Froi of the Exiles (31 page)

‘Best that you ask that question of the Priestling,’ the Provincaro replied in his smooth voice, pretending to study something nonexistent on the wall, as though it was the most natural thing to do under the circumstances. Arjuro refused to respond to the woman with anything beyond a grunt. Despite his forced benevolence, most in the room seemed wary of him and kept their distance.

‘It’s best we all leave and return to our provinces,’ De Lancey said. ‘At least we are safe there with armies to protect our people.’

There was a chorus of agreement, but also dismay.

‘What about the people of the Citavita?’ a woman cried. ‘You care only for your own provinces and leave us to this carnage. Who rules Charyn when you return to the safety of your walls?’

‘And what would you have us do?’ De Lancey said calmly, but Froi heard restrained anger in his voice. ‘You’ve all seen what happens the moment a King dies and his men desert their post. The ignorant take over. Savages killing their own people. Innocent people.’

‘Those who live in the palace aren’t innocent,’ another shouted from across the room. ‘They deserve what they get.’

There was uproar at those words.

‘We were in the palace,’ De Lancey of Paladozza argued. ‘On province business. Do I deserve to die? Do the other Provincari? And do you know who else was visiting the palace? Gargarin of Abroi.’

Froi watched the feverish whispers. ‘Yes,’ De Lancey confirmed. ‘How soon we forget men who have worked for the good of Charyn.’

‘What about the Princess?’

It was Lirah’s voice. Froi had lost sight of her the moment they entered the godshouse. But here she was asking the question that no one else dared to ask. There was an uncomfortable silence and most looked away. Froi heard the words
the Serker whore
whispered, but Lirah seemed to care little for their scorn and curiosity.

‘With these savages, one does not negotiate with a list,’ De Lancey of Paladozza said coolly. Dismissively. ‘We speak one name. Gargarin’s. He has the trust of almost every Provincaro in this kingdom. Tariq of Lascow has stated that Gargarin is his choice as First Advisor if Tariq is ever to be crowned King.’

There was more fierce discussion, more anger.

‘Tariq knows nothing of the world. He’s been in hiding since he was fifteen.’

‘But he is the legal heir and at this moment, he’s our only King. Gargarin knows enough to guide him. Both are aligned to no province and that fact in itself will satisfy every one of us Provincari. We return home, combine our armies, march into the Citavita and place Tariq on the throne with Gargarin alongside him.’

There was approval for this suggestion, the first sign of calm.

‘And what of Quintana?’ Lirah demanded again. ‘You can’t leave her in the palace to die!’

‘Your daughter is worth nothing,’ a man called out.

‘If she had broken the curse, at least we could have forgiven her for something,’ the Provincara Orlanda of Jidia said. She was a handsome woman who had fawned over Bestiano and Gargarin the night before.

‘She’s our lastborn,’ Lirah said.

There were hisses and fury directed at Lirah.

‘Our lives have been ruined because of her,’ Orlanda spat.

‘Your spawn, Serker bitch,’ a woman Froi didn’t recognise shouted.

‘Her birth. Her lies. Her failure to break the curse,’ another joined in, advancing on Lirah.

‘If we choose between Gargarin of Abroi and the Princess, we choose Gargarin,’ the Ambassador for Sebastabol said.

Despite his anger towards her, Froi pushed through the crowd of people to Lirah, but Arjuro was there before him, grabbing her arm.

‘Come,’ he said to both of them.

From across the room Froi felt De Lancey’s eyes follow them.

‘It’s best that you keep your mouth shut, Lirah,’ Arjuro said, shoving his way through the crowd.

‘It’s best that I take my leave, Priestling,’ Lirah said coldly.

‘It’s not safe for you amongst the street pigs, Lirah,’ Froi snapped. ’Don’t be a fool.’

‘It’s no safer here,’ she said quietly as they reached the door where De Lancey of Paladozza stood, blocking Froi’s path.

‘Would you like to know who has taken refuge in this very godshouse?’ De Lancey asked Froi, smoothly.

Froi ignored him, stepping aside and following Arjuro and Lirah into the dark corridor. They stopped a moment as Arjuro lit the lamps that lined the wall. But De Lancey was on their heels, followed by four of his Guard. Froi saw a flash of fear cross Lirah’s face, heard Arjuro’s curse as the Priestling grabbed Lirah’s hand, leading her to the steps which would take them to the levels below.

‘Stop a moment,’ De Lancey ordered.

‘Remember whose place this is, De Lancey,’ Arjuro warned over his shoulder.

De Lancey reached them and gripped onto Arjuro’s robe to stop him, but the Priestling viciously pulled away, catching the Provincaro in the face with his elbow. In an instant, the four guards slammed Arjuro against the wall and Froi heard the crack of the Priestling’s head against stone.

Froi felt the pounding of blood in his brain chanting at him, replaying the events of the last day. There were too many voices and images in his head. Quintana’s face the day before. Gargarin’s instructions. Lirah’s bitter tirade as he dragged her out of the castle. Those tossed from the balconette, the King’s body, the fury of the crowd in the godshouse hall. Suddenly he grabbed De Lancey by the throat, snapping the man’s wrist and hearing his quick intake of pain. And then the four guards let go of Arjuro and charged for Froi. And in that confined space where Priestlings once prayed and studied and died, he used fists and palms, smashed heads against stone walls, broke bones, bit flesh and spat it out.
‘You’re a weapon, Froi. The best we’ve ever created,’
Trevanion had told him once. And when De Lancey’s men were writhing in pain at his feet, Froi’s blood cried for more, his breath ragged, his feet dancing around them, wanting them back on their feet. He wanted to do it again.

But Arjuro was there blocking his path. ‘Leash it,’ Arjuro hissed. ‘Leash it.’

Froi couldn’t leash it. He didn’t know how, and that knowledge made him want to weep. He tried to count. But couldn’t remember the right numbers. He hammered a savage fist to his temple over and over again until Arjuro gripped his face between his hands.

‘Take a breath.’

‘I can’t remember my bond,’ Froi whispered hoarsely.

In his head, Froi counted in Lumateran and then Sarnak, but the numbers meant nothing, led to nothing. Arjuro studied his face and then looked down to see Froi’s fingers dance with every number he tried to speak aloud.

‘Este, dortis, thirst …’ Arjuro began counting quietly in Charyn.

Froi’s heart fell. All those times, even as far back as three years ago when he first arrived in Lumatere and they gave him his bond, Froi had used the numbers of the Charyn language without even realising.

Blood sings to blood, Froi.

Froi closed his eyes and took in a deep breath.

An important rule of the bond was: never break a bone if Lumateran lives are not at risk.

He opened his eyes to see De Lancey nursing his wrist. In the flickering light, he could see Lirah’s face.

‘They’re becoming hysterical in the hall,’ she said coolly. ‘They think the street lords have entered.’

De Lancey caught one of his guard’s eyes and gestured him towards the hall. A moment later, all four men reluctantly limped away.

‘Take Lirah’s hand, Olivier,’ Arjuro said quietly. ‘The steps are steep.’

‘Yet he’s not Olivier,’ De Lancey said, ‘are you? The lastborn from Sebastabol is in the library downstairs with my son, burying the ancient books in case the street lords enter and destroy them.’ De Lancey’s eyes met Froi’s. ‘The real Olivier claims to have spent the last few weeks held captive in the caves outside Sebastabol.’

Arjuro’s breath was ragged as he looked at Froi, shaking his head with regret. ‘Bit of truth would have helped.’

‘You ask him for truth, Arjuro?’ De Lancey said. ‘When you’ve been interested in no truth but yours.’

Arjuro pointed a finger at De Lancey. ‘And what was your truth?’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘What was Gar’s? That my brother didn’t murder the Oracle? That you didn’t send your messenger to betray me? Did you know the farrier left behind a family, De Lancey? Did you ever give them another thought?’

De Lancey’s eyes met Arjuro’s and Froi saw something flare up between them. History was history, he once told the Priestking. Why couldn’t it stay in the past? All this hatred between these two men could only mean that once there had been so much love.

‘The Oracle and the child were already dead. That’s Gar’s truth!’

Lirah pushed the Provincaro away with all the fury she could muster. And he winced from the pain, nursing his hand. He couldn’t disguise his anger and disgust.

‘Oh, we care about children now, do we, whore?’ he sneered. ‘After you tried to murder your own?’

Arjuro grabbed De Lancey’s injured wrist and snapped it back into place. De Lancey gasped from the pain.

‘Ask the Serker whose child it was Gargarin tossed from that window,’ Arjuro said. ‘She should know. It was hers.’

‘The child belonged to the Oracle,’ De Lancey said. ‘Born dead. It was what Gar swore to me.’

‘Yet he told this impostor that the child was smuggled out of the palace,’ Lirah said, looking at Froi bitterly. ‘So who are we to believe, De Lancey? A liar or a liar?’

Arjuro stared at Froi, shocked by the words. ‘When did Gargarin tell you that?’ he asked huskily. ‘When?’

‘Today. Before the street lords took him away,’ Froi said.

‘But he told me the babe was born dead,’ De Lancey argued. ‘Gargarin swore he was forced to toss a dead child into the gravina.’

‘My son was born with a mighty voice,’ Lirah said fiercely, a tremble in her words. ‘And Gargarin tells you both lies. In one breath, a dead child. In the next, a smuggled lastborn. Do you believe the gods conjured up a spell and made his brother see our worst nightmares?’

‘Come,’ Arjuro said quietly. But he pointed a finger at De Lancey emphatically. ‘Not you. And bind that wrist.’

They left De Lancey standing alone in the dark corridor. Arjuro lead Lirah and Froi to the tiny marble steps that spiralled down. But De Lancey was a hard man to lose.

‘So whose bastard is this lad, Arjuro?’ he called out from the top of the steps. ‘Yours or Gargarin’s?’

Lirah gasped. Froi swung around to look up, almost tumbling down the narrow steps.

‘The person I was swiving eighteen years ago hasn’t the capacity for childbirth. Curse or no curse,’ Arjuro said coolly. ‘Does he, De Lancey?’ Arjuro continued down the stairs, refusing to look back. There was a ringing in Froi’s ears and when they reached the landing, his legs buckled under him. Arjuro forced him to sit, resting his back against the wall and pushing his head between his knees.

‘Breathe, idiot boy. His words are false. It’s pure coincidence.’ But Froi heard doubt in Arjuro’s voice.

‘That face can’t be pure coincidence, Ari,’ De Lancey said, suddenly behind them. He reached over Arjuro’s shoulder and grabbed Froi’s face, but Froi leapt to his feet and shoved them both away.

‘Who do I resemble?’ Froi hissed. There was silence.

Arjuro looked away.

‘Who?’

‘The most base of beasts born to this world,’ Arjuro said sadly. ‘My father. But I see my father’s face in half of Charyn.’

Froi sucked in a breath.

‘He cannot possibly be Gargarin’s son,’ Lirah said coldly. ‘I was the only woman he had.’

De Lancey gave a short laugh of disbelief. ‘Don’t you think it’s strange, Lirah, that you can believe Gargarin is a murderer of babes and Oracles, but you can’t accept that he preferred another woman?’

‘There was no other woman,’ she spat. She threw a look at Froi. ‘This one looks like the shit and garbage of this kingdom. Isn’t that what they say Abroi is? He could be anyone’s trash. Sent by anyone. Probably the Serkers living in the underground city who want their revenge.’

The Provincaro searched Froi’s face. ‘Who sent you?’ he demanded. ‘Was it the Serkers?’

‘Does it matter? I didn’t kill the King.’

‘Pity,’ De Lancey said. ‘I would have liked you much better if you had.’

Arjuro led them to a room laid out with straw cots once used by Priestlings. He pushed Lirah towards one.

‘Sleep,’ he said to them, ignoring De Lancey, who stood at the door watching them all. ‘The sun will rise soon and it will be another long day.’

Froi sat with his back to the others. He felt a hand at his shoulder and shrugged it away viciously.

‘Not the time to be sulking,’ Arjuro said. ‘What would you expect from me?’ he added, gently. ‘A, “Hi-de-ho to you, lad. By the way, you have the face of my demented father which could only mean that you are either his child or Gargarin’s, who also happens to be a killer of women and babes.” ’

Froi turned to them. He could only see their outlines in the darkness. Lirah lay with her back to him, her body huddled.

He studied Arjuro closely. ‘Is there a chance I’m his son?’

That Froi and Arjuro had the same blood was too hard to fathom.

‘I don’t know,’ Arjuro said honestly. ‘The only way I can answer that question is if you tell me the truth. Days ago you inform me the Oracle’s child was not tossed into the gravina. That my brother murdered Lirah’s son instead. Today you tell me he didn’t murder the child. That it was smuggled out of the palace. What am I to be told tomorrow? That my brother is dead without me knowing the truth?’ Froi saw tears in the man’s eyes. ‘I don’t even know your real name, Olivier.’

But Froi couldn’t tell the whole truth without betraying Lumatere. Did he trust these people enough to do that?

‘Do you know a man by the name of Rafuel of Sebastabol?’ he asked, after a stretch of silence. ‘He approached … my people with a plan.’

He saw Arjuro stiffen. Lirah turned slowly from her cot to face them. ‘I know that name,’ she said.

‘What was the plan?’ De Lancey asked from the door.

‘That he could get an assassin into the palace to impersonate the lastborn from Sebastabol.’