Perabo’s instructions were precise. At the bend, Froi heard the sound and waited, and despite the firm grip Quintana had on his arm, he managed to retrieve the oar and tap the cave ceiling three times. A moment later, the pitch-black space was illuminated by a lantern. Froi held Quintana’s face to his chest, his eyes blinded by the light.
“We are here for Tariq of Lascow, heir to the throne of Charyn,” he said. “Perabo sent us.”
The lantern was lowered, revealing the face of a man. He stared from Froi to Quintana and then gave a nod.
Tariq of Lascow was tall for a Charynite. And striking. Froi wasn’t expecting tall and striking. For some reason, he wanted Quintana’s beloved Tariq to be short and ugly. The heir placed a hand against Quintana’s cheek tenderly and then led them down a dank corridor of stone, speckled with a substance that lit their path. They followed him into a large chamber, the floors and walls adorned with beautiful woven carpets of blues and gold and red. There were books and drawings and ochre sticks for writing scattered over the cot that lay on the ground. A mandolin sat in the corner. A small altar was in the center of the room, built upon a piece of rock that extended from the ground. Carved into the rock were symbols Froi had seen in Gargarin’s books about the gods. Tariq of the Citavita worshipped Agora, the Charyn goddess of wisdom. A poet, a musician, a peacemaker. Froi wanted to hate him.
Tariq pushed the books and sketches from his cot and took Quintana’s hand. “Little cousin, speak. I beg of you,” he said as Quintana stared up at Froi. Tariq placed a blanket over her, and she lay down.
“Will you be here when I wake?” she asked Froi, her voice broken.
“Of course,” he lied.
Quintana closed her eyes and turned to the wall.
Tariq stood and Froi saw tears in the eyes of the heir. And anger.
“How was it that you didn’t get her out in time?” he asked. “We’ve been waiting for weeks.”
“I was careless,” Froi said. “For that I’ll always be sorry.”
Tariq stared but didn’t speak. Too much seemed to be going on in his mind, and Froi wondered if the heir of Charyn had to count in his head to control his fury. Or was he just a good man who could walk a path through life without a bond?
“Then forgive yourself now, for we do not need laments of guilt sounding through the air,” Tariq finally said.
Froi took one last look at Quintana and fought the urge to reach out a hand to where her throat was red-raw.
“I’ll take my leave,” he said huskily, walking out of the chamber.
In the light-speckled tunnel, Tariq was on his heels.
“Stay,” the heir said. “Eat with us.”
It was not an order, but Froi found himself turning back because he realized he had nowhere left to go.
In an adjoining chamber, Tariq introduced Froi to his childhood nurse, a woman named Jurda, who was stunned to hear the story of the escape and rushed to where Quintana lay. Froi watched Quintana as she woke from a half sleep with a hiss and a snarl. He stepped into the room, but Tariq held him back. “Jurda was my nurse in the palace. She is well acquainted with Quintana’s . . . ways.”
Froi followed Tariq through the nooks and tunnels of the underground village-in-exile of Lascow. They passed women weaving, men working at a kiln. One chamber housed the cattle; another stored the grain. In the kitchen there was chaos and all things familiar. Bread was baking in a large oven, its smoke tunnelling through a hole into the level above. The cook was barking out insults and instructions to a man milking a goat in the corner, while the serving women peeled eggs, giggling among themselves when they saw Froi. Tariq reached over the bad-tempered cook’s shoulder and she slapped his hand away, but he took the bread all the same, pecking her quickly on the cheek.
Froi was confused by the language. Although he had picked up a spattering of Charyn, it seemed to sing a different tune.
“What are they saying?” he asked.
“We speak a dialect of the mountains of the north, different from the Turlan mountain folk of the east,” Tariq said.
The women continued to speak, looking in their direction. Tariq hid a grin.
“My cousins say that for someone so plain, it’s a good thing your build is so pleasing. You have the shoulders of an ox, according to Liona.”
“Your cousins are servants?” he asked, his face reddening from the attention.
“This is my family. On my mother’s side. Twenty-seven of us in total. We’ve not dared return home, for we know that if the king found me there, he would not think twice about annihilating all my people on that mountain.”
Tariq pointed to a cushion on the ground, and Froi sat. A moment later, a plate of flatbread, gherkins, soft cheese, sliced eggs, and olives was placed before him. Froi waited politely for Tariq to choose first.
“You don’t seem the type to follow etiquette,” Tariq said.
“I follow a bond that says I grab food after the host,” Froi said honestly, staring at the small feast hungrily.
Tariq grinned again. “I have a rule that says whoever is stupid enough not to grab food first deserves to die of starvation.”
Froi grinned in response and reached for the cheese.
“Could I ask, sir,” Tariq said, after wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “if you have heard news of Gargarin of Abroi?”
Froi remembered De Lancey’s words. That Gargarin had been a mentor to Tariq.
“I’m not a ‘sir,’” Froi said, after swallowing the last of the egg. “My name is Froi, and to answer your question, De Lancey of Paladozza paid a ransom and they let Gargarin go. I can’t promise his body is in one piece, but he is safe for now.”
Tariq sighed with relief. “Is he not the most honorable man you have ever encountered?” he asked.
Froi didn’t respond for a moment. “He’s a hard man to get to know.”
“But once you get to know him, he is hard to forget,” Tariq said. “I’ve never seen so many calf-eyed women in the compound, following him around the year he stayed with us. ‘Gargarin, would you like me to rub your twisted bones?’” he mimicked. The cook came to deposit pieces of cooked pig rind on Froi’s plate. “‘Gargarin,’” Tariq continued, looking up at her, feigning seriousness, “‘Would you like me to rub the bone that’s not so twisted?’”
Froi laughed. The cook grabbed Tariq’s face. “Do you want me to wash this filthy mouth out?” she snapped.
“Even Cousin Jurlista here was not immune to his humble charm.” Tariq did a perfect impersonation of Gargarin’s awkwardness that not even Arjuro could have matched.
One of the older men sat opposite them. “What news of above?” he asked. “Is it as bad as they are saying?”
“It is very bad,” Froi said.
Tariq’s expression was pained as he cleared his throat. “Despite my feelings for the king and my father’s kin, is it true . . . that they’re all dead?”
Froi nodded. “Except Quintana.”
“Thank the gods for that. She’s my betrothed, you know.”
Froi nodded. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “I think it’s best that you end the betrothment,” he said.
Tariq’s eyes narrowed. Froi met the heir’s stare.
“And why would you suggest such a thing?”
“Because the people you will rule brayed for her blood,” Froi said angrily. “They stood in the marketplace and cheered when a noose was placed around her neck. Why would you subject her to life in the palace after what she has endured? Why would you not want to set her free?”
Tariq looked contrite. “Because we made a vow to each other,” he said. “She would break the curse, and I would do everything to bring her to safety.”
“Forget the curse,” one of Tariq’s kinsmen said. “The people of this kingdom will accept you as the rightful heir, but they’ll not want to see the face of Charyn’s greatest failure alongside you.”
“To you, a failure, Gisotte,” Tariq said with
a gentle reprimand. “To me, a most-beloved betrothed, regardless of our youth at the time we were promised.”
“How is it that she escaped the noose?” one of the serving cousins asked from where she was grinding beans.
Froi told the story. He left out the part where the last borns were laughed at, but by the time he was finished, a crowd had gathered around him, stunned.
“You’re all heroes,” one of the women said, smiling prettily.
Froi felt awkward from all the attention, and Tariq grinned.
“Come,” the heir said, jumping to his feet. “Let me show you around.”
They left the room amid cries of, “Stay for more.”
Tariq laughed as they stooped down into a low damp corridor. “I’ll confess to you, we’ve not seen many outsiders these past three years,” he said, “and apart from my correspondence with Grij and Satch, sometimes I feel as though I’m an old man who knows nothing but books and keeping out of harm’s way.”
“There’s not much you need to know about the world,” Froi said. “Except how to use a sword and trust very few.”
Tariq was silent a moment. “Well, something tells me that both my betrothed and I can trust you.”
They reached the end of the tunnel and Froi could see Tariq’s eyes blazing with determination. “You must come to the palace with my queen and me. To protect her as you did today. To be her personal guard so I need never worry for her safety.”
Froi shook his head, his mouth suddenly dry at the idea of Tariq and Quintana lying side by side, night after night. He looked away, wanting to speak of other things.
“How is it you survive here?” he asked.
“Perabo in the Citavita sends us food. He travels to us once a month. We have a water spring, we have a healer, and we have faith in the gods that Charyn will have a new beginning now that the king is dead.”
“Is Perabo’s tunnel the only way in?” Froi asked.
Tariq shook his head. “Follow.”
Froi followed when his heart told him to leave. But with Tariq, he believed the people of Charyn could find hope. Strangely, he didn’t see traces of Finnikin or Lucian in this new king, but a boy he had once met on his travels with Finnikin and Isaboe through Yutlind. Jehr, heir to the throne of Yutlind Sud, had been the first to teach him how to use a bow and arrow. He was a lad of great strength, and Froi saw the same decency of character in Tariq. He needed to believe there was goodness in Charyn after the carnage, so he followed the heir through the underground world of the Citavita and listened to his stories.
They stood at a shaft, and Tariq held out his hand beneath it and Froi did the same.
“Do you feel the air? It’s the only other way out of the compound. Gargarin had it built for ventilation and for lowering goods and messages.”
“From who? Who do you trust?”
“The people of Lascow have an envoy who lives in the province of Paladozza. He is a passionate advocate of my people and travels to the Citavita each month to bring us news, among other gifts. When Bestiano left the palace with the riders, we received word from our envoy that the provincaro of Paladozza pledged an army if we were willing to speak face-to-face.”
Froi looked at him, confused.
“Wouldn’t the provincaro have sent a message through his son Grijio?”
Tariq laughed again. “De Lancey of Paladozza would kill Grij if he knew he was risking his life.”
“Well, after today’s display, I think the provincaro knows everything. Tell me more of Paladozza’s promise.”
“I agreed to the meeting, and in one week’s time, the envoy from the provincaro will meet us at the top of this shaft with the promised protection. They will smuggle us out of the Citavita and into the center of Charyn to collect my army. Then we will march back into the Citavita and claim the palace.”
Tariq looked around the cave. “And we say good-bye to my underground home.”
“A solid home indeed,” Froi said, impressed.
“Mostly thanks to Gargarin’s plans.”
Tariq pointed into another room. “The privy. Gargarin’s idea, of course.”
“Of course.” Froi laughed for the first time in weeks. “He does have his obsessions, doesn’t he?”
Froi followed Tariq into a cluster of small caverns.
“The hospital,” Tariq said. “Can I introduce you to my cousin?” he asked quietly. “She has had an ailment of the heart for some time now. Nurse says death will take place in the days to come, so we all pray that she will soon be at peace with those who’ve passed before us.”
Her name was Ariel. She would have been a pretty girl. Her cheek dimpled the moment she saw her younger cousin, and she patted her bed for Tariq to sit.
“I have heard the strangest story of a wild rescue in the Citavita,” she said, fighting for every breath, looking beyond Tariq to Froi. “I think Cousin Ortense is giddy for our visitor.”
She held out a hand and Froi took it.
“And the princess?” she asked.
“She has a strangely strong . . . spirit,” Froi said.
“Or two,” Tariq added, and he looked at Froi sheepishly. “Did getting used to it take you long?”
Froi shook his head. He realized that nothing about Quintana of Charyn took long to get used to except the idea of leaving her behind.
“Will she visit?” Ariel asked, and Froi heard the tiredness in her voice. “I dreamed of her not so long ago. I told her in my dream that if I had one wish, it would be to die with hope and not with such despair for this kingdom. I told her that I dreamed of entering the other life with a smile to greet them all. ‘Good news!’ I’d shout. ‘Good news for you all.’”
“She’ll like that dream,” Froi said, a sadness overwhelming him that goodness died when baseness lived.
“We will go collect her, Ariel,” Tariq said, on his feet in an instant. “And tonight we will dine, all of us, together here with you, my love.”
Tariq seemed to hasten his step out of the room, and Froi watched the heir stop and lean his head against the stone wall. He knew the lad wept for Ariel, and he stood back to give Tariq the time he required to collect himself. Then he followed him through a tunnel to a set of stairs that led them down into another cavern.
Froi felt the cold instantly and realized he was in some sort of crypt. There were two slabs of stone in the middle of the room, one with a body wrapped in white from head to foot.
“It’s a Lascow tradition for the dead,” Tariq explained. “We lost one of our elders two days past. This is what we will do for Ariel. Wrap her in white linens and call her name out for the gods to receive her. Then we will send her down the underground river and set the raft alight so the gods can see her and lead her spirit toward our people in the Lascow Mountains. Only then can they be sung home to our ancestors.”
Froi nodded, touched by the ritual.
“Is that how they do things where you come from?” Tariq asked.
Froi shook his head. “It’s important for the Lumaterans to be part of the earth. The earth is the goddess, so by being buried at death, we’re returned into her arms.”
“Buried?” Tariq shuddered, but then realized what Froi had said. The heir stared, intrigued.
“And what is a Lumateran doing in these parts?” he asked. “I would think you hate us for what was done to your people at the hands of our men.”
Froi didn’t respond. He cursed himself for the words he had said, but there was something about Tariq that put him at ease.
“When I’m in the palace, Froi, and all is calm in Charyn, my first duty to this land will be to issue an invitation for peace to your queen and her consort,” Tariq promised. “The despair of Lumatere is a stain on a Charynite’s soul.”
“And when that time comes,” Froi said, “I will do anything to ensure your safety within my kingdom.”
Later, they ate with Quintana and Ariel, and Froi watched the two girls sitting side by side. Quintana had spoken litt
le, her eyes fixed on Froi at every moment. If he stood, she’d stand as well, as though waiting to follow him wherever he went.
Froi watched Ariel take Quintana’s hand and Quintana pull away. It made him wince to see how cold she was in their presence, when Ariel wanted comfort in her dying days. But then Quintana bent and whispered into the dying girl’s ear, and he saw an expression of pure joy on Ariel’s face.
Froi felt Tariq’s eyes on him, wary. Suspicious.
“You were staring,” Tariq said. “Perhaps at Ariel. She’s beautiful, is she not?”
Froi nodded, but Tariq was no fool and he looked toward Quintana.
“She was my first, the princess was,” Tariq said. “The breaking of the curse was to begin with us, for we were born in the same year. She’s the only girl I’ve ever lain with. We were frightened beyond anything and had no idea what to do. Do you know who we had to ask?”
“Lirah?” Froi asked.
“No. She was imprisoned, and I was never to meet her.” Tariq leaned forward to whisper. “Did you become acquainted with Aunt Mawfa?”
“Yes,” Froi said sadly. “Yes, I did.”
“I think our Aunt Mawfa was a wildcat in her days,” Tariq said. Froi laughed.
“Did she die easily?” Tariq asked quietly.
“Yes,” Froi lied, abruptly getting to his feet. Talk of Lady Mawfa and Tariq and Quintana’s first time together was making him uneasy.
“I need to go.”
Tariq looked dismayed. “Have I offended you in some way?”
Froi looked over to where Quintana was still whispering to Ariel. When he turned back to Tariq, the other lad’s expression darkened.
“I can take care of her, you know,” Tariq said stiffly. Then his face softened and he grimaced. “We both . . . Quintana and I . . . we both agreed that we would do everything for Charyn. We are fated to be together. Those born last will make the first.”