‘The rest?’ Lucian asked.
‘He had them slaughtered.’
‘His own people?’ Finnikin asked, stunned.
‘Hundreds upon hundreds of them,’ Rafuel said. ‘Although there are rumours that a handful survived and have spent all this time hiding in the underground cities.’
Rafuel looked bitter. ‘Most of Charyn sanctioned it. They wanted revenge for what took place in the Oracle’s godshouse. But others believed that it was the palace behind the slaughter of the Priestlings. Regardless, after the carnage in the godshouse the King took the Oracle Queen into the palace to protect her. Or so he claimed. It put him in good favour with the people who were inconsolable about what had happened to their goddess of the natural world. But nine months later, on the day the King’s Serker whore gave birth to Quintana of Charyn, the Oracle Queen threw herself out of her palace chamber into the gravina below.’
‘Gravina?’ Finnikin asked.
‘Ravine,’ Froi responded, without thinking. The Priestking’s education had been thorough and when it came to the languages of Charyn and Sarnak, Froi was the stronger speaker, although in Finnikin and Isaboe’s presence he always pretended that he wasn’t. He felt both Rafuel and Finnikin’s stare and looked away.
‘We don’t know what took place first,’ Rafuel said. ‘The birth of the Princess or the death of the Oracle, but from that moment on, the fertility of the land ended.’
‘I don’t understand. How does childbirth just end one day?’ Lucian asked.
‘On that day, every woman who carried a child in their belly …’ The Charynite swallowed hard, unable to finish the words.
Lucian, engrossed in what Rafuel had to say, shook his head with frustration. ‘What? What happened?’
‘Can someone translate?’ Trevanion snapped.
Finnikin cleared his throat and there was emotion in his voice as he repeated Rafuel’s words, ‘On that day, every woman who carried a child in their belly …’
‘They bled the child from their loins,’ Tesadora said, her voice low and pained. Perri stared at her as though someone had punched him in the gut. Tesadora took a ragged breath. ’I need to see to that fool girl, Japhra.’
Rafuel looked up. ‘Tell her –’
‘Don’t!’ Tesadora said through clenched teeth. ‘You keep away from her.’
A moment later she was gone. Too many things were happening that Froi didn’t understand.
‘Go on,’ Lucian ordered Rafuel.
‘When Quintana of Charyn was six years old the first sign was said to appear, written on her chamber walls in her own blood: The last will make the first. The words were written in godspeak. No one but the gods’ blessed is gifted with godspeak. Then on the thirteenth day of weeping – which is what we call her birthday – the King decreed that every lastborn girl in the kingdom was to be marked.’
‘Marked?’ Lucian asked, horrified.
Rafuel pointed to the back of his neck, the shackles around his wrist clattering.
‘Quintana of Charyn was born with strange lettering scorched onto the nape of her neck.’
‘But why mark the lastborns at thirteen and not at birth?’ Finnikin asked.
‘Why do you think?’ Rafuel asked. ‘At thirteen, the girls were of child-bearing age.’
Froi was relieved that Tesadora was out of the room for that piece of information.
‘Quintana of Charyn also claimed that she was the chosen vessel after her thirteenth birthday. And that only she was meant to carry the first in her belly. A boy child. A King and cursebreaker fathered by her betrothed, Tariq.’
‘At thirteen? Betrothed?’ Lucian asked with disgust.
‘Your yata was betrothed at fourteen, Lucian,’ Finnikin said.
‘Quintana claimed that the birth of the child would take place before she came of age and if any other male dared to break the curse with a lastborn female, the goddess of fertility would set Charyn alight.’
‘She’s obviously mad,’ Finnikin said. ‘And those who believe her are just as mad.’
‘As mad as a Queen who claims she can walk the sleep of her people?’ Rafuel said boldly. ‘As mad as those who believe her?’
An intake of furious breath sounded off the walls. Lucian grabbed the Charynite just as Froi was about to fly across the room and land a fist to his jaw.
Finnikin stayed calm as he walked towards Rafuel of Sebastabol.
‘I’d really like to know what took place, Charynite, and I’d hate to have to kill you before that moment. So perhaps you can refrain from bringing up my queen.’
Rafuel of Sebastabol had the good sense to look contrite. After a while, he nodded. ‘Next month Quintana of Charyn comes of age. The lastborn male from the province of Sebastabol will travel to the Citavita, the capital, and he will bed the Princess in an attempt to plant the seed. One lastborn from each of the provinces has done so for the last three years. Before that it was her betrothed, Tariq. But when Quintana was fifteen, he was smuggled out of the palace by his mother’s kin after his father mysteriously died. He is the King’s cousin and only male heir.’
‘Are they gifted, the lastborns?’ Lucian asked.
Rafuel was amused by the question. ‘They are actually quite … useless. They were precious to us and some were spoilt as children and others stifled. Most fathers feared the worst for their sons and they were kept out of harm’s way. It’s hard to find a lastborn male who can use a weapon or ride a horse. The daughters are confined to the home. Some are the most frivolous girls you will ever meet, while others are the most timid and shy. I would say most of their kin are about to send them underground for fear of what will take place when the Princess comes of age.’
Finnikin rubbed his eyes, shaking his head. After a moment he said, ‘A sad tale, Charynite, but I still don’t understand why you’re here.’
‘Because you have a lad who speaks our language, who is of the same age as a lastborn, and who is not so useless. More importantly, he is trained as an assassin.’ Rafuel’s eyes caught Froi’s. ‘Yes?’
No one spoke. Froi stiffened, his eyes locked with the Charynite’s. Froi could see the man was hiding something. He had been trained to notice the signs.
‘Gentlemen, your kingdom or mine could not have asked for a more perfect weapon to rid ourselves of this most base of kings. Your lad from the Flatlands is our only hope.’
Chapter 4
In Isaboe and Finnikin’s private chamber away from the prying eyes of their people and the world of their court that forced them to be polite and restrained, they spoke of Charyn and Froi and Rafuel of Sebastabol and curses and lastborns and Sarnak, and then Charyn again and taxes and empty Flatland villages, and then Charyn again. When all that talk was over, they stood before each other ready for the mightiest of battles, which they had saved until last.
Finnikin would describe the situation as tense. Isaboe didn’t describe situations. She described how she was feeling during the situation. Then they would argue about what was less important. Facts or feelings. Tonight it was about both.
‘How do you expect to rule a kingdom and be so weak in this matter?’ he said, trying to keep censure out of his tone. He saw her face twitch at the mention of the word weak.
‘Not now,’ she said. ‘Another day. Perhaps next week.’
‘And then perhaps the week after that and then the week after that,’ he suggested with little humour.
He saw the pain flash across her face.
‘Do it, Isaboe. You must show strength!’ Finnikin could see her softening and he nodded. ‘Now,’ he urged in a whisper.
Isaboe took a ragged breath before crouching to the floor. Finnikin knelt down beside her. Their daughter looked from one to the other. She had Finnikin’s face and Isaboe’s hair, and now she was nearing the age of two, she was showing some of Trevanion’s temperament, which was beginning to alarm both of her parents.