‘Bastard,’ Lucian said, turning to Froi. ‘Bastards, both of you. Fists only?’
‘Bit of wrestling thrown in,’ Finnikin said. ‘You can’t see his bruises, but I promise they’re there.’
Lucian had been the childhood companion of Finnikin and Isaboe’s brother, Balthazar. The two friends still spoke of the slaughtered heir to the throne as if he was there amongst them, but Froi had never heard them mention Balthazar in front of Isaboe.
‘How’s Yata?’ she asked, pecking her cousin’s cheek with a kiss.
Lucian sighed. ‘The Guard is going to have to come up the mountain after all,’ he said, not wasting time. ‘There’s been an incident.’
Froi recalled the tenseness of the Mont lads downstairs. He knew it could only mean one thing. On the foot of Lucian’s mountain on the Charyn side was a cavernous valley that belonged to Lumatere. Half a day’s ride east on horseback was the closest Charyn province, and at the end of winter, Charynites had begun to take refuge in the caves that perched over the valley and alongside the stream. A bold, desperate few had sent messages through Lucian, asking for refuge in Lumatere. The Queen declined, but the Charynites refused to go away and their numbers grew and grew each day.
Froi saw fear on the Queen’s face. The threat of the Charynites was always, always on her mind.
‘For two weeks now, we’ve had a message sent up from the valley through Tesadora. A Charynite, through a contact, has requested to meet with the Queen or Finnikin.’
‘Since when does a Charynite demand anything of us,’ the Queen demanded. ‘They’re fortunate enough to be using our valley.’
‘Who is the contact?’ Finnikin asked.
Lucian looked away and Froi realised he was avoiding the question.
‘Lucian?’ the Queen ordered.
The Mont turned back to her and still there was a moment of hesitation. ‘Phaedra.’
The room was quiet for a moment.
‘The wife you sent back?’ the Queen asked.
‘Do not call her that,’ Lucian snapped.
‘Watch your tone, Lucian,’ Finnikin warned.
The Charynite girl was an unspoken source of tension between the Monts and the Queen. At the beginning of spring the leader of Alonso, the closest Charynite province, had travelled up the mountain with his daughter Phaedra in tow, insisting on a meeting with Lucian. The Provincaro claimed that when his daughter was born he had entered a pact with Lucian’s father to betroth their children. After almost two years of petty skirmishes between the Mont lads and the sentinels of Alonso, and talk that the Provincaro of Alonso was out of sorts with his own king, Finnikin and Isaboe had agreed that perhaps they could use it to Lumatere’s advantage. Lucian had been furious. The girl was said to be frightened of her own shadow, spending most of her day sobbing in the corner of Lucian’s cottage. Froi had met her once. She had politely spoken to him in Lumateran about the endless rain, her pronunciation poor at times. Froi had repeated to her a lesson taught by the Priestking about what to do with particularly strange pairings of sounds. Phaedra had thanked him and he saw gratitude and kindness in her eyes.
The Monts despised Phaedra for more than being a Charynite. Mont women were strong and walked side by side with their men. Phaedra could barely boil water. Six weeks later, the girl left. Some said that Lucian threw her out, others that she walked out herself, but this was the first time her name had been mentioned by Lucian.
‘And what is Phaedra doing in an unprotected valley when one would presume she should be back in her province living with her father?’
‘She works alongside Tesadora as a translator and registers the newcomers as they arrive.’
Froi watched the Queen pretend to be confused. Lucian didn’t stand a chance in this exchange.
‘Let me get this right. Phaedra failed at being a good Mont wife, but she can run a camp of hundreds of fleeing Charynites, translate for Tesadora, and has somehow managed to be affiliated with a faction demanding a meeting with my king and I?’
Lucian turned to Finnikin for support.
‘Don’t look at me, Lucian,’ Finnikin said. ‘Don’t even try to involve me in this one.’
Lucian held up his hands with exasperation. ‘She was useless, I tell you! Even Yata would agree.’
‘Why is she still in the valley?’ Isaboe demanded.
Froi watched the flicker of regret cross the Mont’s face.
‘According to Tesadora’s girls, the Provincaro refused to take his daughter back into his home. Phaedra lives in the caves now.’
The Queen nodded. Froi knew that nod. It was the gesture she used when simmering with fury.
‘The wife of the Mont Leader is living in a filthy cave?’
‘You show respect for her now, my queen,’ Lucian said angrily. ‘Yet you failed to attend my bonding ceremony.’
‘You married her in Alonso, Lucian.’ The stare she sent him was cold, and apart from Finnikin, Lucian was the only man who ever dared to match it. Isaboe and her Mont cousins did this often. All of them. They fought fiercely. Loved each other fiercely. Laughed fiercely. Finnikin said it was best to leave the room and let them shout. It would all blow over soon, but for Lucian’s sake, Froi would have welcomed sooner rather than later.
‘Tell the girl that I do not meet with Charynites and if they dare make the command again –’
‘I haven’t actually told you the worst of it,’ Lucian interrupted.
The room grew quiet. Tense. Froi felt the hairs on his arm rise.
Lucian kept his stare focused on his cousin. ‘And may I stress that no one is hurt.’
There was a deadly silence in the room.
‘This morning in the valley, a Charynite took a dagger to Japhra’s throat,’ he said, referring to one of Tesadora’s novices.
Froi leapt to his feet. He heard the Queen’s cry, Finnikin’s hiss of fury. The Captain’s fists were clenched tight. Perri was gone from the room before another word was spoken.
‘Japhra’s staying in Yata’s home for the night, but insists on returning with Tesadora to the valley tomorrow.’
‘And the Charynite?’ Trevanion asked.
‘He’s under guard.’
The Queen looked at Finnikin. Froi saw fear in Isaboe’s expression that sickened him. The Queen’s anxiety about a possible attack from the Charynites had grown tenfold since the birth of her child.
‘You go with your father and Perri,’ she said to Finnikin.
Finnikin looked torn. ‘The Sarnak Ambassador –’
‘I’ll speak to the Sarnak Ambassador,’ she said.
‘No!’ Finnikin shouted.
‘And what would you prefer?’ she asked him sharply. ‘That I travel up to the mountain and interview a potential Charyn assassin?’
‘I’d prefer that Aldron takes you and Jasmina back to the palace,’ Finnikin said. ‘I’ll speak to the Ambassador, shorten our meeting and then travel up to the mountain.’
‘And while you’re at it, why don’t you plough every field in the kingdom and check the nets in the river?’ she said, sharply. ‘Then go up to the Rock quarry and break your back working alongside your kin. And perhaps work in the mines after that.’
She was no different from Finnikin. Froi knew everyone in the room wanted to say that. Both the Queen and Finnikin refused to believe they had the privilege of palace life and both could be found at any time working alongside their people during their visits across the kingdom.
‘I don’t want you dealing with the Sarnaks, Isaboe,’ Finnikin said. ‘Don’t let me have to imagine how it will feel for you to be in their presence.’
‘And it feels any different for you?’ she cried. ‘You can’t be everywhere at the same time, Finnikin. I will take care of Sarnak. They are no threat to us. You take care of Charyn and perhaps sometime this week we may be able to pass each other on the road and wave from a distance.’