Her stare was suddenly on Phaedra, blazing fiercely.
“Did I keep old men from your bed of innocence, Phaedra of Alonso?”
Phaedra couldn’t speak. She remembered the women in her father’s residence. How they wept and wept at the thought of what would happen to her after she was marked. She shivered just to think of those awful days.
“I remember it well,” Phaedra said. “And then it was decreed that you and only you would give birth to the first and that any man or last-born girl who tried would be punished by the gods. The women in my father’s residence thanked the gods that you were delusional.”
But there was nothing delusional about her. Phaedra stared at her in wonder. Quintana of Charyn had insisted on the decree to protect the last-born girls. And in return, they mocked her madness.
“You’re not going to start crying, are you, fool?” Quintana asked bluntly. “It irritates me.”
Tesadora made a clucking sound of annoyance.
“What did I tell you?” she said to Quintana in a reprimanding voice.
Tesadora’s lover continued to study Quintana, and in return, she appraised him with arrogant curiosity, except for the flash of pain that crossed her face.
“Did I imagine Froi’s arrows?” she asked quietly. “I dream of them every night. I feel them.”
“Where do you feel them in your dreams?” he asked gently.
Quintana touched her head, her arm, her belly, her side, her shoulder, her thigh, her breast, and her ankle.
Perri exchanged a look with Tesadora.
“You remember exactly where they struck him?” he asked, surprised.
Quintana didn’t respond, and Phaedra caught her shudder.
“She has a very good memory for detail,” Phaedra said.
The great ice lake of Charyn lay beyond Serker, and once crossed, it would mark the entrance into north country. Froi could have imagined it glistening white under the spell of a blue sky during the winter months. But spring was creeping over the land, and the snow that had covered the lake had melted, leaving the ice below exposed. Froi could see that parts of the lake were darker already from the first signs of the thaw.
“Black ice,” Perabo muttered, pointing. “Not a good sign for crossing.”
Gargarin dismounted. “Off the horses,” he ordered. “We don’t want to be tangled up with these animals if the ground breaks beneath our feet.”
And so their journey across the lake began with caution and not a word spoken among them for most of that day, every step taken with the fear of it being the one that would crack the ice and break the lake’s surface in its entirety. The sound of the wind was their greatest foe. Froi was coming to hate its taunting whistle. If it wasn’t mingled with the cries of the Serkan slaughtered, it was warning them of its power. How insignificant they must have looked in the eyes of the gods. Not even when he had climbed the gravina had Froi felt so vulnerable to the elements.
The dying light of the day faded, and Froi watched until Gargarin and Lirah and Perabo were merely shapes around him.
Darkness brought with it new fears, and its only benefit was that it blinded them to the vastness of the lake. More than anything, they were weary, and Froi knew he would never take the feel of solid ground beneath his feet for granted again.
“Look,” Gargarin said, sometime deep into the night. He pointed, and they looked up to see a spectacular sky, the stars so low that Froi felt he only had to hold up a hand to touch them. He’d never seen a night sky so perfect, so milky and magical.
But what sunrise had to offer was worse than they could have imagined. In the far distance behind them, they saw riders beginning their journey across the lake. Bestiano’s army was closer than they had thought.
“It’s best not to run,” Froi said. They still hadn’t reached land, and he didn’t want to take a chance. “This ice won’t hold us all if they give chase.”
“They’ll attack,” Lirah said.
“They’re out of range, so we just need to make sure that we keep up this pace.”
“Can you attack from here?” Gargarin asked.
Froi shook his head. “Too far and too many. I could wait for them to get closer, but unless Perabo can strike from this distance, I’ll be outnumbered.”
They turned to Perabo, but the keeper of the cave shook his head. “Only if they were closer, and we don’t want that. So we do as the lad says and we keep this distance between us. They could be travelers, for all we know.”
But no one believed that the men on horseback weren’t soldiers. These were Bestiano’s scouts, sent out to assess and report back to their leader and the Nebian army. Froi tried to count their number. Perhaps eighteen or nineteen in total. Too many to fight on his own, even with Perabo’s help. Too many to stand on thin ice.
“Keep walking,” he ordered the others. They had to get off this lake soon. But before they could take another step north, two of Bestiano’s horsemen broke free and came riding toward them. Froi retrieved his bow and took aim.
“Go,” Froi shouted to the others.
“They’re holding flags,” Gargarin said.
“They can’t be trusted,” Perabo argued.
“Go,” Froi shouted again, but he felt Gargarin’s hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t shoot, Froi. Perhaps they come in peace.”
They watched and waited, Froi’s fingers clenched on the bow. At the halfway point between both parties, the two horsemen stopped. The first dismounted, but Froi could see there was another astride his horse.
“There’re three of them, not two,” Froi said.
Froi watched the first rider as he plunged a flag into the ice. They heard the moan of the ground beneath their feet, and before Froi could issue an order to keep on moving, the man on the second horse came riding toward them, leaving his two companions behind.
Froi knelt, his aim on the target.
“Wait, Froi. Wait,” Gargarin said.
Froi’s fingers ached from the hold he had on the longbow. Closer and closer the rider came until his face was recognizable.
Dorcas.
The king’s rider approached, the flag in his hand still raised. His face was drawn, his eyes almost void of emotion. Almost, except for a flash of fear when Froi retrieved his sword and stepped forward to press the point of the blade against Dorcas’s cheek.
“A message, sir,” Dorcas said to Gargarin. “From Lord Bestiano.”
“Oh, a lord now,” Gargarin said.
“A message, sir,” Dorcas repeated. Dorcas never steered far from the script he was given to follow.
“Yes, we heard you the first time, idiot,” Froi snapped. “Do you want to know why they’ve sent you, Dorcas? Because they know I can easily kill you and they don’t care if you live or you die.”
Dorcas kept his attention on Gargarin, despite the pressure of the blade on his face.
“If you would please surrender, Sir Gargarin. Only you. We have no need for the others.”
“Just like that?” Froi scoffed. ”You ride over here and politely ask Gargarin to follow you? And he’s going to obey Bestiano’s wishes. Just like that?”
Dorcas swallowed this time. “No,” he said, clearing his throat. “Our Nebian friends are approaching. Four hundred men. They should arrive soon. If Gargarin of Abroi chooses not to surrender before their arrival, the captain of the Nebian army will be forced into the uncomfortable position of . . . having to do something drastic and —”
Froi removed his sword and shook his head, turning away. “Let’s go,” he called out to the others. “He’s too useless to be a threat, and he’ll be too easy a kill. See, Dorcas, you’re not even worth my time to kill.”
“And your brother dies.”
Froi froze. Gargarin made a sound, stumbling toward the rider. Dorcas pointed to a now-solitary man standing at the place where the flag was pitched into the ice. Although it was too far to see Arjuro’s face, Froi knew it was him. Dorcas raised his flag and
waved it, and in the far distance beyond Arjuro, where the group of riders sat astride their horses, an arrow was lobbed into the air and landed within an inch of where Arjuro stood. Gargarin may have been out of attacking distance, but Arjuro wasn’t.
“Regardless of what you do to me, sir,” Dorcas continued, “your brother will die if you choose not to surrender. The moment the army arrives, every soldier has been instructed to fire a bolt. Unless you surrender. No one wants the priestling hurt, sir, but an order is an order. You can avoid the death of your friends here, but if you choose not to surrender, we cannot protect them.”
Dorcas turned his horse and galloped toward his men, leaving Froi and Gargarin in stunned silence. When Dorcas rode past Arjuro, Froi saw a movement from the priestling and he imagined he spat at the guard.
Gargarin began to limp toward his brother, but Froi grabbed him.
“They might not be able to shoot from where they stand, but we don’t take chances.”
Gargarin wasn’t listening. He shrugged free and continued to walk. Froi dragged him back again.
“Gargarin, I must suggest that we continue,” Perabo pleaded. “They want you so that Bestiano has no one stopping him from taking the princess and her child back to the palace. If that happens to Charyn . . . then Tariq of Lascow died in vain.”
Gargarin’s eyes were still fixed on Arjuro as if he could see into his eyes. And for the longest time, no one spoke. All around them, the cracking and rumbling of the thawing ice rang in their ears, and Froi knew that nature would be crueler than an approaching army.
“Gargarin,” Perabo prompted softly.
“No,” Gargarin said. “I won’t walk away from my brother.”
“You’re making a mistake,” Perabo insisted. “You’re placing your emotions before this kingdom.”
“This kingdom has taken my lifeblood!” Gargarin shouted. “I’ve given it everything! What else does it want from me?”
Perabo turned to Lirah.
“Talk to him, Miss Lirah. Is this what you want for him?”
“What I want for him is peace,” she said, her voice low. “And if he walks away from his brother, he will never find it.”
“His brother is a dead man standing,” Perabo said. “You’ll lose them both. This kingdom will lose them both.”
Gargarin’s stare had not strayed from where Arjuro stood, and Froi knew Gargarin would not turn his back on his brother. Not after Arjuro had spent ten years in a Lumateran dungeon for him.
“Give me your robe,” Froi ordered. “And your staff.”
Gargarin turned to him questioningly.
“The moment I give the signal, you get on the horse and you ride and you don’t stop riding,” Froi said, walking behind Beast, who would shield him from the eyes of the riders. He removed his own cloak and cap.
“Perabo, you stay, and when all hell breaks loose, you wait for Arjuro and then you follow them and don’t stop until you’re off the lake.”
“What are you planning, Froi?” Lirah demanded to know.
“Give me your robe, Gargarin,” he said again. “You want me to make decisions, then trust me.”
“Why would I trade one misery for another?” Gargarin demanded, but Froi heard sorrow in his voice.
“Because the misery standing behind this horse has a better chance of surviving than Arjuro.”
“No,” Lirah said. “No!”
“These are the options,” Froi said. “Gargarin walks to his death. Arjuro is torn to pieces by four hundred flying arrows. Or else we all live and later speak about looking on the side of wonder!”
“Take Froi’s offer, Gargarin,” Perabo begged. “Let’s fight them on our terms.”
Still Gargarin refused to move.
“Don’t you trust me?” Froi asked.
Gargarin stared at him over Beast’s head and then wordlessly stepped behind the horse, hidden from the riders. He removed his robe with trembling hands and placed it around Froi, covering his head with the hood.
“Remember,” Froi said, taking the staff, “don’t let them suspect anything. Let them think we’re all watching Gargarin walk away. Don’t get on your horse until I give the signal.”
Froi handed his longbow to Perabo and heard the protests.
“All I need is your ax,” he told the keeper of the cave.
He didn’t dare look at Lirah. He didn’t wait for good-byes or arguing. Instead, he began to limp toward Arjuro. From this distance, Dorcas and the riders would not suspect, but Froi could not be so certain once he reached midway. All he prayed for was that the riders didn’t move within striking distance before he reached Arjuro.
The ax felt heavy on his shoulder, and somehow he was back on Lord August’s farm and they were walking home from felling timber. He remembered that day well because he was happy, because Lord August had put his arm around both Froi and the boys. “My lads did well today,” he had said, and as Froi crossed this icy tomb, it occurred to him that he might never see Lord August and Lady Abian again. That he had never told them the truth. Finn and Isaboe had taught him to love, but the village of Sayles had taught him to belong.
Let this work, he begged silently. Let this work. Because he wanted to see all their faces again.
When he reached Arjuro, his teeth were chattering through blue lips as the wind tore through the priestling’s robe. Arjuro was muttering a prayer to the gods, his eyes watering from the cruel wind.
Before Arjuro could speak a word in surprise, Froi embraced him.
Over Arjuro’s shoulder, he saw Dorcas and the riders already advancing toward them.
“Will you trust me and do as I say?” Froi asked.
“What could you possibly say that would have me leave you here alone?” Arjuro asked, his voice broken.
“Your brother is waiting for you, Arjuro. I can protect myself, but I can’t protect you at the same time.” Froi watched as the riders gained ground on horseback. He was running out of time.
“So will you trust me and do as I say?” he asked again.
Arjuro’s arms tightened a moment and then let go. His eyes met Froi’s. And then Arjuro nodded.
“Go!”
Arjuro ran and within seconds the first of the arrows flew past Froi. He swung around to signal Gargarin and Lirah to mount their horse, and then he began hacking relentlessly at the ice with his ax. When the surface broke beneath him, it sounded like the demons of young Froi’s dreams, devouring the earth and swallowing him whole. He heard the roar of men’s voices, and he stumbled as the world tilted and he plunged through the ice, escaping the sharp tip of an enemy’s weapon, but finding himself falling into a freezing abyss.
Froi tried to make his way to the surface, but solid ice surrounded him and he struggled to break free of the tomb he had created for himself. No matter how hard he tried, he could not find an opening that would let him out. He felt a sob rise in him from pure fear and panic, and he pounded a clenched fist at the ice, his knuckles burning and his chest tightening. He thought he heard words from far away say, “Retreat! Retreat!” and his only comfort was that it meant Bestiano’s men were turning back and Gargarin and Lirah and Arjuro would be safe. He couldn’t think, and he couldn’t breathe; his head, his chest, everything felt as if it would explode, and he tried to count, tried to remember anything. . . . Think of her name. Think . . . nothing . . . someone’s there . . . name . . . name . . . you know his name . . .
Don’t close your eyes, Froi.
Tariq!
How can you find her with your eyes closed, Froi?
Reginita.
But he had nothing left inside him to keep him awake, and he was scared and he wanted to be with them because Tariq and the reginita were safe and they’d take care of him.
Go back, Froi. Go back.
And suddenly he was someplace else . . . on the streets of the Sarnak capital . . . and he could see himself tossing and turning on his bed of lice and hay in that sewer he shared with the rats, awoken by a
voice . . . how could he have forgotten that voice . . . the voice . . . it sang . . . Sprie. One word promised him a life he hadn’t dared to imagine, and so he traveled from the Sarnak capital to the town of Sprie, where he stole a ring from Evanjalin of the Monts . . . she and me? We’re the same . . . we live . . . we do anything to make that happen . . . that’s the difference between us and the others. . . .
He opened his eyes and saw a face.
Tariq!
Hurry, Froi. Those from the lake of the dead are coming for your spirit.
Suddenly the ice broke above him and Froi swam up toward the blinding light. Later, he couldn’t say how he climbed out of that hole, but Beast was there, pounding at the ice with his hoof, his teeth pulling at the shirt on Froi’s back until he was lying on the ice, Beast down beside him, the hot air of his breath warming Froi’s face. And with the last strength he had left in his numb body, Froi crawled onto the saddle, and then they were flying across that fractured lake. A Serker lad on his Serker horse.
And as the world behind them caved in, Froi wrote his bond. The one to live by. The one that would keep him on Beast as they raced to a place where the earth beneath their feet was solid. He wrote his bond with a name. And then another and another and another. Of every person he loved and would be condemned to never see again if he let go. He didn’t know how long it took, but the list was long and it kept him warm and clinging to life.
And later, in his half-conscious state, he felt hands grab him and drag him from the horse, but he needed to burrow, he needed to keep warm, and he heard the sobs and his clothes were ripped from him and he was numb again and Tariq was there once more and so was the reginita’s voice, telling him to stay away.
She’s not here, Froi! She needs you there.
He thought he heard Arjuro’s voice. “Keep him warm — his body is letting go,” and then Froi felt the heat as they held on to him tight, until he drifted off to a sleep where he could find her, where he could hold her in his arms and feel the roundness of her belly between them.