‘Froi,’ he responded, knowing it was safe to use the name here.
‘Well, Froi. A good game is a fast game.’
The men grunted in agreement.
‘That means he’d like you to be quick in placing down your card,’ Quintana explained.
He looked at her and then laughed.
‘What would I do without you?’ he said.
Later, Froi lead her through the caves, quickening his step when he realised they were being followed. When he pushed Quintana into a crevice and turned to face whoever it was, he saw it was a woman.
‘I know who she is.’
Froi ignored her.
‘You’re a fool to have her out here,’ she said. ‘You know the most base of men will soon come for the lastborn girls and use them as whores to produce the first.’
Quintana stiffened beside Froi.
Froi tried to push her behind him again. The woman thought Quintana was a lastborn, not the Princess.
‘It’s against the law,’ Quintana said, coldly. ‘The prophecy says that only the Reginita can break the curse. Only her. Not the innocent.’
The woman clicked her tongue with regret.
‘And what happens when her royal uselessness comes of age?’ she asked. ‘I tell you, they’ll come for the lastborns.’ She turned to Froi. ‘You take care of your girl.’
‘Always,’ Froi murmured, grabbing Quintana’s hand and turning away. Suddenly they faced another, a man bigger in build than any Charynite Froi had ever seen.
‘I’ll smuggle her out of the Citavita,’ the man said fiercely. ‘What have you been waiting for?’
Froi felt Quintana take a quick breath beside him. She stepped away from Froi, but he pulled her back.
‘And who are you, Sir?’ Quintana asked.
‘I’m Perabo. The keeper of these caves.’
The man held out his hand to Quintana. ‘You know it’s safe to come with me.’
‘She knows nothing of the sort,’ Froi said, ‘and if you don’t step back, I’ll break that hand in places you didn’t think there were bones.’
Quintana stared from Froi to the man and then to Froi again, and there was sadness in her eyes.
‘It’s not my time to go, Sir,’ she said to the keeper of the caves. ‘Not yet.’
The man’s eyes bored into Froi’s.
‘There are those of us who treasure all lastborns,’ the keeper hissed. ‘If something happens to her because of you, I will feed every bone of yours that I break down your throat.’
It was late when they reached the palace entrance and this time there was no need for calling out. The drawbridge was lowered and two of the soldiers approached, dragging Froi back with them. The courtyard was illuminated by torches. Gargarin stood behind Bestiano and the rest of the advisors and riders. Dorcas’s face was swollen, either a gift from the street lords or punishment from the palace for losing the Princess. Bestiano approached and his backhand caught Froi across the face.
Gargarin pushed past the advisors and one of the riders pulled him back and Froi saw him wince in pain.
Count to ten, Froi. Your work here is yet to be done. You’ve not even seen a glimpse of the King.
‘The palace risks a war with both Sebastabol and Paladozza if anything happens to the lastborn,’ Gargarin called out, a warning in his voice.
‘What makes you think anything will happen to him?’ Bestiano said pleasantly before turning to Dorcas.
‘I think a night in the dungeon should arouse him enough to be of service to the Princess tomorrow.’
Later, on the hard cold ground of the cell, when the world seemed so still that it was as though Froi felt the heartbeat of every man and woman in Charyn, he heard the soft singing coming from the opposite tower. It wasn’t the high-pitched purity in Quintana’s voice, nor the fact that she recalled every word to a sad song she had heard only once today in the caves of the Citavita, sung in a language she had never known. It was that he knew that voice, had dreamt it over and over again in a lifetime of rot and misery, and Froi wanted to weep. For he knew he would break his bond to his queen not just with his body, but with his heart.
When he climbed through Lirah’s window that night, she was lying on her cot, reading. He was surprised that the Serker whore could read. As he watched her engrossed in the words on the page, he recognised that the manuscript she held was from Gargarin’s collection. Did that fool of a man bribe her guard to pass on the books he treasured?
‘Do you feel nothing for her?’ Froi asked, accusingly. ‘Is it why you tried to kill her?’
She stared up a moment and then turned her attention back to her reading. ‘That took you long enough to work out,’ she said coolly.
‘Do you feel nothing for her?’ he repeated.
‘I feel pity. Satisfied?’
At that moment, Froi hated her more than when Arjuro had revealed the truth of Lirah’s crime.
‘And you?’ she asked, putting the manuscript down. ‘What do you feel, Serker savage?’
Froi fought hard not to react to her words. ‘I’m just intrigued,’ he said. ‘I’m wondering what it is that you’re good at. Your skill in drowning children and attacking scholars with a dagger is poor,’ he added, cruelly.
Her smile was bitter.
‘Well, I must be good for something. The King has kept me alive for long enough.’
‘I want to know about the brothers from Abroi,’ he demanded.
‘I loathe the brothers from Abroi,’ she said coldly. ‘That’s all you need to know.’
‘No, I need to know more, Lirah.’ Froi had come to realise that somehow the clue to where the King was to be found was connected to Lirah, Gargarin or Arjuro.
His eyes were fixed on Lirah’s. Trevanion referred to this as a gnawing war, where you sit and stare at your opponent as though gnawing away at their souls. Lirah was not one to look away, but Froi could see that she wanted him to leave. So she spoke.
‘Arjuro was a Priestling. A greater deviant the godshouse has never known, but he was the only person who could twist the Oracle around his little finger. His brother Gargarin was the King’s prized protégé, cold and remote towards all except his twin and …’
She stopped. Froi waited.
‘And you?’ he asked.
Lirah ignored the question. Froi walked to the cot and grabbed the manuscript from her hands. He walked back to the window and held it outside, threateningly. He could see the rage in her eyes.
‘Talk,’ he snapped. She refused to.
Froi took a chance, and tore out a page, inwardly asking Finn and Isaboe for forgiveness. They loved words and books. They sent messengers far and wide to find manuscripts as gifts to each other.
Without waiting another moment he tossed the page out the window.
‘You dog,’ she said, with a bitter shake of her head.
‘Talk.’
She walked to him and took the manuscript, clutching it close to her body. They both knew he could take it from her in an instant, but he waited.
‘For too long the wisdom and intellect in this kingdom came from the teachings of those in the godshouses,’ she said. ‘Some believed the palace could be just as progressive and that the newly crowned King was the one to bring about the change. One of these believers, a lad who had been raised in Paladozza, travelled to the Citavita with his brother. He had the plans and drawings to prove that Charyn could be as mighty as Belegonia. He and his brother had spent years deciphering the books of the Ancients, discovering farm methods and surgical techniques that proved the brothers’ genius.
‘The King was impressed with the lad, but he also wanted the gods’ touched Priestling brother to serve him because he already had a reputation for being the best physician the Citavita had seen. But despite the wealth the King promised, the Priestling was not interested in being solely in his service. More importantly, the Oracle of the godshouse was not going to hand over her most gifted Priestling to the palace.’