Quintana of Charyn (32 page)

Lirah nodded.

‘I think our Quintana’s gone to Lumatere, and Phaedra of Alonso is hiding her.’

 

 

I
saboe woke with a start. She had felt her again. She knew it was Quintana of Charyn who crept into her dreams.

     
I know you’re there!

Keep away from my son!

She had no idea which were her own words, and which belonged to that insidious intruder. At times it seemed as if they were one.

Isaboe heard a sound. Thought she imagined it. But then Finnikin was out of bed, placing a dagger in her hand.

‘Stay,’ he whispered. ‘I’m going out onto the balconette. Someone’s in the courtyard. The moment you hear my shout, take Jasmina and hide.’

They were expecting no one tonight. Trevanion was in Fenton and Perri was on duty, and only Lucian and
Yata
had the authority to be in the courtyard outside the residence. But before Isaboe could imagine the death of any of her beloveds on the mountain, or an assassin in their garden, Finnikin was back at the bed, relief in his expression.

‘It’s the Priestking and Celie.’

‘At this hour of the night?’

‘Sefton let them in at the gatehouse and they took a wrong turn and ended up in the garden facing the end of Perri’s sword. They’re on their way up.’

She groaned, holding out a hand to him. ‘I need a catapult to get me out of this bed.’

The Priestking and Celie entered the residence, lugging chronicles in their arms, all apologies but flushed with excitement.

‘How long have you been home without seeing me, Celie?’ Isaboe asked, embracing her.

‘I arrived not even two days past and have spent the whole time with blessed
Barakah
. Not even Mama or Father or the boys have seen me.’

‘Blessed
Barakah
, you shouldn’t be out at this time of the night,’ Isaboe said.

‘Sit, sit,’ the Priestking said. ‘We’ve worked it out.’ His voice was full of emotion.

Perri joined them and then Sir Topher entered and they all sat around the long bench. The Priestking held a parchment out to Isaboe. Finnikin reached over to steady the old man’s hand. But it was excitement more than age that caused his trembling.

‘The markings on the nape and skull are written in a language very few know about,’ he said. ‘I searched everywhere. Had chronicles sent from Osteria and Sarnak, and Celie agreed to … deliver one home from Belegonia.’

‘Deliver?’ Isaboe asked Celie.

Celie and the Priestking were silent for a moment.

‘Perhaps … smuggle would be the correct word,’ Celie said.

Sir Topher buried his head in his hands and Isaboe heard the word ‘Augie’ muttered.

‘And no one suspected?’ Isaboe asked.

‘Well … the castellan of the palace searched my room. He’s very suspicious. But I was clever. And I wept, of course. You see, he accused me of theft in front of the King’s men.’ Celie looked pleased with herself. ‘My tears are very convincing. There was some quite pathetic snivelling.’

‘Oh so underrated, the sob and the snivel,’ Isaboe said. ‘I wish I had been taught. I would have used them more often in exile.’

‘If you had sobbed and snivelled when Sir Topher and I first found you in Sendecane, we wouldn’t be here today,’ Finnikin said. ‘I would have left you behind.’

‘Yes, because you had so much control over the situation, my love.’ Isaboe laughed.

‘Can we get back to why they’re here at this time of the morning?’ Perri asked politely. ‘I almost tackled blessed
Barakah
to the ground.’

‘Then let’s begin with insanity,’ the Priestking said. ‘All great curses do. Because you will always find some sort of genius amidst it. I found an interesting passage in one of my books from the Osterians. Three thousand years ago there was a Yut touched by the gods. He was mad – those most touched by the gods are – and his greatest claim was remembering the moment of his birth.’

‘Mad, indeed,’ Finnikin said.

The Priestking shook his head. ‘You didn’t see your daughter come into the world, Finnikin. It’s our most savage entry into any place on this earth. One that killed your own mother. Imagine the state of one’s mind if they were to recall its details. All those months cocooned and then the onslaught of this ugly world. Light and noise and strangeness. It’s no wonder we scream with terror at our birth.’

‘And you found all this in the Osterian chronicle?’

The Priestking shook his head. ‘Just a mention of the Yut and
his theory. So I continued my search. What kingdom has profited most from Yutlind’s mess and has become the greatest hoarder and pilferer of its works?’

‘Belegonia,’ Sir Topher said.

‘Although it could have been worse,’ Finnikin said. ‘The great works of Yutlind could have ended up in the hands of the Sorellians. At least the Belegonians have a love for words.’

The Priestking nodded. ‘Thus Celie’s achievement in their spring palace.’

‘I pride myself on being the greatest spy there is,’ Celie said. ‘When I was in the Belegonian capital, I had no such luck finding any foreign chronicles. In the spring castle, however, I found exactly what we were looking for.’

‘Celie,’ Isaboe reprimanded. ‘I told you to find yourself a lover, not hide yourself in a library.’

‘No, you said we could make these invitations to Belegonia work for us,’ Celie said.

‘Well, I don’t know what we would have done without her,’ the Priestking said.

‘Can’t you be both?’ Isaboe asked. ‘Someone’s lover and our greatest spy?’

‘I’ll try very hard to please you, my queen,’ Celie laughed. ‘But let me start as a spy. I searched the chamber of chronicles in the spring castle, every opportunity I could. There’s a foreign section. We’ll speak later about what they’ve pilfered from Lumatere. Finally I came across the chronicles of Phaneus of Yutlind. Of course, I couldn’t understand a word of it. So I returned home with the chronicles. It had been a strange time in the spring palace and I told the King that I was sick at heart and needed to be with my family. And here I am.’

‘And you were able to translate it, blessed
Barakah
?’ Finnikin asked, and Isaboe heard envy in his voice.

‘I promise it wasn’t easy,’ the Priestking said. ‘Phaneus of Yutlind’s writing rants and states that we all speak one tongue before we’re born.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Isaboe said.

‘There’s no Lumateran, Charyn, Yut, Sorellian, Sendecanese, Osterian, Belegonian, Sarnak,’ Celie said, excitement in her voice. ‘He called it the tongue of the innocents.’

The Priestking glanced down to where Isaboe held a hand on her belly.

‘I listen to you speak to the babe, Your Majesty. But according to Phaneus of Yutlind, that babe does not understand a word of Lumateran. All it understands is the universal language of the innocents. Untainted by life.’

‘Why can’t we remember it, then, according to this Phaneus?’ Finnikin asked.

‘Oh, Phaneus doesn’t have the answer to that. He was barely lucid at times. Dearest Celie had to witness some unmentionable sketches before we reached the pages of the unborns.’

‘Unmentionable,’ Celie said, her cheeks pink at the memory.

‘How unmentionable?’ Isaboe asked, intrigued.

‘I’ll tell you later,’ Celie said. ‘Among other things.’

‘Celie, you have taken a lover,’ Finnikin said. ‘Why is it that Isaboe gets to hear everything and I get nothing but Phaneus the mad Yut?’

Sir Topher made a sound with his throat that meant he was irritated by the chatting.

‘Go on, blessed
Barakah
,’ Isaboe said.

‘My guess would be that we don’t remember the language because we don’t remember birth. Perhaps the shock wipes it from our memories. Who knows?’

The Priestking swung the chronicle around and pointed.

‘The mad Yut’s tongue of the innocents,’ he said, pointing to
the strange but familiar lettering.

Isaboe recognised one or two symbols with stems and curves that she had seen in the letters sent by both Froi and Tesadora.

‘I found a strange code that matched every symbol to Yut characters I recognised, and then I tried to translate Yut into Lumateran, but the Yut words on both Froi and the Charyn girl’s bodies didn’t seem to exist.’

The Priestking retrieved the two parchments with Froi and Quintana’s lettering.

‘Until I did this,’ he said, placing them together. They all moved closer to study the words in Yut. ‘Half of the message was with Froi. The other half with Quintana of Charyn.’

‘
We are incomplete
,’ Finnikin translated.

Isaboe felt her breath catch.

‘Is this saying they’re incomplete without each other? Froi and that savage?’ she asked.

The Priestking didn’t speak for a moment.

‘I think it’s something even more powerful than that,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s the spirits of the unborn babes that spoke.’

Perri was on his feet, pacing the room, and Isaboe felt the tension from them all.

The Priestking laid Froi’s letter out on the table. ‘We have to go back to the events of the night of our lad’s birth. A strange, horrific night when a mother and her son are wrenched apart, a man loses the love of a brother, another man loses faith in his king and himself, a babe loses her mother and twin sister. All those involved, the Oracle amongst them, were so powerful that their loss and pain and fury and grief became a splinter in the soul of a kingdom. We know it’s referred to as the day of weeping, when every Charynite woman who carried a child bled it from their loins.’

Isaboe held out a hand to Perri and he sat, his fists clenched.

‘Look at what Seranonna did to Lumatere,’ the Priestking continued. ‘All that rage and anguish. That wasn’t planned. It wasn’t conjured up in a spell. It came from in here,’ the Priest-king said, pointing to his heart. He flicked through another of the chronicles. ‘Two hundred years ago, it also happened in Sendecane. A young girl’s passion destroyed the kingdom and it is still a wasteland today except for the cloister of Lagrami. Five hundred years ago it happened to an island north of Sarnak, a place that no longer exists. Never underestimate the power of our raw emotions.’

Sir Topher was a man of logic and even he looked spellbound.

‘So the two babes and two brothers, and Lirah of Serker and the Oracle cursed the kingdom much the same way as Seranonna did?’ Isaboe asked.

The Priestking shook his head.

‘No. They didn’t curse the kingdom. They cursed a day and created the weeping.’

‘Destroyed only one day?’ Finnikin said.

‘Then who cursed the next eighteen years?’ Sir Topher asked.

The Priestking looked at them all, his eyes finally settling on Perri.

‘I believe the spirit of those bled babes had nowhere to go. Some were days from birth. They had no name, and no way of being called to rest. So they searched for the source. The vessels.’

‘Froi?’ Perri said.

The Priestking nodded. ‘And the Princess. Two vessels more powerful than we can ever imagine.
Come to me. Come to me,
they would have called out, hearing the cries of their lost brothers and sisters. All they wanted to do was protect them. And the spirits did come to them, but were splintered.’ He looked at Perri. ‘Part of the spirit of your unborn child went to Froi and the other part went to Quintana of Charyn.’

The Priestking paused a moment, looking at them all. ‘It’s what takes place during chaos, whether in this known world or that yet to be born. Look at what happened to us here all those years ago. Lumatere was divided in two. Those who were trapped and those in exile.

‘And the spirits of those babes have been full of fury and despair all these years. They’ve wanted the part of them that was lost returned. And now, finally, each has become one again, united in the babe that Quintana and Froi created. Let’s pray that it’s born, dear friends. Let’s pray that it stays safe in its mother’s arms.’

‘Mercy!’ said Finnikin.

Mercy indeed, Isaboe thought, placing a shaking hand on her belly. The kingdom of Charyn had not been cursed by evil. It had been cursed by innocence. By the power of the unborn.

 

 

F
roi heard the words often that day.

‘We’re going to battle.’

They were said with uncertainty most of the time. Although the lads understood that they were going to war for Quintana of Charyn, there was still no guarantee that she would be found in the valley between Lumatere and Charyn. It was where they were heading. But first they had to get through the three hills and Bestiano’s army.

That night, they all gathered in the keep to listen to final commands, shuffling for room wherever they could. Froi was on the ground. He looked up at each archway, all the way to the top, and he felt the flatness of everyone’s mood. It wasn’t the way he wanted these men fighting for Quintana’s place in the palace. From the third-floor balcony, Gargarin spoke to them all. He called the next few days the most important hours in Charyn’s history. Said that they would be spoken about in years to come. As impassioned as his words were, the men still seemed lost. Froi remembered what Fekra had said. That the Nebian army
Bestiano commanded didn’t know what they were fighting for anymore. Nor did these men.

They were about to leave when Dolyn’s voice was heard.

‘Priestling, can you sing Charyn’s ballad?’

Froi watched Arjuro look up to where Dolyn stood. The leader of Lascow was beside Gargarin and De Lancey.

‘I heard you once,’ Dolyn continued. ‘It was many, many years ago. Your voice rang clear in the crowd. More powerful than any other Priestling.’

‘No,’ Arjuro said bluntly.

His voice echoed strangely in the quiet space.

‘Arjuro –’ De Lancey called out.

‘My answer is no! It’s a song for a Charyn that no longer exists.’

‘We go to war tomorrow for a Charyn Tariq believed in, sir,’ one of the Lasconians shouted out boldly from one of the upper balconies.

Arjuro shook his head, his expression weary. ‘I miss my sisters and brothers in the godshouse,’ he called back in response. ‘I don’t care whose voice rang clear in the crowd. I sang Charyn’s ballad alongside them … and now they’re gone. I don’t sing … except for the dead.’

‘Then perhaps we can speak it out loud,’ a Turlan lad said. ’As a blessing before battle.’

There was a half-hearted mumble and then words were spoken, disjointed and feeble.

‘… the stone we shaped with hands of hope to build a kingdom of might … the roads we paved with the blood of our toil …’

Something inside Froi’s head jolted. He knew this song. The Priestking had taught him. The old man had taught him everything about Charyn. ‘It’s a song of their hubris … a song to show
off their talents,’ the Priestking had murmured, but he made Froi listen to it each time they were together. ‘Sing with me, Froi,’ he would say. But Froi had refused. He sang for no man. Not since his days on the streets of the Sarnak capital. But now he understood. Had the Priestking guessed who Froi was all along and taught him this song, not to conquer an enemy, but to find his own people? Clever, wicked man. Froi had never loved the Priestking more.

There’s a song in your heart, Froi. You must unleash it or you will spend your days in regret.

‘I’ll sing it with you, Arjuro,’ Froi called out, and everyone searched for him in the crowded keep.

‘I know it … I was taught by the blessed
Barakah
of Lumatere,’ he said loudly for everyone to hear. ‘He believed … a well-rounded education was the best,’ he continued to explain, partly with a lie.

A silence came over the room as they waited for Arjuro’s reaction. But somewhere in the crowd Arjuro and Froi found each other and stood side by side. Men crouched around them. From above, Gargarin’s eyes seemed to pierce into Froi’s. As long as he lived, Froi would never be able to determine his father’s thoughts.

He waited for the cue from Arjuro. It was a song for more than one to sing and Arjuro began alone, his voice robust, his warble perfect, a sound still so youthful despite the years. Froi felt a catch in his throat thinking of the young gods’ blessed Arjuro, who would have bewitched the hardest of spirits. He was still bewitching De Lancey of Paladozza now. The love on the Provincaro’s face was potent. Catching. Froi waited, ready to commence with the second stanza. His voice had been deep for some years now. Not as a boy. Back then it was high and pure and it fetched him a price. Back then he didn’t understand the words
he sang. All he understood was an empty stomach that needed to be filled. But now, as he started his song, he knew exactly what he was singing, and his voice reached depths that he hadn’t known existed. And when Arjuro’s voice joined in, it was a communion, a blood tie, and Froi felt the strength that both their voices gave to those listening. He watched men place clenched hands to their chests; he saw tears spring to surprised eyes. He saw Lirah push her way through the men on the balcony above, transfixed. Froi’s voice felt like a caress for his battered soul. Because he sang for Quintana of Charyn. He sang for the misery of her life, the poison in her body, the scars on her skin and the courage in her character. And he sang for the child he would never call his own. He sang for the Charyn he would leave behind and he felt his hand clench in a fist at the thought of such a kingdom. It made his voice soar with Arjuro’s, to a height that matched its earlier depth. And when it was over and he pushed through the crowd, he felt hands clap his back, ruffle his cap, shake his hand as he moved between them. He felt their euphoria.

He returned to his post on the wall, looking out into the darkness and wondering what the next day would bring. Death. Of course there’d be death. Would it be him? Grij? Who would live and who would die?

Perabo joined him with Gargarin.

‘Your lad here is lethal,’ Perabo said. ‘Let’s hope a bit of that blood runs through the little King.’

‘Say it louder and I’ll cut out your tongue,’ Gargarin snapped.

Perabo gripped Gargarin to him and Froi stepped between them.

‘Your secrets, whatever I may believe they are, die with me,’ Perabo said through clenched teeth. ‘Doubt me or threaten me again and you’ll have to find yourself another constable.’

Gargarin cupped the man’s shoulder, his hand shaking. Froi could see that something wasn’t right, but to Perabo, at least, Gargarin seemed contrite.

‘You’re the only constable I want, Perabo. No more doubts or threats. Make sure the names of the lads going into battle are recorded.’

Perabo nodded, glancing at Froi. ‘This one needs to rest. Ariston is going to want Froi by his side.’

‘He won’t be going with Ariston and his men,’ Gargarin said.

Froi stared at him, stunned.

‘What are you saying?’ he shouted. ‘You know I’m as good as a Turlan. You’re only doing this because …’

‘Because what?’ Gargarin hissed. ‘Because you’re my son? You’re mistaking me for someone with choices, Froi. I don’t have choices.’

Froi waited, looking to Perabo for answers.

‘I can’t have you riding into battle,’ Gargarin said. ‘We need you for something else.’

Gargarin’s stare was deadly.

‘You’re going to steal into that camp and put him down, Froi.’

Froi heard Perabo’s hiss of satisfaction.

‘We want Bestiano dead.’

When the sun rose and every soldier in the fortress was in place, Froi found Grijio in the bailey. The lastborn was with the Turlans, sitting on his horse, waiting for word.

‘Are you frightened?’ Froi asked.

‘Of course I’m frightened,’ Grij said, looking over Froi’s shoulder to where De Lancey was watching them from the entrance of the keep.

‘Gargarin won’t let my father come along,’ he said. ‘Dolyn and Ariston agree.’

‘Well, he’s injured.’

‘It’s not that. They can’t afford to lose a Provincaro who will favour the palace in the future. Father ordered that I stay, too, but I told him I couldn’t. I made these plans with Tariq and Satch … and even Olivier. That we’d save her. I can’t do that hiding behind my father’s title. And I may not be good with a sword, but I’m fast with a horse.’

Froi noticed Mort close by on his mount. Grijio was to travel with the Turlans, who would tear through Bestiano’s defences and get to the Lumateran valley in the hope of finding Quintana there. The Lasconians would stay behind and fight, and if all was true, the Desantos army would decimate the Nebians from the north. Regardless of everything, it meant more dead Charynite lads who didn’t know what they were fighting for, judging from Fekra’s hopelessness. But Froi couldn’t afford to care. He was one step closer to Quintana.

‘You take care of him, Mort,’ Froi said, holding a hand up to Grijio who shook it firmly.

‘Provincaro says I not to let Grij out of sight,’ Mort said.

‘Keep safe, Froi,’ Grijio said.

Froi patted Grijio’s mount and then walked back to De Lancey and Arjuro.

‘I’m going to see them off from the wall,’ De Lancey said in a low voice.

Arjuro and Froi watched him walk away.

‘Are you ready?’ Arjuro asked.

‘I’ve been ready since I left Lumatere,’ Froi said. He caught the expression on Arjuro’s face. ‘Why look so sad, Arjuro, when I promise I’ll return to you with some part of my body to sew up?’

Arjuro didn’t have a sense of humour that morning, and Froi walked away because saying goodbye to Arjuro was always hard.

Lirah waited for him by the well and they sat a while in silence watching Perabo organise the Lasconians. Unlike the time at the gate, Florik was ready. He held up a hand of acknowledgement to Froi and Froi returned the gesture.

He tried hard not to think of what would take place beyond any sort of rescue. All he could think of was seeing Quintana and not letting her go. But what would be Froi’s place in the new Charyn? Would he be a foot soldier in the army or one of Perabo’s palace soldiers? Would he live in the godshouse with Arjuro and Lirah? And who would he be? Froi of the Lumateran Exiles or Dafar of Abroi? Would he watch his son grow, thinking of him merely as an acquaintance? And what of Lumatere? If he left, did he ever have a chance of returning there again?

‘I was born from the union between my father … and his oldest daughter,’ Lirah said.

Froi flinched.

‘So my mother was in fact my sister, and oh, how she despised me. Who would blame her? The moment our father died, she sold me to feed her younger children. I was twelve. If I was less beautiful she would have sold me to a Serker pig farmer who needed the labour, but this face bought me a place in the palace.’

‘Labour on a pig farm isn’t so bad,’ he said, thinking of what she endured in the palace.

‘Yes, I agree, but if she had sold me to the farmer, I’d have been slaughtered with the rest of Serker not even seven years later. So let’s just say that this face bought me my life … ours.’

Ours. Froi belonged to Lirah.
Ours
. He would like that word from here on. It would mean something different, something more.

‘There was a woman in the pen with me. It’s what they called the cart we travelled in from Serker to the Citavita. The pen, because we were treated like animals. And through all the misery,
she said that some of us in this lifetime experience a moment of beauty beyond reckoning. I asked her what that was, and she said, “If you’re one of the lucky ones, you’ll know it when you see it. You’ll understand why the gods have made you suffer. Because that moment’s reward will make your knees weak and everything you’ve suffered in life will pale in comparison.”’

Lirah stared at him. ‘Some women claim that moment happens at the sight of their child for the first time.’ She shook her head. ‘But I caught a glimpse of you when you were born and then you were gone. I felt nothing except more yearning and despair and misery.

‘And then … tonight you sang Charyn’s ballad with Arjuro and I thought, Ah, there it is. That’s why I’ve suffered all my life. For this moment of beauty and perfection.’ Her eyes pooled with tears. ‘It didn’t come from looking at you or even hearing your voice. It came from seeing the expression on Gargarin’s face. He was looking at the wonder of what we made together. Our son, Dafar of Abroi. I’d suffer it all again just to know that moment was there in my life.’

She gripped his hand.

‘You said to me once that you weren’t what I dreamed of. You were right. You surpass everything I dreamed of. Even the rot in you that’s caused you to do shameful things. Some men let the rot and guilt fester into something ugly beyond words. Few men can turn it into worth and substance. If you’re gods’ blessed for no other reason, it’s for that.’

And then she was gone, disappearing through the entrance that would take her to the room she shared with Gargarin. But not for long. A new Charyn meant that a gravina would lie between Lirah and Gargarin.

They heard a shout from one of the guards on the wall. Fekra had given his signal, which meant that the sentinel he replaced
was well out of sight. Ariston and his men rode out first, followed by Perabo, who led the Lasconians. Froi rode last and his eyes met Gargarin’s, who stood at the gate.

‘Don’t take chances,’ Gargarin begged. ‘Do what you need to do and don’t take chances.’