“Spit in my face and I will tear out your tongue,” Lirah threatened.
“Oh, there’s the Serker savage,” the old woman said, closing her eyes and inhaling. It was beginning to sicken Froi. “I smell those of Serker. Waiting. It’s what I can do. Smell the dead. And you have the smell of the dead on you, Lirah of Serker. Because you’ve been there among them.”
Froi felt Lirah shudder.
“Do you know what happens each year I lead our abomination to the lake of the half dead? Of course you’d know, Serker whore. You saw them yourself that time you tried to drown the child. The way the dead clambered onto the shores, screeching out their pain. They want to go home, and unless the song is sung to lead them there, they will never have peace and nor will Charyn.”
“What is she talking about?” Froi asked.
“Those slaughtered in Serker died voiceless,” Arjuro said. “Their names were left unspoken. Only the gods’ touched standing on Serker soil can sing them home to their rest.”
Froi felt Lirah tremble again. Through all her talk of Serker savages, Froi could sense Lirah grieved for her people.
The old woman inhaled again.
“I used to hear that the wild young priestlings would travel to the marshes to search for the reed of righteousness. They’d crush it, cook it over a small flame, and inhale the scent, and in the euphoria, they would see the gods.”
The woman was staring at Arjuro.
“Untrue,” the priestling said. Even inside the cave he wore the cowl and gorget, every inch of his body covered except for his face. “It was a game. We were aroused from the vapors. It’s why we brought our lovers to the marshes. What was the use of all that arousal if you couldn’t share it with the one you loved?”
“But you saw the gods?”
Arjuro refused to speak.
“A priestling once tried to explain it to me,” the soothsayer said. “She fainted from merely recalling it.”
Still Arjuro didn’t respond.
“Even without the pleasures of the flesh, Priestling, was it not beyond anything you had ever experienced?”
After a long moment, Arjuro nodded.
“When I sense the dead, it brings me the same pleasure,” she said. “The dead are my reed of righteousness, and when that girl comes into my home, the dead shake this cave with a power beyond reckoning.”
Suddenly the soothsayer took Froi’s arm, which was still clasped around Lirah. She scraped her tongue against his skin. Froi shuddered and stumbled away.
“Quintana of Charyn seeps from your pores. You’ll carry that scent for the rest of your days.”
“Come,” Arjuro said quietly to Froi and Lirah. “She’s of no use to us.”
They reached the entrance of the cave, and Froi felt the hot panting breath of the soothsayer at his neck. He felt her hand on his nape, and he spun around and shoved her against the unevenness of the rock.
“Touch me again and I will kill you,” he said.
Her breath smelled foul. As if something had died inside her mouth.
“Nine months before the births,” she said, “the king dreamed that two children would be born to the palace and that the one born first would end his reign. The boy child was born first and was tossed into the gravina along with the oracle.”
When the soothsayer spoke, there was a whistle to her speech.
“But he made the wrong choice.” She looked at Lirah. “The second born, the fruit of his own loins, was an abomination. Every one in the palace was frightened of her, running around on all fours like she was some kind of animal. Was she not a savage, Lirah of Serker?”
Lirah looked away.
The soothsayer nodded. “Oh, yes, she was. But everything changed when you decided to dispose of her.”
“It was for mercy, you wretch. She begged me.”
“And what kind of mercy did she get, Lirah of Serker? Was the little beast who died in your arms the same girl who returned?”
Froi turned, saw the flash of anguish on Lirah’s face.
“Her mind came back in pieces,” Lirah said.
“Because part of her has no aura,” the old woman continued. “Quintana of Charyn returned with the other. A lost spirit collected at the lake of the half dead.”
The soothsayer’s mouth formed a malevolent smile. “And once they hang that girl, the dead get back their own.”
The three of them pushed their way through the crowd camped outside the godshouse entrance. Inside, the number of those taking refuge had tripled, and everywhere he turned, Froi saw sleeping bodies on the stairwell or in any corner they could find. So far the street lords hadn’t dared to enter the sacred space, but Froi knew the type well. The godshouse would not be spared.
He followed Lirah and Arjuro beyond the level that housed the Hall of Illumination and onto the rooftop, where Froi was surprised to see a garden. Lirah looked over to where her palace prison tower could be seen. How many times had these two former enemies caught sight of each other tending to their gardens?
No one spoke for a while. The scene with the soothsayer had unnerved them all, and there were too many unanswered questions.
Arjuro began yanking out his plants, placing those with roots inside a glass bottle, preserving the seeds. Froi recognized a white plant from the priest-king’s garden. The yarrow plant was a physician’s best friend, according to the priest-king. Zabat had spoken of Arjuro being a physician once, and the herbs and saplings in his garden would have been the tools of Arjuro’s trade.
Froi sat beside Lirah. They studied each other, her beautiful eyes confused and full of disbelief, as though wondering how someone as plain as Froi could have come from her loins and Gargarin’s seed. He reached over and took her hand, placing a bag of coins in her palm.
“Get out of the Citavita, Lirah,” he said quietly. “They’ve got nothing else to loot, and they’ll come here next.”
“Where did you get this?” she asked, her voice husky.
“Where do you think? I’m a thief.”
She pushed the bag back into his hands. “Then use it to return home, wherever that is. I’m a whore, so I think I can find my own means out.”
Arjuro stood, sighing. “When you’re both finished trying to frighten each other away with the sordidness of your pasts, can you help me, please?”
Froi and Lirah collected the baskets of bottles and seedlings and followed Arjuro inside.
“Have you heard anything?” Froi asked over their shoulders as he stooped down into the low stairwell.
“Good news or bad news?” Arjuro asked.
“Bad.”
“De Lancey has lost contact with the street pigs.”
“Good news.”
“They’ve not returned a corpse,” Arjuro said flatly.
Arjuro stopped and waited for Lirah to be out of earshot. They watched her disappear into the Hall of Illumination.
“The scribe has accounted for almost everyone,” Arjuro said. “They’re down to the last few.”
“Is there anything … ?”
Arjuro shook his head. “None of the provincari will risk their lives or their men’s lives on her. Even if one or two were willing, they’d be outnumbered. The street pigs have control of the whole Citavita.”
“She’s their princess,” Froi said angrily.
“But not their heir, Froi. At least if she were the curse breaker, she would hold some power, but she’s worth nothing. The provincari need to secure the kingdom. The only way to do that is to place Tariq of Lascow on the throne.”
Froi bristled to hear the words. Too many lives worth nothing.
“You may as well toss yourself into the gravina now if you’re fool enough to try to save her,” Arjuro said.
“I wasn’t sent here to save her,” he said quietly. “It’s not part of my bond.”
For the rest of the week, he stood alongside Arjuro and Lirah to watch the hangings. When they were certain that Gargarin and Quintana remained alive for one d
ay more, all three would walk back up to the godshouse, where talk of the street lords entering the sacred space would send those taking refuge into a frenzy. The streets became even more crowded, with most Citavitans now desperate to escape the violence that was rife. Looting had begun. A potter had been killed trying to protect his stall. A stampede at the bridge caused the death of seven others. It was each man or woman out for his or herself.
At the end of the week, it was Aunt Mawfa’s turn, and her hanging was hideous beyond imagining. Froi thought of the men he had killed in Lumatere. If he was grateful for anything, it was that most times, he did not see their fear. But here in the Citavita, fear made people beg. Fear was piss running down the legs of those who once stood pompous and proud. Fear was a blood-curdling cry that rang through one’s ears for days to come. All he would ever remember about Lady Mawfa’s hanging were her little plump legs dangling and how, out of all the deaths, it would have been the one to make Quintana weep.
But he returned day after day, waiting for her to appear. She is worth nothing, Arjuro had said. If Froi understood anything, it was that in this world one’s worth came from others. He had no worth until he crossed the path of the novice Evanjalin and Finnikin. So he found himself writing his own bond to Quintana of Charyn. Her worth would come from him and Lirah and the idiot last borns. She would not die alone. That would be his bond to her.
And then the day they were dreading came, when there was no one to account for but Quintana and Gargarin. When the street lords dragged them out, Froi had a moment’s foolish thought that perhaps he could rescue them, but he was unarmed and there were too many desperate Charynites surrounding him, begging for more blood. He reminded himself, as he had every day since the death of the king, that he had not been sent to this kingdom to rescue a princess. He had been sent to wipe out the royal seed of Charyn, but there had been too many men in this kingdom ready to do that for him.
He was barely able to recognize Quintana, with her bloodstained ugly dress, her filthy face, hair in knots. The crowd cried out for blood. Hers. Froi prayed to whoever was listening that Quintana the ice maiden would be in her head this day. But he knew in an instant it was Princess Indignant. It was the way she wept and fell on her knees, begging, crying out the words, “I carry the first! I carry the first!” until the street pigs dragged her to her feet by her hair.
Gargarin was trussed, and it had been a savage beating he had received this past week. But Froi knew that Gargarin would be released. De Lancey had paid half the amount of gold only and the street pigs would get the other half when Gargarin was safe. Today, it would be Quintana’s day to die.
Without his staff, Gargarin collapsed on the raised floor above them for the umpteenth time. Froi heard Arjuro’s broken whisper, “Stay down, my brother. Stay down,” and Froi wanted to reach out to him in some sort of comfort. He had realized many times in the past weeks that if anything, Arjuro of Abroi was blood. Without thinking, Froi pushed through the crowd until he was at the platform, his head level with Gargarin, who lay facedown, blood pouring from his nose.
“Are you finished with him?” Froi asked the street lords. The man guarding Gargarin kicked him off the platform viciously and he fell at Froi’s feet. In an instant, De Lancey and his guard were there, half carrying Gargarin away.
“Do something,” Froi begged the provincaro. “Do something for her.”
“We’ve been promised the road out of here, lad,” De Lancey whispered. “The best I can do is leave and raise an army to take back the Citavita.”
Froi watched two of the street lords drag Quintana to the raised block, and oh, how she fought. To the very last moment she fought, and when the hangman placed the noose around her neck, Froi knew it was Lirah who cried out in a way that tore at him. Froi finally understood what she had tried to do so long ago, in that tub of water. She had tried to take this wretched creature to a better place. To prevent this moment of horror.
And then a bellowing cry rang out. A war cry? Froi swung around, searching for anything. Any sign. He thought he saw something, but couldn’t quite believe it. The last borns? Three of the most useless fighters in existence. He had seen Trevanion teach Vestie of the Flatlands to use a bow, and even she could hit a target, despite the distance. One of them, Grijio of Paladozza perhaps, fell out of a branch overlooking the platform. In the crowd, Olivier of Sebastabol bellowed yet another war cry, while Satch of Desantos tried to jab at the legs of the street lords on the podium.
Arrows went flying in the wrong direction. The idiot, Olivier, was attempting to shoot a mark toward the noose, but he hit the palace wall in the distance instead. From where Froi was trying to get a better look, it seemed as though they were attacking each other. The people of the Citavita began to laugh. Despite the failure of the situation, the street lords reacted, leaping from the podium and shoving their way through the crowd after Satch, who was closest.
And suddenly, in all the absurdity, Froi forgot the orders from his queen. Forgot everything he had been told was right or wrong. Forgot any type of reason. Perri the Savage once told him that moments of opportunity were pure luck; the priest-king claimed that it was the gods sending messages. But both agreed that you took them without question. Whatever it was today, Froi didn’t ask, and he took his chance and bolted for the tree that Grijio was attempting to climb, while one of the street lord’s gripped his ankle. Froi knocked the street lord’s head against the branch, before shoving him away. He scampered up the tree. “Follow,” he ordered Grijio. With the last born at his heels, Froi straddled the top branch, grabbing the bow from Grijio’s hand. Down in the crowd, he could see Olivier of Paladozza stare up to where he and Grijio sat.
“Bolt,” Froi ordered, and Grijio slapped one against his palm, and Froi took aim and fired. “Bolt!” he ordered again.
“Bolt!”
“Bolt!”
“Bolt!”
Froi shot five bolts in quick succession at his targets on the podium. But despite four street lords writhing with pain on the raised platform, the hangman kicked the block from under Quintana’s feet and her body began to swing, her hands grabbing at the rope around her neck. Froi cried out, a roar of anguish that came from a place within that he had never acknowledged.
“Olivier!” he bellowed down to the last born in the crowd. “Sword!” Froi leaped from the branch, and flying through the air, he grabbed Quintana’s body. As they both swung over the crowd, he reached out to where Olivier held the sword high above his head and Froi grabbed it, stretching the sword in an upward swing to slice at the rope holding Quintana’s noose. A moment later, they crashed down into those standing below.
Satch was there before them, pulling both Froi and Quintana to their feet. “Run,” he shouted. “R-r-run.”
The stuttering last born led, and Froi followed, gripping Quintana’s hand, dragging her at times when it seemed she had nothing left inside of her. Grijio caught up as arrows flew past them. The four of them ran through one of the cave houses, climbed up onto a roof, and then crossed the Citavita, leaping from one flat cave to another. Froi had no idea where they were heading, but despite the last borns’ inability to fight like warriors, these lads seemed to have purpose. So Froi followed.
Suddenly a hand flew up beneath his feet and Froi was yanked down into a hole through the roof of one of the caves. He crashed down onto the ground of the house alongside Satch. Within seconds, Quintana tumbled in behind them. A moment later, Grijio fell through.
“Quiet,” someone whispered, and Froi realized that their breathing was coming out in sobs. He closed his eyes to regain his breath, and when he opened them, he could only see the bottom half of whoever had dragged them into the room. The rest of the man was peering up through the hole in the roof.
“Have y-y-you lost th-th-them?” Satch asked.
The trapdoor was secured in place, and the room was dark. A candle was held toward them and Froi found himself face-to-face with the keeper of the caves.
/> “Follow,” Perabo ordered.
Froi was surprised to see an underground river in the bowels of the city. Perabo led them to one of two small rafts and helped Quintana step onto the first. He then placed a hand on Froi, but it was no hand of assistance. The grip tightened until Froi felt pain. “Did I not tell you to get her out of Charyn?” the man snarled.
“He’s n-not Olivier,” Satch said.
“He would have known nothing of Tariq’s plan to take her out of the Citavita,” Grijio added.
“Then who is he?” the keeper asked.
Grijio hesitated in replying. “He’s a foreigner. We don’t know what his name is.”
“Froi,” they heard a hoarse voice say behind them.
Froi stumbled toward Quintana, realizing with horror that part of the noose was still around her neck. He removed it, and in the dim light, he could see that her throat was burned from the rope. She was shivering, and he took off his coat and placed it around her.
Perabo gave Froi the oar. “Listen to my instructions. You follow this river until it branches into two. Steer the raft left and travel awhile. When you come to a bend, they will hear you. So wait for two sounds of a rock against rock. Five beats apart. In return, you tap your oar on the roof of the cave. Three taps. Five beats apart. You ask for Tariq of Lascow, heir to the throne of Charyn. You tell them Perabo sent you.”
Froi gripped Quintana as the raft swayed from side to side. He looked up at the lads standing beside Perabo. “You’d be safer with us,” he said.
“We n-n-need to get back and see if Olivier escaped.”
Froi scowled. “You don’t have to be nervous, Satch. I’m not going to hurt you!”
He saw a flash of irritation on the last born’s face.
“It’s a st-st-stutter, idiot. N-n-not fear.”
It was a strange path to the hidden compound of Lascow. The roof of the cave was little more than a handspan above their heads, the sides of the raft at times scraping against the wall until Froi was forced to lay the oars aside and push his way down the cave river. There was nothing to be heard, except for the lapping of the water and Quintana’s rasping. When they reached a section where the river’s current seemed to carry the raft along, Froi stumbled to where Quintana was. He sat down and gathered her in his arms. “Shhh,” he whispered. “You’re safe. I promise you.”