The Charynite was slight in build, but most Charynites Froi had seen were. His hair was worn long to the shoulders, and although he appeared to be older than Finnikin, it was hard to determine his age. His face was bruised and bleeding, and Froi knew from one of the Monts that the beating had come from Tesadora of the Forest Dwellers, tiny as she was, who now stood beside Perri with savagery in her eyes.
The wife that Lucian had sent back stood before them, trembling. She was small and plumpish with a sweet round face.
“My kinsman does not understand why you require me here, sir,” Phaedra said quietly, looking up at Lucian, her face reddening.
“We speak Lumateran,” Lucian said. “You speak for us. Understood?”
Meanwhile Trevanion crouched down close in front of the Charynite prisoner, studying the man with an unnerving intensity.
“Ask him the reason for the attack,” Trevanion ordered Phaedra, not taking his eyes from the Charynite.
Trevanion’s Charyn was weakest of everyone’s in the room; Perri’s a little stronger. Finnikin had insisted that they learn the Charyn tongue if they were to travel into the enemy kingdom to kill the king. Some days, Finnikin insisted that they speak nothing but Charyn for practice, although both Finnikin and Froi would become frustrated at how slowly they were forced to speak.
Phaedra repeated the question.
Froi saw the movement in the Charynite’s throat, the swallowing of fear. Nevertheless, he stared Trevanion in the eye.
“Because I had requested more than once to speak to the queen … or her king, and I was refused time and time again.”
Phaedra translated the words.
“So you take a dagger to Japhra’s throat?” Lucian asked in Charyn, forgetting his vow to speak only Lumateran.
The Charynite tilted his head to the side, looking beyond Trevanion to where Finnikin stood. “Well, it worked, did it not?”
Froi snarled, but didn’t realize he had done so aloud until the man looked toward him with little fear and a slight expression of … Was it satisfaction? It was a long moment before the prisoner looked away.
“We don’t need the girl,” the Charynite said quietly, indicating Phaedra. “Most of you can understand me clearly. True?” He looked from Froi to Lucian and then finally to Finnikin. “There aren’t too many men in this part of the land with hair that color, Your Majesty,” he said. “And everyone knows the Lumateran queen and her consort speak the language of every kingdom in this land.”
Finnikin stood coldly silent.
“Ask the girl to leave,” the Charynite repeated.
“We make the demands,” Lucian said. “Not you.”
“Ask her to leave,” the Charynite said tiredly. “For if she hears what I say, my men will have to kill her, and they are scholars, not killers. They hate the sight of blood.”
Despite the regret in the man’s voice, Froi knew he spoke the truth.
Lucian called out to one of the Mont guards. “Get her out of here,” he ordered. “Have one of the cousins take her down to the valley.” Lucian turned his attention to the girl. “Return to your father’s house, Phaedra. Once and for all. If I see you in the valley, I’ll drag you back to your province myself!”
The girl walked to the entrance of the cell, turning to look at the Charynite hesitantly.
“Go,” the man said gently. “You’ve risked enough, Little Sparrow, and we are grateful indeed.”
Lucian bared his teeth. The Charynite gave a small humorless laugh as Phaedra left the cell.
“Foolish of you to have let her leave your spousal bed, Mont. If she had been given the chance, Phaedra of Alonso would have been the first step to peace.”
“What makes you think we’re after peace with Charynites?” Lucian asked.
“Because Japhra of the Flatlands speaks of it in her sleep.”
Tesadora hissed with fury. “Don’t speak her name again, or you’ll be choking on your own blood.”
“Japhra’s a woman with worth beyond your imagining,” he continued as if Tesadora had not threatened his life. But Froi saw moisture gather on the Charynite’s brow and knew that Trevanion’s close proximity and Tesadora’s presence unsettled him more than he would care to admit.
“Some women learn to listen better when they speak little.” The Charynite’s eyes fixed on Finnikin again. “Did you not learn that from your queen in her mute days?”
Finnikin finally spoke. “You are pushing my patience, Charynite, and if you make one more reference to our women, including my queen, I will beg a dagger from my kinsmen and slice you from ear to ear. So speak.”
The Charynite kept his focus on Finnikin.
“My name is Rafuel from the Charynite province of Sebastabol. I’m here in the valley with seven other men.” He waited a moment for Lucian to translate. Rafuel met Trevanion’s stare. “I have a way of getting you into the palace, gentlemen. To do both our kingdoms a great justice.
“To kill the king of Charyn.”
Froi could sense that the others were as stunned as he was to hear the words, but there was little reaction.
“And why would we trust you, Charynite?” Finnikin asked.
“Because we have something in common, Your Majesty.”
“We have nothing in common.”
“Not even a curse?” Rafuel said calmly.
“Sagra!” Froi muttered. Another godsforsaken curse.
Rafuel’s eyes met Froi’s again.
“Our curse was first,” Rafuel of Sebastabol said.
“Really?” Finnikin asked, sarcasm lacing his words. “Was it worse than ours?”
Rafuel sighed sadly. “If we sit and compare, Your Majesty, perhaps I may win, but we will all be left with very little in the end.”
Finnikin pushed past his father and grabbed the man to his feet, his teeth gritted. “How could you possibly win? My queen suffers with this curse.”
“And so does her king, I hear.”
The Charynite had the power of saying so much in the most even of tones.
“Did you not notice anything peculiar when you passed through Charyn during your exile?” the Charynite continued.
Finnikin regained his composure and shoved the man away. “I passed through Charyn three times only. The first was when I was ten and visited the palace with Sir Topher, the queen’s First Man. We were consigned to one chamber and spoke to no one. The second time was three years ago when we were searching for exiles and I can’t recall a friendly chat from a Charynite back then either. And the third time, a group of your soldiers took forty of our people hostage on the Osterian border and beat up our boy,” he said, pointing back to Froi.
“Your boy?” the Charynite questioned, his eyes meeting Froi’s. “Are you sure of that?”
Tesadora flew at him, but Perri held her back.
“Why does he still breathe?” she demanded. “It’s simple. Snap his neck.”
Rafuel was staring at her, almost in wonder. “That’s the Charyn Serker in you, Tesadora of the Forest Dwellers.”
This time Perri let her go, and Froi watched Tesadora throw herself at the Charynite, her fingers clawing his face. Froi had heard stories of her half-Charyn blood, but no one dared speak of it. Perri waited a moment or two, enough time for her to draw more blood. Only then did he calmly step forward to pull her away. Froi felt an instant regret that it was over so soon. Somehow he was always drawn to darkness, and no one in the room had a darker core than Tesadora.
Rafuel continued as if his face weren’t bleeding. “It is forbidden for a Charynite to speak to outsiders. Such a rule gets in the way of a ‘friendly chat.’ ”
“Why forbidden?” Lucian asked. “What have your people to hide that we don’t already know of you?”
Rafuel gave a small humorless laugh. “I could fill a chronicle of what you don’t know about us, Mont. But I leave such things to Phaedra, who writes of the arrival of our people on your land with a fairer hand than I ever will.” Rafuel of Sebastabol turned to Tesadora. “I see you writing your chronicles from time to time, too. Have you not noticed anything strange about the valley? All those people, hundreds of them?”
Trevanion asked for a translation. Rafuel was speaking too fast.
They turned to Tesadora, whose cold blue eyes looked even more sinister.
“What is it?” Finnikin asked her.
Tesadora shook her head. Perri let go of her arm, and for the briefest moment Froi saw her lean against him. He knew they were lovers despite a savage history between them, but like Tesadora’s Charyn blood, no one spoke of it.
“There are no children,” Tesadora guessed quietly. Lucian repeated the words in Charyn, and they all looked to Rafuel for confirmation. Rafuel nodded.
“Where are they?” Finnikin asked, stunned.
“They’re all grown up,” Rafuel said.
Finnikin advanced toward him again with frustration. “I’d prefer not to have to guess, Charynite. If you’ve gone to all the trouble to get me up this mountain, then make it clear to us. Speak to us as if we are as ignorant as a Charynite.”
Something in Rafuel’s expression flickered. “We’re not all ignorant, Your Majesty,” he said coldly, “and I don’t know how to make it clearer to you. Our women are barren. Our men, seedless. A child has not been born to Charyn for eighteen years.”
Again there was a stupefied silence as they tried to grasp Rafuel’s words. Froi caught the confused look that passed between Finnikin and Trevanion.
The Charynite turned to Lucian. “It is probably yet another thing that shames Phaedra,” he said. “That she believes you spoke the truth when you called her worthless all those times.”
“You seem to know too much about my wife,” Lucian said, fury in his tone.
“Last I heard, you denounced her as your wife,” Rafuel of Sebastabol said. “So one would presume you forfeit the right to be indignant about my knowledge of her feelings.”
Froi marveled at this fool’s lack of fear.
“That first time I visited with Sir Topher,” Finnikin said, his voice full of disbelief, “I remember children in the streets. There was one in the palace as well.”
“If you were ten at the time, the youngest child in Charyn would have been six,” Rafuel said. “Her Royal Highness, Princess Quintana,” he added.
“I never met her,” Finnikin said.
The Charynite took a deep ragged breath. “It’s where the story of the curse begins. With her birth.”
“We’re not here for a story,” Finnikin said, frustrated. “Go back to the part where you get us into the palace without betraying us.”
“I want to hear what he has to say,” Tesadora said flatly. “More important, your wife will want to, my lord,” she said, turning to Finnikin with slight mockery in her expression.
“I thought you wanted him dead a moment ago,” Finnikin said.
There was little love lost between Tesadora and Finnikin. Froi put it down to jealousy. The queen shared a bond with Tesadora, and Finnikin was envious of anyone who had a bond with the queen. Froi knew that more than anyone.
Finnikin turned to the Charynite. “Then tell us a story, Rafuel of Sebastabol, and make it quick.”
Rafuel kept his eyes on Trevanion. “Could you perhaps ask your father to step back, Your Highness? I’m a small man and it’s not as if he can’t snap me in two from the other side of the cell.”
“He’s more comfortable where he is,” Finnikin said.
Rafuel sighed. “The year before the birth of Quintana, the oracle’s godshouse was attacked and the priestlings were murdered,” he began. “The oracle queen survived, but her tongue and fingers were cut off. So she could not speak or write the truth. A young priestling named Arjuro of Abroi was absent from the godshouse on the night of the attack and was charged with assisting the murderers.”
Finnikin quickly translated.
“Your priest-king is your spiritual leader, but the oracle of Charyn was more than that for us. Since the beginning of life in Charyn, most decisions made by the king and the provinces had to be sanctioned by the oracle. The oracle and the gods house were Charyn’s moral and intellectual beacons.” Rafuel’s eyes flashed with fervor. “You’re a scholar, I hear. Then you’ve not seen anything until you’ve seen the books once translated by our priestlings. They will take your breath away, Your Highness.”
“I have seen ancient books, you know,” Finnikin said defensively. “In the Osterian palace. I spent more than a summer there.”
Rafuel made a rude sound. “Osteria? A more tedious race of people I’ve never come across. I can imagine their translations. You know what we say in Charyn? That man learned to snore by being in the presence of an Osterian.”
Froi could see that Finnikin was trying to hold back a smile. Finnikin and Isaboe’s favorite pastime was outdoing each other with insults about the Osterians.
“But everything changed nineteen years ago,” Rafuel continued. “The provincaro of Serker died, and his successor refused to pay taxes to the palace. The Serkers claimed that the palace was robbing them blind. The king, in turn, stationed his army outside Serker. It was a step toward a war in which Charynites would kill Charynites, and the oracle’s greatest fear was that the other provinces would take sides in such a war. The oracle ordered the king to remove his army from outside Serker, and she ordered the provincaro of Serker to pay his taxes to the king and swear allegiance. If not, she threatened to remove the oracle’s gods house from the Citavita and the sacred library from Serker. You could not imagine a bigger insult to the capital or to Serker.
“That spring, the oracle’s godshouse in the capital was attacked, and we lost the brightest young minds of our kingdom when the priestlings were slaughtered. They were young men and women trained to be physicians, educators, philosophers. They died unarmed and savagely. On that day, every priest, priestess, and order went underground and have stayed there.”
“Mercy,” Finnikin said.
Froi knew that Finnikin was a lover of books and history and stories. It was Finnikin who had written the chronicles of their kingdom in his Book of Lumatere, which was now being added to with the stories recorded by Tesadora and Lady Beatriss. When Finnikin stayed silent, Froi translated the words.
“The palace blamed Serker,” Rafuel continued. “As punishment for the godshouse slaughter, the king of Charyn razed the province to the ground. It sits in the center of Charyn and has been a wasteland ever since.”
“What about the people?” Lucian asked. “Where did they go?”
“How many Forest Dwellers do you have left after the Charynite invasion?” Rafuel asked.
Froi saw the stunned look on Finnikin’s face.
“No Charynite has ever claimed that the five days of the unspeakable were part of a Charyn invasion,” Finnikin said huskily.
“The palace has never claimed it,” Rafuel corrected quietly. “But what took place in Lumatere thirteen years ago is Charyn’s shame. Mothers wept for the sons forced into the army that was sent into your kingdom alongside the man you call the impostor king. Now a generation of last-born sons weep for the stories they have heard of what their fathers did.”
Rafuel’s eyes met Finnikin’s. “Silence is not just about secrecy, Your Majesty. It is grief and it is shame.”
No one spoke. No Lumateran wanted to see worth in a Charynite. Especially not a Charynite who had taken a dagger to one of their women.
“Fifty-four,” Tesadora said.
The others turned to her.
“Fifty-four Forest Dwellers were known to survive the days of the unspeakable.”
Rafuel was pensive. “The number of those who survived the Serker massacre nineteen years ago is even more heartbreaking. We know there to be one for certain. The king’s Serker whore. She lived in the palace at the time of the attack and is the mother of the princess, Quintana.”
“The rest?” Lucian asked.
“He had them slaughtered.”
“His own people?” Finnikin asked, stunned.
“Hundreds upon hundreds of them,” Rafuel said. “Although there are rumors 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 gods house, the king took the oracle queen into the palace to protect her. Or so he claimed. It put him in good favor 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 priest -king’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 her belly …” The Charynite swallowed hard, unable to finish the thought.
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 her 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 last-born 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 last borns 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 curse breaker 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 last-born 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 toward 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 last-born 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 last born 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 last borns?” Lucian asked.
Rafuel was amused by the question. “They are actually quite … useless. They were precious to us and some were spoiled 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 last-born 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 last born, and who is not so useless. More important, 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 that 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.”