That night, his last in the palace, Froi was stuck beside two dukes complaining about the scarcity of food at their end of the table, despite the bounty placed before them. They whispered that the provincari were to blame. The provincari in turn looked uncomfortable in the palace surrounds. The leaders of the provinces didn’t have the useless look of the nobility, but they did exude power, and Froi could understand the king and Bestiano’s need to keep them happy. These men and women had purpose and they had strength. United, they had once been a force against past kings. Divided, they had helped cause the misery that was Charyn today.
Gargarin was sitting beside one, a handsome man whose eyes seemed fixed firmly on Froi with the same horror and disbelief Froi had first seen on Gargarin’s and Arjuro’s faces. Froi knew without being told that the man was De Lancey of Paladozza.
“They’re nothing, I say,” the king’s inbred cousin hissed in Froi’s ear. “Nothing. Do they have a title? I daresay not.”
Quintana sat with the aunts, and it was obvious by the hideous lime-green dress she wore that Bestiano had managed to wrest the calico one from her. In his pocket, Froi found a piece of parchment from Gargarin’s scribbles. He folded it into a shape most like a rabbit and asked for it to be passed toward her.
After much grumbling and scoffing, it reached Quintana’s place. She stared at it a moment and then looked over to his table. Froi saw a glimpse of her teeth.
Later, he returned to the chamber to speak to Gargarin about the events of that morning. Froi hid Gargarin’s dagger under the mattress and waited awhile for the man to return, but his thoughts were too much on Quintana and before he could stop himself, he walked out to the balconette, climbed, and took the leap. From outside her window, he saw the flicker of light from where she was blowing out the last of the candles. When she saw him standing on the balconette, she walked to the doors and opened them. She was about to say his name, but he held up a hand. He couldn’t bear hearing “Olivier” coming from her lips. Not tonight.
“First I’m going to use my hands, and then I’m going to use my mouth,” he said, “and then you are going to teach me to be gentle, and I’ll show you that not all men share your bed because it’s destined by the gods or written on the stone walls of this prison of yours. I’ve never had a lover and nor have you. So let’s be the first for each other.”
He caught her face between his hands and kissed her hard.
But she stepped away and he saw the hesitation in her eyes.
Wait, Froi. Wait.
“I don’t come to you pure,” she said.
“Not interested in purity. Only willingness.”
She backed away from him to the end of the bed, and his heart sank, already guessing her next move. Lying down and pulling her nightdress up to her thighs, asking him to undo the string to his trousers. But instead, slowly she lifted the garment over her head and stood before him, and he stared at the fullness of her. He lifted his shirt above his head and held out a hand, drawing her to him, his body veiling hers from whatever it was that made her face flush red. Then he lifted her to him, felt her legs clasp around his waist as he knelt on the bed, laying her down. Gently he placed his hands on her knees and drew them apart, pressing his lips against her inner thigh.
“What are you doing?” she asked, trying to raise herself.
“First, I thought I’d show you what a pity it would be if they cut off my wicked tongue.”
When Froi woke in the early hours of the morning, she was watching him. He raised himself, pressing a kiss to her mouth.
“Happy birthday,” he said.
“It’s the day of weeping,” she corrected. She slipped out of bed and placed her cotton shift over her body. She seemed in a hurry.
“My father’s agreed to see me,” she said quietly. “Before he sees the provincari.”
“It’s too early,” he said, not quite meeting her eye, knowing that by the time she saw her father, he would be dead at Froi’s hand.
She continued to put on her clothes without a word.
“You need to get a dress from Aunt Mawfa,” he said, needing to buy time. “You can’t go to see your father in that.”
Quintana looked down at her dress and then back to him, nodding. Then she was gone and Froi realized with an immense sadness that he would never see the princess of Charyn again.
When he reached the cellar, it was crowded with servants, chatting with urgency. Dorcas and another soldier were overseeing the activity.
“What are you doing here, Olivier?” Dorcas asked.
“You’ve been demoted, I see, Dorcas.”
“A proper lesson for losing the vessel,” Dorcas responded.
“She’s a girl, Dorcas. Not a vessel.”
Froi knew he’d have to wait. Quintana and the provincari would see the king, and then in the confusion of the provincari’s exit from the palace, he’d take his chance.
Returning to the chamber he shared with Gargarin, Froi saw the rolled-up plans. They were tied neatly by a ribbon with the words De Lancey of Paladozza attached, and all Froi could think was that the idiot Gargarin was off to see the king without his plans. Until he remembered that Gargarin wasn’t an idiot. Froi gripped the mattress and felt for the dagger, but it wasn’t there. He bit back his fury. An ice-cold finger of dread ran up his spine. He grabbed the drawings and ran down the tower stairs into the outer ward, dodging servants and soldiers. He saw Gargarin heading to the fourth tower, pushing past those who stood in his way. Froi bolted toward him.
“At it again, are we?” he hissed into his ear.
Gargarin didn’t respond and kept on walking toward the soldiers guarding the king’s tower.
Froi gripped his arm, forcing him to slow down. “You’ll fail!”
“You want the glory, do you? To go back to whoever sent you and claim the kill was yours?”
“No,” Froi said with frustration. Three of the palace soldiers walked by. Froi and Gargarin nodded in their direction and continued without looking back. “But I can do something you can’t. If you can convince them to let me through with you, I can do what we both set out to do and get us out of this palace alive.”
“Getting out of here alive isn’t part of my plan.”
Froi pushed him into a small hidden alcove in the wall, trapping him. “Listen to me, Gargarin. I’ve been trained to do this. You haven’t. Take your drawings, build your shit holes, but don’t give up your life for this.”
A hint of a smile appeared on Gargarin’s face. A softness unlike anything Froi had seen in his expression before. “Where did you come from?” he asked, but it seemed a question Gargarin was asking himself and not Froi. “Will you do something for me?”
Froi shook his head.
“I’ll ask you anyway,” Gargarin said. “Give these designs to De Lancey of Paladozza. They also contain a letter of instruction to Tariq, the heir. If there is anarchy in the Citavita, promise me this.”
“I’m promising you nothing, Gargarin. Tend to your own instructions and leave me to mine.”
Gargarin continued as though Froi hadn’t spoken. “Take my brother and Lirah out of the Citavita. Perhaps to Belegonia or Osteria.”
Froi was shaking his head, pushing the plans back into Gargarin’s hands.
“It’s all I ask of you.”
“Who are you to ask anything of me?” Froi asked.
Gargarin was silent for a moment. He went to speak, but an ear-piercing scream echoed through the palace. Then more screams and shouts.
Froi raced out into the courtyard. “Quintana!”
Above, between the fourth and fifth towers, Froi could see the provincari and their people disappearing down the stairs that would take them to where he and Gargarin stood.
Once outside, the provincari hurried toward them. “Gar! Gargarin,” De Lancey of Paladozza called out.
When they reached Froi and Gargarin, the provincari were all speaking at the same time.
“Stop,” Gargarin shouted. “One at a time.”
“Bestiano’s killed the king,” the provincaro of Desantos said.
“What?” Gargarin said, disbelief in his voice.
“Where’s the princess?” Froi asked.
They heard more screams from the tower above, then shouts and orders.
“Where is she?” Froi demanded, grabbing hold of a man.
“She arrived to visit her father before us,” one of the provincari’s scribes said rapidly. “She demanded to see him alone, but Bestiano would not allow it. He would not allow any of the provincari to see him. He claimed the king had changed his mind. But the princess refused to listen, becoming hysterical, screaming, ‘I need to see my father on my own. Search me now.’ The provincari insisted that Bestiano allow her to see the king on her day of weeping. They were frightened by her madness. One of the king’s Guard stepped forward to search her, and when he was satisfied, the princess ran into the chamber with Bestiano in tow and not even moments later we heard her screams. Heard her shout, ‘Bestiano has killed my father!’ ”
Gargarin spun around, taking in those crowded around them.
“Go!” Gargarin ordered the provincari. “Get out of the palace. If Bestiano has control of the riders, he’ll hold you all as hostages to your provinces. Go now.”
“What — ?”
“Now!” Gargarin ordered. “Take only whatever you have with you and get out of the palace. Arjuro will give you sanction in the godshouse.” He shoved Froi forward. “Take him.”
Froi pulled away, shaking his head. He had to find Quintana.
“Go!” Gargarin yelled.
The provincari hurried away except for De Lancey of Pala dozza. Gargarin forced the rolled-up parchment into his hands.
The man shook his head. “We leave together, Gar.”
“Go,” Gargarin begged. “You need to prepare Tariq. Take him under your protection.”
De Lancey hesitated one moment more, and then, with a backward glance, he hurried away.
Froi and Gargarin made it as far as the entrance to the fifth tower, where they were met by Dorcas and another guard.
“You’re to return to your chambers, Sir Gargarin,” Dorcas said, agitated. Beads of sweat poured down his face.
“Whose orders, Dorcas?” Gargarin asked.
“Bestiano’s, sir.”
“What’s going on?” Gargarin demanded. There was no res ponse, and Froi wondered if the guard knew as little as they did.
The moment they reached the chamber, Froi raced out onto the balconette.
“Quintana!”
He leaped over to her balconette, but he could see that her chamber was empty. Froi climbed back to where Gargarin was standing.
They heard a key in the door and raced toward it, but were too late. Froi hammered at the door. “Dorcas! Dorcas, find the princess!”
But there was no response, and Froi kicked at the door with frustration.
“Why kill the king now?” he asked.
Gargarin shook his head. “It makes no sense,” he said. “It makes no sense at all.”
It was the longest of days. The waiting and the pacing and the fear for Quintana tore Froi up inside. Please let her be alive. Sometimes he pounded at the door, bellowing the name of every guard he could remember. Dorcas. Fekra. Fodor. And all the while, Gargarin wrote like a man possessed, quill not leaving paper until late that afternoon when they heard the voices crying out from across the gravina.
“Gargarin!”
“Gar!”
Froi ran to the balconette, Gargarin hobbling behind him.
Arjuro, De Lancey, and others stood at the godshouse balconette.
“Bestiano rode out of the palace with the riders,” De Lancey called out.
Gargarin and Froi exchanged stunned looks.
“You need to find a way out, Gar. The palace is unguarded, and the street lords are beginning to enter. They —”
Suddenly a body flew out of the window above Froi and Gargarin’s. Screams could be heard from inside the chambers surrounding them.
“Gods,” Gargarin gasped, searching above and below before Froi saw him look across at his brother. Arjuro’s eyes were wide with horror, and then more bodies flew past them, faces contorted, screams eaten by the air below.
“They’re starting at the top,” De Lancey shouted, wincing as another body of a soldier bounced off the wall of the godshouse. “Get out, Gargarin. Get out.”
“We are locked in,” Gargarin shouted back. He spun around, searching for an answer, and before Froi could argue, Gargarin grabbed him and shoved him toward the wrought iron of the balconette. “You’ve done this climb before. Get to Lirah’s garden and have her let you in. When the street lords reach the prison tower, they’ll release whoever’s in there. Tell them you’re both prisoners of the king.”
Froi nodded. “We can both —”
“No,” Gargarin said. “No time. You know I’ll never be able to climb a step. You do this now. You don’t argue. They won’t kill a prisoner in the king’s tower. I don’t know how much time it will buy you, but it’s better than finding you here.”
“But you —”
“They may use me to bargain, but they will kill you in an instant. Go.”
Froi was shaking his head. The plan was bad. The plan meant Gargarin would die and Froi would never be able to find Quintana.
“The princess …”
“Is in all probability dead,” Gargarin said flatly. “And if she’s not, she will be soon.”
On the other side of the gravina, Arjuro and the provincari watched anxiously.
“Save yourself and take care of Lirah,” Gargarin said, his voice hoarse. He gripped Froi by the shoulders.
“Tell her … tell her that the babe they placed in my hands was smuggled out of the palace to the hidden priests. Tell her that if I knew it was hers, I would have found a way for her to know so she would not have suffered all these years.”
Froi stood on the balconette, his eyes fixed on Gargarin.
“Go,” Gargarin pleaded. “I’m begging you. Keep safe. Keep her safe.”
Froi heard the crash of the door and in an instant he leaped up to catch hold of the latticework of the balconette above their chamber. A moment later, the street lords were outside, one of them holding a hand to Gargarin’s throat. Froi held his breath, praying they would not look above.
There was shouting from the other side of the gravina. “We’ll pay a ransom,” De Lancey shouted. “We’ll pay a ransom!” But Gargarin and the street lords disappeared inside the chamber.
On Lirah’s tower garden, Froi hammered at the door. “Lirah! Lirah!”
He heard a fumble for the lock, and the door was pushed forward.
“What’s happening?” she asked, and he saw the fear in her eyes. “All I hear is screaming and when I stood on the roof …”
She shook her head, and he imagined what she had seen. “We’re going to have to wait for them to open the door,” Froi said. “We’ll say we’re both prisoners of the king, but do not tell them you are Lirah of Serker.”
Lirah nodded.
“Where is she?” Lirah asked. “Where did you hide her?”
Froi looked away. He couldn’t find the words and he saw the slow realization on her face.
“Where is she?”
They heard another scream disappear down the gravina. Froi grabbed her hand and pushed her back inside her prison cell, but Lirah pulled free viciously, as though reason had left her.
“You were supposed to save her. Quintana! Where is she?”
Froi covered Lirah’s mouth with his hand and she bit hard. Stunned, he stepped back.
“Coward. Bastard. You were supposed to save her.”
Froi shook his head.
“Go back and search for her!”
“I can’t,” he said through gritted teeth. “Gargarin said —”
She slapped him hard across the face, hissing through her teeth. “Thank the gods you’re motherless, you piece of worthless garbage, for no woman would stomach such a coward for a son.”
Froi’s face smarted for more reasons than the slap. “Don’t let me say words I regret, Lirah. Gargarin said this is the best way.”
“Don’t speak his name to me,” she cried.
“He said to tell you, Lirah! That he smuggled your son out of the palace eighteen years ago. Give yourself that reason to live.”
“And you believe his lies?” she asked, half-mad with fury.
They heard the sound of a key in the lock, and a man stepped in calmly, wiping the blood of his dagger onto his trousers. Behind him, Froi could see the lifeless body of Lirah’s guard. She gave a small cry. Froi pushed her behind him.
“We’re prisoners of the king,” Froi said, thanking Sagrami that it was neither of the street lords who would have remembered him from outside the godshouse. “The king’s Third Adviser took a liking to my sister here, and when I tried to defend her, he arrested us both.”
The man’s eyes were greedily fastened on Lirah. Froi itched to take the dagger from him, knew he would do it easily, but they needed this man to accompany them out of the palace if they were to survive. The man beckoned them along. Gargarin’s plan could work. Being the king’s prisoners would perhaps set them free. Froi and Lirah stepped over the guard’s body, and Froi felt her body tremble beside him. On one of the landings between the levels of the tower, Froi caught the desperate eyes of two of the dukes, who were on their knees, hands to their heads. In the courtyard, some of the servants were being released into the Citavita. The street lords carried cases of ale and wine from the cellars, smashing the bottles after they emptied them down their throats. Out in the barbican, four soldiers stood with their heads to the wall while a street lord paced back and forth behind them, a dagger in his hand. The last thing Froi heard as he passed them was the sound of the first soldier choking on his own blood.
At the portcullis, the street lord who had escorted them grabbed Lirah, bunching the skirt of her dress in his hands. So close to the entrance, but still not free.
“We live with the soothsayer,” Froi said. “You know where that is? Come visit us this night. My sister will be most grateful if you do.”
Lirah nodded, and the man hesitated a moment, a salacious smile on his face at the promise of what was on offer. He let go of Lirah, and Froi took her hand and hurried away. But just as they reached the drawbridge, drops of blood splattered at their feet and Froi stared up in horror at the body of a man hanging from the battlement, his throat cut, his body bludgeoned. Reaching out to drag Lirah away from the grisly scene, Froi caught the expression of bitter satisfaction on her face and he knew that the street lords had found the king’s body to flaunt to the people.
The king of Charyn was indeed dead. What was it Trevanion had instructed? “The moment he stops breathing, you return home. The very moment. Do not look back.” Run, Froi told himself. Run down to the bridge of the Citavita and leave this place behind.
But the pull of Gargarin’s and Quintana’s fates was too much, and Froi took Lirah’s hand, breaking his second bond to those he loved, in as many days.
They arrived to find a crowd of people gathered at the gods house door, begging to be let in. Froi recognized a provincaro’s guard at the entrance.
“There is no room,” the guard shouted, shoving the crowd back. “No room.”
Froi pushed through, closer to the door, his fingers digging into Lirah’s hand, determined not to let her go. He caught a glimpse of Arjuro inside the foyer. The priestling stood behind the guards, searching anxiously over their shoulders.
“Arjuro! Arjuro!”
Froi climbed onto the back of the man before him. “Arjuro!”
Arjuro pushed past the guard and pointed toward Froi. A moment later, one of the guards shoved his way through the crowd and grabbed Froi and Lirah, dragging them inside.
The door was latched shut behind. The small foyer was packed with not only those who had escaped the palace but also the people of the Citavita, fearing for their lives.
Froi hurried past Arjuro and raced up the stairwell all the way to the top, dodging floor upon floor of people. When he reached the Hall of Illumination, it was filled to the brim, but he shoved his way to the balconette, where only the brave stood watching what took place across the gravina.
“Have you seen her? The princess? Or Gargarin? Have you seen him?”
And the only good news for a day so bleak was that Quintana and Gargarin had not been tossed into the gravina below.
Yet.