Six weeks after Froi arrived in the capital to kill the king of Charyn, he crossed the bridge that would mark his journey home to Lumatere. As he turned back to look just once, the Citavita seemed ghostly in the morning mist, half concealing the strange cluster of rocks with their secret worlds beneath. He couldn’t help but think what would happen to Perabo and all the cave dwellers who had intrigued Quintana that day they spent together. Or those in the castle who were too unimportant to be counted on the death list. Did the cook and the servants and the farriers survive? Did the street lords take their bloody revenge on the soothsayer, aligned to the king for so long? How long would the soulless cutthroats control the lives of all those innocent people? He had heard news that one of the street lords had run off with the ransom of three hundred pieces of gold and the ruby ring, leaving his companions with not a penny. Froi had learned early in life that there was no honor among thieves, and judging from the thirst for blood of those who had murdered the palace dwellers, he could only imagine the fate of the traitorous thief when his former companions caught up with him.
Before Froi on the bridge were the last of those who had decided to leave the capital, including Gargarin and Arjuro. Arjuro kept a distance between himself and his brother, and Froi easily caught up with the priestling.
“Where will you go?” he asked Arjuro quietly. Gargarin had made it abundantly clear that he was going to join De Lancey in Paladozza and that Arjuro and Froi were not invited.
“Osteria is said to be beautiful at this time of the year.”
Froi knew the priestling was lying.
The bridge ended and the crowd traveled north on the road that ran alongside the edge of the gravina. Most of the day, the people were silent, and Froi knew their bodies were hunched under the weight of knowing that they were leaving their home and had nowhere to go. He couldn’t help turning to look back, time and time again, until the rock of the Citavita was a blur.
They reached the three roads that crossed in Upper Charyn, and most took the path east to Sebastabol or Paladozza. A handful continued on the road north that would lead them to the provinces of Jidia or Desantos. Froi’s path was back down the wall of the gravina to collect his weapons.
When the last of the Citavitans had disappeared, Froi still waited with Gargarin and Arjuro. Perhaps a part of him was waiting for something more.
But Gargarin’s stare was cold. “You deserve all the calamities of this world and the next if you ever return to this cesspit of a kingdom,” he said, before leaving in the direction of the crowd and not looking back once.
“Thank you for your time,” Froi shouted after him. “It’s put to rest some idiotic romantic notions!”
Gargarin didn’t stop, nor did he turn around.
“Bastard!” Froi shouted. “Curse the day you were both born,” he shouted at Arjuro as well.
“Someone’s already beaten you to that one, whelp,” the priestling said, taking the road south.
He was going home. Home, he thought for the tenth time that day, traveling down the mountain of rock. Home, where foreign blood had become family to him and where men were strong and virile, not all twisted and broken without a clue of how to defend themselves, or reeking of ale or wine or whatever it was that helped Arjuro endure a day. Home, where no one judged him. Not even the queen, who had every reason in the world to judge him. Lumatere was everything Froi wanted to be, while Charyn was a reminder of everything he despised about himself. That unwanted pathetic street urchin who had begged for food, the surly boy who had sung his song for the rich street pigs of Sarnak and allowed himself to endure so much depravity just to survive. Weak boy. Stupid, useless boy. Froi wanted to kill that boy he had been. If not for Lumatere, he would be nothing and have no one.
Except it was only when Froi had come to Charyn that he realized there had been nights in Lumatere when he felt loneliness beyond imagining. Not once had he felt its intensity here in Charyn. Because you were busy in Charyn. You had too much to do. But he knew he was fooling himself. And now, under this full moon, on his way back to his beloved home, Froi felt the ache of loneliness return. But he fought back the feeling, making plans for the morning instead. He would retrieve his weapons, and then he’d travel to the province of Jidia and pick up a horse. He’d ride two days, he told himself, not even stopping for rest. The sooner he returned to Lumatere, the better for him. He knew the excitement would return the moment he left the outer region of Alonso. There, Lucian’s mountains would appear in the distance and Froi would understand what it meant to be home.
After a moment or two of lying down and staring at the stars, he allowed thoughts of Quintana to enter his head. No matter how hard he tried to fight it, she seemed to be there all the time. Usually she was asking a question of him in her indignant tone. Sometimes he would feel her cold stare of annoyance. Other times the savage would growl low in his ear, a sound from a place so primitive that it thrilled him each time.
He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but then he heard a sound. Not just of the nocturnal world, but something human. A humming. He had seen the last of those from the Citavita head east and knew it couldn’t possibly be any of them. Twigs crackled and he stood, listening before following the sound and then his nose. The strong smell of roasting meat — a gamey smell, hare perhaps — permeated the air.
Up ahead was a small incline off the main path. Froi climbed toward it. He heard a soft song being sung, a prayerlike warble so beautiful in pitch that it made him stop a moment. For, despite all the horror he had endured on the streets of the Sarnak capital, because he knew how to carry a tune, the sound of this song made him want to weep from the pure beauty of it. He climbed farther up and looked over the incline, into a cave where he saw a man hunched over the small fire.
Arjuro.
“I was told that the Osterian border lay south,” Froi called out.
Arjuro jerked in surprise, but after a moment, the priestling went back to stoking the fire, not even bothering to turn.
“This is south,” Arjuro said, pointing to where he sat. “South of that cave. South of that rock.”
“You’re a fool not to have gone, Arjuro.”
“Then come and join me, Abroi’s youngest fool.”
Froi couldn’t help smiling.
He sat before the fire, and Arjuro held out a morsel. Not hare, but some kind of rodent.
“I heard Gargarin tell you to pack some food,” Froi said, trying to keep Gargarin’s reprimanding tone out of his voice.
Arjuro feigned a moment’s thought, his fingers at his chin for emphasis. “Hmm, what was I doing when he told me that? Ah, yes, I think I was too busy ignoring him.”
Perhaps Froi’s strangest sadness this day was that the brothers weren’t traveling together.
“What are you doing here, Arjuro? You can’t stay hidden at the bottom of the gravina. There’s nothing here.”
“Just the way I prefer it,” Arjuro said. “This last month of sharing everyone’s breathing space and stench has driven me quite mad.”
Froi saw the truth on Arjuro’s face. He had no place to go. Suddenly he was overwhelmed by fierce emotion for this bitter man. Blood sings to blood. Rafuel’s words were never so true.
There was silence for a time as they ate, the fire illuminating the remoteness out here in a world that seemed forsaken by all. Froi found himself clearing his throat.
“Well … I have connections,” he said. “In Lumatere.”
“And you’re telling me this why?” Arjuro asked.
Froi felt foolish, but he spoke the words anyway. “I can take you home with me. The queen may grant you sanctuary because you’re the last of the priestlings. I heard them say it once. That the first people they’d allow into Lumatere were those who were the last of their kind.”
Arjuro studied him in the flickering firelight, and Froi had to look away. It was all too intense for him. It wasn’t like the moments of disappointment and reprimand or approval from Trevanion and Perri. They kept emotion out of their stares. Arjuro didn’t.
“Well, first, I’m not quite the last of my kind,” Arjuro said. “There are many hidden priests and priestesses in Charyn, mostly in the mountains outside Sebastabol. Second, you can’t take me home as though I’m some kind of puppy, and third, I’d rather live on rodents for the rest of my life than live in Lumatere.”
“Well, that’s rude,” Froi said. “I’ll not offer again. And I meant that you’re the last of the priestlings, not priests.”
“Another irritating fact,” Arjuro said. “I’ll be forty-three in the spring. Do you know how demoralizing it is to still be called a priestling?”
Froi tried not to smile but couldn’t help himself. There was silence again, but he was getting used to it. Back in Lumatere, Froi was the instigator of silence. Here, he was the one who always seemed to end it.
“The song you were singing? What was it?”
Arjuro looked up again, his expression somber.
“It’s the song of the dead. If it’s sung by the gods’ touched, sometimes the soul of one who is lost may be able to return home.”
“Home?”
“Wherever they came from. When a Charynite dies, their people call their name out loud for the gods to hear and then the gods allow the souls to enter a sphere within the city or province. So the living and dead live side by side. But if their names are not called out loud, the gods have no idea where they are and the souls are lost.”
“That’s what the soothsayer said,” Froi said. “About the ghosts of Serker.”
Arjuro nodded. “Their names were never called out. They never will be, because too many of them died and no one has a record of all the names. Serker was razed to the ground.”
“Who were you singing to?”
“I can feel restless spirits in these parts.”
Arjuro began to sing the song of the dead again, and his voice was so deep and pure that Froi could imagine the beauty of him as a young priestling, charming the world, loved by the handsome De Lancey, spoiled by the oracle, adored by his brother. In his song, he sang names that sounded strangely familiar, and when Froi heard the name Mawfa, he knew that the priestling had memorized every one of those tossed from the palace balconette or hanged at the gale.
“Can you not sing for Tariq?” Froi asked quietly, after the song was sung.
Arjuro shook his head. “Tariq belongs to Lascow. He doesn’t want to be kept in the Citavita. He wants to return to his mountains.”
Froi shivered at the thought that if he was to die and they called out his name, he would have no idea where his spirit would belong.
“What is your plan, Arjuro?” he asked. “The truth this time.”
Arjuro shrugged. “First I’ll find out what that fool brother of mine is up to, and then I’ll probably head to the Sebastabol mountains.”
Froi was confused, but that was nothing new when it came to Arjuro.
“What’s Gargarin got to do with anything now?” he asked, trying to keep the curiosity out of his voice.
“Do you honestly believe he’s gone to Paladozza?”
Froi nodded, surprised by the words.
“Despite our years apart, I can pick my brother’s lies in an instant.”
“Then where is he?” Froi asked.
“Is that excitement I hear in your voice?”
“No,” Froi snapped, but his heart was beating hard. “Go on.”
“Very rude to speak with your mouth full.”
“Hmm, pity my family wasn’t around to sit me down and teach me how to behave properly.”
Something flashed in Arjuro’s eyes. He reached into his pack and retrieved a bottle, holding it up in the light from the fire.
“Mead, not wine, but it will have to do.”
Arjuro took a swig and handed the bottle to Froi.
“Where is he?” Froi asked quietly, despising himself for wanting to know.
“He could still be struggling down this gravina,” Arjuro said. “I traveled after you and didn’t come across him. He probably stayed a while in Upper Charyn, deliberating. He likes to deliberate, my brother does. When we were boys, he’d spend hours and days deliberating about whether it was safe to escape from my father.”
A rare flash of pain crossed Arjuro’s face at the memory.
“And in the palace prison, I can assure you he deliberated for eight years.”
Arjuro’s eyes met Froi’s. “As we speak, he’ll be deliberating about whether he should have explained that he ordered his son home to Lumatere because he wanted him safe, or whether his son will despise him for the rest of his days if the words remained unspoken.”
His son. Froi had never been anyone’s son, although at times he had sensed a father in Perri. Even Lord August, after a good day’s work, would gather his sons and Froi together in thanks. Something inside Froi’s gut twisted at Arjuro’s words. Oh, you fool, Froi. You’ve always wanted to be someone’s son.
Arjuro smiled sadly. “He’s probably wondering about whether it’s better to trust his instincts.”
“What do you think his instincts are telling him?”
Arjuro shrugged. “Does it matter? I’m going to follow his example, Dafar.”
Froi shuddered at the sound of that name.
“I’m going to tell you to go home to Lumatere and not look back,” Arjuro said gently.
Froi held a hand out for the bottle, took another swig. “I’ve only come this way for my weapons.”
“Good.”
Froi nodded, handing the bottle back to the priestling. “But do you want to hear what my instincts are telling me right now?” He didn’t wait for Arjuro’s response. “My instincts tell me that Lirah took Quintana to the only place that has ever been safe to her and that Gargarin is searching for them. He needs absolution. That’s what I’ve discovered about him these past few weeks. You see, Gargarin returned to the Citavita to tell you and Lirah the truth and then to kill the king. He failed at all three.”
Froi’s instincts were good. He could tell. Arjuro stopped mid-swig.
“He’s heading toward the cave you both claim as yours,” Froi continued, almost cheerfully. He liked being right. “The one where you hid the oracle and where I first saw Gargarin’s scowling face. Where he took Lirah and you took De Lancey once upon a time when life was joyful.”
Arjuro gave nothing away.
Froi continued. “Lirah mentioned the cave. You mentioned it. In between getting his bones broken and being imprisoned, Gargarin mopes in the cave. De Lancey fantasizes about the cave.” Froi shook his head mockingly. “If those frescoes could talk, they would blush from what they’ve seen the brothers of Abroi get up to in that cave.”
Arjuro was silent, but after a moment, Froi saw his mouth twitch.
“Still shocks me that you’re not as stupid as you look, runt.”
Rain fell throughout the night, making their journey down the gravina even more difficult than when Froi had climbed it weeks before with Gargarin. Arjuro cursed and grumbled for most of the time, and if Froi didn’t know every Charynite curse word when he set out that day, his companion had introduced him to most by late afternoon.
When rain came pelting down again, they crawled into the closest cave, its ceiling too low to stand. Arjuro sat for most of the night at the entrance of the tiny space, brooding.
“My brother’s an idiot,” he said, refusing to lie down. “He’s probably dead at the bottom of the gravina, stacked on top of the rest of those bodies they tossed down.”
Later, Froi was awakened by the sounds of voices, but then he heard nothing and thought he had imagined it.
“What are the chances of someone other than Gargarin being down here?” he asked Arjuro in the dark, knowing the priestling was awake.
“Apart from Lirah and the girl, probably none. This isn’t exactly the fastest way to the rest of the kingdom. People only come down here to catch trout and I don’t think anyone in Charyn feels like fishing at the moment.”
The world was silent again and it was at such times that Froi missed Quintana most. Missed the solace he felt as they lay beside one another. He fell asleep thinking of their last night together in the palace, when her legs had wrapped around him and he had heard the cry in her voice as she buckled against him. “Again,” she had whispered. “Again.”
He woke to a sound and realized he had groaned aloud.
“Think of an ice-water bath,” Arjuro mocked from where he sat. “It always kills any desire in me.”
Early the next morning, they heard the sound of shuffling along the path outside the cave.
Arjuro made a strange birdlike sound, and Froi could have sworn that there was excitement on the priestling’s face.
“You don’t speak to him for eighteen years, and you still share a whistle?” Froi whispered.
“Nothing wrong with a whistle.”
Froi chuckled. “You would like Finnikin of Lumatere. He has a passion for whistles. One for his wife. One for his hound. One for his daughter. One for his father. And then there’s the one for when he’s merely enjoying the day.”
A moment later, they heard the birdsong returned.
Froi crawled out of the cave. Gargarin was sitting low behind a rock ahead of them, as though trying to avoid being seen by someone farther down. Gargarin turned, held a finger to his lips, and beckoned Froi over, not even questioning what he was doing there. Gargarin pointed down into the gully. Froi saw the cave where he had hidden his weapons, marked by the image of the fan bird. But farther down, where the stream passed Gargarin’s cave, he saw horses.
Froi pointed up and quietly climbed to a higher rock. From there, he saw the palace riders instantly. At least ten of them had set up camp downstream from Gargarin’s cave.
“Not good,” he said when he climbed down. “They’re here for something, and I don’t think it’s us.”
“Have you seen Lirah and the girl?” Arjuro asked, joining them.
Gargarin shook his head. “But I saw two men watch our cave for some time.”
Gargarin said the “our” unconsciously. “Then your man arrived, Froi.”
“My man?” Froi asked, confused.
“That whining idiot Zabat.”
“With palace riders? Bestiano’s? You’re wrong.”
“Not wrong at all,” Gargarin retorted, as though he were never wrong. “First Dorcas entered with two riders. Then another rider arrived with Zabat. Zabat entered and I’ve not seen the three inside since.”
“Zabat,” Froi whispered again, trying to understand what Rafuel’s messenger was up to. “With Bestiano’s men?”
He thought a moment. He needed to get his short sword and daggers, and then he would work out a way to speak to Zabat. “Follow me.”
Ensuring that the path was safe, they moved quickly down toward the rock marked with the fan bird. Froi lay on his stomach and squeezed his way to the rim of the cave. He felt around in the darkness, but there was nothing there.
“My weapons,” he called out to them softly. “Someone’s taken them!”
He searched again, his hands patting every nook and cranny. Frustrated, he began to worm his way out.
“Well, at least you have the sword the keeper of the caves gave you,” Arjuro said.
When he was out of the cave, Froi looked up at Arjuro with annoyance.
“This?” Froi snapped, clutching at the scabbard. “This is just a … a stick with a blade. Not a sword. Perri had my short sword and daggers made for me. With Froi engraved on them all.”
“Well it’s a good thing they’re lost because Froi’s not exactly a name,” Gargarin said. “It’s just a sound those imbeciles came up with.”
“Yes, you’d think the Sarnaks would be able to say a word with more than one beat by now,” Arjuro mused.
“This coming from the idiot who named me Nothing,” Froi snapped, jumping to his feet. “My weapons are missing,” he hissed.
“We heard you the first time,” Gargarin said. “And that stick with a blade is going to have to do for the time being, because I doubt very much that Zabat and Bestiano’s men are meeting in our cave for an Arjuro–De Lancey inspired dalliance.”
“You can’t be sure Lirah and the girl are in there,” Arjuro said.
Gargarin didn’t respond, but his brow was creased as if trying to work out a riddle. After a moment, Arjuro asked, “What?”
“Why would Bestiano kill the king now of all times? What does he want from the princess?”
“What he’s always wanted from her,” Froi said bitterly. “He believes she’s the vessel. She produces the heir and he can walk straight back into the palace with power.”
“Then why didn’t he take her with him when he left the palace? If he planned to kill the king, why didn’t he plan to take the one he believed to be the vessel when she was right there in front of him?”
Froi shrugged, and Arjuro waited for Gargarin’s explanation.
“I think he was taken by surprise,” Gargarin said. “I think someone else killed the king and Quintana was a witness to it all. Locked in that strange mad head is the truth.”
“But how did Bestiano know she would be here?” Froi asked.
“The same way he knew where to find Tariq. He has spies,” Gargarin said, a pained expression crossing his face, and Froi knew he was thinking of the slain heir. Perhaps Tariq was the son Gargarin always wanted.
“Let’s presume that his men are secretly watching the flow of people coming over that bridge and there she is with Lirah. Not recognizable to the rest of Charyn, but certainly to the king’s riders, who saw her every day. So they follow her down here.”
Froi went back into the rock to search for his weapons a third time. If he was to release Quintana and Lirah, he would need them. Gargarin grabbed him by the scruff of his neck.
“The weapons aren’t there!” Gargarin snapped. “Do you think they’ll appear like magic?”
“Then I’ll have to go in and speak to the riders unarmed. They won’t kill me —”
“Of course they will.”
“They won’t,” Froi argued. “I’m Lumateran. The last thing they want is for the Lumaterans to invade.”
Arjuro made a scoffing sound. “You think Lumatere will invade because of you? Are you that important?”
Froi looked away. “Isaboe would invade if you kidnapped a servant, let alone a friend.”
“Isaboe? We’re on first-name terms with the queen of Lumatere, are we?” Gargarin asked.
Froi found himself bristling. “What? Do you think I’m some cutthroat for hire who they found hanging around the palace walls with the words ‘I want to kill a Charynite king’ tattooed on my arse?”
“No, but I didn’t expect you to live in the palace guardhouse.”
“I don’t. I live in the Flatlands with a family that has given me a home these past three years. Lord Augie is a —”
“August of the Flatlands?” Gargarin stared with disbelief. “The ambassador to Belegonia?”
“So he knows the queen and he lives with nobility,” Arjuro said, bored. “Should we be impressed?”
“And I’m presuming you were taught to speak Charyn by the holy man?” Gargarin continued the interrogation.
Arjuro stared. Suddenly he seemed to care. “The priest-king? As in the blessed Barakah of Lumatere?”
“He doesn’t enjoy titles these days,” Froi said quietly. Suddenly the brothers seemed strange and slightly defensive. Gargarin closed his eyes for a moment, and Froi couldn’t tell what he was thinking.
“Go. Home,” Gargarin said tiredly. “Just go. You don’t belong here. You belong there. You can play with nobility in the Flatlands and continue your lessons with the holy man. But don’t stay here and waste your life.”
“I want my weapons back,” Froi lied, “and I know Zabat is the one who took them. I’m going to ask for them politely.”
“How can you possibly think that’s a sound idea?” Gargarin asked with frustration.
“I’m a foreigner, Gargarin. Zabat and Dorcas know that. The last thing they or Bestiano want is to instigate a war against Lumatere.”
“If Zabat knows so much about what you’re doing in Charyn, he can have you arrested for conspiracy to kill the king, which will acquit Bestiano and allow them all to return to the capital,” Arjuro said.
“Arrested by who?” Froi argued. “No one’s in charge except for those savages in the Citavita. If Zabat is working for Bestiano, they won’t have the power to arrest anyone just yet. They’re fugitives themselves.”
“Then it’s better that I go,” Gargarin said.
Arjuro was looking from one to the other. “You’re both idiots,” he said angrily. “I suggest the three of us get out of this death pit before it’s swarming with Bestiano’s riders.”
“I said I’m going.” Froi pushed past Gargarin. Gargarin grabbed him by his tunic.
“Do you honestly think you can release the women and escape that cave with five of them surrounding you and no weapon? Because I can assure you that the guard standing outside will not allow you to enter with that sword, regardless of how worthless you think it is.”
“If they know I’m Lumateran, they will not kill me,” Froi hissed, wondering if Gargarin was hard of hearing or plain stupid. “They will ransom me instead. Your life as a Charynite, on the other hand, is worth much less and you know it.”
“I say we walk away,” Arjuro repeated. “You, you, and me,” he said, pointing to all three of them. “She’s not worth your lives. Neither of them is. The whole of Charyn will agree with me.”
“Do you know what my captain and his second-in-charge have told me over and over again?” Froi asked.
“Not interested,” Arjuro said.
“That if there is no means to an end, then buy time,” Froi continued. “Each moment you buy provides you with more of an opportunity. Someone makes a mistake. Some distraction occurs. The scenario changes.”
“Yes, from two corpses to three,” Gargarin said.
“Well, I could always go,” Arjuro said. “They’re not going to kill the last priestling.”
Gargarin stared at his brother as though noticing him for the first time. “Why aren’t you on the road to Osteria?”
“Because I’d like to die of natural causes and not of boredom, brother,” Arjuro responded.
Froi won the argument and made his way toward the stream to Gargarin’s cave. When he was within shouting distance, he stepped out of the clearing, both arms extended wide. The two palace riders stood to attention, and Froi watched one disappear to alert those inside.
A moment later, Froi found himself lying flat on the hard earth while his whole person was checked for weapons.
“Tell Zabat I want to speak to him. Tell him it’s Froi of Lumatere. He’ll know me better as Olivier of Sebastabol.”
He was dragged to his feet and pushed toward the cave. At the entrance, he was checked again and then dragged inside.
He noticed the walls first. Painted with grand images of the gods, strong and mighty.
On a filthy cot in the corner sat Quintana and Lirah. When Lirah saw him, she closed her eyes with what seemed bitter despair. Quintana’s eyes flashed with what he could only understand as some kind of victory.
Dorcas’s expression revealed nothing except slight irritation, which was nothing new when he was looking at Froi.
“Tell your guard to stay,” Zabat ordered Dorcas.
“Zabat?” Froi asked, pretending hurt. “Do you not trust me?”
Dorcas ignored them both and looked back toward the guard. “Did you disarm him?”
“He wasn’t armed, sir.”
Zabat’s expression was disbelieving. “Search him again. Be careful. He’ll go for your weapon.”
Froi held out his arms impassively as he was thoroughly searched for a second time, his eyes never leaving those of Rafuel’s traitorous messenger.
“I’m praying for your sake that you haven’t betrayed your brothers in the valley, Zabat,” he said.
“And why is that?”
“Because I’ll have to kill you. It’s part of my bond.”
Zabat had the good sense to look nervous.
“A smart man chooses the side with more might, but if it’s any consolation, we all work for the good of Charyn,” he said.
The fool looked to Dorcas and the two guards, pleased with his words. They ignored him.
“Leave,” Dorcas ordered Froi. “Take Lirah of Serker with you. We have no quarrel with Lumatere, if it is true that’s where you’re from. Tell your people to keep out of our affairs.”
“Why can’t I take her with me, Dorcas?” Froi said, pointing to Quintana. “She’s worthless.”
“My orders are to return the princess to Bestiano. It is imperative that she explains the truth of the curse after all these years of deceit, so the true last-born girls of Charyn can do what they were born to do. It is the role of the riders to keep Charyn secure.”
Dorcas spoke as if he were reciting the original order he had been given.
“Was it your sword that killed Tariq of Lascow?” Froi asked. “Did you follow the order to kill him? Kill all those innocent people in his compound?”
“If I was there, I would have followed orders,” Dorcas said. “But I was sent here. Regardless, I am comforted by the idea that Bestiano brought to justice those who were responsible for planning the murder of our king. The kills were said to be quick and clean.”
“You weren’t there because you’re nothing to them, Dorcas,” Froi said forcefully. “You’ve been assigned to run after a useless princess. You weren’t there because Bestiano and his riders don’t want you to know the truth. That according to the provincari, Bestiano killed the king.”
“The provincari have their own reasons to lie,” Dorcas snapped, and for once Froi saw his uncertainty.
“The riders murdered the rightful heir, Dorcas,” he continued. “The only man who could bring justice to Charyn. And you would have done the same because you’re a fool who doesn’t know how to do anything but follow orders.”
“Bonds? Orders? What’s the difference?” Zabat interrupted. “Your orders are the same, Lumateran.”
“In any case,” Dorcas snapped. “Bestiano’s fight is not with foreigners. It is with the men who planned the murder. So I ask you again to leave and take Lirah of Serker with you. We’re not the street lords. We have no intention of slaughtering without reason.”
“How will the seed be planted?” Quintana asked coldly from the cot.
Everyone turned to stare.
“So the true last-born girls of Charyn can do what they were born to do?” she repeated his words. “Who will fight to be the sire? Will it be Bestiano? Will the riders gather up the girls for him, Dorcas? Will you be reduced to that? Will you kill the fathers who fight to keep their daughters safe?”
Dorcas looked away, uncomfortable.
“Are you envious, Reginita?” Zabat spat out the words. “Isn’t that what you call yourself? Are you envious because your father did not fight for your safety?”
She shook her head. “Just dismayed that the lie we told these years past was futile.”
Zabat’s smile was of unpleasant satisfaction.
“So here is the truth. Was I not always right when no one else would believe me? The reginita, she claimed to be. The little queen.” He looked at Froi. “How many years did we waste listening to her tell the people that she was the only one among the last borns who could break the curse?”
Froi looked at Quintana. He didn’t know what to believe.
“Nothing in the curse said that I would give birth to the firstborn,” she said, her voice cool. “Just that it would be the last who would do so. But I made sure my father gave a royal decree that only the reginita and a last-born male would break the curse. Myself and Tariq, my betrothed, the rightful heir. Anyone else who dared try would be defying the gods. My father was forced to believe me. The king had offended the gods in two kingdoms by then, and no one feared them more than he did.”
“Why would you tell such a lie?” Dorcas asked.
“Why do you think, Dorcas?” she said sadly. “Because I grew up in the palace and had come to understand the baseness of a man’s heart. They branded the last-born girls on our thirteenth day of weeping. Tariq and I knew what that meant. My mother, Lirah, was sold in her thirteenth year. Do you honestly think the branding was for any other reason but to destroy the bodies and spirits of young girls destined to produce the first?”
Zabat’s expression was ugly.
“You made up a story to win your father’s attention. Because he despised his abomination,” Zabat said.
Lirah stood and glared at Zabat, who took a step back. She indicated Froi with a toss of her head. “He will kill you, fool. Mark my words. I saw him maim four of De Lancey’s men in the godshouse in the blink of an eye.”
The second rider was nervous, staring from the women to Froi. Dorcas looked at Froi uneasily, a film of perspiration on his brow.
“Search him again,” he said.
“Let him go.” Quintana sighed, dismissing Froi with a wave of her hand. “He’s no threat to you or Bestiano. He was sent to end my life, not yours or my father’s. That is the truth. He admitted it to me himself.”
She stood, and the riders stepped toward her. Fear was in the room. Even in Quintana’s eyes. Froi saw it there, combined with fury, and it was directed his way.
“But I want to speak to him first,” she said. “To say that although you’ve betrayed me, Lumateran, I want you to know that those gifts you left me in that little treasure chest with the fan bird etched in its stone are ones that I will always carry in my heart.”
Froi fought hard to conceal every thought that ran through his mind. Every emotion. The thrill and satisfaction that came with the knowledge of what she was trying to tell him.
He looked at Dorcas. He needed to buy time.
“This is not my fight,” he said after a pause.
Dorcas nodded, pleased. Relieved.
“Good to hear. Don’t ever let me see you in these parts again, Lumateran.”
Froi turned to walk away and then stopped.
“Can I … ?” Froi looked down, pretending awkwardness. “Can I bid her farewell?” He leaned close to Dorcas. “I did share her bed,” he whispered, “and I did lose a bit of my heart to her. Or to one of those who live inside of her, anyway.”
Dorcas stared from Froi to Quintana and nodded. “Make it quick.”
Froi joined her where she stood beside the cot. He took her hands and felt where she had concealed the daggers he’d buried in the cave. He was impressed with the way the scabbards were perfectly placed.
“Did I ever call you useless?” he asked softly.
“Three times,” she said, her tone sour.
“Three times, you say?”
“Yes, we tend to count the amount of times we’re called useless by one person. Bestiano made mention of it thirty-seven times.”
“My, my, you do have a good memory for details.”
She nodded. “And I do believe you referred to me as worthless moments ago.”
He rubbed her palm intimately and then placed his hands on both her shoulders, feeling the scabbard across her shoulder.
“Their measurement of worth, Princess. Not mine.”
He leaned forward to press a kiss to her mouth. Regardless of the circumstances, she still moved her face slightly so his lips touched her cheek instead.
“You’ve lost that privilege,” she said coolly.
“Pity.”
Froi yanked the two daggers from her sleeve and hurled one at Zabat, catching him between the eyes, the other at the second rider’s thigh as he kicked the man’s sword from his hand and spun Quintana around to retrieve the short sword at her shoulders. He pushed her behind him, smashing Dorcas across the temple with the handle of the sword just as Lirah scrambled for a dagger. The third guard entered the cave, weapon raised, hesitating one moment too long as he stared at the body of the dead man and at Dorcas struggling to his feet. In an instant, Lirah had a sword pointed at the back of the man’s neck and Froi put a foot on Dorcas’s chest.
“I’m going to regret not killing you,” Froi said, looking down at him, “but it’s not in my bond to take your life.”
“And it was in your bond to take his?” Dorcas gasped, pointing to Zabat’s body.
“Zabat has brought war to the edge of my kingdom. My bond is to destroy anyone who is a threat to Lumatere.”
Satisfied that the three riders were tied up securely, Froi stepped outside to where Quintana and Lirah stood. He whistled softly and listened for the whistle in return. They heard it and he followed the sound along the stream and up a path. Arjuro’s head suddenly appeared behind a twisted knot of shrubbery that concealed a low narrow entrance to a cave. Froi gently pushed Lirah before him, then turned, only to see Quintana running.
From him.
Enraged, he tore after her, catching her on an incline, causing them both to tumble to the ground. He heard voices and held a hand over her mouth as they tried to control their ragged breaths. He knew by the sound of the footsteps that there were two others circling.
“Go check on Dorcas,” he heard the rider closest to them say.
A caterpillar found its way across the rider’s boot, and Froi watched Quintana’s finger reach out and softly brush its texture as if she’d never seen anything so strange before. Froi knew the moment she felt its sting, her eyes wide with shock. Forgetting his anger for a moment, he gripped her finger in his fist to soften the pain. When the riders walked away and they heard the last of their footsteps, Froi grabbed her hand and dragged her into the cave where the others hid.
When he was satisfied that the cave entrance was concealed by the shrubs and they were safe for the time being, he turned to where she sat huddled against the wall, her arms clasped around her knees, eyes fixed on Froi’s as if he were some fiend rather than the one who had saved her life.
“You could have got us killed,” he whispered with anger. “All of us. You never run from me again. Do you hear?”
Lirah crouched beside Quintana. “Try to sleep,” she murmured, but Quintana shook her head and whispered in Lirah’s ear, her eyes never leaving Froi’s the whole time.
“No,” Lirah said patiently, “I think you’re both safe for now.”
Through the night, Froi lay awake, listening for every snap of a twig or voice outside. He could see the outline of Quintana sitting up, felt her eyes boring into him. In the morning, when a little light entered the cave, he found her seated exactly as she had been the night before, her eyes fixed on where he was.
“I’m going to catch us something to eat,” he muttered, and before the others could argue against it, he was gone.