In the center of the room was an altar, but apart from a table close to the window facing the palace, the room was bare. Froi imagined that once there would have been many long benches filled with scribbling priestlings awed by the wonder of the Ancients’ books. It was in this room that Arjuro cut a lonely figure.
Arjuro sat down and stabbed at a piece of cheese with his dagger. He took a swig of ale from a jug. “What do you want?” The question was followed by a burp.
“Quintana speaks of you fondly, and I just wanted to make your acquaintance.”
“Never met her in my life.”
“Well, she seems to think you have.”
“And she seems to be the maddest girl in Charyn, so who are you going to believe?”
It was where the two men of Abroi differed the most. In the way they spoke. Gargarin was clipped and cold and quiet. Arjuro grunted, barked, growled. Froi found himself understanding Arjuro better than his brother.
He studied Arjuro’s face, fascinated. It was Gargarin, but not Gargarin.
“Staring’s rude,” Arjuro said.
“So is speaking with your mouth full and not sharing your food,” Froi responded.
Arjuro pushed forward some bread and handed him the bottle.
“At this time of the morning?” Froi asked.
“At any time of the day, I say.”
Froi kept his eyes on the priestling. “Where I grew up, they crushed the skulls of babes born from the same loins on the same day. Gods’ cursed, they would say.”
Arjuro looked up, his eyes narrowing. “They only do that in the kingdom of Sarnak.”
Suddenly, a thought entered Froi’s head that was so strange, he almost felt foolish speaking it aloud. “There’s two of her, isn’t there? The princess?”
It could be the only answer. That like Gargarin and Arjuro, there were two Quintanas.
“More than two, I say,” Arjuro said, looking over Froi’s shoulder out the window. “Up here,” he said, pointing to his head. “I’ve counted three.”
“There’s two,” Froi argued. “The one who called out to you the other day, ‘Blessed Arjuro, blessed Arjuro.’”
Arjuro winced. “She’s the one who annoys me the most. The other demands in that cold voice, ‘Priestling, the reginita requests an invitation to the godshouse at your convenience.’” Arjuro shook his head, muttering, “At my convenience.”
“What’s a reginita?” Froi asked, dipping his bread into the oil and dried herbs before him.
“A little queen.” Arjuro stared over Froi’s shoulder again and pointed. “That’s the one I like best.”
Froi turned and choked on the bread. He leaped out of his chair, but Arjuro grabbed him and made him be still. “Don’t move. We don’t want our mad princess going into the gravina just yet. Wouldn’t want to take that opportunity away from someone else.”
Froi stared out the window to where he could see Quintana straddling the granite he had stood on earlier. He knew in an instant that in this mood she was all rage. Teeth. A sneer. A snarl. He could have sworn she was one-part wild animal.
“Slowly,” Arjuro warned as Froi calmly walked to the balconette.
The look she directed at them both was one of pure blazing fury.
“That’s a side of her I’ve only seen glimpses of,” Froi whispered, intrigued.
“Oh, that’s not a side,” Arjuro said. “That’s a whole person. She perches herself out there once in a while. If she is Lirah of Serker’s daughter, then that’s all Serker savage there, bundled up into a ball of hatred toward all men. Looks like you’ve joined the list, Olivier of Sebastabol.”
Froi watched Quintana get to her feet and the hairs of his arm stood tall. “Sagra!” he cursed, stepping closer. “Get down, you fool girl.”
Arjuro was there behind him. “That one wants to die. Whatever’s down there is beckoning her to jump.”
But Quintana, or whoever was standing there balanced on the granite, wasn’t looking down into the abyss. Her stare went straight to Froi.
“Come inside,” the priestling ordered. “She’ll go away.”
“And if she falls?” Froi asked, unable to take his eyes off her.
“Well, she hasn’t so far without your help, and she can’t leap across here as you did. So it’s either down in the gravina for her or sidling back to where she came from. I presume the others living inside her head convince her to return. It’s the same thing each time. Sometimes I want to shout out, ‘Jump, you little abomination!’”
Froi stared at Arjuro. “You’re not like other holy men I know.”
“And how many holy men would a last born from Sebastabol know when no more priests are left inside the province walls?”
Froi didn’t respond. He turned back to look outside and saw Quintana standing on her balconette. Relief washed over him.
“How’s my brother faring among all that insanity?” Arjuro asked quietly.
Froi shrugged. “He’s not much into confiding.”
“Why is he struggling to walk this morning?”
“Lirah of Serker took a dagger to him.”
Arjuro grimaced. Froi recognized the expression as one he had seen on Gargarin’s face.
“What does my brother have to say about the fact that the girl’s prophecy has not come to be?” Arjuro asked.
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” Froi suggested. “Perhaps holler across to his balconette this evening?”
Arjuro stared at him.
“It may bring much-needed color to both your cheeks,” Froi continued. Arjuro’s stare suggested that Froi was bantering with the wrong person.
“He says that the gods have forsaken Charyn,” Froi said.
Arjuro gave a short laugh of disbelief. “The gods have not forsaken Charyn. The gods love Charyn. Where else can they shit, if not Charyn? It’s the purpose of this kingdom. To be the place where the gods shit.”
Froi was surprised by the words. “You’ve lost hope in the gods.”
“No. The gods lost hope in me. Long ago.”
Froi sighed. If Arjuro wasn’t going to be a source of information for him, perhaps he would be a source of entertainment.
“I’ve got to go. Can I use your entrance into the Citavita? Getting over here is far easier than returning the same way.”
“Out there you’ll be dealing with the street pigs,” Arjuro said.
“I’ve not seen any pigs out there.”
“I’ve not seen any pigs out there,” Arjuro mimicked. “Who are you trying to fool with your fancy talk, you little shit?”
Certainly not the last priestling of the Citavita.
Arjuro walked out into a dark corridor, and Froi followed him down a winding stairwell that seemed to go on forever.
“They call themselves the street lords,” Arjuro said. “The less Citavitans see of the king, the more powerful the street lords become. It’s in the nature of humans,” he added bitterly. “The need to be ruled by tyrants.”
“Do those of the Citavita have faith in the princess producing an heir?” Froi asked.
“The princess is not going to produce an heir,” Arjuro said. “The princess is insane. Perhaps insanely brilliant, because her delusions have managed to keep her alive all these years.”
They passed one of the landing windows, and Froi saw the stone buildings of the Citavita outside.
“They’ll kill her, you know,” Arjuro said quietly. Froi heard regret in his voice.
“Quintana?”
Arjuro nodded.
“The street pigs?”
Arjuro shook his head. “She’ll come of age this month and mark my words, she’ll go over that balconette. ‘It’s an accident,’ Bestiano will cry. ‘At her own hands,’ he’ll claim. Why keep her alive when it is clear she isn’t the one to break the curse? At first, the people will be stunned. Then relieved. Quintana the curse maker is dead. Perhaps it will mean the end of a barren era for Charyn.”
“What does Bestiano
hope to gain from her death?” Froi asked.
“A peaceful reign for the king. Bestiano has all the power he wants while the king lives. He’ll begin to scour the land for last-born girls and bring them to the palace on the off chance that one of them produces the first. You can imagine the rest.”
Froi was still reeling from the threat to Quintana. “So Bestiano will take over one day?”
Arjuro shook his head. “The provincari would never let a commoner rule. Bestiano will do anything to secure an heir, but only one he has control over, so he can continue enjoying his power. Unfortunately for him, the heir, Tariq, will never acknowledge him.”
“Then who will Tariq choose as his First Adviser if he ever comes to power?”
Arjuro’s eyes caught his, but then he looked away and suddenly Froi understood.
“Gargarin?”
Arjuro refused to respond, and they continued down the dark steps in silence.
At the bottom, the priestling unlatched the iron door and then removed a key from his sleeve and fixed it into the lock.
“Can I ask you something?” Froi asked.
“Can’t promise I’ll answer,” the priestling said.
Froi hesitated. Would his question reveal a weakness in him? “When Gargarin first saw me, he reacted in much the same way you did,” Froi said. “No one else has. Who do I remind you both of?”
“Someone we despise beyond understanding,” Arjuro said flatly with no hesitation. He said little else, and Froi knew the discussion was over.
Arjuro pushed open the door, and they both squinted when the light poured in.
“My brother . . . he’s the best man to ask,” Arjuro said.
“Ask what?”
“I’m figuring that a lad with eyes like yours could have been sent by the hidden Serkers to kill the king. So talk to my brother.”
Froi didn’t respond for a moment. Remember your promise to Trevanion. Trust no one. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. And if I did, what would I ask Gargarin?”
Arjuro looked past Froi to the cluster of cave homes below. “Twenty-five years ago, a young lad from Abroi with nothing to his name but a brother who was gods’ touched impressed the king with his drawings and plans.”
Arjuro watched Froi for a reaction. “He was sixteen at the time and the envy of every ambitious adviser employed by the king.”
“Gargarin worked on the palace when it was built?” Froi asked.
Arjuro shook his head. “No. Gargarin was the architect. He knows every hidden tunnel, every mouse hole. The only thing he doesn’t know is how to break out of an unbreakable prison.”
Froi stared at Arjuro and then gave a laugh of disbelief. “Who are you people?”
It was a steep descent over the roofs of cave dwellings from the godshouse to the Citavita. At times, Froi could look into the homes beneath his feet, where entrances were dug out of the ceilings and the smell of bread from ovens wafted through the air. Still, it was a secluded area of the capital, and under the piercing glares of those they called the street lords, Froi felt less than safe with little means of protection.
He could see that the street lords spent much of their time sitting and watching. The men sat on the uneven roofs of the cave houses, studying the palace below and the godshouse above. Unlike the farmers, who dragged oxen up the backbreaking path, or the women, who stumbled with armloads of linens, the street lords did nothing much at all but sit around looking threatening.
“Friend,” one called as he passed, and Froi itched for his dagger that lay buried in the cave at the base of the gravina.
“You,” the man called out again. “I’m talking to you.”
A leg went out, and Froi stumbled. Counted to ten.
“You came out of the godshouse, but we didn’t see you go in,” the shorter one said.
Froi would never understand the sameness of the world. Thugs or street lords or thieves were all the same, whether they hailed from Charyn or Sarnak or even Lumatere. Some of the wild orphans, as these kinds of people were called in Lumatere, had returned over the past years to cause havoc after too many years on their own. Trevanion put them straight into the army and trained them to exhaustion. “If they’re going to hate, it may as well be for the good of Lumatere,” he’d say.
“The priestling rarely gets visitors, so care to explain,” the first man said.
Froi knew they would watch him travel back down to where the palace drawbridge met the Citavita. He knew he couldn’t lie about where he was heading.
“Messenger,” he muttered, keeping it simple, remembering what everyone seemed to say about how too perfect his Charyn sounded. He took another step, but a hand snaked out and grabbed Froi’s arm.
“I’ll ask again, friend. You came out of the godshouse, but we didn’t see you go in.”
“Well, that’s the thing,” Froi said politely. “You’re not actually asking a question. More of a statement.” He looked at the man and then stared at the hand on his arm. “So what is it you want to know?”
The man’s companion laughed.
“How did you arrive at the godshouse?” the street lord asked, retrieving a dagger from a scabbard at the waist of his trousers and tracing it across Froi’s cheek.
Froi turned and pointed to the space that could still be seen between the tip of the godshouse across the gravina to the palace.
“I jumped. I wouldn’t advise it. Not good for the innards.”
The street lord grabbed him by the collar and dragged him closer, his foul breath fanning Froi’s face.
But suddenly a hand reached between them.
“So you’re attacking priestlings now, are you, Donashe?” Froi heard Arjuro mutter. He was dressed from head to ankle in a black cape and cowl, his eyes and pale face barely visible.
The street lord stepped back, and Froi saw fear in his eyes.
“He said he was a palace messenger,” the man Donashe said, looking away from Arjuro as though any moment he would be cursed.
“My messenger,” Arjuro corrected. “To the palace.” Froi felt the street lord’s eyes on him. Arjuro poked Froi’s arm, and glared.
“Did I not order you to hurry on and repeat my exact words to those in the palace?” Arjuro asked Froi. “That I’d swive a goat before I’ll ever step foot in that heap of dung.”
“Must I, blessed Arjuro?” Froi asked pitifully. “For those of us from the godshouse are well known for swiving goats and I’d prefer not to give them weapons of ridicule.”
Arjuro shook his head. “Idiot,” he muttered, walking back up the path to the godshouse. But Froi had seen the ghost of a smile on his face.
Froi gave a wave to the street lords and turned to walk away.
“I never forget a face,” Donashe warned.
“Oh, neither do I, friend,” Froi said. “And that is a promise.”
Getting back into the palace wasn’t quite as simple as getting out had been.
“I’m a guest of the king,” Froi called to where he could see two soldiers standing behind the portcullis. “A last born. Olivier of Sebastabol.”
Nothing. The soldiers stared between the grates but refused to speak.
“I arrived here with Gargarin of Abroi four days ago. Call Dorcas if you don’t believe me, because I’m telling you, if anything happens to me, you’ll pay the price. Recognize a threat if you have brains in your head.”
Although Trevanion’s instruction would have been for Froi to get himself back into the palace any way he could, he knew that landing in the palace prison tower was not one of them.
“You’ll feel like fools when the king’s adviser hears about this,” he said as they opened a door and tossed him in. It was a fall of a few feet before he hit the ground. If Gargarin was truly the architect, Froi would have to thank him for planning a prison chamber built in such a way.
The room was as long and wide as the length of Froi’s body. Apart from the door up high, there was a window that was big enough to
crawl through, but the threat of climbing out and plunging into the gravina below was the perfect deterrent for anyone wanting to leave.
Later, he heard the key in the lock and stared up to see a guard and then Quintana peering over his shoulder.
“We’re friends, Fekra and I,” she said as the guard lowered her down with a grip on one arm.
“Ten minutes, princess,” Fekra muttered. He let go of her arm, and Quintana fell onto Froi with very little finesse.
“Do you want to meet my mother, Lirah?” she asked matter-of-factly.
“Not exactly, no. I want you to go fetch Gargarin and get me out of this hole.”
“Gargarin doesn’t make the decisions.”
She looked out the window.
“Poor Lirah. She’s been imprisoned for at least twelve years, you know.”
“Yes, yes, poor Lirah.”
“Although I’m sure she is still taken to my father’s chamber from time to time. Poor, poor Lirah. He still considers her his whore. Lirah says it’s all about power and that the king never feels more powerful than when he’s swiving Serker.”
Quintana pointed toward the low ceiling. “She’s up there. It’s why my friend Fekra allows me to use this dungeon when it’s empty. So I can see my mother, Lirah.”
Froi could easily see that Fekra wasn’t a friend of Quintana’s, accepting bribes of food and ale and turning a blind eye only because there was no way in or out of the palace from this tower. But it did mean that Quintana and her mother had found a way of speaking to each other whenever the dungeon was empty.
“Lirah! Lirah!”
Froi’s head rang from Quintana’s high-pitched indignation.
“Sometimes,” she explained to Froi, as though he had asked, “I have to call out more than once because she’s on the roof. She has a small garden up there, you know. There’s no way down, of course, except for lunging to her death.”
“Why is she imprisoned?” Froi asked.