The Lumatere Chronicles: The Complete Trilogy

by Melina Marchetta

  “Something’s wrong,” Froi whispered to Gargarin and Lirah as they climbed down the shaft. Gargarin didn’t respond. Froi glanced at him, wondering what his relationship with the hidden priests was. A fury remained in Gargarin after his reaction to Arjuro’s imprisonment in Lumatere. Froi had no idea when it was going to unleash itself.

  Froi knew exactly where to find Arjuro’s cavern, hurrying through the strangely quiet passageways that he had last seen bustling with voices and life. But Arjuro’s chamber lay empty. His books and surgical instruments were still there, but Froi sensed that the room hadn’t been inhabited for days. He wondered if Arjuro had returned from accompanying him, or had the priestling met foul play somewhere on that ghostly road that cut across the kingdom?

  Froi watched Gargarin pick up one of Arjuro’s medical chronicles. They heard a sound behind them and Marte was there. She beckoned with a hand but didn’t speak.

  “Marte, what’s happened here?” Froi asked as they followed her down the passageway. But she didn’t respond. “Marte, speak to me!”

  Gargarin placed a finger to his own lips to quiet Froi. He pointed to the inside of one of the caverns they passed, and Froi saw a couple huddled together, weeping quietly.

  “They’re in mourning,” Gargarin whispered. “It’s forbidden to speak outside a private chamber.”

  Although Froi could see no sign of destruction, his memory of Tariq’s compound made him fear the worst. They reached the residence of the collegiati, where the young men and women were huddled in individual cubicles, heads down solemnly. One looked up, curious to see Gargarin. Marte hurried along, and they followed her to the tunnel that Froi knew would lead them to Simeon’s chamber, down in the next level.

  The girl left them there, and Froi climbed down before helping Lirah and Gargarin.

  Simeon was seated at his desk, head bent over his correspondence. He continued with his work, not indicating whether he even knew they were there.

  “Where’s my brother?” Gargarin demanded, his voice abrupt.

  Simeon finished what he was writing, and only then did he put down his quill.

  “What’s happened here, Simeon?” Froi asked, giving Gargarin a warning look. “Why the silence?”

  The Head Priest finally stood up, and Froi saw emptiness in the man’s stare.

  “Gargarin says you’re in a state of mourning.”

  Simeon glanced at Gargarin, ignoring Lirah completely.

  “Who’s dead, Simeon?” Froi asked. “Where’s Arjuro?”

  “Arjuro has gone to sing home the spirits of the dead. I don’t know when he’ll be back. Last time he was sent on a mission, he didn’t return for ten years.”

  Before Froi could speak another word, Gargarin hobbled to Simeon and pressed the Trist leader to the wall of the cave.

  “I came here and begged to know where my brother was,” Gargarin hissed, close to Simeon’s ear. “And all those years, you told me nothing. Nothing.”

  Froi stood between them, shoving Gargarin away gently. After months of contained silence, suddenly Gargarin had turned into a madman.

  Simeon pushed past them and walked back to his stool.

  “You were last seen in the palace throwing the oracle and a child to their deaths, Gargarin,” the priest said calmly. “Witnessed by your brother. Regardless of what I know now, how could I possibly have trusted you when you came searching for Arjuro?”

  “Because he was my brother and I had the right to know he was trapped in Lumatere.”

  Simeon rubbed at his jaw and poured water from the pitcher.

  “Ten years ago when you came searching for him, we had no idea where Arjuro was. We suspected he had reached Sarnak and that he had been forced to travel the long way home back to Charyn because of the Lumateran curse.”

  He took a sip of his water, and Froi noticed his trembling hands.

  “We never imagined that Arjuro was trapped inside Lumatere, let alone imprisoned. Most of us hoped he had found the boy and kept him safe all that time. We were shocked when he returned as skin and bones with no idea of Dafar’s whereabouts.”

  But Gargarin was shaking his head, and Froi knew that if it wasn’t for Lirah’s hand on his shoulder, he would have attacked Simeon again.

  “You know what I think frightened you, Priest?” Gargarin spat. “That I would have searched and found him. That I would have convinced him to stay away from this cesspit of a kingdom. You priests were no better than the palace. You wanted to own the most powerful spirits in this kingdom, and you weren’t willing to let Arjuro go.”

  Simeon’s stare stayed impassive.

  “We see events in different ways, Gargarin,” he said. “You say we wanted to own, and we say we wanted to protect. From the very beginning, the palace wanted what the godshouse nurtured. And what they couldn’t possess, they destroyed. There’s nothing more frightening to those in charge than learned people; it’s why the palace always strikes at brilliant young minds and those who teach them.”

  Gargarin made a sound of disgust.

  “Your weakness, Gargarin, was your ambition. Did you know the oracle didn’t trust you and would have done everything to keep Arjuro away from his brother in the palace?”

  “Oh, she told you that, did she? After your elders snatched her from her people when she was thirteen? Don’t talk to me about ambition, old man.”

  Gargarin’s eyes blazed with emotion. “My weakness was my brother,” he continued, “and nothing awed me more than his blessings. My ambition sprung from wanting his respect. And you didn’t trust me with the truth of where he was because you would have done anything to sever the tie between us.”

  Simeon waved away Gargarin’s words.

  “All the same, we’ve finally found a use for you.”

  Froi bristled at Simeon’s tone and words. He had never seen Gargarin as the lesser brother, but until Gargarin’s time in the palace as a young man, it seemed he had always come second to Arjuro. Especially in the eyes of those in the godshouse.

  “The provincari are meeting in Sebastabol city as we speak,” Simeon said. “To decide the fate of the kingdom and to determine if there is truth in the mad Quintana’s words. Yet there was no invitation to those of us who represent the godshouse.”

  Simeon’s lips thinned with displeasure. “Charyn cannot start anew without the blessing of the godshouse. It’s a good thing you’ve arrived at this time, Gargarin. The provincari will listen to you. If you want a place for those like your brother in the new Charyn, you go and see them. Talk on our behalf.”

  Gargarin shook his head. “I’m here to collect Arjuro, not to be sent on a fool’s errand for the godshouse. Haven’t my brother and I given enough for Charyn?”

  “We all have,” Simeon said, and Froi saw a flare of pain in the old man’s eyes.

  “You priests all hid the moment you could and let this kingdom go to ruin,” Gargarin said.

  “Yet you trusted us with the last born all those years ago,” Simeon reminded him. “We must have been worth something once, Gargarin.”

  “Necessity. Nothing else.”

  Simeon nodded, his eyes suddenly on Froi.

  “It’s a good thing, then. Because despite everything, our last born was clever enough to stay alive. And if we are to believe Arjuro, Dafar has done more than stay alive. He’s fathered a curse breaker.”

  “So you’ll take credit for that now?” Gargarin asked. “Are you writing your letters to priests across the kingdom, Simeon?” he added, looking at the quill and parchment on Simeon’s desk. “Congratulating yourself?”

  “No, not at all,” Simeon said. “I’m writing a letter to my daughter to advise that the corpse of her son is lying in the grasslands beyond Serker with his eyes gouged out by vultures. His spirit perhaps lost for eternity. You see, my grandson Rothen was a dreamer, Gargarin. He dreamed of a Charyn for smart men and women who didn’t live like rats underground. He dreamed of his paintings adorning city walls. He dreamed of a god
shouse that would become a school to educate men and women about the glory of Charyn’s past. All under the eye of a benevolent future king.”

  Froi’s eyes went to the three words written in gold on the ceiling.

  “Don’t talk to me about sacrifice,” Simeon said, his voice pained. “Eight scholars left this cave in search of hope, and the bodies of seven have returned.”

  “Rafuel?” Froi asked, heavy with the grief for seven men he never knew.

  Simeon looked away. “Arjuro has traveled with one of the priests who knew the lads, in an attempt to work out who is not accounted for. Arjuro hopes to sing them home. Perhaps a spirit has strayed behind, lost. We know for certain they did not die where they lay and that it may have been some weeks back, perhaps months.”

  “Is Arjuro powerful enough to bring home their spirits if their deaths are not recent?” Froi asked.

  “Who knows what he can do?” Simeon said. “He’s there more for our peace of mind.”

  Froi couldn’t help thinking that the scholars had been forced to stay in the Lumateran valley because of him. Finnikin and Isaboe had insisted that Rafuel was not to be released until Froi returned from his mission. Rafuel’s companions had refused to leave without him.

  “Rafuel was held captive by my people because of an incident with one of our women,” Froi said quietly. “Perhaps it saved his life.”

  But Simeon’s attention was on Gargarin. “What have the provincari sacrificed for Charyn?” Simeon asked him bitterly. “Nothing. If anyone buried their heads in the ground, it was them, and now they join to take control of this kingdom. If you love your brother, Gargarin, give the godshouse a voice in the new Charyn.”

  “I came here for my brother. Nothing more.”

  Gargarin turned and walked away from the chamber. Froi could see that he was shaken by the news of the seven deaths, despite his anger.

  Lirah began to follow Gargarin.

  “Talk to him,” Simeon said to Froi.

  “I can’t control Gargarin,” Froi said.

  “But she can,” Simeon said, acknowledging Lirah for the first time. Lirah turned back with the disdain she showed most people.

  “You don’t know Gargarin of Abroi if you think he can be controlled by another,” she said. “Any more than the priests or the oracle could control Arjuro.”

  Lirah left, but Froi stayed. He was worried for the old man. Despite his cold nature, Simeon had softened each time he spoke about his grandson Rothen.

  “Your loss is felt,” Froi said, “but the brothers have given enough for this kingdom. Leave them to their peace.”

  “Do you know how Charyn will have peace, Dafar? With one of the brothers in the palace, and the other in the godshouse. Without that sort of peace, the little king she claims to carry will not survive. That mad girl’s son will not stand a chance.”

  “That mad girl has a name,” Froi said. “It’s Quintana, and soon she’ll be the mother of a king or curse breaker. If you want honor in this kingdom, Simeon, preach to the people of Charyn that the mother of their king endured everything to break their curse.”

  Simeon shook his head disbelievingly.

  “Sometimes you sound like a simpleton,” the priest said, his voice scathing.

  “Then, so be it,” Froi said. “The father of your future king is a simpleton, and the mother is mad. But Charyn has a better chance with whatever Quintana and I created together than with any other.”

  In Arjuro’s cave, Gargarin was surrounded by the collegiati who had once tended to Froi, their voices hushed.

  “Your face is thinner,” one said to Gargarin, reaching out to touch it. Gargarin flinched and moved away.

  One young man, Corris, showed Gargarin pages of drawings.

  “For the godshouse,” Corris said, excited. “Arjuro promised that if there’s peace in Charyn, he will return to the oracle’s godshouse and bring it back to what it once was. The most powerful place of learning in this entire land.”

  “Yes, well, the Belegonians will love to hear that,” Gargarin said. “They believe they’re the smartest.”

  “And the Osterians?” Marte said.

  There were snorts. “Their godlings know nothing compared to us priestlings,” one pompous lad said.

  “Who says you’re a priestling, anyway?” Corris asked.

  “Hush. We grieve the lads,” another said.

  “Rothen and the lads would be the first to agree,” Corris said. “The Osterians are idiots.”

  Marte was the only one to notice Froi. “Did you see the way he sewed up the Lumateran?” she asked Gargarin. There were glances from the other collegiati, but Froi was unimportant to them in the scheme of things.

  Corris showed Gargarin another sketch. “For the godshouse walls.”

  Gargarin took it and studied the drawing. “You have a gift,” he acknowledged.

  “But I am not gods’ touched,” the young man said. “Sir, my talents lie in drawing bridges and ditches. I’ve heard of your work. Take me to the palace with you and I’ll create the greatest —”

  “And who says I’m going to the palace?” Gargarin said.

  The young men and women exchanged looks.

  “Simeon says there’s no one better than Arjuro’s brother to guide the future king,” Marte said. “We look forward to living in a world beyond these cave walls.”

  There were sounds of agreement, and for the first time, Froi saw a beauty in their hopeful, pale faces.

  “How can one draw without having seen the true shadings of the land?” Corris argued. “See this,” he added, pointing to one of his sketches. “I’m not good with light and color because I’ve not had a chance to truly study it. But I want to see it. They say the colors over Paladozza will take my breath away. That the light illuminating the north inspires awe.”

  Corris glanced at Lirah. “Can I draw you?” he asked, his cheeks reddening. “Your face seems to have been sculpted by the gods.”

  “Yes, well, I should thank them for that when I see them,” she said coolly. “Because such a gift has afforded me so much joy in my life.”

  But somehow the passion of these scholars had softened both Gargarin and Lirah.

  “Can you draw him?” Lirah asked, pointing at Froi.

  The young man looked taken aback, then studied Froi’s face. Froi didn’t enjoy the attention. If it wasn’t his wounds being examined, it was now his face, as if they hadn’t noticed it before.

  “Your eyes have a touch of Serker,” one of the girls said to Froi.

  “According to the chronicles of Trist, the seed of Serker has been scattered far and wide in the land,” Marte said.

  “Even in Lumatere?” one asked.

  “Especially in Lumatere. They were our neighbors — are our neighbors.”

  Corris continued to study Froi. “The Lumateran has the sort of face that only a mother could love,” he joked.

  “Draw him,” Lirah ordered.

  Gargarin was quiet that night after the collegiati left.

  “What are your thoughts?” he finally asked Froi.

  “What are yours?” Froi asked in return.

  Froi heard a sound of irritation come from Gargarin. He wondered if it was weariness but sensed it was something more.

  “We’re too close to Sebastabol city to walk away,” Gargarin said. “I say we listen to what the provincari have to suggest. If they combine an army to search for Quintana, then they may have a chance to return her and the babe to the palace.”

  “Will you speak for the priests?” Froi asked.

  Gargarin hesitated.

  “A man’s losing his grandson doesn’t make him a man you can trust,” he said. “But he does have a point. The godshouse needs to exist, and that won’t be the priority of the provincari once things have settled. The priests can’t afford to be left behind in talks of the new Charyn.”

  “Then, why your doubt?” Froi asked.

  “Because I don’t trust them,” Gargarin sai
d flatly. “There is no denying that the people loved the godshouse before the curse. If Charyn begins again and the priests find themselves an oracle from the gods know where, then the priests may take control.”

  “And how is that any worse than the provincari?”

  “At least the provincari keep one another honest to a certain degree,” Gargarin said. “Remember, it was the priests who sent out Rafuel in search of a king killer. Who is to say that they don’t have an entire army hiding somewhere? I don’t want Simeon’s people finding Quintana first. I don’t want any of them finding Quintana, except for a combined army. There must be a balance of power, Froi. For Charyn to survive, there must.”

  It rained for days and days, and Phaedra could have endured the damp if it weren’t for the company of the other women. Strange that she had liked them well enough in the Charynite camp, but confinement had turned them into bitter cell mates.

  In their boredom, they spoke of every person with ugly words, judgment in each breath. Jorja and her daughter had learned to gossip with the nobility of Nebia. Cora never ever had anything good to say about anyone but her brother, and Ginny had praise for no one but men. By the third day of rain, they had covered every camp dweller’s life and had no choice but to start on the Lumaterans, beginning with Tesadora. Ginny believed she was a witch and the others half agreed.

  “I saw her once,” Phaedra said, her cheeks flushed. “With her scarred lover.”

  “You saw them?” Cora asked.

  “I saw them.”

  Cora looked annoyed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Phaedra. I’m sure many people have seen them. It’s no secret she has a lover.”

  “No,” Phaedra said, feeling her face become even warmer. “I saw them.” She put her hands together. “Together. Naked. No . . . not naked. I don’t think they even took the time to remove their clothing. It was out in the woods. I heard them first. . . .”

  She regretted the words the moment she spoke them.

  Enough, Phaedra.

  “And then you saw them,” Ginny mocked, looking for the others to join in, but no one in the cave was interested in Ginny. Phaedra didn’t care to elaborate and hoped that very soon one of the women would find the next victim to scrutinize.