‘You couldn’t have made some porridge, I suppose?’ he snapped.
She watched him grab a bowl of cold stew she had left from the night before.
‘Your shalamar sent it over yesterday,’ she said, not having anything else to say.
‘Yata,’ he corrected, wolfing down his food. She noticed that when he was tired and cold and hungry he had the worst temper.
‘We say shalamar,’ she said.
‘Well, that’s a ridiculous word, and we say yata,’ he said firmly, the discussion finished as far as he was concerned.
‘And the word for shalamon?’ she persisted.
He refused to respond.
‘That’s our word for grandfather,’ she said.
‘Pardu,’ he muttered. ‘Are you happy now?’
‘A strange word.’
‘Not so strange at all,’ he said.
‘And you know better, do you?’ she asked, feeling her temper rise despite the fact that Phaedra had never been known as one with a temper.
‘Well, I’m not the one unable to say simple words,’ he said.
‘Well, actually, you are,’ she said, sitting opposite him.
‘Me?’ he asked, putting down his spoon and finally giving her his attention.
‘You say “Phedra” and my name is Phaedra.’
‘I do not. I say Phaedra,’ he insisted.
‘To your ears it sounds like Phaedra; to a Charynite it sounds like Phedra.’
‘I’ll call you whatever I like,’ he muttered.
‘Of course you will. You’re the King of the mountain. Why wouldn’t you do as you please?’
She stood up and searched for her shawl, preferring to be anywhere else.
‘King of the mountain?’ he shouted. ‘I’ve just spent a night birthing a foal. I’m frozen to the bone, my food is cold and it seems as if my wife has been bitten by a viper.’
‘I’m not your wife,’ she cried. ‘I’m just a fool Charynite girl you sent back, ridiculed by your people with not so much as a thank you for traipsing half the morning looking for that wretched bull.’
Lucian sighed. ‘Orly was here? You should have sent him away.’
‘Yes, that would have made me more well-liked than I already am.’
He looked at her hands clutching her shawl and then he sighed again, stood up and left the cottage. A little while later he returned with four small logs.
‘Come here,’ he said gruffly, and he showed her how to build a fire and light it. ‘This cold will only get worse and you can’t go around freezing half to death.’
That day in the valley she felt Rafuel’s eyes on her, whispering to Donashe and pointing her way. Later, when she was at the stream with some of the other camp dwellers, Rafuel approached.
‘You,’ he snapped, pointing to Phaedra. ’I want a word. There’s a set of rules you need to follow.’
Kasabian and Harker stood and Phaedra saw them turn to Jory.
‘Don’t let her out of your sight,’ Harker snapped. Both men were less than forgiving of Jory and his Mont cousins’ nightly excursions into their camp weeks ago. Jory had responded in turn by choosing to charm the Charynite women. ‘They don’t even know how to fight,’ he muttered once to Phaedra about the men. ‘So who am I to care what they think of me?’ But deep down she could tell the lad was desperate for their approval.
Phaedra waved their concerns away and followed Rafuel along the stream, with Jory trailing behind.
‘They are aligned to no one,’ Rafuel said quietly. ‘They’re scum who are travelling through the provinces searching for lastborn women after Quintana of Charyn’s failure at the coming of her age. On the road between the Citavita and Sebastabol these men were stopped by the King’s riders, or I should say, Bestiano of Nebia’s men. They were told that in the valley at the foot of the Lumateran mountains, a group of landless Charynites were camped and that amongst them were seven rebels led by Rafuel of Sebastabol. They knew this information because Bestiano’s men had apprehended a spy who I believe was Zabat.
‘Never,’ Rafuel said, grabbing Jory by the ear to bring him closer and to give the impression that he was reprimanding the Mont, ‘trust a whinger from Nebia.’
‘Matteo!’ Donashe called out. Rafuel and Phaedra turned and the man shook his head. ‘Don’t touch the Mont. We can’t have trouble.’
Jory pushed him away, but hid a smile all the same. ‘Yes, don’t touch the Mont, Matteo,’ he mocked.
‘Do you think they’re spying on Lumatere?’ Phaedra asked. ‘Or are they truly after you?’
‘These men are cutthroat opportunists. They have purpose. They think, much like Matteo of Jidia, that if they do the right thing they will be rewarded in the new Charyn. Perhaps be appointed palace riders. Here in the valley is the closest they can come to proving themselves. This land we stand on may be Lumatere’s, but they see the people as theirs to do with as they will. It’s all about power, Phaedra. Always about power and who grabs it first.’
‘Then tell your people to leave,’ Jory said. ‘They’d be idiots to stay. No one’s keeping them imprisoned.’
Rafuel stared at Jory as if he could not believe what he was hearing. ‘Do you not understand, Mont? These people have nowhere else to go. They will endure anything for the slightest chance that your queen will let them into Lumatere.’
Most nights, the Monts came to Lucian with all sorts of favours and complaints. As Phaedra fell asleep that night, she heard the slur of tiredness in Lucian’s voice and knew that if she was his proper wife, she’d order them all home. The next morning she heard Orly call out for his bull again and this time she hurried to the door before the man came knocking.
‘He’s sleeping,’ she said firmly.
Orly tried to look over her shoulder.
‘Then wake him up.’
‘Why, when I was able to help yesterday?’ she said briskly, grabbing her shawl. ‘Let’s go. We’re wasting time.’
This time Orly’s wife Lotte was with them. Her cow had managed to escape as well.
‘I hope wherever they are, they’re together,’ Lotte said.
‘Who?’ Phaedra asked.
‘Why, Bert and Gert. Who do you think, idiot girl?’
Later, when they found the bull and cow in two separate fields, Phaedra saw Orly’s relief and Lotte’s sadness.
‘It’s your people,’ Orly snapped at Phaedra as he placed a plank across the stable door. ‘Coming up this mountain and making mischief.’
Phaedra walked away, but made it as far as the stone hedge of their land before returning, walking straight into their cottage where husband and wife were warming their hands over the fire.
‘Firstly, I’m not an idiot girl,’ she said firmly, ‘so don’t call me one again, and secondly, my people don’t have the strength for mischief. The only thing they have the strength for is breathing. And another thing. If a bull went missing every morning amongst the people of my province, neighbours would help each other. Where are your people now, Orly of the Monts? What kind of place is this if the only help you can find is from an idiot girl who belongs to your enemy?’
Phaedra turned and walked straight into Lucian who stood at the entrance of Orly’s cottage, staring at the three of them, a bear of a man in his coat of fleece and his fierce dark eyes. No one spoke and he stepped aside. Phaedra bristled at the silent order. Her Mont husband wanted her out of his sight.
When she reached the stone hedge for the second time that morning, Lucian was there beside her. ‘Now let me do the counting,’ he said and suddenly she felt the weight of his fleece on her shoulders and a comfort beyond imagining because it was his gruff voice that warmed her as much as his coat. ‘Firstly, these are the mountains, Phaedra. People freeze in winter up here, so you don’t leave the cottage in all hours of the morning wearing a shawl to protect you from the cold. Understood?’