“Are they Belegonians?” Ariston asked.
“It’s too far to tell,” Froi said.
“There’s no flag. Nothing. Do I give the order?” Ariston asked Gargarin.
“If they’re the enemy, give the order,” Gargarin replied.
“Get out of here, now,” Ariston ordered Gargarin. “Hide Lirah and your brother and yourself.”
Gargarin started to protest.
“Just do it!” Froi said, keeping his eyes on the approaching army.
“It has to be the Belegonians,” someone shouted from the flanks of the wall.
“Belegonians!”
“We don’t know that!” another called out.
“Hold,” Perabo shouted in return. “Ariston, tell them to hold.”
“Hold until I give the order!”
The late-afternoon light revealed little, and they waited, the pounding of the horses sounding closer and closer.
Froi’s fingers pulled the string of his bow taut, and he waited.
Suddenly, an arrow from the keep’s battlement whistled past him and moments later he saw the horseman in the lead fall forward on his mount.
“Idiot!” Ariston roared to those around him. “Who fired?”
“Hold. Hold!”
Froi and Ariston stared at each other, shocked. The shout had come from the approaching horsemen.
“Did you hear that?” Froi asked.
“They’re not firing back,” Perabo said.
Which could only mean one thing. The horsemen belonged to them.
“No one move!” Ariston bellowed. “No one!”
Froi kept his stance, his aim focused, but his heart was beating fast. It’s a trap. It’s a trap. This army was going to fool them into letting them in. It’s a trap. They could trust no one. Until Froi saw one of the horsemen.
“Grij!” he shouted. Froi shoved the others aside. “Hold your weapons. Hold!” He flew down the gatehouse steps that had never seemed so never-ending, fearing that some other idiot would fire a bolt. “It’s Paladozza,” he called out to those guarding the entrance. “Raise the gate. Do not attack.”
By the time he reached the gate, one of the Turlans had raised it, and soon enough, the riders entered. Froi saw Grijio first. The last born leaped from his mount.
“My father!” Grij cried, rushing to the horse with the injured rider.
And Froi realized with horror that De Lancey had been hit by one of their own arrows.
Amid shouting and threats from De Lancey’s guards, they lay him down on a cot in a chamber on the first level of the keep. And then Arjuro arrived, pushing the Paladozzans out of the way. Froi stood beside Grijio, his eyes glued to the arrow lodged in the provincaro’s chest. Too close to his heart.
“Arjuro, I’m begging you,” Grij wept.
De Lancey opened his eyes wearily at the sound of Arjuro’s name. The look that passed between the two former lovers was powerful and Froi saw the paleness of Arjuro’s face as he studied the wound. De Lancey’s guards jostled around the bed, hissing and cursing any time De Lancey so much as moaned.
“De Lancey,” Arjuro said quietly.
“Yes, Arjuro. Am I dying?”
“Your guards may,” Arjuro said, pressing his fingers against the pulse at De Lancey’s wrist. “Die, I mean. Very soon. They’re getting on my nerves and I want to kill someone at the moment. Tell them to go away.”
There were furious objections from De Lancey’s guards.
De Lancey opened an eye, then feebly pointed a thumb to the door.
“Am I going to die?” he asked Arjuro again.
“Perhaps of stupidity. What possessed you to come galloping north?” Arjuro asked, his hands pressing the swell surrounding the stalk of the arrow. De Lancey winced at the pain.
“Did you honestly think I’d stay in Paladozza knowing they were using you as bait?” the provincaro still managed to snap.
“An army just for me,” Arjuro murmured, lifting De Lancey so he was sitting up. “You could have gotten yourself killed, you fool.”
Their eyes met and Arjuro held a hand to the other man’s face and bent to press his lips against De Lancey’s, and the kiss made Froi feel as if something inside of him was breaking. Most times he knew there was no hope for Arjuro and Gargarin and Lirah and De Lancey. Too much pain in the past, too much power working against them in the present day. But as he watched Arjuro prop De Lancey up to better remove the arrow, Froi saw the foolishness of dreamers, and he decided he’d like to die so foolish. With a dream in his heart about the possibilities, rather than a chain of hopelessness. Finnikin had once said it was the only way to live. That he wanted to drown in hope rather than wallow in despair.
“Grij, it hasn’t pierced his heart,” Arjuro said, “but I could do damage removing the bolt if I’m distracted. It’s going to hurt you more than it’ll hurt him. So that’s why Froi is going to take you for a little tour around our fortress.”
Grij shook his head defiantly.
“I’m not a child, Arjuro.”
“No, you’re not,” Arjuro agreed. “But you’re his son, and I know him. He’s not going to want you to see him cry.”
“I’m not going to cry,” De Lancey protested feebly.
“You’re going to cry,” Arjuro said.
‘‘You’re going to cry,” Froi agreed. “I did.” He dragged Grijio away. “So how about I introduce you to Tariq’s people first, Grij? They’ll like you. They hate me. And then I’ll introduce you to the Turlans. We can get you etched.”
He heard De Lancey’s groan as they walked out.
Outside the door, they walked into Gargarin, who was pushing through De Lancey’s men.
“He’ll live,” Grijio said when he saw the worry on Gargarin’s face. “Arjuro said it’s best I don’t stay for the painful part.”
Gargarin embraced the last born. “I would never have forgiven myself if the last words we spoke were in anger,” he said.
“Father says you never trust him, sir,” Grij said, with no censure in his voice. “He was broken when he returned from Sebastabol. He told me about Arjuro and Lumatere. And then when we received word about Arjuro having been taken hostage and Bestiano ordering a trade with you. . . .” Grij shook his head. “I’ve never seen him like that. Never. I think the library is still in splinters.”
They heard a roar of pain from behind the door, and Grij paled.
“Take him,” Gargarin said, and Froi dragged Grij away.
They spent the afternoon on the battlements of the keep, looking out toward the little woods.
“Is it true you had eight barbs removed?” Grij asked quietly.
Froi nodded.
“It makes no difference to you, I’m sure . . . but it was Olivier,” Grij said.
“It makes all the difference that it was Olivier that led us to the trap,” Froi said angrily.
“No, I mean . . . it was Olivier who took you to the priests.”
Froi stared at him in disbelief.
Grijio nodded. “He told Bestiano’s men you were dead. Well, you were in a way. And they left your corpse there, and he returned for it later, not knowing whether you would live or die.”
Froi didn’t speak for a moment. And then he grew angry.
“How would you know that?” he asked coldly. “Back in the fold, is he? Last borns stick together no matter whom they betray?”
Grij didn’t respond. Froi jumped to his feet. “I lost her because of him,” he raged. “Don’t ask me to forgive a traitor just because he took me to the priests. Those barbs were in my body because of him.”
Grijio shook his head. “I’m not asking you to forgive him. None of us have. The correspondence between us is terse.”
“I saw him with Bestiano, just two days past,” Froi said. “Why would you be in contact with him, Grij? Why?”
“Because he’s our spy, Froi,” Grijio said quietly. “He came to us. We knew about what took place at the lake with you and Arjuro because
of him. We’ve been able to build an army in the north because of Olivier, and although Tippideaux will never speak to him again and my father promises never to have him in Paladozza, and Sebastabol has expelled him and his family, Olivier fights for Charyn. Not for Bestiano.”
“You’re telling me this because you want me to forgive him,” Froi accused.
Grijio shook his head. “No, I’m telling you because I know you’ll kill him the moment you cross each other’s paths, and although he doesn’t deserve our friendship, I’d hate you to have his death on your conscience. I’ve come to know you, Froi. Despite all appearances, you wear your guilt like a smothering blanket. You don’t need Olivier’s death on your conscience.”
They returned to the chamber where Gargarin and Arjuro were sitting with a belligerent De Lancey, who was already on his feet. Lirah had joined them and was scribbling away in a corner.
“Is it bad?” Grij asked, embracing his father gently.
“No, just annoying,” the provincaro responded.
“The word rest made him turn purple,” Gargarin said.
“Yes, let’s all rest in the middle of a war,” De Lancey muttered when Arjuro pointed to the bed.
“Unlike me, he was never known as a responsible young man,” Arjuro said to Grijio and Froi. “It takes getting used to.”
“You, Arjuro? Responsible?” Froi asked. “I thought you were breaking all the rules and creating havoc in the godshouse.”
“He’s gods’ blessed,” Gargarin said. “He can do more than one thing at once. Be an idiot and be responsible. He has these multiple skills.”
“Much like women, but they’re not called gods’ blessed,” Lirah called out without looking up from her work. “They’re just called women.”
“Ah, all the envy in this room,” Arjuro mused, but there was a smile on his face and Froi enjoyed hearing their banter.
But outside, a war was brewing and all too soon the humor was lost.
“How did you raise an army so quickly?” Gargarin asked De Lancey quietly.
“Not so quickly,” De Lancey said. “It’s been in the planning for a while. I told you in the Citavita that I was going to return home and raise an army. Does anyone ever listen to me?”
“I listen to you, Father,” Grij teased, trying to break the tension.
“No, you don’t. If you got yourself etched, I’ll tell Tippideaux.”
“But where did you train an army?” Gargarin asked.
Grij and De Lancey exchanged a look.
“Desantos,” Grij said.
“Plague-ridden Desantos?” Gargarin asked, confused. “Why would you raise an army there?”
“No plague,” De Lancey said. “Just a very smart plan. Bestiano would never come near Desantos if he thought there was a plague there. No one would. So we’ve used it as a training ground for a combined army.”
“When was this planned?” Gargarin asked.
“It was a jest between Satch and me and . . . Olivier,” Grijio said. “When we were together in the Citavita. But we didn’t know that Satch suggested it to his provincaro when he returned to Desantos.”
“These last months I’ve sent them at least two hundred men through the tunnels to the north,” De Lancey said. “It’s where Tippideaux is now.”
“And you couldn’t tell me this,” Gargarin demanded.
“I was going to in Sebastabol,” De Lancey said, “but you disappeared, after offending me, of course. Well, Lirah offended me, anyway.”
Lirah didn’t rise to the bait. She didn’t involve herself in any of the conversation. As the days passed, she had become more fixated on discovering Quintana’s whereabouts and scribbling from the books Perabo had given her in Serker. Today, as every other day, she sat reading over Froi’s words concerning his last hours with Quintana.
“How strong is this army?” Gargarin asked.
“They’re not all soldiers, but they’ve been training for months now. Every able man and woman has been taught to use the bow, and those who have shown great promise have been trained with swords and horses.”
“You’re sure about this?” Gargarin asked. “We have an army as powerful as Nebia’s in the north? You’re serious?”
De Lancey’s stare was hard. “Gargarin, I took my son into battle with me. How serious does that seem?”
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me,” Gargarin said. “First you side with the provincari —”
“I am the provincari !” De Lancey shouted.
“The provincari’s plan leaves the palace with no power.”
“No,” De Lancey argued. “Our plan gives the palace limited power. Our plan gives the provincari limited power. It gives the godshouse limited power. And all that limited power combined may just work a spell and produce a good king and a balanced kingdom.”
Gargarin’s mouth was a thin line.
De Lancey shook his head with a grimace. “This can work, Gargarin.”
“Yes, of course,” Gargarin retorted. “It could work perfectly with that arse from Avanosh.”
“You know we don’t want him.” De Lancey was frustrated, and Froi could see this conversation soon ending badly. “But for our plan to work, we can’t have one of the provincari’s men as regent. If you refuse —”
“He won’t refuse,” Lirah said as she stood and gathered her books. Gargarin’s eyes followed her across the room.
“Is this about Lirah?” De Lancey asked. “I said it in Sebastabol, and I’ll say it again: you have a home with me, Lirah. You will be treated with the same respect my family receives and when Gargarin and Arjuro and Quintana and the babe come to visit, you’ll see them in my home. The other provincari don’t have control over that. Some of the provincari may not want you in the palace, Lirah, but there’s nothing to say that you can’t see your loved ones elsewhere.”
Froi knew that De Lancey’s heart was in the offer, and it made him like the man even more. But it would never be enough for Lirah. Froi knew that for certain, because it would never be enough for him.
“Lirah will live with me.”
Everyone stared at Arjuro.
“In the Oracle’s godshouse,” he said firmly. “She’s smarter and better read than any of the collegiati so I’ll put her to good use. She’ll be across the gravina from Quintana and the babe and Gargarin. You’ll see them every day, Lirah. I defy anyone who says Quintana and her babe and Gargarin cannot visit the godshouse.”
Arjuro’s eyes met Gargarin’s. “And of course we have the palace architect here, so if he can’t find a way of getting you into the palace some nights without the useless provincari nobility’s spies watching, well, he can’t exactly be labeled the smartest man in the Citavita, can he?”
They all turned to Lirah, waiting.
“We’ll kill each other, Priestling,” she said softly, but her eyes were bright.
“I’ll win most arguments, but you’ll get used to it,” he said.
She came to him and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you.” She kissed De Lancey as well. “And thank you.”
Gargarin took her hand. “And what about mine?” he asked. “I’m the brilliant architect.”
They spent the rest of the evening together, and with all the turmoil awaiting them beyond the first hill, Froi was surprised at how normal life could seem with their door closed to the rest of the fortress. They spoke of all things, including the girls.
“At least you know where Tippideaux is,” Gargarin said. “Olivier of Sebastabol’s actions placed Quintana in grave danger.”
“Yes, well, it’s not that cut and dry,” De Lancey said. “He has become more of a help than a hindrance.”
“I don’t care what part Olivier’s played in helping,” Gargarin said. “He gets tried as a traitor. The kingdom is going to be full of men and women who turned sides, and the palace is going to have to make decisions about what to do with them.”
“Yes, but still, our runt of the litter would be dead if the lad
hadn’t acted,” Arjuro said.
There was more arguing. Froi suddenly heard a gasp from Lirah. She looked up from her page, her eyes on Froi’s, blazing with excitement. Froi stood and walked toward her. She gripped his hand.
“How did Phaedra of Alonso die of a plague that doesn’t exist?”
Froi shook his head, confused, and Lirah pointed to her page where she had recorded every word Froi spoke, after weeks and weeks of her questioning.
And there he saw Phaedra’s name.
“We keep asking the wrong question,” she said.
By now the others had heard and were crowded around her work.
“What is it, Lirah?” Gargarin asked.
“We keep asking where Quintana would go. She had nowhere to go. She knows no one. But you, Froi, trusted how many? Thirty? It’s what you spoke of that last night together.”
She pointed to Phaedra’s name. “You trusted Phaedra of Alonso because of her kindness.”
Froi’s heart began to hammer inside of him and Lirah saw his realization and nodded.
“We keep asking where she would go. Our girl is a mimic. What we should be asking is where would you go, Froi?”
“I’d go west,” Froi said. “You know that.”
Lirah nodded.
“I think our Quintana’s gone to Lumatere, and Phaedra of Alonso is hiding her.”
Isaboe woke with a start. She had felt her again. She knew it was Quintana of Charyn who crept into her dreams.
I know you’re there!
Keep away from my son!
She had no idea which were her own words and which belonged to that insidious intruder. At times it seemed as if they were one.
Isaboe heard a sound. Thought she imagined it. But then Finnikin was out of bed, placing a dagger in her hand.
“Stay,” he whispered. “I’m going out onto the balconette. Someone’s in the courtyard. The moment you hear my shout, take Jasmina and hide.”
They were expecting no one tonight. Trevanion was in Fenton and Perri was on duty, and only Lucian and Yata had the authority to be in the courtyard outside the residence. But before Isaboe could imagine the death of any of her beloveds on the mountain or an assassin in their garden, Finnikin was back at the bed, relief in his expression.