Froi of the Exiles (9 page)

In the mountains, Lucian stumbled to his empty cottage, his body weighed by the weariness of leading a people who had little respect for him. He wondered what his father would do, if he lived. A fair man, Saro was, who had tried to teach Lucian to see the worth in every man and woman, regardless of whether they were the enemy. But Lucian was not his father and deep inside of him a desire burnt bright each night. A desire to steal away down the mountain and cut the throats of every Charynite who slept in the valley. Including that of the wife he sent back.

L
umatere had always been a feast for Froi’s eyes. Even during the years of little rain, it was a contrast of lush green grass and thick rich silt, carpeting the Flatlands and the river villages. But Charyn was a kingdom of rock and very little beauty. Here, the terrain was a rough path of dirt, pocketed with caves and hills of stone. Sometimes the dry landscape was peppered with wild flowers or the mountains of rock were shaped like the ghouls and spirits painted in the
Book of the Ancients
Froi had seen in the Priestking’s cottage. Wind holes had been carved out of the caves and from afar they resembled the dug-out sockets of eyes.

Rafuel and the Priestking had instructed Froi that most of the Charynites had migrated to the kingdom from all corners of Skuldenore. The only original inhabitants had been the Serkers, who had now disappeared, although stories existed of underground cities where Serkers and other nomads were in hiding from the King and plotting their revenge.

Stone, stone, rock, stone and more stone.

Froi met his guide outside the province walls of Alonso, the birthplace of the wife Lucian had sent back. It was a province bursting with unwanted newcomers, a place on the brink of war within its walls. These days it accommodated its desperate neighbours from the smaller provinces all but wiped out by plague and drought. Froi suspected that the Provincaro’s marriage of his daughter to Lucian had little to do with a promise between two men and more to do with a need to make use of the Lumateran valley.

Apart from the capital, which was known as the Citavita, there were six provinces left in Charyn, each one of them large, powerful and containing the most fertile land in the kingdom. There were also a handful of mountain tribes or nomads who kept very much to themselves. Rafuel had explained that if a clan chose to stay outside the major walls of a larger province, there was always the threat of the palace riders collecting their young men to be part of the King’s army or taking their lastborn girls. At least in the provinces, people were protected by the Provincari who still had power against the King. The palace’s greatest fear was that the Provincari would unite their armies against the King, but after the annihilation of Serker, no Provincaro was willing to take that chance.

The guide’s name was Zabat from the province of Nebia, east of the capital. He spent much of his time not looking Froi in the eye, which was never a good sign.

‘You have a strange name,’ Froi said, as he changed clothing and became Olivier of Sebastabol. The trousers were uncomfortable, tighter than he was used to wearing, the doublet jacket worse. But he liked his buskins and he fastened the laces up to his knees, relieved that there was at least one article of clothing that didn’t make him feel a fool.

‘Strange in what way?’ Zabat demanded.

‘Different from Rafuel and even the Princess Quintana.’

‘Those of us from Nebia hail from the kingdom of Sorel. Hundreds of years ago, mind you. You’d think everyone would get over that fact, wouldn’t you? We have as much right to Charyn as anyone else.’

‘And who says you don’t?’ Froi asked.

‘Those from the province of Paladozza,’ the guide said, seemingly on the defensive. ‘And anyone from the Citavita. They all came from the kingdom of Sendecane during the time of the Ancients. Just like most of the Lumateran Forest Dwellers and those from the Rock.’

‘Charynites and Lumaterans don’t hail from the same place,’ Froi scoffed.

‘Do you have women named Evestalina? Bartolina? Celestina? Men named Raffio?’

Froi didn’t reply.

‘All from the same place,’ Zabat stated flatly. ‘Nothing changes. Names stay the same. So do traits.’

The time Froi enjoyed best was when the terrain was flat enough for a gallop. It meant he didn’t have to listen to Zabat’s voice drone on and on.

‘ … and really, who put Rafuel in charge, I ask? Does he look like a warrior to you …’

Or when they came across a herd of mountain goats and their bleating drowned out Zabat’s voice. But all too soon it would begin again.

‘ … did he say I was a Priestling? Doubt that. What? Do you think they’re better than the rest of us because they’re gods’ touched? Gods’ touched.’ Zabat made a rude sound. ‘It’s all I’ve heard my whole life. The gods’ touched or the lastborns. There’s always someone more special than us ordinary folk.’

Apart from such distractions, there was little around Froi to take his attention away from Zabat’s complaining. The world outside the provinces was nothing more than brown tufts of grass and stone. Miles upon miles of land had been either overgrazed or was too far from water to carve out a living. Suddenly he could understand the overcrowded Alonso and the desire for Charynites to keep inside the province’s walls.

‘ … and if you ask me …’

No, Froi didn’t ask him.

‘ … the Serkers were the worst,’ Zabat continued. ‘Their people built the first library, as well as the largest amphitheatres in Charyn, so weren’t they the greatest in the land in their own eyes? I say it’s a good thing that Serker is now in ruins.’

Later, Froi dared ask what the shapes in the far distance were. A mistake.

‘The Province of Jidia,’ Zabat replied, as they began to travel down a ridge that would lead them to yet another mountain of stone.

‘ … because really, who cares if the Jidians built the first road to the Citavita? Do we have to hear about it for the rest of our lives?’

Froi bit his tongue to stop himself from speaking. Two days with Zabat had taken its toll. Worse still, their trail into the base of the ravine would soon disappear, and they would have to leave their horses behind. On foot, Zabat’s voice was closer to his ear, so Froi practised an internal chant taught to him by the Priestking.

‘Some people say they see the gods when they perfect this chant,’ the blessed
Barakah
once told him. Froi would be grateful enough if the gods chose not to visit, but managed to have Zabat’s tongue ripped out and fed to the hounds that guarded their realm instead.

When they reached a wall of rock that seemed to go as far as the eye could see, they tethered the horses to be collected on Zabat’s return. Froi followed Zabat into a tunnel through the stone, so narrow that he felt the breath robbed from him. That thousands upon thousands of years ago someone had cut their way through this rock seemed unfathomable to Froi. On the other side he found himself following Zabat into a gorge with a steady stream of water pouring down from the mountain of rock high above. Where they stood, trees and reeds grew along the bank, but surrounding them on both sides loomed granite walls, blocking the light from the sun.

‘The base of the gravina,’ Zabat explained.

Froi peered ahead of him to see how far he could see downstream. Zabat tapped him on the arm and then pointed up.

‘The Citavita is up that way.’

‘You expect me to climb that?’

‘Further downstream you will still have to travel up, and the path is even more treacherous. It’s not as bad as it looks.’

This was to be the meeting point with the man they called Gargarin of Abroi. The plan so far had worked as Rafuel had predicted. Rafuel and his men had come across the news weeks before that Gargarin of Abroi, after an eighteen-year absence from the palace, had been granted an audience with the King. Upon hearing the news, Rafuel had sent a message to Gargarin under the guise of the Provincaro of Sebastabol, asking the King’s former architect to escort Sebastabol’s beloved lastborn to the province. The real lad’s name was Olivier, and his party would be apprehended and kept prisoner in the rock caves outside his province where Zabat would ensure their safety. Olivier and his guards would be released unharmed when Froi had done what he was sent to do. As far as Gargarin of Abroi knew, he was doing the Provincaro a favour and had no inkling that he was accompanying an assassin into the palace.

Further downstream, Zabat stopped and looked up at the cave dwellings that formed part of the gravina wall.

‘Hello there,’ Zabat hollered, dropping his pack to the ground. ‘Hello, I say again.’

Froi heard Zabat’s voice echo over and over again throughout the gorge. Wonderful. The gods had found a way of multiplying the idiot’s voice.

‘Hello there!’ Zabat hollered again. And again the echo.
‘Hel-lo!’

‘Do you honestly believe I didn’t hear you the first time?’

Froi swung around to see a man stepping out from one of the caves. He had cold blue eyes, stark pale skin and the blackest of hair. He would have been no older than Trevanion and Perri, but was slight in build and limped with a staff in his left hand. He wore a coarse grey tunic that hung on his thin frame and loose frayed trousers that seemed to have seen better days. His shoes were no more than cowhide tied onto his feet. Rafuel had spoken little of Gargarin of Abroi except to say that he lived as a recluse, preferring his own company. Zabat held out a hand and Froi prepared to do the same. The Priestking had told Froi of the custom of shaking hands. In Lumatere, men embraced or held up a hand in gesture. In Sarnak, there was a bow of acknowledgement between people. Froi did not understand the shaking of a hand. He had seen it only once or twice in the most polite of circumstances. On his last night in the palace he had practised with Finnikin. It ended in an arm-wrestle that had them both rolling around Isaboe’s feet as she nursed Jasmina, murmuring to the Princess about the idiocy of men.

‘Sir Gargarin?’ Zabat questioned.

‘Just Gargarin.’ The voice was clipped and cool.

‘May I present to you, Olivier of Sebastabol.’

Froi held out a hand as Gargarin of Abroi turned to him. The man flinched, a quick expression of shock on his face. No, not shock. Horror. When Gargarin refused to take his hand, Froi let it fall to his side, biting back fury. He felt studied. Judged.
Remember your bond
, he told himself.
That when you feel rage you count to ten. You don’t spit. You don’t pound a fist into the face of the other. Count to ten, Froi.

‘You’re from Sebastabol?’ Gargarin questioned, disbelief in his voice.

‘Yes, Sir.’ Both Zabat and Froi spoke at once. Had they already failed? Froi had imagined they would encounter problems at the hands of the palace riders in the Citavita. Instead, it seemed that this scholar with his cold stare had already seen through them.

‘Where are the rest of his guards?’ Gargarin asked, indicating Froi with a toss of his head.

‘It’s just me, Sir,’ Zabat said. ‘There has been a change in circumstances,’ he continued firmly. ‘The Provincaro of Sebastabol has sent word that I escort Olivier only this far. I’m to return as soon as possible.’

‘A change indeed,’ Gargarin said, eyeing them both suspiciously. ‘Why would a lastborn be sent into the palace with no guard?’

‘These are tense times, Sir. The Provincaro will be visiting the Cita vita on the third week of this month for the day of weeping and he will need his guard.’

‘Last I heard, the Provincaro of Sebastabol was unable to travel to the Citavita for the day of weeping, and I’ve been to Sebastabol enough times to know that the Provincaro has more than one guard anyway. So what makes you so special, Zabat? Are you gods’ touched?’

Froi groaned. Another woeful tirade from his guide was sure to take place.

‘Olivier has a good understanding of swordplay,’ Zabat said. ‘And, frankly, I don’t think one has to be gods’ touched to be able to do everything these days. I’ve managed to get as far as I have without a talent to my name.’

Gargarin of Abroi stared at Froi. Zabat was already dismissed.

‘No lastborn has a good understanding of swordplay,’ Gargarin bit out. ‘The lastborns have been taught to keep out of harm’s way for no other reason but that Charyn cannot afford to lose them.’

‘I would like to think of myself as unique amongst lads,’ Froi said.

Too formal, idiot, he told himself.

There was no reply from Gargarin. Just the same penetrating stare.

‘We camp the night and leave first light,’ Gargarin said, walking back into the cave. ‘And if for some fool reason you are carrying weapons, heed my warning. They won’t let you past that drawbridge with so much as a toothpick.’

Froi made sure to keep his distance from the man who would act as Olivier of Sebastabol’s chaperone. He set up his bedroll outside, despite the cold night, preferring to sleep away from the others. When Zabat disappeared, off to relieve himself by the sounds and smell of things, Froi climbed up the path of stepping stones that would eventually lead to the top of the gravina. Close by, he found a large rock, more like a low narrow cave, its outside roof etched with the image of a fan bird. Froi removed the scabbard and short sword from across his shoulder and the two daggers at his sleeve. He took the Queen’s ruby ring from his pocket, but couldn’t bear to part with it and placed it back inside the hidden pouch of his trousers. He crawled on his belly and secured the weapons at the rim of the cave before crawling out again.

When Zabat returned, Froi was already by the stream. ‘He knows we are lying,’ Froi whispered. ‘Can we trust him?’

Zabat looked back at the cave dwelling that Gargarin had disappeared into. ‘Who knows? Those born with brains think they’re above the likes of us.’

‘I like to think I have a bit of a brain myself,’ Froi said.

Zabat ignored him. ‘Gargarin of Abroi was not just an architect, but one of the King’s advisors in the palace at the time of the godshouse attack eighteen years past. I don’t know which way he is aligned, but it doesn’t matter. He can get you into the palace.’