Froi of the Exiles

Chapter 6

Lumatere had always been a feast for Froi’s eyes. Even during the years of little rain, it was a contrast of lush green grass and thick rich silt, carpeting the Flatlands and the river villages. But Charyn was a kingdom of rock and very little beauty. Here, the terrain was a rough path of dirt, pocketed with caves and hills of stone. Sometimes the dry landscape was peppered with wild flowers or the mountains of rock were shaped like the ghouls and spirits painted in the Book of the Ancients Froi had seen in the Priestking’s cottage. Wind holes had been carved out of the caves and from afar they resembled the dug-out sockets of eyes.

Rafuel and the Priestking had instructed Froi that most of the Charynites had migrated to the kingdom from all corners of Skuldenore. The only original inhabitants had been the Serkers, who had now disappeared, although stories existed of underground cities where Serkers and other nomads were in hiding from the King and plotting their revenge.

Stone, stone, rock, stone and more stone.

Froi met his guide outside the province walls of Alonso, the birthplace of the wife Lucian had sent back. It was a province bursting with unwanted newcomers, a place on the brink of war within its walls. These days it accommodated its desperate neighbours from the smaller provinces all but wiped out by plague and drought. Froi suspected that the Provincaro’s marriage of his daughter to Lucian had little to do with a promise between two men and more to do with a need to make use of the Lumateran valley.

Apart from the capital, which was known as the Citavita, there were six provinces left in Charyn, each one of them large, powerful and containing the most fertile land in the kingdom. There were also a handful of mountain tribes or nomads who kept very much to themselves. Rafuel had explained that if a clan chose to stay outside the major walls of a larger province, there was always the threat of the palace riders collecting their young men to be part of the King’s army or taking their lastborn girls. At least in the provinces, people were protected by the Provincari who still had power against the King. The palace’s greatest fear was that the Provincari would unite their armies against the King, but after the annihilation of Serker, no Provincaro was willing to take that chance.

The guide’s name was Zabat from the province of Nebia, east of the capital. He spent much of his time not looking Froi in the eye, which was never a good sign.

‘You have a strange name,’ Froi said, as he changed clothing and became Olivier of Sebastabol. The trousers were uncomfortable, tighter than he was used to wearing, the doublet jacket worse. But he liked his buskins and he fastened the laces up to his knees, relieved that there was at least one article of clothing that didn’t make him feel a fool.

‘Strange in what way?’ Zabat demanded.

‘Different from Rafuel and even the Princess Quintana.’

‘Those of us from Nebia hail from the kingdom of Sorel. Hundreds of years ago, mind you. You’d think everyone would get over that fact, wouldn’t you? We have as much right to Charyn as anyone else.’

‘And who says you don’t?’ Froi asked.

‘Those from the province of Paladozza,’ the guide said, seemingly on the defensive. ‘And anyone from the Citavita. They all came from the kingdom of Sendecane during the time of the Ancients. Just like most of the Lumateran Forest Dwellers and those from the Rock.’

‘Charynites and Lumaterans don’t hail from the same place,’ Froi scoffed.

‘Do you have women named Evestalina? Bartolina? Celestina? Men named Raffio?’

Froi didn’t reply.

‘All from the same place,’ Zabat stated flatly. ‘Nothing changes. Names stay the same. So do traits.’

The time Froi enjoyed best was when the terrain was flat enough for a gallop. It meant he didn’t have to listen to Zabat’s voice drone on and on.

‘ … and really, who put Rafuel in charge, I ask? Does he look like a warrior to you …’

Or when they came across a herd of mountain goats and their bleating drowned out Zabat’s voice. But all too soon it would begin again.

‘ … did he say I was a Priestling? Doubt that. What? Do you think they’re better than the rest of us because they’re gods’ touched? Gods’ touched.’ Zabat made a rude sound. ‘It’s all I’ve heard my whole life. The gods’ touched or the lastborns. There’s always someone more special than us ordinary folk.’

Apart from such distractions, there was little around Froi to take his attention away from Zabat’s complaining. The world outside the provinces was nothing more than brown tufts of grass and stone. Miles upon miles of land had been either overgrazed or was too far from water to carve out a living. Suddenly he could understand the overcrowded Alonso and the desire for Charynites to keep inside the province’s walls.

‘ … and if you ask me …’

No, Froi didn’t ask him.

‘ … the Serkers were the worst,’ Zabat continued. ‘Their people built the first library, as well as the largest amphitheatres in Charyn, so weren’t they the greatest in the land in their own eyes? I say it’s a good thing that Serker is now in ruins.’

Later, Froi dared ask what the shapes in the far distance were. A mistake.

‘The Province of Jidia,’ Zabat replied, as they began to travel down a ridge that would lead them to yet another mountain of stone.

‘ … because really, who cares if the Jidians built the first road to the Citavita? Do we have to hear about it for the rest of our lives?’

Froi bit his tongue to stop himself from speaking. Two days with Zabat had taken its toll. Worse still, their trail into the base of the ravine would soon disappear, and they would have to leave their horses behind. On foot, Zabat’s voice was closer to his ear, so Froi practised an internal chant taught to him by the Priestking.

‘Some people say they see the gods when they perfect this chant,’ the blessed Barakah once told him. Froi would be grateful enough if the gods chose not to visit, but managed to have Zabat’s tongue ripped out and fed to the hounds that guarded their realm instead.

When they reached a wall of rock that seemed to go as far as the eye could see, they tethered the horses to be collected on Zabat’s return. Froi followed Zabat into a tunnel through the stone, so narrow that he felt the breath robbed from him. That thousands upon thousands of years ago someone had cut their way through this rock seemed unfathomable to Froi. On the other side he found himself following Zabat into a gorge with a steady stream of water pouring down from the mountain of rock high above. Where they stood, trees and reeds grew along the bank, but surrounding them on both sides loomed granite walls, blocking the light from the sun.

‘The base of the gravina,’ Zabat explained.

Froi peered ahead of him to see how far he could see downstream. Zabat tapped him on the arm and then pointed up.

‘The Citavita is up that way.’

‘You expect me to climb that?’

‘Further downstream you will still have to travel up, and the path is even more treacherous. It’s not as bad as it looks.’

This was to be the meeting point with the man they called Gargarin of Abroi. The plan so far had worked as Rafuel had predicted. Rafuel and his men had come across the news weeks before that Gargarin of Abroi, after an eighteen-year absence from the palace, had been granted an audience with the King. Upon hearing the news, Rafuel had sent a message to Gargarin under the guise of the Provincaro of Sebastabol, asking the King’s former architect to escort Sebastabol’s beloved lastborn to the province. The real lad’s name was Olivier, and his party would be apprehended and kept prisoner in the rock caves outside his province where Zabat would ensure their safety. Olivier and his guards would be released unharmed when Froi had done what he was sent to do. As far as Gargarin of Abroi knew, he was doing the Provincaro a favour and had no inkling that he was accompanying an assassin into the palace.

Further downstream, Zabat stopped and looked up at the cave dwellings that formed part of the gravina wall.

‘Hello there,’ Zabat hollered, dropping his pack to the ground. ‘Hello, I say again.’

Froi heard Zabat’s voice echo over and over again throughout the gorge. Wonderful. The gods had found a way of multiplying the idiot’s voice.

‘Hello there!’ Zabat hollered again. And again the echo. ‘Hel-lo!’

‘Do you honestly believe I didn’t hear you the first time?’

Froi swung around to see a man stepping out from one of the caves. He had cold blue eyes, stark pale skin and the blackest of hair. He would have been no older than Trevanion and Perri, but was slight in build and limped with a staff in his left hand. He wore a coarse grey tunic that hung on his thin frame and loose frayed trousers that seemed to have seen better days. His shoes were no more than cowhide tied onto his feet. Rafuel had spoken little of Gargarin of Abroi except to say that he lived as a recluse, preferring his own company. Zabat held out a hand and Froi prepared to do the same. The Priestking had told Froi of the custom of shaking hands. In Lumatere, men embraced or held up a hand in gesture. In Sarnak, there was a bow of acknowledgement between people. Froi did not understand the shaking of a hand. He had seen it only once or twice in the most polite of circumstances. On his last night in the palace he had practised with Finnikin. It ended in an arm-wrestle that had them both rolling around Isaboe’s feet as she nursed Jasmina, murmuring to the Princess about the idiocy of men.

‘Sir Gargarin?’ Zabat questioned.

‘Just Gargarin.’ The voice was clipped and cool.

‘May I present to you, Olivier of Sebastabol.’

Froi held out a hand as Gargarin of Abroi turned to him. The man flinched, a quick expression of shock on his face. No, not shock. Horror. When Gargarin refused to take his hand, Froi let it fall to his side, biting back fury. He felt studied. Judged. Remember your bond, he told himself. That when you feel rage you count to ten. You don’t spit. You don’t pound a fist into the face of the other. Count to ten, Froi.

‘You’re from Sebastabol?’ Gargarin questioned, disbelief in his voice.

‘Yes, Sir.’ Both Zabat and Froi spoke at once. Had they already failed? Froi had imagined they would encounter problems at the hands of the palace riders in the Citavita. Instead, it seemed that this scholar with his cold stare had already seen through them.

‘Where are the rest of his guards?’ Gargarin asked, indicating Froi with a toss of his head.

‘It’s just me, Sir,’ Zabat said. ‘There has been a change in circumstances,’ he continued firmly. ‘The Provincaro of Sebastabol has sent word that I escort Olivier only this far. I’m to return as soon as possible.’

‘A change indeed,’ Gargarin said, eyeing them both suspiciously. ‘Why would a lastborn be sent into the palace with no guard?’

‘These are tense times, Sir. The Provincaro will be visiting the Citavita on the third week of this month for the day of weeping and he will need his guard.’

‘Last I heard, the Provincaro of Sebastabol was unable to travel to the Citavita for the day of weeping, and I’ve been to Sebastabol enough times to know that the Provincaro has more than one guard anyway. So what makes you so special, Zabat? Are you gods’ touched?’

Froi groaned. Another woeful tirade from his guide was sure to take place.

‘Olivier has a good understanding of swordplay,’ Zabat said. ‘And, frankly, I don’t think one has to be gods’ touched to be able to do everything these days. I’ve managed to get as far as I have without a talent to my name.’

Gargarin of Abroi stared at Froi. Zabat was already dismissed.

‘No lastborn has a good understanding of swordplay,’ Gargarin bit out. ‘The lastborns have been taught to keep out of harm’s way for no other reason but that Charyn cannot afford to lose them.’

‘I would like to think of myself as unique amongst lads,’ Froi said.

Too formal, idiot, he told himself.

There was no reply from Gargarin. Just the same penetrating stare.

‘We camp the night and leave first light,’ Gargarin said, walking back into the cave. ‘And if for some fool reason you are carrying weapons, heed my warning. They won’t let you past that drawbridge with so much as a toothpick.’

Froi made sure to keep his distance from the man who would act as Olivier of Sebastabol’s chaperone. He set up his bedroll outside, despite the cold night, preferring to sleep away from the others. When Zabat disappeared, off to relieve himself by the sounds and smell of things, Froi climbed up the path of stepping stones that would eventually lead to the top of the gravina. Close by, he found a large rock, more like a low narrow cave, its outside roof etched with the image of a fan bird. Froi removed the scabbard and short sword from across his shoulder and the two daggers at his sleeve. He took the Queen’s ruby ring from his pocket, but couldn’t bear to part with it and placed it back inside the hidden pouch of his trousers. He crawled on his belly and secured the weapons at the rim of the cave before crawling out again.

When Zabat returned, Froi was already by the stream. ‘He knows we are lying,’ Froi whispered. ‘Can we trust him?’

Zabat looked back at the cave dwelling that Gargarin had disappeared into. ‘Who knows? Those born with brains think they’re above the likes of us.’

‘I like to think I have a bit of a brain myself,’ Froi said.

Zabat ignored him. ‘Gargarin of Abroi was not just an architect, but one of the King’s advisors in the palace at the time of the godshouse attack eighteen years past. I don’t know which way he is aligned, but it doesn’t matter. He can get you into the palace.’

‘What else do you know about him? Rafuel didn’t go into much detail,’ Froi said.

‘All I know is that at the age of sixteen he was palace-bound at the same time that his Priestling brother was godshouse-bound. He was considered a genius, and at the age of twenty-five he disappeared and has not been seen in these parts for the past eighteen years.’

‘Why did he leave if he was so precious to the King?’

Zabat was silent for a moment. ‘His brother was the Priestling arrested for treason and imprisoned after the Oracle godshouse slaughter. Some say that Gargarin of Abroi was ashamed of his brother’s actions. They say he left the Citavita because he felt himself unworthy of the King’s respect. Whatever the reason, he was considered a traitor to the palace. Only now has he been allowed to return.’

‘And what do others say? Others such as Rafuel?’

‘Who knows what Rafuel believes?’ Zabat muttered. ‘There is much he doesn’t tell us.’

Froi knew he was going to receive another tirade of self-pity.

‘I need more than that,’ Froi snapped.

Zabat shook his head, refusing to respond. Froi stepped closer, threateningly. ‘If you’re going to send me with him to do Charyn’s dirty work, then have the decency to tell me what he’s capable of!’

‘He’s a hermit. Refuses to align himself to the provinces. But they all want Gargarin.’

‘They all want him?’ Froi asked with disbelief. ‘A cripple?’

‘Every single Provincaro in this land. He’s designed waterways and was the architect of a cistern system in the province of Paladozza that helped them during the years of no rain. He knows the history of this kingdom and this land better than any Priestling. Stranger still is the fact that he is not gods’ touched.’

‘How is it that he’s not aligned to a province?’

‘He was born in Abroi. A place that no province will claim as theirs. It’s a wretched village between Paladozza and Sebastabol. The people there have been breeding with each other for so long because no one else will have them. A favourite saying in the kingdom is that a sheep turd has more intelligence. The only things of worth that Abroi has ever produced are the twin brothers, Arjuro and Gargarin. One was gods’ touched, the other an architect. Inseparable for the first half of their lives, enemies ever since.’

Froi couldn’t help but shudder each time he heard the word Abroi. After what Rafuel had said to him, was it too much of a coincidence that Froi’s name shared the same sound as a Charyn backwater?

‘I’ve heard that the names of Charyn men rhyme with the place they were born,’ he lied, fishing for some sort of truth.

Zabat made a rude sound again. ‘Are you a fool? Do we look like Osterians? They need to rhyme everything so they can remember which goatherd village they come from? Karlo from Sumario. Florence from Torence. Tinker from Stinker.’

‘You’re making that up,’ Froi scoffed. ‘There’s no such place as Stinker.’

‘What would you know?’

‘The Sarnaks are worse,’ Froi said, relieved that he was no Froi from Abroi. ‘They like to blend two names into one.’

Zabat looked at him, questioningly.

‘Jocasto from Sprie?’ Froi tried.

Zabat thought for a moment. Shook his head.

‘Casprie,’ Froi responded.

‘Ridiculous.’

Froi tried not to agree. It had taken him years to work out the strange logic of Sarnak name games.

‘Lester of Haybon?’ Froi continued. ‘Go on. You’ll never guess.’ He enjoyed the look of stupidity on Zabat’s face as he tried to work it out.

‘Straybon,’ Froi explained.

Zabat scowled. ‘Give me another. I’m beginning to see the pattern.’

‘Ah yes, a pattern.’ Froi lied this time. ‘What if our man Straybon was from the town Fletcher? The Sarnaks wouldn’t want to waste three words ordering a bow and arrow, would they?’

Zabat was lost, his face twisting as he tried to work out the puzzle.

‘Stretcher,’ Froi announced.

Zabat shook his head with disbelief. Froi nodded, solemnly.

‘He’s making a fool of you,’ they heard a voice say behind them.

Froi leapt to his feet. Gargarin of Abroi’s eyes were drawn to where Froi’s hand had reached for a weapon that was no longer there. Their eyes met for a moment before the man limped towards the stream.

‘Do you believe his Priestling brother betrayed the Oracle to the Serkers?’ Froi asked quietly, watching Gargarin.

‘It’s dangerous to believe otherwise,’ Zabat muttered.

Early the next morning, Zabat woke him.

‘It’s time for me to go,’ he said.

Froi yawned, thrilled to be leaving him behind.

‘Are you clear on the instructions, Lumateran?’ Zabat whispered.

Froi nodded.

‘In Rafuel’s letter, he says that your captain has reassured him that the kills will be clean. We’re not savages. But it’s important they are dead.’

Froi was suddenly confused. He sat up, his back aching. He tried to clear his head from sleep. ‘They? You mean, “him”. The King.’

Zabat cast his eyes down.

‘And her.’

‘And who?’ Froi snapped. ‘Who is her?’

When Zabat didn’t answer, Froi snarled ferociously enough for the man to step back.

‘The King’s spawn,’ Zabat said.

Froi stared at the man. ‘The Princess Quintana?’

‘You are squeamish about killing a woman?’

‘It’s not part of my bond.’

‘She’s to die,’ Zabat whispered. ‘She cursed the kingdom.’

‘I said it’s not in my bond,’ Froi said firmly.

‘Then you misunderstood your bond. Do you honestly believe your queen wants Quintana the whore to live? After what her father the King ordered thirteen years ago, when he sent those assassins into Lumatere.’

Froi thought of Trevanion’s words. Not to bed the Princess, but to do what was to be done. Is this what he had meant?

‘Rafuel said nothing of –’

‘There are many who agree that Rafuel does not give orders,’ Zabat said.

They both turned at the sound of Gargarin of Abroi shuffling out of his cave house.

Zabat held up a hand in a wave. ‘I’m off now, Sir Gargarin,’ Zabat called out.

‘Devastating, to say the least,’ Gargarin muttered, looking up at the grey sky.

Zabat stared back down at Froi. ‘I will say it again, lad. You misunderstood your bond. Your queen and her consort want Quintana the cursemaker dead.’

Chapter 7

It took almost two days to climb the ravine to what was called Upper Charyn. It had taken longer because Froi was slowed down by Gargarin of Abroi’s limp and half-dead arm. Most of the time, Froi would reach higher ground and wait, taking in the walls of stone that seemed to close in on him from the opposite side. He understood flatlands. He understood forests and rivers and mountains, even rock villages. What he didn’t understand was how anyone would want to live in the base of a ravine, except for the purpose of fishing in a stream. But, then again, as he watched this half-crippled man tackle the climb, Froi was beginning to suspect that Gargarin of Abroi was no ordinary sane man.

The path up the gravina was marked with surprises. Stones that infrequently became steps to their destination would disappear into a backbreaking climb. Near the top, at its steepest point, Froi gripped a ledge and held a hand out to Gargarin, yanking him up by the cloth of his undershirt, dragging him over the jagged stone until they both lay face down, catching their breath.

‘You tore my shirt, idiot,’ Gargarin muttered, wincing from pain, his dark hair matted to his forehead.

‘Pity. Never seen a finer piece of woven cloth,’ Froi gasped.

When he stood, Froi was breathless to see the great depth they had left below. Up so high, the jagged walls of the gravina looked unrelentingly cruel and there seemed nothing to soften the greyness of the stone. But somehow Froi saw a beauty to it that was different from the monotony of the flatland that now surrounded him. At least caves and gorges brought an aspect of intrigue. Here in Upper Charyn, he was back in a world of unrelenting tufts of dull-brown grass, gnawed to its edges by overgrazing such as he had seen on the road from Alonso.

He watched Gargarin hobble to the side of the road and feel the dry earth in his hands. Moments later, Gargarin stood and threw the dirt to the ground in anger.

‘Idiots,’ he muttered. ‘Idiots.’

It was the only word Froi would hear for the rest of the day. They travelled in silence and Froi’s dislike for Gargarin of Abroi increased with every step the man stumbled.

That night they set up camp under a star-speckled sky, one that Froi felt he could almost reach out and touch. He’d not seen anything like it since his time with Finnikin, Isaboe, Trevanion and Sir Topher in the grasslands of Yutlind Sud. With Gargarin of Abroi sitting silently before him, he missed those moments of their journey more than ever.

‘Do you think it was the Serkers?’ he asked Gargarin abruptly when the silence almost forced him to break his bond and strangle his companion.

Gargarin looked up. Through the flickering flames, Froi could see there was no question in Gargarin’s eyes. He knew exactly what Froi was asking – whether it was the Serkers who had killed the Oracle Queen and Priestlings. He merely looked annoyed.

‘You’re bored, are you?’ Gargarin asked. ‘You don’t have Zabat to play word games with, so now you’re going to riddle me about the past?’

‘Actually I am bored and it’s not a riddle,’ Froi said. ‘It’s a question I have every right to ask if I’m going to travel to the Citavita and break a curse that began with the Serkers.’

Perhaps Gargarin of Abroi was bored as well because he chose to respond.

‘Pick a province that the rest of Charyn despised because of their arrogance, and use them as the scapegoats. Every kingdom needs a scapegoat for one reason or another. The Yuts have their southerners and the Lumaterans had their Forest Dwellers.’

Froi flinched to hear his homeland named.

‘The Forest Dwellers were murdered by … the man they refer to as the impostor King, the way I hear it,’ he muttered.

‘Because the Lumaterans allowed it to happen,’ Gargarin said flatly.

‘If you say the Serkers are scapegoats then you’re implying that the Serkers were not capable of brutality?’ Froi said.

‘I’m not implying that at all.’

‘The Provincari say –’

‘The Provincari will believe anything that will keep their provinces safe,’ Gargarin interrupted coldly. ‘Why would they want to believe anything else but that the Serkers murdered the Priestlings and tortured the Oracle? What’s the alternative? Believing the attack came from the palace?’

‘They’re dangerous words you speak, Sir Gargarin,’ Froi said.

‘Truth is dangerous and I’m not a Sir.’

The next morning they continued on the path that ran alongside the edge of the ravine. The walls of it had widened until Froi could barely see the other side. He felt as though he and Gargarin were the only two people left in the land, that at any moment they would topple off the edge of their world, never to be seen again.

Throughout the day, he tried again and again to make conversation with Gargarin, but the man refused to speak.

‘Did I do something to displease you in another life?’ he finally asked.

Gargarin continued walking. When Froi reached out and gripped his arm, Gargarin swung around, breaking free viciously and stumbling. Froi went to grab him and they both toppled to the ground. As they lay there a moment, Froi felt the man’s eyes bore into his. I know you, the stare seemed to say. I know the evil of your core.

‘I don’t care what you think of me, cripple!’ Froi said. ‘I answer to a more powerful bond. To people I respect.’

‘A bond? Men with bonds are controlled by the expectations of others,’ Gargarin said, his cold tone cutting. ‘Men with bonds are slaves.’

Froi jumped to his feet, counting again and again. ‘Be assured that once inside the palace I won’t breathe in your direction,’ he snarled.

‘Good to hear,’ Gargarin said, struggling to stand. ‘Because my promise to your Provincaro was that I would only escort you into the palace. I’ve given enough to this kingdom.’

The road to the capital dipped and rose and then dipped, and when it rose again, the Citavita appeared before them across a long narrow timber bridge. As Rafuel had promised, the walls of the ravine came into view again, mightier in height than Froi had seen on their journey so far. They travelled across the bridge of the Citavita, with its planks swinging and swaying. Through the mist, Froi saw a tower of uneven rock in the distance, but as they travelled closer he realised he was looking at a cluster of dwellings carved out of the stone, perched atop each other precariously as if about to spiral into the chasm below.

Against the dirty-coloured capital was the white of the castle. Froi saw turrets higher than any he had ever seen before. But looming even higher over the castle battlements was another rock.

‘What is that?’ Froi asked.

‘The Oracle’s godshouse,’ Gargarin responded.

‘What’s keeping it from toppling down?’ Froi asked, trying not to sound aghast, but aghast all the same.

He heard Gargarin of Abroi’s ragged breath. ‘That would be the gods.’

After they stepped off the bridge and onto the more solid ground of the Citavita, they began the steep climb up a winding road that wrapped around the rock of dwellings. Froi couldn’t tell where one home began and another ended and realised that the roofs of the houses were the actual path to the palace.

Lining the winding path, people worked silently selling their wares, but it was a cluster of men, their heads bent low in whispers, their eyes promising malevolence and spite, that Froi noticed the most. These men were no different from the street thugs he had answered to on the streets of the Sarnak capital. In Sarnak, these men had, in turn, answered to no one. Froi could tell that the Citavita’s street thugs were armed and he could have pointed out every concealed weapon. He itched for his own.

When they finally stood in front of the castle gates he understood why no one had ever entered uninvited. Isaboe’s castle in Lumatere was built to provide a home to the royal family. It was only recently that Finnikin and Sir Topher had sat with Trevanion and an architect from the Lumateran rock village to discuss the extra security measures required for their young family and their kingdom.

But this castle was built for defence. Froi stared up at the soldiers with their weapons trained on them. They stared down at him. Up close he could see the castle was built on its own rock, a fraction higher and separate from the rest of the Citavita. Although it was a narrow space between the portcullis and where they stood, there was no moat surrounding it, instead there was a drop into the gravina separating them that seemed to go on forever. Rafuel had given him a strange description of how the gravina narrowed in a serpentine fashion past the palace and godshouse of the Citavita.

‘Gargarin of Abroi?’ a voice rang out towards them.

Gargarin raised his hand in acknowledgement. The drawbridge began to descend across the space, stopping short of where Froi and Gargarin stood. Once on the bridge, it was a short but steep climb up to the gate. On each side a thick braided rope provided a place to grip firmly. Gargarin’s staff fell to the steel beneath their feet and he struggled once, then twice, to retrieve it.

Waiting for them at the gate stood a man of Gargarin’s years, his hair longish around the ears, his mottled skin covered with a coarse, fair beard. He was all forced smile and Froi caught a gleam of pleasure in his eyes as Gargarin continued to struggle for his staff.

Froi picked it up instead.

‘Put your arm around my shoulder,’ Froi ordered, and for the first time since they had met, Gargarin didn’t argue. Froi wondered what it did to a man of Gargarin’s age to be hobbling like an old man.

‘Welcome back, Abroi’s Gargarin,’ the man at the portcullis greeted. There was mockery in the way he spoke the words. Froi remembered what Zabat had said. That Abroi had produced nothing of worth but Gargarin and his brother, the Priestling. Perhaps this man’s words were a reminder to Gargarin of where he came from.

‘May I present to you, Olivier, lastborn of Sebastabol. Olivier, Bestiano of Nebia, the King’s First Advisor.’

Froi held out a hand. But Bestiano’s attention was already drawn back to Gargarin. Lastborns seemed insignificant to the King’s Advisor.

‘The King wept when I told him the news, Gargarin. That the brilliant one who left us too soon is back in our midst.’

‘When one hears there is a price on their head, they tend to feel quite uninvited,’ Gargarin said politely.

Bestiano made a scoffing sound. ‘You exaggerate.’

Gargarin held up the scrolls. ‘I come bearing gifts. Perhaps my way of buying forgiveness for my long absence.’

‘Only you would consider words on parchment a gift,’ Bestiano said smoothly. ‘Eighteen years is a long time. You may have to offer him your firstborn if you truly want his forgiveness. Or your brother.’

Froi watched Gargarin stumble, saw the flicker of emotion on his face.

‘Then it’s true that he has returned to these parts?’ Gargarin asked flatly. They entered the barbican and, up above, Froi saw at least ten soldiers standing beside the murder holes just as Rafuel had described. On the ground, four soldiers approached and searched them thoroughly. Froi noticed they were more careful with Gargarin. They studied his staff and patted his entire body.

‘I could bend over if you prefer,’ Gargarin said, his voice cool, staring at one of the men. ‘Perhaps you weren’t thorough enough.’

Froi was beginning to feel better about Gargarin. The man seemed to dislike everyone, not just him.

Bestiano led them into a bustling courtyard, past the barracks where soldiers trained with practice swords. Two men carrying large vats pushed past them and disappeared into a doorway to their left. Froi imagined it must lead to the cellar, according to the sketches Rafuel had shown him in Lumatere. There was bellowing from kitchen staff – between the cook and one of the serving girls by the sounds of things – and when Froi wasn’t competing with servants for space, or tripping over the young man sweeping the courtyard grounds and the not-so-young page handing Bestiano a message, he found himself surrounded by livestock.

‘Your brother took up residence in the Oracle’s godshouse a year ago and refuses to meet with the King,’ Bestiano said, watching Gargarin closely. ‘It is the King’s greatest desire that there is peace between the palace and the godshouse after all this time. It’s what the people of the Citavita want.’

‘What’s stopping you or the King from entering the godshouse and dragging my brother out? It’s not as though you haven’t done it before.’

It was a taunt and despite Froi’s short hostile history with Gargarin, he was intrigued.

‘Let’s just say that the King has become a superstitious man and our only surviving Priestling is not to be touched. The King is frightened of consequences from the gods.’

Gargarin’s laugh was humourless. ‘From what I know of the gods, they seem quite considerate and only send one curse to a kingdom at a time.’

Bestiano forced another smile. ‘From what I know of your brother, no one can irritate the gods more.’

Despite the politeness, the tension between the two men was strong. Froi would have liked nothing more than to see where it would take them, but his attention was drawn towards a figure standing half-concealed at the entrance of the first tower to their left. Her tangled hair was so long it seemed to weigh her down, forcing her to raise her head when peering.

Bestiano shushed her away with an irritated hand, before turning back to Froi and Gargarin. ‘It’s best that you go to your chamber before dinner.’

The King’s First Advisor walked away and they followed a guard into the first tower where the girl had disappeared. Froi saw her again, looking down from the stairwell, but each time they climbed closer to her, she would turn and disappear.

When they reached the second floor, they followed the guard down a dank narrow corridor until he stopped at the first of two doors.

‘Yours,’ the guard said.

‘Mine?’ Both Gargarin and Froi said at once, exchanging looks.

‘Both of yours.’

‘Both?’

They stared at each other again. Froi couldn’t imagine that his expression was any less horrified than Gargarin’s.

‘There’s been a mistake,’ Gargarin said, patiently.

‘No mistake, Sir.’

Gargarin made no attempt to enter the room. Instead he studied the ornate design of the timber door, a bitter smile on his face.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked the guard.

‘Dorcas, Sir.’

Dorcas would have been around Rafuel’s age. He had a look Froi knew only too well. The look that said he understood nothing if it was not spoken as an order.

‘Well, Dorcas, I think it’s best that you place us in separate chambers and I’d prefer not to have this one,’ Gargarin said.

‘Not my decision to make, Sir.’

‘Bestiano’s idea, I suppose?’ Gargarin asked, and Froi heard a quiet fury in the question.

‘My orders are to take you to this room, Sir. Both of you.’

Dorcas walked away and Froi waited for Gargarin to enter the room.

‘Bad memories?’ Froi asked.

Gargarin ignored him and finally reached out to open the door. ‘It’s not your place to ask questions that don’t concern you. It’s your place to do what you’ve come here to do.’

‘And what is it, according to Gargarin of Abroi, that I have come to do?’

The cold blue eyes found Froi’s. ‘If you want a demonstration I would advise you to go down to stables and watch what the serving girls get up to with the farriers.’

Gargarin entered the room and Froi followed. It was small, with one bed in the centre, doors leading outside to a balconette and nothing else. Froi hated being cold and couldn’t imagine a guest room in Isaboe’s palace without a giant fireplace and rugs warming the chamber. Gargarin poked under the bed with his staff and pulled out a straw trundle mattress.

‘You take the bed.’

‘No, you take the bed,’ Froi said. ‘I do have a conscience, you know.’

‘And I prefer to sleep on the floor,’ Gargarin snapped. ‘So plunge that fact into your conscience and allow it to rotate for a while. Until it hurts.’

Froi walked to the doors that opened to the balconette. Across the narrow stretch of the gravina, the outer wall of the Oracle’s godshouse tilted towards them.

‘Is it that they don’t like me or that they don’t like you?’ Froi called to Gargarin inside.

Beside their own balconette was another that belonged to the room next door. After a moment the girl with the mass of awful hair stepped out onto it. She peered at Froi, almost within touching distance. Up close she was even stranger looking and it was with an unabashed manner that she studied him now and with great curiosity. Her brow furrowed, a cleft on her chin so pronounced it was as if someone had spent their life pointing out her strangeness. Her hair was a filthy mess almost reaching her waist. It was straw-like in texture and Froi imagined that if it were washed, it might be described as a darker shade of fair. But for now, it looked dirty, its colour almost indescribable.

She squinted at his appraisal. Froi squinted back.

Gargarin appeared beside him and the girl disappeared.

‘I’m presuming that was the Princess,’ Froi said. ‘She’s plain enough. What is it with all the twitching? Is she possessed by demons?’

‘Lower your voice,’ Gargarin said sharply.

‘Does she know what they think of her out in the provinces?’ Froi continued. ‘That she’s a useless empty vessel and that they call her a whore?’

After a moment the girl peered out from her room again.

‘Well, if she didn’t before, she certainly does now,’ Gargarin muttered.

That night, the great hall was set up with three trestle tables joined together to accommodate at least sixty of the King’s relatives and advisors. Froi had met most of the advisors, each titled according to their rank.

‘Why would you want to be the King’s Eighth Advisor?’ he said to Gargarin, as they were escorted to their chair by the King’s Seventh Advisor.

‘Once upon a time Bestiano was the King’s Tenth Advisor,’ Gargarin replied. ‘If you stay long enough, you get rewarded.’

‘And what were you back then?’ Froi asked.

‘A fool,’ Gargarin said flatly. ‘With a bond.’

Froi was placed beside the strange Princess, who was dressed in the most hideous pink taffeta dress, bunched up in all the wrong places.

‘Good evening, Aunt Mawfa,’ she called out, her voice indignant where indignance wasn’t required. ‘Good evening, Cousin Robson.’

No one responded to her greetings. Most belonged to what Finnikin would have called the vacuous nobility, and droned on and on about absolutely nothing worthwhile.

Froi was hungry and before him were steaming platters of roasted peacock, salted fish, pastries stuffed with pigeon meat and the softest cheese he had ever tasted. He had been warned about the flatbread of Charyn and watched the way the others gathered their food with it.

But what caught his attention was most people’s reaction to Gargarin. He seemed to be the man everyone wanted to speak to.

‘Interesting talk in Paladozza, Sir Gargarin, of the Provincaro’s plans to dig up his meadows to capture rain,’ one man called out from the head of their table.

‘Not a Sir,’ Gargarin corrected, ‘and not so strange at all. I was disheartened to see the outer regions of the Citavita today. I drew up plans for water catchment here long ago, yet they seemed to have gone astray,’ he continued, his attention on the King’s First Advisor.

‘Would you contemplate visiting Jidia to speak to the Provincara Orlanda when you leave here?’ another asked.

‘No, he’s to visit Paladozza this winter,’ a man spoke up from the end of their table. ‘Is it not what you promised the Provincaro, Gargarin?’

‘Indeed.’

Gargarin kept his head down. Something told Froi that Gargarin was making no plans to go anywhere. The talking had caught Bestiano’s attention and he watched Gargarin carefully. Enviously? Was Gargarin a threat to Bestiano’s role as the King’s First Advisor? Gargarin hardly noticed. Once or twice, Froi caught Gargarin looking at the strange Princess Quintana, while the Princess blatantly stared in turn at Froi throughout the entire meal, with little apology or bashfulness.

As Rafuel had explained, the Charynites gathered their food with soft breads to soak up the juices and wipe their plates clean. The Princess chose to share Froi’s plate. Froi liked his food all to himself, it came from years of having to fight for his own. Worse still, the Princess made a mess around the dish. Her hair fell into the plate often and Froi was forced to flick its filthy strands away more than once. She resorted to leaning over to grab pudding from the plate of a whining duke who had called the servant over four times already to fill his cup of ale, complaining in a loud whisper that there was wine as per usual on the other side, but not theirs. When Quintana spilled food for the umpteenth time the Duke of Who-Cares-Where grabbed his cup and slammed it hard on the table, catching the tips of her fingers. ‘Beastly child.’

Bestiano excused himself from where he sat and walked down to them, tugging the Princess by the sleeve of her dress. ‘Perhaps you can show Olivier to your chamber,’ he hissed. ‘Make yourself useful rather than making people sick to their stomach, Quintana.’

One of the women tittered, putting a hand on Gargarin’s shoulder. ‘She’s no more useful in the bed chamber.’

Gargarin moved his shoulder away.

The Princess smoothed down the creases in the awful gown and stood, beckoning with a gesture for Froi to follow. Froi stared at the food before him, reluctant to leave it behind.

‘Good night to all,’ she called out. No one looked up except for Gargarin, and the noise of the big hall continued as though she had never spoken.

The Princess continued her farewells down the shadowy narrow passageway lit only by one or two fire torches that revealed a guard in every dark crevice.

‘Good night, Dorcas.’

‘Good night, Fekra.’

‘Good night, Fodor.’

Some muttered under their breath. No one responded. But she greeted them all the same.

Froi used the time to take in the various nooks and crannies and count each guard he passed.

When they reached their quarters, Quintana stood at his door and waited. He wondered if she was expecting him to perform tonight.

‘I’m very tired,’ he said. He yawned for effect.

‘Do you not have something to tell us, Olivier of Sebastabol?’ she asked in an indignant whisper.

He tried to think of what he should say. Was there something Rafuel had left out in his instructions?

‘Perhaps tomorrow we can go for a walk down to the Citavita,’ he said pleasantly. Dismissively. ‘How about that?’

She shook her head. ‘We prefer not to leave the palace.’

‘We?’ Froi asked, curiously, looking around. ‘We who?’

After a moment she pointed to herself.

‘What’s the worst that can happen if we go for a walk around the Citavita?’ he asked.

‘We could come across assassins, of course,’ she said, as though surprised he wouldn’t think of such a thing.

‘Of course.’

She studied his face for a moment.

‘How is it that you don’t know much, Olivier of Sebastabol?’

He shook his head, ruefully. ‘Exhaustion turns one into a fool.’ He bowed. ‘If not a walk around the Citavita tomorrow, then a walk around the palace walls will have to do.’

He shut the door on her before she could say another word.

Early the next morning a sound from outside the room alerted Froi. The mattress below was empty and from where he lay, he could see out onto the balconette where the sun had just begun to creep up. There Gargarin stood, staring across the gravina. Froi couldn’t see much in the poor light, but when he looked across towards the godshouse he saw the outline of a man on the balconette opposite and suspected it was Gargarin’s brother. A moment later, Gargarin turned and hobbled back inside.

As Gargarin stood at the basin and splashed water onto his face, Froi stepped outside, curious about the Priestling. He marvelled once again at how the godshouse could sit so high on a piece of tilted granite, promising to plunge towards them at any time. Froi went to turn away, but suddenly he felt ice-cold fingers travel down his spine. He swung around, his hand grabbing at the fingers, and saw that it was the Princess, leaning over the cast-iron of her balconette and reaching towards him, standing on the tip of her toes.

Her stare was cold and it made him flinch, but he saw fear and wonder there, too.

‘You are indeed the lastborn,’ she said, her tone abrupt. No indignation now. ‘It’s written all over you.’

Froi didn’t respond. He could only stare at her. It seemed as though he was facing a completely different girl. She had the same dirty-coloured hair and eyes, but her stare was savage.

‘You’ll have to come to our chamber this night,’ she said.

Froi could have sworn he heard her snarl in disgust at the thought before she turned and disappeared into her room.

‘Our?’ he questioned, and for the first time since he had left Lumatere, Froi wondered what he had got himself into.

The day went from bad to worse. Gargarin of Abroi was in a wretched mood and they almost came to blows over an ink pot that Froi spilled on the man’s papers. Not that it was Froi’s fault. If it wasn’t Gargarin’s staff tripping Froi, it was his scrolls and quills laying everywhere, or his muttering filling the small space of their chamber.

‘Let’s make a pact, Gargarin. I keep completely out of this room today and every second day, and you do the same on the other days.’

‘What are you waiting for?’ Gargarin said, without looking up from his work.

Froi spent the rest of the morning avoiding the Princess, who had returned to being the indignant girl who had escorted him to his room the night before. Everywhere Froi turned, the Princess was there. Peering. Staring. Squinting. At every corner. From every height. It almost became a game of him watching her watching him.

Later that day he hovered around the well, which seemed the perfect place for talking rot and finding out vital information from people whose ancestors had spent too much time breeding with each other. The King’s very simple cousin, for example, pointed out that the tower Froi could see from where he was standing was the prison and currently held only one prisoner. ‘The rest of the scum are kept in dungeons close to the bridge of the Citavita,’ the man explained.

‘And the King?’ Froi asked.

‘We try not to refer to him as scum out loud,’ the cousin whispered.

‘No, I mean, where is he kept?’ Froi said.

The King’s cousin shrugged. ‘I’ve not seen him since the last day of weeping.’

Froi looked around hastily, not wanting to be obvious about his scrutiny. There were five towers as well as the keep. He had seen the Duke of Who-Cares-Where walk into the keep and knew for certain that if the man didn’t get wine at his table then there was no possible way he slept in the same compound as the King. So apart from the tower Froi shared with Gargarin and the Princess opposite the godshouse, and the prison tower alongside of theirs, that left the third, fourth and fifth towers as possible locations for the man Froi was sent to assassinate. He knew that if he could get up to one of the battlements, he’d at least have a better view of the entire fortress. But as he excused himself from the King’s cousin, he walked into Dorcas.

‘Just the person I was looking for,’ Dorcas said, full of self-importance. ‘I have a message.’

‘For me?’

‘The banker of Sebastabol is passing through on a visit to Osteria,’ Dorcas advised. ‘He would like a word. Apparently your families are acquainted.’

Froi’s heart began to thump against his chest. Less than a day in the palace and his lie was about to be discovered.

‘Did you hear me?’ Dorcas asked.

‘You mean Sir … Roland is here? In the Citavita?’

‘Sir Berenson,’ Dorcas corrected, his eyes narrowing.

‘Oh, you mean Sir Berenson the banker, and not Sir Roland the baker?’

‘Since when is a baker a Sir?’ Dorcas asked.

‘In my father’s eyes, he is,’ Froi said, nodding emphatically. ‘ “Yes, yes, that man deserves a title,” Father says, every time my mother comes home with a loaf.’

Dorcas didn’t seem interested in stories about bakers. But Dorcas was intent on following instructions.

‘He’s in Lady Mawfa’s sitting room in the third tower,’ Dorcas said. ‘Run along.’

‘The third tower?’ Froi asked, eliminating it as the King’s residence. He had watched Lady Mawfa the night before whispering gossip to anyone who came close to her. He couldn’t imagine the King sharing his residence with such a parrot.

‘Are you sure it’s not the fourth tower?’ Froi tried. ‘Didn’t you say he was visiting the King?’

‘I didn’t say that at all,’ Dorcas said, irritated. ‘And he won’t be staying for long, so run along, I say.’

Froi had to think fast. Dorcas wasn’t moving until he did and the Princess Indignant had just revealed herself from behind the well, beckoning Froi with an impatient hand. Then he heard the tapping of Gargarin’s staff and looked up to see the man limping towards the steps of their tower. Froi took his chance.

‘The proud fool,’ he said to Dorcas, clucking his tongue and shaking his head. ‘I’ve told him again and again to rest. Gargarin!’ Froi called out, before running towards him. He reached Gargarin halfway up the steps to their chamber and placed an arm around his waist to assist him, despite the fact that Gargarin neither wanted nor needed help.

‘What are you doing?’ Gargarin growled, trying to pull away. They both balanced unsteadily on the spiral steps.

‘I’m here, nothing to worry about,’ reassured Froi loudly, waving Dorcas away as the guard approached, looking slightly concerned.

‘Do you need assistance, Sir?’ Dorcas asked Gargarin.

‘Did I ask for it?’

‘No Sir,’ Dorcas said.

Regardless, Froi dragged a fuming Gargarin up the rest of the steps, causing them both to trip forward. Froi turned back to Dorcas, mouthing, ‘Too proud,’ rolling his eyes and shrugging haplessly. ‘I’ll take care of this, Dorcas.’

Dorcas watched them for a moment, holding up a hand of acknowledgement to Gargarin, whose teeth were gritted. When Dorcas descended the steps, Gargarin struggled to pull free of Froi with a fury that almost had them both tumbling down.

‘Are you an idiot?’ Gargarin hissed. ‘Let go of me now.’

‘You look pale. Let me just get you to our chamber,’ Froi said. So I can avoid seeing Sir Berenson the banker, he added to himself.

‘I was born pale! I’ll die pale!’

At the top of the steps, Gargarin finally broke free and hobbled away.

‘I thought the room was mine for the day,’ he said, as Froi followed him to the chamber.

‘A decision I regretted the moment I left the room,’ Froi said. ‘I can’t bear the idea of you staggering around tomorrow with nowhere to go.’

Gargarin stared at him coldly. ‘A decision I have not regretted agreeing to. Go. Away.’

Froi spent the rest of the day in the stables avoiding the Princess, the banker of Sebastabol and Dorcas. As Gargarin had predicted, he was given a lesson or two by the stable hand and scullery maid about mating, as well as picking up a few choice words that the Priestking hadn’t covered when he taught him the language of Charyn.

When he arrived back at his room that night, feeling anything but amorous himself, the Princess was standing outside her chamber. Waiting. The cold stare was back.

‘You are certain you have nothing to tell the Reginita?’ she asked sharply.

‘The who?’ he asked.

She thought for a moment, her mouth twisting to the side. It was the strangest type of contemplation he had ever seen. She was waiting for something and Froi couldn’t understand what.

Unimpressed, the Princess beckoned him into her room with an arrogant wave of her hand. Her chamber, much like Froi’s and Gargarin’s, was simple, with a bed in the centre and no fireplace in sight.

She began to undo the hooks that fastened her dress.

‘Perhaps we started off on the wrong foot,’ Froi said. ‘I don’t want this week –’

She stopped for a moment. Squinted. ‘A week? What needs to be done should only take one night.’

What needs to be done.

Froi would need more than a night to understand the intricacies of this palace and to do what he was sent to do.

‘And here I was becoming so attached to your sweet disposition.’ He beat his breast with pitiful exaggeration. ‘If I go tomorrow, I’ll never have a chance to know you.’

Her brow furrowed, as though she didn’t quite comprehend him. Despite it all, he didn’t want to be cruel. If he was to do what he was sent to do, he didn’t want to feel anything, even hatred or dislike. But he pitied her. The way she spoke about herself as if she was another. The way her court dismissed her. Isaboe of Lumatere was loved. Adored. Isaboe knew who she was even when she took the name Evanjalin for all those years.

‘You’re not what we expected,’ she said, and there was disappointment in her voice. ‘They promised us more.’

There was something so strangely matter-of-fact in the way she spoke. Froi fought hard not to react and choked out a laugh.

‘They?’ he asked. ‘Bestiano and your father?’

She stepped out of the dress and pulled off her slippers, leaving her in only a white cotton shift that reached her knees.

Froi pulled the shirt over his head, inwardly rehearsing what he would tell her. How his inadequacy prevented him from planting the seed.

She stopped undressing for a moment, confused. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked. ‘You don’t need to remove your shirt.’ She indicated his trousers, pointing a finger.

This time, Froi sighed and made an exaggerated show of untying the string around his trousers while she lay down, raising her white nightdress to the top of her thighs, but no further.

Froi shucked his trousers and knelt on the bed. Buy time, Froi, he told himself. His hand travelled up her legs, his fingers gentle. She pushed them away, and there was that unrelenting stare again.

‘Do you not know what to do, fool?’

‘I know exactly what to do,’ he bristled.

‘Then be done with it. Hands are not required.’

‘Should your pleasure not be part of it?’

‘Pleasure.’ She shuddered. ‘What a strange word to use under such circumstances. We’re swiving, fool.’

‘That’s a filthy mouth you have there, Princess.’

She caught his eye. ‘Don’t tell me you’re a romantic,’ she said. ‘What would you like to call it? Making love?’

‘I just want to make it easier,’ he said, honestly. ’It’s not in me to be tender and I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘I’m not looking for tenderness,’ she said, turning her head to the side. ‘Just haste, and if your mouth or fingers come near me again, I’ll cut them off.’

But Froi could only remember his bond to Isaboe. You never take a woman if she doesn’t invite you to her bed, Froi. During the years it had changed to, I’ll never bed a woman again, my queen. He had wanted her to know that the bond came from his free will and not her order. Although this moment with the Princess was sanctioned, he felt like a demon.

‘I can’t continue if it’s not what you desire,’ he said, quietly, wanting her to turn back to look at him.

‘What has desire to do with it?’ she asked, cold fury in her voice. ‘If you would prefer a moment to conjure up passion, I’ll turn my back and you can use your hand on yourself and think of another.’

Froi spluttered with disbelief.

He stalled again, placing a hand gently on her thigh, and for a moment he saw wonder in her eyes. Until he realised that the wonder came from whatever lay above him. He twisted his head to see her holding up a hand to make the image of a bird on the shadowed ceiling.

And he knew he couldn’t go through with the mating. If he was going to do what he was sent here to do, he couldn’t feel pity or compassion or even desire. Not that he felt desire. How could he with this squinting ball of hair? Froi knew what desire felt like. He fought it daily. His bond to Lumatere was to rid them of the enemy, not to bed their abomination, their curse, their despised princess. He regretted not asking Trevanion what he meant by the words, What needs to be done. What did he mean for Froi to do to the Princess?

‘Begin,’ she said, turning back to look at him, and when he shook his head, she slapped him hard across the face. In an instant he had her body straddled, trapping it between his legs.

‘I’m not a whore and nor are you,’ he hissed, ‘so don’t treat us so. And next time we do this, I’d like a bit more involvement from you, Princess. I don’t like to feel as though I’m swiving a corpse.’

He saw the snarl curl her lips and the base savage inside of him was excited by the burning malevolence he saw in her eyes. But he leapt out of the bed, pulling on his trousers and slamming the door behind him. Bestiano stepped out of the shadow.

‘Is it done?’ he asked.

‘No. I’ll have to return to see her tomorrow.’

The next morning, Froi watched a party of men on horseback ride out of the courtyard and prayed the banker from Sebastabol was amongst them. When he thought he was safe he ventured to breakfast, starving from having missed out on food the night before.

‘Sir Berenson was disappointed to have left without seeing you.’ Quintana was at his shoulder the moment he walked in. She was wearing the same awful pink dress that she had worn the first time he saw her, and every other time, come to think of it. Froi decided it was either her favourite dress or the only dress she owned. The latter was ridiculous for a royal, so he settled on the former. It was obvious she had bad taste. She was back to being the Princess Indignant, all earnestness and incessant talking. It actually relieved him to see her in this mood.

‘Sir Berenson left?’ he asked, looking around the room for the best candidate to sit beside. Perhaps Lady Mawfa with all her gossip would be helpful to him today. ‘Already? Without so much as a goodbye?’

‘He said he asked for you all night,’ Quintana said, indignantly.

‘I searched for him high and low.’ Froi feigned a hurt expression. ‘It’s always the same,’ he said, searching for an audience. ‘Despite being a lastborn I will never receive the same respect as my cousin. If I were Vassili, rest assured Sir Berenson would have made the effort to find me.’

Froi was placed opposite an elderly cousin of the King, who picked at the dry pieces of skin between his fingers and put them on the table beside Froi. Next to Froi were Gargarin and Quintana, who insisted once again on stealing food from his plate. He slapped her hand away more than once.

‘Do you have something to tell us?’ she whispered in his ear.

Froi gritted his teeth. He didn’t know what part of her he disliked more. The cold viper or this annoyance.

Suddenly he felt Bestiano’s attention from the head table. ‘What are you both whispering about?’ the King’s First Advisor asked.

Froi pointed to himself, questioningly. ‘I was just wanting to say how becoming the Princess looks in that gown. The colour is perfect for her complexion,’ he lied.

Her response was a shocked squint. She tilted her head to the side in confusion, as though contemplating whether Froi’s words were a compliment.

‘Quintana,’ Bestiano called out. ‘One responds to a flattering remark.’

The Princess seemed wary. ‘We’re not the recipient of many compliments, my lord, so we’re unsure about its sincerity.’

There was no bite in her tone. Just confusion. Froi realised too late that he had picked the wrong person to play with, and was beginning to feel uncomfortable about what he had started.

Gargarin of Abroi kicked him under the table as a warning.

‘Say thank you, Quintana!’ Bestiano barked.

‘We cannot offer thanks, because I doubt Olivier’s earnestness,’ she said. There was anxiety in her voice, as though she didn’t know what to do under the circumstances.

‘Say, thank you,’ Bestiano repeated.

‘It’s not necessary,’ Froi said. ’It was an attempt at humour between us and –’

‘Say. Thank you!’

The room was suddenly quiet. The Princess was trembling, but shook her head and spoke as though rehearsing a speech. ‘We only say thanks if we feel gratitude and the Reginita does not believe –’

A fist came down on the main table. Froi saw her close her eyes and flinch.

‘Enough of the Reginita.’

Froi watched as Bestiano made his way towards their end of the table. Froi stood to step in the man’s way, but Gargarin pulled him back into his seat just as Bestiano dragged Quintana out of her chair by her hair and pushed her out of the room.

‘It has a greater effect on morale when the girl takes her meals in her chamber,’ Froi heard one of the ladies say. The others went back to their breakfast as though the incident had never taken place.

‘Are you happy now?’ Gargarin asked, quietly furious.

With a shaking hand, Froi picked up his tea and drank.

A little while later, he walked to her chamber, practising a sincere attempt to make amends. If he wanted to know more about her father’s whereabouts he’d have to try to make things right with her. A part of him also felt guilt. He imagined that Bestiano had the authority to give her a blasting worse than any Froi received from Perri. But when he arrived at her chamber, the door was locked.

‘Princess,’ he said, knocking. ‘Your Highness. Open up, I know you’re in there.’

There was no response. Froi entered the chamber he shared with Gargarin and opened the doors, walking out onto the balconette. It was a short distance between the two chambers and despite the depth of the gravina, it was an easy jump. Froi climbed onto the wrought iron of his balconette and leapt, landing comfortably on hers.

He looked inside the room, his hands ready to knock at the glass.

But he recoiled in horror.

Later, when he couldn’t get the image out of his mind, he tried to work out what had made him sickest. Was it the way Bestiano would trap her hand in his grip, stopping her from making shapes in the nonexistent shadows over his head? She didn’t look as though she was struggling, but there was something dead in her eyes, so unlike the squints and inquisition or the coldness that had followed Froi around since he first stepped foot in the palace.

He turned away, taking deep breaths of air.

Across the gravina in the godshouse, he saw someone standing at the window. But a moment later the man was gone.

Chapter 8

What would Lucian’s father have done? About Orly’s prized bull? And the Mont lads running riot? And the Charynites in the valley? And the wife he sent back? And the fact that everyone in the kingdom had an opinion of what Lucian of the Monts was doing wrong? What would he have done about the loneliness that woke Lucian each day before dawn?

Except this morning, when it was Orly’s neighbours who woke Lucian before daybreak to tell him about the bull running riot across the mountain.

‘Every night, Lucian. Every single night that blasted idiot of a bull gets out, and if I see it again, I’ll kill it,’ Pascal said when Lucian managed to pull the animal out of Pascal’s wife’s rose garden.

‘You’ll do no such thing, Pascal,’ Lucian said with much patience. ‘I’ll speak to Orly.’

Splattered with mud and bleary-eyed, Lucian dragged the bull back to Orly.

‘Do you honestly think I wouldn’t check and recheck the latch each night, Lucian?’ Orly said, as they studied the pen to determine how the bull could have escaped. ‘Do you honestly think this bull stood on his hind legs and unlatched the gate himself? Find the culprit and lock him up with that Charynite, or I’ll find him myself and cut off his legs so he’ll be running away from me on his stumps.’

‘You’ll do no such thing, Orly,’ Lucian said, looking from owner to bull. They strongly resembled each other and Lucian didn’t want to cross either of them. He waved to Orly’s wife, Lotte, hoping to make a dash for it, but Lotte wanted to stop and talk.

‘He’s awfully precious about that bull, Lucian,’ she said with a sniff, as they stood outside the cottage watching Orly sing soothing words to the bull. ‘He won’t even allow my Gert to breed with his Bert. Enough is enough, I tell him.’

Gert was Lotte’s cow and Lucian knew this because when both cow and bull went missing they would hear, ‘Gert, Bert, Gert, Bert,’ hollered in a singsong through the mountains at any time of the morning; Lotte’s high-pitched Gert followed by Orly’s grunting Bert.

‘Honest to our precious goddess, Lucian, if he doesn’t change his ways I’m going to pack up my things and go and live with your yata.’

‘You’ll do no such thing, Lotte,’ he said. ‘Orly wouldn’t know what to do without you.’

‘Fix this, darling boy,’ Yata said later, handing him a mug of hot tea. ‘Because if Lotte comes to live with me, I’ll pack up my things and move down into the valley with Tesadora and the Charynites.’

‘You’ll do no such thing, Yata.’

‘You know what I say,’ Pitts the cobbler said, as Lucian handed him a pair of boots to mend. Pitts waited for Lucian’s response and despite the fact that Lucian didn’t think a response was required, he responded all the same.

‘What do you say, Pitts?’

‘I say, it’s one of those thieving, stinking, gods-less Charynites down in that valley. Round them up, I say, and I’ll fix them all for you.’

‘I’ll do no such thing, Pitts,’ Lucian sighed. ‘And I think they have more gods than we can poke a stick at.’

Then there was the matter of the lads who snuck down the mountain half the night and were too tired to work for their ma and fa most the day. Lucian faced them all that afternoon and tried to look stern.

‘We want to keep an eye on Tesadora and the girls,’ his cousin Jory said. He was fourteen years old this spring, a thickset lad with a stubborn frown and the leader of the lads.

‘And what is it you do down there?’ Lucian asked. Jory was his favourite, and showed great promise as a fighter.

‘Make sure they don’t come up here and rape our women because theirs are so ugly,’ another cousin said, and the lads laughed.

‘Men don’t rape women because their women are ugly,’ cousin Jostien said, but there was a protest at his words. ‘That’s what my fa said! He says that inside their hearts and spirits they are nothing but little men who need to feel powerful.’

‘I’ll tell you what else about Charynite men is little,’ another called out and they all tried to outdo each other with their boasts about their own big ‘swords of honour’.

There was something about the lads and their words that made Lucian feel uneasy, but lads were lads and he walked away, firmly reminding them that work was not going to be done with all of them standing around.

Most days he went to see the Charynite, Rafuel. A calmer man he had never encountered, despite the circumstances of his imprisonment.

‘Can I at least have something to read?’ the Charynite asked.

‘Strangely, we don’t have many Charynite books on the mountain,’ Lucian said, sarcasm lacing his voice. ‘And we’re not here to make your life more comfortable.’

Usually he checked the prisoner’s shackles for infection around his wrist and ankle.

‘You don’t have someone else to do this?’ Rafuel asked. ‘One would think a Mont leader had better things to do.’

‘A Mont leader does have better things to do,’ Lucian murmured, not looking up from his task, ‘but every man and woman on this mountain who volunteers to check your shackles is usually armed with a dagger and my queen is very particular about who gets the pleasure of stringing you up if Froi doesn’t return, Charynite.’

And then it was late afternoon and the day had passed with nothing really being accomplished. That was Lucian’s problem. It’s what plagued his thoughts as he travelled to check on Tesadora and the girls. Lucian hadn’t spent three years failing. He had spent three years accomplishing nothing.

But the journey down the mountain calmed him, despite his day. As a child, Lucian had travelled with Saro to the closest Charynite province of Alonso no more than three times, but the valley between them had always fascinated him. Lucian caught sight of the gorge below. On the side where the mountain met the stream was woodland and a world that looked easily like Lumatere. But on the other side of the stream was a strange landscape of caves perched high. Thousands of years ago, when there were no such things as kingdoms named Lumatere and Charyn, travellers from Sendecane had settled here and carved their homes out of the granite made soft by rainwater over the ages.

But then for hundreds upon hundreds of years the valley was uninhabited. The settlers either moved west to Lumatere or east to Charyn. Because the stream belonged to the mountains, the valley was said to belong to Lumatere and the boundary between both kingdoms was determined further downstream where the water became a trickle.

In the accounts collected by Tesadora and the girls in their chronicles, most of the cave dwellers claimed they had once belonged to the smaller provinces of Charyn. These provinces had all but been destroyed during the years of drought and plague. Some of the larger provinces had gone as far as building a wall around their region. It was to protect their people from both the King and the threat of being overcrowded by their landless neighbours.

Now here these people were, living off the fish in the stream and supplies sent grudgingly by the province of Alonso and weekly bread sent down from Lumatere. Lucian knew the Provincaro of Alonso kept these people fed so they wouldn’t return to his province and cause him more misery amongst his people. But he also knew that his father had enjoyed a strange friendship with the Provincaro. Would he have helped Sol of Alonso in spite of everything?

‘What would you have done today, Fa?’ Lucian whispered, because sometimes he truly felt his father on this mountain slope. ‘About Orly and especially the lads? Would you have backhanded them with their talk of rape and women? Or are they just lads being lads?’

Lucian tied up his horse at Tesadora’s campsite where a large tent was pitched between a thicket of trees. If not for the branches, those in the caves would be able to see where Tesadora and her girls slept at night. It made him furious just to think of what the men could do by merely crossing the stream.

He reached the stream and could see the Charynites up in their caves looking down at him suspiciously, or lining up to have their details recorded by Tesadora’s girls. Further along, Phaedra of Alonso was bent over in what looked like a vegetable patch and was speaking to a man and a woman.

‘Tell them not to plant their seeds, Phaedra,’ Lucian barked out. ‘They’re not here to stay so there’s no need for scattering them.’

Phaedra and the couple stood up for a moment and he watched as Phaedra spoke to them. They crouched back down again. Cursing, Lucian crossed the stream, knee-deep in water. When he reached them, Phaedra stood there, cowering as usual.

‘Luci-en, this is Cora and her brother Kasabian.’

Cora and Kasabian seemed the same age as his father had been when he died.

‘Lucian,’ he corrected with irritation.

Cora gave Phaedra a shove and Phaedra retrieved a piece of parchment from her sleeve and passed it to Lucian with a trembling hand. He read it, shaking his head.

‘You want grain? Why, when we give you bread?’

‘We’d like to make our own bread, Lu-cion … cien … shen.’ She turned away miserably and the woman nudged her again. ‘Yours is strange and round. Ours is flat. And if we could grow our own herbs to make pastes, we’d be most appreciative. Your food is making us ill. All those turnips.’

‘It’s fine for a Mont,’ he said. ‘And how many times do I have to say no planting!’ he snapped, as he watched a number of others squat at the vegetable garden that looked a ridiculous mess anyway. These people knew nothing.

‘They’re not planting,’ Phaedra said. ‘We had set up a number of vegetable patches along this stretch, but…’

She stopped a moment.

‘But what, Phaedra?’ he said. ‘Speak. It’s as though I’m talking to an idiot!’

The man Kasabian spoke quietly. Just one word.

‘What did you say to me?’ Lucian asked, stepping forward and towering over him.

‘What I said was, “Enough”,’ Kasabian said quietly. ‘Enough.’

With a withering look, Lucian made sure the man knew who had won this round. He walked away towards Tesadora and the girls. While two of their companions recorded the names of those standing in line, Tesadora and Japhra beckoned the people to where they could be checked for illness. The Charynites were cautious and looked frightened.

Lucian held out his hand for the Charynite chronicle of names and particulars. He counted two hundred and forty-four people so far, and knew that each day more would arrive, looking haggard and weary, not a smile amongst them. Most had found a cave and kept to themselves, including Rafuel of Sebastabol’s men.

‘Does he look suspicious to you?’ Lucian asked Tesadora, who was quietly studying the weathered face of an old man who stood before her. Tesadora was said to know the symptoms of almost any ailment by looking in someone’s eyes and at their tongue.

‘Well, I’m not sure what suspicious looks like,’ she said, bluntly. ‘Sometimes when you come down the mountain and stand behind those trees, you look suspicious.’

‘Are you aware these people can almost look into your campsite, Tesadora?’ he said. ‘From up there.’ He pointed to their caves.

‘Almost,’ she murmured, looking closely into the man’s eyes. ‘But not quite. It’s why I chose that particular tree to pitch our tent under at the beginning of summer, so –’

‘So you don’t trust them, after all,’ he said, feeling slightly victorious that the stubborn Tesadora was admitting it to him.

She pointed to her mouth and poked out her tongue and the man before her did as she instructed.

‘–so I wouldn’t have to hear you or Perri or Trevanion or anyone else tell me that these people can see into my campsite.’ She looked at him. ‘And still you stand here and waste my time.’

‘What about Rafuel’s men?’

‘They can’t see into my campsite either.’

‘I mean have they come out yet?’ he said, quickly losing his patience.

‘No, and I’m not climbing up to them. If you want to know anything, speak to your little bride. She’s quite the popular one in this camp. If she was any more cheerful she’d make us all ill.’

Tesadora turned her attention back to the old man before her.

‘Give him a blanket, Japhra,’ she said quietly. Japhra placed a blanket around the man’s shoulders and he walked away.

‘Do you give everyone a blanket?’ Lucian asked, watching as Japhra had to almost drag the next woman to Tesadora.

‘Just those who are dying,’ Japhra said, when it was obvious that Tesadora had already dismissed him.

Lucian was livid. ‘If he’s contagious he can’t stay in the valley,’ he hissed.

Tesadora’s stare was hard. ‘The only thing contagious around here at the moment, Lucian, is fear and ignorance. The Charynites are afflicted with one and the Monts with the other.’

She waved him away with irritation. He added her to the list. What would his father have done about Tesadora in the valley? Would he have ordered her back to where she belonged in the Forest of Lumatere? Would he have spoken to Perri and said, Take care of your woman, she shouldn’t be down here amongst these strange people?

‘It’s getting dark,’ Lucian said to Tesadora. ‘Finish up what you are doing here and meet me on our side of the stream.’

He walked away. ‘Phaedra!’ he barked. Still the idiot girl stood with the brother and sister at the mess of a vegetable patch. She looked up and Lucian pointed to the other side of the stream. ‘Now.’

Phaedra stood, brushed the dirt from her hands and dress, and walked towards him. Kasabian followed and Lucian stared at him with irritation.

‘Mont,’ the man called out. ‘Can we ask …?’

‘No,’ Lucian said. ‘No grain. We hardly have enough for ourselves. I can’t promise you anything.’

The man shook his head.

‘No, lad –’

‘And I’m not a lad,’ Lucian snarled. ‘I’m the leader of the Monts.’

Kasabian took a moment to think and then nodded. ‘Then you are just the person I need to speak to. As the leader of your people, could you please ask your lads to refrain from stomping through our vegetable patches?’

Lucian looked over Phaedra’s shoulder to where a woman joined the sister, Cora, and bent beside her to work.

Kasabian’s eyes were stony. ‘And could you ask your lads to refrain from relieving themselves in the stream? It’s your stream, I know, but it is also a stream used by our women. We mean no disrespect because it is probably not an insult to do so in front of your Lumateran women, but to have men relieve themselves in front of a Charynite woman is an insult for us. Your lads frighten our women, Mont leader. All I ask is that you speak to them.’

The man’s voice was soft, much in the way of Rafuel’s. Maybe it was a weapon to speak in such a way. All his life, Lucian had never heard his father raise his voice. He didn’t have to.

And because Lucian was shamed, he walked away.

Chapter 9

Froi spent the morning with the kitchen staff, who were a chatty lot. They were accepting of his presence amongst them and he enjoyed their company, perched up on a stool watching.

‘If you weren’t a lastborn, you’d be one of us,’ a pretty girl with a wicked chuckle told him. She grabbed one of his cheeks with two fingers. ‘Nothing special about this face, eh?’

‘Face don’t need to be special,’ another joked. ‘What’s between his legs has to work its magic.’

There was more laughing as they kneaded the dough and hammered at the cheese. Two of the servants walked in with a side of salty bacon on their shoulders.

‘The King must be the most grateful man in the world to have such food served to him,’ Froi said. He had been in the palace for three days and was no closer to working out where the King was hidden.

‘Oh, we don’t cook for the King,’ the pretty girl said, popping a piece of pork on Froi’s plate. He was enjoying not having to share his food with anyone and wolfed it down, hungrily.

‘He has his man for that,’ an older woman said, ‘and I thank the gods every night of my life, I do. Imagine if something got into his food. Bad enough that we were almost blamed for what happened to Princess Useless.’

‘Someone tried to poison her?’ Froi asked.

‘You’d think that if someone was going to try, they’d get it right,’ another muttered.

It wasn’t that Froi found it strange that someone would try to kill the Princess, but that the servants spoke about it so openly without fear of retribution.

‘Do you ever see the King?’ he asked, wiping his plate clean with a piece of flatbread

‘Saw him last day of weeping. He doesn’t come down to the main hall no more. They say he’s mistrustful of just about everyone. Except Bestiano.’

Froi closed his eyes a moment, wanting to get the image of Bestiano in the Princess’s chamber out of his head. Suddenly the food he had consumed churned in his stomach.

‘You’re pale, lad,’ the older woman said, pushing him along to make room for the grain sacks.

He waved off her concern. ‘Does no one here refer to it as her birthday?’ he asked.

They all stopped working a moment to look at him.

‘It was the day we wept,’ the cook said coldly. ‘Don’t know how you feel about it in the provinces, but here in the Citavita, it’s the day of weeping.’

Birthdays were the greatest of celebrations in Lumatere. Froi would know. He had never had one, but everyone else drove him insane with suggestions about what to buy the Queen or Finnikin or Lord August. He knew that here in Charyn the day of weeping had some other kind of political importance, however.

The portcullis had been raised more than once that day to let in a parade of livestock and wooden casks containing the best wine in the region. The pretty servant girl explained that the Provincari visited each year for the day of weeping and the King wanted them to be impressed by what the Citavita had to offer the week after next.

‘Always thought it would be over by the time she came of age,’ the cook said quietly. ‘Work that magic between your legs, lad, or there’ll be no Charyn to speak of one day.’

On his way back up the tower to his chamber, Froi found Gargarin stooped on the narrow stairwell, his body pressed against the wall. When Gargarin heard his footsteps, he stumbled to his feet, sweat bathing his brow. Only then did Froi notice the blood seeping through his shirt.

‘Who did this to you?’ Froi demanded, trying to hold him upright in the narrow space. ‘Was it Bestiano?’

He kept a step above Gargarin to accommodate them both. When they reached the second level, Froi placed his head under the man’s shoulders and walked him up to their room. Once inside, Gargarin hobbled to his bed, trying to shuffle through the contents of his pack with one hand while the other held the wound. ‘It’s nothing. A scratch,’ Gargarin said, his voice weak.

Froi ignored him and forced Gargarin to sit. Slowly Froi peeled the shirt from where the source of the wound seemed to be. He looked up at Gargarin in disbelief. ‘You don’t seem the type to provoke dagger attacks.’

Gargarin fumbled through the items in the pack, but Froi pushed aside his hands and reached for a piece of flannel. He went to the water pitcher, dampened the rag and began to clean the wound.

‘Something tells me you’ve done this before, Olivier of Sebastabol.’

‘Who me?’ Froi murmured, trying to see how deep the wound was. Gargarin flinched.

‘Get up,’ Froi ordered. Gargarin obeyed. He was in too much pain not to. Froi removed the sheet from the bed and began to tear strips from it. He ordered Gargarin to sit and began to wind it around his midriff.

‘It’s not so deep,’ Froi said.

Gargarin didn’t respond.

Froi waited for an explanation, but there was none.

‘Tell me who did this,’ Froi said.

As though nothing had occurred, Gargarin shuffled to the desk and sat down. He untied the ribbon around his manuscript and bent his head to study the pages.

A dismissal. Froi walked to the desk and sat on Gargarin’s work, refusing to move.

‘What?’ Gargarin snapped, after a moment.

‘You have a wound,’ Froi said, his voice incredulous. ‘Is it such a common occurrence that someone attempted to murder you?’

‘Someone’s always attempting to murder someone in Charyn,’ Gargarin muttered. ‘And if you don’t get off my sketches, you’ll be next.’

Froi stood and retrieved Gargarin’s pages, but instead of handing them back, he studied them.

‘You draw ditches?’ he asked.

He read the word Alonso at the top. The sketch showed meadows sprouting ducts of water in different directions.

He stopped himself from commenting. He couldn’t let on to Gargarin that Olivier of Sebastabol knew anything about the land even though Froi was a farmer at heart. More importantly, he didn’t want to have anything in common with this man, except for the chamber they shared.

Froi flicked through the rest. ‘Is that a garderobe for the palace? You don’t think the King’s eighteen advisors are happy enough shitting into the gravina?’

Gargarin laughed. It was short, but sincere. ‘There has to be a better way in the Citavita than throwing sewage out on the street to be swept down into the gravina,’ he said.

Froi made himself comfortable on Gargarin’s desk. He handed over a sketch of a wheel in water.

‘Explain that to me,’ Froi said.

While Gargarin of Abroi was speaking of capturing rain and water wheels he didn’t seem so distant. He was smart, Froi could see that. Although Finnikin and Isaboe and Sir Topher and even Celie of the Flatlands were amongst the smartest people he had ever met, Gargarin was different. He knew little of other languages and failed in charm. But from the conversations Froi had listened to at dinner, he could see that Gargarin knew the land and the law, and he knew Charyn’s history and the agreements between provinces. What Froi had first believed to be a sense of superiority, he had come to understand was awkwardness. Gargarin of Abroi did not like people. He trusted no one and preferred to keep his own company. Regardless, Froi had witnessed those who wanted to gain Gargarin’s attention in the great hall, and had seen that Bestiano was threatened by this crippled, broken man.

He watched the pencil in Gargarin’s twisted grip as the man went back to his scribbling.

‘Going to see the Princess,’ Froi said, when it was clear their talking was over for the day.

Despite wanting to avoid a repetition of the night before, there was a part of Froi that was desperate to see how she was faring. It wasn’t that he cared about her, but he cared that the heinous scene he had witnessed that morning with Bestiano had been prompted by his actions.

‘Do you have an aversion to using doors?’ Gargarin muttered as Froi went out to the balconette.

‘I have an aversion to Bestiano knowing exactly when I pull down my pants and pull out my –’

‘Enough said.’

It was quiet in her room. At first he believed it to be empty, but then he heard the breathing. A moment later, he felt an arm around his neck and a dagger to his throat from behind.

‘That’s the best you can do?’ he scoffed. ‘Point the tip of a dagger under my chin?’

‘We thought you were an assassin,’ she said in the strange indignant voice. He was relieved. He had little time for Quintana when she was in her cold savage mood.

‘We?’ he looked around.

She pointed to herself.

‘And that’s how you protect yourself from an assassin?’ he demanded, removing the dagger from her hand. ‘If you really want to be successful, you give yourself five seconds to kill a man. In one second,’ he said, positioning her before him with her hands on both his shoulders, ‘you place a knee between the intruder’s legs, and with great speed and force you make sure that he is left … legless.’

‘Legless?’

‘In so much pain, Princess, that he can hardly hold himself upright.’

‘Second,’ he said, placing the dagger in her hand, ‘you plunge it into the side of his body and twist. Right about here.’

‘And then,’ he said, guiding her hand that was holding the dagger, ‘to make sure he’s dead, you take it from one ear to the other across the throat and you press hard and make sure he’s bleeding.’

She was contemplating what he said. He could see that from the concentration on her face.

‘Think you can do that?’ he asked.

For a moment she didn’t respond and then she asked, ‘Is this part of the plan, Olivier?’ There was excitement in her voice.

‘I don’t know what plan you’re talking about,’ he said.

She looked disappointed for a moment and then nodded with determination.

‘You’ll have to creep in again,’ she said. ‘But not straightaway. The Reginita needs to be surprised.’

‘Oh, she’s here, is she?’ he mocked.

He left the room, climbed onto the wrought-iron trellis, leapt onto his balconette and returned to where Gargarin was still at his desk.

‘It would probably be a good idea if you lay down a while,’ Froi said. ‘From what I’ve heard of dagger wounds, the loss of blood catches up with you.’

Gargarin ignored him. Froi was becoming used to it.

A short while later, Froi quietly leapt back onto the Princess’s balconette and crept inside.

This time when he tiptoed into the room, he felt an arm come around him instantly, the tip of a blade under his chin.

‘See, now you’re irritating me,’ he snapped, pushing her away. ‘Wrong place for the blade! All it will do is make a hole. Did I not tell you that already?’

She refused to look at him. ‘One more time?’ she suggested, her eyes downcast.

‘Are you pretending to be meek?’ he asked.

She looked up at him, pleased, and nodded. ‘Did it not work?’ she asked in her practical tone.

‘No.’

‘We were trying to impersonate Aunt Mawfa when she looks at Sir Gargarin. We’ve not seen that look on her face before, so there’s been little time to practise.’

‘You practise being Aunt Mawfa, do you?’ he asked.

‘Oh, all the time. It’s very important for us not to be noticed and no one notices Aunt Mawfa.’

Back in Froi’s chamber, Gargarin looked up at him when he entered.

‘You’re making me dizzy,’ he muttered.

‘That would be the dagger wound. I’m going to insist that you sleep on the bed tonight. I’ll take the floor.’

The next time Froi crept into the Princess’s chamber she had improved slightly and managed to draw blood.

‘Again?’ he asked. She went to nod and then shook her head.

She walked to the bed and lay down, as she had the night before, and lifted her shift to the top of her thighs. Froi lay beside her, contemplating how many nights he would have to go through this charade.

‘You need to be atop of me,’ she instructed.

Froi sighed and shifted himself closer to her.

‘You need to remove your trousers.’

Froi thanked her politely for the instruction. The moment his body touched hers, she did as she had the night before. Her hand left her side and reached over his head. Froi twisted away from her to study the shape on the wall. It made him think of Bestiano capturing her hand.

‘What is that?’ he asked quietly.

‘A bird.’

He rolled away from her and lay back staring at the ceiling.

‘You can do what you have to do at the same time,’ she said quietly. ‘It won’t interfere.’

She shivered.

He reached over and smoothed her nightdress down past her thighs and pulled a sheet over their bodies. ‘Why can’t they put a fireplace in here for you?’ he asked. ‘It will only get colder in the weeks to come.’

‘Bestiano says it will teach me to be strong,’ was all she said.

‘Bestiano needs to be taught a lesson.’

She looked surprised by his words and he had to remind himself that he was Olivier of Sebastabol and not Froi of the Exiles.

‘Show me how it’s done,’ he said, holding up his hand to the wall, trying to imitate the image she had made.

Quintana made a clicking sound of irritation and reached over to adjust his fingers. ‘Or else it will look like a rabbit,’ she said, and he heard exasperation in her voice.

‘Oh, we couldn’t have that.’

He practised for a moment. ‘I saw a low cave at the bottom of the gravina with the prettiest picture of a fan bird etched on it,’ he murmured, trying to give his bird a tail like that of a fan.

‘Do you want me to show you a bull?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Let me think of how to make one myself.’

He looked at his hands in the shadows and thought for a moment, hiding his middle fingers. She reached up and tried to alter them, but he slapped hers away, irritated. He tried another movement. She made a sound of approval. But then a light flickered across the gravina and she leapt out of bed, creeping to the window.

‘What is it?’ he asked, grabbing his trousers and beginning to dress.

She peered out. ‘It means Gargarin’s on the balconette.’

From where they stood, Froi couldn’t see Gargarin next door, but he saw the dark shape standing at the godshouse balconette across the gravina, the Priestling illuminated by a lantern he held in his hand.

‘It’s what the brothers did last night, and you’ve seen them first thing in the morning. One comes out first and then the other. They don’t speak. They haven’t for such a long time, you know.’ She opened the balconette door. Gargarin was exactly where she said he’d be.

‘Sir Gargarin, is it true that my mother Lirah took a dagger to your chest today?’ she asked, as though it was the most natural thing to ask.

A woman knifed Gargarin. Froi was intrigued and impressed.

‘True indeed,’ Gargarin said.

‘Thankfully she missed your heart.’

‘Many have said it’s in the wrong place anyway, so it was a blessing for me,’ Gargarin said.

‘Poor Lirah.’ Quintana shook her head with dismay. The way she said the words was very dramatic, as though she was in pain.

‘Poor Lirah? What about poor Gargarin?’ Froi said. ‘How did this happen?’

‘Gargarin went to see my mother, Lirah, who’s imprisoned just there across the way,’ she said, pointing up to the prison tower beside them. ‘Lirah managed to retrieve a dagger from her guard and plunged it into Gargarin’s chest.’

Quintana’s tone was as matter-of-fact as the one she used to instruct Froi on how to make shadow puppets.

‘Never thought you were the type to summon such passion from a woman, Gargarin,’ Froi said.

But Gargarin wasn’t listening and Froi followed his gaze across the gravina.

‘Blessed Arjuro!’ Quintana called out with a wave, as if greeting a neighbour. ‘Blessed Arjuro,’ she called out again, just in case he didn’t hear her holler the first time. Blessed Arjuro was either deaf or rude.

She sighed with disappointment. ‘I call out to him each morning, Sir Gargarin, and he gestures with his finger but won’t say a word.’

‘Gestures?’

Quintana imitated what she saw and Froi laughed.

‘That’s not a gesture,’ Gargarin said. ‘That’s just Arjuro.’

‘He was imprisoned here when I was a child,’ she explained to them both. ‘When I was six years old they took him out of the dungeons and chained him to a leg of my father’s table.’

‘Where is your father?’ Froi asked boldly. ‘I’ve not seen him at all. An introduction would be most appreciated.’

‘Some say my father’s not even in the palace,’ she said, nodding at his surprise. ‘There are assassins everywhere,’ she added in a whisper, but her attention was back on the Priestling, Arjuro.

‘Back then, Arjuro was needed to translate the words from The Book of the Ancients. My father and Bestiano believed it could break the curse of the lastborns. I’d come to visit often in the days they allowed me to see my father.’ She waved to Arjuro again, but was ignored. ‘I don’t think he remembers me, Sir Gargarin.’

‘I can’t imagine him forgetting, Princess,’ Gargarin said gently.

Froi stared across the gravina. If Arjuro of Abroi had been chained to a desk in the King’s study, he would know the chamber intimately. He could be the best chance Froi had to get inside. Below where they stood, Froi could see a piece of granite, a natural extension of the stone wall, jutting out from the palace, extending almost halfway across the gravina, as though a hand was reaching out to touch the godshouse wall. As dangerous as it looked, Froi knew it wasn’t impossible to leap from the granite and catch hold of the trellis opposite. But Froi also knew he would never be able to attempt such a leap in the dark. He would have to wait for the early morning.

Back in the Princess’s chamber, Froi lay down beside her and blew out the candle. ‘Don’t feel much up to anything tonight after all this excitement of Gargarin being knifed by your mother.’

‘My mother, Lirah,’ she corrected.

‘Yes, that’s what I said.’

‘Then it’s best you return to your room. We’re not used to waking up with someone in our bed.’

Froi thought of Bestiano outside. Was he waiting for Froi to leave so he could enter?

‘Might just stay here for a while.’ Froi knew it would change little. Bestiano would still come to her chamber long after Froi had left the palace.

The Princess didn’t argue and he heard her shallow breathing and realised that she was asleep.

He woke to a hand splayed across his face and a quiet little snore. He picked up the hand and placed it back on her side of the bed, only to notice a white jagged line across her shoulder. He reached over to touch it and she flinched, suddenly awake and moving away.

‘What happened there?’ he asked, trying to ignore the fact that he was facing the mood of Quintana the ice maiden and not the Princess Indignant.

Her stare was hard, her eyes no longer a strange brown, but the colour of basalt.

‘Dagger,’ she said.

He tried not to show his surprise. ‘It’s a pretty impressive wound. Want to see mine?’ He began to pull up his shirt.

She made a face of irritation. ‘You’re not trying to show me something I don’t want to see, are you?’

He revealed the scar on his chest received the year before when one of the traitors attacked. She stared at it and then shrugged and showed him an even more impressive scar on her upper thigh.

‘Clumsy girl,’ he reproached, reaching out to touch it. She gripped his fingers and twisted them, nearly breaking one.

‘Let go or you’ll force me to say ouch,’ he said, calmly.

‘Not clumsy at all,’ she said, letting go, and this time she sounded insulted. ‘Out of the sixteen assassination attempts, only eight managed to leave a scar,’ she added. ‘Although I do swear that my hearing hasn’t been the same since the ninth assassin hollered Long Live Charyn in my ear. You’d think that if someone is going to kill you, they’d be quiet about it.’

He waited for the laugh to tell him that it was all said in jest. But there was none. The ice maiden did not have a sense of humour.

‘Sixteen?’

She showed him the remaining scars quickly, practically, and in the order they were received.

‘Were you scared?’ he asked some time later, after a pathetic attempt to match his scars with hers had failed. Quintana of Charyn’s body was a map of hatred.

This time she stared up at him. ‘What a question to ask. Of course we were scared, you fool. How can one not be scared facing death?’

Froi saw anguish in her expression.

‘It’s not in us to be brave. We’re not the bitch Queen of Lumatere whose people worship her for her bravery. But I’ll tell you this, Olivier. If the gods can keep us alive until we birth the cursebreaker, then we will die without shame. What is it you called us on Sir Gargarin’s balconette? Useless.’

He was suddenly uncomfortable at the memory of his cruel words, but he had no idea how to apologise for them without being ripped apart by her stare.

Instead, he leaned on his elbow and looked down at her, not quite sure how to speak his next words.

‘Does … Bestiano believe that the lastborn male will provide the seed?’

She didn’t speak aloud, but he caught a grimace and her lips curled with hatred. ‘I’m trying. I’m trying,’ he thought he heard her mutter. It was as though something or someone was in control inside her.

‘Or does he believe any man can break the curse?’ Froi persisted. ‘Lastborn or not?’

He marvelled at her resolve not to look away and his heart began to batter against his chest because there was something so dark in her stare. Froi would always, always be drawn to darkness.

‘Bestiano is a man,’ she said, her tone frigid. ‘And no man we have ever encountered in this palace believes that another can best him.’

He ignored the ‘we’.

‘So Bestiano believes … that perhaps he can sire the firstborn if you are indeed the …’ He shrugged, not knowing the word to use.

‘Vessel,’ she contributed. She studied him.

‘We thought you were sent for one purpose,’ she said, ‘but now we realise you were sent for another and, as per usual, the gods refuse to give us warning of their plans in advance. So if you are asking me whether I believe the last will make the first, then yes, I do. Now more than any other time. You and I are the last. It’s written all over you. It would make matters much easier if you did what you had to do.’

‘And the other lads?’ he asked awkwardly. ‘Before me.’

‘What about them?’

‘Were they kind?’

She thought for a moment. ‘Well, you know them all except for the third from Nebia, but we don’t talk about him.’

‘Why?’

A strange expression crossed her face. ‘They say he’s in a madhouse, you know.’

‘Because he was frightened by the palace?’ Froi asked.

She shook her head. ‘Not the palace,’ she said quietly.

Was the insipid lastborn from Nebia frightened by the Princess abomination of Charyn? Froi read it all there in her expression. Not self-pity, but self-loathing. Is that what she thought Froi’s reluctance was about?

‘I’m not scared,’ he said, refusing to look away.

‘Nor was Tariq.’ Her expression softened. ‘He was my betrothed and my first. He was supposed to be the one and only lastborn to share my bed. His father was my father’s heir if a son was not produced, but then Tariq’s father died suddenly when we were fifteen and the people on his mother’s side smuggled him out of the palace. They suspected someone was trying to poison him.’

She gave him a bitter smile.

‘That’s how a whore was born,’ she said. ‘Without Tariq to fulfil the prophecy, you lastborn lads of the provinces had to do.’

‘I know the lads feel that they let you down,’ he said, not knowing any such thing. Rafuel had mentioned that the lastborns were acquainted and corresponded.

‘Grijio constantly writes about it,’ Froi lied, ‘and Satch goes on and on every time I see him and Tariq –’

‘You’ve seen Tariq?’ she asked, surprised.

Froi gave himself a mental beating. Of course, you haven’t seen Tariq, you idiot. He’s in hiding.

‘I’m only imagining what Tariq thinks through his letters …’

‘To Grij?’

He nodded. ‘Grij passes on everything Tariq writes. You know what he’s like.’

‘Very discreet, as I remember,’ she said.

‘No one’s discreet when it comes to me,’ he boasted. ‘I could charm the truth out of the goddess of secrets.’

‘There’s no such thing as the goddess of secrets.’

He prayed to the goddess of fools that it was the end of the conversation.

‘You’re the last of four lads,’ she said, her eyes piercing into his. ‘So, yes, Olivier, she does know what they think of her out in the provinces,’ she added coldly, repeating his words to Gargarin on the balconette.

‘Eavesdropping is rude,’ he said.

She stared and he matched it, refusing to look away.

‘I’ll make a pledge to you, Princess or Reginita or whoever you choose to be today,’ he said. ‘Let’s call it a … bond. That when you invite me to your bed, for reasons other than a curse or someone else’s demands, then perhaps I will – what is it we Charynites like to call it? – plant the seed.’

‘Tariq and Grij and Satch warned me of you,’ she said bitterly. ‘ “Everything is a jest to Olivier,” they said. But they promised me a lad of worth. “You can trust him with all your might, Princess,” they told me.’

She shook her head and Froi saw sadness.

‘Oh, to go a day in my life not lied to by the gods or so-called friends.’

When the sun rose, he wasted no time. The moment Gargarin and his brother completed their morning ritual of staring at each other across the gravina, Froi crept out of Quintana’s bed.

He climbed over the balconette and gripped onto the protruding granite, one hand at a time on the ancient stone, his legs dangling. When he reached the end of the stone he took a moment to survey the distance between himself and Arjuro of Abroi, who now stood at the balconette of the godshouse, watching. Froi stared into the abyss below and shuddered. Slowly he lifted himself, his mind trying hard to control the shake in his legs until he was standing on the thin piece of granite. Before he could lose his nerve, he leapt across the gravina and gripped hold of the ledge at Arjuro of Abroi’s feet.

The Priestling seized him by the scruff of his neck and pulled him over the latticework of the balconette and Froi lay there for a moment. When he looked up, he saw Gargarin’s face with an unkempt dark beard. It seemed even stranger in contrast to the fair skin both brothers shared.

‘I’ve never seen two men with the same face.’

The Priestling grabbed Froi’s hair and pushed back his head for a closer look. His breath reeked of ale and Froi could see it had been some time since he had bathed. But before the other man could hide it, Froi saw the same expression of horror he had witnessed on Gargarin’s face.

‘Where did they find you?’ Arjuro of Abroi rasped.

‘Depends on who you think I am.’

‘You’re shit from Abroi.’

‘Charming,’ Froi muttered. ‘It’s a pleasure meeting you, as well.’

Arjuro’s intense study of Froi was done in silence.

‘You know what they say about you over at the palace?’ Froi asked slowly, raising himself to his feet, although his heart was still pounding from the leap.

‘Couldn’t care less what they say about me over at the palace.’

‘You’re a fool to return to the Citavita and dangle yourself in front of the King.’

A sinister smile curled Arjuro’s lips. ‘I knew something was coming. Didn’t want to miss it for the world.’ He gave Froi another appraisal before walking inside.

The room was large and rectangular. On the far side was another window that allowed in an abundance of light. Froi had heard it was called the Hall of Illumination and he could understand why. Through its brilliant light he could see the walls were covered with strange writing that did not resemble any lettering known to Froi. The black of the ink was a stark contrast to the white of the wall.

In the centre of the room was an altar, but apart from a table close to the window facing the palace, the room was bare. Froi imagined that once there would have been many long benches filled with scribbling Priestlings awed by the wonder of the Ancients’ books. It was in this room that Arjuro cut a lonely figure.

Arjuro sat down and stabbed at a piece of cheese with his dagger. He took a swig of ale from a jug. ‘What do you want?’ The question was followed by a burp.

‘Quintana speaks of you fondly and I just wanted to make your acquaintance.’

‘Never met her in my life.’

‘Well, she seems to think you have.’

‘And she seems to be the maddest girl in Charyn, so who are you going to believe?’

It was where the two men of Abroi differed the most. In the way they spoke. Gargarin was clipped and cold and quiet. Arjuro grunted, barked, growled. Froi found himself understanding Arjuro better than his brother.

He studied Arjuro’s face, fascinated. It was Gargarin, but not Gargarin.

‘Staring’s rude,’ Arjuro said.

‘So is speaking with your mouth full and not sharing your food,’ Froi responded.

Arjuro pushed forward some bread and handed him the bottle.

‘At this time of the morning?’ Froi asked.

‘At any time of the day, I say.’

Froi kept his eyes on the Priestling. ‘Where I grew up, they crushed the skulls of babes born from the same loins on the same day. Gods’ cursed, they would say.’

Arjuro looked up, his eyes narrowing. ‘They only do that in the kingdom of Sarnak.’

Suddenly, a thought entered Froi’s head that was so strange he almost felt foolish speaking it aloud. ‘There’s two of her, isn’t there? The Princess?’

It could be the only answer. That like Gargarin and Arjuro, there were two Quintanas.

‘More than two, I say,’ Arjuro said, looking over Froi’s shoulder out the window. ‘Up here,’ he said, pointing to his head. ‘I’ve counted three.’

‘There’s two,’ Froi argued. ‘The one who called out to you the other day, Blessed Arjuro, blessed Arjuro.’

Arjuro winced at the sound. ‘She’s the one who annoys me the most. The other demands in that cold voice, Priestling, the Reginita requests an invitation to the godshouse at your convenience.’ Arjuro shook his head, muttering, ‘At my convenience.’

‘What’s a Reginita?’ Froi asked, dipping his bread into the oil and dried herbs before him.

‘A little Queen.’ Arjuro stared over Froi’s shoulder again and pointed. ‘That’s the one I like best.’

Froi turned and choked on the bread. He leapt out of his chair, but Arjuro grabbed him and made him be still. ‘Don’t move. We don’t want our mad princess going into the gravina just yet. Wouldn’t want to take that opportunity away from someone else.’

Froi stared out the window to where he could see Quintana straddling the granite he had stood on earlier. He knew in an instant that in this mood she was all rage. Teeth. A sneer. A snarl. He could have sworn she was one-part animal.

‘Slowly,’ Arjuro warned, as Froi calmly walked to the balconette.

The look she directed at them both was one of pure blazing fury.

‘That’s a side of her I’ve only seen glimpses of,’ Froi whispered, intrigued.

‘Oh, that’s not a side,’ Arjuro said. ‘That’s a whole person. She perches herself out there once in a while. If she is Lirah of Serker’s daughter, then that’s all Serker savage there, bundled up into a ball of hatred towards all men. Looks like you’ve joined the list, Olivier of Sebastabol.’

Froi watched Quintana get to her feet and the hairs of his arm stood tall. ‘Sagra!’ he cursed, stepping closer. ‘Get down, you fool girl.’

Arjuro was there behind him. ‘That one wants to die. Whatever’s down there is beckoning her to jump.’

But Quintana, or whoever was standing there balanced on the granite, wasn’t looking down into the abyss. Her stare went straight to Froi.

‘Come inside,’ the Priestling ordered. ‘She’ll go away.’

‘And if she falls?’ Froi asked, unable to take his eyes off her.

‘Well, she hasn’t so far without your help, and she can’t leap across here as you did. So it’s either down in the gravina for her, or sidling back to where she came from. I presume the others living inside her head convince her to return. It’s the same thing each time. Sometimes I want to shout out, “Jump, you little abomination!” ’

Froi stared at Arjuro. ‘You’re not like other holy men I know.’

‘And how many holy men would a lastborn from Sebastabol know when no more Priests are left inside the province walls?’

Froi didn’t respond. He turned back to look outside and saw Quintana standing on her balconette. Relief washed over him.

‘How’s my brother faring amongst all that insanity?’ Arjuro asked quietly.

Froi shrugged. ‘He’s not much into confiding.’

‘Why is he struggling to walk this morning?’

‘Lirah of Serker took a dagger to him.’

Arjuro grimaced. Froi recognised the expression as one he had seen on Gargarin’s face.

‘What does my brother have to say about the fact that the girl’s prophecy has not come to be?’ Arjuro asked.

‘Why don’t you ask him yourself?’ Froi suggested. ‘Perhaps holler across to his balconette this evening?’

Arjuro stared at him.

‘It may bring much-needed colour to both your cheeks,’ Froi continued. Arjuro’s stare suggested that Froi was bantering with the wrong person.

‘He says that the gods have forsaken Charyn,’ Froi said.

Arjuro gave a short laugh of disbelief. ‘The gods have not forsaken Charyn. The gods love Charyn. Where else can they shit, if not Charyn? It’s the purpose of this kingdom. To be the place where the gods shit.’

Froi was surprised by the words. ‘You’ve lost hope in the gods.’

‘No. The gods lost hope in me. Long ago.’

Froi sighed. If Arjuro wasn’t going to be a source of information for him, perhaps he would be a source of entertainment.

‘I’ve got to go. Can I use your entrance into the Citavita? Getting over here is far easier than returning the same way.’

‘Out there you’ll be dealing with the street pigs,’ Arjuro said.

‘I’ve not seen any pigs out there.’

‘I’ve not seen any pigs out there,’ Arjuro mimicked. ‘Who are you trying to fool with your fancy talk, you little shit?’

Certainly not the last Priestling of the Citavita.

Arjuro walked out into a dark corridor and Froi followed him down a winding stairwell that seemed to go on forever.

‘They call themselves the street lords,’ Arjuro said. ‘The less Citavitans see of the King, the more powerful the street lords become. It’s in the nature of humans,’ he added bitterly. ‘The need to be ruled by tyrants.’

‘Do those of the Citavita have faith in the Princess producing an heir?’ Froi asked.

‘The Princess is not going to produce an heir,’ Arjuro said. ‘The Princess is insane. Perhaps insanely brilliant because her delusions have managed to keep her alive all these years.’

They passed one of the landing windows and Froi saw the stone buildings of the Citavita outside.

‘They’ll kill her, you know,’ Arjuro said quietly. Froi heard regret in his voice.

‘Quintana?’

Arjuro nodded.

‘The street pigs?’

Arjuro shook his head. ‘She’ll come of age this month and mark my words, she’ll go over that balconette. It’s an accident, Bestiano will cry. At her own hands, he’ll claim. Why keep her alive when it is clear she isn’t the one to break the curse? At first, the people will be stunned. Then relieved. Quintana the cursemaker is dead. Perhaps it will mean the end of a barren era for Charyn.’

‘What does Bestiano hope to gain from her death?’ Froi asked.

‘A peaceful reign for the King. Bestiano has all the power he wants while the King lives. He’ll begin to scour the land for lastborn girls and bring them to the palace on the off-chance that one of them produces the first. You can imagine the rest.’

Froi was still reeling from the threat to Quintana. ‘So Bestiano will take over one day?’

Arjuro shook his head. ‘The Provincari would never let a commoner rule. Bestiano will do anything to secure an heir, but only one he has control over, so he can continue enjoying his power. Unfortunately for him, the heir Tariq will never acknowledge him.’

‘Then who will Tariq choose as his First Advisor if he ever comes to power?’

Arjuro’s eyes caught his, but then he looked away and suddenly Froi understood.

‘Gargarin?’

Arjuro refused to respond and they continued down the dark steps in silence.

At the bottom, the Priestling unlatched the iron door and then removed a key from his sleeve and fixed it into the lock.

‘Can I ask you something?’ Froi asked.

‘Can’t promise I’ll answer,’ the Priestling said.

Froi hesitated. Would his question reveal a weakness in him? ‘When Gargarin first saw me, he reacted in much the same way you did,’ Froi said. ‘No one else has. Who do I remind you both of?’

‘Someone we despise beyond understanding,’ Arjuro said flatly with no hesitation. He said little else and Froi knew the discussion was over.

Arjuro pushed open the door and they both squinted when the light poured in.

‘My brother … he’s the best man to ask,’ Arjuro said.

‘Ask what?’

‘I’m figuring that a lad with eyes like yours could have been sent by the hidden Serkers to kill the King. So talk to my brother.’

Froi didn’t respond for a moment. Remember your promise to Trevanion. Trust no one. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. And if I did, what would I ask Gargarin?’

Arjuro looked past Froi to the cluster of cave homes below. ‘Twenty-five years ago, a young lad from Abroi with nothing to his name but a brother who was gods’ touched, impressed the King with his drawings and plans.’

Arjuro watched Froi for a reaction. ‘He was sixteen at the time and the envy of every ambitious advisor employed by the King.’

‘Gargarin worked on the palace when it was built?’ Froi asked.

Arjuro shook his head. ‘No. Gargarin was the architect. He knows every hidden tunnel, every mouse hole. The only thing he doesn’t know is how to break out of an unbreakable prison.’

Froi stared at Arjuro and then gave a laugh of disbelief. ‘Who are you people?’

It was a steep descent over the roofs of cave dwellings from the godshouse to the Citavita. At times, Froi could look into the homes beneath his feet, where entrances were dug out of the ceilings and the smell of bread from ovens wafted through the air. Still, it was a secluded area of the capital and under the piercing glares of those they called the street lords, Froi felt less than safe with little means of protection.

He could see that the street lords spent much of their time sitting and watching. The men sat on the uneven roofs of the cave houses, studying the palace below and the godshouse above. Unlike the farmers, who dragged oxen up the backbreaking path or the women who stumbled with armloads of linens, the street lords did nothing much at all but sit around looking threatening.

‘Friend,’ one called as he passed, and Froi itched for his dagger that lay buried in the cave at the base of the gravina.

‘You,’ the man called out again. ‘I’m talking to you.’

A leg went out and Froi stumbled. Counted to ten.

‘You came out of the godshouse, but we didn’t see you go in,’ the shorter one said.

Froi would never understand the sameness of the world. Thugs or street lords or thieves were all the same, whether they hailed from Charyn or Sarnak or even Lumatere. Some of the wild orphans, as these kinds of people were called in Lumatere, had returned over the past years to cause havoc after too many years on their own. Trevanion put them straight into the army and trained them to exhaustion. ‘If they’re going to hate, it may as well be for the good of Lumatere,’ he’d say.

‘The Priestling rarely gets visitors, so care to explain,’ the first man said.

Froi knew they would watch him travel back down to where the palace drawbridge met the Citavita. He knew he couldn’t lie about where he was heading.

‘Messenger,’ he muttered, keeping it simple, remembering what everyone seemed to say about how too perfect his Charyn sounded. He took another step, but a hand snaked out and grabbed Froi’s arm.

‘I’ll ask again, friend. You came out of the godshouse, but we didn’t see you go in.’

‘Well, that’s the thing,’ Froi said politely. ‘You’re not actually asking a question. More of a statement.’ He looked at the man and then stared at the hand on his arm. ‘So what is it you want to know?’

The man’s companion laughed.

‘How did you arrive at the godshouse?’ the street lord asked, retrieving a dagger from a scabbard at the waist of his trousers and tracing it across Froi’s cheek.

Froi turned and pointed to the space that could still be seen between the tip of the godshouse across the gravina to the palace.

‘I jumped. I wouldn’t advise it. Not good for the innards.’

The street lord grabbed him by the collar and dragged him closer, his foul breath fanning Froi’s face.

But suddenly a hand reached between them.

‘So you’re attacking Priestlings now, are you, Donashe?’ Froi heard Arjuro mutter. He was dressed from head to ankle in a black cape and cowl, his eyes and pale face barely visible.

The street lord stepped back and Froi saw fear in his eyes.

‘He said he was a palace messenger,’ the man Donashe said, looking away from Arjuro as though any moment he would be cursed.

‘My messenger,’ Arjuro corrected. ‘To the palace.’ Froi felt the street lord’s eyes on him. Arjuro poked Froi’s arm, and glared.

‘Did I not order you to hurry on and repeat my exact words to those in the palace?’ Arjuro asked Froi. ‘That I’d swive a goat before I’ll ever step foot in that heap of dung.’

‘Must I, blessed Arjuro?’ Froi asked, pitifully. ‘For those of us from the godshouse are well known for swiving goats and I’d prefer not to give them weapons of ridicule.’

Arjuro shook his head. ‘Idiot,’ he muttered, walking back up the path to the godshouse. But Froi had seen the ghost of a smile on his face.

Froi gave a wave to the street lords and turned to walk away.

‘I never forget a face,’ Donashe warned.

‘Oh, neither do I, friend,’ Froi said. ‘And that is a promise.’

Getting back into the palace wasn’t quite as simple as getting out had been.

‘I’m a guest of the King,’ Froi called to where he could see two soldiers standing behind the portcullis. ‘A lastborn. Olivier of Sebastabol.’

Nothing. The soldiers stared between the grates, but refused to speak.

‘I arrived here with Gargarin of Abroi four days ago? Call Dorcas, if you don’t believe me, because I’m telling you, if anything happens to me you’ll pay the price. Recognise a threat if you have brains in your head.’

Although Trevanion’s instruction would have been for Froi to get himself back into the palace any way he could, he knew that landing in the palace prison tower was not one of them.

‘You’ll feel like fools when the King’s Advisor hears about this,’ he said, as they opened a door and tossed him in. It was a fall of a few feet before he hit the ground. If Gargarin was truly the architect, Froi would have to thank him for planning a prison chamber built in such a way.

The room was as long and wide as the length of Froi’s body. Apart from the door up high, there was a window that was small enough to crawl through, but the threat of climbing out and plunging into the gravina below was the perfect deterrent for anyone wanting to leave.

Later he heard the key in the lock and stared up to see a guard and then Quintana peering over his shoulder.

‘We’re friends, Fekra and I,’ she said, as the guard lowered her down with a grip on one arm.

‘Ten minutes, Princess,’ Fekra muttered. He let go of her arm and Quintana fell onto Froi with very little finesse.

‘Do you want to meet my mother, Lirah?’ she asked matter-of-factly.

‘Not exactly, no. I want you to go fetch Gargarin and get me out of this hole.’

‘Gargarin doesn’t make the decisions.’

She looked out the window.

‘Poor Lirah. She’s been imprisoned for at least twelve years, you know.’

‘Yes, yes, poor Lirah.’

‘Although I’m sure she is still taken to my father’s chamber from time to time. Poor, poor Lirah. He still considers her his whore. Lirah says it’s all about power and that the King never feels more powerful than when he’s swiving Serker.’

Quintana pointed towards the low ceiling. ‘She’s up there. It’s why my friend Fekra allows me to use this dungeon when it’s empty. So I can see my mother, Lirah.’

Froi could easily see that Fekra wasn’t a friend of Quintana’s, accepting bribes of food and ale and turning a blind eye only because there was no way in or out of the palace from this tower. But it did mean that Quintana and her mother had found a way of speaking to each other whenever the dungeon was empty.

‘Lirah! Lirah!’

Froi’s head rang from Quintana’s high-pitched indignation.

‘Sometimes,’ she explained to Froi, as though he had asked, ‘I have to call out more than once because she’s on the roof. She has a small garden up there, you know. There’s no way down, of course, except for lunging to her death.’

‘Why is she imprisoned?’ Froi asked.

‘She tried to kill someone, poor Lirah.’

Poor Lirah indeed. She went around trying to kill people and seemed to be a failure at it.

‘Lirah. Lirah.’ Quintana snaked her body out the window, her feet flailing mid-air. Froi caught her around the waist.

‘You’re going to fall to your death, idiot girl.’

After a moment, Froi heard another voice.

‘Who’s there with you?’

‘Just a lastborn, Lirah! We thought he was here for some other purpose, but he is the one. It’s written all over him.’

Quintana turned back and beckoned to him. Froi sighed. She moved aside and he squeezed in, poking his head out and straining to look up.

The face that looked down at him from the window was not what he expected and, like an idiot, he stared. Agape. She was beautiful, but when it came to freezing a man with a death stare, Lirah of Serker could beat Gargarin and Quintana the ice maiden in the blink of an eye.

‘Don’t trust him,’ he heard Lirah of Serker snap. ‘He’s savage stock if ever I’ve seen it.’

Froi bristled and listened to ridiculous talk from Quintana to Lirah about Aunt Mawfa’s moon eyes for Gargarin. Suddenly Fekra was at the door above them, lowering a rope, with Dorcas appearing beside him.

‘The Princess only.’

‘Can you call Gargarin then?’ Froi demanded, watching Dorcas hoist Quintana up.

‘The King’s Advisor says you must stay here for the time being. To teach you a lesson.’

‘Didn’t know it was a crime to leave the palace, Dorcas.’

‘It’s not,’ Dorcas replied. ‘It’s a crime to threaten the King and your words, What do you think I’m going to do? Get into the King’s chamber and slice him from ear to ear? were a provocation.’

‘Dorcas, it is in me to jest.’

‘And Olivier, it is in me to obey orders.’

Quintana’s face reappeared over Dorcas’s shoulder. ‘Oh, he’s very thorough about the rules, Olivier. He’s never let my father or Bestiano down in that way.’

‘Good for you, Dorcas. I pray to the gods that I can follow your example more readily.’

The door shut and Froi had a feeling he would be in this room for quite some time.

Chapter 10

Lady Beatriss arrived at the Flatlands’ meeting hall at the same time as Finnikin and his entourage. She looked for Trevanion, knowing he would be there as part of his son’s Guard.

She had found him distant these past weeks and it worried her. During the early days when the kingdom was reunited, they had danced a strange dance around each other that spoke of never being able to return to the lovers they had been. Ten years apart was too long and the events that had taken place during that time could not be forgotten. But during the spring this year, things had changed.

It was on the night of the Harvest Moon Dance when Beatriss felt his eyes on her from the moment she had crossed the bridge into the palace village. Vestie, as usual, had run for him, throwing herself into his arms. Who would have known that Trevanion and her daughter would share such a bond, but it was a joy to watch. That night at the celebrations the Queen’s Guard were impeccably dressed for the occasion with their boots polished and purple sashes around their waists to match the colours of the Queen, wearing short coats that looked stylish and much too attractive to every woman in their presence. And Beatriss noticed. That’s how she knew that things had changed within her. Because now she noticed every single woman who looked at the Captain of the Guard. But that night, he seemed to have eyes for no one but her and the days of denial were long gone, for she met his stare with her own. When he offered to escort her and Vestie to Sennington, it was there in the hallway of Beatriss’s home as she took her daughter out of his arms that he bent down and kissed her for the first time in thirteen years, and if it wasn’t for the child that was pressed between them, she could imagine where that kiss would have gone.

Since then, he had found any opportunity to stop by for supper or a ride around the village. They spoke of fallow fields and his son’s family in the palace and this brave new Lumatere, and although she was desperate to speak of the past, Trevanion refused.

‘The past is not important, Beatriss. We don’t look back.’

In the palace village she heard the whispers and suspected that he would ask her to be his wife soon, and she had practised her response. Yes. And then a Yes again.

But something had changed in the last few weeks. He visited less frequently and when he did, he seemed distant. Try as she might, Beatriss could not understand what words or event had changed things between them. The last time they had spoken, she told him her fears of no longer being able to keep her villagers fed. Beatriss had inherited Sennington upon her father’s death the year before the curse and from that moment on she’d ensured that her people were looked after, even during the ten years of terror.

‘We’ll speak of it when I return,’ Trevanion had assured her. He had been off to escort Finnikin to Balconio for a meeting with the Sarnaks. She knew there had been an incident in the mountains with a Charynite that day. A week later Froi had been dispatched to Sarnak, according to one of her villagers who was courting a girl from Froi’s village of Sayles. Beatriss suspected that something had happened on the mountain to change everything.

Today, Trevanion seemed a stranger except for the familiar rumble of his voice in her ear. ‘They’re waiting for you, Beatriss,’ he said quietly.

Inside, the Flatland Lords were already seated. Beatriss found a place beside August. He took her hand.

‘Abian says she’s not seen you for some weeks, Beatriss.’

‘There is too much work to be done,’ she lied, squeezing her friend’s hand.

She avoided looking across the table to the others. Lord Freychinet, Lord Castian and Lord Artor had been in exile during the ten years and were said to have deserted their people to live comfortable lives in foreign courts. Lord Nettice, who had been trapped inside the kingdom, had acted even worse, but Beatriss couldn’t bear to think of those days. She felt humiliated to be in the presence of these people. Although she had never spoken the words aloud, she despised them. None more than Lord Nettice. She felt a blackness come over her until suddenly a hand was on her shoulder and a kiss on her cheek. She knew it was Finnikin. In the short years Beatriss had been his father’s betrothed before the unspeakable, she had mothered the boy and loved him as her own. He had always been a child of great substance and here he was leading them with their beloved Isaboe.

Finnikin walked around the table, winking as he caught her eye before sitting down.

‘Well, I think it’s obvious why we are here,’ Lord Freychinet said. ‘There’s the matter of Fenton and the matter of Sennington. So let’s not waste time.’

Beatriss stiffened. ‘Sennington? What has my village to do with today’s meeting?’

Lord Freychinet stood without responding, disregarding the presence of the Queen’s Consort. Beatriss sensed Trevanion’s fury at the lack of respect shown, but Finnikin seemed unperturbed.

‘Split Fenton between its two neighbouring villages,’ Freychinet demanded. ‘And collapse Sennington.’

Beatriss fought to hold back a gasp and heard a sharp intake of breath from August behind her.

‘Only two of her small fields yield a crop and it’s not enough for her and her village to survive on,’ Lord Freychinet continued. He turned to Beatriss. ‘So sell the southern paddock to Sayles and the northern paddock to me and count your losses. If Nettice and I are to split Fenton for the good of this kingdom, we’ll need your workers.’

‘My workers?’ she asked, horrified. ‘They are my villagers, Sir Freychinet. Not my workers. They have minds of their own and if they choose to accept your offer of a home on your land, then there is no one holding them back, but I will not – what was the word? – collapse my village, just because you need them working your land.’

‘Work it yourself, Freychinet,’ August said facetiously. ‘It’s surprising the effect it has on your villagers’ morale to have you working amongst them.’

Lord Freychinet shook his head with disdain. ‘Sometimes I believe you still think you’re in exile, August, and that there is no true difference between you and your peasants. Your father would be rolling in his grave.’

‘Oh, I count on my father rolling in his grave over and over again,’ August said. ‘If anyone deserves an uneasy sleep for eternity, it is a lord who doesn’t lift a finger to take care of his villagers.’

Finnikin cleared his throat. ‘Let us begin with my confusion, Lord Freychinet,’ he said, his tone even. ‘You see, I’m not quite sure who “her” is. “Her small fields” and enough for “her and her village”.’

There was an awkward silence.

‘Lady Beatriss of the Flatlands,’ Lord Freychinet responded.

‘Then I think it may be in your best interest to refer to the Lady Beatriss by either her title, or her name, if she ever invites you to.’

Finnikin’s voice was hard. ‘Is that understood?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Good.’

Finnikin looked down at the pages in front of him. ‘I know how much of a stickler you are for protocol, Lord Freychinet, and unfortunately there is no mention of the topic of Sennington here before me, so Lady Beatriss’s village is not up for discussion during this meeting.’

Finnikin looked up. ‘Perhaps if you allow me to take over proceedings we can discuss the village of Fenton.’

He looked around the room, taking in all of its occupants. ‘Fenton will be sold.’

‘Sold?’ Lord Nettice bellowed. Beatriss flinched at the sound of his voice.

‘It’s what Lord Selric wanted,’ Finnikin said. ‘His surviving villagers will all receive a profit from the sale.’

‘Ridiculous,’ Lord Freychinet said. ‘And who informed you of Lord Selric’s want, my lord? One of his villagers? Was it their decision?’

‘No, actually I do believe it was the decision of my wife,’ Finnikin said matter-of-factly. ‘You remember her, don’t you, Lord Freychinet? The Queen? Tallish. Dark hair. Not the type to say things twice, so when she speaks the words, “Tell them that if they have a problem with my decision I may be forced to look into the crimes against my people that took place whilst my lords turned their backs,” I tend to take them to heart.’

He was no longer Little Finch, Beatriss thought, with proud sadness. Here was a man born to lead alongside his beloved queen.

‘If you want to look at behaviour during the ten years perhaps you should be looking at others,’ Lord Castian said with a cough, his eyes meeting those of Beatriss. ‘According to Nettice here, not every woman was as virtuous as they claim.’

Beatriss heard August’s hiss of fury. She dared not look up at Trevanion. The hairs on her arm stood tall and she felt her stomach churn.

Finnikin’s eyes were a cold grey as they stared from Lord Nettice to Lord Castian and then back to Lord Freychinet.

‘You push my patience, gentlemen.’

‘What of Fenton?’ Lord Nettice said, smart enough to bring the conversation back to its agenda.

‘Fenton will not be split between any of you. The village now belongs to the palace. If you want Fenton, you buy it at a fair price,’ Finnikin said. ‘And the survivors of that village will have the right to stay on and work for whoever buys it if they please. If not, they can take their share and set up home elsewhere in the kingdom.’

He looked around the room, his eyes cold, his teeth clenched. ‘Is that clear?’

Outside, Trevanion caught up with Beatriss, gripping her arm.

‘What was that?’ he asked, fury lacing his words. ‘Have they spoken to you in such a way before? Has that dog Freychinet slandered you behind your back?’

No, he has actually done it to my face, she wanted to say to him. She shook free of his grip.

‘It’s about the past,’ Beatriss said bitterly. ‘The past is not important, remember? We don’t look back.’

Chapter 11

Hours passed and eventually Froi supposed that Gargarin was not going to appear. The boredom made him want to beat his head against the stone. He tried to imagine the Flatlands and its never-ending sky, and sitting with Lord August at the end of a back-breaking day, a mug of ale in his hands and a sense of satisfaction in his heart. But the strength of such imaginings only worked when he was actually under a never-ending sky in the Flatlands and not in a dungeon in a stone palace dug out of a mountain in the middle of a gravina, inside a godsforsaken kingdom.

He looked out of his window and craned his head to see the one above. It was a short distance up, but at least Lirah of Serker had the roof garden, which was a whole lot better than what Froi had. Before he could talk himself out of it, he removed his boots and hoisted himself up onto the windowsill. He climbed out to stand on the ledge with his face pressed to the outer walls, his fingers feeling for grooves, his toes gripping stone. Slowly he made his way up to the window above. Despite the short distance and Froi’s expertise, according to Trevanion, in climbing all things impossible – all things impossible took on new meaning when there was nothing beneath him but unending space and the promise of death.

‘Sagra!’ he muttered, perspiring. Finnikin had once boasted that the stone he climbed to find Isaboe in Sendecane was beyond anything Froi had conquered, and Froi had said he would find a grander stone one day and challenge his king to a battle.

‘Battle of stupidity,’ Isaboe had said. ‘They’ll have to summon me to identify your splattered pride. They both look the same, I’ll say.’

Not a good thing to be thinking of, Froi. He reached Lirah’s window, fingers gripping any furrow he could find.

He fell into the room, headfirst. It was much bigger than Froi’s cell and was furnished with a cot, books and a fireplace. On the wall he saw that someone had sketched the image of a newborn babe, and beside that another of a child of about five or six. A mad one, judging by the hair and the savage little teeth. He could only imagine that it was Quintana as a child, her eyes blazing as she held up a thumb and its two closest fingers. Another image was of Quintana, younger than she was now, perhaps fourteen or so. It was a good resemblance.

There was a door to the left of the fireplace and then a narrow stairwell up to the roof, where a hatch lifted to give more light to the space. Froi climbed up the steps and found himself in a roof garden that afforded him a view of the entire Citavita. A figure knelt at one of the flowerbeds.

When she stood to survey her work he could see she was tall, almost boyish in her form. Lirah of Serker, the King’s whore. He couldn’t determine her age, but if she was Quintana’s mother he imagined her to be somewhere later in her thirty years. Her hair was thick and long and the colour of mahogany. Her eyes were a deep grey and their shape made Froi think of Tesadora, although the women looked nothing alike. Serker eyes, Rafuel had said, and the type of beauty that made a man ache despite his age. Froi knew the moment Lirah felt his gaze on her, and she looked at him with a cold penetrating stare.

‘I wouldn’t plant that there,’ Froi said.

She studied him suspiciously.

‘I planted some … back in Sebastabol. They don’t like the areas out of the sun.’

Froi felt studied. It was a habit these Charynites had. Lirah’s Serker stare was hard and vicious.

‘Olivier of Sebastabol,’ he said, bowing.

She gave a laugh of disbelief. ‘You have the eyes of a Serker, Olivier of Sebastabol.’

‘Those from Serker no longer exist.’

‘This one does and she recognises the eyes of a Serker lad.’

‘Between you and Gargarin and Quintana when she’s in a mood, I’m beginning to feel most unloved in Charyn.’

This time she flinched. Was it at the mention of Gargarin’s name?

‘In Charyn?’ she asked. ‘You speak as though you’ve just arrived in your own kingdom.’

‘I meant in the Citavita,’ he corrected.

Froi looked out. The battlements of his tower seemed close enough to leap across. But the towers he suspected to be the King’s were too far away.

‘Have you used force with her?’ she asked bluntly.

Froi bristled. ‘What makes you think I’m the sort who uses force?’ he demanded.

‘Because I grew up with Serker pigs such as yourself. It’s in the blood,’ she spat.

‘And is it in the Serker blood for the women to be whores?’ he taunted.

‘Oh, we’re all whores in Charyn, Olivier,’ she mocked in return. ‘In some shape or form.’

She went back to her planting and he watched her dig into the soil and press the roots of the plant down.

‘It will die, I tell you,’ he snapped. ‘I know the cratornia. It will not survive in so small a plot.’ She looked up, surprised, and after a moment she pulled it out slowly and deliberately, holding it up. He searched the garden and pointed.

‘By the bristle tree,’ he suggested.

She shook her head. ‘So he knows his bristle trees,’ she said, half to herself. But she refused to look up again. One would think she’d crave company, but Lirah of Serker seemed to want him to disappear.

‘You’d best be gone,’ she said, dismissing him. ‘I can imagine that the climb down is worse in the dark.’

Froi was kept prisoner until the next afternoon and on his release was confined to the chamber he shared with Gargarin.

‘Happy that you irritated Bestiano?’ Gargarin asked, not looking up from where he was scribbling furiously.

Gargarin’s sketches carpeted the floor and were strewn all over Froi’s cot.

‘You couldn’t come and release me?’ Froi grumbled.

‘Why would I want to do that when I had peace and quiet for at least a day?’

Gargarin discarded yet another page with frustration, dipping his quill into the ink pot to begin again.

‘You may as well tell me about them,’ Froi said. ‘You know you’re dying to.’

A moment passed and Gargarin looked up. After seeing Arjuro, Froi found it strange to face this man.

‘You know much about water, I presume?’ Gargarin asked. ‘Because a lad from the shipping yards of Sebastabol would be an expert.’

‘Ships? Water? There’s a strong connection in my mind. Anyway, what’s there to know? Charyn’s cursed. You either get too much rain and it floods the plains, or not enough, which causes drought.’

Gargarin studied him, eyebrow raised. ‘You? As in the rest of Charyn and not you, Olivier?’

‘Words,’ Froi scoffed. ‘Are they so important?’

‘Isn’t the Princess waiting for you?’ Gargarin said.

‘Which one? I’ve now met them all,’ he said, studying the maps and plans on his cot. Froi had never seen such a grand plan. Water meadows, larger than he had ever seen, and giant human-made rivers and lakes. He came around to where Gargarin sat and looked over his shoulder.

He pointed to an area beyond the planned water meadow. ‘What about these villages?’

‘The floodings of the last couple of years have crippled the farmers,’ Gargarin said. ‘Before that we had years of drought. The gods are determined that nothing is to grow in Charyn and I’m determined to challenge them on that. We need to find a way to harness this water in the rainy season so we can use it during the drier months. If we build troughs to collect the rainwater in the drier areas, the soil could stay moist all year long.’

‘So you send it in different directions.’

Gargarin nodded. ‘We set a water course. It’s in the books, Olivier. In the books the Ancients wrote.’ The man’s eyes shone with excitement. ‘They are hard to translate, but not impossible. If they could do it thousands of years ago, so can we.’

Froi thought of Lord August and his despair at the first year of too much rain.

‘What would make them easier to translate?’ Froi asked. ‘The books of the Ancients, I mean.’

Gargarin’s expression closed again.

‘The gods’ touched have a better chance. I can only understand so much.’

Someone such as Arjuro, the gods’ touched Priestling. Froi looked down at where the goose quill was twisted around Gargarin’s fingers.

‘You speak, I draw,’ Froi instructed.

They fought the whole afternoon. Gargarin spoke too fast and would change his mind the moment Froi drew his instructions, but Froi kept up and when they were finished, he had never seen plans with such ambition and … hope. He wanted to steal them away in his pack and return with them to Lumatere, place them in Lord August’s hands and say, ‘My gift to you for giving me a home.’

That night he couldn’t go through the ritual with Quintana of feigning impotence or listening to prophecies about seeds needing to be planted, so he remained in his chamber.

‘You spoke of a bond,’ Gargarin said in the dark as they both lay in their beds. His voice was soft, but there was a powerful resonance to his voice. It made Froi forget the limp and the awkward arm.

‘You don’t believe in them?’ Froi asked.

‘Not bonds drawn up by other men. I write my own bond.’

‘What if I trust those other men with all my heart?’ Froi asked quietly.

Gargarin sighed. Outside, the shadows played across the gravina onto the godshouse wall.

‘Dorcas was taken out of his province when he was thirteen. He’s been here eighteen years and knows nothing but how to follow a bond to his king and Bestiano. He trusts them with all his heart.’

There was silence for a moment.

‘I fear I’ll die at the hands of someone like Dorcas. A man with no ideals of his own, but another man’s bond to follow,’ Gargarin said.

‘I fear that I will do something to bring harm to those I love,’ Froi said. ‘So I follow their rules to ensure that I won’t.’

‘But what if you bring harm or fail to protect those you don’t know? Or don’t love? Will you care as much?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Then choose another bond. One written by yourself. Because it is what you do for strangers that counts in the end.’

The next morning, as Froi watched the ritual between the brothers across the gravina, he felt a fierce affection for the two fools.

He followed Gargarin for the rest of the day. He wasn’t in the mood to face Quintana and he decided to wait until Princess Indignant reappeared. That morning at breakfast, her stare had been cold, and after meeting Lirah, Froi understood where the coldness came from. He noticed that when the cold Quintana appeared, there was no upheaval over breakfast. Yet, apart from a snarl escaping her lips once or twice, no one seemed to notice the change. Except for him. It was that point, which he found unsettling. The Princess Indignant irritated him, amused him, exasperated him. But cold Quintana unsettled Froi. The beat of his heart would skip in her presence.

So he followed Gargarin, despite the fact that Gargarin did not want to be followed.

‘My duty was to bring you as far as the palace,’ Gargarin snapped when they reached yet another twisting flight of stairs that opened up to a small alcove. From there they could see up to part of the battlement of the next tower. Lirah’s prison. From this angle, Froi realised it was indeed an easy leap from their own tower to her garden.

‘Go,’ Gargarin murmured, still looking upwards. ‘Away.’

Froi wasn’t one for taking instruction. ‘I could get up there, you know. Except she’s probably the worst-natured woman I’ve met.’

‘And you’ve met Lirah, how?’ Gargarin asked.

‘Remember when you left me rotting in that cell two days ago? Well, I climbed out the window and up to hers.’

Gargarin stared at him. ‘And what kept you attached to the walls? Magic?’

‘The gods,’ Froi mocked.

Gargarin settled himself against the wall and continued to look up, as though waiting for some type of apparition that could appear at any moment.

Froi sat beside him and couldn’t help but notice the bend in Gargarin’s elbow, the way he had clutched the pencil in the chamber the night before, the limp he walked with.

‘Were you born that way?’

‘No,’ Gargarin snapped. ‘And rude of you to ask.’

‘Born this rude. Can’t help myself.’

Gargarin stared at him and Froi thought, perhaps imagined, that he saw a glint of humour in the other man’s eyes. But soon enough, Gargarin’s gaze was drawn back to the prison tower.

‘You’re not one to pine over a woman, so what is this about, Gargarin?’

‘A desire to die with peace in my heart,’ Gargarin said quietly.

‘And when are you planning to die?’

There was silence for a moment.

‘Tell me what takes place in the Citavita,’ Gargarin said, and Froi felt as though he was changing the topic. ‘With the street pigs.’

‘That’s what Arjuro calls them, too,’ Froi said. ‘If they’re such pigs, how did they come to have so much power? They look as though they own the Citavita.’

Gargarin shook his head with a grimace. ‘Six years ago when we were plague-ridden. That’s how thugs get power. When a kingdom is at its most vulnerable.’

Froi knew of the plague. It had claimed the lives of a Flatland lord’s family. Lord August and Lady Abian had built a shrine to the Goddess on the edge of the first paddock of the village to remember those who had died, including Lord Selric of Fenton and his wife and daughters. ‘If we forget who we lost,’ Lady Abian would tell Froi and her children, ‘then we forget who we once were, and if we forget who we once were, we lose sight of who we are now.’

Froi felt a twinge of guilt that he hadn’t thought of his Flatland family for days.

‘What happened during the plague?’ he asked Gargarin.

‘People began dying and the palace riders raided the fields of crops and livestock and anything else they could get their hands on, so the King could barricade himself in the palace with only those he trusted. Beyond the Citavita, it was even worse. The provinces refused to give sanctuary to those who lived outside their boundaries and many of them overflowed into the Citavita, bringing disease with them. It was how the street lords were born. Theirs was a fury that came from dead sisters or wives who had thrown themselves to their deaths from the despair of barren wombs. But during the plague it festered as they watched the oxen carry their cargo of grain and seed into the castle from the fields outside.’

There was bitterness and anguish in Gargarin’s voice. Froi wondered how he could ever have thought Gargarin cared little for anyone.

‘At first the street lords found a way to bring some kind of stability where there had been theft and violence, neighbours killing neighbours for food. Sadly, the people failed to see that the street lords were always going to want something in return. Later, with the plague over and a third of our people dead, the palace tried to take control of the Citavita again. It appeared that the street lords had lost some of their power, but it was only on the surface. Today they still have a hold on the people because the people have no one honourable to hold onto. But make no mistake, those men who roam the streets are as greedy and corrupt as …’

Gargarin looked around to see if anyone was listening.

‘ …those here in the palace. In one breath they say they despise the King, in another the pigs are paid a handsome sum to be Bestiano’s eyes and ears in the Citavita. The street lords fear little. It is a foolish man indeed, who fears little.’

‘They’re scared of your brother,’ Froi said. ‘I can’t understand why. He’s nothing but a drunk with mad eyes.’

‘He is gods’ touched,’ Gargarin said. ‘That’s enough to scare any of us. Some believe that it could have been those touched by the gods who cursed Charyn or that by imprisoning the last Priestling of the Oracle’s godshouse, the gods were punishing the palace. Both beliefs led back to one person. Arjuro.’

‘Is that what you think?’ Froi asked, and it surprised him how much he cared what Gargarin thought. ‘About who cursed Charyn?’

Gargarin swallowed. ‘I think the curse of the lastborn came from more than one person. I think the power of it came from hearts filled with wrath and love and despair and betrayal and that even the gods are confused about where it came from and how to mend it.’

Gargarin turned to him. ‘It’s not safe in the Citavita, Olivier,’ he said quietly. ‘The street pigs are out of control. I’d advise you to get out of here as soon as you can.’

‘They’ll never enter the palace,’ Froi said.

‘There’s not a huge difference between not letting them in and the street lords not letting us out. I fear for the Provincari who will be here within days. They risk their lives.’

‘Why come then?’

‘They’re invited to the palace every day of weeping to discuss Charyn’s futureless future. But I fear that the street lords are more powerful than the palace has led the provinces to believe.’

‘So Quintana’s not delusional in believing that everyone is out to kill her?’

Gargarin’s eyes bored into Froi’s. ‘You ask a lot of questions for an idiot,’ he said.

‘Is that what they call me outside my province?’

‘Emphatically. Olivier the idiot.’

‘I’m charmed, to say the very least. I’ve never had a title.’

This time Gargarin laughed. Froi smiled at the sound. Lumaterans weren’t known for their sense of humour and Froi found himself in trouble half the time when they didn’t understand his.

‘Is it true that she’s mad?’ Froi asked.

The grimace was back on Gargarin’s face. ‘True enough,’ he responded. ‘But if you should believe anything, believe that everyone is out to kill her, Olivier. Her only delusion is the belief that she’ll break the curse.’

‘Then why am I here if everyone believes that she’s delusional about last and firstborns?’

‘Because the King doesn’t believe she’s delusional. Because the King is frightened by his own child and is convinced that she’s mad. When a mad Princess whose birth cursed a kingdom states that the gods have spoken, prophesising that she’s the last who will make the first, the King takes heed of her words.’

‘Do you believe her?’ Froi asked.

‘No,’ Gargarin said, his voice sad. ‘But I would like to. Something I can’t explain tells me to. But reason steps in the way.’ He looked at Froi, sadness etched in his expression. ‘She comes of age next week,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Once she’s proven to this kingdom that her prophecy was a lie, Bestiano will convince the King to find another way to break the curse.’

‘And how will they go about convincing Her Royal Delusioness that she’s not the last to make the first?’

Froi flinched at the intensity of Gargarin’s stare.

‘Mark my words, that girl will not live beyond her coming of age. It’s best that you get out of the palace before that happens.’

It was the second time in so many days that Froi had heard these words and they chilled him to the bone.

Later, when nothing came from their study of Lirah’s roof, they returned to their chamber. Froi picked up the sketches scattered all over the floor.

‘This is something Charyn is … we are,’ he corrected himself, ‘known for.’ Froi looked at Gargarin. ‘A Lumateran once came through Sebastabol,’ he lied, ‘and told the story that despite how barbaric the Charynite soldiers were, they introduced one vital form of water use that saved part of the Lumateran Flatlands.’

Gargarin stared at him, waiting.

‘The rainwater was collected by the placement of sliced animal bones around the entrance of a home. When it rained, the water ran down the grooves of the bones and was taken into a cistern under the house. Then during the dry season, they’d build pipes made of animal hide to run from the cistern into the fields.’

There was silence from Gargarin and Froi turned to him questioningly and saw the man look down.

‘Simple, but worthwhile,’ Froi said. ‘Don’t you agree?’

Froi watched a smile appear on Gargarin’s face. It was strange and twisted and reluctant, but it was also sincere and almost shy, which was strange coming from a grown man.

‘In my third year in the palace as a young man, I drew up the plans for that system of water capturing. It heartens me to think that Charyn had something worthwhile to offer Lumatere.’

Froi sat up, amazed. ‘You?’

Gargarin nodded, suddenly uncomfortable with the attention. ‘In Abroi where I grew up, I saw people suffer and children die because we had so little water and, most years, no crops to speak of. It’s strange that in a single kingdom, there can be an abundance of gifts in one province and little in another. Have you ever been deprived of food, Olivier? As a lastborn, I doubt it.’ Froi looked away. He couldn’t remember a day in his life as a young child when he wasn’t deprived of food. It only served as a reminder of what he had to do to keep his stomach full.

Gargarin sighed, standing up and straightening his back.

‘Are you in a hurry to complete these plans because you have a meeting with the King?’ Froi asked.

‘Not yet, but I’ll see him soon and then my work will be done.’

Gargarin looked away. ‘If anything happens to me, can I trust that my drawings get into the hands of De Lancey of Paladozza?’

‘What can possibly happen to you?’

‘Can you promise without irritating me?’

‘Why would you trust me?’

The awkward bend of the head was there again. ‘I don’t know,’ Gargarin said honestly. ‘But I do.’

Froi shook his head. ‘How about I give you my word that I won’t let anything happen to you instead?’

He had no idea where those words came from. He wasn’t here to protect Gargarin or any of them. He was here to kill a King. But deep down he realised that he wanted to impress this man. That despite their first meeting and Gargarin’s hostility towards Froi, he reminded him of Lord August and Finn and Sir Topher combined. At strange moments he imagined introducing Gargarin to them all.

That night, Froi was allowed to attend dinner. Bestiano stared at him from where he sat at the head of the table, as though practising to be the King himself. Froi gave a polite wave of acknowledgement.

He was assigned a place sitting with a cluster of the women Quintana had referred to as the Aunts. Their heads were bent and they were speaking rapidly, furiously.

Suddenly Quintana was beside him.

‘I searched for you all day,’ she said, and he could see that she was back to her indignant self, all breathless and irritated.

‘I was avoiding you.’

The Princess Indignant seemed oblivious of any type of malice directed toward her. Sometimes it made him want to be even crueller. To punish her for doing nothing to stop herself from getting killed. Isaboe would have fought to survive.

‘You can sit on our right,’ she instructed. ’Aunt Mawfa will bore you senseless.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. The moment Aunt Mawfa speaks, everyone falls asleep. It has to do with the pitch of her voice.’

She nudged him. ‘Look at her shoes,’ she whispered, pointing under the table. Froi humoured her and ducked his head under. Lady Mawfa had plump little legs that barely touched the ground and a pair of silly pointy shoes with red bows.

Froi sat back up again. ‘She had them sent from Belegonia,’ Quintana said in a hushed tone. ‘They are said to have belonged to the first goddess who walked the earth.’

Froi looked under the table again and sat back up.

‘Not possible. I’ve been told that goddesses are a practical bunch,’ he said. ‘They’d never have tolerated the red bows.’

She covered her mouth, laughing. A truly ridiculous laugh, all snorts and giggles.

‘Quintana!’ Bestiano shouted out to her. Froi stiffened. The last thing he wanted was for Bestiano to drag her out of the hall. Froi looked at her and put a finger to his lips to quieten her.

‘Ask her something,’ Quintana whispered. ‘Ask her about the weather and you’ll see what we mean. When she speaks, no one listens. It’s why we’ve chosen to be like her. We don’t get into half as much trouble.’

He studied Quintana, waiting for the announcement that she had been jesting the whole time. That she was an ‘I’ and not a ‘we’. But she swung her eyes to the side and flicked her head towards Lady Mawfa and for a moment he wanted to laugh. He turned and politely asked Lady Mawfa about the weather.

Lady Mawfa responded in an indignant voice that was high-pitched. It was as hushed and dramatic as one reporting the enemy at the gates of the Citavita. The only part of Quintana missing was the squint.

‘… and it’s all suffering for my joints. Poor, poor me.’

Froi choked out a laugh, thinking of Quintana’s own dramatics when reporting on events. Poor Lirah. Poor, poor Lirah.

A moment later he felt her lips to his ears. ‘So have you fallen asleep yet?’

Although the Princess’s indignant tone had not changed, all of a sudden everything else seemed to.

Froi had no idea what lay beneath all the incessant chatter, but there was more to her than even the cold unsettling Quintana and the savage he had caught a glimpse of outside Arjuro’s window.

‘Have you?’ she asked again.

‘At about the time she spoke of the dew on her windowsill.’

Quintana covered her mouth again, snorting. Bestiano barked out her name, but Froi grabbed her hand and pulled it away. And there were those teeth, small and crooked in parts. Froi was slightly charmed, snorts and all.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ he whispered, dragging her to her feet.

Chapter 12

Finnikin was crouched on the rock of three wonders surrounded by the children of his mother’s village. They stared back at him, wide-eyed and full of awe, and he found himself swallowing a lump in his throat. This rock would always remind him of Balthazar: Lucian’s adored cousin, Finnikin’s beloved friend, Isaboe’s brother and saviour, and once the heir of Lumatere. But since the birth of his daughter, the rock also had Finnikin thinking of his mother.

When he had lived here as a child, he rarely imagined Bartolina. His mother had died giving birth to him and her spirit had failed to reveal itself to Finnikin, despite the fact that Aunt Celestina sensed her all the time and even Trevanion had mumbled about days when he felt her presence. But in these past years Finnikin had dreamt of his mother often, especially when he brought Jasmina with him to visit his people.

Aunt Celestina wept each time, embracing both Finnikin and Isaboe. ‘Thank you, my darlings. Thank you for returning to us the image of my beloved sister.’

Little Bartolina, Jasmina was called by the rock villagers. Of course, she loved the attention. He had noticed in her first attempts at speech she had referred to herself as Jasmina of Bartolina. Whenever she spoke the words, everyone would clap at the sweetness of her voice. So Jasmina of Bartolina would repeat them over and over again until Isaboe would smother her face with kisses. ‘Enough, my love,’ she would laugh.

Each time Finnikin returned to his rock village the elders would beg him to tell the children a story from the chronicles he had collected for the Book of Lumatere. Sometimes he’d tell them tales about the kingdoms beyond. If any good had come from the exile and entrapment of their people, it was that the world became bigger than Lumatere’s walls. One time, he told the children of a great waterfall in Sorel, other times he told them about the jungles of Yutlind Sud, or the bazaars of Belegonia.

‘Your Highness, Your Highness,’ they called out that day, their arms waving for his attention.

He pointed to a sweet little girl.

‘Is it true that our goddess of blood and tears carried the Flatlands to the Rock?’

There was a scoffing sound from the boy beside her, who Finnikin suspected was her brother.

‘You’re an idiot, Clarashin,’ the boy shouted at her.

‘Fa says the goddess carried them,’ she bellowed at the boy, grabbing his hair and yanking hard.

Finnikin stepped in and pulled the two apart, settling the girl beside him. She placed an arm around his shoulders, boldly staring out at her brother. Finnikin dared to look at Jasmina, who was sitting on the lap of a young cousin, squirming. He had noticed that every time one of the children embraced him or clutched at his hand, his daughter’s eyes would narrow. She wasn’t much for sharing, he had come to realise. On certain occasions, she grudgingly allowed Vestie to enjoy Trevanion’s affections, only because she believed that Vestie belonged to her, as well. Finnikin, as far as she was concerned, belonged to both Isaboe and Jasmina. But Isaboe was all hers. If there was one thing he and his daughter shared, it was the desire to be the only person in Isaboe’s life. He stood once more and stepped into the crowd of children, holding out his arms to her and she fell easily into them.

‘It’s one of my favourite stories,’ Finnikin told the children when he was settled again, Jasmina in his lap and Clarashin by his side. ‘Do you want to hear it?

There were shouts of ‘Yes please!’

Finnikin turned to Jasmina, who seemed most impressed by the shouting. ‘Do you want to hear it?’

She nodded solemnly and everyone laughed. He looked up and caught Isaboe’s smile. She was standing with the elders and Great-Aunt Celestina, who had earlier hinted that perhaps Jasmina could stay a night on the Rock alone when she was no longer fed at the breast. Isaboe saw that as a reprimand. Finnikin saw it as the right moment to walk away and not get involved.

‘Well, it’s a strange story, but the strangest of stories are the best to tell,’ he said. ‘And sometimes the saddest.

‘You see, quite some time ago, long before the gods walked the earth, there was a war in their world between two great gods. Many were slain or lost their homes and the realm of the gods was all but destroyed.

‘Some say it was the blood of one god and the tears of the other that formed the mouth of the Skuldenore River, and others say that a songbird lapped up a drop of those tears and blood, and sprinkled it on a piece of land to its south.’

‘Lumatere!’ they all shouted.

Finnikin shook his head. ‘Not for a very long time. For it was once a strange place, broken into four pieces, each one of them surrounded by vast bodies of water. There were the Mountains. The Forest. The Flatlands and …’ Finnikin feigned a frown. ‘What could I have possibly forgotten? I’m sure there were four.’

‘The Rock,’ the children shouted. ‘The Rock.’

‘Ah, of course. The Rock,’ he said, hitting a hand to his head. ‘How could I forget the Rock? Anyway, out of the soil of the Flatlands, where the songbird had sprinkled the blood and the tears of the gods, a girl grew from the earth and we now know her as the goddess of blood and tears. Sagrami and Lagrami.’

‘But they’re two people, not one,’ Clarashin retorted.

‘Well, that depends on what you want to believe,’ Finnikin said, looking up at Isaboe. Their decision to worship the Goddess complete in Lumatere had been met with hurt and fury. ‘But whether she is Lagrami or Sagrami or the goddess complete, no part of her is better than the other, nor is anyone who worships one better than the other.’

He looked out to the children. ‘Understood?’

They nodded solemnly.

‘Let’s get back to our young goddess,’ he said. ‘You see, she was very sad. Each night, while she slept with her head pressed into the very earth she had come from, it would whisper to her that once, long ago, it belonged to the Rock and Forest and the Mountain. So one day, the little goddess of blood and tears began to drag the Flatlands all the way to the Rock.’

Some of the children had heard the story before. Others looked at Finnikin in wonder. He nodded.

‘She was that strong?’ Clarashin’s brother asked.

Finnikin nodded. ‘But she did get help,’ he conceded. ‘Luckily, the river of blood and tears felt a strong kinship with the girl and allowed her to use the Flatlands as a barge to sail upon the river. But the little goddess of blood and tears was not satisfied. Because look what she saw,’ he said, pointing.

The children stood and on tiptoes they stared out as far as their eyes could see.

‘The Mountains?’ one asked.

Finnikin nodded. ‘The goddess had to find a way to join them, but it was not going to be as easy as before. The River was able to help again, but it was much harder with two parts of the land now. So she placed the Rock on her back, tied a rope around the Flatlands and dragged them both over her shoulder to the Mountains. It took days and months and years and more years and by the time she was finished, the girl was now a woman. She could have settled on the Mountain with her friend the River, and the Flatlands she had been born from, and the Rock she had come to love. But what of the Forest? The songbird would return to her over the years and tell the most magical stories about the Forest. About its beauty and power and how the ancient trees would whisper to the wind.

‘One day, the god who had wept the tears that had partly made the goddess was returning from another war in their realm, when he saw a kingdom in our land of such beauty and light. This time he wept and wept and wept from the sheer joy of it and that’s how the river of tears that began in Sarnak and flowed into Lumatere actually became long enough to run through the land of Skuldenore. Lumatere was so rich that the gods chose it as a place to live and it came to be that they walked the earth and left their mortal children behind to rule the world.’

‘I used to love that story,’ Isaboe murmured later that night, as they lay side by side in Aunt Celestina’s home. ‘There were times in exile I was so full of despair I thought I’d end my life from the sheer loneliness of it all. But then I’d think of the little goddess. If she could live by herself in this kingdom for all those years, so could I. If she could carry the kingdom on her back, I could too.’

And Isaboe did, Finnikin thought, gathering her to him.

‘Remember when Lucian, Balthazar and I would play-act the goddess’s voyage,’ he chuckled.

‘Yes, very amusing,’ she said. ‘At least Celie was always chosen to be the Rock and was fortunate enough to be carried on Lucian’s back. I always had to be the Flatlands, dragged along by my hair.’

‘And Balthazar would stand on a barge and pretend to be the river.’

He laughed again and he felt her eyes on him in the dark.

‘I do love it when you laugh, my love. I don’t hear it enough.’ There was sadness in her voice.

‘Do you hate living in the palace?’ she asked quietly.

Finnikin sighed. ‘You ask me that every time we’re up here,’ he said. ‘Have I ever given you reason to believe that I don’t enjoy my life with you?’

He expected her to laugh off his question, but she didn’t.

‘You go strangely rock-native when you’re here,’ she said instead. ‘There’s a rumbling in your voice and your shoulders don’t seem so stiff.’

‘And you go all barefoot and primitive when you’re up there in the mountains with your feral cousins,’ he said.

‘Do you hate living in the palace?’ she asked again.

His hand travelled up her nightdress, ‘Do you want to know the truth?’ he murmured, pressing a kiss to her mouth. ‘About what I was thinking today?’

‘No, I don’t think I do.’

‘Well, here it is. I was thinking how wonderful it would be if Jasmina and you and I lived in Lumatere all alone in the same way the goddess of blood and tears did.’

She laughed at that. ‘And your father? Wouldn’t you want him there, as well?’

He thought for a moment and sighed. ‘Yes, and my father.’

‘And you’d want Great-Aunt Celestina. And your father would want Beatriss, and Beatriss would want Vestie, and I would want Yata, who would want Lucian and all her sons and grandchildren. And in the end …’

‘In the end, things would be exactly as they are now,’ he said, his fingers lightly trailing against her skin. She shivered from his touch and he moved to cover her body with his.

‘Quietly,’ she murmured, knowing that being the leaders of their land meant they were never left completely alone. There was always someone outside their chamber guarding them. Over the years they had learnt the art of loving each other in silence. For some reason, tonight he resented the need to contain their sounds, but he captured her cry with his mouth on hers, felt the nails of her fingers sink deep into his flesh and gave thanks that there was no frailty in this Queen of his.

Later, when they were half-sated, and he could taste the salt in the dampness of her skin, he pressed a gentle kiss to her throat.

‘Don’t ever ask me again if I hate living anywhere with you and Jasmina,’ he said. ‘This Rock reminds me of the boy I was and being with you in the palace reminds me of the man I want to be.’

‘Not just any man,’ she whispered. ‘A King. Mine.’

Chapter 13

After a week in the Citavita, all Froi had achieved in his mission to Charyn was the suspicion that the King lived somewhere in the vicinity of the fourth or fifth tower. He knew he had to act fast. In less than a week, the Provincari would arrive for the day of weeping and the guards in the palace would double. But what competed most with the task at hand was Froi’s fascination with two brothers separated by a gravina, a Princess with two people living inside of her and a woman imprisoned for twelve years whose only contact with her daughter was a holler from a window.

The days that followed began in the same way. Each morning Froi would test himself, lying in Quintana’s bed after pleading tiredness or inventing an illness attributed to the body part important in the art of planting seeds. He would play the game of trying to work out who she was from the moment her eyes opened. Princess Indignant always, always woke in fright. She’d squint and nod and mutter, ‘There’s a man dying in Turla.’ On the other hand, Quintana the ice maiden was always cold and usually called him Fool. If his body was anywhere close or touching hers, she’d snarl, and he came to understand that the savageness appeared with her rather than the Princess Indignant, and could be witnessed in the curl of Quintana’s lips and a glimpse of slightly crooked teeth. But something always seemed able to soften her. Froi would see it happen before his very eyes. The nodding. The ‘Yes, yes, I’m trying!’ Whether he wanted to admit it or not, his heart would pound with excitement every time he saw the madness.

Princess Indignant also loved nothing more than spending her time watching the ritual between the brothers from Abroi, Gargarin and Arjuro.

‘Blessed Arjuro? Can we come visit?’ she called out from her balconette, trying to capture Arjuro’s attention with a ridiculous wave, just in case he had lost his hearing.

Arjuro ignored her.

‘Do you think he went mad in the dungeons?’ she asked.

‘Not in the dungeons,’ Gargarin said quietly.

‘Do you think he loved Lirah beyond life itself?’

Silence. Froi looked over at Gargarin, watched the lump in the man’s throat move as he said, ‘No, I don’t.’

‘I think you’re wrong, Sir Gargarin,’ she said.

‘Gargarin,’ he corrected. ‘No “Sir”.’

‘When I woke that time after Lirah took me to search for the Oracle, Arjuro was there.’

‘The Oracle?’ Froi asked.

‘We searched for her in the lake of the half-dead. Poor Lirah.’

And there was Aunt Mawfa again. ‘Oh my poor bones,’ the woman had whispered while stuffing herself with the fattiest part of the piglet that morning.

The Princess prattled on. ‘I was six, Sir Gargarin. They were all frightened because of the godspeak that was coming from my mouth. I wrote it on the wall, you know. With the blood from my wrist. My father was desperate for Arjuro to decipher it and they dragged him into the room from the prison tower and I’ll not forget his face, Sir Gargarin, when he saw Lirah half-dead on the wet ground. He fell to his knees and wept, I tell you, gathering her in his arms. As if Lirah was the most beloved of women.’

Froi saw Gargarin’s knuckles clench as he leaned on the balconette.

‘What were you doing with blood on your wrists? Why was Lirah half-dead?’ Froi asked, alarmed.

Gargarin elbowed Froi into silence.

‘I always believed blessed Arjuro would return for her, Sir Gargarin. I’ve prayed to the gods that he would. More than I’ve prayed to the gods for myself. But then they released him in my eighth year and he disappeared for so, so long.’

‘You have a good heart, Reginita,’ Gargarin said gently before walking into his chamber.

The Princess stared after him as if she was trying to determine his meaning.

‘That was actually a compliment,’ Froi said.

‘What about when you told me about my dress that morning?’

Froi didn’t want to think of what he witnessed that day.

‘Not a compliment,’ he said, contrite. ‘Being rude, I was. You’ve got awful dress sense so don’t ever believe anyone who tries to tell you otherwise. But that,’ he said, pointing inside his chamber. ‘That was the real thing.’

He saw her face flush and she held a hand to both cheeks for a moment, as though surprised by the heat. Then she disappeared inside, and Froi wondered if she went in there to cry.

And then there was Lirah. It wasn’t as though Froi was half in love with her, but there was a force at play whenever he saw her. An ache he could not comprehend. He convinced himself he liked her garden more than her and so one day he found a more convenient way of visiting her rooftop prison from the battlement of his tower. Froi would break into a run, sailing through the air, his legs eating the gap between the two towers, his arms outstretched as though they would grab him space, his grunt muted by the shouts from the other side, until he landed on the opposite battlement, almost, but not quite, securely on his feet. When he stood up, brushing the debris from his trousers and inspecting the damage to his arm, he turned and saw the combination of awe and horror on the faces of Dorcas and the soldiers on the opposite roof.

‘Are you an idiot, or an idiot?’ Gargarin hissed, watching Froi climb back down to their balconette one time.

‘The first one. I really resent being called the second.’

Thankfully, the fool Dorcas didn’t try to stop him because there didn’t seem to be orders preventing the guest of one tower leaping over to visit the prisoner of the opposite tower. And Froi noticed each time that the battlements of the fourth and fifth tower were guarded by twice the number of soldiers of any other in the palace. Froi needed to find a way inside them.

Meantime he made use of his time with Lirah, although she wasn’t much one for talking, and most of their gardening was done in silence.

‘Tell me honestly,’ he demanded on a particularly boring day in the palace when he visited three times. ‘In the how many years that you’ve had this garden, has the petunia ever survived beside the tulip?’

Sometimes, without a word, she’d relinquish a plant to him and Froi would choose the best place for it to flower.

He found out little through Lirah. She asked of Quintana each time. Over the years, the King had allowed them in the same room only once, seven years after Lirah’s imprisonment when Quintana turned thirteen and her first blood came. ‘That’s when they decided to whore her to Charyn,’ she said bitterly.

Since then, Quintana and Lirah had only seen each other from the dungeon window. The three images of the Princess on Lirah’s prison wall now made sense. They showed the first time Lirah saw her babe, the last time before imprisonment, and the one and only time they had been in a room together between then and now.

‘Were you in love with Arjuro?’ he asked.

As usual, she didn’t stop what she was doing and refused to look his way. ‘Why do you ask that?’

‘Because you’re both … I don’t know. Savage. Cruel.’

‘Are you trying to flatter me?’

He laughed. It was the first attempt at humour that Lirah had made. She turned to him, as though surprised by the sound.

‘Well, you both seem the kind who would find each other in a crowded room,’ he said.

Her study stayed intense until she went back to her digging. ‘Arjuro prefers men to women.’

‘Oh,’ he said, surprised for a moment. ‘Well that makes sense, come to think of it. I can’t imagine a woman putting up with that stench.’

‘Yes, well he always did have an aversion to bathing.’

‘But that doesn’t mean you weren’t in love with him.’

She wiped her brow with the back of her hand and it left a mark of dirt.

‘I can safely say we despised each other.’

‘Why?’

Lirah didn’t respond and then Froi understood. ‘Ah. You loved the same man.’

‘You could say that,’ she said quietly, and he knew that he had asked too many questions and that if he didn’t stop, she’d go back to her silence.

‘When I return home, I’ll find a way to send you lavender seeds,’ he said when the sky began to darken and he knew he’d have to leap back.

‘Lavender? In Charyn?’

He waited a moment.

‘About Quintana –’ he began, but she cut him off.

‘I don’t answer questions about Quintana to strangers.’

‘I’m forced to share her bed,’ he said. ‘How can I be a stranger to her?’

‘You ask that of a whore?’ Her eyes flashed with anger, but Froi saw pain there too.

‘Is it true that there’s more than one living inside her head?’

‘Are you asking me if she’s mad?’

He didn’t respond.

‘Do you know what those in the palace say?’ Lirah said. ‘That the King should have tossed her the moment she was born.’

Lirah shuddered at the sound of her own words.

‘Was she always so strange?’ Froi asked.

‘You find her strange?’ she said, harshly. ‘When as a child she managed to separate parts of herself and make them whole beings? Each situation requires a different Quintana. But she survived. In this cesspit. That’s not strange or mad.’ Lirah sent him one of her scathing looks. ‘It’s pure genius. Do you think she was like you or the rest of the lastborns? You may not have been born into wealth, Olivier of Sebastabol, but you’ve been pampered by your province and your mother and father all your life.’

‘Wrong person to say that to,’ he said quietly. ‘Anyway, aren’t you convinced I’m from Serker?’

She looked at him closely. ‘You’re orphaned?’

Froi didn’t respond. ‘Regardless, Quintana wasn’t orphaned. So it can’t have been that bad for her. She had the King, and she had you, her mother.’

Lirah’s laugh was bitter. ‘The King? Have you met the King? A more degenerate man doesn’t exist in Charyn or the land of Skuldenore. The only thing the gods did right was to instil a fear in him of his own daughter because if they hadn’t, his wickedness would have shattered her body and her mind.’

Froi’s blood ran cold. In Lirah’s mind, Quintana may have escaped the depravity of her father, but he knew she hadn’t managed to hide from Bestiano.

‘The gods gave her you,’ he said. ‘That must count for something.’

Lirah gave a laugh of bitter disbelief. ‘Do you know why I’m here? In this prison?’

‘You tried to kill someone. Apart from Gargarin. Was it a man you were forced to bed?’ And then a thought came to him. ‘Sagra! You tried to kill the King?’

She shook her head.

‘There are not many places to hide a dagger when you’re taken to the King’s chamber as his whore.’

Froi stared at her. Wanted to tell her he understood. Wanted to confess the depravity in his own life on the streets of the Sarnak capital as a child. But there was too much shame. Girls were small and helpless. Boys should be able to protect themselves, no matter how young or slight in build.

She stood, brushing the dirt from her shift.

‘What do you think of the cold one? The one that seems to be in charge?’ she asked.

Froi shrugged. ‘I like it better when she’s not around me.’

Lirah collected her pots and string and walked towards her prison. ‘She’s the one to fear. She’ll make you do things that break your heart.’

When it came time to visit Arjuro at the godshouse again, Froi didn’t have the nerve to leap over the gravina. The first time had been enough. Arjuro kept the window to the balconette shut and the curtain drawn most days, but Froi was patient, and one morning he intruded on the brotherly ritual. ‘Arjuro! I’m knocking on the door at midday,’ he shouted. ‘Be sure to open for me.’

Gargarin stared at him with disbelief. ‘Does the word street lords not mean anything to you?’ he asked.

‘Two words, not one. Street. Lords. Care to join me?’ Froi asked. ‘As far as they’re concerned, I’m the Priestling’s messenger.’

Arjuro, of course, didn’t play by the rules and Froi was forced to hammer the door for what seemed hours.

‘Didn’t think you’d be back here,’ the Priestling muttered, bleary-eyed.

‘Why wouldn’t I when there’s so much fun to be had in the Citavita?’ Froi said. ‘This what you’re looking for?’ he asked, holding up a casket he had stolen from the cellars. The Priestling was drunk, his eyes bloodshot and swollen. They studied Froi fiercely.

Froi followed him up the dark space. He’d lost count of the steps and almost understood Arjuro’s reluctance to open the door. When they reached the Hall of Illumination, Froi walked to the balconette where he could see Gargarin watching them from across the gravina. Gargarin didn’t usually stand out on the balconette at this hour of the day, but Froi suspected he was there to see what Froi was up to.

‘Last night I dreamt of the three,’ Arjuro said over his shoulder. ‘Did he?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Gargarin, myself and a third who didn’t live. Throughout my life the third has returned to me in my dreams, and he has returned to me these seven nights past. I wager if you ask my brother, he’ll say the same.’

‘Is it because you have the same face? Do you dream the same things? Sense each other?’

‘It’s because of the third. He haunts us when he needs to. He was born dead.’

‘Arjuro, you’re not making sense,’ Froi said.

Arjuro was quiet a moment, as though he regretted speaking.

‘Tell me about the third,’ Froi persisted.

‘Our poor mother was a girl of fourteen. She refused to believe the third was dead and kept him in the cot alongside Gargarin and myself. Placed him on her breast as if he lived and had the life in him to suckle. Until flies and maggots crawled over us. It’s what our father used to say. “You should have been choked by the maggots and flies that shared your cot.” ’

‘He was a charming man,’ Froi said, repulsed.

‘Is,’ Arjuro corrected. ‘He’s still alive. A madman, frightened of anything strange, and three babes with the same face was too strange for him. So he told all in Abroi that there was only one.’

‘How could he do that if two lived?’

‘By hiding us in a hovel underneath the cottage. When we were four and old enough to work the farm, he would take us out to work one day at a time.’

Froi could not understand what Arjuro was saying. He placed a hand over the cup to stop the Priestling from pouring another drink. Arjuro looked at him and flinched. ‘You have the face of a cruel man, Olivier of Sebastabol.’

‘But it’s in me to be kind,’ Froi said. ‘Talk.’

Arjuro pointed to the cup and Froi removed his hand.

‘We had one name. The word for nothing in the Abroin dialect. Dafar. Nothing. One day I was Dafar and my brother stayed in the hole. The next day he was Dafar and I stayed in the hole.’

Froi was breathless. ‘Madness,’ he whispered.

Arjuro nodded. ‘We named each other. Gargarin is not a Charynite name. I liked Arjuro. Gar and Ari.’ Arjuro smiled for a moment. ‘They were two adventurers in the year one hundred who wrote tales claiming they had gone beyond the Ocean of Skuldenore.’

Arjuro swallowed a cupful of wine, soaking his beard.

‘There was never a time when my brother wasn’t taking care of me. It was Gar who always had the plans to protect us from our father. I received the gift of godspeak when I was six years old, and Gar and I clutched onto each other with such joy that day. The walls of our hovel were filled with words of wonder. Blessings from the gods, wisdom from the Ancients. Gargarin’s time would come soon, we’d tell each other. We could not imagine a gift bestowed on one and not the other. What it took others months to learn, I could do in a moment. Read. Write. Translate for the gods. I wrote the symbols and taught Gargarin, for only the gods’ touched could read the raw words written by the gods themselves, and in Abroi we had the oldest caves in the kingdom. And we waited for his gift and waited, telling ourselves we would escape from the swamp of Abroi the moment it came. But it didn’t. Gargarin had not been chosen.’

Froi saw tears in Arjuro’s eyes, as though the moment he remembered had taken place just the day before.

‘Our father, being an ignorant man, was frightened by intellect and reason. And he was even more frightened by what could not be explained. He believed he could thrash it out of me, this gift that had others in awe.’ A flash of pain crossed Arjuro’s face.

‘Gargarin always had a solution. “If we can take turns being Dafar, then we can take turns being you,” he’d say. So we would share the beating.’

Arjuro’s eyes were fierce with self-disgust. ‘I let him.’

All Froi’s young life he had prayed to the gods that someone would share the beatings and his pain. If anyone understood Arjuro, he did.

‘One day, when we were ten years old,’ Arjuro continued, ‘Gar packed a saddlebag. He took my hand and we walked four days to Paladozza. People stood agog by the side of the road, for they had never seen our two faces together. But Paladozza was a dream. The second capital, they called it. The godshouse was full of learned men and women and Gar demanded a meeting with the Priestess. “My brother is gods’ touched,” he said. “Take care of him.” He then walked all the way back to Abroi.’

‘You lived apart?’

Arjuro nodded. ‘Every night I spent away from home I dreamt of three babes. I knew I was dreaming of my brothers, one dead and one alive, until I could no longer stand being away from Gar. I walked four days back to Abroi to be with him. I told him about the dream and he had dreamt the same.

‘Finally, the Provincaro of Paladozza came to Abroi and took us both. The Priests were desperate to have me in their godshouse school. Despite the fact that our father tried time and time again to drag us back to Abroi, we found peace in Paladozza. Gar was the Provincaro’s servant boy and I went to school, but we still managed to see each other every day. We were treated with the same respect as the Provincaro’s son, De Lancey. Everything I learnt, I taught Gargarin. At sixteen I was sent to the Citavita to begin my time as a Priestling in the godshouse. Gargarin gave up the Provincaro’s offer of land and prosperity to stay close to me and he found himself work in the palace that once sat at the entrance of the Citavita where the bridge ends. Gar was the King’s errand boy.’

‘How does an errand boy end up being one of the King’s trusted few?’ Froi asked.

‘Because whether it was the Provincaro of Paladozza or the King of Charyn, Gargarin of Abroi was not easy to ignore. Within a year at the palace, he had drawn designs that everyone he met marvelled at. They said that one day this lad would be the King’s First Advisor.’ Arjuro’s words were slurred. ‘They began building the palace across the rock, the most impenetrable royal dwelling in the whole of the land. Years later when it was complete, the palace made the King feel like a god until he believed he had the status of one. And then this godshouse was raped.’

Froi leaned forward to stare the man in his eyes. ‘I don’t think for a moment that Gargarin believes you betrayed the Priestlings, Arjuro,’ Froi said. ‘You can’t possibly believe that.’

‘You don’t want to know what I saw,’ the Priestling said, his voice hoarse.

‘Was it the slaughter?’ Froi asked.

Arjuro shook his head, stumbled to his feet and pushed Froi away.

‘If I could tear out my eyes to stop what I saw on the day of weeping, I’d do it over and over again.’

‘Quintana’s birth?’ Froi asked, confused. ‘But you were imprisoned, Arjuro. You couldn’t have seen anything.’

‘I saw everything,’ Arjuro said, his voice hoarse. ‘But ask me nothing of that night.’

Froi followed him down the dark passage. ‘Then I ask why Lirah is imprisoned.’

The Priestling’s shoulders collapsed. Froi could tell he didn’t want to answer that question either.

‘For an attempted murder,’ Arjuro said, quietly.

‘Who?’ Froi demanded.

‘Her daughter.’

Chapter 14

Phaedra watched her Mont husband carefully. She had been sitting on his side of the stream a while now. It was unnerving not to have her people around, especially in the presence of the white witch.

‘So answer the question,’ the white witch said. ‘Are your people not coming to see me about their ailments because they think they will be banished from the valley if I find something wrong with them?’

‘They’re frightened of you,’ Phaedra blurted out. ‘Curses frighten my people and so do Charynites of mixed blood.’

‘Well I’m glad I didn’t have to beat that out of her,’ Tesadora muttered to Lucian.

Phaedra had never met a more frightening woman. She noticed that even the Mont lads feared her and only ventured near when they knew the white witch was further downstream.

‘We need to know about whether Rafuel’s rebels have heard from their messenger,’ her Mont husband said. He didn’t seem worried about the ailments of her people and was impatient with the white witch’s questions.

‘I beg your pardon, my lord,’ Phaedra said, her eyes studying the patterns of dirt on the ground inside the tent.

‘I’ve told you before, I’m not your anything,’ the Mont said coldly.

She nodded. ‘I beg your pardon, Luci-en.’ She winced, knowing she said it wrong. ‘But if I did know something, I’m not certain why you think I’d tell you.’

She caught Tesadora and the three other girls exchanging surprised expressions.

‘What I’m trying to say … is that my allegiance is not with you. It’s with them. It’s why they don’t tell me anything. They fear that you and your Guard and the white witch, and perhaps the Charynite King’s riders if they come to the valley, will attempt to torture it out of me.’

‘The white witch?’ one of the novices asked. ‘Is that what they call you, Tesadora?’

Tesadora shot Phaedra a look that narrowed her eyes even more. ‘I’ve been referred to as worse.’

‘We don’t torture,’ Lucian snapped. ‘You mistake us for Charynites.’

The white witch made a strange sound of disbelief. ‘Of course we torture.’

Lucian looked at the white witch and then at Phaedra with irritation.

‘We would never torture her,’ he said. ‘That’s what I’m trying to explain.’

‘I’d torture her in a moment.’ The white witch spoke as though Phaedra was not standing before her. ‘If she knew the fate of Froi and was holding it from us, I’d relish the torture.’

Phaedra dared not look at the older woman. When she had lived in the mountains during her marriage to the Mont, she had heard stories of what this white witch had done to a man who had been taken to the cloisters where she once lived with the novices. The man had been in pain, complaining of stomach cramps, and the witch had sliced him from chest to navel and left him open to die while his family watched. Worse still was the story that it was the mother of the white witch who had cursed Lumatere whilst burning at the stake.

‘But if I was to know that your kinsman Froi was safe,’ Phaedra said, ‘I would tell you. Without torture.’

Phaedra chanced a look at the Mont. She imagined that once, when his father lived, he would have been a kinder lad and full of warmth. But she had not seen that side of him and when he insisted that she return to her father earlier in the year she had been relieved to be far from him.

‘I need to go back up the mountain,’ he said, getting to his feet, and she could hear weariness in his voice.

One of the girls clicked her tongue with dismay. ‘Whether you reach the mountain tonight or early tomorrow won’t make a difference, Lucian. Stay.’

He shook his head. ‘My father never spent a night away from his people.’

He mounted his horse and then he was gone, leaving Phaedra on the enemy side of the stream with the white witch staring at her in the dark.

‘You’ll never find your dwellings across the stream,’ she said. ‘You’ll sleep here tonight.’

Later, when everyone slept, Phaedra was awoken by the sound of a horse. She had heard the same sound from her side of the stream on other nights and had wondered who would ride down the mountain at such a time. She heard a shuffling at the entrance of the tent and then the flap was pulled back, revealing the Lumateran Guard they referred to as Perri the Savage. In the light of the moon she could see the hideous scar across his crown, saw his cold dark eyes search the room. Phaedra whimpered. She was a fool not to believe that it had been a plot all along. They had sent the most brutal of the Guard to deal with her, after all.

She watched him creep stealthily across the space and she squeezed her eyes shut, praying to Ferja, the goddess of courage.

‘What was that sound?’ she heard the Savage whisper.

‘Probably the wife Lucian sent back,’ the white witch responded sleepily. ‘Thinking you’re going to torture her.’

He gave a snort. ‘After more than a week without a break and a day on the road?’

Phaedra heard the rustle of clothing being removed.

‘You were a fool to come without resting,’ the white witch said quietly.

‘I’ll find time to rest when you come home,’ he murmured, and Phaedra’s face was aflame as she heard sounds that had little to do with torture and more to do with pleasure.

‘We have a home, do we?’ the white witch asked.

‘I’ll build you one.’

This time it was Tesadora who sighed. ‘Sleep. You’re too tired to be of any use to me tonight.’

He chuckled and soon they slept and Phaedra was comforted that such a man would build a woman a home. That such a woman would speak words with tenderness.

She was forced to spend a second night on the Lumateran side of the stream translating her chronicles of the Charynites who arrived each day in the valley for Tesadora and the novices.

‘I hope you’re not promising them anything,’ Tesadora snapped from her bedroll as the others slept.

‘It wouldn’t matter if I did,’ Phaedra said. ‘Charynites don’t trust promises.’

The next morning she woke to a party of people arriving with more soldiers than she had ever seen. They came with women and children and some of the Mont girls she remembered from her time in the mountains. She felt uncomfortable with their stares and would have done anything to be on her side of the stream. The women who sat in the tent were dressed for the cool mountain air. Phaedra could see they were women of wealth. She had no idea how to determine the age of a child after seeing so few in her life, but the smallest was a tiny cherub with the greyest of eyes, her hair covered by an oversized cap. She stared solemnly from her mother’s lap. The other little girl was older and so beautiful it made Phaedra’s heart ache.

‘What a strange way to live,’ one of the younger Monts said, coming into the tent after having observed Phaedra’s people from across the stream.

‘No different to the trogs up on Finnikin’s Rock,’ Tesadora said.

It was a noisy room of talk and giggles and hushed gossip. Tesadora laughed heartily at what the young woman with the grey-eyed child had to say. There was love between these people and, as always, Phaedra felt so far removed and lonely from everyone, even her own.

The conversation between them changed constantly and finally settled on the Charynite camp.

‘They’re so dirty,’ one of the Mont girls spoke. ‘I tell you, I spent a day helping Tesadora and I could barely stand the stench when I stood beside a group of women.’

‘Constance,’ a fair-haired girl warned.

Then there was silence and the Mont girl’s eyes flickered to Phaedra. Phaedra’s face felt as though it was on fire. So many eyes suddenly on her, pity in some. But what shamed her more were the stares from the children.

‘The wife Lucian sent back,’ she heard one of them explain in a whisper.

‘Spent two whole weeks crying when he first brought her to the mountain,’ another said.

She heard hisses of ‘Shhhh’ and ‘Enough!’ The stares continued and then more silence, so much of it that even the Lumaterans looked uncomfortable.

‘They escaped through the sewers,’ Phaedra said quietly.

Phaedra felt the eyes of every person in the tent on her. Although she had never been called outspoken, she had an awful habit of speaking out of nervousness. ‘Enough now, Phaedra, my sweet,’ her father would say.

Still no one spoke.

‘They were imprisoned in the province of Nebia,’ she said, her voice small and insignificant. ‘The woman Jorja and her daughter Florenza. Jorja’s husband Harker had information about a number of Serkers who are said to live underground and Harker was arranging to have the Serkers smuggled to the province of Alonso. What he didn’t know was that his contact was a spy for the palace.’

Enough now, Phaedra, my sweet.

‘His wife and daughter found this out only after they were arrested in Harker’s place. They escaped through the sewers of their city.’

Phaedra looked at the Mont girl who had spoken. ‘That’s why you could barely stand the stench of them. Because they escaped through the shit of their people to save the life of Harker and twelve Serkers.’

Phaedra caught the wary stare of the young woman with the grey-eyed child.

Enough now, Phaedra.

‘If you believe us to be filthy demons, then it is wrong of you to bring your precious babes into danger,’ Phaedra said, looking at the woman and her child. ‘If they were ours, we’d never place them in harm’s way.’

The young mother stared back at Phaedra with fury. She stood, placing her daughter on her hip. ‘Now I have Charynites telling me how to bring up my child!’ she said, before walking out.

The fair-haired young woman stood instantly to follow, but another took her hand. ‘Let her go, Celie.’

‘I meant no offence,’ Phaedra said, hanging her head with shame.

A handsome woman with kind eyes shook her head. ‘She’s tired. Leave her.’

‘But Lady Abian, someone should go to her,’ one of the Mont girls said.

Lady Abian smiled ruefully. ‘In my early days with Celie, Augie’s mother persisted in telling me what to do all the time. The poor Queen may not have a mother-in-law, but every person in Lumatere has something to tell her about how to rear a child.’

Phaedra turned away in horror. She had insulted Queen Isaboe of Lumatere.

‘Finnikin’s Great-Aunt told her that she should no longer have Jasmina in their bed,’ the one named Beatriss said. Phaedra had heard of her. Once, she had been betrothed to the Captain of the Guard.

‘And that Jasmina is too old to still be at the breast,’ a Mont girl joined in.

‘Well, I have to agree there,’ said another.

The women chatted on and Phaedra was forgotten. She slipped out of the tent and looked between the trees to where the Queen stood with her consort’s arms around her. Phaedra recognised him from the day in Rafuel’s cell. They were speaking to the Captain who had the little Princess sitting on his shoulders. The little Princess pulled her shalamon’s ears and it was strange to see the Captain laugh.

Phaedra watched as her Mont husband arrived from the mountain. He dismounted and walked towards the small party, tugging the Queen’s cap over her eyes, and the Queen of Lumatere laughed. Phaedra saw a beauty that she had not recognised in the tent. Secretly, she had always felt shame that her Mont husband’s cousin had not thought Phaedra significant enough to visit on the mountain. Or invite to the palace.

‘They meant no harm,’ she heard Tesadora speak at her shoulder.

Phaedra walked away, scrubbing away tears, not realising she was crying. She was tired of feeling shame. She was tired of feeling helpless all the time.

‘Did you hear what I said?’ Tesadora asked, gripping her arm.

‘They say we’re dirty,’ Phaedra cried, pulling free. ‘Luci-en says we’re useless. Your queen says we’re murderers. I overheard the Mont lads say we should be rounded up and set aflame. We’re barren. We worship too many gods. Our bread is tasteless. Our faces are plain. We cry too much. Our fathers abandon us. We don’t understand kinship. We’re pitiful!’

Phaedra shook her head. ‘If your people mean no offence, they should not speak their thoughts out loud in front of their children, Tesadora. Because it will be their children who come to slaughter us one day, all because of the careless words passed down by their elders who meant no harm.’

Tesadora stared a moment and then a ghost of a smile appeared on her face.

‘Strange things happen when we stand face to face with our enemy, don’t they, Phaedra of Alonso?’

Tesadora leaned forward and sniffed at Phaedra’s clothing.

‘Why, you’re not so dirty after all.’ She smiled, mockingly. ‘And you just called me Tesadora, so that must mean I’m not the white witch anymore.’

The Queen returned to the mountain with her consort that night, but the others stayed. Phaedra had not been dismissed, so she spent a third night on the Lumateran side of the stream. She had little desire to sleep amongst the women in Tesadora’s tent, and chose to sleep under the stars in a bed of leaves, feeling lonelier than she ever had in her life.

She was awoken in the morning by the sounds from across the stream in the camp. During the night someone had placed a blanket over her and she folded it carefully to return it to the tent. The Lumaterans were already awake and soldiers of the Guard, including the Captain, were swarming the forest.

She approached the others, who were pottering around a fire being served tea by Tesadora’s girls, when suddenly Tesadora stopped, staring in the direction of the stream. She stood and then her eyes met Phaedra’s.

‘Something’s wrong,’ she said.

Phaedra listened a moment. It was unnaturally silent. The world of the cave dwellers seemed to have stopped.

‘Trevanion!’ Tesadora called out.

The Captain and his Guard were there in an instant. ‘The stream,’ Tesadora said.

Phaedra and Tesadora followed the Guard. The silence could only mean one thing, that someone had arrived unannounced. Perhaps it was the riders from the Citavita searching for lastborns.

They reached the stream and came to an instant halt. Across the water, every camp dweller stood staring back at her. No, not her. They were staring at the little girl the Lumaterans called Vestie, who stood beside Lady Beatriss of the Flatlands. In the eyes of her fellow Charynites, Phaedra saw so much wonder and despair.

Lady Beatriss held her daughter’s hand while the Captain stood beside her. They would have been a striking couple in their youth and Phaedra had heard that it was Lumatere’s sadness these two had still not announced a bonding day.

Lady Beatriss turned to Phaedra and Tesadora, questioningly.

‘We came to splash some water on our faces,’ she said quietly. ‘Please speak our sorrow if they are insulted that we used the stream.’

Phaedra shook her head, unable to speak. The Mont girls arrived and stared across at the Charynites, bewildered.

‘Do we have mud on our faces?’ one asked. ‘The way they’re staring is strange.’

Celie of the Flatlands looked at Phaedra for an answer.

‘Phaedra?’ she prodded gently.

Phaedra’s face burned from the attention. ‘When Luci-en first took me up to the mountain, I cried for days and weeks,’ she said, ‘every single time I saw a child. I had not seen one before and I suddenly understood in my whole being what drove our people to madness. For the beauty of a child took my breath away.’

The Lumateran women looked confused.

‘Have they not told you? Your captain and his men?’ she asked. ‘It’s part of our curse. We’ve not birthed a child in Charyn for eighteen years.’

Celie of the Flatlands and the Mont girls gasped in horror. Lady Beatriss caught her breath, her eyes wide with shock. She stared up at the Captain, who looked away.

‘You’re pale, Lady Beatriss,’ Phaedra said.

Lady Beatriss held two hands to her face.

‘It’s been a tiring trip,’ she said. Phaedra could see she was lying. Even Tesadora looked away.

A moment later, Lady Beatriss seemed to have recovered and she held out a hand to Tesadora. ‘Would you accompany me across the stream?’ she asked. ‘I’d like to make their acquaintance.’

‘You’re better off with Lucian’s wife. They think I’m going to curse them.’

Then little Vestie held a hand to Phaedra and she took it, her skin tingling at how small and soft it felt.

‘They’re very withdrawn, so please do not take offence at their ways,’ Phaedra explained. ‘I’m trying to find a way to have them all speak to each other, but they tend to keep to their own dwellings. The vegetable patches have worked to bring them together to a certain degree.’

‘I’m sure you’ll think of a way,’ Lady Beatriss said.

The journey down the mountain was silent and Beatriss found it hard to swallow. It was as though something sour was lodged in her throat and she could not release it. Trevanion rode beside her and more than once she tried to speak, but the words failed.

When they reached the road that passed through Sennington she clicked at her horse to stop.

‘You don’t have to come in,’ she said to him. ‘I’ll take her.’ Vestie had insisted on riding with Trevanion and had fallen asleep in his arms.

‘I’ll carry her inside,’ was all he said.

They rode down the path through the village and past the cottage of Jacklin and Marta. Beatriss saw all their worldly goods packed onto their mule and her heart sank. They had come to her only days before, heartbroken to have to say the words that they could not stay in Sennington. They had been offered work in Lord Freychinet’s village. Their departure would mean that Beatriss’s village was now down to fifteen people. Three years ago there were forty-nine of them, all determined to put the past behind and work tirelessly on the crop. But the crop had failed to yield for three years and it was selfish of Beatriss to keep her village tied to a dead soil.

When they arrived back at the long house, Trevanion followed her into Vestie’s room and she watched him place her daughter on the bed before he followed her down into the kitchen.

‘Ask me,’ she said quietly.

He didn’t respond.

‘It’s what you have wanted to do since you found out about the Charynites. So ask me.’

He stood, dwarfing his surroundings, as he always did in her mind. As a young woman, his presence had consumed every part of her. She couldn’t bear being with him in a room because everyone in it disappeared from existence, except for him. Even parts of her disappeared.

‘I have to go,’ he said quietly, walking out of Vestie’s chamber and down the stairs.

‘Ask me,’ she cried. ‘Ask me something. You never ask me of the past and without questions, I can’t speak, Trevanion. These unspoken words choke me inside.’

He looked at her, shaking his head with despair at not being able to release the words himself.

‘What do you want me to ask you, Beatriss?’ he said, anguish in his voice.

‘Who her father is. It must have been the first question to pass through your mind. If the Charynites have not produced children, who is the father of Vestie?’

But Trevanion did not ask and did not speak. Whatever had happened to him in exile had broken a part inside of him that she could not mend.

Instead, he turned and walked away and left Beatriss standing alone in her kitchen. It had always been her favourite part of the house. Here, during those long ten years, she had cooked for her whole village. They had stayed united because of it. When people supped together, they shared more than food, regardless of their station in life. She stared at the large pot that was able to feed so many, and knowing what she had to do, with a deep regret in her heart, Beatriss sat down and began to pen a letter to Phaedra of Alonso.

Chapter 15

Froi waited in the courtyard of the palace to visit the Citavita. It had been ten days since he had arrived in the palace, but it felt longer. At times, it seemed as though he couldn’t breathe from the weight of the stone walls surrounding him. The Citavita, at least, provided him with some kind of reprieve and a certain fascination. He had become accustomed to coming and going these last few days and although there was not one specific hour when the drawbridge was raised, he spent most of his time on the lookout. Today he felt Bestiano’s eyes on him, staring down from one of the upper walkways. Froi bowed respectfully, but there was no response from Bestiano.

From behind him, he heard the horses come out of the stables and as suddenly as the drawbridge was raised, more than a dozen palace riders rode past Froi towards the gates, followed by a heavily armed horse-drawn carriage. He stepped aside, curious about who was inside, and when the carriage rolled past him, he heard the name ‘Olivier!’ spoken with a whimper.

‘Quintana?’ he said, following it down the drawbridge as it lurched and rolled away. ‘Are you in there?’ he shouted. He continued to trail the carriage down the wall of the Citavita, but it was too narrow a stretch of path to share with the riders and the townspeople. Froi pressed against the rock to stop himself from being crushed. He recognised Dorcas riding close to the carriage and broke into a slow run to keep alongside the guard.

‘Dorcas,’ he shouted. ‘Where are you taking her, Dorcas?’

‘Soothsayer,’ Dorcas replied. ‘It’s a custom each year before the day of weeping.’

‘A custom to do what?’ Froi snapped.

Dorcas was irritated in the way he was always irritated when Froi spoke. ‘To rid her of the curse. Best you go back to the palace. You ask too many questions.’

‘Because you don’t ask enough, Dorcas, you fool. She’s scared.’

‘King’s orders.’

From the tops of caves and the road above, the Citavitans stopped to watch. Their stares were bitter. ‘Whore!’ one shouted and threw a rotten apple at the carriage. ‘Demon!’

Froi followed the entourage further down the road, watching the carriage totter close to the edge. It was too tight a fit on the narrow track and at any moment he imagined both horses and carriage toppling over the side. But halfway down, they stopped at the entrance to one of the cave houses and Quintana was taken into the soothsayer’s cave under a pelt of rotten fruit and fury from above.

Outside the cave, the palace soldiers stood guard, their attention on the roofs above. Froi watched merchants pack up their goods nervously, whilst others stared from the street lords to the soldiers, tensely waiting.

‘The carriage is blocking the road, friend,’ one of the street lords called out to the palace riders. ‘There’s a herd of cattle behind you that don’t take too well to following orders.’

Although the street lords were few in number, the palace riders were smart enough to look wary. A moment later the carriage jolted forward and it became impossible for the rider to see what was taking place on the narrow crowded road.

Froi heard cries from inside the soothsayer’s cave and then silence. Chants and then silence again. A warbling sound caused the horses of the carriage to lurch forward. Inside the cave, another cry was followed by silence. Froi could see the horses champing at the bit, moved close enough to see the carriage rider’s white knuckles gripping on tight. But the large herd of cattle was urged forward by the street lords and began to push both horses and carriage to the edge of the cliff road.

‘You’re going to have to let the horses go!’ Froi shouted up to the palace rider. The rider stood up in the carriage to look behind and was jolted again. Froi leapt up beside him, stared back at the road and saw the herd of cattle gaining on them.

Froi shoved the rider off the carriage before the fool was forced over the side into the gravina, carriage and all. He then climbed up to release the mounts as they tossed their manes with fury. The rider was back on his feet in front of the horses, working on the second harness. Less than a moment after the horses were released, the carriage went hurtling over the side, crashing against the rocks down in the abyss below.

On this narrow stretch of rock Froi watched cattle, soldiers, street lords and horses jostle for space. Inside the soothsayer’s cave there were screams and crashes, and the next moment Froi saw a figure come racing out, her hair drenched and tangled. But Froi wasn’t the only one to see her. From the flat roof of a cave above, a street lord noticed her as well. The man leapt down and landed close to Froi’s feet. Without a second thought, Froi caught him with a fist to the temple, knocking him down.

As Froi raced down the winding road after Quintana, he saw glimpses of her hair, but for bend after bend she would disappear until he reached a stretch where she seemed to have vanished altogether. He imagined that she was either heading down towards the bridge of the Citavita or was inside one of the caves teeming with vendors who were taking refuge. But then at the entrance of a cave beside him, Froi heard the rasp of heavy breathing behind a trio of baskets overspilling with threads and fabric.

‘Quintana,’ he whispered.

The breathing stopped a moment.

‘Olivier?’

He searched behind the baskets and saw her there. Her hair was plastered to her face, the front of her repulsive pink dress damp. Froi crouched down beside her.

‘Couldn’t you have worn something less noticeable?’ he muttered.

But she was too shaken and miserable to respond. He studied her closely, not knowing whether he was dealing with Princess Indignant or Quintana the ice maiden.

‘What did she do to you?’ he asked.

She looked weary, shaking her head. He settled beside her, hearing the sound of horses’ hooves hitting the hard ground outside the cave. After a moment she placed her head against his shoulders and Froi felt a tenderness towards her.

‘Sometimes … sometimes keeping alive is too tiring,’ she whispered, wringing her hands.

Before he knew what he was doing, he pressed his lips against her brow. ‘Don’t ever say that. Ever.’

He looked back to the entrance cautiously. A woman stood stirring a large pot with a paddle. Froi smelt saffron. He watched the woman drop a piece of cloth into the dye, retrieving another that had been soaking. On flat stones behind her he could see a basket of cotton tunics, waiting to be dipped into the pot.

‘Wait here,’ he said.

While the woman had her back turned, Froi grabbed one of the tunics and a scarf, and crept back to where Quintana was hiding.

He helped her remove the hideous pink dress.

‘Close your eyes,’ she said.

Froi stared at her, bemused. Sharing beds and lifting her shift to her thighs and dropping his trousers to his ankles was normal yet here she was, bashful.

He closed his eyes and when she was dressed, he wrapped the scarf around her head and took her hand, leading her into the cave.

‘It’s best we stay here for a while.’

Quintana was much too intrigued by her surroundings to complain and accepted the circumstances with her usual aplomb. If her eyes weren’t prone to squinting, she would have almost looked wide-eyed with fascination. In a corner, a woman sang a song so pure that it made something inside Froi ache.

‘What is she singing?’ Quintana stood transfixed, her hand close to her ears, as if she wanted to capture the sound in her fist.

‘I don’t recognise the language,’ Froi said. ‘But it’s a pretty melody.’

She looked at him, surprised.

‘What would you know of such things?’ she asked.

‘Well, if you’d really like to know, I can sing a pretty melody or two.’

Froi wanted to cut off his tongue for saying the words. Except for when working alone on the Flatlands where no one could hear, he hadn’t sung out loud since he was a child in a Sarnak marketplace.

He pulled her away. They were still too close to the cave entrance and not far enough away from the fury of those outside. But Quintana had seemed no safer with the palace riders. Was she any safer with Froi?

Further along, a man juggled three apples, taking a bite from the same one at intervals until it was nothing more than its core. Quintana studied him with a sort of wonder beyond anything Froi had seen on her face.

But she was drawn away by the cries of a woman in the folds of the cave. Froi followed her to where a couple embraced, the man’s body pressing his lover to the wall, his hands concealed under her dress. Froi held out a hand to pull Quintana away, but he heard a snarl from her and suddenly she leapt onto the man’s back, grabbing him by the hair, pounding his head once against the stone wall. The woman screamed and the man twisted and turned to throw Quintana from him. But she held on tight and Froi saw her face, saw her small, slightly crooked teeth, savage in shape.

He grabbed her around the waist and forced her from the man’s back, only to feel a painful kick to his shin by the woman.

He took Quintana’s arm and they escaped through the labyrinth, choosing paths randomly.

A tunnel led down to a lower level of the caves and Froi dragged her towards it, climbing down first, his feet and hands pressed into the indents of the narrow space to keep his balance. When he reached the ground, he held up his hands, clasping her around the legs and settling her before him.

‘Are you a madwoman, Quintana?’ he whispered furiously, after they both caught their breaths.

She pointed up the tunnel. ‘Did you not hear her crying?’

Froi looked around guardedly. Men stared from small dank corners and music rang in the distance through the pocket holes of the cave.

He leaned forward to whisper. ‘She was crying from pleasure.’

Quintana shook her head, fiercely. ‘That’s a lie.’

‘No. It’s the truth. People enjoy touching each other. Holding each other. Mating. Since the time of the Ancients, lovers have enjoyed it.’

Even in the half-lit space he saw her expression of disgust.

‘Is that what you tell yourself, Olivier? To make yourself feel better about what you’re doing to a woman. Do you convince yourself that she’s enjoying herself?’

Froi bit back his fury. And his shame.

‘And what of you?’ he said coldly. ‘Lifting your nightdress in your chamber, convincing yourself that it’s a sacrifice for Charyn when it’s nothing more than a need to ease your loneliness because no one in this godsforsaken kingdom cares whether you live or die!’

He regretted the words the moment they left his mouth. She stepped away and he tried to hold out a contrite hand to her, but she would have none of it.

‘Ease my loneliness?’ she asked bitterly. ‘If I wanted to ease my loneliness, Olivier, I would have asked my father for a kitten, not whored myself for Charyn.’

She turned and ran, and he caught her shift, hearing it tear. ‘Don’t draw attention to yourself,’ he said, but she pulled free.

He lost her twice, each time catching a glimpse of her in another nook or alcove.

At last, when he believed he would never find her; there she was in a huddle of musicians.

The music they were playing was accompanied by a wailing sound that seemed to beckon all that was untamed and buried deep within. Strange instruments twanged with every pluck of the strings, accompanied by the flicker of fingers across a hide drum. The man’s voice was rich, reverberating off the cave walls. Froi could tell he told a sad tale. But then the music changed in tempo and a woman with wild eyes spun and spun again, her arms raised high, and Froi was dizzy with the speed and the beat and the wails and grunts until the woman collapsed to the ground, a mass of sweat and deep breaths.

He saw Quintana then, her eyes bright with excitement. Perhaps it was the Serker in her that sang to him. Lirah’s Serker blood. Whatever it was, it seemed to awaken something in Froi that he couldn’t understand. That he didn’t want to understand. Not with Quintana.

And then the woman on the ground rose and the music was all things enticing. In the small crowd, she caught Quintana’s eye and held out a hand and then the Princess or Reginita or savage, or whoever she was, danced. It was as if she knew this dance in the deepest core of her and when she opened her eyes, Froi saw the Quintana who sat on the piece of granite between the palace and godshouse that day he had watched with Arjuro. The savage in her was a beacon to all things raw and base inside Froi. Her hips swaying, her eyes closed, her hands slowly twisting and turning above her head. It was as Rafuel had said. It was a dance of seduction and somehow in this dank cave with the half-mad Princess of the enemy, Froi was seduced. He walked between the dancers and took her face in his hands and kissed her, his tongue sparring with hers for only the slightest moment before he heard the snarl escape her lips and felt a sharp pain. He wiped the blood from his mouth where she had bit hard.

‘Do that again and I’ll make sure you bleed like a stuck pig,’ she hissed.

He clenched his fist. Remember your bond, Froi, he said to himself. He counted to ten.

The music slowly strummed to nothing and he felt bereft without it. Saw that she did too. Caught the tremble in her body as she came back from wherever she had been in her head. Froi reached out a gentle hand and drew Quintana to him, pressing their brows together.

‘In a kinder world,’ he whispered, ‘one I promise you I’ve seen, men and women flirt and dance and love with only the fear of what it would mean without the other in their lives.’

She was silent for a moment, but stayed with her head pressed to his.

‘Lirah says it’s a sport of blood,’ she said. ‘A dance between men and the women they own. What cruel lies you tell, Olivier of Sebastabol.’

He took her hand and they travelled deeper into the cave’s core, following the sound of cheering into a small crowded space.

Froi sat down beside a group of men playing cards, pulling Quintana down beside him. This was a game he knew, one he had mastered on the streets of the Sarnak capital.

‘You in?’ a man barked, half his teeth missing, which was always a warning not to join a game.

Froi pointed to himself and then shrugged, nodding.

The man with thinning hair clicked his fingers and held out a hand and Froi fished a handful of coins from his pocket. He dealt and Froi studied the cards he held in his hands.

‘Sir,’ he heard Quintana speak.

Froi turned to her, a finger on his lips, but Quintana was staring at the dealer, creases furrowing her forehead.

‘You forgot your card, Sir.’ It was Quintana the indignant.

There was a hiss of fury from the other players. Froi tensed, but relaxed when he realised Quintana was not in danger. The men were staring at the dealer.

‘Don’t know what you’re talking about!’ the dealer snapped.

‘There,’ Quintana said, confused that he was unable to see. She reached over to touch the dealer’s sleeve.

The other players stared at her. Was it a game this creature was playing, pretending innocence and confusion at the sinister workings of the world?

They threw their cards down in disgust.

‘You’re out of play, Aesop. Out!’

Someone pushed the coins towards Quintana.

‘They’re yours, Miss.’

Another man began to shuffle and deal and he had a new admirer in Quintana, who watched him carefully, grinning a crooked smile each time he stared down and winked at her.

‘Did you see what he did with his eye?’ she whispered in Froi’s ear.

‘He likes you,’ Froi said.

When each man had their cards, Froi felt her at his shoulder studying the hand. He tried to push her away, wary of what she would reveal to the others by her reaction.

‘What’s your name, lad?’ one of the players asked.

He hesitated, realising he couldn’t use Olivier in case someone knew of the palace visitor.

‘Froi,’ he responded, knowing it was safe to use the name here.

‘Well, Froi. A good game is a fast game.’

The men grunted in agreement.

‘That means he’d like you to be quick in placing down your card,’ Quintana explained.

He looked at her and then laughed.

‘What would I do without you?’ he said.

Later, Froi lead her through the caves, quickening his step when he realised they were being followed. When he pushed Quintana into a crevice and turned to face whoever it was, he saw it was a woman.

‘I know who she is.’

Froi ignored her.

‘You’re a fool to have her out here,’ she said. ‘You know the most base of men will soon come for the lastborn girls and use them as whores to produce the first.’

Quintana stiffened beside Froi.

Froi tried to push her behind him again. The woman thought Quintana was a lastborn, not the Princess.

‘It’s against the law,’ Quintana said, coldly. ‘The prophecy says that only the Reginita can break the curse. Only her. Not the innocent.’

The woman clicked her tongue with regret.

‘And what happens when her royal uselessness comes of age?’ she asked. ‘I tell you, they’ll come for the lastborns.’ She turned to Froi. ‘You take care of your girl.’

‘Always,’ Froi murmured, grabbing Quintana’s hand and turning away. Suddenly they faced another, a man bigger in build than any Charynite Froi had ever seen.

‘I’ll smuggle her out of the Citavita,’ the man said fiercely. ‘What have you been waiting for?’

Froi felt Quintana take a quick breath beside him. She stepped away from Froi, but he pulled her back.

‘And who are you, Sir?’ Quintana asked.

‘I’m Perabo. The keeper of these caves.’

The man held out his hand to Quintana. ‘You know it’s safe to come with me.’

‘She knows nothing of the sort,’ Froi said, ‘and if you don’t step back, I’ll break that hand in places you didn’t think there were bones.’

Quintana stared from Froi to the man and then to Froi again, and there was sadness in her eyes.

‘It’s not my time to go, Sir,’ she said to the keeper of the caves. ‘Not yet.’

The man’s eyes bored into Froi’s.

‘There are those of us who treasure all lastborns,’ the keeper hissed. ‘If something happens to her because of you, I will feed every bone of yours that I break down your throat.’

It was late when they reached the palace entrance and this time there was no need for calling out. The drawbridge was lowered and two of the soldiers approached, dragging Froi back with them. The courtyard was illuminated by torches. Gargarin stood behind Bestiano and the rest of the advisors and riders. Dorcas’s face was swollen, either a gift from the street lords or punishment from the palace for losing the Princess. Bestiano approached and his backhand caught Froi across the face.

Gargarin pushed past the advisors and one of the riders pulled him back and Froi saw him wince in pain.

Count to ten, Froi. Your work here is yet to be done. You’ve not even seen a glimpse of the King.

‘The palace risks a war with both Sebastabol and Paladozza if anything happens to the lastborn,’ Gargarin called out, a warning in his voice.

‘What makes you think anything will happen to him?’ Bestiano said pleasantly before turning to Dorcas.

‘I think a night in the dungeon should arouse him enough to be of service to the Princess tomorrow.’

Later, on the hard cold ground of the cell, when the world seemed so still that it was as though Froi felt the heartbeat of every man and woman in Charyn, he heard the soft singing coming from the opposite tower. It wasn’t the high-pitched purity in Quintana’s voice, nor the fact that she recalled every word to a sad song she had heard only once today in the caves of the Citavita, sung in a language she had never known. It was that he knew that voice, had dreamt it over and over again in a lifetime of rot and misery, and Froi wanted to weep. For he knew he would break his bond to his queen not just with his body, but with his heart.

When he climbed through Lirah’s window that night, she was lying on her cot, reading. He was surprised that the Serker whore could read. As he watched her engrossed in the words on the page, he recognised that the manuscript she held was from Gargarin’s collection. Did that fool of a man bribe her guard to pass on the books he treasured?

‘Do you feel nothing for her?’ Froi asked, accusingly. ‘Is it why you tried to kill her?’

She stared up a moment and then turned her attention back to her reading. ‘That took you long enough to work out,’ she said coolly.

‘Do you feel nothing for her?’ he repeated.

‘I feel pity. Satisfied?’

At that moment, Froi hated her more than when Arjuro had revealed the truth of Lirah’s crime.

‘And you?’ she asked, putting the manuscript down. ‘What do you feel, Serker savage?’

Froi fought hard not to react to her words. ‘I’m just intrigued,’ he said. ‘I’m wondering what it is that you’re good at. Your skill in drowning children and attacking scholars with a dagger is poor,’ he added, cruelly.

Her smile was bitter.

‘Well, I must be good for something. The King has kept me alive for long enough.’

‘I want to know about the brothers from Abroi,’ he demanded.

‘I loathe the brothers from Abroi,’ she said coldly. ‘That’s all you need to know.’

‘No, I need to know more, Lirah.’ Froi had come to realise that somehow the clue to where the King was to be found was connected to Lirah, Gargarin or Arjuro.

His eyes were fixed on Lirah’s. Trevanion referred to this as a gnawing war, where you sit and stare at your opponent as though gnawing away at their souls. Lirah was not one to look away, but Froi could see that she wanted him to leave. So she spoke.

‘Arjuro was a Priestling. A greater deviant the godshouse has never known, but he was the only person who could twist the Oracle around his little finger. His brother Gargarin was the King’s prized protégé, cold and remote towards all except his twin and …’

She stopped. Froi waited.

‘And you?’ he asked.

Lirah ignored the question. Froi walked to the cot and grabbed the manuscript from her hands. He walked back to the window and held it outside, threateningly. He could see the rage in her eyes.

‘Talk,’ he snapped. She refused to.

Froi took a chance, and tore out a page, inwardly asking Finn and Isaboe for forgiveness. They loved words and books. They sent messengers far and wide to find manuscripts as gifts to each other.

Without waiting another moment he tossed the page out the window.

‘You dog,’ she said, with a bitter shake of her head.

‘Talk.’

She walked to him and took the manuscript, clutching it close to her body. They both knew he could take it from her in an instant, but he waited.

‘For too long the wisdom and intellect in this kingdom came from the teachings of those in the godshouses,’ she said. ‘Some believed the palace could be just as progressive and that the newly crowned King was the one to bring about the change. One of these believers, a lad who had been raised in Paladozza, travelled to the Citavita with his brother. He had the plans and drawings to prove that Charyn could be as mighty as Belegonia. He and his brother had spent years deciphering the books of the Ancients, discovering farm methods and surgical techniques that proved the brothers’ genius.

‘The King was impressed with the lad, but he also wanted the gods’ touched Priestling brother to serve him because he already had a reputation for being the best physician the Citavita had seen. But despite the wealth the King promised, the Priestling was not interested in being solely in his service. More importantly, the Oracle of the godshouse was not going to hand over her most gifted Priestling to the palace.’

Lirah looked up at Froi a moment, but she seemed far away.

‘Everyone believes the downfall of Charyn began with the godshouse slaughter and the sacking of Serker, but I know it began with the battle between the Oracle and the King over Arjuro of Abroi.’

Froi couldn’t fathom such a thing. Arjuro was a drunk with no hope. How could he have ever provided Charyn with anything?

‘Despite the tension that was brewing between the Oracle’s godshouse and the palace, the brothers from Abroi refused to involve themselves. They began and ended the day greeting each other across the gravina. When they walked through the Citavita together, people would stop in awe. They were beautiful to look at, with their dark curls and fierce blue eyes. They may have come from nothing, but they held a fascination for those around them. The King tried to do everything he could to use them to his advantage. He believed that if Gargarin spoke to his brother, and his brother came to be the physician in the palace, then Arjuro would also convince the Oracle to sanction any plans the palace had to wrest control from the Provincari. But the brothers made a pact to never allow the godshouse or the palace to come between them.’

‘How did you meet the brothers?’

‘I first made Gargarin’s acquaintance in the palace.’

It seemed difficult for Lirah to say Gargarin’s name.

‘We spent a lot of time in a cave the brothers called theirs at the base of the gravina.’

‘I know it,’ Froi said, thinking of the first time he saw Gargarin.

‘De Lancey of Paladozza would be there too. It was all quite primitive at times,’ she said quietly. ‘They were strangely raw in their youth.’

‘And then?’

‘And then the godshouse was attacked, supposedly by the Serkers. It was a massacre. Forty of the Priestlings were killed. One day later, the palace riders found the Oracle with Arjuro of Abroi in the cave I spoke of. He claimed that he had not been present in the godshouse on the night of the massacre and had returned to find the carnage. He had found the Oracle Queen maimed, violated and close to death, and he had sworn to do anything to protect her.’

‘How did the palace know where to find him?’

‘He was betrayed. De Lancey did it without realising.’

‘De Lancey of Paladozza?’ Froi asked, surprised. He was the son of the Provincaro who had taken the brothers into his home.

‘They were lovers. Whatever De Lancey did, I’m sure he’s regretted it. After the capture, the palace held Arjuro in the godshouse on his own. Said it was a sound punishment to keep him chained inside the Hall of Illumination where most of the slaughter took place. During the next nine months, Gargarin was allowed to visit him. He never believed his brother was responsible and worked tirelessly to have him released.’

Lirah looked up at Froi, anguish in her eyes.

‘But ambition is an ugly thing and on the night of the lastborn, the King asked Gargarin of Abroi for the allegiance he had always desired from his prized pet.’

‘What type of allegiance?’ Froi asked, his blood beginning to run cold.

‘The type that ensures a man must sell his soul.’

Lirah walked away, her back to him, and Froi saw her stagger. If it were anyone other than Lirah he would have held out a hand to her. But Lirah did not seem the type of woman who invited help from any man. When he could see that she was composed, he walked around to face her.

‘What did he do, Lirah?’

‘Unbeknown to the people of Charyn, the King ordered Gargarin to kill the Oracle and the child she bore. To toss them out of the palace window into the gravina as though they were garbage.’

‘What?’

‘And the King’s guards dragged Arjuro to the balconette of the godshouse, chained him there and made him watch. It’s why Arjuro has never spoken to Gargarin again. That, and the fact that Arjuro spent more than eight years in the cell below this one for supposedly conspiring with the Serkers.’

‘Is that what you believe?’ Froi asked. ‘About the Serkers?’

She shook her head. ‘Never. If anyone knows the immoral habits of the Serkers, I do. But I would bet the life of this kingdom on the fact that no Serker would enter the godshouse and desecrate it. They may have resented the Oracle over the years for instructing them on how to live their lives, but they would never have despoiled the godshouse. The Serkers were begot from the Ancients. No province was more devoted to the gods.’

‘Gargarin couldn’t … I don’t believe you, Lirah.’

She studied him carefully and a cruel smile crossed her lips. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said, bitterly. ‘Gargarin of Abroi bewitched you, did he? Don’t worry. He’s done it to the best of us.’

‘I’m bewitched by no man,’ Froi said furiously.

‘Then why are you here asking questions?’

‘Because I needed to know whether he was worth saving.’

Lirah stared. Froi saw something flare up in her eyes.

‘Saving? Aren’t you here just to plant the mighty seed of Charyn?’

‘I’m not here to plant a seed, Lirah, and if anyone can tell me about the King’s chamber, you can.’

Suddenly Lirah grabbed his face viciously.

‘Who are you?’

Froi was silent a moment.

‘I’ll find a way to set you free,’ he said quietly. ‘There’s a cloister in the kingdom of Sendecane. At the ends of the land. You take her there,’ he ordered. ‘She can live in peace and this kingdom can forget her. This land can forget her.’

‘And what makes you think that I would protect her? I tried to drown Quintana, remember? I’m the scum of this earth in your eyes.’

‘She’s your daughter. There’s no greater bond than between a mother and her child.’

Lirah of Serker laughed with little humour. ‘Let me tell you a truth, Serker savage,’ she said. ‘And then I want you to leave and not come back. I gave birth to one child on that wretched night. He was a boy child, torn from my loins and given to Gargarin of Abroi to toss from the palace window into the gravina below. I woke up with the Oracle’s bastard in my arms. Quintana the Wretched. Quintana the Cursemaker. Quintana the Whore.’

There were tears of fury in the woman’s eyes. ‘And she gnawed at my breasts day after day screaming for her own mother, because that savage babe knew the truth. That I grieved my son until I had nothing left inside to give to her. So when you slit Gargarin of Abroi’s throat, you tell him. Tell him that on that cursed night he didn’t murder the son of the Oracle. He murdered mine.’

Chapter 16

Froi crouched by the side of the bed, waiting. He wanted to be the first thing Gargarin saw when he woke. Wanted to see the fear. He had been trained by Trevanion to watch for the signals that showed the difference between a man sleeping and awake. He saw the flicker on Gargarin’s face and a moment later Froi held a hand to the man’s neck.

‘I could snap it in an instant.’

‘Then why didn’t you when you had a chance?’ Gargarin asked.

‘Because I wanted to hear the truth from your mouth first.’

The silence stretched without a flicker of emotion on the other man’s face. Gargarin of Abroi could do uncomfortable silence better than anyone Froi knew. Even Perri.

‘I never took you for a murderer,’ Froi said bitterly.

Gargarin sighed, as though a truth was revealed that had been waiting a long time to reveal itself.

‘There are rules, even amongst the most base of men,’ Froi hissed. ‘I’ve done things that shame me still, but if I killed a newborn babe I’d dash my head against a rock rather than live one moment with such blackness staining me.’

Gargarin refused to look away. ‘I did what I had to do and I have no shame. And I’ll not explain myself to you. I’ll not explain myself to those who refuse to listen to the truth but still judge me. And if I had to do it again, I would not change a single thing that took place that night. Nor would the Oracle expect me to.’

Froi shoved him away, trying to block out the voice in his head that told him to forget his bond and kill this man.

‘Do you know how easy it is to snap the life out of a body?’ Froi asked. ‘Especially one that is broken?’

‘Then do it,’ Gargarin hissed. ‘Or are you as gutless as the rest of Charyn?’

‘Olivier!’ he heard Quintana’s voice outside on the balconette. ‘Olivier, are you in there?’

Froi’s eyes were fixed on Gargarin’s. Deep down he had believed in the boy named Gar who had kept his brother safe all those years. Who had walked four days with no food to bring young Arjuro hope. It was what made Froi want to kill him: the knowledge that Gargarin had sold some part of himself to a darker desire. But Gargarin’s action had nothing to with Lumatere’s safety and Froi knew it was not part of his bond to take this man’s life. Yet Froi wanted to cause pain and he pressed cruel fingers against the dagger wound Gargarin had received from Lirah. His only pleasure was watching the man wince.

‘Olivier!’

‘Your time will come,’ Froi warned.

Quintana stood on her balconette and Froi climbed onto its latticework and leapt, landing at her feet. He saw that her face was flushed with excitement.

‘I’ve been waiting for you all night and day,’ she said.

Froi shivered. He realised that the words came from Quintana the ice maiden. Realised, as he felt his face heating up, that the idea of this Quintana waiting for him with excitement spoke to parts of him he believed to be dormant. And then she winked.

‘Did I do that right?’ she asked. Her smile was lopsided and he saw a glimpse of the teeth.

And Froi imagined that he would follow her to the ends of the earth.

They sat crosslegged on the bed facing each other and she began to deal the cards with a speed and skill that surprised him.

‘I practised,’ she said. ‘I have a good memory for detail.’

He leaned forward, tilting his head to the side, a hand to his ear.

‘Say that again.’

‘I have a good memory for detail,’ she repeated.

‘You do, do you?’ he questioned, mockingly. ‘Not “we”? Not the Reginita? Not the Princess? Not the other? So what name should I use?’

For a moment, he thought he was losing her back to the coldness. She looked away, refusing to say her name, then she began to shuffle.

He was impressed and surprised and, more than anything, he was intrigued. He was growing to enjoy the way her eyes squinted and her mouth twisted as she concentrated hard. Sometimes he heard her murmur, ‘Hmm, yes I know,’ and he wanted to creep inside her head and join in her madness.

She clicked her fingers twice, mimicking one of the card players from that day in the cave dwellings. ‘Where are your coins?’

He choked out a laugh. ‘We’re not playing for coins. You may know how to shuffle, but that doesn’t mean you know how to play.’

She reached over to the trinket pouch on her bedside table and took out the coins she was given in the cave. She placed them before him and began to study her cards.

‘Remember, the same suit is more powerful,’ he explained.

She looked up at him, annoyed. ‘Why would I forget that?’

‘Because you’ve only watched three rounds.’

‘I told you, I have a good head for details. I can tell you the name of every person in this palace and if a new palace appeared and one hundred people were introduced to me, I’d remember their names as well.’

‘Wonderful,’ he murmured. He took his time studying his cards. ‘That should come in handy if you’re ever fighting for your life. And you can sing, as well. Beautiful voice, by the way.’

‘I can play with apples, too,’ she said.

He looked up, confused.

Quintana put her cards down and climbed over him. Decorum was not quite her forte.

She picked up three apples from the plate by his side of the bed and, concentrating hard, she began to toss them in the air with such precision that he wondered for more than the first time what else lay buried inside Quintana of Charyn.

‘Slightly impressive,’ he said, feigning indifference.

‘And you can do better?’

The first skill taught to a boy on the streets of the Sarnak capital was the ability to juggle. He could do it with his eyes shut. He took the apples from her and did just that. When he opened them he caught the last apple in his hand and took a bite. She reached out and he held it away until she straddled him to grab it from his grip. She leaned over him, but with their loins almost joined and the dip in her nightdress revealing a glimpse of round full breasts, Froi’s control over his body failed.

Suddenly she jumped away, staring at him with fury.

‘Well, you can’t climb all over me and expect it to just lie there,’ he said, trying to fight the pain of his arousal.

Quintana watched him carefully. Then she settled back and shuffled the cards, dealing them out as though nothing had happened between them.

‘A good game is a fast game, Froi.’

His head snapped back in shock. ‘What did you call me?’

‘That was the name you gave the dealer.’

He couldn’t explain it to himself. How it felt to hear her speak his name.

Froi dragged his attention back to his cards, annoyed. He didn’t want to feel whatever he was feeling for her. Or for anyone in this castle. He thought of Gargarin in the next chamber and how Lirah’s words had made him sick to the stomach. What was it about Gargarin and the whore and the Priestling and this strange Princess that made him care when he was trained not to?

‘Arjuro says he was never in the palace,’ he murmured, discarding a card and taking another.

‘Well, who are you going to believe? Me or a drunk?’ she asked.

‘You’re not exactly considered the sanest mind in Charyn.’

‘I’m going to win this round so I’d advise you to give in now,’ she said, reaching over for his coins. Froi slapped her hand away.

‘I do understand the concept of bluffing, Quintana.’ He looked at his cards, quite pleased with what he saw.

She sighed and threw in a few more coins.

‘I take great offence at being considered insane,’ she said.

‘There are three of you,’ he reminded her.

Her eyes flashed with anger. ‘Firstly, there are not three of us at all. And what of you? One moment a fighter, next minute an idiot who doesn’t heed warnings that he’s going to lose?’

‘So you’re admitting there’s more than one of you?’ he asked.

‘I’m not admitting anything at all and I’d advise you to show me your cards now.’

‘Show me first,’ he ordered.

She turned her cards and pressed them close to his face and he moved his head back for a better look.

‘I did warn you,’ she said coolly, collecting the coins and placing them in a trinket pouch.

Froi was put out. ‘Would I have won if I played the Reginita?’ he sulked.

‘She’s the one with the better memory,’ Quintana said, then lay back on her pillow. Again it was as though she was resigned to her fate, rather than anticipating it. Froi wanted the anticipation. He craved it.

‘Are you going to plant the seed, or should I just blow out the candle and say good night?’ she asked, with a weary sigh.

‘Do you come to me willing?’

He waited, praying to the gods that the answer was yes.

Quintana blew out the candle and said good night.

She woke him later. A distracted look on her face, her hair all over his eyes. Froi pushed it aside with irritation.

‘Yes, I know. There’s a man dying in Turla.’

‘Why in the name of the gods would Arjuro deny knowing me?’ she asked.

‘You got it all wrong anyway,’ he muttered, willing himself back to sleep. ‘He was never in love with Lirah because he was having a dalliance with De Lancey of Paladozza.’

‘De Lancey?’ she said, horrified. ‘Have you seen De Lancey? He’s the most handsome man in the land. He would never have a dalliance with Arjuro. Arjuro looks as though he hasn’t bathed since childhood.’

Froi pointed to his face. ‘Eyes closed. It means I’m trying to sleep.’

‘For some reason he is lying to you,’ she said. ‘Indeed he was in love with Lirah.’

Froi sighed, and opened his eyes. Her lips were pressed together in a grimace.

‘Why have you made Arjuro and Gargarin your business when you were sent here for other purposes?’ she asked.

‘I was sent here to swive you. Your word, not mine. Seeing it’s not your true desire, I’ve turned my attention to the lives of the brothers from Abroi and Lirah. It’s helped with the boredom.’

He wondered how much she knew of Gargarin’s hand in the Oracle Queen’s death.

‘Do you love Lirah?’ he asked quietly.

She studied his face. ‘Despite the fact that she’s not my mother?’

He wasn’t surprised that she knew. He was more surprised that she admitted it to him.

‘How is it that she spoke to you of such things?’ Quintana asked.

‘Oh, you know. She opened her mouth and words came out.’

She clicked her tongue with irritation. ‘We have an understanding with Lirah,’ she said.

‘So we’re back to “we”, are we?’ he asked. ‘Sometimes this bed gets too crowded.’

He turned away. ‘I’m going back to sleep. Send one of the others to wake me up later. I like you the least.’

She didn’t speak after that, but he sensed that she was awake and as much as he tried, he couldn’t keep himself from turning to face her. He felt her breath close to his.

‘Is it because we’re not beautiful?’ she asked.

‘What?’

‘That you don’t want to save us … or plant the seed.’

Froi inwardly groaned.

‘In the books of the Ancients,’ she said, ‘the Princesses are always beautiful and they always get saved and men always want to swive them.’

At least if there was yearning in her voice, Froi would see it as an invitation. But there was only curiosity.

‘I’m going to say this once and once only,’ he said. ‘Are you listening?’

‘Only this once,’ she responded, and he couldn’t help smiling.

‘In the world outside this palace,’ he said, ‘men and women don’t go around speaking of planting seeds and swiving.’

‘What’s it called in the outside world then?’ she asked.

‘It’s not spoken of. It’s just done. It’s felt. I personally have nothing against the word,’ he said with a laugh. ‘But if you spoke it aloud, you would be judged.’

He thought for a moment, suddenly registering a word she had spoken a moment before. Saved. He reached over and touched a thumb to her face. But she flinched and pushed his hand away.

In all her talk of lastborns and seed planting, neither of the Quintanas had ever spoken of being saved. He couldn’t help thinking of the fear in her expression outside the soothsayer’s cave. The weariness in her voice when she spoke to him of staying alive. Then there were her words to the woman in the caves. The prophecy says that only the Reginita can break the curse. Only her. Not the innocent. Why would she not consider herself innocent?

Worse still, he couldn’t get the words from Arjuro and Gargarin out of his mind. That she would not live past her coming of age.

‘Go to sleep,’ she said after a while. But Froi couldn’t sleep. Too many questions were plaguing him. Why would Arjuro deny knowing Quintana?

In the early hours of the morning he heard Gargarin leave the adjoining chamber. Froi had spent enough time with the man to know that aside from being forced to attend breakfast and dinner each day, and sitting against the wall of the second tower and watching Lirah of Serker’s rooftop prison, Gargarin didn’t leave his chamber.

Froi dressed quickly and crept out of Quintana’s room, cautiously following Gargarin down the tower steps. Instead of Gargarin exiting into the outer ward of the castle, Froi watched him disappear to where the cellars were. Keeping a discreet distance, he trailed Gargarin through rows upon rows of wine racks and down into a lower basin that could only be accessed through a hole dug into the ground. Gargarin struggled to lower himself down into the narrow space. His hands, dependent on his staff, fumbled against the cavity wall, and Froi heard muttering and cursing that reminded him more of Arjuro than his brother.

The vertical tunnel led to a burrow so low in height that Froi stooped most of the way. He heard the tapping of the staff and in the distance could see the bobbing of light coming from an oil lamp that Gargarin must have stowed away. Further along, the tunnel tapered and turned and narrowed. Finally, he saw Gargarin lift a grate and extinguish the lamp. Then there was nothing but black and the quiet sound of breathing. Gargarin climbed the stones up into whatever lay above and disappeared from sight.

Froi waited a while, his heart hammering. Had Gargarin inadvertently led him to the King? How long had Gargarin secretly met him this way? Who were they keeping the truth from? Was it Bestiano? Froi remembered what Arjuro and Lirah and even Bestiano had admitted about the King’s prized pet. That he had been ambitious. Froi knew that if he was to find both men together, he would kill them. The King first and then Gargarin.

After a while, he followed Gargarin up the grate, climbing into an alcove with a small altar that served as a prayer cubicle. Gargarin’s feet were a short distance away from Froi’s head and the man was gazing down into what could only be the King’s private solar. From where he was, Froi could see frescoes richly decorating the wall, the eyes of the gods staring down at him in judgement. He heard the sound of heavy footsteps and voices below.

‘The Provincari and their people have arrived, Your Majesty,’ one of the riders said.

More footsteps. Froi suspected they belonged to more soldiers by the sounds of swords clanging as they walked. Suddenly there was a movement before him and he watched Gargarin place a hand in his pocket and retrieve a dagger. A cold fist seemed to grip Froi’s heart. Idiot. Gargarin was not there to meet the King. He was there to kill him.

Silently, Froi placed a hand over Gargarin’s mouth.

‘You’ll never get out of here alive, Gargarin,’ he whispered, wondering why he even cared.

Gargarin tried to shove him away, his movements furious.

He pulled Gargarin back to the grate and forced him down the hole. Froi followed closely behind. In the narrow tunnel he watched as Gargarin rested his head against the stone, wearily.

‘Lean on me,’ Froi said. ‘Lirah’s dagger wound must have triggered off spasms.’

‘Really. You’re gods’ touched, are you?’

Froi ignored the mood. ‘Not sure whether you noticed that I saved your life, fool.’

‘Not sure whether you noticed that I didn’t ask for saving, idiot!’

Gargarin was still clutching the dagger in his hand.

‘And where did you manage to get hold of that?’ Froi asked.

‘I’m not here to answer your questions.’

‘Then what are you here for, Gargarin?’

Gargarin stumbled away, his movements even more awkward in his fury. Froi grabbed him by the coarse woven cloth of his shirt, but Gargarin pulled away again.

‘Is this where you break your bond and kill me slowly?’ he asked.

‘Not today,’ Froi said. ‘I’m feeling too inquisitive.’

‘About?’

‘You. Your brother. The whore,’ he provoked.

Gargarin stopped and Froi walked into him. There was no room in so narrow a space for Gargarin to turn, but Froi saw the whipcord fury in the hands against the wall, the way they tightened on the staff and the dagger.

‘You watch what comes out of your mouth,’ Gargarin warned coldly. ‘Lirah of Serker was thirteen years old when she was sold to this godsforsaken rock. She deserves no one’s scorn.’

Froi reached forward and pounded the hand holding the dagger into the wall. Gargarin’s fingers convulsed and let go.

‘You’re nothing but a pathetic shell of a man who can hardly hold a weapon, let alone a woman such as Lirah of Serker,’ Froi said, picking up the dagger.

‘A pathetic shell of a man?’ Gargarin asked. ‘Is that what you call those from wherever you come from who don’t have power in their stride?’

Suddenly Gargarin twisted around, slamming Froi against the wall, the staff under Froi’s chin, the space so narrow they could hardly breathe.

‘See, now we’re speaking the same language, Gargarin,’ Froi said, excitement making his blood pound. They struggled for a moment until Froi had the upper hand, his arm pressed against the other man’s windpipe. ‘If you answer my questions, I promise I won’t snap your neck,’ Froi said.

Gargarin was silent.

‘Waiting for the nod.’

‘Well, you’re not going to get one. What’s your name?’ Gargarin demanded.

‘Doesn’t matter what my name is,’ Froi said, irritated. ‘I’m the one asking questions.’

‘There’s something you need to know about me,’ Gargarin said in an even tone. ‘Despite the wretchedness of this body, I stopped being frightened of thugs some time in my youth. The only people who frighten me are those who are smarter, and thankfully in this palace, there aren’t many of those, so I’ve managed to find some peace in this wretched life of mine.’

‘Would you consider me smart for wondering how you would possibly know where the King’s chamber is?’ Froi asked.

‘Because I once lived in the palace, idiot.’

‘You lived here eighteen years ago when his chamber was in the keep. Twelve years ago he was moved to the fourth tower. It’s where your brother was chained to his desk. Not the kind of information they hand out readily around here.’

Gargarin’s expression was bitter.

‘But perhaps your brother wasn’t chained to the King’s desk. At first I thought he was the grumpiest, meanest man in the land of Skuldenore. Who wouldn’t want to wave to Quintana, especially when years ago he wept while clutching her and Lirah in his arms, as though he was in love with Lirah? But, despite the fact that Lirah’s face makes one ache, Arjuro prefers the company of men in his bed, although these days I don’t think anyone is enjoying Arjuro’s presence in their bed. Then when I asked Arjuro to describe the King’s chamber where he spent two whole years chained to a desk, he claimed never to have been there. Said the Reginita was lying. Perhaps she was lying. Deep down, I think she’s telling a story or two.’

‘You have a lot of time for thinking. Is that what you do back wherever you come from?’ Gargarin asked.

‘Am I right?’

Gargarin’s eyes flickered with some sort of triumph. ‘And what would you say if I told you I’ve worked you out?’ he asked.

‘Be my guest,’ Froi said, ‘I could do with some entertainment.’

‘You’re an assassin made up of the garbage of this kingdom. You have Serker eyes and you have the face of scum from Abroi. I should know. I grew up amongst it. We’re probably related, most of Abroi is, and the reason I don’t look like the rest of you inbreds is because my brother and I took after our mother, who came from a nomadic tribe of pig-ignorant Osterians, who thankfully were blessed with refined features, but little else. You were taught to speak Charynite in the classic way, probably by a Priest or a scholar, and you’ve spent some time in Sarnak because when you curse, you say Sagra, and only that kingdom butchers the name of the Goddess Sagrami. The fact you pronounce your z with an s sound tells me you lived amongst the Sarnaks, and you end your sentences on a high note, which means you’ve spent some time with the Lumateran river people.’

Gargarin waited. ‘Did I get any of it wrong, whatever did you say your name was?’

‘I didn’t,’ Froi said, impressed. ‘Anything else you’d like to add, you lying scum?’

‘I don’t lie. I just kill women and babies, remember.’

Froi pressed him harder into the stone. ‘How could you jest about such a thing?’ he said.

He felt Gargarin search his face.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Olivier of Sebastabol.’

‘Tell me something, Olivier of Sebastabol. Was the other Olivier murdered to fulfil what it was you were sent to do?’

Froi hadn’t given the other lad a thought since he had entered the Citavita.

‘If I knew what you were talking about, I’d say no. Why kill an innocent lad, regardless of what an idiot he is?’

There was relief on Gargarin’s face.

‘Tell me, Gargarin of Abroi, did you throw the Oracle Queen and the babe from the balconette?’

‘Yes, I did,’ he said. ’And no, I didn’t. I’ll swap my truth for yours.’

Froi shook his head.

‘Who sent you?’ Gargarin demanded.

‘Why would I tell you that?’

‘Because I think we want the same thing.’

Froi remembered Trevanion’s warning about not trusting those with the same desire to kill the King.

‘You and I are not the same, Gargarin. I would never take the life of a babe.’

‘Is that what Lirah told you? Arjuro too?’ Froi’s grip loosened and Gargarin broke free, hobbling away as though he wanted to put the greatest of distance between them. ‘At least Arjuro saw events that tricked his eyes. Lirah made her decision based on hearsay,’ he said bitterly.

Froi wanted to inflict as much pain as possible. Gargarin was every man he trusted who had turned their back or betrayed him on the streets of the Sarnak capital.

‘Makes no difference to me because a child died that night,’ Froi said, coming up behind Gargarin. ‘But it makes a difference to her.’

He placed his mouth close to Gargarin’s ear so he would hear the words whispered for the rest of his days. ‘You killed Lirah’s son, Gargarin. They swapped the babes.’

Gargarin stopped, shook his head as though to rid himself of a thought that seemed incomprehensible. He managed to turn and face Froi. This time it was Froi who wanted to look away because the stare was a force beyond reckoning. Gargarin stumbled back over uneven ground. Froi leapt forward to grab him, but Gargarin pushed him away and still he stared. Froi didn’t see sorrow in the man’s eyes, but he saw something. Confusion, perhaps. Was that hope? Gargarin swallowed hard.

‘Wherever you’ve come from, leave this place and never return,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Please.’

The plea was the last thing Froi expected to hear.

They were both silent as they walked out into the courtyard. Something Froi could not put into words had taken place in the bowels of the castle that had left them both shaken.

Around them, the courtyard was a beehive of activity. Servants swept the ground with vigour and the castle cooks carried a roasted pig on a spit towards the smaller drawbridge that led to the inner ward. Suddenly they found themselves face to face with Bestiano.

Gargarin passed the man without a word, but Bestiano’s hand snaked out and grabbed Gargarin by the arm.

‘The King has finally agreed to see you,’ the King’s First Advisor said coolly. ‘He felt it was best to do so with the Provincari here.’

Gargarin looked back to where Froi stood. Froi saw his eyes glance towards where he knew the dagger was hidden in Froi’s pocket. The fool wanted it back.

‘And what of me?’ Froi asked. ‘Don’t lastborns meet the King?’

‘You,’ Bestiano said, forcing a pleasant tone, ‘will travel home tomorrow with the Provincaro of Paladozza. I especially asked him as a favour on behalf of the absent Provincaro of Sebastabol.’

Froi knew that in the early hours of the morning he would have to return to the tunnel and do what he was sent here to do.

A parade of riders entered the courtyard through the portcullis. The Provincari, Froi suspected, here for the day of weeping. Froi turned to walk away, but saw Quintana standing by the gatehouse, peering out between the riders, into the Citavita below. He knew without asking that she was searching for him, believing him to have leapt to Arjuro’s godshouse.

She turned, her eyes finding Froi’s over Bestiano’s shoulder.

‘Get out of that filthy sack, you stupid girl,’ Bestiano grated. Quintana had taken to wandering through the castle wearing the calico shift Froi had stolen for her in the caves. It made her look even more ordinary. Even more human than the peculiar Princess in the hideous pink dress.

When Froi heard Bestiano’s footsteps retreat towards where the Provincari were dismounting, Froi approached her.

‘You’re going tomorrow,’ she said quietly. ‘Without having planted the seed.’

Froi tried to hide his frustration. Deep down he wanted her to be of a sound mind, but each time she mentioned the planting of the seed he knew she was nothing more than a half-mad girl.

‘If you fulfil the prophecy,’ she said, ‘we will let you kiss me.’

‘A kiss is the prize?’ he asked sadly. ‘Even more than giving me the rest of you? It should be the other way round, Princess. In the real world, it’s called courting. You let a lad kiss you and then you offer him more.’

‘Let me tell you something, Olivier,’ she said with tears of sorrow in her eyes, ‘this is my real world.’

Gargarin approached, returning from greeting the Provincari. He went to enter their tower, but stopped when he caught Quintana’s expression.

‘Has Olivier said something to distress you?’ he asked gently, noticing the tears in her eyes.

‘He has a wicked tongue, Sir Gargarin.’

‘Pity it’s not in our power to cut it out then,’ Gargarin said. ‘The Provincaro of Paladozza would like a word,’ he told Froi.

Froi looked back to where the portcullis was still raised and the drawbridge down.

‘I’ve someone to meet,’ he muttered, walking away from them both.

Froi hammered on the godshouse door for what seemed an eternity. He was always wary on this quiet part of the rock, away from the noise and business of the Citavita.

He stared into the peephole the moment he heard Arjuro slide it across. After a moment, the Priestling opened the door and stepped aside. Froi watched him look down towards the palace.

‘I suppose the Provincari have arrived?’

Froi didn’t answer. Arjuro shut the heavy door, pushing his weight against it before placing a piece of timber across the length of the entrance.

They stood silently in the dark.

‘Did you swap places?’ Froi asked.

Arjuro met his eyes. He didn’t pretend not to know what Froi was saying.

‘In a way.’

‘In what way?’ Froi demanded.

‘In the way where I beat him to a pulp and walked out of a prison as Gargarin of Abroi and the real Gargarin stayed locked up for eight years as the Priestling Arjuro.’

‘Oh,’ Froi said quietly. ‘That way.’

Arjuro was holding a bottle in his hand. He took a long mouthful. He looked worse than Froi had ever seen him. They both sat on the cold hard stone of the stairs.

‘Lirah told me the truth. About what Gargarin did all those years ago.’

Arjuro didn’t respond.

‘Is there any chance –’

‘No,’ Arjuro said, as though he knew what Froi was asking. ‘I saw him do it. You’ve seen the distance between the godshouse balconette and yours. They shackled me to the railings outside mine and they made me watch. First he tossed my beloved Oracle, then her child.’

Froi’s heart sank.

‘It was Lirah’s child,’ he told Arjuro quietly. Respectfully. ‘They swapped the babes.’

Not even a day’s worth of ale could numb Arjuro from those words.

‘Gods,’ the Priestling muttered, hammering his head against the wall. ‘Gods. Gods. Gods.’

Froi grabbed him, taking the bottle out of his hand. Suddenly, a thought seemed to cross Arjuro’s mind.

‘Then the Princess …’

Froi nodded. ‘ … is the Oracle’s daughter.’

‘Well, that makes sense. There was no one madder than the Oracle.’

‘Was it quick?’ Froi asked. ‘The way they died, I mean?’

‘I could see the Oracle was already dead. The struggle had already taken place inside the chamber. Same with the babe.’

Arjuro took the bottle from Froi and was back on his feet, trudging upwards. Froi sometimes forgot that the brothers were no older than Trevanion and Perri and Lord August. But they walked like old men, as though the weight of evil stood on their shoulders.

Arjuro stopped at a landing that led to cell after small cell. Froi followed him into one of the rooms and watched the Priestling collapse onto the cot, the bottle hitting the ground, shattering into pieces. ‘They made me watch,’ Arjuro repeated over and over again. ‘They made me watch my brother kill innocence and goodness that day.’

‘And what of you, Arjuro? What of your innocence or guilt? Who was it that betrayed this godshouse to the Serkers the year before?’

‘There was no betrayal by me and no attack by Serker,’ the Priestling said.

Froi sat on one of the cots waiting. If he had to, he would wait all day.

‘I had fought with the Oracle. I always fought with the Oracle. It’s what she loved about me. I was her favourite, you know.’

Froi pushed the shattered glass out of the way and stepped closer.

‘I went to meet De Lancey. He was visiting from Paladozza and one thing led to another and we spent the night together. When I arrived here I found the horror. All dead, but her. Men and women I adored. Most no older than twenty-five. The Oracle couldn’t speak or write because they had cut off her tongue and fingers. I knew that we couldn’t stay, so I took her across the bridge and we travelled down into the gravina to the cave house I shared with Gargarin. I left a message for De Lancey at the inn. He joined us the next day. Told me I was insane for suspecting the palace. In those days the King could do no wrong in his eyes. De Lancey believed that by keeping the Oracle away from the protection of the palace, I was placing her life at risk. Said I was to leave her in the cave and that he would send a message to the King to advise him where to find her. He would pretend that the Serkers had left her there on the way back home so I would not be accused.

‘But De Lancey was too cowardly to do it himself and sent the farrier from the Citavita. When the farrier’s headless corpse was found in the town square, De Lancey realised the truth and went home to Paladozza. I think he’s been plotting against the palace ever since.’

‘Why didn’t you leave her there?’

‘Leave her?’ Arjuro asked, tears in his eyes. ‘She was my beloved Oracle. I left her once, but not again. If they were going to take us, they’d take us together. But the King had a different plan and locked me up in the godshouse, keeping her in the palace. The only thing that brought me comfort was that they allowed me to see my brother.’

Arjuro shuddered.

‘Nine months later, I never wanted to see him again. He came straight to see me after the murder on the balconette. Wanted to explain what I had witnessed. I begged him to remove my shackles because they were cutting into my wrists. He agreed and I took my chance.’

‘And you never looked back.’

‘You always look back,’ Arjuro said bitterly. ‘Always. And if you don’t, the gods look back for you. But from that day as far as Charyn knew, Arjuro of Abroi was a prisoner of the King for the next eight years.’

‘So it was Gargarin who cried for Lirah when she tried to kill herself and Quintana?’

Arjuro nodded.

‘He doesn’t love easily, my brother. He loved me and he had a strong affection for De Lancey of Paladozza and De Lancey’s father, who was the Provincaro at the time. Women flocked to him, beautiful women. At first I thought he was like me and preferred the company of men in his bed. Men pursued him with the same passion as women. But nothing. It was as though he was in his own world of thoughts and inventions and books.’

‘Why Lirah?’

‘Who knows why Lirah? Back in the days it was safe to travel between the godshouse and palace, we would all venture out to a vineyard across the bridge or down to the base of the gravina. De Lancey and I were scathing of Gargarin’s choice of her. It was our jealousy, of course.’

‘You were jealous that Gargarin had Lirah?’ Froi asked with disbelief.

‘No. We were jealous that Lirah had Gargarin. Cold, cold Lirah, who was bitter towards all men, loved my brother with all her heart. It made me hate her even more, because I knew this union was not one of the flesh. She hated the touch of men. He barely tolerated the touch of anyone. I couldn’t bear the idea of him loving someone as much as he loved me.’

Froi could never have imagined that Gargarin, Lirah and Arjuro had such a fierce capacity to love.

‘They waited eight years to release him. The Provincari warned the King that as long as the last Priestling of the godshouse was kept captive, the curse would hold and the kingdom would stay barren. So they released the man they believed to be Arjuro of Abroi ten years ago. The King feared the gods then more than ever.’

Before Froi could question why, Arjuro said the word.

‘Lumatere.’

Froi flinched to hear it. He could only imagine that the King was full of fear because he had sent the impostor King and his soldiers to Lumatere and they had been trapped for three years by Lumatere’s curse.

‘What did the palace think happened to Gargarin all those years ago?’

‘That he deserted his king on the night of the lastborns out of his own fear and shame at his brother’s betrayal of the palace. Gargarin was considered a traitor for years, you know, and there was a bounty on his head. And now he has returned with a plan to save the kingdom to remind the King of how brilliant he is.’

‘Not quite,’ Froi said. ‘I think your brother has plans to kill the King.’

Arjuro shook his head. ‘Madness,’ he muttered. ‘Madness.’

And there it was. Despite everything the Priestling had witnessed, he still cared for a brother capable of such treacherous acts.

‘Where did you hide all those years?’ Froi asked.

Arjuro looked away, perhaps from shame of his betrayal or the horror of memory.

‘You don’t want to know that, lad,’ the Priestling said hoarsely.

‘Yes, I do.’

Arjuro shook his head. ‘Get out of the Citavita, Olivier of Sebastabol. Take your cruel face and your questions with you and leave me to the misery of this cursed existence.’

Chapter 17

Lucian called together the Monts in the meeting place of Yata’s house. It was once the home he grew up in with his father, but three years past he had decided it was best for Yata and her sisters to live there and for him to find a smaller cottage.

He hadn’t called many meetings in his time as leader, but he had spent too many sleepless nights thinking of what Kasabian had told him by the stream and he knew it was time to speak to the lads and their families.

‘So now the valley is theirs,’ his cousin’s wife Alda snapped. ‘That is all it takes. They arrive on our doorstep, and we allow them to restrict our lads from entering land that rightfully belongs to us.’

There were sounds of disgust around the room and Lucian tried to make eye contact with anyone who might take his side. Perhaps his cousin Yael or his neighbour Raskin.

‘They damaged much-needed produce, Alda,’ Lucian said with patience. ‘They pissed in the stream in front of the women.’

Some of the Monts laughed. Alda stood. Now she had an audience and Lucian knew he was in trouble.

‘And you’re telling me,’ she said, looking around for support, ‘that you never once crossed the river from Osteria to Charyn in the ten years we were up in those hills? That you never once destroyed Charynite property or relieved yourself in the river.’

Lucian sighed. ‘That was different.’

There was a chorus of disapproval at his words.

‘How different?’ Alda yelled. ‘How were you different from our lads?’

He thought a moment. ‘Different in the sense that our Charyn neighbours in the hills of Osteria were part of their army. But our Charyn neighbours now are exiles themselves. Can I remind everyone that we took that hill in Osteria without the permission of the Osterians, yet they allowed us to stay?’

‘How dare you compare,’ Alda shouted.

‘Lucian, our people were in exile!’ Miro, his father’s dearest friend said. ‘These people aren’t.’

‘And may I also add that our lads were not interested in the valley until the Charynites moved there,’ Lucian said.

‘You started this,’ Alda said. ‘By going to Alonso and returning wed to that idiot Charynite girl. A disgrace to the memory of your mother, Lucian. A disgrace and it’s made us the laughing stock of the kingdom. The wife Lucian sent back,’ she mimicked. ‘Do you hear them mocking Lord August of the Flatlands or the elders of the rock village in such a way?’

Lucian clenched his fists with rage.

‘The pact was made between my father and hers and I honoured it in my father’s memory,’ he said, fury lacing his words.

‘Says who?’ his cousin Gwendie called. ‘Who heard of this pact except for the girl’s father? You’re gullible, Lucian. And weak, and you believe anything the enemy says. Shame on you.’

‘Shame,’ the others shouted.

‘Your father died at the hands of a Charynite,’ Alda hissed. ‘Shame on you.’

She walked out with her sons in tow.

‘Give him a chance,’ Yael called out. He was Jory’s father and regardless of what was said tonight, Lucian knew Jory would have his ears boxed by both his ma and fa when he got home.

‘We’ve given him enough chances,’ Pitts the cobbler said. ‘What has he done to keep the enemy from the foot of our mountain? Nothing! He can’t even find the culprit behind Orly’s bull going missing every night. How hard is that, Lucian? It’s a bull with more brains than you have.’

Lucian’s eyes met Yata’s and he saw pain there. Please don’t be disappointed, Yata. Please, he begged silently.

He swallowed hard. ‘I stand by what I say. I don’t care what you think of them. I didn’t think I cared what I thought of them. I still don’t. But I care what I think of us and when one of their men gave me a lesson on how they would like their women treated … well, it shamed me. And it made me realise that I did care and that Saro would be horrified,’ his eyes met Jory’s, ‘and disappointed that our lads would treat the women of any kingdom in such a way. You may say shame on me for believing what the enemy says, but I say shame on all of us if we condone the behaviour of our lads.’

There was silence a moment.

‘The lads do not enter the valley,’ he said firmly. ‘And if any of you have issue with my ruling, I will send a message to beloved Isaboe and have this mountain put on curfew.’

He pushed past the crowd and left the courtyard.

Phaedra of Alonso sat by the stream that evening and wrote a letter to Lady Beatriss of the Flatlands. It had been a week since a horse and cart arrived from the village of Sennington with a letter and a gift.

Phaedra had read the letter to Kasabian and Cora as they studied the object at the back of the cart.

‘What does it all mean?’ Kasabian asked.

‘Well, here in her letter, Lady Beatriss writes that she used to cook for her village, but she no longer needs it and I should put it to good use.’

It was an oversized clay pot, which took three men to remove from the cart and place on the ground.

‘There,’ she said, pointing where a campfire was set up beside the stream.

‘What are we going to do with it?’ Cora asked.

Phaedra thought a moment. ‘I think we’ll make pumpkin soup.’ She looked up at the caves where some of the camp dwellers were staring down at them. ‘And invite the whole village.’

Later that day, Phaedra crossed the stream with a bowl of soup in her hands and held it out to Tesadora, who sat with the girls cooking trout over an open fire. Tesadora studied it.

‘I don’t eat orange food.’

‘That’s silly,’ Phaedra said, wondering where she got the courage to call Tesadora silly. ‘You eat green food and red food.’

‘Orange is a ridiculous colour for food, I say.’

‘I’ll have a taste,’ the Mont girl named Constance said. Somehow Tesadora had inherited two Mont girls who had come down one day with Phaedra’s Mont husband and never returned home. ‘I’m sick and tired of fish.’

Phaedra held out the spoon and the girl slurped it, making a face. ‘Something is missing.’

Constance jumped up from where she sat and searched around their herb garden before coming back with a small leaf that she began to shred, stirring it into her soup. Constance tasted it again and nodded with approval, handing it to Japhra.

‘Strange,’ Japhra said. She didn’t speak much. Phaedra had heard someone say she had a gift when it came to cures, but that the Charynite soldiers had broken her inside.

Japhra held it out to Tesadora. ‘I’ve seen you eat carrots,’ she teased. ‘They’re orange.’

Tesadora took a spoonful of the soup and swallowed. ‘Tomorrow we’ll show you how a soup is made,’ was all she said.

The next night, even Rafuel’s mysterious men had left their cave and Tesadora’s herbs gave a fragrance to the soup that had the more reserved Charynites coming back for seconds.

‘You’re sure I’m not poisoning you?’ Tesadora called out to one of the camp dwellers who had refused to see her. ‘Because if I’m not poisoning your food perhaps you can come and see me about that open sore on your arm.’

The night after that they made a fish stock that caused much flatulence and even more laughter.

And so it was that Lady Beatriss’s boiling pot became the reason the cave dwellers came out in the open and began to speak to their neighbours. Phaedra drew up a roster and each night it was a different person’s turn to cook and sometimes she’d see them venture over the stream to speak to the Lumaterans about recipes. Later, Phaedra completed her letter and showed it to Cora.

‘Ask her if she has any need for her bread oven,’ Cora demanded.

But Phaedra did no such thing and it was only after she sent the letter through her Mont husband that she wondered what had possibly happened to Lady Beatriss’s village that would mean she no longer had use for the pot.

Lady Beatriss read Phaedra’s letter in the palace village three days later. She was there with Vestie collecting some fabric for a dress she promised to make her for Princess Jasmina’s second birthday. She could see outside the shop to where Vestie was speaking to some of the children, but the next moment Vestie was running off and Beatriss looked out to see her daughter fly into Trevanion’s arms. He was with two of his Guard.

Beatriss went outside and she took a moment before she approached and acknowledged them all politely.

‘We’ll speak later,’ Trevanion said to his men, dismissing them. Her eyes caught his and he looked away, his attention on Vestie. But Beatriss had seen the dark flash of desire she recognised from their years together.

‘Is the cart close by?’ he asked quietly, taking Vestie’s hand.

‘Just at the smithy,’ Beatriss said.

‘I’ll walk you there.’

Beatriss didn’t have the strength to argue.

‘A piggyback,’ Vestie pleaded, and he bent down so she could climb on.

As they walked alongside each other Beatriss felt the coarseness of his arm beside hers.

‘You don’t seem yourself,’ he said and she heard regret in his voice.

‘I’m not quite sure I know who myself is anymore,’ she said sadly. Who was Beatriss of the Flatlands without her village? Without her sorrow? Without Trevanion of the River?

When they reached the buggy, he lifted her up to the seat of the cart and she felt her lips against his throat, heard his ragged breath. She would have given anything to hold on a moment longer. When she was settled, he hugged Vestie to him and placed her beside Beatriss.

‘The Queen speaks of having Vestie come stay and help with Jasmina. She’s becoming a handful.’

‘It’s the age,’ she said quietly. ‘Tell the Queen we’ll speak of it soon.’

She rode away, all too aware of how long he stood waiting. Vestie waved until her arm was weary, but was quiet for most of the journey.

‘Is there something wrong?’ Beatriss asked, staring out at the village of Sayles where a plow team was at work preparing one of the fields for planting. Even the awful smell of cow dung in the air was progress. A richly fertilised field would produce a good crop and Beatriss could not help comparing the emptiness of her village to this one.

‘Mama?’

‘Yes, my love.’

‘What’s an abon … abobination?’

‘A what?’ Beatriss said, looking down at her daughter. Sometimes Beatriss thought she’d never see anything so magical as her child’s face. It made her think of the poor cursed Charynites. How strange it was to feel pity for a people who had been the enemy for so long.

‘Abobination.’

‘You mean abomination. Why?’

‘Kie, son of Makli of the Flatlands, called me one today. He said … he said I don’t have a father and that I’m an abob … abomination.’

The air seemed to whoosh out of Beatriss’s body and she steadied herself, fighting not to react.

‘It’s something bad, isn’t it?’

Beatriss forced a smile. ‘He was just being silly, my love.’

But Beatriss could not allow it to rest and that afternoon when Vestie was learning her letters with Tarah she rode her horse to the home of Makli, whose farm was in Fenton. Makli and his family were exiles and Beatriss had had little to do with them since the kingdom was reunited. She knocked firmly on their door and waited. When Makli’s wife Genova answered, the woman looked taken aback.

‘Lady Beatriss,’ she said, politely.

‘I was wanting to speak to both you and your husband,’ Beatriss said firmly, trying to keep the quiver from her voice. How many times had she heard Tesadora mock her in the days when they first became friends? ‘How can you fight the world with a quiver in your voice, Beatriss of the Flatlands?’

Makli came to the door and stood behind his wife. ‘Is there a problem, Lady Beatriss?’

‘Actually, there is. Your son spoke a word to my Vestie today. He called her an abomination and I presume that a wee boy would not know such a word without having heard it from an adult. A boy his age would not understand the absence of a father in my child’s life unless he heard it spoken in his home.’

‘I’m not sure I like what you’re accusing, Lady Beatriss,’ the woman said stiffly.

‘And I’m not sure I like hearing my daughter ask me what such a word means,’ Beatriss said, and there it was. The quiver. ‘And I would ask you to refrain from speaking my business in front of your boy or I will report it as slander.’

She walked away. Report it as slander? Was there such a thing? Would she go to Trevanion and Isaboe and say, Makli of the Flatland has slurred my name in front of his family and I want him banished from the kingdom?

‘I don’t like your threat, Lady Beatriss,’ Makli called out.

‘Leave it, Makli,’ his wife said. ‘Come inside.’

‘Don’t come here again threatening us. Someone like you,’ Makli said.

Beatriss stopped in her tracks and turned around, walking back up to their cottage door.

‘Someone like me?’ she asked.

Makli pointed a finger at her face and his wife pulled him back.

‘I say that if she is the daughter of a Charynite,’ he hissed, ‘she is an abomination, and if she is the daughter of a Lumateran, then you are a liar. Those of you who were trapped inside always believe you had it worse, but what are we to believe?’

‘How dare you!’ she cried.

‘I dare because good people like Lord Selric and his family lost their lives in exile,’ he shouted, ‘and no one celebrates their bravery or thinks to take care of those who have survived in Fenton.’

‘Enough Makli,’ his wife said.

‘Yet all we hear of is how brave those trapped inside were. Brave Lady Beatriss. Well, perhaps Brave Lady Beatriss was not as virtuous as they say. Perhaps she spread her legs for every Charynite or Lumateran who sang her praises.’

Beatriss slapped his face with a cry and it stung her hand. Makli’s wife closed her eyes a moment, an expression of regret on her face.

‘How could you possibly want to compete about who suffered most?’ Beatriss said sadly. ‘For if you want to covet that prize, take it! Take it, but don’t bring my child into your bitterness.’

Later, Beatriss sat on the front step of the long house with Tarah and Samuel.

‘Perhaps one more time,’ she said quietly to Samuel. ‘We’ll try one more time and it may just be the three of us. If it doesn’t work, I’ll have to let you both go.’

‘We’ll go where you go, Lady Beatriss,’ Samuel said. ‘There’s plenty of work in town, so if you go to town, we’ll be there with you. But if you say let’s try one more time, then we’ll work these fields one more time. And if you say ten more times, then we’ll work the land ten more times.’

Beatriss looked away, fighting tears. She gripped their hands.

‘I’m forgetting what the truth is, friends,’ she said.

‘We were here, Lady Beatriss. We saw it all, so when you forget what the truth is, you come to us and we’ll remind you.’

In the days that followed, Beatriss could see the sadness on her child’s face as more of their neighbours left the village.

‘I was thinking of a special treat, my love,’ she said to Vestie one morning. ‘You could go to the palace and stay with Isaboe and Jasmina.’

‘And Trevanion?’

‘Of course.’

And on the day Vestie left, the blackness inside Beatriss was so fierce that she didn’t have the strength to get up the next morning. Or the morning after that. Or the morning after that.

Chapter 18

That night, his last in the palace, Froi was stuck beside two Dukes complaining about the scarcity of food at their end of the table, despite the bounty placed before them. They whispered that the Provincari were to blame. The Provincari in turn looked uncomfortable in the palace surrounds. The leaders of the provinces didn’t have the useless look of the nobility, but they did exude power, and Froi could understand the King and Bestiano’s need to keep them happy. These men and women had purpose and they had strength. United, they had once been a force against past kings. Divided, they had helped cause the misery that was Charyn today.

Gargarin was sitting beside one, a handsome man whose eyes seemed fixed firmly on Froi with the same horror and disbelief Froi had first seen on Gargarin and Arjuro’s face. Froi knew without being told the man was De Lancey of Paladozza.

‘They’re nothing, I say,’ the King’s inbred cousin hissed in Froi’s ear. ‘Nothing. Do they have a title? I dare say not.’

Quintana sat with the Aunts and it was obvious by the hideous lime-green dress she wore that Bestiano had managed to wrest the calico one from her. In his pocket he found a piece of parchment from Gargarin’s scribbles. Froi folded it into a shape most like a rabbit and asked for it to be passed towards her.

After much grumbling and scoffing it reached Quintana’s place. She stared at it a moment and then looked over to his table. Froi saw a glimpse of her teeth.

Later, he returned to the chamber to speak to Gargarin about the events of that morning. Froi hid Gargarin’s dagger under the mattress and waited a while for the man to return, but his thoughts were too much on Quintana and before he could stop himself, he walked out to the balconette, climbed and took the leap. From outside her window, he saw the flicker of light from where she was blowing out the last of the candles. She saw him standing on the balconette and walked to the doors, opening them. She went to say his name, but he held up a hand. He couldn’t bear the word ‘Olivier’ coming from her lips. Not tonight.

‘First I’m going to use my hands and then I’m going to use my mouth,’ he said, ‘and then you are going to teach me to be gentle and I’ll show you that not all men share your bed because it’s destined by the gods or written on the stone walls of this prison of yours. I’ve never had a lover and nor have you. So let’s be the first for each other.’

He caught her face between his hands and kissed her hard.

But she stepped away and he saw the hesitation in her eyes.

Wait, Froi. Wait.

‘I don’t come to you pure,’ she said.

‘Not interested in purity. Only willingness.’

She backed away from him to the end of the bed and his heart sank, already guessing her next move. Lying down and pulling her nightdress up to her thighs, asking him to undo the string to his trousers. But instead, slowly she lifted the garment over her head and stood before him and he stared at the fullness of her. He lifted his shirt above his head and held out a hand, drawing her to him, his body veiling hers from whatever it was that made her face flush red. Then he lifted her to him, felt her legs clasp around his waist as he knelt on the bed, laying her down. Gently he placed his hands on her knees and drew them apart, pressing his lips against her inner thigh.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked, trying to raise herself.

‘Firstly, I thought I’d show you what a pity it would be if they cut off my wicked tongue.’

When Froi woke in the early hours of the morning, she was watching him. He raised himself, pressing a kiss to her mouth.

‘Happy Birthday,’ he said.

‘It’s the day of weeping,’ she corrected. She slipped out of bed and placed her cotton shift over her body. She seemed in a hurry.

‘My father’s agreed to see me,’ she said quietly. ‘Before he sees the Provincari.’

‘It’s too early,’ he said, not quite meeting her eye, knowing that by the time she saw her father, he would be dead at Froi’s hand.

She continued to put on her clothes without a word.

‘You need to get a dress from Aunt Mawfa,’ he said, needing to buy time. ‘You can’t go to see your father in that.’

Quintana looked down at her dress and then back to him, nodding. Then she was gone and Froi realised with an immense sadness that he would never see the Princess of Charyn again.

When he reached the cellar it was crowded with servants, chatting with urgency. Dorcas and another soldier were overseeing the activity.

‘What are you doing here, Olivier?’ Dorcas asked.

‘You’ve been demoted, I see, Dorcas.’

‘A proper lesson for losing the vessel,’ Dorcas responded.

‘She’s a girl, Dorcas. Not a vessel.’

Froi knew he’d have to wait. Quintana and the Provincari would see the King and then in the confusion of the Provincari’s exit from the palace, he’d take his chance.

Returning to the chamber he shared with Gargarin, Froi saw the rolled-up plans. They were tied neatly by a ribbon with the words De Lancey of Paladozza attached and all Froi could think was that the idiot Gargarin was off to see the King without his plans. Until he remembered that Gargarin wasn’t an idiot. Froi gripped the mattress, felt for the dagger, but it wasn’t there. He bit back his fury. An ice-cold finger of dread ran up his spine. He grabbed the drawings and ran down the tower stairs into the outer ward, dodging servants and soldiers. He saw Gargarin heading towards the fourth tower, pushing past those who stood in his way. Froi bolted towards him.

‘At it again, are we?’ he hissed into his ear.

Gargarin didn’t respond and kept on walking towards the soldiers guarding at the King’s tower.

Froi gripped his arm, forcing him to slow down. ‘You’ll fail!’

‘You want the glory, do you? To go back to whoever sent you and claim the kill was yours.’

‘No,’ Froi said with frustration. Three of the palace soldiers walked by. Froi and Gargarin nodded in their direction and continued without looking back. ‘But I can do something you can’t. If you can convince them to let me through with you, I can do what we both set out to do and get us out of this palace alive.’

‘Getting out of here alive isn’t part of my plan.’

Froi pushed him into a small hidden alcove in the wall, trapping him. ‘Listen to me, Gargarin. I’ve been trained to do this. You haven’t. Take your drawings, build your shitholes, but don’t give up your life for this.’

A hint of a smile appeared on Gargarin’s face. A softness unlike anything Froi had seen in his expression before. ‘Where did you come from?’ he asked, but it seemed a question Gargarin was asking himself and not Froi. ‘Will you do something for me?’

Froi shook his head.

‘I’ll ask you anyway,’ Gargarin said. ‘Give these designs to De Lancey of Paladozza. They also contain a letter of instruction to Tariq, the heir. If there is anarchy in the Citavita, promise me this.’

‘I’m promising you nothing, Gargarin. Tend to your own instructions and leave me to mine.’

Gargarin continued as though Froi hadn’t spoken. ‘Take my brother and Lirah out of the Citavita. Perhaps to Belegonia or Osteria.’

Froi was shaking his head, pushing the plans back into Gargarin’s hands.

‘It’s all I ask of you.’

‘Who are you to ask anything of me?’ Froi asked.

Gargarin was silent for a moment. He went to speak, but an ear-piercing scream echoed through the palace. Then more screams and shouts.

Froi raced out into the courtyard. ‘Quintana!’

Above, between the fourth and fifth tower, Froi could see the Provincari and their people disappearing down the stairs that would take them to where he and Gargarin stood.

Once outside, the Provincari hurried towards them. ‘Gar! Gargarin,’ De Lancey of Paladozza called out.

When they reached Froi and Gargarin, the Provincari were all speaking at the same time.

‘Stop,’ Gargarin shouted. ‘One at a time.’

‘Bestiano’s killed the King,’ the Provincaro of Desantos said.

‘What?’ Gargarin said, disbelief in his voice.

‘Where’s the Princess?’ Froi asked.

They heard more screams from the tower above, then shouts and orders.

‘Where is she?’ Froi demanded, grabbing hold of a man.

‘She arrived to visit her father before us,’ one of the Provincari’s scribes spoke rapidly. ‘She demanded to see him alone, but Bestiano would not allow it. He would not allow any of the Provincari to see him. He claimed the King had changed his mind. But the Princess refused to listen, becoming hysterical, screaming, I need to see my father on my own. Search me now. The Provincari insisted that Bestiano allow her to see the King on her day of weeping. They were frightened by her madness. One of the King’s Guard stepped forward to search her and when he was satisfied, the Princess ran into the chamber with Bestiano in tow and not even moments later we heard her screams. Heard her shout the words, Bestiano has killed my father!’

Gargarin spun around, taking in those crowded around them.

‘Go!’ Gargarin ordered the Provincari. ‘Get out of the palace. If Bestiano has control of the riders, he’ll hold you all as hostages to your provinces. Go now.’

‘What –’

‘Now!’ Gargarin ordered. ‘Take only whatever you have with you and get out of the palace. Arjuro will give you sanction in the godshouse.’ He shoved Froi forward. ‘Take him.’

Froi pulled away, shaking his head. He had to find Quintana.

‘Go!’ Gargarin yelled.

The Provincari hurried away except for De Lancey of Paladozza. Gargarin forced the rolled-up parchment into his hands.

The man shook his head. ‘We leave together, Gar.’

‘Go,’ Gargarin begged. ‘You need to prepare Tariq. Take him under your protection.’

De Lancey hesitated one moment more and then with a backward glance he hurried away.

Froi and Gargarin made it as far as the entrance to the fifth tower where they were met by Dorcas and another guard.

‘You’re to return to your chambers, Sir Gargarin,’ Dorcas said, agitated. Beads of sweat poured down his face.

‘Whose orders, Dorcas?’ Gargarin asked.

‘Bestiano’s, Sir.’

‘What’s going on?’ Gargarin demanded. There was no response and Froi wondered if the guard knew as little as they did.

The moment they reached the chamber, Froi raced out onto the balconette.

‘Quintana!’

He leapt over to her balconette, but he could see her chamber was empty. Froi climbed back to where Gargarin was standing.

They heard a key in the door and raced towards it, but were too late. Froi hammered at the door. ‘Dorcas! Dorcas, find the Princess!’

But there was no response and Froi kicked at the door with frustration.

‘Why kill the King now?’ he asked.

Gargarin shook his head. ‘It makes no sense,’ he said. ‘It makes no sense at all.’

It was the longest of days. The waiting and the pacing and the fear for Quintana tore Froi up inside. Please let her be alive. Sometimes he pounded at the door, bellowing the name of every guard he could remember. Dorcas. Fekra. Fodor. And all the while, Gargarin wrote like a man possessed, quill not leaving paper until late that afternoon when they heard the voices crying out from across the gravina.

‘Gargarin!’

‘Gar!’

Froi ran to the balconette, Gargarin hobbling behind him.

Arjuro, De Lancey and others stood at the godshouse balconette.

‘Bestiano rode out of the palace with the riders,’ De Lancey called out.

Gargarin and Froi exchanged stunned looks.

‘You need to find a way out, Gar. The palace is unguarded and the street lords are beginning to enter. They –’

Suddenly a body flew out of the window above Froi and Gargarin’s. Screams could be heard from inside the chambers surrounding them.

‘Gods,’ Gargarin gasped, searching above and below before Froi saw him look across at his brother. Arjuro’s eyes were wide with horror and then more bodies flew past them, faces contorted, screams eaten by the air below.

‘They’re starting at the top,’ De Lancey shouted, wincing as another body of a soldier bounced off the wall of the godshouse. ‘Get out, Gargarin. Get out.’

‘We are locked in,’ Gargarin shouted back. He spun around, searching for an answer and before Froi could argue, Gargarin grabbed him and shoved him towards the wrought iron of the balconette. ‘You’ve done this climb before. Get to Lirah’s garden and have her let you in. When the street lords reach the prison tower, they’ll release whoever’s in there. Tell them you’re both prisoners of the King.’

Froi nodded. ‘We can both –’

‘No,’ Gargarin said. ‘No time. You know I’ll never be able to climb a step. You do this now. You don’t argue. They won’t kill a prisoner in the King’s tower. I don’t know how much time it will buy you, but it’s better than finding you here.’

‘But you –’

‘They may use me to bargain, but they will kill you in an instant. Go.’

Froi was shaking his head. The plan was bad. The plan meant Gargarin would die and Froi would never be able to find Quintana.

‘The Princess …’

‘ … is in all probability dead,’ Gargarin said flatly. ‘And if she’s not, she will be soon.’

On the other side of the gravina, Arjuro and the Provincari watched anxiously.

‘Save yourself and take care of Lirah,’ Gargarin said, his voice hoarse. He gripped Froi by the shoulders.

‘Tell her … tell her that the babe they placed in my hands was smuggled out of the palace to the hidden priests. Tell her that if I knew it was hers, I would have found a way for her to know so she would not have suffered all these years.’

Froi stood on the balconette, his eyes fixed on Gargarin.

‘Go,’ Gargarin pleaded. ‘I’m begging you. Keep safe. Keep her safe.’

Froi heard the crash of the door and in an instant he leapt up to catch hold of the latticework of the balconette above their chamber. A moment later, the street lords were outside, one of them holding a hand to Gargarin’s throat. Froi held his breath, praying they would not look above.

There was shouting from the other side of the gravina. ‘We’ll pay a ransom,’ De Lancey shouted. ‘We’ll pay a ransom!’ But Gargarin and the street lords disappeared inside the chamber.

On Lirah’s tower garden, Froi hammered at the door. ‘Lirah! Lirah!’

He heard a fumble for the lock and the door was pushed forward.

‘What’s happening?’ she asked, and he saw the fear in her eyes. ‘All I hear is screaming and when I stood on the roof …’

She shook her head and he imagined what she had seen. ‘We’re going to have to wait for them to open the door,’ Froi said. ‘We’ll say we’re both prisoners of the King, but do not tell them you are Lirah of Serker.’

Lirah nodded.

‘Where is she?’ Lirah asked. ‘Where did you hide her?’

Froi looked away. He couldn’t find the words and he saw the slow realisation on her face.

‘Where is she?’

They heard another scream disappear down the gravina. Froi grabbed her hand and pushed her back inside her prison cell, but Lirah pulled free viciously, as though reason had left her.

‘You were supposed to save her. Quintana! Where is she?’

Froi covered Lirah’s mouth with his hand and she bit hard. Stunned, he stepped back.

‘Coward. Bastard. You were supposed to save her.’

Froi shook his head.

‘Go back and search for her!’

‘I can’t,’ he said through gritted teeth. ‘Gargarin said –’

She slapped him hard across the face, hissing through her teeth. ‘Thank the gods you’re motherless, you piece of worthless garbage, for no woman would stomach such a coward for a son.’

Froi’s face smarted for more reasons than the slap. ‘Don’t let me say words I regret, Lirah. Gargarin said this is the best way.’

‘Don’t speak his name to me,’ she cried.

‘He said to tell you, Lirah! That he smuggled your son out of the palace eighteen years ago. Give yourself that reason to live.’

‘And you believe his lies?’ she asked, half-mad with fury.

They heard the sound of a key in the lock and a man stepped in calmly, wiping the blood of his dagger onto his trousers. Behind him, Froi could see the lifeless body of Lirah’s guard. She gave a small cry. Froi pushed her behind him.

‘We’re prisoners of the King,’ Froi said, thanking Sagrami that it was neither of the street lords who would have remembered him from outside the godshouse. ‘The King’s Third Advisor took a liking to my sister here and when I tried to defend her, he arrested us both.’

The man’s eyes were greedily fastened onto Lirah. Froi itched to take the dagger from him, knew he would do it easily, but they needed this man to accompany them out of the palace if they were to survive. The man beckoned them along. Gargarin’s plan could work. Being the King’s prisoners would perhaps set them free. Froi and Lirah stepped over the guard’s body and Froi felt her body tremble beside him. On one of the landings between the levels of the tower, Froi caught the desperate eyes of two of the Dukes who were on their knees, hands to their heads. In the courtyard some of the servants were being released into the Citavita. The street lords carried cases of ale and wine from the cellars, smashing the bottles after they emptied them down their throats. Out in the barbican, four soldiers stood with their heads to the wall while a street lord paced back and forth behind them, a dagger in his hand. The last thing Froi heard as he passed them was the sound of the first soldier choking on his own blood.

At the portcullis, the street lord who had escorted them grabbed Lirah, bunching the skirt of her dress in his hands. So close to the entrance, but still not free.

‘We live with the soothsayer,’ Froi said. ‘You know where that is? Come visit us this night. My sister will be most grateful if you do.’

Lirah nodded and the man hesitated a moment, a salacious smile on his face at the promise of what was on offer. He let go of Lirah and Froi took her hand and hurried away. But just as they reached the drawbridge, drops of blood splattered at their feet and Froi stared up in horror at the body of a man hanging from the battlement, his throat cut, his body bludgeoned. Reaching out to drag Lirah away from the grisly scene, Froi caught the expression of bitter satisfaction on her face and he knew that the street lords had found the King’s body to flaunt to the people.

The King of Charyn was indeed dead. What was it Trevanion had instructed? The moment he stops breathing, you return home. The very moment. Do not look back. Run, Froi told himself. Run down to the bridge of the Citavita and leave this place behind.

But the pull of Gargarin and Quintana’s fate was too much and Froi took Lirah’s hand, breaking his second bond to those he loved, in as many days.

They arrived to find a crowd of people gathered at the godshouse door, begging to be let in. Froi recognised a Provincaro’s guard at the entrance.

‘There is no room,’ the guard shouted, shoving the crowd back. ‘No room.’

Froi pushed through, closer to the door, his fingers digging into Lirah’s hand, determined not to let her go. He caught a glimpse of Arjuro inside the foyer. The Priestling stood behind the guards, searching anxiously over their shoulders.

‘Arjuro! Arjuro!’

Froi climbed onto the back of the man before him. ‘Arjuro!’

Arjuro pushed past the guard and pointed towards Froi. A moment later one of the guards shoved his way through the crowd and grabbed Froi and Lirah, dragging them inside.

The door was latched shut behind. The small foyer was packed with not only those who had escaped the palace, but the people of the Citavita, fearing for their lives.

Froi hurried past Arjuro and raced up the stairwell all the way to the top, dodging floor upon floor of people. When he reached the Hall of Illumination, it was filled to the brim, but he shoved his way to the balconette where only the brave stood watching what took place across the gravina.

‘Have you seen her? The Princess? Or Gargarin? Have you seen him?’

And the only good news for a day so bleak was that Quintana and Gargarin had not been tossed into the gravina below.

Yet.

Chapter 19

Pale faces, stunned by the carnage they had witnessed, studied any newcomer who entered the room. The main hall was filled with those from the streets of the Citavita who had taken refuge in the godshouse, as well as the Provincari, their guards and advisors. Alone in a corner, Arjuro caught Froi’s eye and Froi saw wretched misery in the Priestling’s expression. They had spent most of the day watching the macabre scene taking place on the balconettes across the narrow space between the godshouse and the palace. The palace scribe had asked for Froi’s assistance, pen and parchment in his hand as he identified those hurled into the gravina below.

‘Who was that?’ he asked Froi as they looked on.

‘The King’s cousin from Nebia,’ Froi replied, recognising the body of the simpleton who had spoken to Froi most often in the palace.

Sometimes the scribe would stop a moment to throw up over the balconette before calmly returning to his task. ‘Cyril of Nebia, would you say? No, no, Chabon of Sebastabol.’

When there was little to be seen in the darkness, they returned inside and spent the rest of the night crowded in the Hall of Illumination with hundreds of others.

‘Are we safe here, De Lancey?’ a woman asked.

Froi looked up to study the boy who had grown up alongside Arjuro and Gargarin. The lover who had betrayed Arjuro. A more unlikely pair Froi could never imagine in his life. Even under the dramatic circumstances, De Lancey was all perfection and charm, his skin bronzed, his garments tailored to perfection, while Arjuro’s stark white skin contrasted with his dark torn hair and beard. The black robe that covered him from neck to ankle was grubby and shapeless.

‘Best that you ask that question of the Priestling,’ the Provincaro replied in his smooth voice, pretending to study something nonexistent on the wall, as though it was the most natural thing to do under the circumstances. Arjuro refused to respond to the woman with anything beyond a grunt. Despite his forced benevolence, most in the room seemed wary of him and kept their distance.

‘It’s best we all leave and return to our provinces,’ De Lancey said. ‘At least we are safe there with armies to protect our people.’

There was a chorus of agreement, but also dismay.

‘What about the people of the Citavita?’ a woman cried. ‘You care only for your own provinces and leave us to this carnage. Who rules Charyn when you return to the safety of your walls?’

‘And what would you have us do?’ De Lancey said calmly, but Froi heard restrained anger in his voice. ‘You’ve all seen what happens the moment a King dies and his men desert their post. The ignorant take over. Savages killing their own people. Innocent people.’

‘Those who live in the palace aren’t innocent,’ another shouted from across the room. ‘They deserve what they get.’

There was uproar at those words.

‘We were in the palace,’ De Lancey of Paladozza argued. ‘On province business. Do I deserve to die? Do the other Provincari? And do you know who else was visiting the palace? Gargarin of Abroi.’

Froi watched the feverish whispers. ‘Yes,’ De Lancey confirmed. ‘How soon we forget men who have worked for the good of Charyn.’

‘What about the Princess?’

It was Lirah’s voice. Froi had lost sight of her the moment they entered the godshouse. But here she was asking the question that no one else dared to ask. There was an uncomfortable silence and most looked away. Froi heard the words the Serker whore whispered, but Lirah seemed to care little for their scorn and curiosity.

‘With these savages, one does not negotiate with a list,’ De Lancey of Paladozza said coolly. Dismissively. ‘We speak one name. Gargarin’s. He has the trust of almost every Provincaro in this kingdom. Tariq of Lascow has stated that Gargarin is his choice as First Advisor if Tariq is ever to be crowned King.’

There was more fierce discussion, more anger.

‘Tariq knows nothing of the world. He’s been in hiding since he was fifteen.’

‘But he is the legal heir and at this moment, he’s our only King. Gargarin knows enough to guide him. Both are aligned to no province and that fact in itself will satisfy every one of us Provincari. We return home, combine our armies, march into the Citavita and place Tariq on the throne with Gargarin alongside him.’

There was approval for this suggestion, the first sign of calm.

‘And what of Quintana?’ Lirah demanded again. ‘You can’t leave her in the palace to die!’

‘Your daughter is worth nothing,’ a man called out.

‘If she had broken the curse, at least we could have forgiven her for something,’ the Provincara Orlanda of Jidia said. She was a handsome woman who had fawned over Bestiano and Gargarin the night before.

‘She’s our lastborn,’ Lirah said.

There were hisses and fury directed at Lirah.

‘Our lives have been ruined because of her,’ Orlanda spat.

‘Your spawn, Serker bitch,’ a woman Froi didn’t recognise shouted.

‘Her birth. Her lies. Her failure to break the curse,’ another joined in, advancing on Lirah.

‘If we choose between Gargarin of Abroi and the Princess, we choose Gargarin,’ the Ambassador for Sebastabol said.

Despite his anger towards her, Froi pushed through the crowd of people to Lirah, but Arjuro was there before him, grabbing her arm.

‘Come,’ he said to both of them.

From across the room Froi felt De Lancey’s eyes follow them.

‘It’s best that you keep your mouth shut, Lirah,’ Arjuro said, shoving his way through the crowd.

‘It’s best that I take my leave, Priestling,’ Lirah said coldly.

‘It’s not safe for you amongst the street pigs, Lirah,’ Froi snapped. ’Don’t be a fool.’

‘It’s no safer here,’ she said quietly as they reached the door where De Lancey of Paladozza stood, blocking Froi’s path.

‘Would you like to know who has taken refuge in this very godshouse?’ De Lancey asked Froi, smoothly.

Froi ignored him, stepping aside and following Arjuro and Lirah into the dark corridor. They stopped a moment as Arjuro lit the lamps that lined the wall. But De Lancey was on their heels, followed by four of his Guard. Froi saw a flash of fear cross Lirah’s face, heard Arjuro’s curse as the Priestling grabbed Lirah’s hand, leading her to the steps which would take them to the levels below.

‘Stop a moment,’ De Lancey ordered.

‘Remember whose place this is, De Lancey,’ Arjuro warned over his shoulder.

De Lancey reached them and gripped onto Arjuro’s robe to stop him, but the Priestling viciously pulled away, catching the Provincaro in the face with his elbow. In an instant, the four guards slammed Arjuro against the wall and Froi heard the crack of the Priestling’s head against stone.

Froi felt the pounding of blood in his brain chanting at him, replaying the events of the last day. There were too many voices and images in his head. Quintana’s face the day before. Gargarin’s instructions. Lirah’s bitter tirade as he dragged her out of the castle. Those tossed from the balconette, the King’s body, the fury of the crowd in the godshouse hall. Suddenly he grabbed De Lancey by the throat, snapping the man’s wrist and hearing his quick intake of pain. And then the four guards let go of Arjuro and charged for Froi. And in that confined space where Priestlings once prayed and studied and died, he used fists and palms, smashed heads against stone walls, broke bones, bit flesh and spat it out. ‘You’re a weapon, Froi. The best we’ve ever created,’ Trevanion had told him once. And when De Lancey’s men were writhing in pain at his feet, Froi’s blood cried for more, his breath ragged, his feet dancing around them, wanting them back on their feet. He wanted to do it again.

But Arjuro was there blocking his path. ‘Leash it,’ Arjuro hissed. ‘Leash it.’

Froi couldn’t leash it. He didn’t know how, and that knowledge made him want to weep. He tried to count. But couldn’t remember the right numbers. He hammered a savage fist to his temple over and over again until Arjuro gripped his face between his hands.

‘Take a breath.’

‘I can’t remember my bond,’ Froi whispered hoarsely.

In his head, Froi counted in Lumateran and then Sarnak, but the numbers meant nothing, led to nothing. Arjuro studied his face and then looked down to see Froi’s fingers dance with every number he tried to speak aloud.

‘Este, dortis, thirst …’ Arjuro began counting quietly in Charyn.

Froi’s heart fell. All those times, even as far back as three years ago when he first arrived in Lumatere and they gave him his bond, Froi had used the numbers of the Charyn language without even realising.

Blood sings to blood, Froi.

Froi closed his eyes and took in a deep breath.

An important rule of the bond was: never break a bone if Lumateran lives are not at risk.

He opened his eyes to see De Lancey nursing his wrist. In the flickering light, he could see Lirah’s face.

‘They’re becoming hysterical in the hall,’ she said coolly. ‘They think the street lords have entered.’

De Lancey caught one of his guard’s eyes and gestured him towards the hall. A moment later, all four men reluctantly limped away.

‘Take Lirah’s hand, Olivier,’ Arjuro said quietly. ‘The steps are steep.’

‘Yet he’s not Olivier,’ De Lancey said, ‘are you? The lastborn from Sebastabol is in the library downstairs with my son, burying the ancient books in case the street lords enter and destroy them.’ De Lancey’s eyes met Froi’s. ‘The real Olivier claims to have spent the last few weeks held captive in the caves outside Sebastabol.’

Arjuro’s breath was ragged as he looked at Froi, shaking his head with regret. ‘Bit of truth would have helped.’

‘You ask him for truth, Arjuro?’ De Lancey said. ‘When you’ve been interested in no truth but yours.’

Arjuro pointed a finger at De Lancey. ‘And what was your truth?’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘What was Gar’s? That my brother didn’t murder the Oracle? That you didn’t send your messenger to betray me? Did you know the farrier left behind a family, De Lancey? Did you ever give them another thought?’

De Lancey’s eyes met Arjuro’s and Froi saw something flare up between them. History was history, he once told the Priestking. Why couldn’t it stay in the past? All this hatred between these two men could only mean that once there had been so much love.

‘The Oracle and the child were already dead. That’s Gar’s truth!’

Lirah pushed the Provincaro away with all the fury she could muster. And he winced from the pain, nursing his hand. He couldn’t disguise his anger and disgust.

‘Oh, we care about children now, do we, whore?’ he sneered. ‘After you tried to murder your own?’

Arjuro grabbed De Lancey’s injured wrist and snapped it back into place. De Lancey gasped from the pain.

‘Ask the Serker whose child it was Gargarin tossed from that window,’ Arjuro said. ‘She should know. It was hers.’

‘The child belonged to the Oracle,’ De Lancey said. ‘Born dead. It was what Gar swore to me.’

‘Yet he told this impostor that the child was smuggled out of the palace,’ Lirah said, looking at Froi bitterly. ‘So who are we to believe, De Lancey? A liar or a liar?’

Arjuro stared at Froi, shocked by the words. ‘When did Gargarin tell you that?’ he asked huskily. ‘When?’

‘Today. Before the street lords took him away,’ Froi said.

‘But he told me the babe was born dead,’ De Lancey argued. ‘Gargarin swore he was forced to toss a dead child into the gravina.’

‘My son was born with a mighty voice,’ Lirah said fiercely, a tremble in her words. ‘And Gargarin tells you both lies. In one breath, a dead child. In the next, a smuggled lastborn. Do you believe the gods conjured up a spell and made his brother see our worst nightmares?’

‘Come,’ Arjuro said quietly. But he pointed a finger at De Lancey emphatically. ‘Not you. And bind that wrist.’

They left De Lancey standing alone in the dark corridor. Arjuro lead Lirah and Froi to the tiny marble steps that spiralled down. But De Lancey was a hard man to lose.

‘So whose bastard is this lad, Arjuro?’ he called out from the top of the steps. ‘Yours or Gargarin’s?’

Lirah gasped. Froi swung around to look up, almost tumbling down the narrow steps.

‘The person I was swiving eighteen years ago hasn’t the capacity for childbirth. Curse or no curse,’ Arjuro said coolly. ‘Does he, De Lancey?’ Arjuro continued down the stairs, refusing to look back. There was a ringing in Froi’s ears and when they reached the landing, his legs buckled under him. Arjuro forced him to sit, resting his back against the wall and pushing his head between his knees.

‘Breathe, idiot boy. His words are false. It’s pure coincidence.’ But Froi heard doubt in Arjuro’s voice.

‘That face can’t be pure coincidence, Ari,’ De Lancey said, suddenly behind them. He reached over Arjuro’s shoulder and grabbed Froi’s face, but Froi leapt to his feet and shoved them both away.

‘Who do I resemble?’ Froi hissed. There was silence.

Arjuro looked away.

‘Who?’

‘The most base of beasts born to this world,’ Arjuro said sadly. ‘My father. But I see my father’s face in half of Charyn.’

Froi sucked in a breath.

‘He cannot possibly be Gargarin’s son,’ Lirah said coldly. ‘I was the only woman he had.’

De Lancey gave a short laugh of disbelief. ‘Don’t you think it’s strange, Lirah, that you can believe Gargarin is a murderer of babes and Oracles, but you can’t accept that he preferred another woman?’

‘There was no other woman,’ she spat. She threw a look at Froi. ‘This one looks like the shit and garbage of this kingdom. Isn’t that what they say Abroi is? He could be anyone’s trash. Sent by anyone. Probably the Serkers living in the underground city who want their revenge.’

The Provincaro searched Froi’s face. ‘Who sent you?’ he demanded. ‘Was it the Serkers?’

‘Does it matter? I didn’t kill the King.’

‘Pity,’ De Lancey said. ‘I would have liked you much better if you had.’

Arjuro led them to a room laid out with straw cots once used by Priestlings. He pushed Lirah towards one.

‘Sleep,’ he said to them, ignoring De Lancey, who stood at the door watching them all. ‘The sun will rise soon and it will be another long day.’

Froi sat with his back to the others. He felt a hand at his shoulder and shrugged it away viciously.

‘Not the time to be sulking,’ Arjuro said. ‘What would you expect from me?’ he added, gently. ‘A, “Hi-de-ho to you, lad. By the way, you have the face of my demented father which could only mean that you are either his child or Gargarin’s, who also happens to be a killer of women and babes.” ’

Froi turned to them. He could only see their outlines in the darkness. Lirah lay with her back to him, her body huddled.

He studied Arjuro closely. ‘Is there a chance I’m his son?’

That Froi and Arjuro had the same blood was too hard to fathom.

‘I don’t know,’ Arjuro said honestly. ‘The only way I can answer that question is if you tell me the truth. Days ago you inform me the Oracle’s child was not tossed into the gravina. That my brother murdered Lirah’s son instead. Today you tell me he didn’t murder the child. That it was smuggled out of the palace. What am I to be told tomorrow? That my brother is dead without me knowing the truth?’ Froi saw tears in the man’s eyes. ‘I don’t even know your real name, Olivier.’

But Froi couldn’t tell the whole truth without betraying Lumatere. Did he trust these people enough to do that?

‘Do you know a man by the name of Rafuel of Sebastabol?’ he asked, after a stretch of silence. ‘He approached … my people with a plan.’

He saw Arjuro stiffen. Lirah turned slowly from her cot to face them. ‘I know that name,’ she said.

‘What was the plan?’ De Lancey asked from the door.

‘That he could get an assassin into the palace to impersonate the lastborn from Sebastabol.’

Froi waited for Arjuro to speak.

‘Arjuro?’ De Lancey said. ‘Give him something in return.’

‘No,’ Arjuro said. ‘I’m more interested in what Rafuel of Sebastabol had to say to … sorry, what did you say your name was?’

The stare from Arjuro was sharp and Froi fought back a shiver. He felt as if he was looking at Gargarin.

‘I didn’t,’ Froi said.

A hint of a knowing smile appeared on Arjuro’s face. ‘You don’t trust me, do you?’

‘I don’t trust anyone here.’

Arjuro looked at him shrewdly, eyebrows raised in contemplation.

‘You don’t trust anyone here in the Citavita? Or anyone here in Charyn?’

‘Are you saying he’s a foreigner?’ Lirah asked, studying Froi with confusion.

Froi didn’t respond for a moment. ‘You’re not so slow when you’re sober, Arjuro.’

‘He’s Lumateran,’ De Lancey said. ‘Who else would be training an assassin?’

Froi didn’t respond.

‘But why would Rafuel of Sebastabol go all the way to Lumatere to find an assassin when he could train one here?’ De Lancey continued. ‘I could have provided him with one or two myself.’

‘Didn’t say I was a Lumateran, and careful, Provincaro, that’s the second time you’ve mentioned the death of the King. You could be accused of treason.’

‘He can’t be a foreigner. He has Serker eyes, and a face from Abroi,’ Lirah said.

‘I disagree,’ Arjuro said. ‘In the times when nomads travelled throughout the land, a Sendecanese or Sarnak or even a Yut could be found with Serker eyes.’

Arjuro eyed Froi. ‘Your Charyn is flawless.’

‘Perhaps I’ve inherited a sharp mind from my father,’ he whispered mockingly in Arjuro’s ear. ‘Or perhaps from my uncle. Perhaps I’m gods’ touched.’

‘What else did Rafuel of Sebastabol have to say to your leaders?’ De Lancey asked.

‘Nothing,’ Froi said.

The Provincaro made a sound as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

‘It’s true. He said nothing more to my leaders. But he did make mention of something to me without my leaders knowing.’

The others waited.

‘But as part of my bond, my captain said I was not to interfere with the matters of another kingdom.’

De Lancey gave another humourless laugh.

‘They sent you to assassinate the King and that’s not interfering?’

Froi felt weary. He wanted more from Arjuro, but the Priestling was a man who had been betrayed too many times and Froi knew he would have to give a whole lot more before Arjuro spoke. Two of De Lancey’s guards appeared at the door.

‘My lord, it’s not safe for you here,’ one said, eyeing Froi.

‘Go check on Grij,’ the Provincaro said tiredly, and Froi heard the voice of a man concerned for his son. It made him hate everyone even more.

De Lancey’s attention was back on Froi.

‘Rafuel of Sebastabol made mention of … the lost lastborn of the Citavita,’ Froi said quietly.

‘A myth,’ Lirah said. ‘Used to dismiss the importance of Quintana as the lastborn.’

‘Not a myth,’ Arjuro said.

‘You can’t prove that,’ De Lancey argued.

‘I saw the lastborn of the Citavita. Held him. Do you need any further proof than that, De Lancey?’ Arjuro raged. ‘Or are we going to have a repeat of eighteen years past. Last time you refused to believe me about the King an innocent messenger was murdered.’

They all stared at Arjuro.

‘You held the lastborn?’ Lirah asked.

Arjuro nodded.

‘When I escaped from the palace after … after taking Gargarin’s identity.’

‘What?’ she gasped, stunned.

‘It was Gargarin who was imprisoned for eight years,’ Froi said. ‘Not Arjuro.’

‘I took refuge with the only people I trusted in this world. I knew where the Priests of Trist were hiding because they had found a way to send a message to me after my arrest the year before. When I arrived at the caves, they told me the strangest tale. That the night before, they had heard a sound outside and saw the figure of a young boy fleeing. And at their feet was a filthy basket that smelt of cats with a babe inside. A male. No note. Nothing. They had no idea where he came from.’

De Lancey moved away from the door, his eyes wide. Lirah placed a trembling hand to her throat.

‘That night, every Priest in the cave, whether gifted or not, woke up with the same words on their lips.’

‘That the last will make the first?’ Lirah asked.

Arjuro shook his head. ‘That if redemption was ever to be possible, a sign would appear in the palace. We had no idea what it meant. We didn’t know that at the time Charyn was cursed. All we knew was that the Oracle was dead. The Priests have always believed that even the gods were divided over this curse. That not one god has claimed it as their own.’

‘If no god claimed it as their own …’ De Lancey said.

‘Then no god could break it. Perhaps in their realm they’ve been searching for clues themselves.’ Arjuro sighed. ‘All we knew was that whoever left the lastborn with the Priests feared for the child’s life.’

He turned to Lirah. ‘Why would the palace have wanted your son dead, Lirah?’ he asked. ‘Was it because the King suspected it wasn’t his?’

Lirah made a sound of annoyance. ‘I was his whore and the whore of anyone he chose to share me with! Why would the King ever have thought it was his child over anyone else?’

‘Whose child was he then, Lirah?’ De Lancey asked.

‘Mine. Mine. He belonged to me,’ Lirah said. ‘What do you want me to say, De Lancey? I had no idea who the father was.’

‘Was it Gargarin’s?’ De Lancey asked again.

‘I hardly saw the babe,’ she said. ‘And even if I had, do you think I would have seen a resemblance from a newborn. “Ah yes,” ’ she mocked. ‘ “Here is the chin of the King’s favourite banker or the eyes of his favourite cousin.” ’

There was a strained silence. A reminder of what Lirah was forced to be all those years.

‘More, Arjuro,’ De Lancey said. ‘We need more.’

‘The Priests of Trist asked me that night to name the boy because I was gods’ touched and they weren’t,’ Arjuro continued. ‘A child named by one who is gods’ touched is blessed all their lives.’ Arjuro swallowed. ‘I knew this babe could not stand out in the world, so I gave him a name with no meaning, from a place with no meaning.’ Arjuro stole a look at Froi. ‘I called him Dafar of Abroi. He was smuggled into the kingdom of Sarnak where the Priestlings of Trist had a godshouse despite the Sarnak worship of the Goddess. After the random burning down of the Sarnak godshouse four years later, the boy disappeared from our lives.’

Froi’s breath was caught in his throat.

‘I am now sure that the child came from the palace and not the Citavita,’ Arjuro said.

‘A moment ago you said the Priests had no idea where he came from!’ De Lancey said. ‘Why would you change your words?’

‘Because Olivier the impostor,’ Arjuro said, pointing to Froi, ‘has just informed us that my brother claimed to have smuggled a child out of the palace. It could have only been your son, Lirah. Perhaps, without him realising, it was Gargarin’s son. You would not have known that then. But we can only guess it now. Our young impostor’s resemblance to my father is quite extraordinary.’

Arjuro’s eyes met Froi’s and Froi could hardly breathe. Lirah. Not cold Lirah who had despised him from the moment she first laid eyes on him. Not Gargarin.

Froi stumbled to his feet. ‘I’m not from this place.’

Blood sings to blood, Froi.

Lirah’s body was rocking, her expression one of horror.

‘Lirah?’ Arjuro asked. ‘Who passed your messages to Gargarin when you lived together in the palace? Who was your go-between?’

Lirah couldn’t find the words to speak.

‘Lirah!’

She shook herself out of her stupor.

‘The Sixth Advisor’s boy,’ she said quietly. She stopped, agape, and Froi watched Arjuro nod.

‘Rafuel,’ she gasped. ‘Little Rafuel with the cats.’

‘A sensitive boy,’ Arjuro said. ‘Smart, though. He was shouted down daily by his father, by everyone whose path he crossed in the palace. It’s how he befriended my brother. He reminded Gargarin of who we once were. And do you want to know something else? In the early days of my imprisonment when there was trust between my brother and I, Gargarin was my messenger to the Priests. He was the only person to have known where they were hiding. Where to keep a babe safe from the palace.’

Froi, Lirah and De Lancey were too dumbfounded to speak.

‘I think our Rafuel’s been busy these past years searching for the lastborn.’ Arjuro’s eyes met Froi’s. ‘Did he find you in Sarnak, or have I got it all wrong?’

Froi didn’t want to respond. If he said the words aloud it would all be true and he didn’t want it to be.

‘I live in Lumatere,’ he said.

Lirah’s shoulders sank. Was it relief or despair? De Lancey shook his head with disappointment, walking away. But Arjuro continued to stare at Froi, as though he was still attempting to work out the puzzle.

‘I’ve not lived in Sarnak for three years,’ Froi said quietly.

Lirah stared at him, stunned, and De Lancey turned back, hope flaring in his expression. Froi saw a ghost of a smile on Arjuro’s face. A nod of satisfaction.

‘But what of the babe you did see tossed on the night of the lastborn?’ De Lancey asked. ‘Who was that if not the daughter of the Oracle, or Lirah and Gargarin’s son?’

A cry was heard from above and moments later De Lancey’s men appeared at the door.

‘They’ve started the killings again.’ There was a desperate look of urgency in one of the men’s eyes. ‘It’s Gargarin of Abroi, my lord.’

Froi shoved through the crowded room and onto the landing.

Across the gravina, two men gripped Gargarin, pushing him to his knees. Froi recognised them. Donashe and his companion who had once stopped Froi on his way from the godshouse to the palace.

Froi knew what they would do next. Hold Gargarin by the legs, but not let go for a moment or two. He could imagine it was torture for the person hanging. Blood rushing to their heads, staring down into the abyss. For the women, the indignity of being exposed as their dresses flapped around their faces. The jeering, the laughter, and then at a moment’s notice, the street lords would let go.

‘We’ll pay a ransom. A ransom!’ De Lancey shouted across the space, squeezing in beside Froi. ‘One hundred pieces of gold.’

From the palace side of the gravina where they hung off balconettes and battlements, the street lords jeered. ‘For this bag of broken bones?’ Donashe called out.

‘Two hundred,’ another voice called out over Froi’s shoulder, trying to get through. The Ambassador of Sebastabol.

Lirah was suddenly there beside Froi, her nails biting into his hand. He heard Arjuro’s ragged breath beside her.

‘We don’t make deals,’ Donashe said. He seemed to have taken leadership of the street lords. ‘The worthless ones die now. The others get hanged in the main square for the whole Citavita to enjoy.’

‘He’s an architect, you fools,’ De Lancey shouted.

‘Three hundred pieces of gold,’ the Provincara of Jidia could be heard saying.

‘And where is this gold?’ the shorter of the street lords called out.

‘From our provinces,’ De Lancey tried, but Froi heard anguished defeat in the man’s voice. ‘It will take no more than a week to send a messenger and have him return.’

Donashe waved him away. ‘If we can’t see the gold now, friend, don’t speak another word.’

Two of the street lords yanked Gargarin’s head back by his hair and Froi saw a face covered with dried blood and bruises, heard the sobbing around him as those in the godshouse prepared for another day of death. But he saw a ghost of a smile on Gargarin’s face. He remembered their conversation in the chamber one night. Gargarin lived on his own terms. He would die the same way. With little fear. Would that be his gift to his brother Arjuro? To Lirah? To his son? A smile in death?

One of the street lords bent and lifted Gargarin by his feet, holding him head down over the balconette. Everything around Froi sounded strange and so far away. The Provincaro’s shouting, Arjuro breathing. His pulse pounding.

‘A ruby ring!’

Froi hardly recognised the voice as his. All he felt was the sudden weight of the ring in his pocket.

‘Belonged to the dead King of Lumatere. The Lumaterans would pay a Queen’s ransom for it!’

There was a hushed silence around him.

Donashe and the street lords stared at the ring. Despite the space between them, they were close enough to see its worth. Words were nothing to them. How many times had Froi heard that on the streets of Sarnak’s capital? ‘Show us the goods and then we talk.’

Froi climbed onto the iron trellis of the godshouse balconette amidst gasps and cries from those surrounding him. He leapt onto the protruding granite, his legs trembling. Someone screamed. Froi lost his balance. Found it again. One foot before the other.

He held up the ring and the light from the rising sun caught the stone and Froi thought he had never seen anything so beautiful. It was the ring that had given him a life he could never have imagined. It was all things magnificent about Lumatere.

Donashe stared at the ring. Stared at Froi perched over the gravina.

‘I’m a thief, friend, and so are you,’ Froi said. ‘If you don’t recognise the worth in this jewel, then you’re nothing but ignorant street scum, there’s nothing lordish about you.’

Perhaps the silence was only for a moment, but Froi felt as though he was perched on that thin stretch of granite for hours. He wasn’t much for praying to the gods, but he prayed all the same.

‘Throw it over,’ Donashe ordered.

Froi knew there was no more bargaining to be had today. He either obeyed the command or watched Gargarin die. He tossed the ring and the man caught it in his hand, staring at it greedily.

‘You get your architect back when I get my three hundred pieces of gold.’

They pulled Gargarin up, dropped him to the ground, kicking him into the chamber. Out on the stone, Froi crouched, straddling it a moment, trying to control the beat of his heart. He slowly turned around and balanced his way back into a standing position. He watched Arjuro shove everyone but De Lancey’s men back from the balconette. Froi leapt and gripped hold of its trellis as De Lancey’s men reached out to steady him, grabbing him by the hands, clothing and hair, and dragging him over the wrought iron.

Once on his feet, Froi pushed through the hushed room. Suddenly Lirah was there.

‘Who are you?’ she asked, her voice hoarse as she gripped his arm.

‘I’m Abroi shit and Serker garbage, Lirah,’ he said, his eyes smarting. ‘Thank God I’m motherless, remember, because any woman would be shamed to call me her son.’ He pulled free and walked away.

At the end of the hallway, Arjuro sat hunched on the stairs leading down. Froi was forced to climb over him.

‘All our young lives, Gargarin and I counted our blessings that we didn’t have to see him in each other’s faces, and then you turn up and sometimes I can’t bear to look at you, lad.’

Froi kept on walking down the steps.

‘What name do you go by?’ Arjuro asked, his voice ragged.

Gargarin of Abroi was his father. Regardless of who Gargarin smuggled out of the palace, Gargarin was a murderer. That’s why Froi was so base and damned. That’s why he tried to take Isaboe of Lumatere by force. Because bad blood flowed through his veins. And what Froi despised the most about himself was that he had resented Gargarin and Lirah’s indifference. Even without knowing who they were, Froi had wanted something from them. His heart knew first. He longed for Trevanion and for Lord August and even for Perri. They were the men he wanted to have sired him, not Gargarin with his cold stare and awkward ways. Those men made sense with their rules and orders.

‘What name do you go by?’ Arjuro shouted.

Keep on walking. Don’t turn back.

‘Olivier!’

‘Froi,’ he shouted back. ‘My name is Froi. Dafar of Abroi. A nothing name. From a nothing place.’

At the bottom of the steps he took a turn and found himself in the ancient library. Realising he had taken the wrong exit, Froi turned back to where he had seen a narrow entrance close to the steps. But within moments he was confronted by two lads. Behind him he heard a sound, and another lad came out of the shadows from the library. He knew he was in no danger because the three looked useless. They all wore their hair shoulder-length and one had ridiculous golden curls. Froi would have liked nothing more than to drag them back to Lumatere and throw them in amongst the Monts.

‘You think you can impersonate me and not suffer the consequences?’

Froi sighed. Olivier of Sebastabol. Froi couldn’t have looked less like the lastborn.

‘What did I stop you from doing?’ Froi asked. ‘Prancing into the palace and planting the mighty seed of Charyn. Did you honestly believe you would be the one?’

‘We had a better purpose, assassin,’ Golden Curls said. ‘A different purpose, blast you.’

‘Blast you?’ Froi mocked, bitterly. ‘That’s the best curse you can come up with?’

A doe-eyed lad stepped forward, his pale, slight fist clenched at Froi’s nose.

‘If you d … d … did anything to hurt her, I’ll k … k …’

‘K … k … kill me?’ Froi sneered, cruelty in his voice.

Fatigued, he pushed through them. It was too easy to crush these lads. He wanted to go home. There was nothing left for him to do here.

The fist that came out to connect with Froi’s jaw was weak in its delivery and he heard a grunt of pain come from the doe-eyed lad, who rubbed his knuckles.

‘We had a plan, a year in the making,’ Grijio of Paladozza said. ‘Satch and I had a means to smuggle her out. We knew her life was in danger the moment she came of age with no child.’

‘We w … w … wanted to save her.’

‘I would have saved her,’ Olivier of Sebastabol said. ‘Perabo of the caves would have saved her. Taken her to Tariq of Lascow, who would have protected her with his life.’

Froi’s head rang from what he was hearing.

‘My father just told me who you are,’ Grijio said. ‘Good work done in Charyn, Lumateran,’ he spat, but there were tears in his eyes. ‘You go home and tell your people that their assassin did good work in Charyn.’

Another fist to his jaw and a boot to his face, and one to his chest. And on his knees, Froi finally understood the truth. That by impersonating Olivier, he had written her death sentence.

He had foiled an attempt by the lastborns to set Quintana free.

‘Have you got something to tell me, Olivier?’

Froi woke with a start. He had spent the night sleeping by the side of the road that led down to the bridge of the Citavita, joining the throng of people who were desperate to leave. Not even outside the Lumateran gates three years ago, when Finnikin and Isaboe prepared to enter and break the curse, had Froi seen a people so desperate, clutching each other and their possessions. Back then there was at least hope. Here there was desperation.

This is where it begins, he realised. For some it would end in a valley between Lumatere and the Province of Alonso. ‘Why live like a trog at the doorstep of an enemy kingdom?’ Lucian had asked on the day Froi left.

Because it was safer than living at home.

He patted the pouch he had hidden in an inside trouser pocket. The night before he had gone back to what he did best. People who were running for their lives were less concerned with their pockets and the pickings were too easy; he had enough coins in his pouch to prove it. He wondered what would have happened to him if he was still on the streets of the Sarnak capital. Stealing had become too boring. Where would that boredom have led him if Isaboe of Lumatere had not come across him in that square in Sprie?

He shuffled amongst the crowd and tried to shut out the crying from those who were turned away by another set of cutthroats taking bribes to allow people out of the Citavita. Froi was amazed how swift some men were in plotting out a way to take advantage of human despair. He realised that what he despised the most about the street lords and the cutthroats at the gate was that he was looking at himself in another life.

It was on the next morning that he finally reached the bridge. He thought of Trevanion and Perri. Of the tale he had to tell. He thought of Lord August and Lady Abian and the crops and the ideas he had for planting them. He thought of Lucian of the Monts and how he would warn him that what was taking place in the Citavita would bring danger to the valley and Lucian’s mountain. He thought of Finnikin and Isaboe and the Priestking and he thought of Tesadora with her Serker eyes. Which made him think of Lirah, and Lirah made him think of Gargarin, and Gargarin made him think of Arjuro. And then all he could think of was her. Princess Indignant. Quintana the ice maiden. Quintana the Savage. The Abomination. The Cursemaker. The Whore. The Lastborn. The girl who could make rabbits appear on walls.

And before Froi could change his mind, he turned and walked back up to the Citavita, sensing in his deepest core that he would not be returning to Lumatere for some time.

Chapter 20

Life in the Citavita each day began with a hanging. One by one, the King’s close advisors, physician, banker and anyone else the street lords found hiding in the King’s solar were dragged out into the marketplace where a crowd would gather around a makeshift hanging gale. The onlookers would jeer and chant and clap with a frenzied glee that had little to do with enjoyment and much to do with malevolence. It had been a week since the events in the palace and every day Froi held his breath the moment the drawbridge was lowered, wondering who the next victim would be.

Those from the Citavita who weren’t part of the vicious crowd or the never-ending stream of people shuffling their way out of the capital, stayed hidden in their dwellings, fearful of what it would all mean. ‘Lad,’ they’d whisper, their heads suddenly appearing from rooftops. ‘Lad, what’s happening in the marketplace? Will they come for the merchants next?’

During the first days, Froi exchanged his doublet jacket for loose-fitting trousers and a tunic as well as a cap that covered his hair and came close to covering his eyes. But the wool of the tunic itched against his skin, so he stole a flannel undershirt. Although it was a relief to leave Olivier of Sebastabol behind, something inside of him couldn’t help wondering how much he looked like the old Froi. The thief. Street scum.

Most days he saw Lirah and Arjuro in the crowd. Arjuro wore his cape and cowl and reminded Froi of the sketches in the Priestking’s books showing the spectre of death who visited a plague-ridden Lumateran village hundreds upon hundreds of years ago and left no one alive. Standing far enough away from Lirah and Arjuro were De Lancey and his men. Froi had discovered through talk around the Citavita that the gold had arrived safely from the provinces and the Provincaro of Paladozza was waiting for the release of Gargarin before he and his men took their leave.

Apart from his mornings at the hanging gale, Froi spent the rest of his days searching for the man named Perabo, who had once tried to warn Froi about Quintana’s fate. In his memory, he saw the scene over and over again. Quintana had stepped towards Perabo, but some sense of duty had made her return to the palace with Froi. Froi wished that Perabo had yanked her out of his arms. He wished that the lastborns had been there, all their weak strength combined, holding Froi down so Quintana could escape.

In the second week the street lords began to hang the King’s extended family: cousins, uncles, aunts. Froi watched an entire bloodline disappear from existence as the days passed. As yet, Gargarin had not been released and Quintana had not been hanged, and on a particularly sickening day when the rope half cut off the head of the King’s third cousin from Jidia, Froi looked away, and Arjuro caught his eye. The Priestling pointed to the road leading down to the bridge before walking away with Lirah.

Froi fought the urge to follow. Despite having to talk himself out of returning to the godshouse each day, he felt a pull towards them. Perhaps he had felt that pull from the first moment he clasped his eyes on these damned people.

Regardless, he trailed Lirah and Arjuro down to a cave house he recognised as the soothsayer’s dwelling. The two stopped outside and Froi knew they were waiting for him.

‘Where have you been?’ Lirah asked, her voice harsh.

‘I don’t answer to you or anyone else in this kingdom,’ he said coldly.

Arjuro entered the cave and Froi and Lirah followed. It was small, one room only, with stems and saplings hanging from the ceiling and a smothering odour that seemed to be trapped in the cave walls. In the corner was a grubby bedroll and in the centre of the space was a large pot of water in which the soothsayer was stirring a foul-smelling substance amongst leaves and petals.

He thought of what this wretched woman had done to Quintana year after year, and realised he wanted to hurt her, could easily kill her with his bare hands. But his bond to Trevanion and Perri stopped him. You only kill those who are a threat to Lumatere, Froi.

But Lirah of Serker had no such bond. She grabbed the woman by the hair, shoving her head into the pot of water. Froi watched the soothsayer thrash, struggling under Lirah’s strong grip. He saw the fury and hatred on Lirah’s face.

‘Do you like the feel of that?’ Lirah said.

‘Froi,’ Arjuro said, somewhat calmly. ‘Stop her, please.’

‘Why would I want to do that, Arjuro?’ Froi said, his heart beating fast at the satisfaction of what he was watching.

‘Because I’d like to know a thing or two and that may not happen if Lirah kills our only source of information.’

Froi sighed and stepped forward, grabbing Lirah’s arm and dragging her back. She struggled against him, and although she had strength, Froi easily overpowered her.

The soothsayer collapsed onto the ground, gasping for air, and Froi couldn’t help imagining the child Quintana was, struggling for the same filthy air, year after year.

Arjuro walked towards the woman and stooped, contempt in his expression. When she regained her breathing, the soothsayer struggled to her knees and spat in the Priestling’s face.

‘Oh, the gods’ blessed,’ she mocked viciously. ‘Aren’t those from the godshouse mighty now, Priestling?’

Arjuro wiped the spittle from his face. ‘These two are here to kill you and I am here for answers,’ he said. ‘So what if we make a deal, old woman? You tell me what I need to know and I may just spare your life.’

‘That’s not your decision to make,’ Lirah snapped, struggling to free herself from Froi’s hands.

‘Answers,’ Arjuro repeated. ‘Why did the King order the murder of the male child born to the palace eighteen years ago?’

‘No male child was born to the palace,’ she said.

‘On the night of Quintana’s birth.’

‘There was only one babe born that night and she’ll be hanged soon enough.’

Froi knew she was lying. The woman hardly made a pretence of it. Her eyes met Froi’s and she inhaled deeply, as if in a rapture.

‘And if the King did order the murder of a child,’ she said, her voice drowsy, ‘what makes you think he told me?’

Lirah pulled free of Froi’s arms and gripped the woman by the throat. ‘He was frightened to piss without consulting you.’

Froi placed an arm around Lirah, pulling her back once more. The soothsayer leaned forward, her face an inch away from Lirah’s.

‘Spit in my face and I will tear out your tongue,’ Lirah threatened.

‘Oh, there’s the Serker savage,’ the old woman said, closing her eyes and inhaling. It was beginning to sicken Froi. ‘I smell those of Serker. Waiting. It’s what I can do. Smell the dead. And you have the smell of the dead on you, Lirah of Serker. Because you’ve been there amongst them.’

Froi felt Lirah shudder.

‘Do you know what happens each year I lead our abomination to the lake of the half-dead? Of course you’d know, Serker whore. You saw them yourself that time you tried to drown the child. The way the dead clambered onto the shores, screeching out their pain. They want to go home and unless the song is sung to lead them there, they will never have peace and nor will Charyn.’

‘What is she talking about?’ Froi asked.

‘Those slaughtered in Serker died voiceless,’ Arjuro said. ‘Their names were left unspoken. Only the gods’ touched standing on Serker soil can sing them home to their rest.’

Froi felt Lirah tremble again. Through all her talk of Serker savages, Froi could sense Lirah grieved for her people.

The old woman inhaled again.

‘I used to hear that the wild young Priestlings would travel to the marshes to search for the reed of righteousness. They’d crush it, cook it over a small flame and inhale the scent, and in the euphoria, they would see the gods.’

The woman was staring at Arjuro.

‘Untrue,’ the Priestling said. Even inside the cave he wore the cowl and gorget, every inch of his body covered except for his face. ‘It was a game. We were aroused from the vapours. It’s why we brought our lovers to the marshes. What was the use of all that arousal if you couldn’t share it with the one you loved?’

‘But you saw the gods?’

Arjuro refused to speak.

‘A Priestling once tried to explain it to me,’ the soothsayer said. ‘She fainted by merely recalling it.’

Still Arjuro didn’t respond.

‘Even without the pleasures of the flesh, Priestling, was it not beyond anything you had ever experienced?’

After a long moment, Arjuro nodded.

‘When I sense the dead it brings me the same pleasure,’ she said. ‘The dead are my reed of righteousness and when that girl comes into my home, the dead shake this cave with a power beyond reckoning.’

Suddenly, the soothsayer took Froi’s arm, which was still clasped around Lirah. She scraped her tongue against his skin. Froi shuddered and stumbled away.

‘Quintana of Charyn seeps from your pores. You’ll carry that scent for the rest of your days.’

‘Come,’ Arjuro said quietly to Froi and Lirah. ‘She’s of no use to us.’

They reached the entrance of the cave and Froi felt the hot panting breath of the soothsayer at his neck. He felt her hand on his nape and he spun around, shoving her against the unevenness of the rock.

‘Touch me again and I will kill you,’ he said.

Her breath smelt foul. As if something had died inside her mouth.

‘Nine months before the births,’ she said, ‘the King dreamt that two children would be born to the palace and that the one born first would end his reign. The boy child was born first and was tossed into the gravina along with the Oracle.’

When the soothsayer spoke, there was a whistle to her speech.

‘But he made the wrong choice.’ She looked at Lirah. ‘The secondborn, the fruit of his own loins, was an abomination. Everyone was frightened of her in the palace, running around on all fours like she was some kind of animal. Was she not a savage, Lirah of Serker?’

Lirah looked away.

The soothsayer nodded. ‘Oh, yes, she was. But everything changed when you decided to dispose of her.’

‘It was for mercy, you wretch. She begged me.’

‘And what kind of mercy did she get, Lirah of Serker? Was the little beast who died in your arms the same girl who returned?’

Froi turned, saw the flash of anguish on Lirah’s face.

‘Her mind came back in pieces,’ Lirah said.

‘Because part of her has no aura,’ the old woman continued. ‘Quintana of Charyn returned with the other. A lost spirit collected at the lake of the half-dead.’

The soothsayer’s mouth formed a malevolent smile. ‘And once they hang that girl, the dead get back their own.’

The three of them pushed their way through the crowd camped outside the godshouse entrance. Inside, the number of those taking refuge had tripled and everywhere he turned, Froi saw sleeping bodies on the stairwell or in any corner they could find. So far the street lords hadn’t dared to enter the sacred space, but Froi knew the type well. The godshouse would not be spared.

He followed Lirah and Arjuro beyond the level that housed the Hall of Illumination and onto the rooftop where Froi was surprised to see a garden. Lirah looked over to where her palace prison tower could be seen. How many times had these two former enemies caught sight of each other tending to their gardens?

No one spoke for a while. The scene with the soothsayer had unnerved them all and there were too many unanswered questions.

Arjuro began yanking out his plants, placing those with roots inside a glass bottle, preserving the seed. Froi recognised a white plant from the Priestking’s garden. The yarrow plant was a physician’s best friend, according to the Priestking. Zabat had spoken of Arjuro being a physician once, and the herbs and saplings in his garden would have been the tools of Arjuro’s trade.

Froi sat beside Lirah. They studied each other, her beautiful eyes confused and full of disbelief, as though wondering how someone as plain as Froi could have come from her loins and Gargarin’s seed. He reached over and took her hand, placing a bag of coins in her palm.

‘Get out of the Citavita, Lirah,’ he said quietly. ‘They’ve got nothing else to loot and they’ll come here next.’

‘Where did you get this?’ she asked, her voice husky.

‘Where do you think? I’m a thief.’

She pushed the bag back into his hands. ‘Then use it to return home, wherever that is. I’m a whore, so I think I can find my own means out.’

Arjuro stood, sighing. ‘When you’re both finished trying to frighten each other away with the sordidness of your pasts, can you help me please?’

Froi and Lirah collected the baskets of bottles and seedlings and followed Arjuro inside.

‘Have you heard anything?’ Froi asked over their shoulders as he stooped down into the low stairwell.

‘Good news or bad news?’ Arjuro asked.

‘Bad.’

‘De Lancey has lost contact with the street pigs.’

‘Good news.’

‘They’ve not returned a corpse,’ Arjuro said flatly.

Arjuro stopped and waited for Lirah to be out of earshot. They watched her disappear into the Hall of Illumination.

‘The scribe has almost accounted for everyone,’ Arjuro said. ‘They’re down to the last few.’

‘Is there anything …’

Arjuro shook his head. ‘None of the Provincari will risk their lives or their men’s lives on her. Even if one or two were willing, they’d be outnumbered. The street pigs have control of the whole Citavita.’

‘She’s their Princess,’ Froi said angrily.

‘But not their heir, Froi. At least if she was the cursebreaker she would hold some power, but she’s worth nothing. The Provincari need to secure the kingdom. The only way to do that is to place Tariq of Lascow on the throne.’

Froi bristled to hear the words. Too many lives worth nothing.

‘You may as well toss yourself into the gravina now if you’re fool enough to try and save her,’ Arjuro said.

‘I wasn’t sent here to save her,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s not part of my bond.’

For the rest of the week he stood alongside Arjuro and Lirah to watch the hangings. When they were certain that Gargarin and Quintana remained alive for one day more, all three would walk back up to the godshouse where talk of the street lords entering the sacred space would send those taking refuge into a frenzy. The streets became even more crowded, with most Citavitans now desperate to escape the violence that was rife. Looting had begun. A potter had been killed trying to protect his stall. A stampede at the bridge caused the death of seven others. It was each man or woman out for themself.

At the end of the week, it was Aunt Mawfa’s turn, and her hanging was hideous beyond imagining. Froi thought of the men he had killed in Lumatere. If he was grateful for anything, it was that most times, he did not see their fear. But here in the Citavita, fear made people beg. Fear was piss running down the legs of those who once stood pompous and proud. Fear was a bloodcurdling cry that rang through one’s ears for days to come. All he would ever remember about Lady Mawfa’s hanging were her little plump legs dangling and how, out of all the deaths, it would have been the one to make Quintana weep.

But he returned day after day, waiting for her to appear. She is worth nothing, Arjuro had said. If Froi understood anything, it was that in this world one’s worth came from others. He had no worth until he crossed the path of the novice Evanjalin and Finnikin. So he found himself writing his own bond to Quintana of Charyn. Her worth would come from him and Lirah and the idiot lastborns. She would not die alone. That would be his bond to her.

And then the day they were dreading came when there was no one to account for but Quintana and Gargarin. When the street lords dragged them out, Froi had a moment’s foolish thought that perhaps he could rescue them, but he was unarmed and there were too many desperate Charynites surrounding him, begging for more blood. He reminded himself, as he had every day since the death of the King, that he had not been sent to this kingdom to rescue a Princess. He had been sent to wipe out the royal seed of Charyn, but there had been too many men in this kingdom ready to do that for him.

He was barely able to recognise Quintana with her bloodstained ugly dress, her filthy face, hair in knots. The crowd cried out for blood. Hers. Froi prayed to whoever was listening that Quintana the ice maiden would be in her head this day. But he knew in an instant it was the Princess Indignant. It was the way she wept and fell on her knees begging, crying out the words, ‘I carry the first! I carry the first!’ until the street pigs dragged her to her feet by her hair.

Gargarin was trussed, and it had been a savage beating he had received this past week. But Froi knew that Gargarin would be released. De Lancey had paid half the amount of gold only and the street pigs would get the other half when Gargarin was safe. Today, it would be Quintana’s day to die.

Without his staff, Gargarin collapsed on the raised floor above them for the umpteenth time. Froi heard Arjuro’s broken whisper, ‘Stay down, my brother. Stay down,’ and Froi wanted to reach out to him in some sort of comfort. He had realised many times in the past weeks that if anything, Arjuro of Abroi was blood. Without thinking, Froi pushed through the crowd until he was at the platform, his head level with Gargarin who lay face down, blood pouring from his nose.

‘Are you finished with him?’ Froi asked the street lords. The man guarding Gargarin kicked him off the platform viciously and he fell at Froi’s feet. In an instant, De Lancey and his guard were there, half-carrying Gargarin away.

‘Do something,’ Froi begged the Provincaro. ‘Do something for her.’

‘We’ve been promised the road out of here, lad,’ De Lancey whispered. ‘The best I can do is leave and raise an army to take back the Citavita.’

Froi watched two of the street lords drag Quintana to the raised block, and oh, how she fought. To the very last moment she fought, and when the hangman placed the noose around her neck, Froi knew it was Lirah who cried out in a way that tore at him. Froi finally understood what she had tried to do so long ago, in that tub of water. She had tried to take this wretched creature to a better place. To prevent this moment of horror.

And then a bellowing cry rang out. A war cry? Froi swung around, searching for anything. Any sign. He thought he saw something, but couldn’t quite believe it. The lastborns? Three of the most useless fighters in existence. He had seen Trevanion teach Vestie of the Flatlands to use a bow and even she could hit a target, despite the distance. One of them, Grijio of Paladozza perhaps, fell out of a branch overlooking the platform. In the crowd, Olivier of Sebastabol bellowed yet another war cry, while Satch of Desantos tried to jab at the legs of the street lords on the podium.

Arrows went flying in the wrong direction. The idiot, Olivier, was attempting to shoot a mark towards the noose, but he hit the palace wall in the distance instead. From where Froi was trying to get a better look, it seemed as though they were attacking each other. The people of the Citavita began to laugh. Despite the failure of the situation, the street lords reacted, leaping from the podium and shoving their way through the crowd after Satch, who was closest.

And suddenly, in all the absurdity, Froi forgot the orders from his queen. Forgot everything he had been told was right or wrong. Forgot any type of reason. Perri the Savage once told him that moments of opportunity were pure luck; the Priestking claimed that it was the gods sending messages. But both agreed that you took them without question. Whatever it was today, Froi didn’t ask, and he took his chance and bolted for the tree that Grijio was attempting to climb, while one of the street lord’s gripped his ankle. Froi knocked the street lord’s head against the branch, before shoving him away. He scampered up the tree. ’Follow,’ he ordered Grijio. With the lastborn at his heels, Froi straddled the top branch, grabbing the bow from Grijio’s hand. Down into the crowd he could see Olivier of Paladozza stare up to where Grijio and Froi sat.

‘Bolt,’ Froi ordered and Grijio slapped one against his palm and Froi took aim and fired. ‘Bolt!’ he ordered again.

‘Bolt!’

‘Bolt!’

‘Bolt!’

Froi shot five bolts in quick succession at his targets on the podium. But despite four street lords writhing with pain on the raised platform, the hangman kicked the block from under Quintana’s feet and her body began to swing, her hands gripping at the rope around her neck. Froi cried out, a roar of anguish that came from a place within that he had never acknowledged.

‘Olivier!’ he bellowed down to the lastborn in the crowd. ‘Sword!’ Froi leapt from the branch and, flying through the air, he grabbed Quintana’s body and as they both swung over the crowd, he reached out to where Olivier held the sword high above his head and Froi grabbed it, stretching the sword in an upward swing to slice at the rope holding Quintana’s noose. A moment later they crashed down into those standing below.

Satch was there before them, pulling both Froi and Quintana to their feet. ‘Run,’ he shouted. ‘R … r … run.’

The stuttering lastborn led and Froi followed, gripping Quintana’s hand, dragging her at times when it seemed she had nothing left inside of her. Grijio caught up as arrows flew past them. The four of them ran through one of the cave houses, climbed up onto a roof and then crossed the Citavita, leaping from one flat cave to another. Froi had no idea where they were heading, but despite the lastborns’ inability to fight like warriors, these lads seemed to have purpose. So Froi followed.

Suddenly a hand flew up beneath his feet and Froi was yanked down into a hole through the roof of one of the caves. He crashed down onto the ground of the house alongside Satch. Within seconds, Quintana tumbled in behind them. A moment later, Grijio fell through.

‘Quiet,’ someone whispered, and Froi realised their breathing was coming out in sobs. He closed his eyes to regain his breath and when he opened them he could only see the bottom half of whoever had dragged them into the room. The rest of the man was peering up through the hole in the roof.

‘Have y … y … you lost th … th … them?’ Satch asked.

The trapdoor was secured in place and the room was dark. A candle was held towards them and Froi found himself face to face with the keeper of the caves.

‘Follow,’ Perabo ordered.

Froi was surprised to see an underground river in the bowels of the city. Perabo led them to one of two small rafts, helping Quintana step onto the first. He then placed a hand on Froi, but it was no hand of assistance. The grip tightened until Froi felt pain. ‘Did I not tell you to get her out of Charyn?’ the man snarled.

‘He’s n … not Olivier,’ Satch said.

‘He would have known nothing of Tariq’s plan to take her out of the Citavita,’ Grijio added.

‘Then who is he?’ the keeper asked.

Grijio hesitated in replying. ‘He’s a foreigner. We don’t know what his name is.’

‘Froi,’ they heard a hoarse voice say behind them.

Froi stumbled towards Quintana, realising with horror that part of the noose was still around her neck. He removed it and in the dim light, he could see that her throat was burnt from the rope. She was shivering and he took off his coat and placed it around her.

Perabo gave Froi the oar. ‘Listen to my instructions. You follow this river until it branches into two. Steer the raft left and travel a while. When you come to a bend, they will hear you. So wait for two sounds of a rock against rock. Five beats apart. In return, you tap your oar on the roof of the cave. Three taps. Five beats apart. You ask for Tariq of Lascow, heir to the throne of Charyn. You tell them Perabo sent you.’

Grijio helped Quintana onto the raft and Froi gripped her as it swayed from side to side. He looked up at the lads standing beside Perabo. ‘You’d be safer with us,’ he said.

‘We n … n … need to get back and see if Olivier escaped.’

Froi scowled. ‘You don’t have to be nervous, Satch. I’m not going to hurt you!’

He saw a flash of irritation on the lastborn’s face.

‘It’s a st … st … stutter, idiot. N … n… not fear.’

It was a strange path to the hidden compound of Lascow. The roof of the cave was little more than a handspan above their heads, the sides of the raft at times scraping against the wall until Froi was forced to lay the oars aside and push his way down the cave river. There was nothing to be heard, except for the lapping of the water and Quintana’s rasping. When they reached a section where the river’s current seemed to carry the raft along, Froi stumbled to where Quintana was. He sat down and gathered her in his arms. ‘Shhh,’ he whispered. ‘You’re safe. I promise you.’

Perabo’s instructions were precise. At the bend, Froi heard the sound and waited and despite the firm grip Quintana had on his arm, he managed to retrieve the oar and tap the cave ceiling three times. A moment later the pitch-black space was illuminated by a lantern. Froi held Quintana’s face to his chest, his eyes blinded by the light.

‘We are here for Tariq of Lascow, heir to the throne of Charyn,’ he said. ‘Perabo sent us.’

The lantern was lowered, revealing the face of a man. He stared from Froi to Quintana and then gave a nod.

Chapter 21

Tariq of Lascow was tall for a Charynite. And striking. Froi wasn’t expecting tall and striking. For some reason he wanted Quintana’s beloved Tariq to be short and ugly. The heir placed a hand against Quintana’s cheek tenderly and then led them down a dank corridor of stone, speckled with a substance that lit their path. They followed him into a large chamber, the floors and wall adorned with beautiful woven carpets of blues and gold and red. There were books and drawings and ochre sticks for writing scattered over the cot that lay on the ground. A mandolin sat in the corner. A small altar was in the centre of the room, built upon a piece of rock that extended from the ground. Carved into the rock were symbols Froi had seen in Gargarin’s books about the gods. Tariq of the Citavita worshipped Agora, the Charyn goddess of wisdom. A poet, a musician, a peacemaker. Froi wanted to hate him.

Tariq pushed the books and sketches from his cot and took Quintana’s hand. ‘Little cousin, speak. I beg of you,’ he said, as Quintana stared up at Froi. Tariq placed a blanket over her and she lay down.

‘Will you be here when I wake?’ she asked Froi, her voice broken.

‘Of course,’ he lied.

Quintana closed her eyes and turned to the wall.

Tariq stood and Froi saw tears in the eyes of the heir. And anger.

‘How was it that you didn’t get her out in time?’ he asked. ‘We’ve been waiting for weeks.’

‘I was careless,’ Froi said. ‘For that I’ll always be sorry.’

Tariq stared, but didn’t speak. Too much seemed to be going on in his mind and Froi wondered if the heir of Charyn had to count in his head to control his fury. Or was he just a good man who could walk a path through life without a bond?

‘Then forgive yourself now, for we do not need laments of guilt sounding through the air,’ Tariq finally said.

Froi took one last look at Quintana and fought the urge to reach out a hand to where her throat was red-raw.

‘I’ll take my leave,’ he said huskily, walking out of the chamber.

In the light-speckled tunnel, Tariq was on his heels.

‘Stay,’ the heir said. ‘Eat with us.’

It was not an order, but Froi found himself turning back because he realised he had nowhere left to go.

In an adjoining chamber, Tariq introduced Froi to his childhood nurse, a woman named Jurda, who was stunned to hear the story of the escape and rushed to where Quintana lay. Froi watched Quintana as she woke from a half-sleep with a hiss and a snarl. He stepped into the room, but Tariq held him back. ‘Jurda was my nurse in the palace. She is well-acquainted with Quintana’s … ways.’

Froi followed Tariq through the nooks and tunnels of the underground village-in-exile of Lascow. They passed women weaving, men working at a kiln. One chamber housed the cattle, another stored the grain. In the kitchen there was chaos and all things familiar. Bread was baking in a large oven, its smoke tunnelling through a hole into the level above. The cook was barking out insults and instructions to a man milking a goat in the corner, whilst the serving women peeled eggs, giggling amongst themselves when they saw Froi. Tariq reached over the bad-tempered cook’s shoulder and she slapped his hand away, but he took the bread all the same, pecking her quickly on the cheek.

Froi was confused by the language. Although he picked up a spattering of Charyn, it seemed to sing a different tune.

‘What are they saying?’ he asked.

‘We speak a dialect of the mountains of the north, different to the Turlan mountain folk of the east,’ Tariq said.

The women continued to speak, looking in their direction. Tariq hid a grin.

‘My cousins say that for someone so plain it’s a good thing your build is so pleasing. You have the shoulders of an ox, according to Liona.’

‘Your cousins are servants?’ he asked, his face reddening from the attention.

‘This is my family. On my mother’s side. Twenty-seven of us in total. We’ve not dared return home, for we know that if the King found me there, he would not think twice about annihilating all my people on that mountain.’

Tariq pointed to a cushion on the ground and Froi sat. A moment later a plate of flatbread, gherkins, soft cheese, sliced eggs and olives was placed before him. Froi waited politely for Tariq to choose first.

‘You don’t seem the type to follow etiquette,’ Tariq said.

‘I follow a bond that says I grab food after the host,’ Froi said honestly, staring at the small feast hungrily.

Tariq grinned again. ‘I have a rule that says whoever is stupid enough not to grab food first, deserves to die of starvation.’

Froi grinned in response and reached for the cheese.

‘Could I ask, Sir,’ Tariq said, after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, ‘if you have heard news of Gargarin of Abroi?’

Froi remembered De Lancey’s words. That Gargarin had been a mentor to Tariq.

‘I’m not a Sir,’ Froi said, after swallowing the last of the egg. ‘My name is Froi, and to answer your question, De Lancey of Paladozza paid a ransom and they let Gargarin go. I can’t promise his body is in one piece, but he is safe for now.’

Tariq sighed with relief. ‘Is he not the most honourable man you have ever encountered?’ he asked.

Froi didn’t respond for a moment. ‘He’s a hard man to get to know.’

‘But once you get to know him, he is hard to forget,’ Tariq said. ‘I’ve never seen so many calf-eyed women in the compound following him around the year he stayed with us. “Gargarin, would you like me to rub your twisted bones?” ’ he mimicked. The cook came to deposit pieces of cooked pig rind on Froi’s plate. ‘ “Gargarin,” ’ Tariq continued, looking up at her, feigning seriousness. ‘ “Would you like me to rub the bone that’s not so twisted?” ’

Froi laughed. The cook grabbed Tariq’s face. ‘Do you want me to wash this filthy mouth out?’ she snapped.

‘Even Cousin Jurlista here was not immune to his humble charm.’ Tariq did a perfect impersonation of Gargarin’s awkwardness that not even Arjuro could have matched.

One of the older men sat opposite them. ‘What news of above?’ he asked. ‘Is it is as bad as they are saying?’

‘It is very bad,’ Froi said.

Tariq’s expression was pained as he cleared his throat. ‘Despite my feelings for the King and my father’s kin, is it true … that they’re all dead?’

Froi nodded. ‘Except Quintana.’

‘Thank the gods for that. She’s my betrothed, you know.’

Froi nodded. After a moment he cleared his throat. ‘I think it’s best that you end the betrothment,’ he said.

Tariq’s eyes narrowed. Froi met the heir’s stare.

‘And why would you suggest such a thing?’

‘Because the people you will rule brayed for her blood,’ Froi said angrily. ‘They stood in the marketplace and cheered when a noose was placed around her neck. Why would you subject her to life in the palace after what she has endured? Why would you not want to set her free?’

Tariq looked contrite. ‘Because we made a vow to each other,’ he said. ‘She would break the curse and I would do everything to bring her to safety.’

‘Forget the curse,’ one of Tariq’s kinsmen said. ‘The people of this kingdom will accept you as the rightful heir, but they’ll not want to see the face of Charyn’s greatest failure alongside you.’

‘To you, a failure, Gisotte,’ Tariq said with a gentle reprimand. ‘To me, a most-beloved betrothed, regardless of our youth at the time we were promised.’

‘How is it that she escaped the noose?’ one of the serving cousins asked from where she was grinding beans.

Froi told the story. He left out the part where the lastborns were laughed at, but by the time he was finished, a crowd had gathered around him, stunned.

‘You’re all heroes,’ one of the women said, smiling prettily.

Froi felt awkward from all the attention and Tariq grinned.

‘Come,’ the heir said, jumping to his feet. ‘Let me show you around.’

They left the room amidst cries of, ‘Stay for more.’

Tariq laughed as they stooped down into a low damp corridor. ‘I’ll confess to you, we’ve not seen many outsiders these past three years,’ he said, ‘and apart from my correspondence with Grij and Satch, sometimes I feel as though I’m an old man who knows nothing but books and keeping out of harm’s way.’

‘There’s not much you need to know about the world,’ Froi said. ‘Except how to use a sword and trust very few.’

Tariq was silent a moment. ‘Well, something tells me that both my betrothed and I can trust you.’

They reached the end of the tunnel and Froi could see Tariq’s eyes blazing with determination. ‘You must come to the palace with my queen and I. To protect her as you did today. To be her personal guard so I need never worry for her safety.’

Froi shook his head, his mouth suddenly dry at the idea of Tariq and Quintana lying side by side, night after night. He looked away, wanting to speak of other things.

‘How is it you survive here?’ he asked.

‘Perabo in the Citavita sends us food. He travels to us once a month. We have a water spring, we have a healer and we have faith in the gods that Charyn will have a new beginning now that the King is dead.’

‘Is Perabo’s tunnel the only way in?’ Froi asked.

Tariq shook his head. ‘Follow.’

Froi followed when his heart told him to leave. But with Tariq, he believed the people of Charyn could find hope. Strangely, he didn’t see traces of Finnikin or Lucian in this new King, but a boy he had once met on his travels with Finnikin and Isaboe through Yutlind. Jehr, heir to the throne of Yutlind Sud had been the first to teach him how to use a bow and arrow. He was a lad of great strength and Froi saw the same decency of character in Tariq. He needed to believe there was goodness in Charyn after the carnage, so he followed the heir through the underground world of the Citavita and listened to his stories.

They stood at a shaft and Tariq held out his hand beneath it and Froi did the same.

‘Do you feel the air? It’s the only other way out of the compound. Gargarin had it built for ventilation and for lowering goods and messages.’

‘From who? Who do you trust?’

‘The people of Lascow have an envoy who lives in the province of Paladozza. He is a passionate advocate of my people and travels to the Citavita each month to bring us news, amongst other gifts. When Bestiano left the palace with the riders, we received word from our envoy that the Provincaro of Paladozza pledged an army if we were willing to speak face to face.’

Froi looked at him, confused.

‘Wouldn’t the Provincaro have sent a message through his son Grijio?’

Tariq laughed again. ’De Lancey of Paladozza would kill Grij if he knew he was risking his life.’

‘Well, after today’s display I think the Provincaro knows everything. Tell me more of Paladozza’s promise.’

‘I agreed to the meeting and in one week’s time the envoy from the Provincaro will meet us at the top of this shaft with the promised protection. They will smuggle us out of the Citavita and into the centre of Charyn to collect my army. Then we will march back into the Citavita and claim the palace.’

Tariq looked around the cave. ‘And we say goodbye to my underground home.’

‘A solid home indeed,’ Froi said, impressed.

‘Mostly thanks to Gargarin’s plans.’

Tariq pointed into another room. ‘The privy. Gargarin’s idea, of course.’

‘Of course.’ Froi laughed for the first time in weeks. ‘He does have his obsessions, doesn’t he?’

Froi followed Tariq into a cluster of small caverns.

‘The hospital,’ Tariq said. ‘Can I introduce you to my cousin?’ he asked quietly. ‘She has had an ailment of the heart for some time now. Nurse says death will take place in the days to come, so we all pray that she will soon be at peace with those who’ve passed before us.’

Her name was Ariel. She would have been a pretty girl. Her cheek dimpled the moment she saw her younger cousin and she patted her bed for Tariq to sit.

‘I have heard the strangest story of a wild rescue in the Citavita,’ she said, fighting for every breath, looking beyond Tariq to Froi. ‘I think Cousin Ortense is giddy for our visitor.’

She held out a hand and Froi took it.

‘And the Princess?’ she asked.

‘She has a strangely strong … spirit,’ Froi said.

‘Or two,’ Tariq added, and he looked at Froi sheepishly. ‘Did it take you long getting used to?’

Froi shook his head. He realised that nothing about Quintana of Charyn took long to get used to except the idea of leaving her behind.

‘Will she visit?’ Ariel asked, and Froi heard the tiredness in her voice. ‘I dreamt of her not so long ago. I told her in my dream that if I had one wish it would be to die with hope and not with such despair for this kingdom. I told her that I dreamed of entering the other life with a smile to greet them all. “Good news!” I’d shout. “Good news for you all.” ’

‘She’ll like that dream,’ Froi said, a sadness overwhelming him that goodness died when baseness lived.

‘We will go collect her, Ariel,’ Tariq said, on his feet in an instant. ‘And tonight we will dine, all of us, together here with you, my love.’

Tariq seemed to hasten his step out of the room and Froi watched the heir stop and lean his head against the stone wall. He knew the lad wept for Ariel and he stood back to give Tariq the time he required to collect himself. Then he followed him through a tunnel to a set of stairs that led them down into another cavern.

Froi felt the cold instantly and realised he was in some sort of crypt. There were two slabs of stone in the middle of the room, one with a body wrapped in white from head to foot.

‘It’s a Lascow tradition for the dead,’ Tariq explained. ‘We lost one of our elders two days past. This is what we will do for Ariel. Wrap her in white linens and call her name out for the gods to receive her. Then we will send her down the underground river and set the raft alight so the gods can see her and lead her spirit towards our people in the Lascow Mountains. Only then can they be sung home to our ancestors.’

Froi nodded, touched by the ritual.

‘Is that how they do things where you come from?’ Tariq asked.

Froi shook his head. ‘It’s important for the Lumaterans to be part of the earth. The earth is the goddess so by being buried at death, we’re returned into her arms.’

‘Buried?’ Tariq shuddered, but then realised what Froi had said. The heir stared. Intrigued.

‘And what is a Lumateran doing in these parts?’ he asked. ‘I would think you hate us for what was done to your people at the hands of our men.’

Froi didn’t respond. He cursed himself for the words he had said, but there was something about Tariq that put him at ease.

‘When I’m in the palace, Froi, and all is calm in Charyn, my first duty to this land will be to issue an invitation for peace to your queen and her consort,’ Tariq promised. ‘The despair of Lumatere is a stain on a Charynite’s soul.’

‘And when that time comes,’ Froi said, ‘I will do anything to ensure your safety within my kingdom.’

Later, they ate with Quintana and Ariel, and Froi watched the two girls sitting side by side. Quintana had spoken little, her eyes fixed on Froi at every moment. If he stood, she’d stand as well, as though waiting to follow him wherever he went.

Froi watched Ariel take Quintana’s hand and Quintana pull away. It made him wince to see how cold she was in their presence when Ariel wanted comfort in her dying days. But then Quintana bent and whispered into the dying girl’s ear and he saw an expression of pure joy on Ariel’s face.

Froi felt Tariq’s eyes on him, wary. Suspicious.

‘You were staring,’ Tariq said. ‘Perhaps at Ariel. She’s beautiful, is she not?’

Froi nodded, but Tariq was no fool and he looked towards Quintana.

‘She was my first, the Princess was,’ Tariq said. ‘The breaking of the curse was to begin with us, for we were born in the same year. She’s the only girl I’ve ever laid with. We were frightened beyond anything and had no idea what to do. Do you know who we had to ask?’

‘Lirah?’ Froi asked.

‘No. She was imprisoned and I was never to meet her.’ Tariq leaned forward to whisper. ‘Did you become acquainted with Aunt Mawfa?’

‘Yes,’ Froi said sadly. ‘Yes, I did.’

‘I think our Aunt Mawfa was a wildcat in her days,’ Tariq said. Froi laughed.

‘Did she die easily?’ Tariq asked quietly.

‘Yes,’ Froi lied, abruptly getting to his feet. Talk of Lady Mawfa and Tariq and Quintana’s first time together was making him uneasy.

‘I need to go.’

Tariq looked dismayed. ‘Have I offended you in some way?’

Froi looked over to where Quintana was still whispering to Ariel. When he turned back to Tariq the other lad’s expression darkened.

‘I can take care of her, you know,’ Tariq said stiffly. Then his face softened and he grimaced. ‘We both … Quintana and I … we both agreed that we would do everything for Charyn. We are fated to be together. Those born last will make the first.’

‘But Charyn has done little for both of you,’ Froi said harshly.

‘Some of us weren’t born for rewards, Froi. We were born for sacrifices.’

‘I’ll not say my goodbyes,’ Froi said, walking away. ‘It might be best that I leave without ceremony.’

‘You saved her life,’ Tariq said to Froi’s retreating back. ‘Charyn may forget that one day, but I won’t.’

He got as far as the end of the tunnel of speckled light.

‘Froi!’ he heard her cry. Froi turned to see Tariq gripping her hand, and Quintana pulling away.

‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

He continued his way to the docked raft and began to untie the rope. She reached him.

‘Please, Froi. Only you can take care of us,’ she wept. ‘Only you.’

She held onto him and he tried to push her away gently, tried to get onto the raft, half-lifting her back on the landing.

‘Please,’ she begged. ‘Please stay and protect us.’

‘You have an army coming, Quintana. Tariq doesn’t need me.’

‘But we need you, Froi. Not Tariq. We need you.’

Froi sighed, pushing her gently away again. ‘Tariq!’ he called out. But she tried to climb on board again, almost toppling into the water as she wept.

‘Let us come with you, Froi. Please.’

Tariq reached them and tried to remove her from Froi, but Quintana held on fast, sobbing, ‘Please, please,’ over and over again.

‘Quintana, you’ll hurt yourself,’ Tariq said when she tried to board the raft a third time. ‘You’ll not survive a moment in the capital.’

‘He’ll protect us. He’ll make sure nothing happens to us.’

She managed to cling onto Froi, her arms clasped around him.

‘Can we have a moment, Your Majesty?’ Froi asked Tariq, his heart hammering hard at what he was about to do. Tariq was hesitant, but then stepped away.

Froi pulled free of Quintana, grabbing both her arms to shake her hard.

‘Listen and listen well, Princess,’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘I was sent to assassinate you. Do you hear me? By the Lumaterans who despise you. I was sent to snap your neck and put this kingdom and mine out of their misery.’

She recoiled and Froi knew he would take this moment’s expression to his death.

Quintana stepped back onto the landing, and her legs buckled. Froi reached to catch her, but Tariq was there, picking her up in his arms.

‘Go,’ Tariq said. ‘On my word, I promise that I will not let anything happen to her. Go.’

Chapter 22

The Belegonian Ambassador had outstayed his welcome. Finnikin knew it. Everyone in the room, including the Ambassador’s own scribe and guard, knew it. It had been too long a day with little compromise. No, the Lumaterans could not send fleece down the river through Belegonia to Yutlind. Belegonia now had a strong market selling their own fleece to wool merchants in Yutlind and Osteria. Did they not have the right during Lumatere’s curse to breed their own sheep for such purpose? And no, Lumatere should not expect the Belegonians to buy their ore when the kingdom of Sorel was selling it for half the price. Then there was the subject of Charyn. Belegonian conversation always came back to the subject of Charyn.

‘I will repeat this one more time, Your Majesty,’ the Belegonian Ambassador said. ‘My king is urging you to take up this opportunity. It’s what Lumatere has been waiting for.’

‘Do not presume to tell me what we’ve been waiting for, Sir,’ Isaboe said sharply.

‘The Charynite capital is in anarchy,’ the Belegonian Ambassador said. ‘The Osterians and Sarnaks have armies in place with our Belegonian soldiers standing by their side, ready to enter at any moment.’

‘The last I heard, one does not invade merely because another kingdom’s capital is in anarchy,’ Finnikin said from the window overlooking the garden where he could see Vestie of the Flatlands and Jasmina playing blindman’s bluff with Moss, who was guarding them.

He turned back and saw the Belegonians exchange looks. They were going to change tack. He was certain they were going to mention Sorel. They always used that kingdom as a threat in their negotiations. Finnikin tried to catch his wife’s eye.

‘The Sorellians will take advantage of this,’ the Belegonian Ambassador said.

‘You know this for certain, do you?’ she asked.

‘No, but our spies tell us that Sorel has been in constant discussion with those on Avanosh Island, who have claimed for hundreds of years that the Charyn throne was once theirs. The heir of Avanosh could be what the Charynite people want.’

Isaboe looked to Sir Topher. ‘Why would these people of Avanosh be what the Charynites want?’ she asked.

‘Because –’ the Belegonian Ambassador went to answer, but Isaboe held up a hand to stop him. Finnikin was used to the hand. The hand was held up at times when Jasmina tried to argue about what to wear on certain days, and the hand came into play when Finnikin tried to insist that Isaboe had no idea how to win a game of Kings and Queens fairly. His wife’s hand was mightier than a sword.

‘Because Avanosh is neutral,’ Sir Topher explained. ‘During times such as this a neutral leader will prevent Charyn’s Provincari from going to war with each other if one tries to take the throne.’

Isaboe stood and walked to Finnikin by the window. She leaned against him, so unlike her when they were surrounded by foreigners. He reached out a hand and kneaded her shoulder. As much as he wasn’t allowed to say she looked tired in front of others because, No one walks around saying that men and kings look tired, Finnikin, he wanted to say the words all the same. Isaboe, you look tired. Isaboe, you work too hard. Isaboe, you can’t solve everyone’s problems. Isaboe, you are not responsible for the happiness of every person you meet.

‘Then why not leave the Charynites to be ruled by the Avanosh lot who will keep their people from going to war?’ Finnikin suggested.

The Belegonian Ambassador shook his head emphatically.

‘If the Avanosh heir ends up in the palace, the kingdom of Sorel will play a role in the running of Charyn,’ the Ambassador said. ‘We don’t want that.’

‘But you have absolutely no qualms buying Sorellian ore when they are undercutting an ally of yours?’ Isaboe asked sharply.

The Belegonian grimaced. ‘You are misunderstanding the matter, Your Majesty.’

‘I don’t miss matters, Sir,’ she snapped. ‘I can’t afford to miss matters. Each time a Queen or King in this land misses a matter many people die. So I would advise you to think carefully of your words.’

‘Sorel and Charyn have been thorns in our side since the beginning of time,’ the Ambassador said. ‘Nothing can be worse news than if they unite.’

‘Not a thorn in your side, Sir Osver,’ she said, her tone so frigid Finnikin hardly recognised it. ‘Not a thorn in the side of Belegonia. Perhaps the kingdoms of Osteria and Lumatere and Sarnak, but you share no border with the Charynites. Yet you stand to gain much if they are forced to surrender to these joint armies you have in place.’

Finnikin watched his daughter below look up from her play, straight to their window. He moved Isaboe aside. If Jasmina saw them now, they would be ending one series of negotiations and entering another. At least they had a chance of winning against the Belegonians, but Jasmina was another matter.

He watched as his father rode into the garden on his stallion. Vestie and Jasmina ran to him with excitement and Moss lifted them, seating Vestie behind Trevanion and Jasmina in his lap. Trevanion proceeded to canter around the garden while both girls chortled with joy. It made Finnikin smile to see them. Who would ever have thought that Trevanion would be softened by two little girls?

But Finnikin’s attention was brought back to the Belegonian Ambassador.

‘The Charynites murdered your family! The Sorellians imprisoned your captain. The father of your consort. Take this opportunity, Your Highness.’

Finnikin could see Isaboe was speechless with fury at the mention of her family’s death.

‘Thirteen years ago,’ he reminded, ‘your King and the Charyn King, amongst others, stepped in and made a decision about who would run this kingdom. Did you see any good coming from that?’

‘Regardless of what has taken place in the past, Charyn will be ruled by her own,’ she said.

‘A peasant heir from the mountains of Lascow or a Sorellian puppet from Avanosh?’ the Ambassador scoffed.

‘As opposed to a leader controlled by the strings of Belegonia?’ Isaboe asked. ‘We won’t be part of that. Take that back to your King.’

When they were finally gone, Isaboe sat back in exhaustion.

‘Give me names,’ she begged Sir Topher. ‘Of men inside Charyn who are prepared to be King. Fair men. Good men. If there is such a person, then I will be the first to offer them a neighbour’s recognition of their right to rule. Better that than a war between every kingdom of this land.’

‘I’ll find out what I can,’ Sir Topher said, ‘but from what we know, Tariq of the Lascow Mountains could be our best chance for peace.’

Finnikin watched a grimace cross Isaboe’s expression. ‘Did I do the right thing with the Belegonians?’ she asked them both. ‘Or were my emotions ruling me?’

‘Nothing wrong with emotions ruling you,’ Sir Topher said gently. ‘I think the important thing is to keep our ears open to the events in Charyn. If it’s true what they’re saying we need to be cautious. A new King could be a good thing, but Sorel being involved causes me concern.’

She looked at Finnikin.

‘Would you have made the same decision?’ she asked. ‘That’s what I’m asking you, Finnikin.’

‘What I would have done differently …’

She bit her lip and he knew that look. They were never happier than in the moments when they acknowledged that they would have made the same decision.

‘ … is that I would have told the Belegonians what they could do with their plan using different words.’

‘What words?’

‘Shut your ears, Sir Topher,’ Finnikin said, speaking the words. He saw a ghost of a smile on her face.

‘Ah, my wife likes it when I speak filth,’ he said, and they all laughed.

Sir Topher excused himself. ‘We need to prepare for the Fenton lot,’ he reminded Finnikin.

‘The Fenton lot,’ Finnikin muttered, kissing her a quick goodbye. ‘I forgot about them.’

‘I’ll walk with you,’ Isaboe said.

He was quiet as they made their way down to the garden. She spoke to each person they passed. She would ask about a husband’s health, comment about the bloom in one’s cheek, gently remind another that the hounds needed exercising, marvel at the taste of the grapes served that morning at breakfast. Their people, in turn, would walk away beaming and sometimes Finnikin wished for the ease Isaboe possessed with the world.

Outside in the garden, they watched Trevanion with Jasmina and Vestie.

‘I’m worried about my father,’ he said. ‘I think he’s beside himself, although he’d rather not admit it. This thing with Beatriss. She’s not turned up for the last two meetings with the Flatland Lords and is rarely seen around her village. Lady Abian is out of her mind with worry.’

‘What’s he said?’ she asked. ‘Trevanion?’

‘He can’t get past Tarah. Each time she says Beatriss is resting.’

They watched Trevanion hand Jasmina to Moss before dismounting. A moment later their daughter was hurtling towards them. She’d go to Isaboe first. She always went to her mother first. Lord August had once told Finnikin that there were years when his children were so attached to their mother that he could hardly approach for fear of being cursed by their wails. Finnikin knew those moments well.

With her cheek pressed against Isaboe’s shoulder, his daughter stared at him. After a moment, she extended a hand and he pretended to bite at her fingers. Finally she smiled.

Trevanion approached with Vestie clinging onto his hand.

‘This situation in Charyn makes no sense,’ his father said quietly.

‘Isn’t it exactly how we planned?’ Isaboe asked.

Trevanion shook his head and looked at the little girls.

Isaboe placed their daughter on the ground. ‘Can you help Jasmina find a chestnut for Finnikin, Vestie?’

Vestie took Jasmina’s hand and went searching.

When the girls were a distance away, Trevanion continued. ‘They’re saying the King’s First Advisor, not a nameless assassin, has killed the King.’

Finnikin and Isaboe exchanged a look.

‘Then where is our nameless assassin?’ Finnikin asked, trying to keep the worry out of his voice.

‘If he killed the King, he should have been back by now,’ Isaboe said.

Trevanion nodded and Finnikin knew his father didn’t want to voice their greatest fears.

Isaboe sighed. ‘You may need to speak to the Charynite up in the mountains again.’

‘Easier said than done. Lucian sends word that the Monts are making threats against Rafuel of Sebastabol.’

‘Well, he’s going to have to control them,’ Finnikin said, irritated with the Monts more than Lucian. ‘He has to be firmer. He can’t be one of the lads anymore.’

Isaboe turned to Trevanion. ‘I want you to find out anything you can about what took place in the Charyn capital and keep an eye on the situation with my cousins. If it worsens, send Aldron to take care of it and warn the Monts that if I have to travel up to speak to them, the regret will be theirs.’

Chapter 23

When Froi arrived back into the capital the streets were eerily quiet except for the strange autumn winds that had begun to shake the Citavita, whistling a tune that sent a chill through his bones. He found the godshouse ransacked, pages strewn everywhere, straw cots turned upside down and Arjuro’s garden torn up, stomped with the madness of those who no longer believed in anything. He imagined the street lords had come searching for him and Quintana and prayed the others had escaped without harm. He hoped they had at least managed to hide as many of the ancient manuscripts and Arjuro’s plants as possible.

He travelled down below to the bridge of the Citavita, which swayed dangerously from side to side over the gravina. Those who had been waiting in line for days were forced to choose between going back to their homes and losing their place, or staying in line at the mercy of the elements. Froi knew he could easily take the chance and cross now, but something held him back.

A week passed and the winds continued, managing to tear the sand from the stone of the caves and almost blind those who ventured out to scrounge for food. Even the street lords kept inside and Froi took his chance each day, wrapping a cloth around his face to search for Lirah and Arjuro.

He didn’t dare question what he wanted from Lirah. Was it an acknowledgement that she loved the son she had grieved for so many years? Was it a declaration of love, such as Lady Abian’s daily words to her children? If Lady Beatriss could love the child of a man who had violated her, why couldn’t Lirah love Froi?

Nevertheless he scoured the streets and caves for any sign of them, but if there was one thing those of the Citavita knew how to do, it was hide. On a day he was about to give up and chance a crossing on the hazardous bridge, he noticed one of De Lancey of Paladozza’s guards duck into a cave house and so Froi followed. Once inside, stone steps tunnelled down into the ground and soon enough he heard voices and arguing and tracked the sounds into a hidden inn.

The room was crowded and Froi recognised more of De Lancey’s men and some of those who had taken refuge in the godshouse when the street lords first took control of the palace. At a corner set of benches he saw De Lancey with his head down, speaking rapidly to the group of men surrounding him. Froi made his way towards the Provincaro, but was intercepted by one of his guards, who clearly recognised him from the attack in the godshouse corridors.

‘Leave,’ the guard said. ‘We don’t need trouble here.’

Froi pushed past him, but the man gripped his arm.

‘You have a very short memory,’ Froi warned. ‘Don’t let me remind you of what I can do.’

Suddenly De Lancey was between them.

‘Come,’ he said to Froi, holding up a hand to his guard. ‘I’ll take care of this.’

‘Sir –’

‘I said, I’ll take care of this.’

Froi followed De Lancey as he pushed through the crowd and resumed his seat.

‘We’ll speak later,’ the Provincaro told the men at his table, who eyed Froi suspiciously. They walked away, turning at intervals until they left the room.

‘What don’t they trust more?’ Froi asked, bitterly. ‘The fact that they don’t know who I am, or the fact that I saved her life and they didn’t want it saved?’

De Lancey didn’t respond.

‘Where’s Lirah?’ Froi asked, not wasting time.

The Provincaro shrugged, an effortless movement. ‘I’ve not seen her since the day of the hanging.’

‘And Arjuro?’

‘I’ve not seen him either.’

Froi shook his head, giving a humourless laugh. ‘You’ve been most helpful, Provincaro,’ he said as he stood.

‘If you ask me where Gargarin is, I can tell you that,’ the Provincaro said, his voice silky in its lazy drawl.

Froi stiffened. He wanted to walk away.

‘Sit,’ De Lancey ordered.

‘I don’t –’

‘Now.’

Froi sighed and sat and they eyed each other a moment or two before De Lancey pushed over the carafe of wine.

‘I’d prefer food.’ Froi hoped there wasn’t a plea in his voice. Food had been scarce during the week and he had taken to stealing whatever he could, regardless of who he was taking it from. Those in the Citavita had made it clear that it was each out for their own. De Lancey signalled to one of his men and gave him an instruction before the man walked away.

‘We think Lirah and Arjuro are staying at the Crow’s Inn, close to the bridge of the Citavita,’ he told Froi.

‘Think?’

‘Someone with an abundance of wild hair and clothed in black from head to toe was heard calling one of the street lords a horse arse of gods-like proportions. Could only be him.’

Froi closed his eyes a moment, feeling a relief that almost made him faint.

‘Are you going to take them with you?’ he asked, clearing his voice of its hoarseness.

‘No. Should I?’ De Lancey asked.

‘You’ll take Gargarin, but not Arjuro?’

Froi could tell by the narrowing of De Lancey’s eyes that he was unimpressed with his tone.

‘Well, they’re not exactly attached and Gargarin doesn’t owe Arjuro anything,’ the Provincaro said coldly.

‘But you do.’

‘Do I?’

Froi bristled. The man was too calm and cool-blooded.

‘I would have done the same to Gargarin in that prison cell,’ Froi said. ‘If I had seen Gargarin kill the child and the Oracle, I would have escaped the exact way Arjuro did.’

‘So would have I,’ De Lancey said. ‘I think Gargarin’s accepted that, too. But ten years ago, when they released Gargarin from the prison after they had broke every bone in his body, we searched this kingdom high and low for one of the most briliant young physicians in Charyn. And Arjuro refused to be found. Gargarin’s bones mended twisted.’

A plate of pigeon stew was placed before Froi and he wolfed it down.

‘How long since you’ve eaten, you fool?’

Froi burped and stood. ’Not your concern.’

De Lancey sighed. ‘Sometimes I think you and Grij and the lads are a punishment to us all for our wild youth.’

‘I’m not one of the lads,’ Froi said. ‘I’m just someone’s bastard, remember?’

There was regret on De Lancey’s face.

‘I did not mean for you to find out the way you did.’

Froi shrugged. ‘You had a dalliance with Arjuro and you wanted to pick a fight.’

De Lancey gave a bitter laugh. ‘Dalliance? Is that what he told you?’

‘I knew he was lying,’ Froi said with a sneer. ‘As if you would lower yourself. I know your type.’

The Provincaro was quick. He reached over and gripped Froi by his shirt, bringing him an inch away from his face.

‘No,’ De Lancey said through clenched teeth. ‘You don’t. Never presume.’

The Guard were at the table in an instant.

‘We’ll take him outside, Sir.’

The Provincaro shoved Froi back and waved them away. Froi studied him a moment. He wondered who was telling the truth. Arjuro or De Lancey?

‘He lied about the dalliance part,’ the Provincaro said quietly. ‘We were lovers from when we were sixteen years old until the night of the lastborn. Nine years. Not quite a dalliance, don’t you agree?’ he added bitterly.

‘But you betrayed him?’

A flash of regret crossed the other man’s face. ‘I betrayed many that night. But I believed I was doing the right thing.’

De Lancey poured wine from the carafe. ‘Do you have trust in your king?’

Froi pushed his mug towards the wine and De Lancey poured another. ‘I have a queen and you have caught me on a mellow day, De Lancey. Because if anyone dared to question my allegiance or trust in my queen and king I’d take a knife to their throat.’

‘I trusted my king. I thought Arjuro was mad and in his madness he was risking the life of our beloved Oracle. I felt there was no better place to protect her from the Serkers than in the palace. But I was a coward in my plan. It cost an innocent farrier his life and I realised afterwards that the Serkers were not involved.’

De Lancey looked up and Froi followed his gaze to where the three lastborns entered the crowded room. Froi watched Grijio speak to one of the guards, who pointed to the Provincaro.

‘Arjuro was your lover, but you had a wife who bore you a son?’ Froi accused.

‘No,’ the Provincaro said. ‘I’ve not had a wife. It’s far more complicated and tragic than you’d imagine.’

‘Everything in Charyn seems far more complicated and tragic.’

Froi stood, skolling the wine.

‘By the way,’ Froi said. ‘It’s no business of mine, but I would reconsider asking Tariq to travel into the centre of Charyn, regardless of how many men your envoy promises him.’

‘My envoy?’

Froi saw genuine confusion on the man’s face.

‘Lad, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

The hairs on Froi’s arm stood tall as he stared at De Lancey.

‘Are you saying you haven’t sent an envoy to meet with Tariq of Lascow?’

The lastborns arrived to hear Froi’s words.

‘Who told you that?’ De Lancey asked.

‘Tariq.’

‘What?’ De Lancey asked.

Froi bolted, shoving through the crowd. He heard the Provincaro call out Grijio’s name and felt someone at his shoulder and knew it was one of the lastborns. They clambered up the stairs and out of the cave. Once outside, the wind tore at their skin, but they raced up the Citavita wall, flying over cave tops to reach Perabo’s home.

‘He’ll not let us in,’ Grijio shouted over the wind. ‘The rule is that we are never to search him out.’

Froi ignored him, fighting the images that came to his mind. You should never have left her, he raged to himself.

When they reached the roof of Perabo’s cave, Froi grabbed a piece of stone and hammered, shouting out the man’s name over and over again, his voice raw. Olivier and Grijio and Satch collapsed beside him, their voices joining in with his. Until finally they heard a sound from inside and the trapdoor was lifted to reveal Perabo.

‘They’ve been betrayed,’ Froi shouted at the man. Perabo ushered them in. Froi leapt down into the room, pushing aside the chest placed over the trapdoor.

‘How can you be sure?’ Perabo said, crouching down to where Froi pulled at the ring to lift the door.

‘They’re waiting for De Lancey’s envoy.’

‘And Father sent no envoy!’ Grij said.

Perabo grabbed Froi’s arm. ‘Then we do nothing!’ he said, anguish in his voice. ‘That was the plan. That if there’s been an ambush we do nothing.’

‘You do nothing, Perabo,’ Froi said, climbing into the narrow cavern below. He landed on his feet and began to run down the tunnel. A moment later he saw the flicker of light and knew the others had followed. At the place where two rafts were docked, Perabo pointed Grijio towards Froi and handed them a lantern before pushing their raft along. Perabo, Olivier and Satch took the second raft and there was a sickening sombre silence for too long before someone spoke.

‘When?’ Grijio whispered, as they approached a familiar turn in the underground river. ‘When did he believe this so-called envoy was to come?’

‘He said a week,’ Froi said. ‘That was eight days ago.’

Froi looked back to the others. ‘I’ll go in first,’ he said. ‘I need your sword, Perabo.’

‘No one goes in unless it’s secure.’

‘Give him your sword, Perabo,’ Olivier protested. ‘If they live, the Lumateran has a better chance of getting them out alive.’

When they reached the place where they had heard the three beats last time, they waited for the sound. But there was nothing. Perabo tapped the roof of the cave with his oar, but still no one came.

‘Gyer,’ Perabo whispered. ‘Gyer.’

Still nothing.

‘This is not good,’ Froi heard Olivier whisper. ‘This is not good.’

Froi stepped out of his raft and Perabo reached across from the second vessel and handed him the sword with shaking hands.

In the tunnel of speckled light, Froi began to clear his mind of all things that could spell doom and concentrated on what brought hope. He knew that if whoever had infiltrated the compound was smart, they would take Tariq’s people hostage and ransom them to the Provincari. The Provincari would pay for the heir and his family. Any day now, De Lancey or one of the other Provincari would get news and deals would be struck and Tariq would be safe. But would Quintana? Would the enemy have recognised her or would they believe her to be one of the Lascow compound, waiting in exile?

And then he saw the first corpse. Recognised the face of the gatekeeper. What had Perabo called him? Gyer. A small distance away was another corpse, throat slit from ear to ear. Froi’s legs almost buckled as he entered Tariq’s chamber where they had first placed Quintana, his heart catching in his throat when he saw that Tariq’s nurse lay on the ground, her wounds identical to the men’s.

Froi heard a sound and spun around, his sword pressing against the base of Olivier’s throat.

‘I told you to stay behind,’ Froi said quietly.

But Olivier could only shake his head.

‘We found others,’ he whispered. ‘In the kitchen.’

It was quick. They had been taken by surprise. The cook still had flour on her hands, the once-giggling cousins were clutching their grinders. Every one of them had the same wound and Froi’s only consolation was that the deaths were quick. He reached over to an egg that had been shelled. Felt it was cold.

‘You don’t know how smart he is,’ Grijio said. ‘He would have found a way to live. He would have.’

Doesn’t matter how smart you are, Froi wanted to tell them. When you face the end of a sword, it has little to do with smarts.

He walked amongst the dead. Sometimes he thought he saw her, recognised her dress, and his heart would sink as he crouched to gently turn the body towards him, and then for a moment, all he could feel was relief. Until the next girl and then the next.

Some were still holding hands, as though they had gripped onto each other with fear as the dagger cut the breath out of them. Froi’s eyes swelled with a fury of tears. Knew they never had a chance.

He heard a cry of anguish and he followed the sound into the tunnel where only a week ago Tariq had stopped to weep for his dying cousin. At the end, where Froi knew there was nothing but steps leading down to the crypt, he saw the others. He couldn’t breathe. He could only watch. Olivier crouched down in sorrow. Satch stood with hands to his head, bewildered horror on his face. Grijio was weeping bitterly, his arms clasped around himself, while Perabo’s fist pounded at the stone wall until Grijio pulled him away before he could do further damage. When they heard Froi’s slow footsteps, they turned, and he saw the faces of men who had lost hope. Not even amongst the Lumaterans when they had discovered that their heir, Balthazar, was truly dead had he seen such desolation.

Sprawled at the top of the steps was Tariq of Lascow’s body. Close by a girl lay dead. Froi could see by the colour of her hair that it was Ariel. He fell to his knees beside Tariq, saw the way one arm lay lifeless against the top step.

‘Perhaps they took Quintana,’ Froi managed to find the words, staring down at the young King who had shown him nothing but kindness. Who had promised nothing but peace.

Perabo shook his head, blood dripping from his fists. ‘You know better than me, Lumateran. This was a hunting party. No one was to survive. They would have had no idea she was here. They would have killed her not knowing who she was.’

‘There’s another chamber,’ Olivier said, pointing further on. ‘Where the corpses are piled onto each other.’

Froi stumbled to his feet. ‘I need to find her,’ he said.

There was a trail of blood between the bodies, as though the wretched assassins couldn’t allow the two cousins to die side by side. Froi gently dragged Tariq’s body closer to Ariel’s and turned him on his back.

He heard the swallows of grief around him as he reached out to close the young King’s eyes. He couldn’t help noticing that although Tariq was cut from ear to ear, much the same as everyone else, the assassins had also hacked at the inside of his arm, as though with a blunt sword.

Froi had been taught that dead men sometimes spoke louder than those who breathed. He searched the space around them for a sign, and saw it there, close to Ariel’s body. A small decorative dagger, sharp enough to slice paper and do little else. Had Tariq tried to fight the assassins with a letter opener? And if so, why cut his arm so crudely? Suddenly Froi’s eyes were drawn to the wound on Ariel’s throat. Crudely hacked, much the same as Tariq’s arm, but unlike the precise wound at the heir’s throat.

‘What is it, Froi?’ Grijio asked.

Froi shook his head, unable to speak. He needed to think. Had Tariq’s visit to his cousin’s deathbed been interrupted by the assassins and had they tried to escape together? Had Tariq tried to fight them with the only weapon he had, which was then used against him? Yet the wound to his throat was delivered by the sharpest of weapons.

‘We need to find her corpse,’ Perabo said, his voice rough in its sorrow. ‘And then we get out of here. There’s nothing we can do.’

‘Come, Froi,’ Grijio said. ‘We’ve seen enough.’

The lastborn glanced at the two bodies one more time.

‘She was a beauty,’ Grijio said softly. ‘I knew her before her illness. She had the brightest eyes I’d ever seen.’

Froi had to agree about the beauty. Despite Ariel’s ghastly pallor, she looked peaceful, almost a hint of a smile on her face. But then a strange thought struck him.

‘Her eyes are closed,’ he said. ‘Perabo, stop!’ Froi called out to the keeper of the caves, who had already begun to walk away.

‘What are you saying?’ Grijio asked.

‘Every body we’ve passed has had eyes that are wide open in death. Except for Ariel’s.’

He reached a shaky hand to touch the girl’s face and froze. The others were back alongside him. Froi grabbed Perabo’s hand, placing it on Ariel’s face.

He watched the man flinch. ‘She’s been dead for at least a day or two. The stiffness has already entered her bones!’

‘Why would they slit her throat if she was already dead?’ Olivier demanded.

‘Fro,’ Satch said urgently, his voice a gasp.

‘It’s Froi.’

‘There!’

They looked back to the step where Satch pointed and where Tariq’s hand had first rested when they found him. And they saw the letters F – R – O written in blood. Froi studied Tariq’s hand. A finger was stained with blood.

‘He cut himself to bleed,’ Froi said urgently, looking around for something else. Anything. ‘He hacked himself with the paper dagger so he could write those letters, but he was interrupted and even after they slit his throat, he dragged himself from here to there,’ he said, pointing to the trail of blood.

‘So he could finish your name?’ Olivier asked.

Tariq would have known that nothing would keep Froi away the moment he heard Quintana’s life was in danger. The young King was speaking to him beyond death.

‘Why hack at Ariel’s throat?’ Froi asked the others, needing them to think with him.

‘He wanted them to believe she was already dead,’ Perabo said. ‘That one of their own had already come across her.’

‘Because then …’ Olivier’s eyes blazed with excitement. ‘ … then they wouldn’t go near her body!’

‘Because they’d realise she had died much earlier and he didn’t want them to know that,’ Grijio suggested. ‘But it doesn’t make sense. Why?’

‘Sagra!’

Froi flew down the steps, the others following. Tariq hadn’t dragged himself to the steps to complete Froi’s name. He had done so to point him in the direction of the crypt.

‘Quintana!’

‘Be as smart as you were kind, Tariq,’ Grijio prayed.

Froi burst into the crypt where two bodies wrapped in white linen were lying on a slab of stone. He began to tear at the cloth around the face of the smaller of the two.

‘Stop!’ Olivier said, grabbing Froi’s shoulder to pull him away.

‘You’ll offend the gods!’ Grijio shouted.

Froi threw the lastborn aside, desperate to get back to the gauze-covered body. He tore at the fabric around the mouth, trying to find a beginning or an end. The moment they heard the sound of a gasp beneath, the others were around him tearing at the bindings until the face was free. Froi grabbed Quintana to him, fighting back a sob as her breath returned.

‘Tariq?’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘Where are you, Tariq?’

He helped her to the steps, his own heart pounding as hard as hers.

‘You’re going to keep your eyes shut, Quintana. Do you understand?’ he said as they stumbled up the steps. He wanted nothing more than to protect her from the sight that would meet them at the top. He covered her eyes with a hand, but she tried to pull free, struggling against Froi viciously.

‘Don’t look, Your Highness,’ Grijio pleaded as they reached the top of the steps.

She shook her head, clawing at Froi’s hand. ‘I want to see. I need to see. Tariq,’ she shouted.

Froi dragged her away and they struggled over the slippery surface of the bloodied ground around the bodies of the two cousins.

‘Perabo will keep us safe until we can travel to where De Lancey of Paladozza is staying,’ Froi tried to comfort. ‘The Provincaro and Grijio will be the first to leave the Citavita when the bridge is open and you’ll go with them.’

And it was only when Froi almost lost balance that Quintana finally broke free and turned back to where Tariq’s body lay with Ariel’s.

‘Close your eyes, Quintana!’ Froi begged.

But she sank onto her knees, taking the two lifeless hands of Tariq and Ariel’s in hers and pressing them to her face. And she wept a pitiful cry from a place in her spirit so hopeless that Froi thought she’d will her own death.

Perabo placed a gentle hand on her arm.

‘It’s not safe here, Your Highness. We must go.’

But she refused to move and the keeper of the caves picked her up in the crook of his arm and dragged her away. Froi knew that he would remember her screams for days and years to come. Despite their pleas that she close her eyes, she looked into the face of every one of the Lascow dead and spoke their names out loud, until the gods took mercy on them all and broke her voice until she could speak no more.

Grijio, Olivier and Satch stayed for the first two days, but Grijio was desperate to return to his father.

‘He’ll tear himself apart with worry,’ the lastborn said. ‘I will speak on Quintana’s behalf and pray that he’ll give her sanctuary.’

They looked over to where she lay on the bed, facing the wall.

‘And you?’ Olivier asked Froi.

‘I’ll return home.’

‘Then at least travel with us part of the way,’ Grijio said.

Froi shook his head. ‘My weapons are hidden in a cave near the bottom of the gravina. They’re all I own.’

Grijio nodded and held out a hand. Froi shook it. He turned to Olivier.

‘Were you treated well in captivity?’

Olivier was silent a moment. Then he nodded.

‘I’m going to join Lascow’s army,’ Olivier said. ‘I know they are gathering one for Tariq.’

‘B … b … but you don’t know how to fight,’ Satch said.

‘The days of keeping the lastborns weak and safe are over,’ Olivier said fiercely. ‘I’m going to be the best fighter they’ve ever seen.’

Froi held out his hand to Olivier and the lastborn shook it firmly. Then Satch’s.

‘If Gr … Gr … Grij’s father does not t … t … take her to P … P … Paladozza, I’ll speak to my people in Desantos.’

‘If not, keep her safe, Froi,’ Grijio said, solemnly.

He missed them the moment they left, and the days that followed were long. Froi spent his time playing silent card games with Perabo and listening to the wind howl. It was a sound he had not heard before and at times he felt as though the gods were wailing with fury. Perabo said more than once that it was as though they were heralding the end of time.

Quintana’s silence was the most frightening. It had been four weeks since the King’s death and she had experienced more during that time than another would in an entire life.

‘Where will you take her?’ Perabo asked quietly one night.

Froi had no idea how to answer the question.

‘I need to find Arjuro of Abroi first. And Lirah of Serker. I think they’re both staying at an inn near the bridge. I need to get them all out of the Citavita.’

Perabo looked down to where Quintana lay.

‘I don’t care what you’ve done to save her,’ he said bitterly. ‘I would have had her halfway across this kingdom if not for your deceit.’

Days later, when the winds finally died, Froi shook her out of her stupor and helped her up.

Without a word, Perabo went to a basket beneath his cot and pulled out some clothes, handing them to Froi. Froi helped Quintana dress in the man’s garments. He grabbed the knotted mass of her hair and stuffed it inside his cap. He took the coat Perabo held out and placed it around her, fastening it all the way to her bruised throat.

‘Head down,’ Froi ordered gently.

Perabo stood on a stool and pushed the stone away from the ceiling. When he gave the signal and stood aside, Froi lifted himself out, holding a hand down to Quintana. She grasped it. Froi pulled her out of the cave house and, not letting go of her hand, he led her across the roofs of the caves.

When they reached the centre of the Citavita he felt her shudder, saw the hanging gale perched high on its platform. The moment the winds had died, it seemed as though every Citavitan was determined to leave. Froi had never seen so many people in the one place, shoving their way through to the road that led down towards the bridge. He placed an arm around Quintana, holding her close to him, tenderly pressing a kiss to her capped head. They were jostled, elbows shoving against them, their bodies wedged between the crowd. And then Quintana looked up at him and Froi would remember that look for a long time to come. Betrayal. Hurt. Sadness.

And before he knew it, before he could stop her, Quintana let go of his hand and suddenly the crowd swallowed her. He went to shout her name, but knew that it would alert those around him to discover who was in their midst. He shoved his way through the crowd trying to catch a glimpse of her, but everyone looked the same in their greys and their browns and he wished for the awful pink dress so he could find her, protect her. But the crowd surged forward down the Citavita walls and Quintana disappeared with it, leaving an emptiness inside Froi that he could barely comprehend.

He went searching for Lirah at the inn by the bridge, but found only Arjuro.

Arjuro ushered him into the miniscule chamber. It was almost as if they were charging for broom closets these days.

‘Is it true? About Tariq of Lascow?’ Arjuro asked, his voice ragged with emotion.

Froi nodded. ‘Where’s Lirah?’

‘Next door.’

Froi left the room and knocked on the door adjacent, but there was no answer.

‘Lirah,’ he whispered, not wanting anyone to make the link between their guest and Lirah, the King’s Serker whore.

‘It’s Froi,’ he said. ‘I need to speak to you.’

But there was no answer.

‘She’s not there.’

Froi spun around to see Gargarin leaning on the banister, holding his staff in one hand and a crutch under his other arm. His face was so drawn that it made Froi want to look away.

‘What do you mean she’s not here?’

‘She’s left. Gone. Don’t ask me where.’

Froi was stunned. ‘Gone?’ he asked. ‘I need to speak to her. Gone where?’

‘I said I don’t know. According to the innkeeper, she left not even an hour ago. For all I know, she’s probably halfway across the bridge by now.’

‘No,’ Froi said, pushing past Gargarin. ‘It’s too crowded. She would never have got across this last hour.’

Froi ran down the stairs and outside to where the stream of people passed the entrance of the inn. He tried to push through towards the bridge, but was shoved back.

‘Wait your turn,’ a man shouted.

Froi was desperate. He looked around and up to the roof. The stone of the inn was too flat to climb, so he pushed his way back inside and took the steps, two at a time. Gargarin was still there and Froi ignored him, grabbing a stool to stand on and reaching up to where there was a ceiling hatch. He shoved the stone away and climbed onto the roof where he spent the rest of the day, searching the crowd below for any sign of Lirah. He could see the queue all the way up the Citavita wall to the palace, but he was determined not to move until every last one of them passed him by. Arjuro joined him and they sat in silence, and then they heard Gargarin struggling through the hatch to join them. After hearing him suffer for some time, Arjuro stood and walked to the opening and dragged Gargarin up through the hole.

‘They’re idiots for leaving,’ Froi said, pointing to the people below, when Gargarin was settled beside them. ‘Do they think it’s any better out there?’

Neither of the brothers spoke. Froi leapt to his feet when he thought he saw a woman with Lirah’s rich long hair, but sat down again when he realised he was mistaken.

‘They’re leaving,’ Gargarin said, ‘because they know it will be a bloodbath.’

‘With the street lords?’

Gargarin shook his head.

‘If there is one thing a King and heir is able to do, it is to create agreement across the kingdom that the right person is on the throne, no matter how bad their blood might be. We no longer have that ugly luxury. So mark my words. Bestiano will return. He’ll come at a time when the people of the Citavita will be desperate for stability and peace. He’ll take up residence in the palace, kill a street lord or two for show. But then the Provincari will send their armies. The Provincari will never abide Bestiano or another Provincaro on the throne. So a battle will be fought here,’ he said, pointing to the people. ‘In their blood.’

‘Nice to see that you are still a regular prophet of doom,’ Arjuro muttered.

‘Nice to see that you didn’t heed my instruction to cross the bridge with the Paladozza people!’ Gargarin snapped.

‘Maybe Lirah did,’ Froi said. ‘Travel with De Lancey, I mean.’

Gargarin shook his head. ‘I was there to see the Paladozza compound off.’

‘And why didn’t you go with the mighty De Lancey?’ Arjuro asked.

‘Because I had unfinished business.’

‘Of course,’ Arjuro said. ‘You decided to stay around so the street lords could finish off their business with you? Because from what I can see, there’s still an arm or bone in your body that they didn’t break!’

A head appeared through the hole in the roof and Froi recognised the innkeeper’s wife.

‘We’re shuttin’, so come inside, Priestling, and tell your friends to pay for a room or go elsewhere,’ she said.

‘Did the woman in the fourth room leave a message?’ Froi asked her. ‘Say where she was going?’

‘She didn’t need to say where she was going. Out of the Citavita, that’s where she was going.’

She disappeared inside.

Gargarin struggled to his feet and looked down at Froi. ‘Join the line tonight and get out of this kingdom by morning.’

‘I’m not going anywhere!’

‘Until when?’ Gargarin snapped. ‘Until Lirah comes back and leaves you a message? She’s gone. She’s been a prisoner on this godsforsaken rock since she was thirteen, Olivier. She’s not coming back.’

‘Froi,’ he shouted. ‘My name is Froi.’

He leapt to his feet, wanting to hurt Gargarin for not even getting that right. ‘And I’m not pining for Lirah. You are. I just wanted to see her face so I could tell her that I hate her!’ Froi grabbed Gargarin by the coarse cloth of his tunic. ‘I had a life with people who I would die for! You’ve all ruined everything. I despise you,’ he spat.

‘You’re supposed to despise him,’ Arjuro muttered. ‘He’s your father.’

‘Shut up!’ both Froi and Gargarin shouted.

The innkeeper’s wife appeared again. ‘Out,’ she hissed. ‘I want you out.’

Scowling darkly, the three of them made their way to the opening. Froi grudgingly shoved Gargarin down, holding him by the back of his undershirt until Gargarin’s feet touched the ground inside. Froi followed and the innkeeper’s wife stood before them, a broom in her hand.

‘The Priestling can stay only because I don’t want another curse befalling this house,’ she continued in her furious tone. ‘But you two, go. That beautiful woman and her precious boy must be grateful to be halfway across this land rather than putting up with any of you.’

The three of them exchanged looks as the innkeeper’s wife walked away. ‘What boy?’ Froi asked.

‘Out,’ she ordered over her shoulder.

Arjuro went to follow, a question on his lips, but Froi dragged him back, waiting for the woman to be out of earshot. Suddenly, he understood the truth.

‘We dressed Quintana in Perabo’s clothes,’ he said quietly. ‘So she would be mistaken for a lad.’ His eyes met Gargarin’s. ‘She came to Lirah and now they’re both somewhere out there.’

Gargarin’s eyes were cold.

‘A good thing. It’s best we all go our separate ways. There’s nothing left for us here. Nothing left for you.’

Froi nodded, bitterness in his heart.

‘You’ve made your thoughts clear, Father,’ he spat.

Gargarin flinched.

‘You have no place here, Dafar of Abroi,’ he said. ‘It’s time for you to return to your people.’