Froi of the Exiles (47 page)

‘We don’t use that word, Princess,’ Gargarin said politely.

‘I use it all the time,’ Arjuro said. ‘One of my favourite words, actually.’

Froi didn’t think there’d be any sleep tonight, judging from the idiotic conversation.

‘What made you so sure he was sent to break the curse, Quintana?’ Lirah asked, patiently. ‘Why not the other lastborns?’

‘It’s written all over him. Have I not said that over and over again, Lirah?’ Quintana asked, annoyed.

Froi shuddered. There were too many signs to ignore now. Hamlyn’s dream of his son. Quintana’s strange words. Rafuel’s excitement that day in his prison.

When no one had spoken for a while, he turned to them, giving up the pretence of anyone getting sleep.

‘The man whose farm I worked dreamt that his son warned him about someone coming their way with the words of the gods written all over him.’

Now he truly had everyone’s attention. Gargarin stood and walked to where Lirah was studying Froi’s sketch.

‘What is it?’ Froi asked.

‘You’ve never seen this?’ Lirah asked, surprised.

He shook his head, frightened by their scrutiny. Lirah looked at Quintana. ‘Can we show him?’ she asked with a gruff gentleness.

Quintana studied Froi a moment or two before gathering her hair in her fist and turning to reveal her neck. The sign of the lastborn girls. Identical to the lettering he had sketched on the parchment. In his dream she had painted the strange word on his back with strokes that had made his skin feel alive. He had awoken, aroused. Had some kind of sorcery helped her creep into his dream like Isaboe was able to do with Vestie of the Flatlands?

‘What does it mean?’ Froi asked, his throat feeling as if he had swallowed sand.

Gargarin was studying his face. ‘It means that perhaps something good came out of Abroi after all,’ he said quietly.

Froi was shaken awake. In an instant, his hand snaked out and caught the throat of whoever loomed over him. When he saw Gargarin’s pale face, he let go, shoving him away. ‘I could have killed you, idiot!’

‘What is it?’ Arjuro murmured from his bedroll.

‘Come with me,’ Gargarin said. ‘Both of you.’

Froi looked over to where Quintana sat watching them, the lids of her eyes heavy with fatigue.

Gargarin led Froi and Arjuro to the small entrance and began to crawl through the tunnel into the first cave. They followed him out into the dark.

‘The sun is about to rise,’ Gargarin whispered. ‘Humour me. Please.’

Gargarin’s eyes flashed with a fervour that Froi hadn’t seen in them before. There was too much strangeness in the air and he wanted to run from it all. He wanted to follow bonds and plough land. Not believe in a grieving father’s dream and a mad girl’s ranting.

‘Those who are gods’ blessed can read the words of the gods when the sun appears.’ Gargarin said. ‘It’s why Arjuro wakes early and why he sat on the godshouse balcony each morning. He was waiting for a sign to appear on the palace walls.’

Arjuro looked away, a bitter expression on his face.

‘But perhaps you’ve been looking in the wrong place, Arjuro. On the night Froi was left with them, the Priests of Trist dreamt that the words of a prophecy would appear in the palace. True? I never believed that. I thought they’d appear in any one of the thousands of caves in Charyn and when I was released, I searched for years and years.’

Arjuro’s eyes finally met his brother’s.

‘You should have gone to Paladozza,’ he said sadly. ‘At least De Lancey would have given you an easy life.’

‘Some men aren’t born for an easy life, Arjuro. And I’m not out here for regrets and what-ifs.’

‘Then what are we doing out here?’ Arjuro asked.

‘Remember the readings of Carapasio?’

‘Who?’ Froi asked.

‘A first-century gossip,’ Arjuro said. ‘He bored us to death with his ramblings about life a thousand years ago. I had to read them as part of my godshouse education when I was sixteen.’

‘He means I read them for him and recited them to the Priests who thought I was Arjuro,’ Gargarin said.

Arjuro looked sheepish. ‘But I did end up reading them later.’

‘Where were the words of the gods first written in Charyn?’ Gargarin asked his brother.

Arjuro was confused for a moment. ‘Why do you ask –’

Arjuro stopped, some kind of realisation on his face.

‘What?’ Froi asked, now looking from Arjuro to Gargarin. ‘Can one of you explain instead of doing that frightening nodding thing where you look too alike?’

‘The gods wrote their words on the body of the first Oracle. She had pitched her tent, drawing crowds from all over the Citavita with her ability to foretell the future. She had no past and no name, but written all over her were the names of provinces and the rules for living and dying. It’s how they find the Oracle each generation. An Oracle dies and soon after a young girl arrives on the doorstep of the godshouse after travelling for days and weeks. No family. No past. Sent by the gods, they say. Except for these last eighteen years.’

‘And you believe that?’ Froi asked.

‘Get undressed, Froi,’ Gargarin said.

‘No!’ he said, horrified. It was freezing and if the riders came across them, he’d be unarmed.

The sun began to appear in the sky and Gargarin clicked his fingers, impatiently. Froi grunted, annoyed.

‘Trust me,’ Gargarin hissed.

Froi removed his clothing, grumbling.

‘Be careful,’ Gargarin said and Froi realised he was speaking to Arjuro. ‘Don’t look straight away, Ari. Remember what it would do to your eyes when we were children.’

Froi had no idea what he was speaking about. He tried to twist his body so he could look over his shoulder to his back. But he saw nothing.

‘What’s there?’ Froi asked, half-believing that perhaps words would magically appear. Gargarin forced him still, cold hands on his shoulders. Froi waited, felt the moment the sun entered the cave, welcomed the way the light crept in, caressed his arm, his shoulder and then all over his body. And still he waited, wanting to believe, not realising how desperate he was to.

Then he heard the sound. Of pure unadulterated pain. Froi swung around and Arjuro was bent over, palms to his eyes, writhing in agony. Gargarin was beside him in an instant, but Arjuro pushed him away.

‘I can do it. I can do it.’

‘What’s happened?’ Froi asked.

‘Turn. Turn,’ Arjuro whispered hoarsely, his eyes weeping blood. Froi shook his head again.

‘Turn, I say.’

Froi swung around, his heart hammering, sweat pouring from a body that seemed on fire and still he heard the gasps coming from Arjuro.

‘He’s in pain,’ Froi argued. ‘This isn’t right.’

‘If I speak it aloud, are you still able to write it down?’ Arjuro asked Gargarin, his voice broken.

Gargarin was staring at Froi, stunned. It was as though he was seeing him for the first time. ‘Stay still,’ Gargarin said, almost reverently. ‘Speak it, Arjuro. We will decipher it together later.’

Arjuro spoke and Froi heard words from a strange tongue. Not of Sarnak or Lumatere or Charyn. A tongue, not quite human, spoken from a voice so torn that it made him sick to think of the pain. Gargarin scribbled down his words with twisted fingers, sometimes asking Arjuro to repeat a word.

When Arjuro was finished, Froi dressed quickly while Gargarin pulled Arjuro to his feet, trying to hold his brother up with his own feeble body. Froi pushed him gently out of the way, placing Arjuro’s arm around his shoulder.

A startled Lirah was on her feet the moment they entered their nook.

‘What happened?’ she asked, helping Froi lay Arjuro down. His eyes were red raw and still weeping blood.

Gargarin tipped the mead into the cloth of his shirt and wiped Arjuro’s face clean and Froi saw tears in the Priestling’s eyes.

‘I thought they had forsaken me,’ Arjuro whispered.

And Froi could see that Arjuro was crying with joy.

For the next two days Gargarin and Arjuro sat with their heads together, scribbling, arguing, writing. Froi was used to their silence together, but not this. There were times when he saw the power of the brothers combined and understood what it was that made them so desired in the godshouse and the palace. He came to understand the difference between the gods’ blessed and a smart man. His uncle was one. His father the other.

Later that night, Gargarin shook him awake. ‘We’ve got to remove her from danger,’ he whispered. ‘I don’t know what she is … what you both are, but if I’m going to believe anything in this damned life of mine, it’s that the gods sent you to cure this wretched kingdom.’

Froi sat up and retrieved the map from his pack.

‘Then we do this my way,’ he said. ‘We take the steps to Jidia.’

Early the next morning, before the sun rose, they left their hiding place and travelled upstream to the cave that would lead them to Jidia. As they passed the camp of riders, Froi could see two on guard. He made a signal towards the others and they stayed low behind two fallen logs while Froi stealthily climbed the closest tree. Once up high, he shot three bolts from the crossbow into undergrowth on the other side of the stream. Alerted to the sound, the two riders made their way across the water. The moment the men were out of sight, Froi leapt down and led the others away.

Inside the caves, they travelled for most of the day, Froi forced to stop time and time again, searching for the next instruction on the map. When he stopped for the umpteenth time, Arjuro took the map from his hands and studied it a moment before handing it back and leading the way. At first Froi was irritated. There were no secret symbols or ancient words that needed to be deciphered. But then he realised Arjuro had an extraordinary ability to recall what he had studied only once. The Priestling never looked at the map again.

‘Don’t ask me to explain it,’ Gargarin said quietly. The cave had narrowed and they were now walking one behind the other.

‘Perhaps it comes with being gods’ blessed,’ Gargarin said. ‘When we were younger, he could read a book and memorise every page, regardless of its size.’

‘Then why did you sit for Arjuro’s exam when he would have had a better chance of remembering every detail?’ Froi asked.

‘The gods’ blessed might have genius,’ Gargarin said, ‘but that doesn’t stop them from being lazy.’

In front of him, Quintana stumbled. With no sleep, little food and fatigue beyond anything he had seen in her yet, she had trudged most of the day.

‘Not long now,’ Lirah reassured, despite the fact they had no idea how long it would be.

‘I can carry you,’ Froi said quietly.

He heard a low growl come from Quintana.

‘I think that means no,’ Arjuro said.

There were one thousand, three hundred and twenty-three steps to Jidia. They were narrow and steep with nothing but dents in the stone, moulded by shoulders pressed into the smothering walls over thousands of years. Arjuro’s oil lamp extinguished and it was pure darkness, the type of darkness to conjure up evil. On the steps of Jidia, there was no place to rest. No space above their heads. No room for one foot to stand alongside another. No end in sight. Three years training to be the most powerful warrior in the kingdom and nothing had prepared Froi for this.

But it was Arjuro who stopped, trapping all of them behind him. His breath was ragged. Not the sound of weariness, but of being choked of air, because hideous memories could swallow a man whole. And suddenly Froi was trapped someplace else. In a past so painful. A hand pressing his head down into the folds of a filthy straw mattress. He wanted to fight whoever it was. Had always tried, but he wasn’t strong enough.
Because he’s just a boy and he’s so small and when he grows up he’ll learn how to fight and he’ll learn how to kill, but for now he just wants to breathe!

‘Blessed Arjuro, I’m very tired,’ Quintana said indignantly, with only the sound of their ragged gasps surrounding them. Froi thought he would beat the others out of the way, if only he could move and breathe. So he counted in every language he knew, took gulps of air that was still and stale, attempted everything he could to crush the thoughts that ran through his head. That he would die on these steps. He’d die, because he was weak and pathetic and too scrawny to protect anyone, let alone himself. He was nothing.

‘Arjuro!’

Lirah’s voice was loud and firm. On Froi’s shoulder, he felt a gentle hand. Gargarin’s. As though he knew that it was not only Arjuro who was suffering in this darkness.

‘You’re not there, Arjuro,’ Lirah said. ‘You’re here. Where he can’t hurt you. You’re safe!’

And all Froi could feel was Gargarin’s hand and all he could hear was Arjuro’s breath begin to even and all he could see was Lirah two steps before him. Lirah who knew Gargarin’s worst nightmares and in knowing his, she knew Arjuro’s.

You’re not there, Froi. You’re here. You’re safe.

And they continued to climb.

The steps to Jidia didn’t quite lead to Jidia. They led to another cave where they chose to rest for the night. Gargarin lay out the last of the twigs and reeds and they huddled around the meagre fire, sharing what was left of their bread crust and cheese rind. It was some time before anyone spoke.

Later, Gargarin and Arjuro sat apart from the others, deciphering the words from the gods. Gargarin would show Arjuro the parchment and most times Arjuro would disagree.

‘I think that’s the language of the godshouse of Ariadinay and this comes from the godshouse of Trist,’ Arjuro said, pointing to the words. ‘Different gods trying to break the curse.’

Quintana would look up from where her head lay on Lirah’s lap. Tonight she was pure Aunt Mawfa. Froi could have sworn he saw her place the back of her hand across her brow.

‘Why don’t they just ask me, Lirah?’ she asked. ‘I can tell them what it says.’

‘Because they’re idiots,’ Lirah replied.

Arjuro scribbled down more words and showed Gargarin, who shook his head. They had been secretive in their work and Froi knew they would reveal little until they were confident.

‘You’re wrong,’ Gargarin said.

Froi sighed. It meant another exchange. The last had almost resulted in a slapping sort of fight over parchment and quill that was horrifying. Froi tried not to imagine the humiliation of Trevanion and Perri witnessing it.