The days were long, and the boredom turned the Lasconian lads restless.

“We’ll run a race to see who’s fastest,” one of Florik’s lads said. “No one on the mountain has been able to beat Florik. So we choose him to race you, Lumateran.”

“What’s the prize?” Froi asked.

The lad who spoke for Florik shrugged. “There’s no need for a prize. It’s a friendly competition.”

“We run this wall,” Florik said. “Stand with your back to me, and then we’re off. Whoever returns to this point first is hailed the winner.”

It seemed too easy and didn’t involve a beating, and Froi could think of no better way to relieve the tedium on the watch at this time of the day.

“Count of three,” Florik’s lad said.

Florik was off at the count of two. Froi bolted in the opposite direction, and the more ground he covered, the more his pride demanded this victory. The only way to win against these lads was to show that their numbers weren’t enough to break him.

His was a straight run to begin with, but then parts of the route plunged down steep spiral steps and up again, and Froi took them, two at a time, heart hammering until its beat was a song that spurred him on, forcing him to fly the confines of this prison he had found himself in. He heard them chanting, “Florik! Florik! Florik!” and he shut his ears and kept his pace, stealing a look below to the flicker of movement in the bailey where he suspected the lads and the older men had come from the keep to watch the race. But Froi blocked their voices from his mind and reached the second turret, where he and Florik passed each other. Florik’s hand snaked out to hold him back, but Froi swiped at it with such force that he heard a grunt from the Lasconian as he pulled himself free, racing through a section of the walkway concealed from the grounds below. Froi raced through its tunnel, heard the sound of his own breathing, grunting, echoing harshly, then came out into the light again as if he were flying straight into the blue of this early spring sky. He could smell his victory. But suddenly as he rounded the final turret, he tripped over something wedged between the stone of the inner and outer wall. It was a short sword, there to do exactly what it had done, placed on so blind a corner that Froi could never have seen it coming. As he stumbled to his feet, he knew he had lost.

He heard the cheers for Florik as he neared the finishing place. Down below in the bailey, Dolyn and the elders were beckoning Florik to join them. Gargarin signaled, and Froi knew he was being instructed to come down and stand beside the winner.

“No man can outrun a Lasconian,” the elder said as Froi reached them. He and Florik stood side by side, Florik’s arm raised in victory. “The little king’s blood runs from our spring.”

Gargarin and Arjuro came to find Froi on watch late that night.

“Are you sulking because he won a race?” Gargarin asked.

Froi didn’t respond. He preferred not to see it as sulking.

“When you accomplish something, it should be for no one but yourself,” Arjuro said.

“Yes, yes. If we could all be as wise as both of you,” Froi said.

“Gods,” Arjuro muttered. “I wish I could go back to my youth and slap myself hard across the face for being as snarky as you are at times, Froi.”

“You were very annoying,” Gargarin said to his brother.

“You equally so.”

Arjuro held out his ration of food to Froi, who stared at the dry horse meat.

“If they go anywhere near Beast, I’ll kill them all.”

“They need to feed themselves,” Gargarin said.

“They should have thought of that before they holed themselves up in this place,” he hissed.

A shrill cry came from the darkness of the woodlands.

“Something’s happening out there,” Froi told them. “I’ve heard cries through the night. Humans and horses. Most of Bestiano’s army would have passed by now, heading north, but something in that woodlands is finishing off Nebia’s flanks.”

“Yes, but who?” Gargarin asked.

They were eerie sounds, eaten up by the space between the little woods and where they stood. By the time the sound reached them, all that remained was a distant echo.

“The sentinel in the tree hasn’t been there the whole day, and that could only mean there’s been some sort of attack,” Froi said. “I can take advantage of it. Venture out and see what’s happening.”

Gargarin shook his head. “I don’t want to take the chance,” he said. “Just say they’re lying in hiding, waiting for us to do just that. It could be a trap.”

“But we can’t stay here,” Froi said quietly, in case one of the Lasconians was listening. “Tariq’s people are idiots. They picked the worse place to set up camp. We might be protected by these walls, but we’re trapped and Bestiano knows we’re here. He wants you dead. For all he knows, Quintana is with us, and he wants her. We need to move.”

“But where?” Gargarin asked. “We’ll only end up wandering aimlessly, searching for her, Froi. We have no idea which direction to turn.”

“We’ve run out of chances, Froi,” Arjuro said. “We’ve escaped death too many times. Gargarin. Me. You. I agree that we stay put. The next time, it could cost us our lives. Maybe Lirah’s.”

Froi looked away.

“Did you have an argument with her?” Gargarin asked quietly. “Lirah?”

“Why?”

“She doesn’t seem herself. She was angry and distant —”

“That is herself,” Froi interrupted.

“And hurt.”

Fine, now he was also to blame for Lirah’s feelings.

“If you really want to know,” Froi said, “the matter of not living in the palace has gotten to her. Where will her home be, Gargarin?”

“What?” Arjuro asked, hearing it for the first time. “Why wouldn’t Lirah live in the palace? She’s Quintana’s mother in the eyes of Charyn.”

Froi waited for Gargarin to explain, but he was silent, so Froi spoke.

“According to the provincari, she’s part of Charyn’s shameful past,” he said. “They want Gargarin in the palace but not her, and Gargarin threatened to not take up the position of the little king’s regent. They, of course, have a second and even third option.”

Arjuro looked at Gargarin.

“There is no other,” Arjuro said, fury in his voice. “And since when do the provincari make all the decisions? Is that what took place in Sebastabol?”

“Among other things, which is why it would help us to have the Lasconians in our favor,” Gargarin said.

Arjuro shook his head incredulously. “Those damned provincari. They have no right to tell Lirah she can’t live in the palace, and if they even try to take control of the godshouse, I’ll curse every single one of them. Hypocrites. Bastards.”

“And I think some of the lads and men here have said something to her,” Froi said quietly.

Arjuro’s eyes met Gargarin’s.

“I don’t like these people.”

“Oh, don’t you start, Arjuro!” Gargarin snapped. “First Froi, now you. What do you want me to do? Run a race around this wall and compete with them? They’re all we have. If we find Quintana, at least we have the numbers to get her into the palace safely. We need an army. This is the only one we have!”

“And De Lancey promised you no army?”

“Nothing,” Gargarin said with frustration. “Do you think we’d be here with this lot if we had Paladozza behind us? De Lancey was all secretive, and then he got on the defensive about both of us always ganging up on him.”

“Well, we actually did,” Arjuro said with a sigh.

“You know him better than anyone, Arjuro,” Froi said. “What could he be hiding?”

Arjuro shrugged. “I don’t know him anymore, despite our history. Before the day of weeping, he was a provincaro’s indulged son, bored and waiting to take over one day, so we were allowed to be as decadent and wild as we wanted to be. But he’s different now, and the De Lancey I got a glimpse of in both the Citavita and Paladozza is the type to have more than one plan up his sleeve.”

They heard more cries and shouting come from the little woods, and even the Lasconian lads gathered close by.

“What do you think’s going on out there, sir?” one of them asked Gargarin. As if he would know and not Froi.

“Either Bestiano’s army is killing one another or we have more visitors.”

Froi spent the rest of the night on watch with Perabo. The keeper of the caves had a disturbing way of staring at Froi and Gargarin and Arjuro as if he was going to reveal the truth about who he believed they all were to the Lasconians.

“Nothing good will come of this for you,” Perabo said quietly as the sun began to creep above the trees before them.

“What?”

“Regardless of our hope that she carries the first, and that she’s somehow safe, nothing good will come of this for you . . . personally . . . and you seem the person to take things personally.”

“You don’t know me, Perabo.”

“I saw it the first time in the caves in the Citavita, and then again the next two times. You want her. Not like other men want to control her, but you want to take care of her. Love her. Make her happy.” Perabo shook his head sadly. “And that will not happen. They will never give you an opportunity to be that man. The provincari and even Dolyn’s people will want a lord, a man of title. Quintana’s consort will be our showpiece to the rest of the land. ‘See. Look what we got. We might have a history of shame, but look what we managed to snare for our mad princess.’”

“Always pleasant to be on watch with you, Perabo.”

But all the keeper’s words did was make Froi yearn for her more. He missed Quintana’s voice in his ear. Sometimes he tried to recall those early months in the palace with her and the indignant reginita. But it wasn’t her voice he remembered. It was the clipped, cold voice of his ice princess. The one that could tear layers of skin from him by merely speaking. He had become used to listening to her words and not judging them by her tone.

“I wonder what I’ll say to the little king first,” she had murmured that last night in Paladozza.

“Maybe you should tell him you love him.”

“But what if I don’t?” she argued. “I don’t know him. How can I love one that I don’t know? I’m frightened to see him. I’ve never seen a little creature. How will I know he’s not all wrong?”

“And if he is all wrong, what will you do?” Froi had asked.

She thought for a moment. “I’ll hold him tight and tell him that we’ll be wrong for this world together.”

Perabo shoved Froi out of his memories and pointed. As early light began to stretch across the sky, they could see more movement through the trees of the little woods. During the night, whatever had taken place out there had inched closer to them. Froi heard Perabo’s intake of breath. Behind them, the first of the Lasconians were beginning to wake, but for now, only Perabo and Froi waited for whatever lay ahead to unleash itself.

And unleash itself it did. Horsemen appeared out of the little woods before Froi’s very eyes. What they lacked in numbers they made up for in strength and speed. If he didn’t know better, Froi would have sworn it was Trevanion leading them. No man looked more powerful than his captain on a horse.

“If this is part of the Nebian army, we don’t stand a chance,” he warned Perabo.

Perabo shouted out a command, and the Lasconian lads on the wall were suddenly awake.

“We’re under attack!”

Men scrambled for their weapons, and orders were bellowed from all corners of the bailey. Froi looked back at the battlements of the keep and saw Dolyn’s men ready with longbows.

“Take aim!” Perabo shouted.

Froi heard the order repeated over and over again until it reached the keep. He took aim. More and more men climbed up to the wall to stand beside them, watching the force approaching. The horsemen gained ground, their powerful mounts punishing the earth beneath them, riding at a speed beyond reckoning.

“Give the order!” one of the Lasconians shouted.

“Give the order,” a voice rang out again, but Perabo waited, and Froi’s hand shook to keep the bow so taut. He felt the perspiration trickle down his temple, but he kept his focus on the horsemen in the lead. Not one of the riders had raised a weapon, but their intent was obvious. They were going to enter the fortress regardless of how many soldiers stood on both battlements.

“Perabo! Give the order!” someone shouted.

And then, as the sun illuminated the clearing, Froi saw the truth.

“Stop!” he shouted. “Wait.”

“Wait!”

“Wait!”

He heard the order passed back to the battlements.

Yes, the voice inside him hissed. Or perhaps he did shout it aloud, because Perabo stared at him questioningly. Froi’s prayers had been answered in more ways than one.

“Who are they?” Perabo asked, as the horsemen reached the gates.

“You mean what are they,” a lad beside them muttered.

Froi grinned. He looked at where Florik stood and felt a gleeful vengeance in his heart. The Lasconian lads were going to get a beating.

“Turlans.”

The Turlans rode into the fortress, splattered with blood, every fiber of their being pulsing with battle rage. Ariston gave his men the order to dismount, and they did so just as Gargarin entered the courtyard with Lirah and Arjuro. The Lasconians studied the Turlans, and they were studied in return. Two mountain clans, but different in so many ways.

Ariston and Gargarin embraced, and then the leader of the Turlans turned to Lirah and bowed.

Ariston then held out a hand to Arjuro. Froi remembered the tension between the men when they had first met and was relieved to see it all but gone.

“I thought you vowed you’d never come down that mountain,” Gargarin said.

Ariston grimaced. “My woman discovered that I failed to provide a safe place for our Quintana when we had the chance,” he said. “I’ve been banished from the bed until I find the girl.”

“Smart woman,” Gargarin said. He looked beyond Ariston and his men to where the Lasconians were watching carefully. “Does your wife know?” he added quietly. “About the oracle being a Turlan girl and the mother of the princess?”

Ariston nodded. “I don’t keep secrets from my woman. The Lascow lot may claim the future curse breaker as theirs, but we know that babe will belong to Turla on his mother’s side.”

Froi wanted to say more. That the future king belonged to Abroi. To Serker. To him.

“And your men?” Froi asked. “Do they know the truth? That Quintana belonged to a Turlan woman?”

Ariston shook his head regretfully.

“They follow me regardless of whom the little king belongs to.”

One of the Turlan lads approached and lifted Froi off the ground. Froi couldn’t help but laugh. He understood these lads, with their grunts and strutting about, more than he did the Lasconians. They reminded him of the Monts.

“My mob took a liking to our Quintana’s protector,” Ariston said, glancing at Froi.

The Turlan lads were invited to share the great hall with the Lasconians but chose the stables instead. Froi figured he’d endure the smell of horse shit rather than spend another night with Florik and his lot, and joined the Turlans.

Florik and the other Lasconians cautiously retrieved their horses to make more room for the newcomers.

“Why staring?” one of the Turlans demanded of Froi. When they spoke among one another, it was in the Turlan dialect, but with Froi they used a broken Charyn.

“Because they are desperate to compete with you,” Froi whispered the lie. “It’s all they’ve spoken about since you arrived.”

The Turlan lads exchanged a look.

“Tomorrow,” Mort, the leader of the lads said. “We show ’em who stronger mountain men.”

Tomorrow was a good day for Froi. The Turlans had an energy that was awe-inspiring, and Froi enjoyed keeping up with them. They wrestled. Jousted. Fought with practice swords. Hit targets. Grunted. Grunted some more. By the end of the day, the Lasconian lads were decimated.

“He’s on our team,” Florik argued, pointing to Froi just before the second round was to commence. “You Turlans can’t just come in and take him!”

Mort placed a sweaty arm around Froi’s neck.

“I fight you for ’im.” Mort kissed the air in the direction of the Lasconians. Florik bristled. Froi laughed.

“Turla saw him first,” one of the Turlans said.

Gargarin and Lirah watched from the sidelines alongside Ariston and Dolyn. Froi saw irritation on Gargarin’s face, satisfaction on Lirah’s.

“What is it with you and these lads?” Gargarin demanded when Froi joined them for no other reason than to show them the ocher markings on his arm that displayed every win. “You turn primitive when you’re around them!”

Ariston ruffled Froi’s capped head. “We’ll take this one back to the mountain. He’s one of us, I tell you.”

“The Lumaterans won’t be happy to hear that,” Gargarin said pointedly. “Froi belongs to them. We don’t want to be waging a war with them over one of their Flatland sons.”

“Flatlander,” Dolyn said, impressed. “Doesn’t get better than that in Lumatere.”

Froi caught Gargarin’s eye. He would never know what this man was playing at. Sometimes he believed it was flippancy. Other times he could see a plan brewing in Gargarin’s head. Whatever it was, Froi never felt satisfied.

That night, Perabo gathered everyone in the keep. Lasconians and Turlans stood at every level looking down from the archways to where their leaders and Gargarin stood at its center below. Everyone jostled for space, and Froi squeezed himself beside Arjuro on a level close to the floor of the keep, watching Gargarin raise a hand for silence.

“I’ll have Ariston speak soon about what takes place beyond the little woods,” Gargarin said. “But for now, I want to talk about the return of Quintana of Charyn.”

“Our Quintana!” one of the Turlans shouted from above, until they all joined in, and it became a chant that made the hair on Froi’s arms stand tall.

Gargarin held up a hand again and there was silence.

“Yes. Our Quintana,” he said. “The moment we know where she is, Ariston and his men will bring her and the child home to the Citavita.”

There was instant outrage from the Lasconians.

“The heir belongs to us!” one shouted.

“It’s our right to place him on the throne,” an elder argued. “On behalf of his father, Tariq of Lascow.”

Froi saw the quick flicker of Gargarin’s eyes toward him, not realizing that Gargarin had known exactly where Froi stood among the crowd of men.

“The Turlans are stronger warriors,” Gargarin said. “When it comes to returning Quintana and her child to the palace, there will be no room for failure. We send in our best.”

Froi felt Arjuro lean close to him. “My brother’s a smart man,” he whispered.

Froi had to agree. If the babe was a boy, the Turlans would be remembered for placing the king on the throne for as long as they lived. It was the closest Ariston and the Turlans would get to being respected in Charyn. Although they would never be acknowledged as kin, the little king would be brought up knowing he owed much to these feral mountain people. Perhaps when the boy was older, he would understand who they were to his mother.

Ariston’s head was bent in acknowledgment, and Froi could see he was moved by the honor given to his people.

“Perabo,” Gargarin called out to where the man was standing at a higher archway opposite Froi’s. “You were once the keeper of the caves below the Citavita, and soon you’ll be the keeper of the keys to the palace. The constable. You choose your men well.”

Perabo was surprised to hear the words. “I’ve despised the palace most of my life,” he shouted back down at Gargarin. “I’ve always worked against it.”

“You’ve been working to secure the safety of Tariq and Quintana for many years. For now, Quintana is the palace. Would you forsake her your protection?” Gargarin asked.

Perabo shook his head reluctantly.

“What of the provincari?” Dolyn of Lascow asked from where he stood. “For too long they’ve kept both our clans out of province affairs. Will they agree to your decisions, Gargarin?”

“They may make the decisions on how to run the kingdom, but the safety of the little king will be in the hands of us all, and it begins now. Later, when we have Quintana of Charyn and her child secure in the palace, the riders will be made up of ten of the best of each province, including both mountain clans.”

“But where is she?” someone called out.

There was silence before Gargarin spoke.

“We will find her. The best news we’ve had so far is no news. No news means no corpse.”

“She’s simple. She’s not capable —”

“Simple?” Gargarin laughed sharply, searching for the speaker of the words. “She fooled the king and his men with stories to protect your last born girls. She survived the attack on Tariq’s compound. She helped secure an escape from Bestiano’s armed men at the bottom of the gravina by concealing weapons at her wrists and on her back. She traveled from Jidia to Turla to Paladozza with a babe in her belly and not so much as a whimper. And as we speak, she’s hiding in this kingdom, keeping our king safe. She’s not simple. Anything but simple.”

Arjuro moved closer to Froi. “Not to mention her ability to kill a king in five seconds,” he whispered.

Gargarin stepped aside, and Ariston spoke next about what had taken place in the little woods.

“Bestiano ordered the flanks of his army to guard the entrance to the woodlands.”

Ariston was quiet a moment.

“They were young men. Strong lads. He’s sending them out to fight like lambs to slaughter,” Ariston said, his voice full of sorrow. “Bestiano and his generals are camped between the first two hills of Charyn, but they send out their youngest and strongest to fight their own people, and Charyn loses more of its lifeblood.”

“How is it you came this way?” Dolyn asked.

“There’s talk throughout Charyn of what took place on the lake,” Ariston said, looking up at the elder. Froi heard anger in his voice. “That Bestiano was willing to sacrifice the last priestling. We also knew Lasconians were taking refuge in this fortress and that Bestiano’s army was heading north. The slaughter of Tariq of Lascow’s compound was felt by us all. We fight to avenge your kinsmen, Dolyn. We fight to avenge the young King Tariq who never had a chance to prove his worth.”

And they fight to protect their own, Froi thought. Ariston was here for the oracle, Solange of Turla’s daughter and grandchild.

“I say we get a look at what’s happening between those two hills and decide on the chances we’ll take,” Ariston continued. “We need to find out what they know and what they think we know before we slaughter each other for no reason.”

“Have you seen their sentinels?” Froi called out. “Those in the tree?”

Ariston nodded. “One saw us coming and left his post. For the time being, they are there to keep an eye on this fortress. But after last night’s events, things may change.”

“So we attack?” Dolyn asked.

Ariston shook his head. “We need to see what takes place between those hills and how big that army truly is. I’m presuming that they know as little as we do about our Quintana. So for now, they watch us, and we need to do the same to them.” He looked at Gargarin. “We have to find a way to blind the sentinel.”

Froi bunked down with his horse in the stables with the rest of the Turlans. One of the lads, called Joyner, whose upper body was covered with etchings, was marking another lad, using a bone needle and ocher mixed with earth. Froi had heard the Lasconians scornfully say that etchings were only for slaves and lastborn girls, but the Turlan lads were neither.

“What have you chosen?” Froi asked the Turlan, who winced with pain each time the needle channeled the ink into his flesh.

“First time kill beyond little woods,” the lad said quietly. “Mine a tainted spirit now. Keep it safe with name of my girl.”

“Ariston’ll kill you,” Mort said. He looked at Froi, shaking his head. “His girl Ariston’s niece.”

“Most beautiful girl on Turla. And strongest. She beat any Lasconian today.”

The lad winced again.

Mort showed Froi his etching. Froi saw the name Jocasta.

“My mother. Most beautiful woman on Turla,” he boasted.

“There must be a lot of beautiful women on the mountain,” Froi said.

There was a chorus from all the Turlan lads in agreement.

He watched the etching and thought of what Quintana had told him once. That Lirah was marked with the name of the man who owned her.

Later, Froi went to visit Arjuro in his chamber.

“Can you write these names in the language of the ancients?” Froi asked quietly.

Arjuro wrote them neatly, and Froi marveled at how powerful the ancient words looked compared to those in Charyn and Lumateran.

“What are they for?” Arjuro asked.

Froi patted his arm. Arjuro grimaced.

“It can’t be removed,” Arjuro said. “You know that. The stigma stays with you.”

“My feelings will never change,” Froi said. He started to walk away but turned back.

“Where did you see the writing that time? On my back?”

Arjuro traced a finger across where the writing had started just below Froi’s shoulder blade.

Froi returned to the stables, where he was next in line. He handed Joyner the parchment.

“What say it?” Joyner said out of curiosity.

“Doesn’t matter,” Froi said. “Here. Here. And here.” He pointed to the exact place he wanted each individual word to be. Both arms and across his shoulders. “But don’t go here,” he said, indicating where Arjuro had once seen the message from the gods.

“Goin’ to hurt,” Joyner said.

Joyner worked well into the night. He was precise and had the steadiest of hands. Despite the pain, Froi was pleased with what he saw on both his arms. Like the lettering on his scalp and on his back, he would never see the name across his shoulders, but he’d feel it. He’d know what it meant. He knew it linked him to her.

The Turlan lads looked impressed the next morning.

“Joyner says you gods’ blessed,” Mort said quietly, away from the others.

Froi shook his head. “What would make him say that?”

“Bit of a gift himself, our Joyner. He say your back was aflame. Was something there not of this world.”

The other lads suddenly looked up, and Froi followed their gaze to where Lirah stood at the entrance. He saw the fury on her face before she turned and walked away. Froi followed her out into the courtyard. He kicked at the dirt on the ground, waiting for whatever it was she had to say.

“Are you a slave?” she asked harshly. “In Serker, only slaves are etched.”

“With the names of the men that own them,” he said, his eyes meeting hers. It sickened him to think of Lirah being owned by anyone.

“I’m a Serker, Lirah,” he said softly. “My body is etched with the names of the three women who own me. My queen. My mother. My woman.”

He took Lirah’s hand and placed it where Joyner had written her name on his arm, and he saw tears in her eyes. She traced the lettering with a finger, then quickly pressed a kiss against it and hurried away.

Froi smiled to himself and was about to climb up to his watch when Perabo called from above.

“Get Gargarin.”

Moments later, Froi stood on the wall, looking out into the little woods with Gargarin, Ariston, Perabo, and Dolyn.

“It’s too far away to see anything but movement,” Perabo said. “But I’ve noticed a difference in the changeover of the guards. There are three of them. Guard one takes the day post. Guard two arrives in the evening to replace him for the night. The next morning, guard three fails to turn up on time. Every day since we’ve arrived. So guard two, after spending a whole night in the tree, always leaves his post and returns to camp instead of waiting. I presume he is forced to wake guard three. Or perhaps by the time he reaches the camp, guard three is on his way and they pass by each other. Any which way, for a short time early each morning, we have no one watching us.”

Ariston looked out toward the little woods. “So we can take advantage of those moments? We can send out a scout, the fastest lad we have, to see what is taking place between the two hills, where Bestiano is camped.”

Gargarin shook his head. “I don’t like it. It’s too much of a risk. We can’t guarantee that tomorrow will be the same as today. If Bestiano’s men capture whoever we send out, they’ll use torture to find out what our lad knows.”

“He’s right,” Dolyn said. “It’s too much of a chance. We may lose our scout at the hands of one of those guards, or, worse still, at the hands of Bestiano and his riders.”

“And if we don’t, her life stays in danger,” Froi said. “The captain of the Lumateran Guard would never question which of his men would be tortured or captured when it came to keeping the queen safe.”

Ariston barked out a laugh of disbelief. “From what I’ve heard of Trevanion of Lumatere, I doubt he’d send out his son, the consort.”

“Well, it’s a good thing we have no sons among us to send out,” Dolyn said.

Perabo gathered everyone in the great hall and spoke of what he had seen.

“All we need is to work out what takes place between those hills. Whether they have Quintana of Charyn. Whether they have an army as powerful as we fear.”

He turned to Ariston. “Who is fastest of your lads?”

Ariston shook his head. “They’re built to defend, but not for speed, I’m afraid, and for this task speed is everything.”

“The Lumateran is fast,” one of the Lasconians called out.

Froi heard Arjuro’s sharp intake of breath beside him.

“The lad from Lascow is the fastest,” Lirah’s voice rang out. Everyone stared at her. “Him,” she said, pointing at Florik. “He beat Froi in the race around the wall. The lad who won the prize is the perfect soldier for the task.”

Froi’s eyes met Florik’s across the way. Mort nudged Froi. “If come tomorrow the Lasconian sees the gods,” he whispered, “pray it’s a sentinel’s arrow and not Nebian torture.”

No one spoke. Froi could see that the Lasconians didn’t want to give up their own. Perhaps they had good reason. They had lost Tariq’s compound in the Citavita and couldn’t afford to lose others. Finally, Dolyn nodded.

“Good. Then that’s decided,” Gargarin said. “We’ll try for the morning.” He walked away before another word was spoken.