Froi of the Exiles (7 page)

This time Finnikin chuckled.

‘Withdraw the offer and I will dash my head against a stone wall.’

F
roi took leave from Lord August’s village and spent the next week in the mountains with Trevanion and Perri interrogating the Charynite. Although the Captain hadn’t confirmed for certain that Froi was going to Charyn, Froi knew he was there with them for reasons other than his skill with the Charyn language.

‘It’s one of the best-defended castles in the entire land,’ Rafuel explained to them, ‘and it has little to do with the Guard or soldiers and everything to do with the actual stone and structure.’ The Charynite drew them a picture and Froi committed it to memory, translating the information to Trevanion and Perri.

‘Ask him more about the lastborns,’ Trevanion requested.

‘Firstly, there is Quintana of Charyn,’ Rafuel began when Froi asked. ‘She was the very last to be born to the entire kingdom on the day of weeping.’

‘Only her?’ Froi asked. ‘Was there no one else born that day?’

‘Then there are those born last to their province,’ Rafuel continued, ignoring the question. ‘Grijio of Paladozza and Olivier of Sebastabol, for example, were born to their provinces three days and five days prior to Quintana’s birth. Tariq was born to his people a month before Quintana. Satch of Desantos was born last in his province six months before. And every girl born in the same year as Quintana is marked as a lastborn.’

‘Gods,’ Trevanion muttered. ‘He better be speaking the truth when he claims those girls have gone to ground.’

Froi repeated Trevanion’s words. He saw Rafuel’s teeth clench.

‘Do you Lumaterans believe you protect your women better than we protect ours?’ he asked.

‘The Captain judges Charynite men by the way they treated Lumateran women. His beloved was dragged into the beds of your men time and time again, and gave birth during the curse,’ Froi said.

‘Not my men,’ Rafuel said bitterly. ‘Mine are peaceful scholars down in that valley. And the Charyn army may have raped. That I won’t deny. But it’s not only our women who are barren,’ Rafuel said. ‘The seed of a Charynite male is useless. Whoever fathered Beatriss of the Flatlands’ child is no Charynite.’

Froi stared at him, stunned. He looked up at Trevanion and Perri. Through the mere mention of Beatriss’s name, they would have comprehended Rafuel’s words, regardless of the speed at which Rafuel was speaking. Perri had paled. Worse still, Froi saw the truth on Trevanion’s face. The Captain already knew. He would have known from the moment Rafuel of Sebastabol revealed the curse days ago.

‘Ask him about their gods,’ Trevanion said, as if nothing had occurred.

Rafuel spent the rest of the day speaking mostly of Charyn customs and their beliefs, their produce and their gods. There were too many gods to learn by heart. In Lumatere, there was Lagrami and Sagrami, one Goddess worshipped as two deities for hundreds of years. Even in Sarnak where Froi had grown up, Sagrami was worshipped.
Sagra
, he grew up cursing. Once or twice the word would slip out in the presence of the Queen, who despised the way Froi’s Sarnak mentors had butchered the name of the Goddess.

‘It’s sacrilege,’ she’d say, coldly.

Listening to Rafuel now, Froi was intrigued by the idea that at the age of thirteen, a Charynite chose the god who would guide them for the rest of their days. Rafuel’s was Trist, the god of knowledge. Froi imagined he would choose a warrior god.

From the third day on, Trevanion and Perri whispered between themselves unless Froi had to convey some crucial information to them.

‘Are you listening to me?’ Rafuel said.

Froi nodded.

‘You dip and you taste,’ Rafuel continued. ‘Not the way Lumaterans eat.’ Rafuel did a somewhat rude impersonation of a man hoarding his food to himself and shovelling it down his throat.

‘Are you calling us pigs?’ Froi asked, watching as Rafuel winced for the tenth time at the formality of Froi’s Charyn.

Rafuel thought for a moment and then nodded.

‘Actually yes, I am. Pig-like.’

Froi turned back to Trevanion and Perri, who were discussing the need for longbow training in the rock village.

‘What is it?’ Perri asked Froi.

‘He said we eat like pigs.’

Trevanion and Perri thought about it for a moment and then went back to their conversation.

Sometimes, Lucian would join them if he wasn’t down in the valley, or quelling a feud or two between the Monts, or settling trade with the Rock elders who wanted a herd of cattle grazing on the mountain in exchange for the quarried stone they supplied for the Mont huts.

‘You seem interested in our ways, Mont,’ Rafuel said the third time Lucian visited.

‘Most interested,’ Lucian said. ‘Best way to find the weakness of the enemy is to understand their ways.’

Rafuel sighed and returned to his explanation about the etiquette of dancing. He stood to demonstrate, the iron shackles clattering around his wrists. ‘Hips must beckon while arms are in the air. Never lose eye contact with your partner.’

Lucian made a snorting sound. ‘Ridiculous. It will make Froi look like a woman.’

Froi growled. ‘Not dancing with no one,’ he said in Lumateran.

‘It’s a seduction, Mont. Not like the dancing of Lumatere and Belegonia, where you stomp as though you’re making wine.’

Froi turned back to Trevanion and Perri.

‘What did he say this time?’ Trevanion asked, irritated.

‘That we don’t know how to dance.’

Trevanion and Perri went back to their talk.

The Charynite taught Froi words and phrases the Priestking had failed to pass on.
Horse’s arse
was Froi’s favourite.
Sheep-swiver
, was another.
Sheep-swiver
or any other type of swiving worked best accompanied by a gesture.

‘You speak too formally because you were taught by the holy man,’ Rafuel accused again and again. ‘The lad you will be replacing comes from my province of Sebastabol. He was raised on the docks. We’re a bit on the crass side, if you ask me. And we don’t speak in full sentences. Keep it short and to the point.’

‘When shall he be travelling from his province?’

‘
Shall?
’ Rafuel stared at him. ‘Are you listening to me, fool? Olivier of Sebastabol can charm. Can provide entertainment. Can irritate. But he can’t say words like
shall
.’

‘I cannot help sounding as if I have something stuck up my arse,’ Froi snapped. ‘Is that crass enough for you?’

Rafuel sighed. Trevanion and Perri looked over at Froi with irritation. They sighed. There would be more sighing done that day.

Most nights, Froi travelled down to the valley with Perri to watch over Tesadora and the three novices who had followed her there at the end of winter. Sometimes he would sit alone with her if Perri was out checking the stream for trespassing Charynites. The unspoken rule was that the Charynites stayed on the other side of the stream. Any attempt to cross it would be seen as a threat to Tesadora and her girls.

Froi was used to Tesadora from the early days of the new Lumatere, when she lived in the forest cloisters with the novices and Priestess. She was a Forest Dweller and no group of people had been more shunned in Lumatere. It had been her mother Seranonna who cursed the kingdom thirteen years ago as she burnt at the stake, but those trapped inside Lumatere had come to respect Tesadora for what she had done to save their young women and help break the curse. She was a hard woman who trusted few people, especially men. Lord August always joked that he would be a fool to find himself in a room alone with her. Lady Abian, who had come to love Tesadora dearly these past three years, claimed that if Lord August found himself in a room alone with any woman he would have his wife to fear.

‘It doesn’t seem as if they’re going to leave any time soon,’ Froi told Tesadora as they sat high on a rock face staring across the stream to where the Charynite camp dwellers had set up their homes in caves.

‘I just wish they’d go home where they belong and get out of my sight,’ she said.

Froi stared at her. ‘You hate them?’

‘Despise them.’

‘Then why are you here? You were happy with the novices in the Cloisters out in the forest.’

‘I’m not a Priestess,’ she said. ‘It was only my place to take care of the novices during the curse.’

‘And this is better?’ he asked, angrily. ‘Perri has to travel almost two days to be with you. He’s only seeing you every day now because of the Charynite prisoner in the mountains.’

‘Poor Perri doesn’t have to do anything,’ she said, standing and holding her arms around her body to stop the shiver. Summer was fading, and the mountains and valley were the first to feel the bite of the cold.

Tesadora was tiny for a Lumateran and her face was shaped differently from the other Forest Dwellers. Her hair had gone white from the terrors she witnessed when she walked the sleep alongside the Queen during the ten years of the curse, although she was no older than Lady Beatriss. Sometimes Froi had to stop himself from staring at her. She had a beauty that could weaken men if they weren’t already weakened by their fear of her.

‘The Queen misses you and so do Lady Beatriss and precious Vestie and Lady Abian. At least in the forest they were able to see you more often.’

She looked at him, the shape of her eyes similar to Froi’s. His were hooded, and gave an impression of mistrusting the world. They were eyes not born for smiling, but for judging and being judged in return. He wondered often about the similarity. Sometimes he dreamed that Tesadora and Perri had sired him and that one day the truth would be revealed and they’d all celebrate. But then he’d see Tesadora with Lady Beatriss’s daughter Vestie or even with Princess Jasmina. He’d see the fierce love and he knew that whatever was said about Tesadora, she would never have forsaken her child.

‘There are some things beyond our control, aren’t there?’ she said.

Froi was surprised to hear her words. Tesadora was controlled by no one.

‘Were all the Charynites bad?’ he asked quietly, thinking of the many hidden soldiers he’d come across.

She shrugged. ‘Most. If not bad, they were weak. One or two took a stand. A young soldier and a Charynite traveller found us in the early days and told me that the novices of Lagrami in the palace village were in danger. They helped the novices escape and brought the girls to us. Strange,’ she murmured. ‘It was two Charynites who united the cloisters of Sagrami and Lagrami.’

She shuddered. ‘The traveller was imprisoned and they hanged the young soldier for it. In front of the rest of their army. A good deterrent, don’t you think? A Charynite never helped a Lumateran again, whether they wanted to or not. Even if they weren’t working against their own, they hated to be seen as outcasts. So what one did, the others would follow.’

Froi thought of Tesadora’s words the next day in the cell. He could not keep the hatred out of his voice. ‘What would you have done if you were the enemy trapped within the walls of Lumatere?’ he asked Rafuel of Sebastabol.

Rafuel gave a humourless laugh. ‘Does it matter, Froi? What’s more important is what would
you
have done?’

That day Trevanion and Perri had asked for information about the role of the Provincari in Charyn. Rafuel explained they were in power until they died and then the people of their province chose either their offspring if the person was desirable, or another.

Froi absently translated, bored by the information. Rafuel droned on about their power within their province and how they differed from the nobility and how they worked hard to keep the palace out of their affairs. But in the middle of his swift lesson, the Charynite caught Froi’s eye and slipped in the words, ‘You don’t belong in this kingdom, lad.’

Froi was alert in an instant. He looked back to where Trevanion and Perri sat.

‘What did he say?’ Perri asked.

Froi hesitated. His mouth felt dry and he could hardly speak.

‘The Provincari don’t care too much for the King these days,’ he found himself saying.

Trevanion nodded. ‘We know. Once you get inside, we’ll want you to find out who holds the most power amongst them. The Queen and Finnikin want to know who helped the Charyn King plan the slaughter in our palace.’

A Mont guard came to the prison door. Perri and Trevanion stood to speak to him.

Froi turned back to Rafuel. From Trevanion’s calm tone, the Charynite knew Froi hadn’t repeated his words.

‘Why do you travel down into the valley each night?’ Rafuel asked with urgency.

Froi didn’t respond.

‘Do you want to know why I think you’re there, Froi?’ Rafuel asked, leaning as far forward as he could with the iron bracelets around his hands. ‘Because blood sings between Charynites far from home. My blood sings to you. The blood of every Charynite in the valley sings to you.’

Froi stared at him, fury in his expression. ‘I’m not a Charynite far from home,’ he spat. ‘I’m a Lumateran from over the mountain.’

‘Why is Tes– the white witch in the valley?’ Rafuel asked, looking over Froi’s shoulder to see if the men had recognised that he had almost spoken Tesadora’s name. But Perri and Trevanion were still speaking to the Mont guard.

Froi thought for a moment. Swallowed hard.

‘A worse-tempered woman I’ve never met, despite her beauty that makes a man ache regardless of age,’ Rafuel continued, ‘but she’s in the valley because our blood sings to her. It’s out of her control.’

Froi shuddered. Rafuel’s words were too close to Tesadora’s the night before.

‘She’s half-Charynite, is she not?’ Rafuel continued. ‘It’s what kept her apart from the other Forest Dwellers when she was a child. Outcast from the outcasts themselves.’

Froi’s hands were shaking.

Rafuel’s eyes shone with excitement. ‘My men are searching for an assassin to kill the King, Froi. But I’m also searching for the last male child born to the Citavita on the day of the curse and smuggled out of the kingdom. Most say he’s a myth. But I know for a fact that he’s not.’

Froi stared at him, confused.

‘Do you know why you seek out the white witch, Froi? Because her blood sings to you. Two Charynites far from home.’