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In the mountains, Lucian stumbled to his empty cottage, his body weighed by the weariness of leading a people who had little respect for him. He wondered what his father would do, if he lived. A fair man, Saro was, who had tried to teach Lucian to see the worth in every man and woman, regardless of whether they were the enemy. But Lucian was not his father and deep inside of him a desire burnt bright each night. A desire to steal away down the mountain and cut the throats of every Charynite who slept in the valley. Including that of the wife he sent back.

Part Two

The Reginita

Chapter 6

Lumatere had always been a feast for Froi’s eyes. Even during the years of little rain, it was a contrast of lush green grass and thick rich silt, carpeting the Flatlands and the river villages. But Charyn was a kingdom of rock and very little beauty. Here, the terrain was a rough path of dirt, pocketed with caves and hills of stone. Sometimes the dry landscape was peppered with wild flowers or the mountains of rock were shaped like the ghouls and spirits painted in the Book of the Ancients Froi had seen in the Priestking’s cottage. Wind holes had been carved out of the caves and from afar they resembled the dug-out sockets of eyes.

Rafuel and the Priestking had instructed Froi that most of the Charynites had migrated to the kingdom from all corners of Skuldenore. The only original inhabitants had been the Serkers, who had now disappeared, although stories existed of underground cities where Serkers and other nomads were in hiding from the King and plotting their revenge.

Stone, stone, rock, stone and more stone.

Froi met his guide outside the province walls of Alonso, the birthplace of the wife Lucian had sent back. It was a province bursting with unwanted newcomers, a place on the brink of war within its walls. These days it accommodated its desperate neighbours from the smaller provinces all but wiped out by plague and drought. Froi suspected that the Provincaro’s marriage of his daughter to Lucian had little to do with a promise between two men and more to do with a need to make use of the Lumateran valley.

Apart from the capital, which was known as the Citavita, there were six provinces left in Charyn, each one of them large, powerful and containing the most fertile land in the kingdom. There were also a handful of mountain tribes or nomads who kept very much to themselves. Rafuel had explained that if a clan chose to stay outside the major walls of a larger province, there was always the threat of the palace riders collecting their young men to be part of the King’s army or taking their lastborn girls. At least in the provinces, people were protected by the Provincari who still had power against the King. The palace’s greatest fear was that the Provincari would unite their armies against the King, but after the annihilation of Serker, no Provincaro was willing to take that chance.

The guide’s name was Zabat from the province of Nebia, east of the capital. He spent much of his time not looking Froi in the eye, which was never a good sign.

‘You have a strange name,’ Froi said, as he changed clothing and became Olivier of Sebastabol. The trousers were uncomfortable, tighter than he was used to wearing, the doublet jacket worse. But he liked his buskins and he fastened the laces up to his knees, relieved that there was at least one article of clothing that didn’t make him feel a fool.

‘Strange in what way?’ Zabat demanded.

‘Different from Rafuel and even the Princess Quintana.’

‘Those of us from Nebia hail from the kingdom of Sorel. Hundreds of years ago, mind you. You’d think everyone would get over that fact, wouldn’t you? We have as much right to Charyn as anyone else.’

‘And who says you don’t?’ Froi asked.

‘Those from the province of Paladozza,’ the guide said, seemingly on the defensive. ‘And anyone from the Citavita. They all came from the kingdom of Sendecane during the time of the Ancients. Just like most of the Lumateran Forest Dwellers and those from the Rock.’

‘Charynites and Lumaterans don’t hail from the same place,’ Froi scoffed.

‘Do you have women named Evestalina? Bartolina? Celestina? Men named Raffio?’

Froi didn’t reply.

‘All from the same place,’ Zabat stated flatly. ‘Nothing changes. Names stay the same. So do traits.’

The time Froi enjoyed best was when the terrain was flat enough for a gallop. It meant he didn’t have to listen to Zabat’s voice drone on and on.

‘ … and really, who put Rafuel in charge, I ask? Does he look like a warrior to you …’

Or when they came across a herd of mountain goats and their bleating drowned out Zabat’s voice. But all too soon it would begin again.

‘ … did he say I was a Priestling? Doubt that. What? Do you think they’re better than the rest of us because they’re gods’ touched? Gods’ touched.’ Zabat made a rude sound. ‘It’s all I’ve heard my whole life. The gods’ touched or the lastborns. There’s always someone more special than us ordinary folk.’

Apart from such distractions, there was little around Froi to take his attention away from Zabat’s complaining. The world outside the provinces was nothing more than brown tufts of grass and stone. Miles upon miles of land had been either overgrazed or was too far from water to carve out a living. Suddenly he could understand the overcrowded Alonso and the desire for Charynites to keep inside the province’s walls.

‘ … and if you ask me …’

No, Froi didn’t ask him.

‘ … the Serkers were the worst,’ Zabat continued. ‘Their people built the first library, as well as the largest amphitheatres in Charyn, so weren’t they the greatest in the land in their own eyes? I say it’s a good thing that Serker is now in ruins.’

Later, Froi dared ask what the shapes in the far distance were. A mistake.

‘The Province of Jidia,’ Zabat replied, as they began to travel down a ridge that would lead them to yet another mountain of stone.

‘ … because really, who cares if the Jidians built the first road to the Citavita? Do we have to hear about it for the rest of our lives?’

Froi bit his tongue to stop himself from speaking. Two days with Zabat had taken its toll. Worse still, their trail into the base of the ravine would soon disappear, and they would have to leave their horses behind. On foot, Zabat’s voice was closer to his ear, so Froi practised an internal chant taught to him by the Priestking.

‘Some people say they see the gods when they perfect this chant,’ the blessed Barakah once told him. Froi would be grateful enough if the gods chose not to visit, but managed to have Zabat’s tongue ripped out and fed to the hounds that guarded their realm instead.

When they reached a wall of rock that seemed to go as far as the eye could see, they tethered the horses to be collected on Zabat’s return. Froi followed Zabat into a tunnel through the stone, so narrow that he felt the breath robbed from him. That thousands upon thousands of years ago someone had cut their way through this rock seemed unfathomable to Froi. On the other side he found himself following Zabat into a gorge with a steady stream of water pouring down from the mountain of rock high above. Where they stood, trees and reeds grew along the bank, but surrounding them on both sides loomed granite walls, blocking the light from the sun.

‘The base of the gravina,’ Zabat explained.

Froi peered ahead of him to see how far he could see downstream. Zabat tapped him on the arm and then pointed up.

‘The Citavita is up that way.’

‘You expect me to climb that?’

‘Further downstream you will still have to travel up, and the path is even more treacherous. It’s not as bad as it looks.’