Froi was summoned to see the elder of the compound, Simeon of Nebia. The priest had come to visit him once when he lay injured and in pain, but Froi remembered little of that time except for the constant questions regarding Quintana’s whereabouts.

But this time Froi was well enough to visit the leader’s residence, and it was the first time he was able to study the underground galleries. They were unlike Tariq’s compound under the Citavita. Here the ceilings were high and the rooms were wide. Froi could see that they had not always been a hiding place. The archways seemed about six feet high and large enough for a pushcart to fit through them. The walls were made of limestone, and Arjuro had mentioned that the galleries were once used to quarry chalk.

They entered a long, wide corridor with a dozen or so small alcoves on either side where the collegiati slept. In each cubicle was a bedroll, a stool, and books scattered around. The passageway led to another cavern, referred to as the chamber of reflection, which was much like a small godshouse where they assembled for prayer or to find solitude. Froi watched as Arjuro stood at the wall and traced his finger against the stone, as if writing a secret message that only the gods could decipher.

“What were you doing?” Froi asked quietly as they stepped out of the chamber onto a landing.

“That’s between me and them.”

They finally came to a vertical shaft that led down to a lower level, and it was there that Simeon lived.

“I’ve not been invited,” Arjuro said. “So speak to him as you would the Lumateran priest-king.”

“I yell at the priest-king,” Froi said. “I’ve thrown manuscripts at him when he’s forced me to read the jottings — or droppings, as I preferred to call them — of the ancients on their visit to the off lands. You do not want me speaking to the elder as I would the priest-king.”

Arjuro poked him in the shoulder.

Froi entered Simeon’s residence. It was covered from top to toe with brightly colored shards of clay tile. It was as if someone had smashed a plate to the ground, then gathered the pieces to stick on the wall. On the ceiling were the most magnificent frescoes he had seen, better even than De Lancey’s or those in the locked wing of the Lumateran palace where Isaboe’s family had been slain. Simeon the elder was shelling broad beans beside a pot of boiling water. He acknowledged Froi with a tilt of his head and beckoned him close. He pointed at Froi’s cap.

“Can you remove it?”

Simeon had a cold countenance, unlike the priest-king, and it was difficult to read his thoughts. But Froi had to respect a man who had succeeded in keeping a frightened community thriving not only after the slaughter in the oracle’s godshouse, but during the years since the curse in Charyn as well.

Froi did as he was told, then turned, knowing it was the lettering Simeon was interested in seeing.

“Just as confusing as the mark of the last-born women,” Simeon mused. “But different.”

“Can I see the markings on one of your last-born girls?” Froi asked. Because Quintana’s hadn’t made sense to him, he had never truly studied them. Now he had a chance to compare.

Simeon shook his head.

“Our last borns have hidden in these caves for eighteen years, so they were not marked when they were of age. But we’ve had visitors from outside, and I know the lettering well.”

Simeon stood and shuffled toward a bench of books piled high. He retrieved a piece of parchment and held it out for Froi to study.

“Yours has stems on the round letters. Here and here,” he said, pointing to the copy of the last-born girls’ lettering. “I have a feeling that the idiot king’s riders copied it wrong on the girls. So all these years, we’ve been trying to decipher words that don’t exist.”

“Do you think you can decipher this?” Froi said, pointing to his skull.

“Not all priests are gods’ blessed, Dafar,” Simeon said. “Did you know that?”

Froi felt strange hearing his true name spoken by the priest.

“Arjuro says the gods close their eyes and point, and that he just happened to be in their line of vision that day,” Froi said.

Simeon didn’t respond.

“Are you?” Froi asked. “Gods’ blessed?”

“No,” Simeon said. “I think I fooled myself as a younger man, but when you meet the likes of Arjuro of Abroi, you realize the difference between ordinary men and those the gods chose to lead us.”

“It’s hard to believe just by looking at Arjuro,” Froi said.

Simeon’s expression softened. “My grandson Rothen is gods’ blessed. He’s with Rafuel of Sebastabol in the Lumateran valley. We’ve not heard from them. We’re beginning to fear the worst.”

“The Lumaterans would never harm them,” Froi said.

“You don’t know that.”

Simeon was not the sort of man to fool others with false hope. “It’s not only the Lumaterans we fear, Dafar. Arjuro mentioned Zabat of Nebia’s treachery.”

Froi nodded. “But your lads keep to themselves. If they’re as cunning as Rafuel —”

“But they’re not,” Simeon said, his voice grave. “They don’t have the nature of Rafuel. Rothen is . . . a dreamer.”

“Is he a physician?”

A faint smile appeared on Simeon’s face. “No. He’s an artist.” He pointed to the walls and then the roof above them.

Froi looked at him, dumbfounded. “Those were done in our time? They look as though the ancients drew them.”

“My grandson’s work replicating the ancients’ manuscripts is humbling. I can only take responsibility for providing the seed that created his mother.”

Simeon emptied the broad beans into the water.

“But we’re not here to talk about Rothen and the lads in the valley. We’re here to talk about the two people born last in this kingdom.”

Simeon lowered his voice. “Or more important, the king and the curse breaker they may have created.”

Simeon’s knowledge of events may have had little to do with Arjuro. So Froi waited. Trevanion always said that silence from one party always resulted in information from another.

“Apart from the oracle’s godshouse, the one here in Sebastabol was the largest and the most political of all in Charyn,” Simeon said. “It sits on a cliff overlooking the vast Ocean of Skuldenore and has not been used since we heard of the attack on the godshouse and oracle in the capital. For centuries the godshouses of Charyn have sent their most brilliant scholars to the Citavita. Those men and women chronicled our lives, studied the stars, and designed the structures that have kept us in awe. The gods-house produced physicians and alchemists and nurtured genius. Always guided by an oracle sent by the gods.”

“But the oracle wasn’t sent by the gods,” Froi said bluntly. “She was taken from a goatherd’s family in the Turlan Mountains.”

Simeon looked away. “Regardless of how she was found, lad, she was still sent to us by the gods.”

“But why lie to the people about her origins?”

“Because people aren’t interested in the truth, Dafar. They’re interested in what keeps them safe. They’re interested in being looked after. They’re interested in a tale being spun. Do you know the story they tell now in Charyn about the Lumateran priest-king? That he sang his song, and from across the land, his people heard his voice and followed him home to Lumatere after ten wretched years. A better story than the truth. That he was found wallowing in a death camp with no hope.”

“He is a mighty man,” Froi said, catching his breath at the thought of the priest-king. “Don’t you forget that.”

“But mighty men have moments of great despair that common people do not want to know about.”

Simeon’s eyes were full of regret.

“The provincari, the priests, and the palace are rivals, and in the new Charyn, it is best that we do away with that rivalry. So we’re going to chronicle a different tale. The people of Charyn won’t enjoy the real one. The one Arjuro told me, anyway.”

Froi and Quintana were the real story. So were Gargarin, Lirah, and Arjuro.

“And what story is that?” Froi asked, trying hard to obey Arjuro’s command to behave.

“The story of the last-born lad who was left on our doorstep eighteen and a half years ago. Of the priests of Trist, who decided to keep the babe safe by taking him to Sarnak. Charyn is not going to enjoy the story of their failure. That the priests of Trist lost the last born — lost him for all those years — and that he was brought up on the filthy streets of the Sarnak capital. They’re going to hate the part about the king raping the oracle and that she gave birth to the princess. So we’re going to have to make up a story everyone will love, Dafar. One befitting a king.”

Froi felt the tears stinging at his eyes.

“Tell me that story, then,” he said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

“Oh, it’s a beautiful one,” Simeon said. “In which the king’s daughter found love with the heir to the throne, Tariq of Lascow, despite having Lirah, the Serker whore, as a mother. Where he planned her rescue from the gallows and married her in their underground home. And he gave up his life to keep the future mother of his child safe. It’s a love story, Dafar. Everyone wants to believe in one. And if we manage to keep Quintana of Charyn alive, do you know why the people will love her? Because the heir, Tariq of Lascow, loved her. The little king will mean even more to us.”

Froi turned away. “I was never one for stories,” he said, staring up at the frescoes.

“Do you want me to tell you another one?”

Froi didn’t respond. His eyes focused on the larger-than-life image of a warrior aiming a longbow on the wall of the cave. He searched the ceiling for whatever it was the marksman was aiming at. Simeon pointed to the image of a tree whose roots stretched across all corners, as if reading his thoughts. Painted on the trunk was a decree pinned with a bronze arrow. It was the same word written three times in faint gold. Hope. Hope. Hope.

“I’ve never heard that story,” Froi said softly. “About a warrior shooting messages of hope.”

Simeon smiled ruefully. “Because it doesn’t exist.” He pointed to his bedroll, which lay directly under the three words. “My grandson’s first work at the age of thirteen. He said I was a pessimist and he wanted me to stare up at it to remind me not to be. In the darkness, the gold letters are illuminated and all I can see are the words.”

Charyn needed more men like Rothen, Froi thought.

“Did you know it was Arjuro who first took you to Sarnak as a babe?” Simeon asked.

Froi was stunned to hear the words. He shook his head because he could hardly speak. There were so many secrets hidden inside Gargarin and Arjuro, and he wondered if they would all ever be revealed.

“Arjuro was a broken man on the night he escaped from the palace eighteen years ago. He said there was a darkness tainting his spirit, and he had to make something right. It was his idea that we smuggle the abandoned babe out of the kingdom. He volunteered to be the one.”

Simeon’s stern face softened. “You spent the first month of your life in the safety of his arms. I’ve seen you both together these past weeks, and it is clear that the ties that bind you are still strong.”

The bond was strong because Arjuro was blood kin. Froi knew that more than anything else.

“Arjuro returned from Sarnak and lived here with us. He was as wild as ever and full of rage at the world. At himself. Over the next few years, we would hear news about you from the priestess of the Sarnak godshouse. You were Our Dafar,” he added. “If any of us ever experienced hardship, we would say, ‘At least Our Dafar is safe.’”

“But four years after we sent you to Sarnak, we received word that the godshouse of the Sarnak capital was destroyed by fire. All we knew at the time were the names of those who had perished. And that there was no child among the dead. So we sent a messenger to bring you home . . . but the messenger never reached Sarnak. Your fate was lost to us until Rafuel of Sebastabol sent word three years past that he believed he had found you in the woods on the Charyn-Osteria border.”

“Rafuel was there?” Froi asked. “In the barracks when I was taken by the Charynites?”

Simeon nodded. “Rafuel ran away from his father and the palace when he was fourteen years old. When he returned to the Citavita years later to find out what he could about the last born, he was rounded up with a group of lads and put to use in the army. And as fate had it, Rafuel was at the right place at the right time. And here you are, Dafar of Abroi.”

There was something about the way Simeon said his name this time that made Froi uneasy.

“What do you want from me?” Froi asked, because he knew he hadn’t been summoned to listen to Simeon’s stories.

“Find us the girl.”

The priest’s eyes were ice-cold.

“And then go back to being Froi of Lumatere. And no one need get hurt.”

That night, Froi sat opposite Arjuro in silence for the most part.

“What did he say?” Arjuro asked finally when the candle between them had burned low.

“I think he threatened me.”

“He sent Rafuel to find you, Froi. Rafuel is an assassin. A well-read assassin, but one all the same. When I first lived here with these people, one of their lovers in Nebia was murdered because she would not divulge their whereabouts. The retribution was bloody.”

“You never said you were the one who smuggled me out of Charyn when I was a babe,” Froi said softly. “Simeon said it was your idea.”

“Yes, well, that proved to be one of my better ones,” Arjuro said dryly. “Because Sarnak seems to have been a wonderful experience for you.”

“You blame yourself?” Froi asked.

“Well, I’m to blame for many things, so I try to make it easier on the gods and take responsibility for all of them.”

“Even for the war in the kingdom of Yutlind?” Froi teased.

“Oh, yes, my fault. Shouldn’t have told the northern king that he was far more handsome than his southern cousin.”

But with all the jesting, they were both quite somber, and Froi knew why.

“I’m ready to go, Arjuro,” he said softly. “You know that.”

“You’re safer with me.”

“You sound like your brother.”

“My brother?” Arjuro asked. “The one who happens to be your father?”

Froi thought of Simeon’s story that day. “I wouldn’t say that too loudly.”

Arjuro’s face was suddenly cold.

“If the priests and provincari will agree on one thing, it’s Gargarin’s fate,” Arjuro said. “Locking him up in the palace as the next king’s First Adviser.”

“But he’ll have Lirah by his side,” Froi said. And Quintana, he thought. And his son.

He saw the uncertainty in Arjuro’s expression.

“Do you think I should have stayed in Paladozza?” Froi asked. “That I put Quintana’s life at risk?”

Arjuro studied him and shook his head.

“There are so many awful possibilities. So many. But none worse than Quintana and the babe being in the hands of the Sorellians. Wasn’t that what you said Feliciano of Avanosh and his uncle planned?

“And if you had taken Gargarin with you, they would have trained their arrows on him first. Intelligence and goodwill are Bestiano’s greatest enemies; he will kill my brother before he kills anyone else in this land. Gar is Bestiano’s greatest competitor for a place in the palace, as reluctant as he is to return there. You did the right thing.”

“But I failed,” Froi said, pained to think of how much he had. “You don’t know how that feels.”

Arjuro’s laugh was humorless. “You are saying those words to the wrong man, Froi. Failure is more of a twin to me than my own brother.”

Two days later, a messenger returned from Paladozza with a letter addressed to Arjuro. Froi watched him open it and noticed that Arjuro’s hands trembled.

“Read it aloud. Hurry,” Froi ordered.

“What if it’s private?” Arjuro argued. “It’s addressed to me. See, Arjuro,” he added, pointing to his name on the note.

“Read!”

Arjuro sighed.

“Just so you know, De Lancey always gets carried away in his letters,” he muttered.

Froi tried to snatch the parchment from him, but Arjuro stepped away.

“Dear Ari,” he read. Arjuro cleared his voice, hesitating a moment. “Quintana is not with us. We, too, have sent out messengers to Jidia and the Turlan Mountains, as well as Lascow, but each returns with no idea of her whereabouts. She has disappeared from existence and we hold grave fears for her life.”

Froi held his head in his hands. When Arjuro didn’t read on, he looked up.

“Read,” he said quietly.

Arjuro continued. “Gargarin and Lirah have left. . . .”

“What?” Froi demanded, reaching for the letter. “Let me read.”

Arjuro held up a hand to silence him.

“Your brother has been corresponding with the Belegonians. After writing a countless number of letters to every contact he had in the palace, the Belegonians have finally responded. A messenger of the king has agreed to meet Gar at an inn on the Charyn-Osteria river border.”

Froi didn’t like the news at all. How could Gargarin imagine that he could protect Lirah and himself from enemies both inside and outside Charyn?

“He shouldn’t have left,” he raged at Arjuro. “He was supposed to stay safe in Paladozza.” Froi paced the cave, fearing the absolute worst. “Doesn’t he know how dangerous it is to be traveling through the kingdom these days?”

Arjuro looked just as unhappy about the news. He went back to the letter.

“You may want to know that two weeks ago, your moronic horse-arse father arrived, demanding to see you and Gar. My guard had his heinous self escorted from the province, cursing you both to oblivion. As much as your leaving angers me still, I was relieved you weren’t here to see him. . . .”

Arjuro stopped reading aloud.

“What?” Froi demanded. “What are you keeping from me?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re hiding something, Arjuro.”

Froi snatched the letter from Arjuro, furiously pointing a finger at his face.

“You keep nothing from me, do you hear?” Froi said, his eyes fixed on the page. An instant later, he handed back the letter sheepishly. There was a hint of a smile on Arjuro’s face.

“The letter was addressed to me, runt. See here,” he said, pointing. “Arjuro.”

Froi’s face felt warm. “Yes, well, I thought you left on bad terms. I didn’t expect him to express himself so . . . explicitly.”

Arjuro folded the letter. Something told Froi that Arjuro and De Lancey expressed themselves explicitly whether they were on speaking terms or not.

“Perhaps it’s best I read it in privacy,” Arjuro said.