‘Tesadora doesn’t cry.’
‘And you should have seen Perri’s face. He was quiet through our whole journey home.’
She sat up and lit the candle by her bedside.
‘Why didn’t you ask him what was wrong?’ she asked, alarmed. ‘If Tesadora was almost crying and Perri was stranger than usual?’
He shrugged. ‘What would I have said?’
She made a rude sound.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘You men are useless.’
Finnikin sighed. ‘We choose to mind our business and we’re useless?’
She shook her head. ‘Do you know the difference between you and I?’
‘An obvious one or not so obvious?’
She ignored the question. ‘I speak to other women about life and death and what upsets us and what confuses us and what we’d want to change in our lives. And you, my love, talk to men about what the terminology is for this.’ She made a strange movement with her hands.
‘Is that a death blow to the nose?’
She gave him a withering look, blowing out the candle.
‘That’s harsh, Isaboe. We talk about more than that.’
‘Such as?’
‘Life,’ he snapped. ‘Life … things. Things to do with life.’
‘Then have you spoken to your father about when he is going to have a bonding ceremony with Beatriss?’
He sighed.
‘Because that’s life, Finnikin. The life of two people very dear to me. And I believe your father is going to ruin everything by not speaking of the past. Still not talking about it after three years.’
‘Do they have to talk about the past?’ he asked.
‘Yes. They were lovers once. She gave birth to his babe, rest that precious soul. Yet they haven’t grieved together.’
‘This is not your concern, Isaboe.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Although Trevanion was strangely quiet on the way home. Everyone was strange.’
‘I’m not just speaking for Beatriss, Finnikin. I’m speaking for Trevanion. He is your father and in my heart, he is the only father I have. I want him to be happy and I know that without her, he isn’t.’
‘He’s wonderful with Vestie,’ he said, thinking of Beatriss’s daughter who was born under horrific circumstances during the curse. ‘He would do anything for her.’
‘And I commend him for that. I could imagine how hard it would be for him to feel so strongly about another man’s child. A tyrant’s child. But it’s Vestie who will be hurt the most, Finnikin. Find out what you can.’
‘Ah, so I’m not going to see Beatriss to speak about Sennington. I’m going to speak about my father?’
She pressed her lips against his shoulder.
‘I’ve married the smartest man in Lumatere.’
‘And I’ve married the most scheming woman in the whole of the land.’
She feigned a haughty sniff, moving away. ‘If it all seems like a scheme I may have to withdraw my offer of a tryst in the closet tomorrow.’
This time Finnikin chuckled.
‘Withdraw the offer and I will dash my head against a stone wall.’
Chapter 5
Froi took leave from Lord August’s village and spent the next week in the mountains with Trevanion and Perri interrogating the Charynite. Although the Captain hadn’t confirmed for certain that Froi was going to Charyn, Froi knew he was there with them for reasons other than his skill with the Charyn language.
‘It’s one of the best-defended castles in the entire land,’ Rafuel explained to them, ‘and it has little to do with the Guard or soldiers and everything to do with the actual stone and structure.’ The Charynite drew them a picture and Froi committed it to memory, translating the information to Trevanion and Perri.
‘Ask him more about the lastborns,’ Trevanion requested.
‘Firstly, there is Quintana of Charyn,’ Rafuel began when Froi asked. ‘She was the very last to be born to the entire kingdom on the day of weeping.’
‘Only her?’ Froi asked. ‘Was there no one else born that day?’
‘Then there are those born last to their province,’ Rafuel continued, ignoring the question. ‘Grijio of Paladozza and Olivier of Sebastabol, for example, were born to their provinces three days and five days prior to Quintana’s birth. Tariq was born to his people a month before Quintana. Satch of Desantos was born last in his province six months before. And every girl born in the same year as Quintana is marked as a lastborn.’
‘Gods,’ Trevanion muttered. ‘He better be speaking the truth when he claims those girls have gone to ground.’
Froi repeated Trevanion’s words. He saw Rafuel’s teeth clench.
‘Do you Lumaterans believe you protect your women better than we protect ours?’ he asked.
‘The Captain judges Charynite men by the way they treated Lumateran women. His beloved was dragged into the beds of your men time and time again, and gave birth during the curse,’ Froi said.
‘Not my men,’ Rafuel said bitterly. ‘Mine are peaceful scholars down in that valley. And the Charyn army may have raped. That I won’t deny. But it’s not only our women who are barren,’ Rafuel said. ‘The seed of a Charynite male is useless. Whoever fathered Beatriss of the Flatlands’ child is no Charynite.’
Froi stared at him, stunned. He looked up at Trevanion and Perri. Through the mere mention of Beatriss’s name, they would have comprehended Rafuel’s words, regardless of the speed at which Rafuel was speaking. Perri had paled. Worse still, Froi saw the truth on Trevanion’s face. The Captain already knew. He would have known from the moment Rafuel of Sebastabol revealed the curse days ago.
‘Ask him about their gods,’ Trevanion said, as if nothing had occurred.
Rafuel spent the rest of the day speaking mostly of Charyn customs and their beliefs, their produce and their gods. There were too many gods to learn by heart. In Lumatere, there was Lagrami and Sagrami, one Goddess worshipped as two deities for hundreds of years. Even in Sarnak where Froi had grown up, Sagrami was worshipped. Sagra, he grew up cursing. Once or twice the word would slip out in the presence of the Queen, who despised the way Froi’s Sarnak mentors had butchered the name of the Goddess.
‘It’s sacrilege,’ she’d say, coldly.
Listening to Rafuel now, Froi was intrigued by the idea that at the age of thirteen, a Charynite chose the god who would guide them for the rest of their days. Rafuel’s was Trist, the god of knowledge. Froi imagined he would choose a warrior god.
From the third day on, Trevanion and Perri whispered between themselves unless Froi had to convey some crucial information to them.
‘Are you listening to me?’ Rafuel said.
Froi nodded.
‘You dip and you taste,’ Rafuel continued. ‘Not the way Lumaterans eat.’ Rafuel did a somewhat rude impersonation of a man hoarding his food to himself and shovelling it down his throat.
‘Are you calling us pigs?’ Froi asked, watching as Rafuel winced for the tenth time at the formality of Froi’s Charyn.
Rafuel thought for a moment and then nodded.
‘Actually yes, I am. Pig-like.’
Froi turned back to Trevanion and Perri, who were discussing the need for longbow training in the rock village.
‘What is it?’ Perri asked Froi.
‘He said we eat like pigs.’
Trevanion and Perri thought about it for a moment and then went back to their conversation.
Sometimes, Lucian would join them if he wasn’t down in the valley, or quelling a feud or two between the Monts, or settling trade with the Rock elders who wanted a herd of cattle grazing on the mountain in exchange for the quarried stone they supplied for the Mont huts.
‘You seem interested in our ways, Mont,’ Rafuel said the third time Lucian visited.
‘Most interested,’ Lucian said. ‘Best way to find the weakness of the enemy is to understand their ways.’
Rafuel sighed and returned to his explanation about the etiquette of dancing. He stood to demonstrate, the iron shackles clattering around his wrists. ‘Hips must beckon while arms are in the air. Never lose eye contact with your partner.’