Froi heard the words often that day.
“We’re going to battle.”
They were said with uncertainty most of the time. Although the lads understood that they were going to war for Quintana of Charyn, there was still no guarantee that she would be found in the valley between Lumatere and Charyn. It was where they were heading. But first they had to get through the three hills and Bestiano’s army.
That night, they all gathered in the keep to listen to final commands, shuffling for room wherever they could. Froi was on the ground. He looked up at each archway, all the way to the top, and he felt the flatness of everyone’s mood. It wasn’t the way he wanted these men fighting for Quintana’s place in the palace. From the third-floor balcony, Gargarin spoke to them all. He called the next few days the most important hours in Charyn’s history. Said that they would be spoken about in years to come. As impassioned as his words were, the men still seemed lost. Froi remembered what Fekra had said. That the Nebian army Bestiano commanded didn’t know what they were fighting for anymore. Nor did these men.
They were about to leave when Dolyn’s voice was heard.
“Priestling, can you sing Charyn’s ballad?”
Froi watched Arjuro look up to where Dolyn stood. The leader of Lascow was beside Gargarin and De Lancey.
“I heard you once,” Dolyn continued. “It was many, many years ago. Your voice rang clear in the crowd. More powerful than any other priestling.”
“No,” Arjuro said bluntly.
His voice echoed strangely in the quiet space.
“Arjuro —” De Lancey called out.
“My answer is no! It’s a song for a Charyn that no longer exists.”
“We go to war tomorrow for a Charyn Tariq believed in, sir,” one of the Lasconians shouted out boldly from one of the upper balconies.
Arjuro shook his head, his expression weary. “I miss my sisters and brothers in the godshouse,” he called back in response. “I don’t care whose voice rang clear in the crowd. I sang Charyn’s ballad alongside them … and now they’re gone. I don’t sing … except for the dead.”
“Then, perhaps we can speak it out loud,” a Turlan lad said. “As a blessing before battle.”
There was a halfhearted mumble and then words were spoken, disjointed and feeble.
“… the stone we shaped with hands of hope to build a kingdom of might … the roads we paved with the blood of our toil …”
Something inside Froi’s head jolted. He knew this song. The priest-king had taught him. The old man had taught him everything about Charyn. “It’s a song of their hubris … a song to show off their talents,” the priest-king had murmured, but he made Froi listen to it each time they were together. “Sing with me, Froi,” he would say. But Froi had refused. He sang for no man. Not since his days on the streets of the Sarnak capital. But now he understood. Had the priest-king guessed who Froi was all along and taught him this song, not to conquer an enemy, but to find his own people? Clever, wicked man. Froi had never loved the priest-king more.
There’s a song in your heart, Froi. You must unleash it or you will spend your days in regret.
“I’ll sing it with you, Arjuro,” Froi called out, and everyone searched for him in the crowded keep.
“I know it … I was taught by the blessed Barakah of Lumatere,” he said loudly for everyone to hear. “He believed … a well-rounded education was the best,” he continued to explain, partly with a lie.
A silence came over the room as they waited for Arjuro’s reaction. And somewhere in the crowd, Arjuro and Froi found each other and stood side by side. Men crouched around them. From above, Gargarin’s eyes seemed to pierce into Froi’s. As long as he lived, Froi would never be able to determine his father’s thoughts.
He waited for the cue from Arjuro. It was a song for more than one to sing and Arjuro began alone, his voice robust, his warble perfect, a sound still so youthful despite the years. Froi felt a catch in his throat thinking of the young gods’ blessed Arjuro, who would have bewitched the hardest of spirits. He was still bewitching De Lancey of Paladozza now. The love on the provincaro’s face was potent. Catching. Froi waited, ready to commence with the second stanza. His voice had been deep for some years now. Not as a boy. Back then, it was high and pure and it fetched him a price. Back then, he didn’t understand the words he sang. All he understood was an empty stomach that needed to be filled. But now, as he started his song, he knew exactly what he was singing, and his voice reached depths that he hadn’t known existed. And when Arjuro’s voice joined in, it was a communion, a blood tie, and Froi felt the strength that both their voices gave to those listening. He watched men place clenched hands to their chests; he saw tears spring to surprised eyes. He saw Lirah push her way through the men on the balcony above, transfixed. Froi’s voice felt like a caress for his battered soul. Because he sang for Quintana of Charyn. He sang for the misery of her life, the poison in her body, the scars on her skin, and the courage in her character. And he sang for the child he would never call his own. He sang for the Charyn he would leave behind, and he felt his hand clench in a fist at the thought of such a kingdom. It made his voice soar with Arjuro’s, to a height that matched its earlier depth. And when it was over and he pushed through the crowd, he felt hands clap his back, ruffle his cap, and shake his hand as he moved among them. He felt their euphoria.
He returned to his post on the wall, looking out into the darkness and wondering what the next day would bring. Death. Of course there’d be death. Would it be him? Grij? Who would live and who would die?
Perabo joined him, with Gargarin.
“Your lad here is lethal,” Perabo said. “Let’s hope a bit of that blood runs through the little king.”
“Say it louder and I’ll cut out your tongue,” Gargarin snapped.
Perabo gripped Gargarin to him, and Froi stepped between them.
“Your secrets, whatever I may believe they are, die with me,” Perabo said through clenched teeth. “Doubt me or threaten me again, and you’ll have to find yourself another constable.”
Gargarin cupped the man’s shoulder, his hand shaking. Froi could see that something wasn’t right, but to Perabo, at least, Gargarin seemed contrite.
“You’re the only constable I want, Perabo. No more doubts or threats. Make sure the names of the lads going into battle are recorded.”
Perabo nodded, glancing at Froi. “This one needs to rest. Ariston is going to want Froi by his side.”
“He won’t be going with Ariston and his men,” Gargarin said.
Froi stared at him, stunned.
“What are you saying?” he shouted. “You know I’m as good as a Turlan. You’re only doing this because —”
“Because what?” Gargarin hissed. “Because you’re my son? You’re mistaking me for someone with choices, Froi. I don’t have choices.”
Froi waited, looking to Perabo for answers.
“I can’t have you riding into battle,” Gargarin said. “We need you for something else.”
Gargarin’s stare was deadly.
“You’re going to steal into that camp and put him down, Froi.”
Froi heard Perabo’s hiss of satisfaction.
“We want Bestiano dead.”
When the sun rose and every soldier in the fortress was in place, Froi found Grijio in the bailey. The last born was with the Turlans, sitting on his horse, waiting for word.
“Are you frightened?” Froi asked.
“Of course I’m frightened,” Grij said, looking over Froi’s shoulder to where De Lancey was watching them from the entrance of the keep.
“Gargarin won’t let my father come along,” he said. “Dolyn and Ariston agree.”
“Well, he’s injured.”
“It’s not that. They can’t afford to lose a provincaro who will favor the palace in the future. Father ordered that I stay, too, but I told him I couldn’t. I made these plans with Tariq and Satch … and even Olivier. That we’d save her. I can’t do that hiding behind my father’s title. And I may not be good with a sword, but I’m fast with a horse.”
Froi noticed Mort close by on his mount. Grijio was to travel with the Turlans, who would tear through Bestiano’s defenses and get to the Lumateran valley in the hope of finding Quintana there. The Lasconians would stay behind and fight, and if all was true, the Desantos army would decimate the Nebians from the north. Regardless of everything, it meant more dead Charynite lads who didn’t know what they were fighting for, judging from Fekra’s hopelessness. But Froi couldn’t afford to care. He was one step closer to Quintana.
“You take care of him, Mort,” Froi said, holding a hand up to Grijio, who shook it firmly.
“Provincaro says I not to let Grij out of sight,” Mort said.
“Keep safe, Froi,” Grijio said.
Froi patted Grijio’s mount and then walked back to De Lancey and Arjuro.
“I’m going to see them off from the wall,” De Lancey said in a low voice.
Arjuro and Froi watched him walk away.
“Are you ready?” Arjuro asked.
“I’ve been ready since I left Lumatere,” Froi said. He caught the expression on Arjuro’s face. “Why look so sad, Arjuro, when I promise I’ll return to you with some part of my body to sew up?”
Arjuro didn’t have a sense of humor that morning, and Froi walked away because saying good-bye to Arjuro was always hard.
Lirah waited for him by the well, and they sat awhile in silence, watching Perabo organize the Lasconians. Unlike the time at the gate, Florik was ready. He held up a hand of acknowledgment to Froi, and Froi returned the gesture.
He tried hard not to think of what would take place beyond any sort of rescue. All he could think of was seeing Quintana and not letting her go. But what would Froi’s place in the new Charyn be? Would he be a foot soldier in the army or one of Perabo’s palace soldiers? Would he live in the godshouse with Arjuro and Lirah? And who would he be? Froi of the Lumateran Exiles or Dafar of Abroi? Would he watch his son grow, thinking of him merely as an acquaintance? And what of Lumatere? If he left, did he ever have a chance of returning there again?
“I was born from the union between my father … and his oldest daughter,” Lirah said.
Froi flinched.
“So my mother was in fact my sister, and oh, how she despised me. Who would blame her? The moment our father died, she sold me to feed her younger children. I was twelve. If I was less beautiful, she would have sold me to a Serker pig farmer who needed the labor, but this face bought me a place in the palace.”
“Labor on a pig farm isn’t so bad,” he said, thinking of what she endured in the palace.
“Yes, I agree, but if she had sold me to the farmer, I’d have been slaughtered with the rest of Serker not even seven years later. So let’s just say that this face bought me my life … ours.”
Ours. Froi belonged to Lirah. Ours. He would like that word from here on. It would mean something different, something more.
“There was a woman in the pen with me. It’s what they called the cart we traveled in from Serker to the Citavita. The pen, because we were treated like animals. And through all the misery, she said that some of us in this lifetime experience a moment of beauty beyond reckoning. I asked her what that was, and she said, ‘If you’re one of the lucky ones, you’ll know it when you see it. You’ll understand why the gods have made you suffer. Because that moment’s reward will make your knees weak and everything you’ve suffered in life will pale in comparison.’ ”
Lirah stared at him. “Some women claim that moment happens at the sight of their child for the first time.” She shook her head. “But I caught a glimpse of you when you were born and then you were gone. I felt nothing except more yearning and despair and misery.
“And then … tonight you sang Charyn’s ballad with Arjuro and I thought, Ah, there it is. That’s why I’ve suffered all my life. For this moment of beauty and perfection.” Her eyes pooled with tears. “It didn’t come from looking at you or even hearing your voice. It came from seeing the expression on Gargarin’s face. He was looking at the wonder of what we made together. Our son, Dafar of Abroi. I’d suffer it all again just to know that moment was there in my life.”
She gripped his hand.
“You said to me once that you weren’t what I dreamed of. You were right. You surpass everything I dreamed of. Even the rot in you that’s caused you to do shameful things. Some men let the rot and guilt fester into something ugly beyond words. Few men can turn it into worth and substance. If you’re gods’ blessed for no other reason, it’s for that.”
And then she was gone, disappearing through the entrance that would take her to the room she shared with Gargarin. But not for long. A new Charyn meant that a gravina would lie between Lirah and Gargarin.
They heard a shout from one of the guards on the wall. Fekra had given his signal, which meant that the sentinel he replaced was well out of sight. Ariston and his men rode out first, followed by Perabo, who led the Lasconians. Froi rode last, and his eyes met Gargarin’s, who stood at the gate.
“Don’t take chances,” Gargarin begged. “Do what you need to do, and don’t take chances.”
Froi stopped, waiting until the others were out of hearing distance.
“Will you promise me something?” he asked.
Gargarin nodded, and Froi could see he was shaking.
“Allow me the honor to name my son,” Froi said, his voice husky with emotion. “He’ll be called Tariq. Tariq of the Citavita.”