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 backbreaking 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 that 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 color of mahogany. Her eyes were a deep gray 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 recognizes 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, then held 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 watercourse. 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.”

“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 this point that he found unsettling. 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 realized it was indeed an easy leap from their own tower to her garden.

“Go,” Gargarin murmured, looking upward. “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 humor in the 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 Flatlands 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, neighbors killing neighbors 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 honorable to hold on to. 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 last born 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 humor, 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, prophesying 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 last born, 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 will 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 realized that he wanted to impress this man. That despite their first meeting and Gargarin’s hostility toward 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 practicing to be the king himself. Froi gave a polite wave of acknowledgment.

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.”

Princess Indignant seemed oblivious of any type of malice directed toward her. Sometimes it made him want to be even crueler. 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 humored 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 quiet 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 toward 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 but 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.