Quintana of Charyn (39 page)

 

 

F
roi 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 and Trevanion. Later, when the Captain left, Froi and Finnikin lay on the grass under the last moments of the afternoon sun, Jasmina asleep in Finnikin’s arms.

‘How is she?’ Froi asked and they both knew he was speaking of Isaboe.

‘Bad days. Good days. Bad days.’

Finnikin looked at his daughter, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

‘She doesn’t want Jasmina to see the bad days.’

Froi saw the dark circles of weariness under Finnikin’s eyes.

‘You’re not trying to do it all on your own, are you, Finn?’ he asked. ‘You should ask the women for help. Lady Beatriss would understand, and Lady Abian.’

‘Oh, I’m not against begging,’ Finnikin said. ‘I went to see Tesadora, you know. Me?’ He laughed. ‘We’ve rarely exchanged a civil word. But I asked her if she would come to the palace and stay a while.’ Finnikin shrugged and smiled. ‘And she said yes. And then Celie returned, as you’d know. For this week anyway … especially for the feast tonight. And I asked her to stay too and she said yes.’

Tonight would be Isaboe’s first public outing since the death of the child, and Lady Abian had been preparing for weeks, demanding that those most loved by the Queen attend. The whole week’s talk in the village had been about the feast and Celie’s return.

‘Lord August thinks that Celie
is
spying for you in Belegonia,’ Froi said quietly.

Finnikin glanced at him. ‘Celie is spying for us in Belegonia.’

‘Don’t tell Lord August,’ Froi said with a sigh. ‘Thinking is one thing. Knowing for sure is another. And then there’s the matter of the castle castellan searching Celie’s room when he suspected that she stole a chronicle from the library and Lord August remembered the castellan of the Belegonian spring castle as a portly older man with a lot of facial lumps and of course when he visited Belegonia three weeks past, he met the new castellan.’

‘No facial lumps?’ Finnikin asked.

‘None at all. Nor was he old. Nor was he portly, and now Lord August is questioning how he would dare be in Celie’s room.’

‘Ah,’ Finnikin said, nodding. ‘No wonder Isaboe and Celie were locked up in our chamber all the day long when she arrived. They weren’t talking about Belegonian fleece. They were talking about the castellan.’

‘According to Lady Celie, no,’ Froi said. ‘She wants to out-smart him, not bed him.’

‘And you?’ Finnikin asked softly.

‘No, Finn, I don’t want to bed the castellan of the Belegonian spring castle.’

Finnikin laughed, but soon his expression was serious.

‘We don’t speak of it,’ he said, ‘but I can’t imagine it being easy for you, Froi.’

Froi shrugged. He had received a letter from Lirah. It came
via the valley one day, out of what seemed nowhere. Froi had opened it with shaking hands. Lirah had sketched him an image of Quintana and his son. And one of Gargarin. He knew it was his father and not Arjuro. Not because of his solemnity, but because of the look in his eyes. Froi would always recognise the desire in Gargarin’s eyes when he was looking at Lirah.

‘It’s hard to explain … what they mean to me,’ Froi said.

Finnikin’s smile was faint. ‘I can imagine.’

‘Can you?’

‘Froi, you have my wife’s name etched on your arm, and the only thing that stops me from skinning you are the other two names.’

Froi gave a laugh, shook his head ruefully.

‘Not many men can read the words of the ancients, my lord. I’ll have to remember that next time.’

They rode together until they reached the village of Sayles. The beauty of his home village always forced Froi to think of Gargarin. What would Gargarin think of the Flatlands? Would he be impressed by the water pipe that ran from the river into the fields? Would he ever share his plans for a waterwheel with Lord August? How would the two men get on? But with all those questions came bitterness. Not once had Gargarin attempted correspondence. And Froi couldn’t understand why. When Scarpo of Nebia had passed on Gargarin’s orders for Froi to stay behind that day at the stream, Froi hadn’t questioned it. Because Gargarin had once begged Froi to trust him and Froi had. But these days he felt like a beggar each time he visited the palace, asking if anything had arrived for him.

‘Don’t forget the Priestking tonight,’ Finnikin reminded.

‘Why does everyone presume I’m going to forget the Priestking?’ Froi said, irritated. He’d been feeling like the village idiot lately. His only chore for the night was to collect the Priestking
and if it wasn’t Lady Abian or Lord August or Trevanion reminding him, it was Finn.

‘I’m just saying,’ Finnikin said.

In the royal residence, Isaboe watched Tesadora pour more water into the tub.

‘What say we wash that hair, beloved?’ Tesadora said, her voice gentle but firm as she began to lather it. Tonight was special, Isaboe reminded herself. She would make the effort.

‘Finnikin says he hasn’t seen it out for months,’ Tesadora said practically, ‘and hair such as this should never be hidden.’

Isaboe tried not to think of her hair, because then she’d have to remember the red-gold strands of her son’s.

‘I miss the colour of mine,’ Tesadora admitted. ‘Sagrami punished me for being so vain. It was brown and gold. Do you remember that, or were you too much of a child?’

‘I don’t remember you,’ Isaboe said. ‘I wish I did, but I know you’re somewhere there in my memories. I remember your mother, of course, but you were Seranonna’s mysterious half-wild daughter living alone in the forest of Lumatere.’

‘Put your head back,’ Tesadora said and Isaboe felt the warm water blanket her head. She closed her eyes a moment.

‘My brother Balthazar said he saw you once,’ Isaboe said. ‘When he tried to describe you to my mother, he wept and she asked him why. He said it made him ache inside and my sisters teased him for days. He would have been a romantic, my brother. Unlike Finnikin and Lucian. He would have worn his heart on his sleeve and we would have found him sitting with the women and listening to their woes.’

‘Yes, he would have been a romantic and a kind, kind man,’ Tesadora said. ‘But this kingdom needs a great leader and you, beloved, are a great leader.’

Isaboe swallowed hard. ‘My people are in despair,’ she said, trying to conceal the break in her voice. ‘I sense it in their sleep.’

Tesadora brushed a strand of hair out of Isaboe’s eyes. ‘Your people can be selfish, indulgent grumblers at times, Isaboe. And you may feel the hardship of their sleep, but you are the reason they sleep at night. Because they know that their queen will never forsake them. And they grieve that little babe for more reasons than losing a future king. Your people are sad, beloved, because they know your sorrow and they feel helpless. “How can we help?” I hear them ask throughout the kingdom.’

Isaboe looked away to the corner of the residence where the cot would have stood.

‘Sometimes I think I can bear it,’ she said, ‘and then Jasmina will look at me with so much confusion and she’ll touch my belly and ask me where it’s gone. “Where’s baby?” she cries. She looks for it everywhere we go.’ Isaboe felt the tears bite her eyes. ‘On the mountain just the other day, we went to visit
Yata
and one of the girls had just birthed and Jasmina threw the mightiest of tantrums and insisted we take the babe home, because she believed it to be ours. In her sweet mind, I went to the mountain to have a baby and I came home with none. So she believes we left it behind.’

She looked up at Tesadora in anguish. ‘And later that night I heard him weeping. My king is not one for tears. I only saw him cry once when we came across the fever camp in Speranza. But that night on the mountain, he wept and it broke me to hear it.’

Isaboe stepped out of the tub and Tesadora helped her dress, securing the ties of her gown at her wrist.

‘You are strong and young and you will find a way out of this darkness. But that path will belong to you. No one else.’

They heard a sound at the door and Isaboe quickly wiped her tears and turned to the entrance where Finnikin stood watching her with Jasmina drowsy in his arms.

‘And don’t let me ever have to admit this out loud,’ Tesadora said in an exaggerated whisper, walking towards the door, ‘but you lead this kingdom with a good man by your side … as stubborn and annoying as he is. A man who has proven himself to have courage and compassion. The Charynite valley dwellers believe that if they could find a man as good as yours to marry Quintana of Charyn, their kingdom would stand a chance.’

Isaboe watched Finnikin grip Tesadora’s hand as she passed him, pressing a kiss against it.

Jasmina woke up, sleepy and shy, and looked up from her father’s shoulder.

‘Tell Mama what you did today,’ he said, approaching Isaboe. Jasmina hid her face in his neck and he chuckled and whispered in her ear until she looked up again.

‘Tell Isaboe,’ he urged. ‘Go on.’

Isaboe leaned closer to hear Jasmina whisper, ‘I put my head in the wiver.’

Isaboe gasped with delight. ‘Do I not have the bravest girl in the kingdom? Did Fa tell you that I didn’t put my head in the river until I was a grown girl in Yutlind Sud?’

Jasmina was pleased by the attention and held her arms out to Isaboe, and then Rhiannon was at the door.

‘She put her head in the river,’ Isaboe told her.

Rhiannon gasped on cue and held out a hand to Jasmina.

‘Then I think Miss picks out her own dress for tonight.’

Isaboe watched them leave and felt Finnikin’s eyes on her. Sometimes she felt as shy as Jasmina with this man. Grief stripped her of a veneer. Sometimes she wanted it back.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he said and it surprised her to hear those words. She always felt his love when he was present, but Finnikin wasn’t one for words of endearment. It was because he came
from the Rock. People there were practical and very contained.

They heard Jasmina’s laughter from down the hall and she caught Finnikin’s smile at the sound of it. Isaboe pressed fingers to his lips. He didn’t smile enough and the sight of it always caught her breath.

‘What if she’s all I give you in this life of ours, my love?’ she asked quietly.

‘Then I’ll shout at the Goddess in fury,’ he said fiercely. ‘I’ll beg to know why I’ve been given so much when other men have so little.’

‘We’re going to be late,’ Froi told the Priestking, trying to shuffle him quickly out the door of what was now the shrinehouse of Sennington.

But the Priestking was fumbling with the key.

‘Let me do that,’ Froi said. ‘You know Lady Abian hates people being late.’

‘You want me to hurry, do you?’ the Priestking asked. ‘An old man like me?’

Froi placed the oil lamp in the Priestking’s hand and hastened them towards the horse and cart he had prepared. Although the Priestking’s house was in use all the day long, most of Sennington village was still empty and once the sun set, there was nothing but the moon to light their road to the village of Sayles.

‘Froi, slow down,’ the Priestking said.

‘Half the mountain’s come down, blessed
Barakah
, and you know the Monts. They’ll eat all the food before we get there and Lady Abian’s made those rolls of pork and cheese.’

‘Wonderful. I’m going to be forced into my deathbed because of pork-and-cheese rolls,’ the Priestking said, stopping a moment to wheeze. Froi flinched to hear the sound of it. Much
had changed since he left, but he had only realised now just how frail the Priestking was.