Froi of the Exiles (46 page)

Hamlyn’s wife looked up for a moment and then she went back to her soup.

When neither responded, Froi asked about news from the capital.

‘There’s confusion,’ Hamlyn said. ‘We had visitors ride through here seven days past. Their stories differed. Some claimed that one of the Provincari planned the murder of the King and that Bestiano is our only hope. Another believed it was the hidden Priests who managed to get an assassin inside. One or two of them whispered that Bestiano had killed the King and his riders are occupying the base of the gravina and raising an army from Nebia.’

‘And what are your thoughts?’ Froi asked.

Hamlyn shrugged. ‘We have nothing left of worth for a King’s army,’ he said bitterly.

Later, Hamlyn’s wife gave Froi a blanket and Hamlyn accompanied him to the stable.

‘I found it easy to break inside here,’ Froi said quietly when Hamlyn handed him the lantern. ‘Tomorrow I’ll secure some of these old planks.’

Hamlyn nodded. Froi couldn’t help but notice how large the stable was. How empty it was except for Acacia. Hamlyn caught the question in his eye.

‘I worked with horses,’ he said. He smiled at the memory. ‘Some would say that once I was the best in the outer reaches of the province. In the days before they put the walls around Jidia, men would travel for days to purchase a good horse from me.’

Hamlyn held out a handful of oats to Acacia and Froi watched the old horse nuzzle against its owner.

‘Thirteen years ago, the King’s riders came through this land and they took our horses,’ he said quietly. ‘And they took our sons. They took all the lads. Mine was of your age.’

‘Took him to the palace?’ Froi asked.

‘No,’ Hamlyn said. ‘They needed an army to support the new King of Lumatere.’

Froi fought hard to hide his shock.

‘For ten years we wondered what happened to him inside those walls,’ Hamlyn continued, as though he had waited a lifetime to speak. ‘When the Lumateran curse lifted we waited for him. One or two of our neighbours’ sons returned. The Lumaterans had released them, but the lads came back broken. They had shame in their eyes.’

Froi couldn’t speak. How much despair had this man’s son created in Lumatere? Worse still, had he died at Froi’s hands?

‘And then we began to hear the stories. Of what the Lumaterans claimed our sons did during those ten years.’

Not claims, Froi wanted to shout. What the impostor King’s army did to the Lumaterans was more than claims.

‘It keeps us awake at night,’ Hamlyn said. ‘What did a boy who was brought up with such kindness and love do to those people?’

Froi finally looked at Hamlyn.

‘You thought I was your son returning?’

Hamlyn gave a painful smile. ‘Foolish thoughts. He’d have reached his thirtieth year by now.’ He closed his eyes a moment, as though to recover himself. ‘But I dreamt of him two nights past. And in my dreams he told me a lad would arrive with the words of our gods written all over him.’

Froi flinched to hear Quintana’s words spoken by another.

‘The only thing written over me are my wrongdoings, Hamlyn,’ he said.

Froi tossed and turned half the night, but then he slept and dreamt, and when he woke, he couldn’t remember the dream. He could only remember its force. He convinced himself that he only dreamt because of Hamlyn’s words the night before. But the dream teased him all day, as though it was going to reveal itself any moment. All day he hacked at the earth with frustration alongside Hamlyn and his silent wife, trying to recall even a sliver of what had gone through his mind while he slept.

When Hamlyn’s wife walked towards the well, Hamlyn watched her, wiping the sweat from his brow.

‘It’s her way to be quiet and gentle,’ he said and Froi heard love in the man’s voice. ‘Long ago, she claimed to have lost her purpose.’

‘Because your son was gone?’

Hamlyn shook his head. ’No. Long before that.’ They both watched her lower a pail into the well.

‘Arna was the midwife for all of Jidia, as well as our village.’

A horse handler with no horses and a midwife in a barren kingdom.

'She can be spirited at times. When she carried our son in her belly, she slept with a dagger, I tell you. A she-wolf, she was. She would have sliced open any man who was a threat to her boy.’

And here in this infertile field with two broken people, Froi remembered his dream.

Hamlyn’s wife, Arna, returned and gave a bowl of water to each of them and Froi drank thirstily.

‘I need to travel to the Citavita,’ he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Not a good idea,’ Hamlyn said.

‘I need to be with my family,’ he said quietly. ‘They are hiding in the caves at the base of the gravina.’

‘Why would they be hiding in the same place as the King’s riders?’ Hamlyn asked.

‘For reasons that could get you killed if you knew the truth.’

The next morning Froi woke to find Hamlyn and his wife standing before him. He had dreamt again. This time it was of Arna, a she-wolf guarding her young. Except the teeth and snarl were those of Quintana. Arna crouched and handed him a pack and he smelt fresh bread and cheese and smoked meats. Hamlyn gave him a map.

‘Have you heard of the stairs to Jidia?’ Hamlyn asked.

‘They say there’s no such thing,’ Froi said.

‘Who says?’ Hamlyn said with a smile.

Froi dressed quickly and placed the food and map in his pack. He looked at Arna, placed his arms around her and she held on tight as though she was holding the son who would never return and he was holding the mother Lirah would never be to him.

‘You’re hiding something, Froi,’ Hamlyn said, handing him a crossbow with the letter
J
etched into the wood.

‘Everyone is hiding something, Hamlyn,’ Froi said. He shook the man’s hand. It was a Charynite’s gesture. ‘But it’s best you do not know what it is.’

He walked away, but turned back once.

‘What was the name of your son?’ he asked, his finger tracing the groove in the weapon they had given him.

‘John,’ the man said. ‘John, son of Hamlyn and Arna of Charyn.’

F
roi had been on his own now for the better part of the day, travelling through a labyrinth of caves as he followed Hamlyn’s map, which was peppered with a series of twists and turns and strange markings. He marvelled each time he came face to face with a matching symbol carved into a crevice, or the image of a bison scratched onto the ground, its hump pointing him in the direction of the people he needed to be with. Hamlyn had explained that the underground caves were built thousands upon thousands of years ago when those of Sendecane had taken on the worship of the goddess Lagrami. They had been persecuted by their godless king and escaped across two kingdoms to hide in Charyn, preferring to burrow their way into the earth rather than give up their faith. In later years their descendants settled above ground in the kingdoms of Charyn, Lumatere and Sarnak. The rock people of Lumatere were fair in skin and gold of hair, much like Grijio of Paladozza and Hamlyn and Arna of Jidia. Froi had grown up amongst those in the Sarnak capital with the same colouring. Had they come from the same Sendecanese who had hidden in these caves in the past? Was it why Finnikin’s people settled themselves on a rock and not the Flatlands or mountains? He thought of Quintana who looked different from everyone Froi had come across. She was every colour of Charyn stone. Flecks of browns and greys and golds.

Outside the caves and back at the base of the gravina, Froi couldn’t help but marvel at how it had taken him half the time to travel back to where he had begun his journey. He wondered what else the caves could offer those who were desperate not to be found. He waited until early morning to make his way to the others, praying they would still be there. He was more than half a mile upstream and could see only three of Bestiano’s riders. He figured they would have had no clue about where he was this last week. Perhaps they had become lazy. But not too lazy. They wanted Quintana. Bestiano wanted her. She was his only way back into the palace and to power. Bestiano’s capture of the King’s true assassin, the King’s own treacherous daughter, would bring him some kind of credibility amongst some of the Provincari. Despite everything that had taken place between them, Froi was her only chance of survival. If Quintana, Gargarin, Arjuro and Lirah had left the cave or been caught by the riders, Froi would search for them and not return to Lumatere until he knew they were safe.

Later that morning he crept through the entrance of their cave. When he was satisfied that the branches and bracken were back in place, he turned, only to see Lirah wielding Gargarin’s staff at his head. Froi ducked and something flashed in her eyes. Was it relief that he wasn’t a rider? Or relief that he had returned?

‘You got lost, did you?’ she asked coldly.

They stared at each other for a long time and Froi felt the anger return.

‘Not what you wanted, am I, Lirah?’ he spat out. ‘Not what you dreamed of?’

‘I never wanted and I never dreamed,’ she said quietly, taking the pack from his hand. ‘So don’t presume you know what passes through my head.’

She walked away, but turned when he didn’t follow.

‘I think it frightens her more when you’re not around than when you are,’ she said. ‘Come.’

There were no hugs or tears on Froi’s return. Only hostility. Quintana was cold and Arjuro plain grunting rude. Gargarin refused to look at him, his head bent over his wretched sketches of water troughs and whatnot. In the centre of their cave, Froi emptied his pack. He saw their eyes widen when the bread and cheese and bacon appeared before them and wondered how long it had been since they last ate.

‘You think we’ll forgive you, just like that,’ Arjuro said, keeping his distance.

Froi retrieved a bottle of mead from his pack. ‘As I don’t believe I did anything that requires forgiveness, I’ll merely hand this over for you to swill in silence.’

‘You’ve been gone six days,’ Gargarin shouted, finally looking up and throwing his pages across the cave. ‘Six days! We thought you were dead!’

Froi was surprised by his outburst. Lirah merely picked up the scattered papers, shuffling them together. Quintana was staring at the food. She looked pale and drawn, the dark circles under her eyes even more pronounced.

‘Eat,’ Froi ordered. But still she refused to step closer.

‘Who gave you all this?’ Lirah asked, kneeling beside Froi, pages in hand.

‘A couple on a farm beyond the gravina,’ he said, breaking some bread and placing a piece of cheese inside. He held it up to Quintana, who gazed at it hungrily. When she refused to take it, he bit into it, chewed, swallowed and held it out to her again. This time she took it.

‘I tried to steal a horse and they let me stay a night or two.’ He looked at them, nodding. ‘Good, honest people. They treated me like they would a son,’ he added, his tone emphasising the last part.

Arjuro took a swig of the mead, wiping his mouth with satisfaction. ‘Who would have guessed? He’s a needy little thing, isn’t he?’

For a long time there was only the sound of chewing and grunting. Froi watched them all, a strange sort of peace coming over him.

‘I know how to get to Jidia without the riders seeing us.’

Everyone stopped chewing and stared.

‘The steps of Jidia,’ he said.

Gargarin shook his head with disbelief.

‘It’s a myth.’

Froi waved the map in front of his face.

‘Not according to this map. We’re going to have to take a chance and leave here. The cave is half a mile downstream. If we travel in the dark in the early hours of the morning, we should be safe.’

‘I say it’s a mistake,’ Gargarin said. ‘We could be following a trail that does not exist and end up creating a prison for ourselves in those caves. Starving to death at that.’

‘Always the optimist,’ Arjuro muttered.

Later, Froi and the others lay, trying to sleep. All except for Quintana, who still sat upright, fighting to stay awake.

‘I dreamt,’ Quintana said. ‘Two nights past.’

Whilst the others murmured their acknowledgement, as though they had become used to her ramblings, Froi’s heart began to hammer in his chest.

‘I dream between sleep and wakefulness,’ Quintana continued indignantly.

‘I, for one, would like to have the opportunity to sleep now, so I can dream,’ Arjuro said, drowsy from the mead.

Gargarin made a sound in agreement, but Froi kept his eyes on Quintana, the light from the flames making her look ghostly, even fragile.

‘What did you dream about?’ he asked, and he couldn’t keep the gruffness from his voice.

Quintana held up a thumb and two fingers, a question in her eyes. It was the identical gesture Lirah had captured and painted on the wall of her prison all those years ago.

Froi crawled out of his bedroll and picked up Gargarin’s quill and papers. He tried to get closer to her, but she hissed like the cats he had seen on the streets of the Sarnak capital, protecting their litter from the daggers of hungry men.

‘Froi,’ Lirah warned from her bedroll.

Froi began to draw. ‘I dreamt of this,’ he said when he finished the sketch, holding it up. ‘I dreamt …’

He felt his face warming up.

Suddenly the others were wide awake and looking his way.

‘You dreamt what?’ Gargarin asked ‘What have you drawn there?’

Froi held it up over the light of the fire.

‘I dreamt she was drawing these letters on my body,’ he mumbled.

He felt four sets of eyes on him, three sets looking at him questioningly. ‘Didn’t you say nothing intimate took place between you two?’ Gargarin asked, suspiciously.

‘Didn’t say that at all,’ Froi said, on the defensive. ‘What makes you think something did take place between us?’

Arjuro made a rude sound. ‘It’s in your voice, you little snake.’

Lirah was looking at Quintana as suspiciously as Gargarin had looked at Froi. ‘I thought you said he pleaded illness and lack of interest each time,' she said.

‘Well, he did,’ Quintana said indignantly. ‘But on the final night he was up for swiving and I was reassured once again that the gods had sent him to break the curse.’