods, who else?’ Froi asked.

Arjuro shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I wish I did. I wish I knew what it meant.’

He placed a blue woollen cap over Froi’s head, almost covering his eyes and ears.

‘Make sure no one outside these caves see it. Charynites are used to the sign belonging to lastborn women,’ Arjuro said. ‘I don’t know what would happen if they knew the very last male born was walking amongst us.’