Quintana of Charyn (35 page)

‘I’m going to give you a warning, Mont,’ Donashe said. ‘In days to come, Bestiano of Nebia and the entire Nebian army will be arriving in this valley. Don’t let me have to tell them that the Lumaterans were hiding the king killer for all these months, because, unlike me, they’ll cross that stream and they won’t stop at your mountain. They’ll follow the path to your palace.’

‘I want to see my wife,’ Lucian said, keeping his voice even. ‘And if I don’t see my wife tonight, I’m going to give you a warning. In the hours to come, I can have the whole Mont army in this valley. Don’t let me have to tell them that you just made a threat to their cousin the Queen, her consort and their child, because, unlike me, they’ll tear you to pieces.’

Donashe allowed the threat to register.

‘The white witch and her girl is with them. Haven’t I allowed enough, friend?’ he asked.

‘I’m not leaving until I see my wife,’ Lucian said.

Donashe turned to his companion. Lucian heard the whispering and watched the man leave with Donashe’s oil lamp, the light bobbing all the way to the top. It was nothing less than a prison and there would be no easy way of getting the women off this rock. No hope for their escape.

‘Luc-ien!’

‘Phaedra?’ He leapt up the steps, but Donashe was there to stop him.

‘You speak to her from here.’

‘I can’t see her!’ Lucian said, through gritted teeth.

‘Lucian,’ he heard Tesadora call out. ‘Don’t bring danger to the mountain. For now, do as they say.’

‘Are you free to come and go, Tesadora?’

‘Yes, but Phaedra and the women aren’t.’

‘Phaedra,’ he called out again, cursing the stars and the moon for being on a tyrant’s side tonight. He just wanted to see her face.

‘Yes, Luc-ien.’

‘Are you hurt?’

‘No, just frightened. I’m very frightened. We all are.’

There was a tremble in Phaedra’s voice and it shattered something inside of Lucian to hear it.

‘I’ll come again tomorrow,’ he said. ‘I promise.’

Donashe gripped his arm.

‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Mont.’

Lucian pulled free.

‘I never make promises I can’t keep, Donashe. And I promise you this: if you so much as lay another hand on these women, I will kill you. It will happen when you least expect it. It will be an arrow to your heart and its precision will remind you that if my father hadn’t been killed at the hands of a Charynite, I would not be leading his people. I would be an assassin in the Queen’s Guard because I don’t miss a mark.’

And with those words he began his descent down the rock with Harker, taking each step slowly for fear of tumbling into the darkness.

‘I hate to be grateful for other people’s misfortune, Lucian,’ Harker said quietly, ‘but our greatest consolation may have been the death of your father. I can’t imagine what would have happened to my people if you weren’t leading the Monts.’

Lucian stared down at the steep stone steps all the way to the bottom, and his throat tightened with emotion. The valley dwellers stood on each side of the path, either holding a lantern or candle, and lighting Harker and Lucian’s way.

‘My father would never have forsaken a neighbour,’ Lucian said. ‘Never.’

‘Then he taught his son well, lad. He taught his son well.’

 

 

‘
N
ebia! Surrender!
’

Froi couldn’t hear.

At first he thought the rage of battle was eating the voices, but then he knew it was inside of him. A chilling silence. It made the horror surrounding him all the worse.

He had ridden with Dorcas and Fekra, desperate to reach the battle between the two hills. To put a stop to Charynites killing Charynites. It was under a waning light that the three entered the field of carnage. Once the sun set, it would be next to impossible to put an end to it all, and they were fighting for time. It was his voice that had done it. ‘
Nebia! Surrender!
’ hollered with a might that splintered something inside his ear.

And then all he could see was Fekra’s mouth moving, but nothing coming out. He watched Dorcas and Fekra pull off their cloak and tunics and it was how the two rode into that valley: with white undershirts on their swords.

White flags of surrender.

But it didn’t stop arrows hitting their marks and men falling to their knees, and it didn’t stop axes wedging themselves into
the sinews of men’s throats, or swords slicing an arm clear off a body. Froi dismounted to stand amidst battle rage that had men in a frenzy, their senses attuned to nothing but killing and surviving. Not surrendering. In battle rage no one was searching for a way to end fighting. It was pure instinct and the instinct here was to kill. And leading Dorcas and Fekra, Froi knew he had to find a way, and perhaps he spoke the question out loud, because he saw Fekra’s mouth holler and he read the instruction on his lips.
Find Scarpo
.

So Froi made his way through the mute scene, not knowing who he was looking for. And he saw familiar faces sprawled across this blood-drenched piece of land. He was a farmer and he could tell it was fertile land. It was a place for growing, not dying. And he found Joyner, whose gods’ blessed hands had toiled at the etchings on Froi’s body, and beside Joyner lay the Turlan lad who had won the tournament against the Lasconians. And on and on Froi stumbled. He knelt by the corpse of Florik’s cousin and most loyal friend. Faces that had stared at him as he sang alongside Arjuro.

Don’t let me find Grij,
he prayed.
Please don’t let me find Grij. Don’t let me have to tell De Lancey that his beloved son is dead.

And it was from where he knelt that he saw a mighty soldier to be reckoned with. A mountain of a man, stumbling away from one kill and searching for the next. It was Trevanion, but it wasn’t. It was a man born for battle. Captains mostly were. And Froi stood and turned back to Dorcas and pointed ahead, and Dorcas nodded. Froi stepped over the dead, limping his way towards the man and he thought of the story Gargarin and Finnikin had told them about the Haladyans. His father and his king. A surrender for a surrender, they had said. And Dorcas later said that the gods must have protected Froi, because he walked through the
battle like a man in a daze, his weapon in its scabbard, his arms above his head. What was Froi’s instinct amidst the battle rage? It was what his instinct always would be. From the moment he was born. Find a way to live. And as he limped towards the Nebian Captain he asked himself over and over again, what would Trevanion do? If he saw a lad walking towards him in a futile battle where Lumaterans were slaughtering Lumaterans? Would a captain’s pride have him fight on till the end, knowing his men would follow him to the grave rather than give in? Froi knew the moment the Captain of the Nebian Guard saw him, because the big man dragged the Lasconian soldier along to where Froi stood with his arms still raised in surrender. He thought he heard Dorcas by his side, but the world seemed a haze.

‘Bestiano is dead,’ Froi said. ‘Gargarin of Abroi is our only hope.’

And the Captain of the Nebian army lowered Froi’s hands and took the white flag from Dorcas and hollered, and when Froi’s hearing returned, his head felt as if it had burst into fragments and he fell to the ground, writhing in pain. But with that pain came the words he was waiting for, from a captain perhaps no different from his own.

‘
Nebia surrenders!
’

Later, he watched Dorcas check the corpse of every man they passed, manically searching for life.

‘Is he going to be all right?’ Froi asked Fekra quietly as they stood under a cruel sun that shone its brilliance, illuminating every fatal wound and blank stare of death.

Fekra shook his head. ‘We’re the last. Of the palace, I mean. Dorcas. Me. Remember all those people when you arrived that day in the Citavita? The King’s men and family and palace soldiers? The riders? Everyone’s dead, except for Dorcas and me.’

‘And Quintana,’ Froi reminded him.

They reached a section of the valley where Perabo and a group of the Lasconian lads were guarding the surrendered army. Gargarin arrived with Arjuro and De Lancey on horseback and Froi could see De Lancey staring around at the carnage in desperation. With Fekra’s arm around him for support, Froi hobbled to them.

‘He’s not here, De Lancey. You have nothing to fear, for now.’

Arjuro stared down at Froi’s leg and bent to inspect it. ‘It’s nothing,’ Froi said. ‘Just get me onto my horse.’

‘You’re not going anywhere until I see to this leg,’ Arjuro said.

‘There are men dying, Arjuro. See to them.’

Gargarin was gravely studying the surrendered Nebian army before him.

‘How many dead?’ he asked one of the Lasconian lads who was guarding.

‘Ours or theirs, sir?’

Gargarin sent the lad a scathing look.

‘They’re all ours, you fool! They’re all Charynites!
How many dead
?’

Froi shivered at a memory of what had happened in Lumatere on the day they entered the kingdom. Trevanion had counted the dead. Young men and not so young. The Captain had visited every family who lost a loved one in the battle to reclaim Lumatere. Froi recognised the same pain in Gargarin’s face now. He had given the order for this.

Before them the Nebian army was kneeling in rows, placed in some sort of order that made no sense to Froi. Those who were wounded lay down.

It was here that Froi got a better look at Scarpo of Nebia. He was a thickset man with solemn eyes that made little contact with the world, slightly younger than Trevanion.

‘Can you get to your feet?’ Gargarin asked.

The Captain of the Nebian army rose.

‘You surrendered easily,’ Gargarin said.

There was no response.

‘Some will see you as a coward,’ Gargarin said.

Froi looked at Scarpo’s men. Their eyes blazed to hear the words.

‘Then let that title be mine and not my men’s, sir,’ Scarpo said. ‘They followed orders. They are assembled in the order of rank. All I ask is that you follow the conventions of surrender and that no harm comes to my men, sir. At no time have they behaved disorderly or without honour. If you choose to take their land from them, sir, I ask that you take into consideration those who are sole providers of elderly kinsfolk. If I could also ask that those closest to where we stand are attended to with alacrity, sir. Their wounds are dire and if we are to agree on anything today, it’s that Charyn can ill afford to lose another man.’

‘You have much to say … what’s your name?’

‘Scarpo of Nebia, sir. Captain of the Nebian Guard.’

‘Former Captain of the Nebian Guard, Scarpo.’

‘As you please, sir.’

‘The Queen needs a captain,’ Gargarin said flatly. ‘And I don’t have many candidates, so you’re it.’

Froi saw the startled surprise in the expression of a man who thought he was to die this day.

‘Agreed?’

‘Your order, sir.’

‘Join Ariston of Turla and his men and bring us back the Queen and her child.’

Surprise again, and then a grimace.

‘The Queen, you say?’

‘He said the Queen,’ Froi shouted. ‘Are you hard of hearing?’

The man grimaced again. Froi studied him and walked towards where he was. ‘What is it you’re not telling us, Nebian?’

The Captain shook his head with regret. ‘Bestiano issued an order to every spy, every street lord, and every barbarian outside the province …’ Scarpo swallowed hard. ‘She’s not to live.’

Froi stared at him, his gut twisting.

‘If she’s given birth to the child, then grieve Quintana of Charyn,’ Scarpo said. ‘Because it means her throat’s already been cut.’

 

 

A
lmost two days after Donashe’s men stormed their hiding place, Phaedra sat in their prison cave with an arm around Quintana and a tremble in her body that refused to stop. Despite Donashe’s men standing guard outside their cave, she knew they were prisoners of a man more powerful than the street lord. Harker had been given permission to see them for a short time that day. He had warned them that a messenger had been dispatched to advise Bestiano that the Princess was in the valley.

‘Will they take us to the Citavita?’ Jorja asked her husband.

He shook his head. ‘They reveal little.’

He glanced at Phaedra. ‘I’ve sent word to your father. Perhaps an army from Alonso will secure your release.’

‘There is no army in Alonso,’ she said quietly. ‘And why would my father believe I lived after being told I was dead all this time?’

Harker ushered his wife and Phaedra to the outer cave under the suspicious stare of Quintana. She had been frighteningly quiet since Rafuel had been dragged away.

‘One of the men has also been sent to the Sarnak border,’ Harker whispered. ‘To find a woman with a babe.’

‘Why?’ Phaedra asked. ‘Do they think none of us, including Tesadora and Japhra, can take care of a newborn?’

Harker looked away, pained.

‘Harker,’ Jorja asked. ‘What does this mean?’

They heard a sound behind them and turned to find Quintana leaning against Cora, her hand clutching her belly.

‘She’ll be here to feed my son,’ Quintana said. ‘Won’t she?’

Harker didn’t respond.

‘It’s what they do when a mother dies and leaves a babe behind. They find a woman with breasts full of milk.’

Quintana’s eyes filled with tears.

‘I’ve become greedy. I’ve always thought it was enough to birth him. But I want to see his face. Promise me I’ll see his face.’

Later, Ginny entered their cave, fear and pity etched on her face. Was it fear of them, or Donashe and his men who guarded the cave outside? She held a large bowl of a thick substance that she placed in front of Quintana.

‘You need to eat, Your Highness.’

‘Majesty,’ Cora hissed. ‘You refer to her as Your Majesty. She’s your queen.’

Ginny pushed the bowl towards Phaedra.

‘They say she must eat. They don’t want the little King dead before his birth.’

Phaedra heard a pitiful sound come from deep within Quintana, and then a mutter of heart-wrenching desperation spoken so fast that all Phaedra understood was the plea in her voice and the name
Froi
spoken over and over again.

‘I meant no harm,’ Ginny said quietly. ‘Gies came searching for his friend when the hangman failed to return to camp. It was
chance. It was chance,’ she sobbed. ‘And I was so happy to see him. I told him to keep our secret like Harker and Kasabian and the Mont were allowed to keep yours.’ Ginny’s hands wrung. ‘I would never bring harm to you. To any of you. I’m sorry,’ she wept. ‘I’m sorry.’

Florenza stood and approached Ginny and slapped her hard across the face. Ginny cried out and stumbled, stepping onto the bowl and snapping it in half. Phaedra watched the warm liquid spread against the stone.

One of Donashe’s men entered the cave.

‘What’s taking you so long?’ he shouted at Ginny. ‘Clean up this mess.’

Ginny fell to her knees, gathering the pieces in her hands, hurrying to collect the rest. She watched the man leave and looked up quickly.

‘They say the Lasconians and the Turlans are camped across the hill from Bestiano’s army, two days’ ride from here,’ she whispered before getting to her feet. ‘And that the Lumateran is travelling with them.’

When Ginny left the cave, Cora placed a bony arm around Quintana’s shoulders, soothing her.

‘See? He’s two days’ ride from here. He’s coming for you and from the way I see it, watch anyone who gets in the way of the Lumateran and his precious girl.’

But Quintana was shaking her head with despair beyond reckoning.

‘How long does it take to birth a child, Jorja?’ she asked, her voice small and broken.

‘Sometime hours, sometimes almost a day, brave girl.’

‘I’m not very brave, Jorja,’ Quintana whispered. ‘Not at all. When they put the noose around my neck, I was the least brave girl in Charyn.’

Florenza crouched before Quintana and took her hands in hers.

‘I will cut out the tongue of anyone who says that Quintana of Charyn is not the bravest girl in the kingdom! I will carve it on every piece of stone in Charyn, so everywhere the little King looks he will see the words
Quintana the Brave
.’

‘What if I don’t hold him in my arms?’ Quintana lamented. ‘What if I never get to see his face?’

‘You must stop thinking that,’ Phaedra soothed. ‘Froi and his army will be here in two days and when you give birth, you’ll have all the time in the world with the little King.’

Quintana squeezed tight her legs and Phaedra saw the water puddle around her. She heard Quintana’s whimper.

‘Don’t fret, my queen. There’s no shame in soiling yourself,’ Phaedra fussed.

But Jorja stared in horror.

‘She hasn’t soiled herself,’ Jorja said. ‘Her water has broken. The babe is coming.’