There had been silence among the three of them for most of the next day. Gargarin had suggested that they first return to the inn for their horses and then head north to the Lascow Mountains. If there were any chance of raising an army, it would be with the people grieving the heir Tariq and his family.
“What are your thoughts?” Gargarin asked Froi.
“Whatever you think is right,” Froi replied.
When they reached the inn, however, Gargarin and Lirah’s horse was gone. Stolen. The stable boy knew little, except that out of all the horses taking shelter, theirs was the only one gone. Froi was suspicious.
So Lirah rode with Gargarin on Froi’s horse and Froi kept up with them on foot. Once or twice he felt Lirah’s stare, but he couldn’t meet it. He thought of what he had told them in Paladozza that last day, when he escaped with Quintana. About who he had once been on the filthy streets of the Sarnak capital. There were too many ugly memories. Too much shame. He didn’t want to see judgment in Lirah’s eyes. Froi didn’t have to worry about seeing anything in Gargarin’s eyes. Gargarin refused to look at him.
They traveled farther into the woodlands that evening. It was a peculiar place, where branches hung low and bare limbs in a blue-gray mist hovered over them like the long, thin specter of death that sometimes haunted Froi’s dreams. He knew they would soon be back in the stone terrain he had become used to. But, for now, these woodlands were a strangely familiar reminder of winter in the forest of Lumatere. Rather than feeling comforted, Froi was reminded that he no longer belonged in that kingdom.
When they were deep in the heart of the woodland, Lirah stopped the horse.
“I can go on,” Froi said, his voice curt. Did they think him weak? Had he shown in any way that his body didn’t have the strength it once had?
“Well, I’m tired,” Lirah said, dismounting. “I need to rest, so we rest.”
Froi made himself scarce, collecting kindling and ignoring Gargarin, who sat hunched on a log, scribbling.
“We need to write a list of where she would have gone,” Gargarin said, not looking up. “We can’t leave any stone unturned. Tell me of those last moments.”
Those last moments outside the province of Paladozza. When Olivier betrayed them. And Quintana cried. For Froi. And he made a promise to protect her. And failed. And the sound of arrows as they flew past his ears. The way they felt when they tore into his body time and time again. Froi had never been injured before then. He remembered the time in Yutlind Sud when he had seen Finnikin lying facedown in a filthy river with an arrow in his side. Worse still, he remembered Isaboe’s despair. Is that what Quintana thought? That he was dead? Was she afraid?
“I told her to run… .” He shook his head. “I lost con-
sciousness… .”
Gargarin muttered something and went on scribbling. Froi despised himself for every moment of his life since he made that decision to take her from the provincaro’s home in Paladozza. More than you, he wanted to shout out to Gargarin. I despise myself more than you.
When it was time to sleep, Gargarin and Lirah bunked down in a hollow that seemed large enough to protect them from both the cold and rain. Froi chose to squeeze himself under two fallen logs close by, and he watched the world outside with a misery deepened by the sleet and cold. But soon after, Lirah squeezed in beside him. With a rough hand at his chin, she began to dab at the cuts on his face with some sort of sap from a plant she had picked while they had set up camp. Froi tossed his head, pulling away, but she grabbed his face again.
“Push me away and I’ll hurt you more than that Lumateran ginger cat.”
For an instant he imagined the amusement Finnikin would find in the description until he realized that there was nothing Froi could ever say again that Finnikin would find entertaining. He felt Lirah’s stare on him the whole time as she dabbed and cleaned the wounds, and when Froi could no longer ignore her and pretend Gargarin wasn’t there, his eyes clashed with hers. He was tired and bereft without his friends, and because he ached for Quintana, he spoke the words that had choked him since he awoke in Arjuro’s cave.
“I couldn’t protect her and I’ve let down my queen and her king and … he”— Froi pointed in Gargarin’s direction —“he won’t even look at me.”
And this time her fingers were gentle and she pushed his cap up from his eyes.
“I’ve seen Gargarin weep twice in his life,” she said quietly. “Once when they arrested his brother for the slaughter in the godshouse, and some weeks ago when we received word in Pala-dozza that a lad struck by eight arrows lay dead on the northern hills. De Lancey sent his men to retrieve your body, but it was gone and we waited a week to discover the truth. That you were with the priests of Trist in the caves, saved by Arjuro.”
Froi let her clean the rest of his grazes.
“And you?” he asked. “What did you do?”
“I’ve wept enough in my life. I have no tears left.”
Not one for great sentimentality, she finished her task and shuffled out from under the logs. “I’m not giving up the comfort of a better shelter,” she said, her voice cool. “And you’d be a fool not to join us.”
He watched Lirah hold a hand over her head to protect her from the rain as she made her way back to Gargarin.
It was some time before Froi joined them. Lirah made room and sat between Froi and Gargarin and he saw her lips curve into a smile. After a while, Gargarin reached across her to pass Froi his journal. Froi took it, looking at the map.
“We’ve sent messengers to the Turlan and Lascow Mountains. She won’t go north to Satch of Desantos because of the plague,” Gargarin said. “Any ideas?”
Froi pointed east on the map. “Perhaps to the ocean. On the last night we were together at De Lancey’s in Paladozza, she told me that she had always wanted to see the ocean. She loved the stories of the sea sirens. Perhaps she’ll go searching for the safe places from the tales she loved.”
“Not much to go by,” Gargarin said. Froi watched him swallow hard. “If Quintana was dead … we would know of it soon enough. It’s been some time now. She has the sign of a last born on her nape and a babe in her belly. A Charynite would have to be hiding under a rock not to know that a girl fitting that description is the princess.”
“She’s not dead,” Froi said.
“How do you know that?”
Froi felt strange to say the words. “It’s as if I hear her tune … not the words, but the beat. I’ve always sensed it. It strums in my blood.”
They were quiet after that, except for the rustle of Gargarin removing his pelt cloak to wrap around them. Lirah tugged Froi closer and covered them all, and that night, despite the rain and cold and the cramped space of their dugout, Froi placed his head against her shoulder and slept.
Early the next morning, he left them sleeping in a bid to find anything edible. At least with the rain there’d be slugs, and that would have to do for now. He was interrupted by the faint sound of neighing, and although it could easily have been a Charynite traveling upriver, wanting to get as far from the Belegonian river crossing as possible, Froi wasn’t convinced. Finding the closest sturdy tree, he climbed quickly and looked out toward the direction of the sound.
“Sagra!”
He twisted around once, twice, three times to search in every direction, his knees almost buckling from under him. The woodlands were swarming with riders, traveling toward the center. A small army was coming from three different directions to trap their prey. Froi didn’t have to guess who they hunted. He scampered down and hit the ground, then ran toward the shelter and watched as they disappeared into the woods. The soldiers must have waited, finding a way to surround the three of them, ensuring they were too deep within the woods to escape.
“We’ve got company,” he said, reaching the shelter. Lirah and Gargarin crawled out, quickly gathering their possessions.
Froi had to think fast. If he attacked from up high, he could slow down Bestiano’s men. He only had one longbow with very few bolts, but it would be enough to get Lirah and Gargarin to safety. Although he sensed movement from south of the woods, those men moved stealthily, and he could barely make out their presence. He was better off attacking those who were visible.
“Get back into the shelter,” he ordered. “They know exactly where we are, and they’ll be pelting us with arrows in no time. When I give you the signal to take the horse and run, you do it.”
“Which direction serves us better?” Gargarin asked.
“North. Those men are sluggish. There’s perhaps nine or ten of them. I’ll have enough barbs to slow them down. Whatever you do, don’t head toward the river or cross the border. Sagra only knows what the Osterians and Belegonians have got in mind.”
Froi turned, searching for the tallest tree, but Gargarin grabbed his arm.
“You know it’s me they want. If I surrender —”
“It won’t be a surrender!” Froi said. “It’ll be a slaying. Don’t even try to fool me into believing you can bargain for your life. That army is after you, Gargarin. For a kill. You’re the only person who stands between Bestiano and the palace.”
An arrow flew into the clearing and landed close by.
“The shelter!” Froi shouted, spinning around. He found what he was looking for and began his climb up a tree close to the fallen logs where he had first taken refuge. Although an easy climb, he tried not to look down. He was high above the ground, and he knew it would be a backbreaking fall if it was to happen.
But you won’t fall, because you can climb anything, Froi. Remember the gravina.
He cursed himself for not exchanging Arjuro’s coins for more weapons. He knew he could not afford to miss, not with only eight arrows in his quiver. He had to hit his marks. He reached the top branch, and a glance on all sides told him that those from the north and east had picked up speed. He couldn’t see the men coming from the south but knew they were there. They were the ones to fear. They were perhaps Bestiano’s best-
trained men.
Froi secured himself in the crook of the tree and waited … waited … needing the riders to be within his range, fighting the urge to fire a bolt, knowing it was an arrow he could not spare. He begged himself patience, and with a steady hand, he held the bow taut. Waited. And then when those from the north were near enough for Froi to almost catch a glimpse of their faces, he took his chance and fired … once, twice, three times. Retreated. Waited. He quickly peered out and saw he had hit with precision, and he felt bitter satisfaction in seeing the men fall. But behind him, he heard the air whistle with arrows and prayed that Gargarin and Lirah were protected by their shelter. He retreated again, knowing he needed to clear a path for them both to the north. But when he looked in that direction, the riders were no longer there. Froi felt the hairs on his arm raise. He didn’t want to be playing cat and mouse with them now. Desperate to see where they were concealed, he crawled onto the exposed tree limb, balancing himself until it afforded him a better look. He took aim. One man went down and then another. But just as he aimed for the last, he felt the sharp nip of an arrow at his thigh, causing him to lose balance. He fought to stay straddled upright but failed and toppled off the branch, his hand shooting out to grip the branch, leaving his body hanging from just one arm.
“Froi!” Gargarin’s voice sounded far away.
“Stay in the shelter!” Froi shouted, beads of perspiration on his skin as he tried with all his might to reach the tree with his other hand. That was all he needed. Two firm handholds. He dared not look down, knowing his fall would not be broken, but his body would be. With his arm so weak, Froi couldn’t hold on for much longer. He heard the whistles of arrows as he hung like a well-marked target on a practice range, his body a beacon.
“Take the horse. Head north!” he called out, his voice straining.
He could hear shouting in return, but he was too high up to understand their response. Had Lirah and Gargarin already been taken? He felt his hand slipping and knew he didn’t want to die this way. Not from a fall. He closed his eyes and summoned the strength to hold on, but he was too weak. His body had not yet recovered, and he couldn’t save himself. And he prayed, realizing, while he hung from this tree in the kingdom of his birth, that Sagrami wasn’t just a curse to him; she was his guide as well. Not Trist or any of the gods of Charyn, but Lumatere’s mighty goddess. He prayed to her with all his might. Don’t let me die. Not now, he begged.
Why? she demanded to know.
Because I deserve to live.
A hand suddenly gripped his wrist.
He wondered if the hold came from the realms of the gods. But he didn’t care. All he knew was what the goddess was whispering to him, He’ll never let you go. How could you have ever doubted him?
“I’ve got you, Froi.”
“Finn?”