Froi of the Exiles (17 page)

Froi was still reeling from the threat to Quintana. ‘So Bestiano will take over one day?’

Arjuro shook his head. ‘The Provincari would never let a commoner rule. Bestiano will do anything to secure an heir, but only one he has control over, so he can continue enjoying his power. Unfortunately for him, the heir Tariq will never acknowledge him.’

‘Then who will Tariq choose as his First Advisor if he ever comes to power?’

Arjuro’s eyes caught his, but then he looked away and suddenly Froi understood.

‘Gargarin?’

Arjuro refused to respond and they continued down the dark steps in silence.

At the bottom, the Priestling unlatched the iron door and then removed a key from his sleeve and fixed it into the lock.

‘Can I ask you something?’ Froi asked.

‘Can’t promise I’ll answer,’ the Priestling said.

Froi hesitated. Would his question reveal a weakness in him? ‘When Gargarin first saw me, he reacted in much the same way you did,’ Froi said. ‘No one else has. Who do I remind you both of?’

‘Someone we despise beyond understanding,’ Arjuro said flatly with no hesitation. He said little else and Froi knew the discussion was over.

Arjuro pushed open the door and they both squinted when the light poured in.

‘My brother … he’s the best man to ask,’ Arjuro said.

‘Ask what?’

‘I’m figuring that a lad with eyes like yours could have been sent by the hidden Serkers to kill the King. So talk to my brother.’

Froi didn’t respond for a moment.
Remember your promise to Trevanion. Trust no one
. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. And if I did, what would I ask Gargarin?’

Arjuro looked past Froi to the cluster of cave homes below. ‘Twenty-five years ago, a young lad from Abroi with nothing to his name but a brother who was gods’ touched, impressed the King with his drawings and plans.’

Arjuro watched Froi for a reaction. ‘He was sixteen at the time and the envy of every ambitious advisor employed by the King.’

‘Gargarin worked on the palace when it was built?’ Froi asked.

Arjuro shook his head. ‘No. Gargarin was the architect. He knows every hidden tunnel, every mouse hole. The only thing he doesn’t know is how to break out of an unbreakable prison.’

Froi stared at Arjuro and then gave a laugh of disbelief. ‘Who are you people?’

It was a steep descent over the roofs of cave dwellings from the godshouse to the Citavita. At times, Froi could look into the homes beneath his feet, where entrances were dug out of the ceilings and the smell of bread from ovens wafted through the air. Still, it was a secluded area of the capital and under the piercing glares of those they called the street lords, Froi felt less than safe with little means of protection.

He could see that the street lords spent much of their time sitting and watching. The men sat on the uneven roofs of the cave houses, studying the palace below and the godshouse above. Unlike the farmers, who dragged oxen up the backbreaking path or the women who stumbled with armloads of linens, the street lords did nothing much at all but sit around looking threatening.

‘Friend,’ one called as he passed, and Froi itched for his dagger that lay buried in the cave at the base of the gravina.

‘You,’ the man called out again. ‘I’m talking to you.’

A leg went out and Froi stumbled. Counted to ten.

‘You came out of the godshouse, but we didn’t see you go in,’ the shorter one said.

Froi would never understand the sameness of the world. Thugs or street lords or thieves were all the same, whether they hailed from Charyn or Sarnak or even Lumatere. Some of the wild orphans, as these kinds of people were called in Lumatere, had returned over the past years to cause havoc after too many years on their own. Trevanion put them straight into the army and trained them to exhaustion. ‘If they’re going to hate, it may as well be for the good of Lumatere,’ he’d say.

‘The Priestling rarely gets visitors, so care to explain,’ the first man said.

Froi knew they would watch him travel back down to where the palace drawbridge met the Citavita. He knew he couldn’t lie about where he was heading.

‘Messenger,’ he muttered, keeping it simple, remembering what everyone seemed to say about how too perfect his Charyn sounded. He took another step, but a hand snaked out and grabbed Froi’s arm.

‘I’ll ask again, friend. You came out of the godshouse, but we didn’t see you go in.’

‘Well, that’s the thing,’ Froi said politely. ‘You’re not actually asking a question. More of a statement.’ He looked at the man and then stared at the hand on his arm. ‘So what is it you want to know?’

The man’s companion laughed.

‘How did you arrive at the godshouse?’ the street lord asked, retrieving a dagger from a scabbard at the waist of his trousers and tracing it across Froi’s cheek.

Froi turned and pointed to the space that could still be seen between the tip of the godshouse across the gravina to the palace.

‘I jumped. I wouldn’t advise it. Not good for the innards.’

The street lord grabbed him by the collar and dragged him closer, his foul breath fanning Froi’s face.

But suddenly a hand reached between them.

‘So you’re attacking Priestlings now, are you, Donashe?’ Froi heard Arjuro mutter. He was dressed from head to ankle in a black cape and cowl, his eyes and pale face barely visible.

The street lord stepped back and Froi saw fear in his eyes.

‘He said he was a palace messenger,’ the man Donashe said, looking away from Arjuro as though any moment he would be cursed.

‘My messenger,’ Arjuro corrected. ‘To the palace.’ Froi felt the street lord’s eyes on him. Arjuro poked Froi’s arm, and glared.

‘Did I not order you to hurry on and repeat my exact words to those in the palace?’ Arjuro asked Froi. ‘That I’d swive a goat before I’ll ever step foot in that heap of dung.’

‘Must I, blessed Arjuro?’ Froi asked, pitifully. ‘For those of us from the godshouse are well known for swiving goats and I’d prefer not to give them weapons of ridicule.’

Arjuro shook his head. ‘Idiot,’ he muttered, walking back up the path to the godshouse. But Froi had seen the ghost of a smile on his face.

Froi gave a wave to the street lords and turned to walk away.

‘I never forget a face,’ Donashe warned.

‘Oh, neither do I, friend,’ Froi said. ‘And that is a promise.’

Getting back into the palace wasn’t quite as simple as getting out had been.

‘I’m a guest of the King,’ Froi called to where he could see two soldiers standing behind the portcullis. ‘A lastborn. Olivier of Sebastabol.’

Nothing. The soldiers stared between the grates, but refused to speak.

‘I arrived here with Gargarin of Abroi four days ago? Call Dorcas, if you don’t believe me, because I’m telling you, if anything happens to me you’ll pay the price. Recognise a threat if you have brains in your head.’

Although Trevanion’s instruction would have been for Froi to get himself back into the palace any way he could, he knew that landing in the palace prison tower was not one of them.

‘You’ll feel like fools when the King’s Advisor hears about this,’ he said, as they opened a door and tossed him in. It was a fall of a few feet before he hit the ground. If Gargarin was truly the architect, Froi would have to thank him for planning a prison chamber built in such a way.

The room was as long and wide as the length of Froi’s body. Apart from the door up high, there was a window that was small enough to crawl through, but the threat of climbing out and plunging into the gravina below was the perfect deterrent for anyone wanting to leave.

Later he heard the key in the lock and stared up to see a guard and then Quintana peering over his shoulder.

‘We’re friends, Fekra and I,’ she said, as the guard lowered her down with a grip on one arm.

‘Ten minutes, Princess,’ Fekra muttered. He let go of her arm and Quintana fell onto Froi with very little finesse.

‘Do you want to meet my mother, Lirah?’ she asked matter-of-factly.

‘Not exactly, no. I want you to go fetch Gargarin and get me out of this hole.’

‘Gargarin doesn’t make the decisions.’

She looked out the window.

‘
Poor Lirah
. She’s been imprisoned for at least twelve years, you know.’

‘Yes, yes, poor Lirah.’

‘Although I’m sure she is still taken to my father’s chamber from time to time.
Poor, poor Lirah
. He still considers her his whore. Lirah says it’s all about power and that the King never feels more powerful than when he’s swiving Serker.’

Quintana pointed towards the low ceiling. ‘She’s up there. It’s why my friend Fekra allows me to use this dungeon when it’s empty. So I can see my mother, Lirah.’

Froi could easily see that Fekra wasn’t a friend of Quintana’s, accepting bribes of food and ale and turning a blind eye only because there was no way in or out of the palace from this tower. But it did mean that Quintana and her mother had found a way of speaking to each other whenever the dungeon was empty.

‘Lirah! Lirah!’

Froi’s head rang from Quintana’s high-pitched indignation.

‘Sometimes,’ she explained to Froi, as though he had asked, ‘I have to call out more than once because she’s on the roof. She has a small garden up there, you know. There’s no way down, of course, except for lunging to her death.’

‘Why is she imprisoned?’ Froi asked.

‘She tried to kill someone, poor Lirah.’

Poor Lirah indeed. She went around trying to kill people and seemed to be a failure at it.

‘Lirah. Lirah.’ Quintana snaked her body out the window, her feet flailing mid-air. Froi caught her around the waist.

‘You’re going to fall to your death, idiot girl.’

After a moment, Froi heard another voice.

‘Who’s there with you?’

‘Just a lastborn, Lirah! We thought he was here for some other purpose, but he is the one. It’s written all over him.’

Quintana turned back and beckoned to him. Froi sighed. She moved aside and he squeezed in, poking his head out and straining to look up.

The face that looked down at him from the window was not what he expected and, like an idiot, he stared. Agape. She was beautiful, but when it came to freezing a man with a death stare, Lirah of Serker could beat Gargarin and Quintana the ice maiden in the blink of an eye.

‘Don’t trust him,’ he heard Lirah of Serker snap. ‘He’s savage stock if ever I’ve seen it.

Froi bristled and listened to ridiculous talk from Quintana to Lirah about Aunt Mawfa’s moon eyes for Gargarin. Suddenly Fekra was at the door above them, lowering a rope, with Dorcas appearing beside him.

‘The Princess only.’

‘Can you call Gargarin then?’ Froi demanded, watching Dorcas hoist Quintana up.

‘The King’s Advisor says you must stay here for the time being. To teach you a lesson.’

‘Didn’t know it was a crime to leave the palace, Dorcas.’

‘It’s not,’ Dorcas replied. ‘It’s a crime to threaten the King and your words,
What do you think I’m going to do? Get into the King’s chamber and slice him from ear to ear?
were a provocation.’

‘Dorcas, it is in me to jest.’

‘And Olivier, it is in me to obey orders.’

Quintana’s face reappeared over Dorcas’s shoulder. ‘Oh, he’s very thorough about the rules, Olivier. He’s never let my father or Bestiano down in that way.’

‘Good for you, Dorcas. I pray to the gods that I can follow your example more readily.’

The door shut and Froi had a feeling he would be in this room for quite some time.

L
ady Beatriss arrived at the Flatlands’ meeting hall at the same time as Finnikin and his entourage. She looked for Trevanion, knowing he would be there as part of his son’s Guard.

She had found him distant these past weeks and it worried her. During the early days when the kingdom was reunited, they had danced a strange dance around each other that spoke of never being able to return to the lovers they had been. Ten years apart was too long and the events that had taken place during that time could not be forgotten. But during the spring this year, things had changed.

It was on the night of the Harvest Moon Dance when Beatriss felt his eyes on her from the moment she had crossed the bridge into the palace village. Vestie, as usual, had run for him, throwing herself into his arms. Who would have known that Trevanion and her daughter would share such a bond, but it was a joy to watch. That night at the celebrations the Queen’s Guard were impeccably dressed for the occasion with their boots polished and purple sashes around their waists to match the colours of the Queen, wearing short coats that looked stylish and much too attractive to every woman in their presence. And Beatriss noticed. That’s how she knew that things had changed within her. Because now she noticed every single woman who looked at the Captain of the Guard. But that night, he seemed to have eyes for no one but her and the days of denial were long gone, for she met his stare with her own. When he offered to escort her and Vestie to Sennington, it was there in the hallway of Beatriss’s home as she took her daughter out of his arms that he bent down and kissed her for the first time in thirteen years, and if it wasn’t for the child that was pressed between them, she could imagine where that kiss would have gone.

Since then, he had found any opportunity to stop by for supper or a ride around the village. They spoke of fallow fields and his son’s family in the palace and this brave new Lumatere, and although she was desperate to speak of the past, Trevanion refused.

‘The past is not important, Beatriss. We don’t look back.’

In the palace village she heard the whispers and suspected that he would ask her to be his wife soon, and she had practised her response. Yes. And then a Yes again.

But something had changed in the last few weeks. He visited less frequently and when he did, he seemed distant. Try as she might, Beatriss could not understand what words or event had changed things between them. The last time they had spoken, she told him her fears of no longer being able to keep her villagers fed. Beatriss had inherited Sennington upon her father’s death the year before the curse and from that moment on she’d ensured that her people were looked after, even during the ten years of terror.