Those last moments outside the province of Paladozza. When Olivier betrayed them. And Quintana cried. For Froi. And he made a promise to protect her. And failed. And the sound of arrows as they flew past his ears. The way they felt when they tore into his body time and time again. Froi had never been injured before then. He remembered the time in Yutlind Sud when he had seen Finnikin lying facedown in a filthy river with an arrow in his side. Worse still, he remembered Isaboe’s despair. Is that what Quintana thought? That he was dead? Was she afraid?
“I told her to run. . . .” He shook his head. “I lost consciousness. . . .”
Gargarin muttered something and went on scribbling. Froi despised himself for every moment of his life since he made that decision to take her from the provincaro’s home in Paladozza. More than you, he wanted to shout out to Gargarin. I despise myself more than you.
When it was time to sleep, Gargarin and Lirah bunked down in a hollow that seemed large enough to protect them from both the cold and rain. Froi chose to squeeze himself under two fallen logs close by, and he watched the world outside with a misery deepened by the sleet and cold. But soon after, Lirah squeezed in beside him. With a rough hand at his chin, she began to dab at the cuts on his face with some sort of sap from a plant she had picked while they had set up camp. Froi tossed his head, pulling away, but she grabbed his face again.
“Push me away and I’ll hurt you more than that Lumateran ginger cat.”
For an instant he imagined the amusement Finnikin would find in the description until he realized that there was nothing Froi could ever say again that Finnikin would find entertaining. He felt Lirah’s stare on him the whole time as she dabbed and cleaned the wounds, and when Froi could no longer ignore her and pretend Gargarin wasn’t there, his eyes clashed with hers. He was tired and bereft without his friends, and because he ached for Quintana, he spoke the words that had choked him since he awoke in Arjuro’s cave.
“I couldn’t protect her and I’ve let down my queen and her king and . . . he”— Froi pointed in Gargarin’s direction —“he won’t even look at me.”
And this time her fingers were gentle and she pushed his cap up from his eyes.
“I’ve seen Gargarin weep twice in his life,” she said quietly. “Once when they arrested his brother for the slaughter in the godshouse, and some weeks ago when we received word in Paladozza that a lad struck by eight arrows lay dead on the northern hills. De Lancey sent his men to retrieve your body, but it was gone and we waited a week to discover the truth. That you were with the priests of Trist in the caves, saved by Arjuro.”
Froi let her clean the rest of his grazes.
“And you?” he asked. “What did you do?”
“I’ve wept enough in my life. I have no tears left.”
Not one for great sentimentality, she finished her task and shuffled out from under the logs. “I’m not giving up the comfort of a better shelter,” she said, her voice cool. “And you’d be a fool not to join us.”
He watched Lirah hold a hand over her head to protect her from the rain as she made her way back to Gargarin.
It was some time before Froi joined them. Lirah made room and sat between Froi and Gargarin and he saw her lips curve into a smile. After a while, Gargarin reached across her to pass Froi his journal. Froi took it, looking at the map.
“We’ve sent messengers to the Turlan and Lascow Mountains. She won’t go north to Satch of Desantos because of the plague,” Gargarin said. “Any ideas?”
Froi pointed east on the map. “Perhaps to the ocean. On the last night we were together at De Lancey’s in Paladozza, she told me that she had always wanted to see the ocean. She loved the stories of the sea sirens. Perhaps she’ll go searching for the safe places from the tales she loved.”
“Not much to go by,” Gargarin said. Froi watched him swallow hard. “If Quintana was dead . . . we would know of it soon enough. It’s been some time now. She has the sign of a last born on her nape and a babe in her belly. A Charynite would have to be hiding under a rock not to know that a girl fitting that description is the princess.”
“She’s not dead,” Froi said.
“How do you know that?”
Froi felt strange to say the words. “It’s as if I hear her tune . . . not the words, but the beat. I’ve always sensed it. It strums in my blood.”
They were quiet after that, except for the rustle of Gargarin removing his pelt cloak to wrap around them. Lirah tugged Froi closer and covered them all, and that night, despite the rain and cold and the cramped space of their dugout, Froi placed his head against her shoulder and slept.
Early the next morning, he left them sleeping in a bid to find anything edible. At least with the rain there’d be slugs, and that would have to do for now. He was interrupted by the faint sound of neighing, and although it could easily have been a Charynite traveling upriver, wanting to get as far from the Belegonian river crossing as possible, Froi wasn’t convinced. Finding the closest sturdy tree, he climbed quickly and looked out toward the direction of the sound.
“Sagra!”
He twisted around once, twice, three times to search in every direction, his knees almost buckling from under him. The woodlands were swarming with riders, traveling toward the center. A small army was coming from three different directions to trap their prey. Froi didn’t have to guess who they hunted. He scampered down and hit the ground, then ran toward the shelter and watched as they disappeared into the woods. The soldiers must have waited, finding a way to surround the three of them, ensuring they were too deep within the woods to escape.
“We’ve got company,” he said, reaching the shelter. Lirah and Gargarin crawled out, quickly gathering their possessions.
Froi had to think fast. If he attacked from up high, he could slow down Bestiano’s men. He only had one longbow with very few bolts, but it would be enough to get Lirah and Gargarin to safety. Although he sensed movement from south of the woods, those men moved stealthily, and he could barely make out their presence. He was better off attacking those who were visible.
“Get back into the shelter,” he ordered. “They know exactly where we are, and they’ll be pelting us with arrows in no time. When I give you the signal to take the horse and run, you do it.”
“Which direction serves us better?” Gargarin asked.
“North. Those men are sluggish. There’s perhaps nine or ten of them. I’ll have enough barbs to slow them down. Whatever you do, don’t head toward the river or cross the border. Sagra only knows what the Osterians and Belegonians have got in mind.”
Froi turned, searching for the tallest tree, but Gargarin grabbed his arm.
“You know it’s me they want. If I surrender —”
“It won’t be a surrender!” Froi said. “It’ll be a slaying. Don’t even try to fool me into believing you can bargain for your life. That army is after you, Gargarin. For a kill. You’re the only person who stands between Bestiano and the palace.”
An arrow flew into the clearing and landed close by.
“The shelter!” Froi shouted, spinning around. He found what he was looking for and began his climb up a tree close to the fallen logs where he had first taken refuge. Although an easy climb, he tried not to look down. He was high above the ground, and he knew it would be a backbreaking fall if it was to happen.
But you won’t fall, because you can climb anything, Froi. Remember the gravina.
He cursed himself for not exchanging Arjuro’s coins for more weapons. He knew he could not afford to miss, not with only eight arrows in his quiver. He had to hit his marks. He reached the top branch, and a glance on all sides told him that those from the north and east had picked up speed. He couldn’t see the men coming from the south but knew they were there. They were the ones to fear. They were perhaps Bestiano’s best-trained men.
Froi secured himself in the crook of the tree and waited . . . waited . . . needing the riders to be within his range, fighting the urge to fire a bolt
, knowing it was an arrow he could not spare. He begged himself patience, and with a steady hand, he held the bow taut. Waited. And then when those from the north were near enough for Froi to almost catch a glimpse of their faces, he took his chance and fired . . . once, twice, three times. Retreated. Waited. He quickly peered out and saw he had hit with precision, and he felt bitter satisfaction in seeing the men fall. But behind him, he heard the air whistle with arrows and prayed that Gargarin and Lirah were protected by their shelter. He retreated again, knowing he needed to clear a path for them both to the north. But when he looked in that direction, the riders were no longer there. Froi felt the hairs on his arm raise. He didn’t want to be playing cat and mouse with them now. Desperate to see where they were concealed, he crawled onto the exposed tree limb, balancing himself until it afforded him a better look. He took aim. One man went down and then another. But just as he aimed for the last, he felt the sharp nip of an arrow at his thigh, causing him to lose balance. He fought to stay straddled upright but failed and toppled off the branch, his hand shooting out to grip the branch, leaving his body hanging from just one arm.
“Froi!” Gargarin’s voice sounded far away.
“Stay in the shelter!” Froi shouted, beads of perspiration on his skin as he tried with all his might to reach the tree with his other hand. That was all he needed. Two firm handholds. He dared not look down, knowing his fall would not be broken, but his body would be. With his arm so weak, Froi couldn’t hold on for much longer. He heard the whistles of arrows as he hung like a well-marked target on a practice range, his body a beacon.
“Take the horse. Head north!” he called out, his voice straining.
He could hear shouting in return, but he was too high up to understand their response. Had Lirah and Gargarin already been taken? He felt his hand slipping and knew he didn’t want to die this way. Not from a fall. He closed his eyes and summoned the strength to hold on, but he was too weak. His body had not yet recovered, and he couldn’t save himself. And he prayed, realizing, while he hung from this tree in the kingdom of his birth, that Sagrami wasn’t just a curse to him; she was his guide as well. Not Trist or any of the gods of Charyn, but Lumatere’s mighty goddess. He prayed to her with all his might. Don’t let me die. Not now, he begged.
Why? she demanded to know.
Because I deserve to live.
A hand suddenly gripped his wrist.
He wondered if the hold came from the realms of the gods. But he didn’t care. All he knew was what the goddess was whispering to him, He’ll never let you go. How could you have ever doubted him?
“I’ve got you, Froi.”
“Finn?”
Lucian issued the order more than once as he traveled down the mountain. It was firm and spoken in a tone that was not open to discussion.
“Go. Home.”
His cousins Constance and Sandrine followed, all the same. Their brothers and fathers had refused to allow them horses, so the girls had resorted to riding on donkeys. Lucian’s peace and quiet on the mountain was all but over.
“If Tesadora has returned to her work with them, why can’t we?” Constance shouted back.
“Because it’s not your work,” he said. “It’s not our duty or our work to take care of them. It’s Charyn’s.”
“But the valley dwellers are running from Charyn,” Sandrine argued. “So why would we expect that the very kingdom they’re running from will feed them?”
Lucian didn’t have a response for that. He had a response for very little these days, despite the questions that plagued him. And the guilt. He had held a knife to his wife’s throat. His wife who had betrayed him.
What he did know for certain was that there was talk of starvation in the valley and it was his duty, not as a Lumateran but as a man, to see how the valley dwellers were faring. He watched them for a while across the stream. They looked frail, older than the last time he had seen them. Harker was working with Kasabian on the vegetable patch that was yielding very little. Harker’s movements were furious as he hacked at the earth. After all they had done to get to this valley, he had lost a wife and daughter to plague. But had he? If Phaedra was alive, it could mean the others lived as well. Cora, too. And the other girl whose name he could not remember. He crossed the stream, and within moments Constance and Sandrine were hurrying ahead toward Tesadora, who was on the rock face of one of the higher caves. He was about to follow but stopped at the sight of Rafuel sitting outside one of the lower caves with Donashe and his men.
Weeks before the supposed death of Phaedra and the women, Rafuel had been a prisoner of Lumatere. Circumstances had changed Lucian’s mind about the Charynite, and a trust had built between them. Lucian and the Queen’s Guard had agreed to send Rafuel down to the valley as a spy for both Lumatere and the Charynite priests Rafuel answered to. Men who were desperate for peace in their kingdom. Within days, Rafuel, taking the name Matteo, had established a place alongside Donashe, the leader of a group of cutthroats who had slaughtered seven unarmed supposed Charynite traitors. Donashe answered to those who had taken control of Charyn’s army, and Lucian knew that the people of the valley feared for their lives. But they had nowhere else to go, and Lucian had no way of getting rid of Donashe and his men without involving Lumatere in a war.
Since Phaedra’s “death,” Lucian had no idea who Rafuel was aligned with. All he knew was that Rafuel had been the one to remove the five women from the caves and had lied about Phaedra’s death. What else had he lied about?
Lucian wanted answers. He made his way toward the group, his eyes meeting Rafuel’s the moment the Charynite looked up. Rafuel stood, and as soon as he was close, Lucian’s fist connected with Rafuel’s face. He watched the Charynite’s head snap back as he stumbled to the ground. Suddenly the murderer Donashe was up on his feet, furious.
“It’s nothing,” Rafuel said, fighting to regain his breath, wiping blood from his mouth. “Leave it, Donashe. These Monts cannot control their emotions.”
“You are a lying traitor —”
“Lucian!” Tesadora shouted, and Lucian heard the warning in her voice as she scrambled down the rock steps followed by his cousins and Japhra. “This is my fight,” she said, pulling him away. “Japhra is one of my girls.” Tesadora gripped Lucian’s arm, her fingernails deep in his flesh. She was protecting Rafuel, making it seem as if Lucian’s fury was about Rafuel sharing a bed with a Lumateran girl.
“Is this about one of their women?” Donashe asked, laughing. He held a hand out to Rafuel, lifting him to his feet, patting him on the back.
Lucian pointed a finger at Rafuel.
“I want a word in private.”
“Perhaps our Matteo is a man much like yourself, friend,” Donashe said to Lucian. “Perhaps he enjoys pounding into women of foreign blood.”
Lucian flew at Donashe, and it took Rafuel, Tesadora, and Japhra to hold him back. Kasabian rushed toward them and stood between Lucian and the camp leader.
“We don’t pound into our women like you Charynite rapists!” Lucian shouted.
“What are you doing, lad?” Kasabian asked, trying to push him back. “Ignore him, Lucian. Come now.”
Lucian’s blood boiled, and his gaze fixed on Donashe, who had the smarts to look afraid.
“Call me friend again, and I’ll cut out your tongue,” Lucian threatened before he looked at Rafuel. “I said I want a word.”
“Go with him,” Donashe said to Rafuel, relishing the control he believed he had in the valley. Lucian gripped Rafuel and pushed him forward as they walked back toward the stream. Rafuel stumbled.
When they were at a distance, Lucian flew at the Charynite again.
“Lucian!” Tesadora shouted. “What’s gotten into you?”
“What’s gotten into me, Tesadora?” he shot back. “What’s gotten into you? Choosing that mad-bitch daughter of our enemy over our queen?”
Rafuel closed his eyes, shaking his head. “You’ve seen her?”
Luc
ian’s fist connected again, and when Rafuel was down, he pushed the Charynite’s face into the ground. Tesadora and Japhra pulled him away.
“Colluding with this traitor, Tesadora?” Lucian asked, staring down at Rafuel.
“Traitor to whom?” Rafuel hissed, pushing him. “I’m not working for you, Mont. I’m not working for him,” he added, pointing back to Donashe, who was watching. “I’m here for my people. I’m a traitor to no one.”
“Talk,” Lucian ordered. “We don’t have time, so if you have something to hide from your friends, talk to me now, Rafuel. Or that princess you have hidden may not be hiding too much longer.”
Rafuel’s eyes met Tesadora’s with regret.
“How did you find her?” he asked.
“My queen almost took a dagger to her throat,” Tesadora said. “Who is taking care of things out there, Rafuel? She’s running around like a savage.”
“Gods!” Rafuel cursed. “Who else knows?”
Lucian watched Kasabian approach.
“Not a word,” Rafuel whispered hoarsely. “Not a word, I’m begging you.” His eyes found Japhra’s. “I need to see the woman, and at least Donashe won’t question why I’m not in the camp if I’m with you, Japhra.”
“No,” Lucian said.
“Enough!” Japhra said firmly, and Lucian saw the surprise on everyone’s faces. “I answer for myself,” Japhra said. She looked at Rafuel and nodded, and he walked back toward Donashe and his men. Lucian watched them surround Rafuel, clapping him on the back. It made Lucian’s blood boil again. They were congratulating him on having a Lumateran woman.
“Do you feel no shame?” he said to Tesadora and Japhra.
“Only for you,” Tesadora said, her voice cold.
Harker was there before him.
“You’ve been a stranger to us, Mont.”
“I’ve been a stranger to myself, Harker,” he said. “What goes on here?”
Harker shook his head. “Nothing good. You’ve heard about Alonso and how they’ve stopped the grain wagons? Donashe and his pigs consume any food we do get. These people are starving, Lucian. And just up there,” Harker said, pointing to Lucian’s mountain, “your people are filling their bellies. Just up there.”