“You’re to return to your chambers, Sir Gargarin,” Dorcas said, agitated. Beads of sweat poured down his face.
“Whose orders, Dorcas?” Gargarin asked.
“Bestiano’s, sir.”
“What’s going on?” Gargarin demanded. There was no response, and Froi wondered if the guard knew as little as they did.
The moment they reached the chamber, Froi raced out onto the balconette.
“Quintana!”
He leaped over to her balconette, but he could see that her chamber was empty. Froi climbed back to where Gargarin was standing.
They heard a key in the door and raced toward it, but were too late. Froi hammered at the door. “Dorcas! Dorcas, find the princess!”
But there was no response, and Froi kicked at the door with frustration.
“Why kill the king now?” he asked.
Gargarin shook his head. “It makes no sense,” he said. “It makes no sense at all.”
It was the longest of days. The waiting and the pacing and the fear for Quintana tore Froi up inside. Please let her be alive. Sometimes he pounded at the door, bellowing the name of every guard he could remember. Dorcas. Fekra. Fodor. And all the while, Gargarin wrote like a man possessed, quill not leaving paper until late that afternoon when they heard the voices crying out from across the gravina.
“Gargarin!”
“Gar!”
Froi ran to the balconette, Gargarin hobbling behind him.
Arjuro, De Lancey, and others stood at the godshouse balconette.
“Bestiano rode out of the palace with the riders,” De Lancey called out.
Gargarin and Froi exchanged stunned looks.
“You need to find a way out, Gar. The palace is unguarded, and the street lords are beginning to enter. They —”
Suddenly a body flew out of the window above Froi and Gargarin’s. Screams could be heard from inside the chambers surrounding them.
“Gods,” Gargarin gasped, searching above and below before Froi saw him look across at his brother. Arjuro’s eyes were wide with horror, and then more bodies flew past them, faces contorted, screams eaten by the air below.
“They’re starting at the top,” De Lancey shouted, wincing as another body of a soldier bounced off the wall of the godshouse. “Get out, Gargarin. Get out.”
“We are locked in,” Gargarin shouted back. He spun around, searching for an answer, and before Froi could argue, Gargarin grabbed him and shoved him toward the wrought iron of the balconette. “You’ve done this climb before. Get to Lirah’s garden and have her let you in. When the street lords reach the prison tower, they’ll release whoever’s in there. Tell them you’re both prisoners of the king.”
Froi nodded. “We can both —”
“No,” Gargarin said. “No time. You know I’ll never be able to climb a step. You do this now. You don’t argue. They won’t kill a prisoner in the king’s tower. I don’t know how much time it will buy you, but it’s better than finding you here.”
“But you —”
“They may use me to bargain, but they will kill you in an instant. Go.”
Froi was shaking his head. The plan was bad. The plan meant Gargarin would die and Froi would never be able to find Quintana.
“The princess . . .”
“Is in all probability dead,” Gargarin said flatly. “And if she’s not, she will be soon.”
On the other side of the gravina, Arjuro and the provincari watched anxiously.
“Save yourself and take care of Lirah,” Gargarin said, his voice hoarse. He gripped Froi by the shoulders.
“Tell her . . . tell her that the babe they placed in my hands was smuggled out of the palace to the hidden priests. Tell her that if I knew it was hers, I would have found a way for her to know so she would not have suffered all these years.”
Froi stood on the balconette, his eyes fixed on Gargarin.
“Go,” Gargarin pleaded. “I’m begging you. Keep safe. Keep her safe.”
Froi heard the crash of the door and in an instant he leaped up to catch hold of the latticework of the balconette above their chamber. A moment later, the street lords were outside, one of them holding a hand to Gargarin’s throat. Froi held his breath, praying they would not look above.
There was shouting from the other side of the gravina. “We’ll pay a ransom,” De Lancey shouted. “We’ll pay a ransom!” But Gargarin and the street lords disappeared inside the chamber.
On Lirah’s tower garden, Froi hammered at the door. “Lirah! Lirah!”
He heard a fumble for the lock, and the door was pushed forward.
“What’s happening?” she asked, and he saw the fear in her eyes. “All I hear is screaming and when I stood on the roof . . .”
She shook her head, and he imagined what she had seen. “We’re going to have to wait for them to open the door,” Froi said. “We’ll say we’re both prisoners of the king, but do not tell them you are Lirah of Serker.”
Lirah nodded.
“Where is she?” Lirah asked. “Where did you hide her?”
Froi looked away. He couldn’t find the words and he saw the slow realization on her face.
“Where is she?”
They heard another scream disappear down the gravina. Froi grabbed her hand and pushed her back inside her prison cell, but Lirah pulled free viciously, as though reason had left her.
“You were supposed to save her. Quintana! Where is she?”
Froi covered Lirah’s mouth with his hand and she bit hard. Stunned, he stepped back.
“Coward. Bastard. You were supposed to save her.”
Froi shook his head.
“Go back and search for her!”
“I can’t,” he said through gritted teeth. “Gargarin said —”
She slapped him hard across the face, hissing through her teeth. “Thank the gods you’re motherless, you piece of worthless garbage, for no woman would stomach such a coward for a son.”
Froi’s face smarted for more reasons than the slap. “Don’t let me say words I regret, Lirah. Gargarin said this is the best way.”
“Don’t speak his name to me,” she cried.
“He said to tell you, Lirah! That he smuggled your son out of the palace eighteen years ago. Give yourself that reason to live.”
“And you believe his lies?” she asked, half-mad with fury.
They heard the sound of a key in the lock, and a man stepped in calmly, wiping the blood of his dagger onto his trousers. Behind him, Froi could see the lifeless body of Lirah’s guard. She gave a small cry. Froi pushed her behind him.
“We’re prisoners of the king,” Froi said, thanking Sagrami that it was neither of the street lords who would have remembered him from outside the godshouse. “The king’s Third Adviser took a liking to my sister here, and when I tried to defend her, he arrested us both.”
The man’s eyes were greedily fastened on Lirah. Froi itched to take the dagger from him, knew he would do it easily, but they needed this man to accompany them out of the palace if they were to survive. The man beckoned them along. Gargarin’s plan could work. Being the king’s prisoners would perhaps set them free. Froi and Lirah stepped over the guard’s body, and Froi felt her body tremble beside him. On one of the landings between the levels of the tower, Froi caught the desperate eyes of two of the dukes, who were on their knees, hands to their heads. In the courtyard, some of the servants were being released into the Citavita. The street lords carried cases of ale and wine from the cellars, smashing the bottles after they emptied them down their throats. Out in the barbican, four soldiers stood with their heads to the wall while a street lord paced back and forth behind them, a dagger in his hand. The last thing Froi heard as he passed them was the sound of the first soldier choking on his own blood.
At the portcullis, the street lord who had escorted them grabbed Lirah, bunching the skirt of her dress in his hands. So close to the entrance, but still not free.
“We live with the so
othsayer,” Froi said. “You know where that is? Come visit us this night. My sister will be most grateful if you do.”
Lirah nodded, and the man hesitated a moment, a salacious smile on his face at the promise of what was on offer. He let go of Lirah, and Froi took her hand and hurried away. But just as they reached the drawbridge, drops of blood splattered at their feet and Froi stared up in horror at the body of a man hanging from the battlement, his throat cut, his body bludgeoned. Reaching out to drag Lirah away from the grisly scene, Froi caught the expression of bitter satisfaction on her face and he knew that the street lords had found the king’s body to flaunt to the people.
The king of Charyn was indeed dead. What was it Trevanion had instructed? “The moment he stops breathing, you return home. The very moment. Do not look back.” Run, Froi told himself. Run down to the bridge of the Citavita and leave this place behind.
But the pull of Gargarin’s and Quintana’s fates was too much, and Froi took Lirah’s hand, breaking his second bond to those he loved, in as many days.
They arrived to find a crowd of people gathered at the godshouse door, begging to be let in. Froi recognized a provincaro’s guard at the entrance.
“There is no room,” the guard shouted, shoving the crowd back. “No room.”
Froi pushed through, closer to the door, his fingers digging into Lirah’s hand, determined not to let her go. He caught a glimpse of Arjuro inside the foyer. The priestling stood behind the guards, searching anxiously over their shoulders.
“Arjuro! Arjuro!”
Froi climbed onto the back of the man before him. “Arjuro!”
Arjuro pushed past the guard and pointed toward Froi. A moment later, one of the guards shoved his way through the crowd and grabbed Froi and Lirah, dragging them inside.
The door was latched shut behind. The small foyer was packed with not only those who had escaped the palace but also the people of the Citavita, fearing for their lives.
Froi hurried past Arjuro and raced up the stairwell all the way to the top, dodging floor upon floor of people. When he reached the Hall of Illumination, it was filled to the brim, but he shoved his way to the balconette, where only the brave stood watching what took place across the gravina.
“Have you seen her? The princess? Or Gargarin? Have you seen him?”
And the only good news for a day so bleak was that Quintana and Gargarin had not been tossed into the gravina below.
Yet.
Pale faces, stunned by the carnage they had witnessed, studied any newcomer who entered the room. The main hall was filled with those from the streets of the Citavita who had taken refuge in the godshouse, as well as the provincari and their guards and advisers. Alone in a corner, Arjuro caught Froi’s eye, and Froi saw wretched misery in the priestling’s expression. They had spent most of the day watching the macabre scene taking place on the balconettes across the narrow space between the godshouse and the palace. The palace scribe had asked for Froi’s assistance, pen and parchment in his hand, as he identified those hurled into the gravina below.
“Who was that?” he asked Froi as they looked on.
“The king’s cousin from Nebia,” Froi replied, recognizing the body of the simpleton who had spoken to Froi most often in the palace.
Sometimes the scribe would stop a moment to throw up over the balconette before calmly returning to his task. “Cyril of Nebia, would you say? No, no, Chabon of Sebastabol.”
When there was little to be seen in the darkness, they returned inside and spent the rest of the night crowded in the Hall of Illumination with hundreds of others.
“Are we safe here, De Lancey?” a woman asked.
Froi looked up to study the boy who had grown up alongside Arjuro and Gargarin. The lover who had betrayed Arjuro. A more unlikely pair Froi could never imagine in his life. Even under the dramatic circumstances, De Lancey was all perfection and charm, his skin bronzed, his garments tailored to perfection, while Arjuro’s stark white skin contrasted with his dark torn hair and beard. The black robe that covered him from neck to ankle was grubby and shapeless.
“Best that you ask that question of the priestling,” the provincaro replied in his smooth voice, pretending to study something nonexistent on the wall, as though it were the most natural thing to do under the circumstances. Arjuro refused to respond to the woman with anything beyond a grunt. Despite his forced benevolence, most in the room seemed wary of him and kept their distance.
“It’s best we all leave and return to our provinces,” De Lancey said. “At least we are safe there, with armies to protect our people.”
There was a chorus of agreement, but also dismay.
“What about the people of the Citavita?” a woman cried. “You care only for your own provinces and leave us to this carnage. Who rules Charyn when you return to the safety of your walls?”
“And what would you have us do?” De Lancey said calmly, but Froi heard restrained anger in his voice. “You’ve all seen what happens the moment a king dies and his men desert their post. The ignorant take over. Savages killing their own people. Innocent people.”
“Those who live in the palace aren’t innocent,” another shouted from across the room. “They deserve what they get.”
There was uproar at those words.
“We were in the palace,” De Lancey of Paladozza argued. “On province business. Do I deserve to die? Do the other provincari? And do you know who else was visiting the palace? Gargarin of Abroi.”
Froi watched the feverish whispers. “Yes,” De Lancey confirmed. “How soon we forget men who have worked for the good of Charyn.”
“What about the princess?”
It was Lirah’s voice. Froi had lost sight of her the moment they entered the godshouse. But here she was asking the question that no one else dared to ask. There was an uncomfortable silence, and most looked away. Froi heard the words the Serker whore whispered, but Lirah seemed to care little for their scorn and curiosity.
“With these savages, one does not negotiate with a list,” De Lancey of Paladozza said coolly. Dismissively. “We speak one name. Gargarin’s. He has the trust of almost every provincaro in this kingdom. Tariq of Lascow has stated that Gargarin is his choice as First Adviser if Tariq is ever to be crowned king.”
There was more fierce discussion, more anger.
“Tariq knows nothing of the world. He’s been in hiding since he was fifteen.”
“But he is the legal heir, and at this moment, he’s our only king. Gargarin knows enough to guide him. Both are aligned to no province, and that fact in itself will satisfy every one of us provincari. We return home, combine our armies, march into the Citavita, and place Tariq on the throne with Gargarin alongside him.”
There was approval for this suggestion, the first sign of calm.
“And what of Quintana?” Lirah demanded again. “You can’t leave her in the palace to die!”
“Your daughter is worth nothing,” a man called out.
“If she had broken the curse, at least we could have forgiven her for something,” Provincara Orlanda of Jidia said. She was a handsome woman who had fawned over Bestiano and Gargarin the night before.
“She’s our last born,” Lirah said.
There were hisses and fury directed at Lirah.
“Our lives have been ruined because of her,” Orlanda spat.
“Your spawn, Serker bitch,” a woman Froi didn’t recognize shouted.
“Her birth. Her lies. Her failure to break the curse,” another joined in, advancing on Lirah.
“If we choose between Gargarin of Abroi and the princess, we choose Gargarin,” the ambassador for Sebastabol said.
Despite his anger toward her, Froi pushed through the crowd of people to Lirah, but Arjuro was there before him, grabbing her arm.
“Come,” he said to both of them.
Froi felt De Lancey’s eyes following them from across the room.
“It’s best that you keep your mouth shut, Lirah,??
? Arjuro said, shoving his way through the crowd.
“It’s best that I take my leave, priestling,” Lirah said coldly.
“It’s not safe for you among the street pigs, Lirah,” Froi snapped. “Don’t be a fool.”
“It’s no safer here,” she said quietly as they reached the door, where De Lancey of Paladozza stood, blocking Froi’s path.
“Would you like to know who has taken refuge in this very godshouse?” De Lancey asked Froi smoothly.
Froi ignored him, stepping aside and following Arjuro and Lirah into the dark corridor. They stopped a moment as Arjuro lit the lamps that lined the wall. But De Lancey was on their heels, followed by four of his guards. Froi saw a flash of fear cross Lirah’s face, heard Arjuro’s curse as the priestling grabbed Lirah’s hand, leading her to the steps that would take them to the levels below.
“Stop a moment,” De Lancey ordered.
“Remember whose place this is, De Lancey,” Arjuro warned over his shoulder.
De Lancey reached them and grabbed on to Arjuro’s robe to stop him, but the priestling viciously pulled away, catching the provincaro in the face with his elbow. In an instant, the four guards slammed Arjuro against the wall and Froi heard the crack of the priestling’s head against stone.
Froi felt the pounding of blood in his brain chanting at him, replaying the events of the last day. There were too many voices and images in his head. Quintana’s face the day before. Gargarin’s instructions. Lirah’s bitter tirade as he dragged her out of the castle. Those tossed from the balconette, the king’s body, the fury of the crowd in the godshouse hall. Suddenly he grabbed De Lancey, snapped the man’s wrist, and heard his quick intake of pain. The four guards let go of Arjuro and charged for Froi. And in that confined space where priestlings once prayed and studied and died, he used fists and palms, smashed heads against stone walls, broke bones, bit flesh, and spat it out. “You’re a weapon, Froi. The best we’ve ever created,” Trevanion had told him once. And when De Lancey’s men were writhing in pain at his feet, Froi’s blood cried for more, his breath ragged, his feet dancing around them, wanting them back on their feet. He wanted to do it again.