Sometimes the scribe would stop a moment to throw up over the balconette before calmly returning to his task. ‘Cyril of Nebia, would you say? No, no, Chabon of Sebastabol.’
When there was little to be seen in the darkness, they returned inside and spent the rest of the night crowded in the Hall of Illumination with hundreds of others.
‘Are we safe here, De Lancey?’ a woman asked.
Froi looked up to study the boy who had grown up alongside Arjuro and Gargarin. The lover who had betrayed Arjuro. A more unlikely pair Froi could never imagine in his life. Even under the dramatic circumstances, De Lancey was all perfection and charm, his skin bronzed, his garments tailored to perfection, while Arjuro’s stark white skin contrasted with his dark torn hair and beard. The black robe that covered him from neck to ankle was grubby and shapeless.
‘Best that you ask that question of the Priestling,’ the Provincaro replied in his smooth voice, pretending to study something nonexistent on the wall, as though it was the most natural thing to do under the circumstances. Arjuro refused to respond to the woman with anything beyond a grunt. Despite his forced benevolence, most in the room seemed wary of him and kept their distance.
‘It’s best we all leave and return to our provinces,’ De Lancey said. ‘At least we are safe there with armies to protect our people.’
There was a chorus of agreement, but also dismay.
‘What about the people of the Citavita?’ a woman cried. ‘You care only for your own provinces and leave us to this carnage. Who rules Charyn when you return to the safety of your walls?’
‘And what would you have us do?’ De Lancey said calmly, but Froi heard restrained anger in his voice. ‘You’ve all seen what happens the moment a King dies and his men desert their post. The ignorant take over. Savages killing their own people. Innocent people.’
‘Those who live in the palace aren’t innocent,’ another shouted from across the room. ‘They deserve what they get.’
There was uproar at those words.
‘We were in the palace,’ De Lancey of Paladozza argued. ‘On province business. Do I deserve to die? Do the other Provincari? And do you know who else was visiting the palace? Gargarin of Abroi.’
Froi watched the feverish whispers. ‘Yes,’ De Lancey confirmed. ‘How soon we forget men who have worked for the good of Charyn.’
‘What about the Princess?’
It was Lirah’s voice. Froi had lost sight of her the moment they entered the godshouse. But here she was asking the question that no one else dared to ask. There was an uncomfortable silence and most looked away. Froi heard the words the Serker whore whispered, but Lirah seemed to care little for their scorn and curiosity.
‘With these savages, one does not negotiate with a list,’ De Lancey of Paladozza said coolly. Dismissively. ‘We speak one name. Gargarin’s. He has the trust of almost every Provincaro in this kingdom. Tariq of Lascow has stated that Gargarin is his choice as First Advisor if Tariq is ever to be crowned King.’
There was more fierce discussion, more anger.
‘Tariq knows nothing of the world. He’s been in hiding since he was fifteen.’
‘But he is the legal heir and at this moment, he’s our only King. Gargarin knows enough to guide him. Both are aligned to no province and that fact in itself will satisfy every one of us Provincari. We return home, combine our armies, march into the Citavita and place Tariq on the throne with Gargarin alongside him.’
There was approval for this suggestion, the first sign of calm.
‘And what of Quintana?’ Lirah demanded again. ‘You can’t leave her in the palace to die!’
‘Your daughter is worth nothing,’ a man called out.
‘If she had broken the curse, at least we could have forgiven her for something,’ the Provincara Orlanda of Jidia said. She was a handsome woman who had fawned over Bestiano and Gargarin the night before.
‘She’s our lastborn,’ Lirah said.
There were hisses and fury directed at Lirah.
‘Our lives have been ruined because of her,’ Orlanda spat.
‘Your spawn, Serker bitch,’ a woman Froi didn’t recognise shouted.
‘Her birth. Her lies. Her failure to break the curse,’ another joined in, advancing on Lirah.
‘If we choose between Gargarin of Abroi and the Princess, we choose Gargarin,’ the Ambassador for Sebastabol said.
Despite his anger towards her, Froi pushed through the crowd of people to Lirah, but Arjuro was there before him, grabbing her arm.
‘Come,’ he said to both of them.
From across the room Froi felt De Lancey’s eyes follow them.
‘It’s best that you keep your mouth shut, Lirah,’ Arjuro said, shoving his way through the crowd.
‘It’s best that I take my leave, Priestling,’ Lirah said coldly.
‘It’s not safe for you amongst the street pigs, Lirah,’ Froi snapped. ’Don’t be a fool.’
‘It’s no safer here,’ she said quietly as they reached the door where De Lancey of Paladozza stood, blocking Froi’s path.
‘Would you like to know who has taken refuge in this very godshouse?’ De Lancey asked Froi, smoothly.
Froi ignored him, stepping aside and following Arjuro and Lirah into the dark corridor. They stopped a moment as Arjuro lit the lamps that lined the wall. But De Lancey was on their heels, followed by four of his Guard. Froi saw a flash of fear cross Lirah’s face, heard Arjuro’s curse as the Priestling grabbed Lirah’s hand, leading her to the steps which would take them to the levels below.
‘Stop a moment,’ De Lancey ordered.
‘Remember whose place this is, De Lancey,’ Arjuro warned over his shoulder.
De Lancey reached them and gripped onto Arjuro’s robe to stop him, but the Priestling viciously pulled away, catching the Provincaro in the face with his elbow. In an instant, the four guards slammed Arjuro against the wall and Froi heard the crack of the Priestling’s head against stone.
Froi felt the pounding of blood in his brain chanting at him, replaying the events of the last day. There were too many voices and images in his head. Quintana’s face the day before. Gargarin’s instructions. Lirah’s bitter tirade as he dragged her out of the castle. Those tossed from the balconette, the King’s body, the fury of the crowd in the godshouse hall. Suddenly he grabbed De Lancey by the throat, snapping the man’s wrist and hearing his quick intake of pain. And then the four guards let go of Arjuro and charged for Froi. And in that confined space where Priestlings once prayed and studied and died, he used fists and palms, smashed heads against stone walls, broke bones, bit flesh and spat it out. ‘You’re a weapon, Froi. The best we’ve ever created,’ Trevanion had told him once. And when De Lancey’s men were writhing in pain at his feet, Froi’s blood cried for more, his breath ragged, his feet dancing around them, wanting them back on their feet. He wanted to do it again.
But Arjuro was there blocking his path. ‘Leash it,’ Arjuro hissed. ‘Leash it.’
Froi couldn’t leash it. He didn’t know how, and that knowledge made him want to weep. He tried to count. But couldn’t remember the right numbers. He hammered a savage fist to his temple over and over again until Arjuro gripped his face between his hands.
‘Take a breath.’
‘I can’t remember my bond,’ Froi whispered hoarsely.
In his head, Froi counted in Lumateran and then Sarnak, but the numbers meant nothing, led to nothing. Arjuro studied his face and then looked down to see Froi’s fingers dance with every number he tried to speak aloud.
‘Este, dortis, thirst …’ Arjuro began counting quietly in Charyn.
Froi’s heart fell. All those times, even as far back as three years ago when he first arrived in Lumatere and they gave him his bond, Froi had used the numbers of the Charyn language without even realising.
Blood sings to blood, Froi.