“You were mocking me,” Froi said.
“Not quite.” Gargarin chuckled. “One doesn’t exactly have to have a wall surrounding them to be a firm believer in protection. The city is trained to go to ground within minutes of an army approaching. They’ve had drills ever since I can remember.”
Froi was irritated.
“So how observant are you?” Gargarin asked.
“Very. It’s what I’m trained to be.” Froi paused and looked around before exchanging a glance with Gargarin. “Four behind the first rock shrine we passed, and two on the rooftops of the house with red gables. Another two on the balconette of the inn with the image of the boar on the front. They make as though they are playing cards, but they throw down their hand too quickly.” He turned and pointed up to a grand house above the piazza. “Most are up there, at every level and every window. Probably De Lancey’s residence. There are at least six in this square.”
Gargarin nodded. His expression showed appreciation.
A moment later, Froi was flat on his face with four of De Lancey’s guards searching him.
“It seems they still haven’t gotten over the incident in the godshouse hallway,” Arjuro said, crouching to his level. Quintana was there as well.
The guards dragged Froi to his feet and wordlessly removed his short sword from its scabbard on his back and the daggers from his sleeves.
“What did you do to them in the godshouse hallway?” Quintana asked. The guards didn’t seem interested in the others, and Froi knew this was personal.
“He showed them a thing or two about hand-to-hand combat,” Lirah said. “Just before he stood on the piece of granite over the gravina and bargained for Gargarin’s life. While they stood around looking stupid.” She was angry. “He’s bleeding, you fools.”
“Bargained with what?” Quintana asked.
“A ruby ring given to him by his queen,” Arjuro said as De Lancey’s men shoved Froi forward toward a narrow path that led them to an even higher level of the city.
“Your queen gave you a ruby ring?” he heard Quintana ask coldly.
Froi grabbed her hand and gently placed her between himself and one of the guards. She twisted away, almost breaking his fingers. De Lancey’s men allowed her to step away.
“You’re leaving her unprotected, you fools,” Froi said. He shoved away from them and grabbed Quintana roughly by the wrist, pulling her back into the confines of his protection.
“Now you can pretend you have some control over this situation,” he told the men pleasantly, only too aware that the true danger lay in Quintana’s fury.
“Is that what she bribed you with to assassinate me?” she asked, trying to pull away. This time the guards had the good sense to keep her close.
“I thought we were finished with the talk of assassination,” Froi said, his voice weary.
“Is she your lover?” she demanded.
They reached a gate and walked into a courtyard with more guards. Surrounding them was a cluster of pristine white dwellings. De Lancey came out onto the balcony of the largest dwelling, holding a lantern in his hand. He stared down at them with irritated dismay.
Grijio’s head appeared beside his father’s. Then they both disappeared and it was a few minutes before they walked out into the courtyard. As usual, De Lancey was impeccably dressed, in loose white trousers and a cambric shirt. De Lancey embraced Gargarin and barely acknowledged the rest except for Quintana. His eyes went straight to her belly.
“Is it true?” he asked gently.
“True indeed,” Gargarin said.
Grijio let out a breath that he seemed to have been holding.
Gargarin grabbed two of De Lancey’s men by the back of their necks and forced them to face Froi. “He protects the princess and you protect him. Does that sound like an order?”
There was nothing sinister about the mood between the provincaro and his men, and they walked away.
“My swords!” Froi called out. One of the guards returned his weapons, taking a moment to study the craftsmanship of the short sword.
“I’ll let you play with it if you’re nice,” Froi mocked.
It was tense after the guards left. Grijio dared to break the silence, but he chose the wrong person to address.
“How long has it been, sir, since you returned to Paladozza?” he asked Arjuro politely.
“Nineteen years.”
“Why so long, sir?”
“Because the memory of a farrier whose head was sliced clean from his body kept me away,” he snarled.
Froi saw De Lancey freeze and Grijio flinch. A look of great pain and remorse passed between father and son. Had they spoken of the part De Lancey played in an innocent man’s death?
“Come inside,” De Lancey muttered to Gargarin. “I don’t want to kill him in front of my people. They’re not used to the sight of blood.”
They followed De Lancey and Grijio up a flight of stairs that took them into a hall, overwhelming in its beauty. Frescoes of every creation story Froi had ever heard from this land and those of the lands said to be across the great oceans adorned the wall. He even recognized that of Lumatere’s, a luminous goddess emerging from the earth.
De Lancey took them to a dining room where a long table was set up for three.
“Another five places, Jatta,” he called out.
There was silent awkwardness again, and Grijio held out a hand to Quintana.
“Would you like to see the songbirds I once wrote to you about?” he asked.
She hesitated, looking around the room, squinting.
“Perhaps you can bring the cage in here, Grij?” De Lancey said.
“You’ll love them,” Grijio promised, running out of the room.
De Lancey removed five glasses from a tray. “My son —”
“His son,” Arjuro mocked under his breath.
De Lancey stared at him, decanter in hand.
“And what is that supposed to mean?” De Lancey asked.
Gargarin stood and limped toward the provincaro. “Perhaps I should take over here, De Lancey.”
“No. I want to know what he meant by that,” De Lancey said.
Froi stared at Arjuro. He looked so strange and out of place with his dark robes in this pristine room.
“Your boy out there?” Arjuro shook his head with disbelief. “You disappoint me, De Lancey. We always mocked those fools of men who needed young flesh beneath their body to make them feel powerful.”
Gargarin removed the decanter of wine from De Lancey’s hand.
“How dare you? My son —”
“Your son? You have no son,” Arjuro shouted. “Why the pretense? Eighteen years ago, you had no bride. Yet you have a young lover —”
Gargarin wasn’t quick enough to save the glasses. De Lancey dived across the table and grabbed Arjuro around the throat just as the glass hit the ground and shattered. It took Froi and De Lancey’s men and even Lirah and Jatta, the serving woman, to pull them apart.
Grijio raced in holding a cage of lovebirds, only to see his father being held back.
“What did he say to rile you so?” Grijio asked his father, putting the cage aside.
De Lancey adjusted his clothing and was full of decorum once more.
“He accused De Lancey of taking you as a lover,” Quintana said calmly.
In some way, there was little difference between this Quintana and the indignant reginita. They both had the habit of not recognizing when to refrain from speaking.
Grijio snorted with laughter at the idea. A young woman hurried into the room, her blond curls bouncing around her face, her eyes wide with curiosity.
“What happened?” she asked. “I heard shouting and . . .” She saw the glass on the ground and looked at De Lancey for an explanation. Froi noticed that in contrast to the richness of De Lancey’s complexion, his children were fair and blue-eyed.
“Arjuro accused Father of taking me as a lover and Father took great offense and leaped a
cross the table to strangle Arjuro.”
The girl was as stunned as Grijio.
“You mean, the priestling’s here and nobody told me?”
She looked around, searching the table. Grijio pointed to Arjuro.
The girl shuddered. “All these years I’ve been expecting a demigod. A less decrepit version of Gargarin.”
“My daughter, Tippideaux,” De Lancey said dryly. She noticed Gargarin.
“Welcome back, sir.”
“Thank you, Tippideaux,” Gargarin managed politely, looking somewhat insulted by her image of Arjuro.
Tippideaux eyed Lirah next with a question hanging in the air.
“Lirah of Serker,” her brother said, blushing the moment he looked at Lirah.
“The king’s Serker whore?” Tippideaux asked, her curls bouncing as she turned to De Lancey for confirmation, as if it could not possibly be true. “What a strange night this is, Father.”
“Lirah of Serker,” her father corrected, looking wary as Tippideaux’s eyes found Quintana.
Everyone in the room except for the two girls seemed to wince at the thought of what would take place next.
“Quintana of Charyn,” Grijio introduced, sending his sister a warning look.
Tippideaux was aghast and held up a hand as if to shield herself from the sight of Quintana. If she weren’t so awful in her honesty, Froi would have laughed.
“What a ridiculous way to wear one’s hair,” she said, horrified. She cast a look down Quintana’s form. “And that dress does not suit your figure, Your Highness.”
Grijio cleared his voice. “She’s . . .” He leaned over and whispered in his sister’s ear.
Finally they had a moment’s reprieve.
Tippideaux of Paladozza fainted.
Later, Froi sat with Gargarin and De Lancey in a large reading room. The walls were stacked high with books, and the floor was covered by a thick rug that enabled them to lounge on cushions for comfort.
“This could cause hysteria,” De Lancey said. “We could have women fainting all over Charyn.”
“But Tippideaux —”
“Doesn’t faint,” De Lancey interrupted. “Tippideaux causes people to faint.”
“What are your thoughts?” Gargarin asked.
“The princess can’t stay here, Gargarin. I have no way of protecting her.”
“You have no way of protecting your people, you mean,” Froi snapped. “Like you had no intention of bargaining for her life in the Citavita.”
“No,” De Lancey said, anger lacing his words. “I have no way of protecting her. My people know what to do in an invasion. We go to ground, and believe me when I say we can live underground for as long as it takes. But if they come in the dead of the night to take her, there will be nothing I can do.”
Froi looked away in disgust, but he felt De Lancey’s stare piercing into him.
“Your boy needs to learn manners,” the provincaro said. “He has little respect.”
“Only for those who deserve it,” Froi said.
“Wonderful. An Arjuro in the making,” De Lancey muttered.
One of his people came in to serve sweet wine and dried apricots. Gargarin waited for the man to go.
“Where would you suggest, then?”
“Sebastabol,” the provincaro replied. “They have the ocean on one side and a wall on the other. It’s impossible to invade. And apart from the fact that the provincaro is still furious about the kidnapping of Olivier, I think we can convince him to offer the princess sanctuary.”
“How discreet are your guards and servants?” Froi asked.
“They’ve been with me a long time. My guards are the sons of my father’s guards, and my servants raised me and my children.”
“Then speak to them tonight and tell them they must not reveal who your guests are,” Froi said.
De Lancey nodded. “But Gargarin and Arjuro could be recognized in the city. Bestiano’s men will certainly know they’re traveling with the princess.”
“We’ll stay indoors.” Gargarin looked up at the books, a ghost of a smile on his face. “There’s enough here to keep me happy.”
Froi found Quintana, Grijio, Tippideaux, and Arjuro in one of the hallways, leaning on a massive window ledge, looking outside. He squeezed in beside Quintana and she stiffened. It seemed a long time since the discussion of the ruby ring, and he knew he would have to work hard for her trust.
Down below was Paladozza in all its nighttime splendor. It was a province of flickering torches, and there was a beauty in the way they danced that soothed him.
Arjuro pointed down to one of the rooftops, where an altar was lit by a single flame.
“I lived at the godshouse school there,” he said quietly. “And every night, Gargarin and De Lancey would be at this window and we’d wave good night to each other. I couldn’t bear the idea of going to bed without doing that.”
There was silence for a moment.
“I wish you’d forgive my father, Priestling,” Tippideaux said. “I think then he’d forgive himself and get on with his life.”
Arjuro grunted.
“We forgave him,” Grijio said quietly. “Why can’t you?”
“And what did he do to you?” Arjuro asked bitterly, turning to them both. “Betray you? Make you feel ashamed of him.”
“When my mother was carrying me in her belly and Tippideaux was two years old, De Lancey paid my father two silver pieces to run a message for him. A message he was frightened to send in person.”
The last born studied Arjuro. “And I think you know the rest.”
Arjuro closed his eyes as the truth registered. “You’re the farrier’s children?”
Tippideaux nodded. “Our mother died giving birth to Grij,” she explained. “Father always tells us that what began for him in guilt has become the joy in his life.”
Arjuro looked pained. He turned and walked away. Froi wanted to follow. He suspected that the days to come would break the priestling.
“Princess,” De Lancey suddenly called out from the other room.
“Yes,” Quintana and Tippideaux called back in unison, before staring at each other with horror.
After an awkward silence, Tippideaux linked her arm with Quintana’s.
“We’re going to have to do something about the way you dress, Your Highness. And your hair. I can’t be seen walking around my father’s province with someone looking so strange. I’m well known for my good taste.”
She led Quintana away.
“And an important rule for you to remember,” Froi heard her say. “In my father’s house there’s room for only one princess.”
Grijio felt it best that they gave Quintana and Tippideaux time on their own, so Froi sat with him on the roof of Grijio’s chamber and swapped stories of their journey from the Citavita. They both agreed that Froi’s had been the more incident-filled. Later, they joined the girls in Quintana’s chamber and Froi chose an adjoining servant’s quarters to sleep in.
“We can accommodate you in a bigger room of your own,” Grijio said, looking distastefully around the small space where a cot lay on the ground against the wall.
Froi shook his head. “It’s best that I stay close to her.”
They both looked back into the chamber where Tippideaux was attempting to remove snags from Quintana’s hair. Quintana, in turn, had her nails dug deep into Tippideaux’s arm, and Froi could see she had already drawn blood. There was a look of great satisfaction on her face.
Both Froi and Grijio sighed.
“At least Olivier of Paladozza will be visiting in the next few days. He is fun to be around. Tippideaux giggles shamelessly in his presence, so she might not be so pedantic about keeping Her Highness . . . tidy.”
“Strange days ahead,” Froi said.
“Indeed.”
When the others left, Quintana looked up to where Froi stood at the entrance that divided their rooms.
He pointed to her hair. “It looks . . . nea
t.”
“If I had known my hair would be such a concern to this kingdom I would have cut it bare like your beloved queen long ago.”
Froi counted to ten.
“She didn’t give me the ring as a bribe to assassinate you,” he said, trying not to clench his teeth, because it was part of his bond not to. Teeth clenching, Trevanion explained, was a hostile act.
“It was Zabat who gave the order. And I’m not sure whether you’ve noticed, but I had every opportunity to carry it out and didn’t.”
“Then why would she give you a ring?” she demanded.
“Why would you care?” he demanded in response.
How could she look so different from the Quintana he met in the palace? Not because of the hair, but because of her expression and her manner and the anger that permeated every part of her being.
“Did the queen of Lumatere ask you to bed me as a means to find a way into my father’s chamber?” she demanded, her tone so cold.
“Do you want to know the truth?” he said. “Because I doubt you’ll believe anything I say tonight.”
“Do you want to know my truth?” she cried. “That they called me Quintana the whore for so long and I never felt like one until now!”
Froi felt like a proper fiend.
“Quintana —”
“Get. Out.”
He stepped up onto the roof above their compound only to find that he wasn’t alone. Arjuro was there, nursing a bottle. Froi saw a naked love in the priestling’s eyes as he stared out into the distance to the mountains of rocks with wind holes carved out of the stone. Tonight they flickered with the flames of campfires built to keep their occupants warm.
“They’re called the fairy lights of Paladozza,” Arjuro said.
This wasn’t just another kingdom; it was another world.
A song was sung across the landscape, and it made Froi’s skin tingle in its purity. It reminded him of the pleasure he felt every time the priest-king sang the Song of Lumatere, yet he could not remember the words. But here in Paladozza, in the enemy kingdom of Charyn, a song sung once became a tune he walked to.
“Heard every word,” Arjuro said quietly, looking at him. “Between you and Quintana. You’re falling in love with her. Don’t.”