“Yes, but where are these suitors now that Florenza has crawled through shit?” Cora asked.
Each time Jorja and Florenza’s escape was mentioned, Florenza whimpered and made gagging sounds, and Ginny would laugh. Ginny laughed at anything that was mean. Phaedra had learned to dislike them all since their so-called deaths. If she had to hear Jorja boast, or Florenza whimper, or Cora mock, or Ginny being snide one more time, she’d find a hare or two to throw at them all herself.
“What are you smiling about?” the princess asked, breaking Phaedra’s thoughts. Quintana sat on one of the stepping stones in the stream, and Phaedra had no choice but to squat beside her. She felt the skirt of her dress soak but refused to allow her discomfort to show.
“It’s a grimace, not a smile,” Phaedra said.
“It was a smile.”
She felt Quintana’s strange gaze and met it. Months on the mountain had made Phaedra less afraid of bullies, and no people knew how to intimidate her more than the Monts. But as she returned Quintana’s stare, all Phaedra saw was that the mother of their future king was nothing but a broken, bloodied girl.
“I think he’s dead,” the princess said quietly.
Phaedra froze. “The babe?”
The princess shook her head.
Phaedra waited, gently scrubbing Quintana’s face clean.
“I looked back once,” the princess continued, “and counted eight arrows, and I heard his cries and saw his spirit fight to leave his body.”
Phaedra was confused. She had heard the princess tell Rafuel that the father of her child, the heir Tariq of Lascow, had been slaughtered in the underground caves of the Citavita. Who was this “he” she was speaking of?
“Is there a chance that Tariq of Lascow is alive?” Phaedra asked, hope in her voice.
“Tariq’s dead,” Quintana said. “I saw his corpse. I saw them all. They died protecting me . . . protecting this,” she said, pointing to her belly. “Maybe I’ll see your corpse, Phaedra of Alonso. Everywhere I go, I leave behind corpses.” There were tears of fury in the girl’s eyes. “I left him behind, dying.”
Phaedra failed to hide a shudder. “Whom are you speaking of?” she dared to ask. She thought of Rafuel’s warning on the day Quintana of Charyn had entered their life. The less they knew, the better it was for them all.
“Who, if not Tariq of Lascow?” Phaedra persisted.
The princess leaned forward, pressing her lips against Phaedra’s ear. Phaedra smelled the stench of hare’s blood.
“Froi of Lumatere.”
Phaedra stumbled back into the water, stunned. She remembered the story she had heard of the rescue in the Citavita. He had swung through the air to save Quintana. The audacity of his actions had made Phaedra like Froi even more than she had the one or two times they had met on the mountain. She knew what he meant to Lucian and Tesadora, as well as Perri, the guard who shared Tesadora’s bed. Some said the queen and her consort loved the lad as if he were a brother.
And then Phaedra remembered Rafuel’s strange words: Did you mate with the last born?
“Is he the father?” she asked, horrified. “Froi of Lumatere?”
“Don’t let me have to kill you for knowing that, idiot girl,” Quintana threatened. “Don’t let me hear you speak it out loud to those parrots in the cave.”
“Then, why tell me?” Phaedra cried, getting to her feet and following the stepping stones across the stream to get as far away from the girl as possible. She couldn’t bear the idea of what the Lumateran’s death would do to those on the mountain and beyond. Worse still, it would mean true war between the two kingdoms.
When they returned to the cave, Phaedra heard the hushed fighting in an instant. They called it their prison. It was a small shrine house that from the outside looked like any other cave, much like those upstream, half concealed with shrubs and vines. But once inside, there were two chambers. The larger one was dedicated to the goddess Sagrami, a fact that unnerved them all. Sagrami was the goddess of blood and tears and was said to have cursed Lumatere. It was also further proof that despite Phaedra’s people being allowed in the valley, the earth still belonged to their Lumateran neighbors. Through a narrow walkway, the cave opened up to another, smaller chamber. It had a wind hole that gave a view of downstream, but most of the time they kept it covered with vines and shrubs to keep out the cold. No one dared sleep in the shrine room, so here they were, living in too small a space for five women who could hardly endure one another’s company.
“I can’t stand this,” Phaedra heard Ginny cry. “I didn’t ask to save Charyn. When Rafuel returns, I’m going to ask him to tell Gies that I’m alive. I don’t like being without my man.”
“From the flirting I saw the fool do with those Mont girls, I dare say he’ll cope,” Cora said in a nasty tone.
Cora loved nothing more than riling Ginny, whose only sense of worth came from having a man. Phaedra had known girls like Ginny in Alonso. The type who rarely took the side of women in an argument. They feared it would make them unpopular in the eyes of men. She remembered Ginny in the camp and realized that most of the acquaintances the girl had struck up were with the camp leaders Gies seemed drawn to.
“You’re a liar,” Ginny shouted at Cora, who was still taunting her about the Mont girls.
“And you’re one of the greatest idiots I’ve come across, and believe me when I say I’ve come across many.”
“Enough!” Phaedra said from the entrance. “Our voices will carry upstream.”
They stared over Phaedra’s shoulder at the princess.
“Tell her to stay put,” Cora said.
“You’ll have to tell her yourself, Cora,” Phaedra said firmly. “She’s not deaf to your voice, you know. Now, enough of this fighting. We have a little king to protect.”
“If you ask me, the only thing keeping her alive is that little king,” Ginny said. “That’s what my Gies would say.”
“Shut it, you idiot girl,” Cora said.
“You shut it. You’re an ugly hag. There were women in my village just like you. Hags with nothing left to offer a man.”
“Well, it’s a good thing the men in the village had you,” Cora said.
“Shut up, both of you,” Jorja hissed. “I’d crawl through those sewers one hundred times over not to have to listen to any of you.”
This was Phaedra’s life now, and she wondered what she had done to the gods for them to punish her in such a way. And in the corner, Quintana of Charyn sat staring at her, shaking her head. Phaedra recognized the look directed at her. She had seen it on the mountain before she had proven her worth. It was disappointment. You’re useless, Phaedra. Useless.
She closed her eyes and went to sleep with the sound of Florenza’s retching in her ears. And a small part of her begged the gods not to let her wake.
Froi was summoned to see the elder of the compound, Simeon of Nebia. The priest had come to visit him once when he lay injured and in pain, but Froi remembered little of that time except for the constant questions regarding Quintana’s whereabouts.
But this time Froi was well enough to visit the leader’s residence, and it was the first time he was able to study the underground galleries. They were unlike Tariq’s compound under the Citavita. Here the ceilings were high and the rooms were wide. Froi could see that they had not always been a hiding place. The archways seemed about six feet high and large enough for a pushcart to fit through them. The walls were made of limestone, and Arjuro had mentioned that the galleries were once used to quarry chalk.
They entered a long, wide corridor with a dozen or so small alcoves on either side where the collegiati slept. In each cubicle was a bedroll, a stool, and books scattered around. The passageway led to another cavern, referred to as the chamber of reflection, which was much like a small godshouse where they assembled for prayer or to find solitude. Froi watched as Arjuro stood at the wall and traced his finger against the stone, as if writing a secret message that only the
gods could decipher.
“What were you doing?” Froi asked quietly as they stepped out of the chamber onto a landing.
“That’s between me and them.”
They finally came to a vertical shaft that led down to a lower level, and it was there that Simeon lived.
“I’ve not been invited,” Arjuro said. “So speak to him as you would the Lumateran priest-king.”
“I yell at the priest-king,” Froi said. “I’ve thrown manuscripts at him when he’s forced me to read the jottings — or droppings, as I preferred to call them — of the ancients on their visit to the off lands. You do not want me speaking to the elder as I would the priest-king.”
Arjuro poked him in the shoulder.
Froi entered Simeon’s residence. It was covered from top to toe with brightly colored shards of clay tile. It was as if someone had smashed a plate to the ground, then gathered the pieces to stick on the wall. On the ceiling were the most magnificent frescoes he had seen, better even than De Lancey’s or those in the locked wing of the Lumateran palace where Isaboe’s family had been slain. Simeon the elder was shelling broad beans beside a pot of boiling water. He acknowledged Froi with a tilt of his head and beckoned him close. He pointed at Froi’s cap.
“Can you remove it?”
Simeon had a cold countenance, unlike the priest-king, and it was difficult to read his thoughts. But Froi had to respect a man who had succeeded in keeping a frightened community thriving not only after the slaughter in the oracle’s godshouse, but during the years since the curse in Charyn as well.
Froi did as he was told, then turned, knowing it was the lettering Simeon was interested in seeing.
“Just as confusing as the mark of the last-born women,” Simeon mused. “But different.”
“Can I see the markings on one of your last-born girls?” Froi asked. Because Quintana’s hadn’t made sense to him, he had never truly studied them. Now he had a chance to compare.
Simeon shook his head.
“Our last borns have hidden in these caves for eighteen years, so they were not marked when they were of age. But we’ve had visitors from outside, and I know the lettering well.”
Simeon stood and shuffled toward a bench of books piled high. He retrieved a piece of parchment and held it out for Froi to study.
“Yours has stems on the round letters. Here and here,” he said, pointing to the copy of the last-born girls’ lettering. “I have a feeling that the idiot king’s riders copied it wrong on the girls. So all these years, we’ve been trying to decipher words that don’t exist.”
“Do you think you can decipher this?” Froi said, pointing to his skull.
“Not all priests are gods’ blessed, Dafar,” Simeon said. “Did you know that?”
Froi felt strange hearing his true name spoken by the priest.
“Arjuro says the gods close their eyes and point, and that he just happened to be in their line of vision that day,” Froi said.
Simeon didn’t respond.
“Are you?” Froi asked. “Gods’ blessed?”
“No,” Simeon said. “I think I fooled myself as a younger man, but when you meet the likes of Arjuro of Abroi, you realize the difference between ordinary men and those the gods chose to lead us.”
“It’s hard to believe just by looking at Arjuro,” Froi said.
Simeon’s expression softened. “My grandson Rothen is gods’ blessed. He’s with Rafuel of Sebastabol in the Lumateran valley. We’ve not heard from them. We’re beginning to fear the worst.”
“The Lumaterans would never harm them,” Froi said.
“You don’t know that.”
Simeon was not the sort of man to fool others with false hope. “It’s not only the Lumaterans we fear, Dafar. Arjuro mentioned Zabat of Nebia’s treachery.”
Froi nodded. “But your lads keep to themselves. If they’re as cunning as Rafuel —”
“But they’re not,” Simeon said, his voice grave. “They don’t have the nature of Rafuel. Rothen is . . . a dreamer.”
“Is he a physician?”
A faint smile appeared on Simeon’s face. “No. He’s an artist.” He pointed to the walls and then the roof above them.
Froi looked at him, dumbfounded. “Those were done in our time? They look as though the ancients drew them.”
“My grandson’s work replicating the ancients’ manuscripts is humbling. I can only take responsibility for providing the seed that created his mother.”
Simeon emptied the broad beans into the water.
“But we’re not here to talk about Rothen and the lads in the valley. We’re here to talk about the two people born last in this kingdom.”
Simeon lowered his voice. “Or more important, the king and the curse breaker they may have created.”
Simeon’s knowledge of events may have had little to do with Arjuro. So Froi waited. Trevanion always said that silence from one party always resulted in information from another.
“Apart from the oracle’s godshouse, the one here in Sebastabol was the largest and the most political of all in Charyn,” Simeon said. “It sits on a cliff overlooking the vast Ocean of Skuldenore and has not been used since we heard of the attack on the godshouse and oracle in the capital. For centuries the godshouses of Charyn have sent their most brilliant scholars to the Citavita. Those men and women chronicled our lives, studied the stars, and designed the structures that have kept us in awe. The gods-house produced physicians and alchemists and nurtured genius. Always guided by an oracle sent by the gods.”
“But the oracle wasn’t sent by the gods,” Froi said bluntly. “She was taken from a goatherd’s family in the Turlan Mountains.”
Simeon looked away. “Regardless of how she was found, lad, she was still sent to us by the gods.”
“But why lie to the people about her origins?”
“Because people aren’t interested in the truth, Dafar. They’re interested in what keeps them safe. They’re interested in being looked after. They’re interested in a tale being spun. Do you know the story they tell now in Charyn about the Lumateran priest-king? That he sang his song, and from across the land, his people heard his voice and followed him home to Lumatere after ten wretched years. A better story than the truth. That he was found wallowing in a death camp with no hope.”
“He is a mighty man,” Froi said, catching his breath at the thought of the priest-king. “Don’t you forget that.”
“But mighty men have moments of great despair that common people do not want to know about.”
Simeon’s eyes were full of regret.
“The provincari, the priests, and the palace are rivals, and in the new Charyn, it is best that we do away with that rivalry. So we’re going to chronicle a different tale. The people of Charyn won’t enjoy the real one. The one Arjuro told me, anyway.”
Froi and Quintana were the real story. So were Gargarin, Lirah, and Arjuro.
“And what story is that?” Froi asked, trying hard to obey Arjuro’s command to behave.
“The story of the last-born lad who was left on our doorstep eighteen and a half years ago. Of the priests of Trist, who decided to keep the babe safe by taking him to Sarnak. Charyn is not going to enjoy the story of their failure. That the priests of Trist lost the last born — lost him for all those years — and that he was brought up on the filthy streets of the Sarnak capital. They’re going to hate the part about the king raping the oracle and that she gave birth to the princess. So we’re going to have to make up a story everyone will love, Dafar. One befitting a king.”
Froi felt the tears stinging at his eyes.
“Tell me that story, then,” he said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.
“Oh, it’s a beautiful one,” Simeon said. “In which the king’s daughter found love with the heir to the throne, Tariq of Lascow, despite having Lirah, the Serker whore, as a mother. Where he planned her rescue from the gallows and married her in their underground home. And he gave up his
life to keep the future mother of his child safe. It’s a love story, Dafar. Everyone wants to believe in one. And if we manage to keep Quintana of Charyn alive, do you know why the people will love her? Because the heir, Tariq of Lascow, loved her. The little king will mean even more to us.”
Froi turned away. “I was never one for stories,” he said, staring up at the frescoes.
“Do you want me to tell you another one?”
Froi didn’t respond. His eyes focused on the larger-than-life image of a warrior aiming a longbow on the wall of the cave. He searched the ceiling for whatever it was the marksman was aiming at. Simeon pointed to the image of a tree whose roots stretched across all corners, as if reading his thoughts. Painted on the trunk was a decree pinned with a bronze arrow. It was the same word written three times in faint gold. Hope. Hope. Hope.
“I’ve never heard that story,” Froi said softly. “About a warrior shooting messages of hope.”
Simeon smiled ruefully. “Because it doesn’t exist.” He pointed to his bedroll, which lay directly under the three words. “My grandson’s first work at the age of thirteen. He said I was a pessimist and he wanted me to stare up at it to remind me not to be. In the darkness, the gold letters are illuminated and all I can see are the words.”
Charyn needed more men like Rothen, Froi thought.
“Did you know it was Arjuro who first took you to Sarnak as a babe?” Simeon asked.
Froi was stunned to hear the words. He shook his head because he could hardly speak. There were so many secrets hidden inside Gargarin and Arjuro, and he wondered if they would all ever be revealed.
“Arjuro was a broken man on the night he escaped from the palace eighteen years ago. He said there was a darkness tainting his spirit, and he had to make something right. It was his idea that we smuggle the abandoned babe out of the kingdom. He volunteered to be the one.”