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.”
Froi of the Exiles Page 32
