“You know much about water, I presume?” Gargarin asked. “Because a lad from the shipping yards of Sebastabol would be an expert.”
“Ships? Water? There’s a strong connection in my mind. Anyway, what’s there to know? Charyn’s cursed. You either get too much rain and it floods the plains, or not enough, which causes drought.”
Gargarin studied him, eyebrow raised. “You? As in the rest of Charyn and not you, Olivier?”
“Words,” Froi scoffed. “Are they so important?”
“Isn’t the princess waiting for you?” Gargarin said.
“Which one? I’ve now met them all,” he said, studying the maps and plans on his cot. Froi had never seen such a grand plan. Water meadows, larger than he had ever seen, and giant human-made rivers and lakes. He came around to where Gargarin sat and looked over his shoulder.
He pointed to an area beyond the planned water meadow. “What about these villages?”
“The floodings of the last couple of years have crippled the farmers,” Gargarin said. “Before that, we had years of drought. The gods are determined that nothing is to grow in Charyn, and I’m determined to challenge them on that. We need to find a way to harness this water in the rainy season so we can use it during the drier months. If we build troughs to collect the rainwater in the drier areas, the soil could stay moist all year long.”
“So you send it in different directions.”
Gargarin nodded. “We set a watercourse. It’s in the books, Olivier. In the books the Ancients wrote.” The man’s eyes shone with excitement. “They are hard to translate, but not impossible. If they could do it thousands of years ago, so can we.”
“What would make them easier to translate?” Froi asked. “The books of the Ancients, I mean.”
Gargarin’s expression closed again.
“The gods’ touched have a better chance. I can only understand so much.”
Someone such as Arjuro, the gods’ touched priestling. Froi looked down at where the goose quill was twisted around Gargarin’s fingers.
“You speak; I draw,” Froi instructed.
They fought the whole afternoon. Gargarin spoke too fast and would change his mind the moment Froi drew his instructions, but Froi kept up, and when they were finished, he had never seen plans with such ambition and . . . hope. He wanted to steal them away in his pack and return with them to Lumatere, place them in Lord August’s hands and say, “My gift to you for giving me a home.”
That night he couldn’t go through the ritual with Quintana of feigning impotence or listening to prophecies about seeds needing to be planted, so he remained in his chamber.
“You spoke of a bond,” Gargarin said in the dark as they both lay in their beds. His voice was soft, but there was a powerful resonance to his voice. It made Froi forget the limp and the awkward arm.
“You don’t believe in them?” Froi asked.
“Not bonds drawn up by other men. I write my own bond.”
“What if I trust those other men with all my heart?” Froi asked quietly.
Gargarin sighed. Outside, the shadows played across the gravina onto the godshouse wall.
“Dorcas was taken out of his province when he was thirteen. He’s been here eighteen years and knows nothing but how to follow a bond to his king and Bestiano. He trusts them with all his heart.”
There was silence for a moment.
“I fear I’ll die at the hands of someone like Dorcas. A man with no ideals of his own, but another man’s bond to follow,” Gargarin said.
“I fear that I will do something to bring harm to those I love,” Froi said. “So I follow their rules to ensure that I won’t.”
“But what if you bring harm or fail to protect those you don’t know? Or don’t love? Will you care as much?”
“Probably not.”
“Then choose another bond. One written by yourself. Because it is what you do for strangers that counts in the end.”
The next morning, as Froi watched the ritual between the brothers across the gravina, he felt a fierce affection for the two fools.
He followed Gargarin for the rest of the day. He wasn’t in the mood to face Quintana, and he decided to wait until Princess Indignant reappeared. That morning at breakfast, her stare had been cold, and after meeting Lirah, Froi understood where the coldness came from. He noticed that when the cold Quintana appeared, there was no upheaval over breakfast. Yet, apart from a snarl escaping her lips once or twice, no one seemed to notice the change. Except for him. It was this point that he found unsettling. Princess Indignant irritated him, amused him, exasperated him. But cold Quintana unsettled Froi. The beat of his heart would skip in her presence.
So he followed Gargarin, despite the fact that Gargarin did not want to be followed.
“My duty was to bring you as far as the palace,” Gargarin snapped when they reached yet another twisting flight of stairs that opened up to a small alcove. From there they could see up to part of the battlement of the next tower. Lirah’s prison. From this angle, Froi realized it was indeed an easy leap from their own tower to her garden.
“Go,” Gargarin murmured, looking upward. “Away.”
Froi wasn’t one for taking instruction. “I could get up there, you know. Except she’s probably the worst-natured woman I’ve met.”
“And you’ve met Lirah, how?” Gargarin asked.
“Remember when you left me rotting in that cell two days ago? Well, I climbed out the window and up to hers.”
Gargarin stared at him. “And what kept you attached to the walls? Magic?”
“The gods,” Froi mocked.
Gargarin settled himself against the wall and continued to look up, as though waiting for some type of apparition that could appear at any moment.
Froi sat beside him and couldn’t help but notice the bend in Gargarin’s elbow, the way he had clutched the pencil in the chamber the night before, the limp he walked with.
“Were you born that way?”
“No,” Gargarin snapped. “And rude of you to ask.”
“Born this rude. Can’t help myself.”
Gargarin stared at him, and Froi thought, perhaps imagined, that he saw a glint of humor in the man’s eyes. But soon enough, Gargarin’s gaze was drawn back to the prison tower.
“You’re not one to pine over a woman, so what is this about, Gargarin?”
“A desire to die with peace in my heart,” Gargarin said quietly.
“And when are you planning to die?”
There was silence for a moment.
“Tell me what takes place in the Citavita,” Gargarin said, and Froi felt as though he was changing the topic. “With the street pigs.”
“That’s what Arjuro calls them, too,” Froi said. “If they’re such pigs, how did they come to have so much power? They look as though they own the Citavita.”
Gargarin shook his head with a grimace. “Six years ago, when we were plague-ridden. That’s how thugs get power. When a kingdom is at its most vulnerable.”
Froi knew of the plague. It had claimed the lives of a Flatland lord’s family. Lord August and Lady Abian had built a shrine to the goddess on the edge of the first paddock of the village to remember those who had died, including Lord Selric of Fenton and his wife and daughters. “If we forget who we lost,” Lady Abian would tell Froi and her children, “then we forget who we once were, and if we forget who we once were, we lose sight of who we are now.”
Froi felt a twinge of guilt that he hadn’t thought of his Flatlands family for days.
“What happened during the plague?” he asked Gargarin.
“People began dying, and the palace riders raided the fields of crops and livestock and anything else they could get their hands on, so the king could barricade himself in the palace with only those he trusted. Beyond the Citavita, it was even worse. The provinces refused to give sanctuary to those who lived outside their boundaries and many of them overflowed into the Citavita, bringing disease with them. It
was how the street lords were born. Theirs was a fury that came from dead sisters or wives who had thrown themselves to their deaths from the despair of barren wombs. But during the plague, it festered as they watched the oxen carry their cargo of grain and seed into the castle from the fields outside.”
There was bitterness and anguish in Gargarin’s voice. Froi wondered how he could ever have thought Gargarin cared little for anyone.
“At first the street lords found a way to bring some kind of stability where there had been theft and violence, neighbors killing neighbors for food. Sadly, the people failed to see that the street lords were always going to want something in return. Later, with the plague over and a third of our people dead, the palace tried to take control of the Citavita again. It appeared that the street lords had lost some of their power, but it was only on the surface. Today they still have a hold on the people because the people have no one honorable to hold on to. But make no mistake: those men who roam the streets are as greedy and corrupt as”— Gargarin looked around to see if anyone was listening —“those here in the palace. In one breath they say they despise the king; in another the pigs are paid a handsome sum to be Bestiano’s eyes and ears in the Citavita. The street lords fear little. It is a foolish man indeed who fears little.”
“They’re scared of your brother,” Froi said. “I can’t understand why. He’s nothing but a drunk with mad eyes.”
“He is gods’ touched,” Gargarin said. “That’s enough to scare any of us. Some believe that it could have been those touched by the gods who cursed Charyn or that by imprisoning the last priestling of the oracle’s godshouse, the gods were punishing the palace. Both beliefs led back to one person: Arjuro.”
“Is that what you think?” Froi asked, and it surprised him how much he cared what Gargarin thought. “About who cursed Charyn?”
Gargarin swallowed. “I think the curse of the last born came from more than one person. I think the power of it came from hearts filled with wrath and love and despair and betrayal and that even the gods are confused about where it came from and how to mend it.”
Gargarin turned to him. “It’s not safe in the Citavita, Olivier,” he said quietly. “The street pigs are out of control. I’d advise you to get out of here as soon as you can.”
“They’ll never enter the palace,” Froi said.
“There’s not a huge difference between not letting them in and the street lords not letting us out. I fear for the provincari who will be here within days. They risk their lives.”
“Why come, then?”
“They’re invited to the palace every day of weeping to discuss Charyn’s futureless future. But I fear that the street lords are more powerful than the palace has led the provinces to believe.”
“So Quintana’s not delusional in believing that everyone is out to kill her?”
Gargarin’s eyes bored into Froi’s. “You ask a lot of questions for an idiot,” he said.
“Is that what they call me outside my province?”
“Emphatically. Olivier the idiot.”
“I’m charmed, to say the very least. I’ve never had a title.”
This time Gargarin laughed. Froi smiled at the sound. Lumaterans weren’t known for their sense of humor, and Froi found himself in trouble half the time when they didn’t understand his.
“Is it true that she’s mad?” Froi asked.
The grimace was back on Gargarin’s face. “True enough,” he responded. “But if you should believe anything, believe that everyone is out to kill her, Olivier. Her only delusion is the belief that she’ll break the curse.”
“Then why am I here if everyone believes that she’s delusional about last and firstborns?”
“Because the king doesn’t believe she’s delusional. Because the king is frightened by his own child and is convinced that she’s mad. When a mad princess whose birth cursed a kingdom states that the gods have spoken, prophesying that she’s the last who will make the first, the king takes heed of her words.”
“Do you believe her?” Froi asked.
“No,” Gargarin said, his voice sad. “But I would like to. Something I can’t explain tells me to. But reason steps in the way.” He looked at Froi, sadness etched in his expression. “She comes of age next week,” he said in a low voice. “Once she’s proven to this kingdom that her prophecy was a lie, Bestiano will convince the king to find another way to break the curse.”
“And how will they go about convincing Her Royal Delusioness that she’s not the last to make the first?”
Froi flinched at the intensity of Gargarin’s stare.
“Mark my words: that girl will not live beyond her coming of age. It’s best that you get out of the palace before that happens.”
It was the second time in so many days that Froi had heard these words, and they chilled him to the bone.
Later, when nothing came from their study of Lirah’s roof, they returned to their chamber. Froi picked up the sketches scattered all over the floor.
“This is something Charyn is . . . we are,” he corrected himself, “known for.” Froi looked at Gargarin. “A Lumateran once came through Sebastabol,” he lied, “and told the story that despite how barbaric the Charynite soldiers were, they introduced one vital form of water use that saved part of the Lumateran Flatlands.”
Gargarin stared at him, waiting.
“The rainwater was collected by the placement of sliced animal bones around the entrance of a home. When it rained, the water ran down the grooves of the bones and was taken into a cistern under the house. Then during the dry season, they’d build pipes made of animal hide to run from the cistern into the fields.”
There was silence from Gargarin, and Froi turned to him questioningly and saw the man look down.
“Simple, but worthwhile,” Froi said. “Don’t you agree?”
Froi watched a smile appear on Gargarin’s face. It was strange and twisted and reluctant, but it was also sincere and almost shy, which was strange coming from a grown man.
“In my third year in the palace as a young man, I drew up the plans for that system of water capturing. It heartens me to think that Charyn had something worthwhile to offer Lumatere.”
Froi sat up, amazed. “You?”
Gargarin nodded, suddenly uncomfortable with the attention. “In Abroi, where I grew up, I saw people suffer and children die because we had so little water and, most years, no crops to speak of. It’s strange that in a single kingdom, there can be an abundance of gifts in one province and little in another. Have you ever been deprived of food, Olivier? As a last born, I doubt it.” Froi looked away. He couldn’t remember a day in his life as a young child when he wasn’t deprived of food. It only served as a reminder of what he had to do to keep his stomach full.
Gargarin sighed, standing up and straightening his back.
“Are you in a hurry to complete these plans because you have a meeting with the king?” Froi asked.
“Not yet, but I’ll see him soon, and then my work will be done.” Gargarin looked away. “If anything happens to me, can I trust that my drawings will get into the hands of De Lancey of Paladozza?”
“What can possibly happen to you?”
“Can you promise without irritating me?”
“Why would you trust me?”
The awkward bend of the head was there again. “I don’t know,” Gargarin said honestly. “But I do.”
Froi shook his head. “How about I give you my word that I won’t let anything happen to you instead?”
He had no idea where those words came from. He wasn’t here to protect Gargarin or any of them. He was here to kill a king. But deep down he realized that he wanted to impress this man. That despite their first meeting and Gargarin’s hostility toward Froi, he reminded him of Lord August and Finn and Sir Topher combined. At strange moments, he imagined introducing Gargarin to them all.
That night, Froi was allowed to attend dinner. Bestiano stared at him from where he sat at
the head of the table, as though practicing to be the king himself. Froi gave a polite wave of acknowledgment.
He was assigned a place sitting with a cluster of the women Quintana had referred to as the Aunts. Their heads were bent, and they were speaking rapidly, furiously.
Suddenly Quintana was beside him.
“I searched for you all day,” she said, and he could see that she was back to her indignant self, all breathless and irritated.
“I was avoiding you.”
Princess Indignant seemed oblivious of any type of malice directed toward her. Sometimes it made him want to be even crueler. To punish her for doing nothing to stop herself from getting killed. Isaboe would have fought to survive.
“You can sit on our right,” she instructed. “Aunt Mawfa will bore you senseless.”
“Really?”
“Yes. The moment Aunt Mawfa speaks, everyone falls asleep. It has to do with the pitch of her voice.”
She nudged him. “Look at her shoes,” she whispered, pointing under the table. Froi humored her and ducked his head under. Lady Mawfa had plump little legs that barely touched the ground and a pair of silly pointy shoes with red bows.
Froi sat back up again. “She had them sent from Belegonia,” Quintana said in a hushed tone. “They are said to have belonged to the first goddess who walked the earth.”
Froi looked under the table again and sat back up.
“Not possible. I’ve been told that goddesses are a practical bunch,” he said. “They’d never have tolerated the red bows.”
She covered her mouth, laughing. A truly ridiculous laugh, all snorts and giggles.
“Quintana!” Bestiano shouted out to her. Froi stiffened. The last thing he wanted was for Bestiano to drag her out of the hall. Froi looked at her and put a finger to his lips to quiet her.
“Ask her something,” Quintana whispered. “Ask her about the weather, and you’ll see what we mean. When she speaks, no one listens. It’s why we’ve chosen to be like her. We don’t get into half as much trouble.”
He studied Quintana, waiting for the announcement that she had been jesting the whole time. That she was an “I” and not a “we.” But she swung her eyes to the side and flicked her head toward Lady Mawfa, and for a moment he wanted to laugh. He turned and politely asked Lady Mawfa about the weather.