Both Froi and Grijio sighed.
‘At least Olivier of Paladozza will be visiting in the next few days. He is fun to be around. Tippideaux giggles shamelessly in his presence so she might not be so pedantic about keeping Her Highness … tidy.’
‘Strange days ahead,’ Froi said.
‘Indeed.’
When the others left, Quintana looked up to where Froi stood at the entrance that divided their rooms.
He pointed to her hair. ‘It looks … neat.’
‘If I had known my hair would be such a concern to this kingdom I would have cut it bare like your beloved queen long ago.’
Froi counted to ten.
‘She didn’t give me the ring as a bribe to assassinate you,’ he said, trying not to clench his teeth because it was part of his bond not to. Teeth clenching, Trevanion explained, was a hostile act.
‘It was Zabat who gave the order. And I’m not sure whether you’ve noticed, but I had every opportunity to carry it out and didn’t.’
‘Then why would she give you a ring?’ she demanded.
‘Why would you care?’ he demanded in response.
How could she look so different from the Quintana he met in the palace? Not because of the hair, but because of her expression and her manner and the anger that permeated every part of her being.
‘Did the Queen of Lumatere ask you to bed me as a means to find a way into my father’s chamber?’ she demanded, her tone so cold.
‘Do you want to know the truth?’ he said. ‘Because I doubt you’ll believe anything I say tonight.’
‘Do you want to know my truth?’ she cried. ‘That they called me Quintana the whore for so long and I never felt like one until now!’
Froi felt a proper fiend.
‘Quintana –’
‘Get. Out.’
He stepped up onto the roof above their compound only to find that he wasn’t alone. Arjuro was there nursing a bottle. Froi saw a naked love in the Priestling’s eyes as he stared out into the distance to the mountains of rocks with wind holes carved out of the stone. Tonight they flickered with the flames of campfires built to keep their occupants warm.
‘They’re called the fairy lights of Paladozza,’ Arjuro said.
This wasn’t just another kingdom, it was another world.
A song was sung across the landscape and it made Froi’s skin tingle in its purity. It reminded him of the pleasure he felt every time the Priestking sang the Song of Lumatere, yet he could not remember the words. But here in Paladozza, in the enemy kingdom of Charyn, a song sung once became a tune he walked to.
‘Heard every word,’ Arjuro said quietly, looking at him. ‘Between you and Quintana. You’re falling in love with her. Don’t.’
‘You’re an idiot, Arjuro,’ Froi said, irritated. ‘And you’re drunk, as usual.’
‘Not that much of an idiot and not that drunk. It’s why you had to prove yourself to the Turlans.’
Froi got to his feet, but Arjuro grabbed the cuff of his trousers and dragged Froi down to sit again.
‘If she births this child and they allow her to live, the best plan is that the Provincari allow her to stay in the palace to raise the little King herself. She will be wed to one chosen by the Provincari and it won’t be you, Froi. It won’t be the son of the King’s Serker whore. It won’t be the Lumateran exile who has found himself in these parts. Charyn won’t care who the father of the child is, as long as there is a child. But they will care who brings up the future King. And it won’t be the grandson of a pig farmer from Abroi.’
Froi looked away, but Arjuro grabbed his face between his hands. ‘You are better than anything my brother and I could have imagined,’ he said fiercely. ‘Better than anything Lirah of Serker dreamed of in her boy. Walk away from Quintana, Froi. For her sake and yours. Fall in love with another girl and be a king in your own home.’
Chapter 33
From the carnage in the valley came some kind of order in the mountains for Lucian. Despite the fact that Phaedra chose to continue her work amongst the camp dwellers, Lucian insisted that she live with the Monts and travel down to her people with Jory as her personal guard. On the first day after the slaughter, Lucian rode down with them to see how the cave dwellers were faring. He found the Charynites silent and grieving, frightened by the stories coming out of the Citavita. There was also rumour of plague in the north.
‘It’s just talk,’ Kasabian said as they watched one of the cutthroats steer a cart of bodies towards the road to Alonso. ‘Every once in a while they bring up the plague to frighten us as though there’s not enough in this kingdom to do that.’
‘Well, it’s working,’ Harker said. He was the husband of Jorja and the father of Florenza, who had escaped through the sewers.
Lucian noticed Harker and Kasabian and even Cora treated him differently today, as though compared to those who had savagely cut down Rafuel’s men, Lucian had lost his place at the top of their list of enemies.
‘Where do you think they’re taking the bodies?’ Lucian asked, looking up to where the leader of the cutthroats emerged from one of the caves. The man held up a hand of acknowledgment, walking towards them as though Lucian was an old friend.
‘Who is this Rafuel of Sebastabol?’ Kasabian whispered to Lucian. ‘I don’t remember there ever being any other than the seven.’
‘They’ve … they’d,’ Cora corrected herself, ‘always kept private, those lads did.’
The leader reached them, extending a hand to Lucian.
‘We didn’t get a chance to introduce ourselves yesterday. My name is Donashe of the Citavita,’ he said, an easy manner to his voice so unlike the deadness in his eyes. Lucian ignored the hand. When Donashe of the Citavita saw the Mont archers in the trees he shook his head with regret.
‘You insult us, Mont. We are no threat to you and your people. Why would we risk a battle with Lumatere?’
‘I will remind you of this one more time,’ Lucian said coldly. ‘You had my wife and the women of this camp on their knees. You killed seven defenceless men.’
Lucian watched as Phaedra approached. He sent her away with a toss of his head, wanting her nowhere near these men.
‘Apart from your wife,’ Donashe said, ‘we have the right to do what we want with our people.’
‘And if any harm against your people or mine is committed on Lumateran land,’ Lucian said, ‘then I have the right to do what I want with you.’
Each night on the mountain Lucian and Phaedra sat around Lucian’s table speaking of the day’s events. Rafuel, Tesadora, Jory and Yael would join them.
‘Today,’ Phaedra said, pouring a hot brew into their mugs from over their shoulders, ‘they separated the men and the women.’
‘Never a good sign,’ Tesadora said flatly.
‘In each cave there are at least five or six people, although these numbers will swell because of the new arrivals from the Citavita,’ Phaedra continued.
She had a gift for switching between the two languages with ease although it was less necessary now that Rafuel’s Lumateran had improved.
‘Are they really palace riders?’ Yael asked.
‘No,’ she said. ‘They’re said to be street lords from the Citavita.’
‘Gods,’ Rafuel muttered. Lucian watched the Charynite make room for Phaedra to sit.
‘Street lords are obviously not men of title in your eyes,’ Lucian said to the Charynite.
‘Only titled with the words thug and brigand,’ Rafuel said bitterly. ‘The gods only know what state the Citavita is in.’
Tesadora paled and Lucian knew she was thinking of Froi. They had not heard a word from him since he left at the end of summer and with the slaughter in the valley suggesting a traitor amongst Rafuel’s contacts, they were beginning to fear for their lad’s life.
‘Do you have an idea why these men have chosen to stay in the valley?’ Lucian asked Phaedra.
She nodded. ‘I think someone from the palace has told them to be his eyes and ears out here in the west and that they’ll be rewarded for any information they can find. Their leader Donashe was betrayed by one of his men in the Citavita. He trusts no one and has allegiance only to those in power who will pay him well.’