Free Quintana of Charyn by Melina Marchetta Page A

eyes.
    ‘Do you know what I dreamt last night?’
    Froi didn’t want to know. People’s dreams frightened him. But he looked up at her all the same.
    ‘I dreamt of my ma who died long ago. Her words are still singing in my ears.’ The woman’s smile was gentle. ‘She said, “The half-spirit of your unborn child lives in that lad.”’

 
     
     
    T hey arrived at the border of Osteria and Charyn five days after setting out from Lumatere, having stopped to meet with their ambassador in the kingdom of Osteria. Finnikin couldn’t help but think of the last time they were at this exact place. Isaboe … Evanjalin had been out there somewhere. With Froi. She had walked away from Finnikin because he hadn’t trusted her. Froi had followed. ‘She and me. We’re the same,’ Froi had said. Finnikin could hardly remember the boy Froi had been, except for his ability to let fly his emotions whenever they rose to the surface. Froi as a lad was easy to control. Froi as a man threatened Finnikin. He had restraint and an ability to play with his opponents. He would make a formidable enemy.
    ‘You’ve been quiet these past days,’ Trevanion said. ‘Are you going to tell me what the … exchange of words was about?’
    ‘Who said there was an exchange of words?’ Finnikin asked with irritation.
    ‘When a woman says “I hope you fall under your horse” and “catch your death then see if I grieve you”,’ Perri said, ‘then there’s been an exchange of words …’
    Finnikin glared at him.
    ‘… in my humble opinion.’
    ‘It’s no one’s business but ours.’
    ‘Understandable,’ Trevanion said. ‘Although the entire Guard and palace village heard it.’
    ‘Perhaps the south of the Flatlands as well,’ Perri concluded.
    Finnikin dismounted and they led their horses to the river. There was little teasing here. They stayed quiet, remembering the day three-and-a-half years ago when they faced Sefton and the village exiles held by the Charynites. They knew now that Rafuel of Sebastabol had been one of the soldiers, and if Finnikin closed his eyes he could imagine just where Rafuel had stood. Perhaps if he had looked at the soldiers and not their leader, he’d have seen fear and shame on their faces.
    ‘Let’s go,’ Trevanion said quietly.
    Gargarin of Abroi had instructed the Belegonians that he would be waiting in an inn five miles north of the Charynite barracks. It was the only ale house for miles upon miles and was frequented by the Charynite soldiers guarding the border, as well as people from a cluster of isolated villages. Finnikin had been advised by the ambassador that the Belegonian army was camped further upriver on the Osterian side with Osteria’s blessing, a sign of great intimidation and provocation to Charyn. Would the Belegonians be so ready for attack if they had received Gargarin of Abroi’s letter asking for an alliance? Instead, that letter had been intercepted by Celie and passed on to Finnikin. In trapping the man who had planned the slaughter of Isaboe’s family, had Lumatere inadvertently triggered a Belegonian invasion?
    Finnikin stayed focused, and thought over the instructions given by Gargarin of Abroi. The man would carry a walking stick as a means of identification. He would greet them with thewords, ‘You’re a far way from home.’ He would set out a treaty between Charyn and Belegonia which would acknowledge him as the one who would return the true heir to the palace. Finnikin remembered the words in the note.
The Lumaterans need not know of our alliance. We’ll talk later about what to do with them. Leave it to me, for I have a plan for Lumatere that will eliminate them as a threat.
    Finnikin’s blood chilled just to think of it again.
    As they guided their horses through the trees he found himself back in the past. He thought he heard a whistle, and imagined the sight of her: Evanjalin of the Monts. Her hair cropped short, her arms hacked from her need to bleed so