But Arjuro was there, blocking his path. “Leash it,” Arjuro hissed. “Leash it.”
Froi couldn’t leash it. He didn’t know how, and that knowledge made him want to weep. He tried to count. But couldn’t remember the right numbers. He hammered a savage fist to his temple over and over again until Arjuro gripped his face between his hands.
“Take a breath.”
“I can’t remember my bond,” Froi whispered hoarsely.
In his head, Froi counted in Lumateran and then Sarnak, but the numbers meant nothing, led to nothing. Arjuro studied his face and then looked down to watch Froi’s fingers dance with every number he tried to speak aloud.
“Este, dortis, thirst . . .” Arjuro began counting quietly in Charyn.
Froi’s heart fell. All those times, even as far back as three years ago, when he first arrived in Lumatere and they gave him his bond, Froi had used the numbers of the Charyn language without even realizing.
Blood sings to blood, Froi.
Froi closed his eyes and took in a deep breath.
An important rule of the bond was: never to break a bone if Lumateran lives are not at risk.
He opened his eyes to see De Lancey nursing his wrist. In the flickering light, he could see Lirah’s face.
“They’re becoming hysterical in the hall,” she said coolly. “They think the street lords have entered.”
De Lancey caught one of his guard’s eyes and gestured him toward the hall. A moment later, all four men reluctantly limped away.
“Take Lirah’s hand, Olivier,” Arjuro said quietly. “The steps are steep.”
“Yet he’s not Olivier,” De Lancey said, “are you? The last born from Sebastabol is in the library downstairs with my son, burying the ancient books in case the street lords enter and destroy them.” De Lancey’s eyes met Froi’s. “The real Olivier claims to have spent the last few weeks held captive in the caves outside Sebastabol.”
Arjuro’s breath was ragged as he looked at Froi, shaking his head with regret. “Bit of truth would have helped.”
“You ask him for truth, Arjuro?” De Lancey said. “When you’ve been interested in no truth but yours.”
Arjuro pointed a finger at De Lancey. “And what was your truth?” he said through clenched teeth. “What was Gar’s? That my brother didn’t murder the oracle? That you didn’t send your messenger to betray me? Did you know that the farrier left behind a family, De Lancey? Did you ever give them another thought?”
De Lancey’s eyes met Arjuro’s, and Froi saw something flare up between them. History was history, he once told the priest-king. Why couldn’t it stay in the past? All this hatred between these two men could only mean that once there had been so much love.
“The oracle and the child were already dead. That’s Gar’s truth!”
Lirah pushed the provincaro away with all the fury she could muster. And he winced from the pain, nursing his hand. He couldn’t disguise his anger and disgust.
“Oh, we care about children now, do we, whore?” he sneered. “After you tried to murder your own?”
Arjuro grabbed De Lancey’s injured wrist and snapped it back into place. De Lancey gasped from the pain.
“Ask the Serker whose child it was Gargarin tossed from that window,” Arjuro said. “She should know. It was hers.”
“The child belonged to the oracle,” De Lancey said. “Born dead. It was what Gar swore to me.”
“Yet he told this impostor that the child was smuggled out of the palace,” Lirah said, looking at Froi bitterly. “So who are we to believe, De Lancey? A liar or a liar?”
Arjuro stared at Froi, shocked by the words. “When did Gargarin tell you that?” he asked huskily. “When?”
“Today. Before the street lords took him away,” Froi said.
“But he told me the babe was born dead,” De Lancey argued. “Gargarin swore he was forced to toss a dead child into the gravina.”
“My son was born with a mighty voice,” Lirah said fiercely, a tremble in her words. “And Gargarin tells you both lies. In one breath, a dead child. In the next, a smuggled last born. Do you believe the gods conjured up a spell and made his brother see our worst nightmares?”
“Come,” Arjuro said quietly. But he pointed a finger at De Lancey emphatically. “Not you. And bind that wrist.”
They left De Lancey standing alone in the dark corridor. Arjuro led Lirah and Froi to the tiny marble steps that spiraled down. But De Lancey was a hard man to lose.
“So whose bastard is this lad, Arjuro?” he called out from the top of the steps. “Yours or Gargarin’s?”
Lirah gasped. Froi swung around to look up, almost tumbling down the narrow steps.
“The person I was swiving eighteen years ago hasn’t the capacity for childbirth. Curse or no curse,” Arjuro said coolly. “Does he, De Lancey?” Arjuro continued down the stairs, refusing to look back. There was a ringing in Froi’s ears, and when they reached the landing, his legs buckled under him. Arjuro forced him to sit, resting his back against the wall and pushing his head between his knees.
“Breathe, idiot boy. His words are false. It’s pure coincidence.” But Froi heard doubt in Arjuro’s voice.
“That face can’t be pure coincidence, Ari,” De Lancey said, suddenly behind them. He reached over Arjuro’s shoulder and grabbed Froi’s face, but Froi leaped to his feet and shoved them both away.
“Who do I resemble?” Froi hissed. There was silence.
Arjuro looked away.
“Who?”
“The most base of beasts born to this world,” Arjuro said sadly. “My father. But I see my father’s face in half of Charyn.”
Froi sucked in a breath.
“He cannot possibly be Gargarin’s son,” Lirah said coldly. “I was the only woman he had.”
De Lancey gave a short laugh of disbelief. “Don’t you think it’s strange, Lirah, that you can believe Gargarin is a murderer of babes and oracles, but you can’t accept that he preferred another woman?”
“There was no other woman,” she spat. She threw a look at Froi. “This one looks like the shit and garbage of this kingdom. Isn’t that what they say Abroi is? He could be anyone’s trash. Sent by anyone. Probably the Serkers living in the underground city who want their revenge.”
The provincaro searched Froi’s face. “Who sent you?” he demanded. “Was it the Serkers?”
“Does it matter? I didn’t kill the king.”
“Pity,” De Lancey said. “I would have liked you much better if you had.”
Arjuro led them to a room laid out with straw cots once used by priestlings. He pushed Lirah toward one.
“Sleep,” he said to them, ignoring De Lancey, who stood at the door watching them all. “The sun will rise soon, and it will be another long day.”
Froi sat with his back to the others. He felt a hand at his shoulder and shrugged it away viciously.
“Not the time to be sulking,” Arjuro said. “What would you expect from me?” he added gently. “A ‘Hi-de-ho to you, lad. By the way, you have the face of my demented father, which could only mean that you are either his child or Gargarin’s, who also happens to be a killer of women and babes’?”
Froi turned to them. He could see only their outlines in the darkness. Lirah lay with her back to him, her body huddled.
He studied Arjuro closely. “Is there a chance I’m his son?”
That Froi and Arjuro had the same blood was too hard to fathom.
“I don’t know,” Arjuro said honestly. “The only way I can answer that question is if you tell me the truth. Days ago you informed me that the oracle’s child was not tossed into the gravina. That my brother murdered Lirah’s son instead. Today you tell me he didn’t murder the child. That it was smuggled out of the palace. What am I to be told tomorrow? That my brother is dead without me knowing the truth?” Froi saw tears in the man’s eyes. “I don’t even know your real name, Olivier.”
But Froi couldn’t tell the whole
truth without betraying Lumatere. Did he trust these people enough to do that?
“Do you know a man by the name of Rafuel of Sebastabol?” he asked after a stretch of silence. “He approached . . . my people with a plan.”
He saw Arjuro stiffen. Lirah turned slowly from her cot to face them. “I know that name,” she said.
“What was the plan?” De Lancey asked from the door.
“That he could get an assassin into the palace to impersonate the last born from Sebastabol.”
Froi waited for Arjuro to speak.
“Arjuro?” De Lancey said. “Give him something in return.”
“No,” Arjuro said. “I’m more interested in what Rafuel of Sebastabol had to say to . . . sorry, what did you say your name was?”
The stare from Arjuro was sharp, and Froi fought back a shiver. He felt as if he were looking at Gargarin.
“I didn’t,” Froi said.
A hint of a knowing smile appeared on Arjuro’s face. “You don’t trust me, do you?”
“I don’t trust anyone here.”
Arjuro looked at him shrewdly, eyebrows raised in contemplation.
“You don’t trust anyone here in the Citavita? Or anyone here in Charyn?”
“Are you saying he’s a foreigner?” Lirah asked, studying Froi with confusion.
Froi didn’t respond for a moment. “You’re not so slow when you’re sober, Arjuro.”
“He’s Lumateran,” De Lancey said. “Who else would be training an assassin?”
Froi didn’t respond.
“But why would Rafuel of Sebastabol go all the way to Lumatere to find an assassin when he could train one here?” De Lancey continued. “I could have provided him with one or two myself.”
“Didn’t say I was a Lumateran, and careful, Provincaro, that’s the second time you’ve mentioned the death of the king. You could be accused of treason.”
“He can’t be a foreigner. He has Serker eyes, and a face from Abroi,” Lirah said.
“I disagree,” Arjuro said. “In the times when nomads traveled throughout the land, a Sendecanese or Sarnak or even a Yut could be found with Serker eyes.”
Arjuro eyed Froi. “Your Charyn is flawless.”
“Perhaps I’ve inherited a sharp mind from my father,” he whispered mockingly in Arjuro’s ear. “Or perhaps from my uncle. Perhaps I’m gods’ touched.”
“What else did Rafuel of Sebastabol have to say to your leaders?” De Lancey asked.
“Nothing,” Froi said.
The provincaro made a sound as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
“It’s true. He said nothing more to my leaders. But he did make mention of something to me without my leaders knowing.”
The others waited.
“But as part of my bond, my captain said I was not to interfere with the matters of another kingdom.”
De Lancey gave another humorless laugh.
“They sent you to assassinate the king and that’s not interfering?”
Froi felt weary. He wanted more from Arjuro, but the priestling was a man who had been betrayed too many times, and Froi knew he would have to give a whole lot more before Arjuro spoke freely. Two of De Lancey’s guards appeared at the door.
“My lord, it’s not safe for you here,” one said, eyeing Froi.
“Go check on Grij,” the provincaro said tiredly, and Froi heard the voice of a man concerned for his son. It made him hate everyone even more.
De Lancey’s attention was back on Froi.
“Rafuel of Sebastabol made mention of . . . the lost last born of the Citavita,” Froi said quietly.
“A myth,” Lirah said. “Used to dismiss the importance of Quintana as the last born.”
“Not a myth,” Arjuro said.
“You can’t prove that,” De Lancey argued.
“I saw the last born of the Citavita. Held him. Do you need any further proof than that, De Lancey?” Arjuro raged. “Or are we going to have a repeat of eighteen years past? Last time you refused to believe me about the king, an innocent messenger was murdered.”
They all stared at Arjuro.
“You held the last born?” Lirah asked.
Arjuro nodded.
“When I escaped from the palace after . . . after taking Gargarin’s identity.”
“What?” she gasped, stunned.
“It was Gargarin who was imprisoned for eight years,” Froi said. “Not Arjuro.”
“I took refuge with the only people I trusted in this world. I knew where the priests of Trist were hiding, because they had found a way to send a message to me after my arrest the year before. When I arrived at the caves, they told me the strangest tale. That the night before, they had heard a sound outside and then saw the figure of a young boy fleeing. And at their feet was a filthy basket that smelled of cats with a babe inside. A male. No note. Nothing. They had no idea where he came from.”
De Lancey moved away from the door, his eyes wide. Lirah placed a trembling hand to her throat.
“That night, every priest in the cave, whether gifted or not, woke up with the same words on their lips.”
“That the last will make the first?” Lirah asked.
Arjuro shook his head. “That if redemption was ever to be possible, a sign would appear in the palace. We had no idea what it meant. We didn’t know that at the time Charyn was cursed. All we knew was that the oracle was dead. The priests have always believed that even the gods were divided over this curse. That not one god has claimed it as their own.”
“If no god claimed it as their own . . .” De Lancey said.
“Then no god could break it. Perhaps in their realm they’ve been searching for clues themselves.” Arjuro sighed. “All we knew was that whoever left the last born with the priests feared for the child’s life.”
He turned to Lirah. “Why would the palace have wanted your son dead, Lirah?” he asked. “Was it because the king suspected it wasn’t his?”
Lirah made a sound of annoyance. “I was his whore and the whore of anyone he chose to share me with! Why would the king ever have thought it was his child over anyone else?”
“Whose child was he then, Lirah?” De Lancey asked.
“Mine. Mine. He belonged to me,” Lirah said. “What do you want me to say, De Lancey? I had no idea who the father was.”
“Was it Gargarin’s?” De Lancey asked again.
“I hardly saw the babe,” she said. “And even if I had, do you think I would have seen a resemblance from a newborn? ‘Ah yes,’” she mocked. “‘Here is the chin of the king’s favorite banker or the eyes of his favorite cousin.’”
There was a strained silence. A reminder of what Lirah was forced to be all those years.
“More, Arjuro,” De Lancey said. “We need more.”
“The priests of Trist asked me that night to name the boy because I was gods’ touched and they weren’t,” Arjuro continued. “A child named by one who is gods’ touched is blessed all their lives.” Arjuro swallowed. “I knew this babe could not stand out in the world, so I gave him a name with no meaning, from a place with no meaning.” Arjuro stole a look at Froi. “I called him Dafar of Abroi. He was smuggled into the kingdom of Sarnak, where the priestlings of Trist had a godshouse despite the Sarnak worship of the goddess. After the random burning down of the Sarnak godshouse four years later, the boy disappeared from our lives.”
Froi’s breath was caught in his throat.
“I am now sure that the child came from the palace and not the Citavita,” Arjuro said.
“A moment ago you said the priests had no idea where he came from!” De Lancey said. “Why would you change your words?”
“Because Olivier the impostor,” Arjuro said, pointing to Froi, “has just informed us that my brother claimed to have smuggled a child out of the palace. It could have only been your son, Lirah. Perhaps, without him realizing, it was Gargarin’s son. You would not have known that then. But we can only guess it now. Our young impost
or’s resemblance to my father is quite extraordinary.”
Arjuro’s eyes met Froi’s, and Froi could hardly breathe. Lirah. Not cold Lirah, who had despised him from the moment she first laid eyes on him. Not Gargarin.
Froi stumbled to his feet. “I’m not from this place.”
Blood sings to blood, Froi.
Lirah’s body was rocking, her expression one of horror.
“Lirah?” Arjuro asked. “Who passed your messages to Gargarin when you lived together in the palace? Who was your go-between?”
Lirah couldn’t find the words to speak.
“Lirah!”
She shook herself out of her stupor.
“The Sixth Adviser’s boy,” she said quietly. She stopped, agape, and Froi watched Arjuro nod.
“Rafuel,” she gasped. “Little Rafuel, with the cats.”
“A sensitive boy,” Arjuro said. “Smart, though. He was shouted down daily by his father, by everyone whose path he crossed in the palace. It’s how he befriended my brother. He reminded Gargarin of who we once were. And do you want to know something else? In the early days of my imprisonment, when there was trust between my brother and me, Gargarin was my messenger to the priests. He was the only person to have known where they were hiding. Where to keep a babe safe from the palace.”
Froi, Lirah, and De Lancey were too dumbfounded to speak.
“I think our Rafuel’s been busy these past years searching for the last born.” Arjuro’s eyes met Froi’s. “Did he find you in Sarnak, or have I got it all wrong?”
Froi didn’t want to respond. If he said the words aloud, it would all be true and he didn’t want it to be.
“I live in Lumatere,” he said.
Lirah’s shoulders sank. Was it relief or despair? De Lancey shook his head with disappointment, walking away. But Arjuro continued to stare at Froi, as though he were still attempting to work out the puzzle.
“I’ve not lived in Sarnak for three years,” Froi said quietly.
Lirah stared at him, stunned, and De Lancey turned back, hope flaring in his expression. Froi saw a ghost of a smile on Arjuro’s face. A nod of satisfaction.
“But what of the babe you did see tossed on the night of the last born?” De Lancey asked. “Who was that if not the daughter of the oracle, or Lirah and Gargarin’s son?”