Quintana of Charyn (28 page)

Ariston and Gargarin embraced and then the leader of the Turlans turned to Lirah and bowed.

Ariston then held out a hand to Arjuro. Froi remembered the tension between the men when they had first met and was relieved to see it all but gone.

‘I thought you vowed you’d never come down that mountain,’ Gargarin said.

Ariston grimaced. ‘My woman discovered that I failed to provide a safe place for our Quintana when we had the chance,’ he said. ‘I’ve been banished from the bed until I find the girl.’

‘Smart woman,’ Gargarin said. He looked beyond Ariston and his men to where the Lasconians were watching carefully. ‘Does your wife know?’ he added quietly. ‘About the Oracle being a Turlan girl and the mother of the Princess?’

Ariston nodded. ‘I don’t keep secrets from my woman. The Lascow lot may claim the future cursebreaker as theirs, but we know that babe will belong to Turla on his mother’s side.’

Froi wanted to say more. That the future King belonged to Abroi. To Serker. To him.

‘And your men?’ Froi asked. ‘Do they know the truth? That Quintana belonged to a Turlan woman?’

Ariston shook his head regretfully.

‘They follow me regardless of who the little King belongs to.’

One of the Turlan lads approached and lifted Froi off the ground. Froi couldn’t help but laugh. He understood these lads with their grunts and strutting about, more than he did the Lasconians. They reminded him of the Monts.

‘My mob took a liking to our Quintana’s protector,’ Ariston said, glancing at Froi.

The Turlan lads were invited to share the great hall with the Lasconians but chose the stables instead. Froi figured he’d endure the smell of horse shit rather than spend another night with Florik and his lot, and joined the Turlans.

Florik and the other Lasconians cautiously retrieved their horses to make more room for the newcomers.

‘Why staring?’ one of the Turlans demanded of Froi. When they spoke amongst each other, it was in the Turlan dialect, but with Froi they used a broken Charyn.

‘Because they are desperate to compete with you,’ Froi whispered the lie. ‘It’s all they’ve spoken about since you arrived.’

The Turlan lads exchanged a look.

‘Tomorrow,’ Mort, the leader of the lads said. ‘We show ’em who stronger mountain men.’

Tomorrow was a good day for Froi. The Turlans had an energy that was awe-inspiring and Froi enjoyed keeping up with them. They wrestled. Jousted. Fought with practice swords. Hit targets. Grunted. Grunted some more. By the end of the day the Lasconian lads were decimated.

‘He’s on our team,’ Florik argued, pointing to Froi just before the second round was to commence. ‘You Turlans can’t just come in and take him!’

Mort placed a sweaty arm around Froi’s neck.

‘I fight you for ’im.’ Mort kissed the air in the direction of the Lasconians. Florik bristled. Froi laughed.

‘Turla saw him first,’ one of the Turlans said.

Gargarin and Lirah watched from the sidelines alongside Ariston and Dolyn. Froi saw irritation on Gargarin’s face, satisfaction on Lirah’s.

‘What is it with you and these lads?’ Gargarin demanded
when Froi joined them for no other reason than to show them the ochre markings on his arm that displayed every win. ‘You turn primitive when you’re around them!’

Ariston ruffled Froi’s capped head. ‘We’ll take this one back to the mountain. He’s one of us, I tell you.’

‘The Lumaterans won’t be happy to hear that,’ Gargarin said pointedly. ‘Froi belongs to them. We don’t want to be waging a war with them over one of their Flatland sons.’

‘Flatlander,’ Dolyn said, impressed. ‘Doesn’t get better than that in Lumatere.’

Froi caught Gargarin’s eye. He would never know what this man was playing at. Sometimes he believed it was flippancy. Other times he could see a plan brewing in Gargarin’s head. Whatever it was, Froi never felt satisfied.

That night Perabo gathered everyone in the keep. Lasconians and Turlans stood at every level looking down from the archways to where their leaders and Gargarin stood at its centre below. Everyone jostled for space and Froi squeezed himself beside Arjuro on a level close to the floor of the keep, watching Gargarin raise a hand for silence.

‘I’ll have Ariston speak soon about what takes place beyond the little woods,’ Gargarin said. ‘But for now, I want to talk about the return of Quintana of Charyn.’

‘Our Quintana!’ one of the Turlans shouted from above, until they all joined in, and it became a chant that made the hair on Froi’s arms stand tall.

Gargarin held up a hand again and there was silence.

‘Yes. Our Quintana,’ he said. ‘The moment we know where she is, Ariston and his men will bring her and the child home to the Citavita.’

There was instant outrage from the Lasconians.

‘The heir belongs to us!’ one shouted.

‘It’s our right to place him on the throne,’ an elder argued. ‘On behalf of his father, Tariq of Lascow.’

Froi saw the quick flicker of Gargarin’s eyes towards him, not realising that Gargarin knew exactly where Froi stood amongst the crowd of men.

‘The Turlans are stronger warriors,’ Gargarin said. ‘When it comes to returning Quintana and her child to the palace, there will be no room for failure. We send in our best.’

Froi felt Arjuro lean close to him. ‘My brother’s a smart man,’ he whispered.

Froi had to agree. If the babe was a boy, the Turlans would be remembered for placing the King on the throne for as long as they lived. It was the closest Ariston and the Turlans would get to being respected in Charyn. Although they would never be acknowledged as kin, the little King would be brought up knowing he owed much to these feral mountain people. Perhaps when the boy was older, he would understand who they were to his mother.

Ariston’s head was bent in acknowledgement and Froi could see he was moved by the honour given to his people.

‘Perabo,’ Gargarin called out to where the man was standing at a higher archway opposite Froi’s. ‘You were once the keeper of the caves below the Citavita and soon you’ll be the keeper of the keys to the palace. The constable. You choose your men well.’

Perabo was surprised to hear the words. ‘I’ve despised the palace most of my life,’ he shouted back down at Gargarin. ‘I’ve always worked against it.’

‘You’ve been working to secure the safety of Tariq and Quintana for many years. For now, Quintana
is
the palace. Would you forsake her your protection?’ Gargarin asked.

Perabo shook his head reluctantly.

‘What of the Provincari?’ Dolyn of Lascow asked from where he stood. ‘For too long they’ve kept both our clans out of province affairs. Will they agree to your decisions, Gargarin?’

‘They may make the decisions on how to run the kingdom, but the safety of the little King will be in the hands of us all, and it begins now. Later, when we have Quintana of Charyn and her child secure in the palace, the riders will be made up of ten of the best of each province, including both mountain clans.’

‘But where is she?’ someone called out.

There was silence before Gargarin spoke.

‘We will find her. The best news we’ve had so far is no news. No news means no corpse.’

‘She’s simple. She’s not capable –’

‘Simple?’ Gargarin laughed sharply, searching for the speaker of the words. ‘She fooled the King and his men with stories to protect your lastborn girls. She survived the attack on Tariq’s compound. She helped secure an escape from Bestiano’s armed men at the bottom of the gravina by concealing weapons at her wrists and on her back. She travelled from Jidia to Turla to Paladozza with a babe in her belly and not so much as a whimper. And as we speak, she’s hiding in this kingdom, keeping our king safe. She’s not simple. Anything but simple.’

Arjuro moved closer to Froi. ‘Not to mention her ability to kill a king in five seconds,’ he whispered.

Gargarin stepped aside and Ariston spoke next about what had taken place in the little woods.

‘Bestiano ordered the flanks of his army to guard the entrance to the woodlands.’

Ariston was quiet a moment.

‘They were young men. Strong lads. He’s sending them out to fight like lambs to slaughter,’ Ariston said, his voice full of sorrow. ‘Bestiano and his generals are camped between the first two hills
of Charyn, but they send out their youngest and strongest to fight their own people, and Charyn loses more of its lifeblood.’

‘How is it you came this way?’ Dolyn asked.

‘There’s talk throughout Charyn of what took place on the lake,’ Ariston said, looking up at the elder. Froi heard anger in his voice. ‘That Bestiano was willing to sacrifice the last Priestling. We also knew Lasconians were taking refuge in this fortress and that Bestiano’s army was heading north. The slaughter of Tariq of Lascow’s compound was felt by us all. We fight to avenge your kinsmen, Dolyn. We fight to avenge the young King Tariq who never had a chance to prove his worth.’

And they fight to protect their own, Froi thought. Ariston was here for the Oracle, Solange of Turla’s daughter and grandchild.

‘I say we get a look at what’s happening between those hills and decide on the chances we’ll take,’ Ariston continued. ‘We need to find out what they know and what they think we know before we slaughter each other for no reason.’

‘Have you seen their sentinels?’ Froi called out. ‘Those in the tree?’

Ariston nodded. ‘One saw us coming and left his post. For the time being, they are there to keep an eye on this fortress. But after last night’s events, things may change.’

‘So we attack?’ Dolyn asked.

Ariston shook his head. ‘We need to see what takes place between those hills and how big that army truly is. I’m presuming they know as little as we do about our Quintana. So for now, they watch us and we need to do the same to them.’ He looked at Gargarin. ‘We have to find a way to blind the sentinel.’

Froi bunked down with his horse in the stables with the rest of the Turlans. One of the lads called Joyner, whose upper body was covered with etchings, was marking another lad using a bone
needle and ochre mixed with earth. Froi had heard the Lasconians scornfully say that etchings were only for slaves and lastborn girls, but the Turlan lads were neither.

‘What have you chosen?’ Froi asked the Turlan, who winced with pain each time the needle channelled the ink into his flesh.

‘First time kill beyond little woods,’ the lad said quietly. ‘Mine a tainted spirit now. Keep it safe with name of my girl.’

‘Ariston’ll kill you,’ Mort said. He looked at Froi, shaking his head. ‘His girl Ariston’s niece.’

‘Most beautiful girl on Turla. And strongest. She beat any Lasconian today.’

The lad winced again.

Mort showed Froi his etching. Froi saw the name Jocasta.

‘My mother. Most beautiful woman on Turla,’ he boasted.

‘There must be a lot of beautiful women on the mountain,’ Froi said.

There was a chorus from all the Turlan lads in agreement.

He watched the etching and thought of what Quintana had told him once. That Lirah was marked with the name of the man who owned her.

Later, Froi went to visit Arjuro in his chamber.

‘Can you write these names in the language of the ancients?’ Froi asked quietly.

Arjuro wrote them neatly and Froi marvelled at how powerful the ancient words looked compared to those in Charyn and Lumateran.

‘What are they for?’ Arjuro asked.

Froi patted his arm. Arjuro grimaced.

‘It can’t be removed,’ Arjuro said. ‘You know that. The stigma stays with you.’

‘My feelings will never change,’ Froi said. He went to walk away, but turned back.

‘Where did you see the writing that time? On my back?’

Arjuro traced a finger across where the writing had started just below Froi’s shoulderblade.

Froi returned to the stables where he was next in line. He handed Joyner the parchment.

‘What say it?’ Joyner said out of curiosity.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Froi said. ‘Here. Here. And Here.’ He pointed to the exact place he wanted each individual word to be. Both arms and across his shoulders. ‘But don’t go here,’ he said, indicating where Arjuro had once seen the message from the gods.

‘Goin’ to hurt,’ Joyner said.

Joyner worked well into the night. He was precise and had the steadiest of hands. Despite the pain, Froi was pleased with what he saw on both his arms. Like the lettering on his scalp and on his back, he would never see the name across his shoulders, but he’d feel it. He’d know what it meant. He knew it linked him to her.

The Turlan lads looked impressed the next morning.

‘Joyner says you gods’ blessed,’ Mort said quietly, away from the others.

Froi shook his head. ‘What would make him say that?’

‘Bit of a gift himself, our Joyner. He say your back was aflame. Was something there not of this world.’

The other lads suddenly looked up, and Froi followed their gaze to where Lirah stood at the entrance. He saw the fury on her face before she turned and walked away. Froi followed her out into the courtyard. He kicked at the dirt on the ground, waiting for whatever it was she had to say.

‘Are you a slave?’ she asked harshly. ‘In Serker, only slaves are etched.’

‘With the names of the men that own them,’ he said, his eyes
meeting hers. It sickened him to think of Lirah being owned by anyone.

‘I’m a Serker, Lirah,’ he said softly. ‘My body is etched with the names of the three women who own me. My queen. My mother. My woman.’

He took Lirah’s hand and placed it where Joyner had written her name on his arm, and he saw tears in her eyes. She traced the lettering with a finger, then quickly pressed a kiss against it and hurried away.

Froi smiled to himself and was about to climb up to his watch when Perabo called from above.

‘Get Gargarin.’

Moments later, Froi stood on the wall looking out into the little woods with Gargarin, Ariston, Perabo and Dolyn.

‘It’s too far away to see anything but movement,’ Perabo said. ‘But I’ve noticed a difference in the changeover of the guards. There are three of them. Guard one takes the day post. Guard two arrives in the evening to replace him for the night. The next morning, guard three fails to turn up on time. Every day since we’ve arrived. So guard two, after spending a whole night in the tree, always leaves his post and returns to camp instead of waiting. I presume he is forced to wake guard three. Or perhaps by the time he reaches the camp, guard three is on his way and they pass by each other. Any which way, for a short time early each morning, we have no one watching us.’