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 among 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!” It was Quintana, from 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 do 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 leaped, 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 realized that the words came from Quintana the ice maiden. Realized, 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 cross-legged on the bed, facing each other, and she began to deal the cards with a speed and skill that surprised him.

“I practiced,” 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 snapped 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, shuffled the cards, and dealt 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 his 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 offense at being considered insane,” she said.

“There are three of you,” he reminded her.

Her eyes flashed with anger. “First, 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 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 last borns and seed planting, none 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 exiting into the outer ward of the castle, Gargarin disappeared to where the cellars were. Keeping a discreet distance, Froi trailed him through rows upon rows of wine racks and down into a lower basin accessed through a hole dug into the ground. Gargarin struggled to lower himself 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. Farther 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, then climbed 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 judgment. 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 that 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 wearily rested his head against the stone.

“Lean on me,” Froi said. “Lirah’s dagger wound must have triggered 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 sometime 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 among 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 that you pronounce your z with an s sound tells me you lived among 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 fulfill 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 his 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 that 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 leaped 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 vigor, and the castle cooks carried a roasted pig on a spit toward 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 Adviser 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 toward where he knew the dagger was hidden in Froi’s pocket. The fool wanted it back.

“And what of me?” Froi asked. “Don’t last borns 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 favor 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 leaped 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 toward 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 fulfill 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 was headed to 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 toward 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 upward. 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 favorite, 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 traveled 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 realized 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 about 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 toward 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 last borns 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.”