‘Are you saying he’s a foreigner?’ Lirah asked, studying Froi with confusion.
Froi didn’t respond for a moment. ‘You’re not so slow when you’re sober, Arjuro.’
‘He’s Lumateran,’ De Lancey said. ‘Who else would be training an assassin?’
Froi didn’t respond.
‘But why would Rafuel of Sebastabol go all the way to Lumatere to find an assassin when he could train one here?’ De Lancey continued. ‘I could have provided him with one or two myself.’
‘Didn’t say I was a Lumateran, and careful, Provincaro, that’s the second time you’ve mentioned the death of the King. You could be accused of treason.’
‘He can’t be a foreigner. He has Serker eyes, and a face from Abroi,’ Lirah said.
‘I disagree,’ Arjuro said. ‘In the times when nomads travelled throughout the land, a Sendecanese or Sarnak or even a Yut could be found with Serker eyes.’
Arjuro eyed Froi. ‘Your Charyn is flawless.’
‘Perhaps I’ve inherited a sharp mind from my father,’ he whispered mockingly in Arjuro’s ear. ‘Or perhaps from my uncle. Perhaps I’m gods’ touched.’
‘What else did Rafuel of Sebastabol have to say to your leaders?’ De Lancey asked.
‘Nothing,’ Froi said.
The Provincaro made a sound as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
‘It’s true. He said nothing more to my leaders. But he did make mention of something to me without my leaders knowing.’
The others waited.
‘But as part of my bond, my captain said I was not to interfere with the matters of another kingdom.’
De Lancey gave another humourless laugh.
‘They sent you to assassinate the King and that’s not interfering?’
Froi felt weary. He wanted more from Arjuro, but the Priestling was a man who had been betrayed too many times and Froi knew he would have to give a whole lot more before Arjuro spoke. Two of De Lancey’s guards appeared at the door.
‘My lord, it’s not safe for you here,’ one said, eyeing Froi.
‘Go check on Grij,’ the Provincaro said tiredly, and Froi heard the voice of a man concerned for his son. It made him hate everyone even more.
De Lancey’s attention was back on Froi.
‘Rafuel of Sebastabol made mention of … the lost lastborn of the Citavita,’ Froi said quietly.
‘A myth,’ Lirah said. ‘Used to dismiss the importance of Quintana as the lastborn.’
‘Not a myth,’ Arjuro said.
‘You can’t prove that,’ De Lancey argued.
‘I saw the lastborn of the Citavita. Held him. Do you need any further proof than that, De Lancey?’ Arjuro raged. ‘Or are we going to have a repeat of eighteen years past. Last time you refused to believe me about the King an innocent messenger was murdered.’
They all stared at Arjuro.
‘You held the lastborn?’ Lirah asked.
Arjuro nodded.
‘When I escaped from the palace after … after taking Gargarin’s identity.’
‘What?’ she gasped, stunned.
‘It was Gargarin who was imprisoned for eight years,’ Froi said. ‘Not Arjuro.’
‘I took refuge with the only people I trusted in this world. I knew where the Priests of Trist were hiding because they had found a way to send a message to me after my arrest the year before. When I arrived at the caves, they told me the strangest tale. That the night before, they had heard a sound outside and saw the figure of a young boy fleeing. And at their feet was a filthy basket that smelt of cats with a babe inside. A male. No note. Nothing. They had no idea where he came from.’
De Lancey moved away from the door, his eyes wide. Lirah placed a trembling hand to her throat.
‘That night, every Priest in the cave, whether gifted or not, woke up with the same words on their lips.’
‘That the last will make the first?’ Lirah asked.
Arjuro shook his head. ‘That if redemption was ever to be possible, a sign would appear in the palace. We had no idea what it meant. We didn’t know that at the time Charyn was cursed. All we knew was that the Oracle was dead. The Priests have always believed that even the gods were divided over this curse. That not one god has claimed it as their own.’
‘If no god claimed it as their own …’ De Lancey said.
‘Then no god could break it. Perhaps in their realm they’ve been searching for clues themselves.’ Arjuro sighed. ‘All we knew was that whoever left the lastborn with the Priests feared for the child’s life.’
He turned to Lirah. ‘Why would the palace have wanted your son dead, Lirah?’ he asked. ‘Was it because the King suspected it wasn’t his?’
Lirah made a sound of annoyance. ‘I was his whore and the whore of anyone he chose to share me with! Why would the King ever have thought it was his child over anyone else?’
‘Whose child was he then, Lirah?’ De Lancey asked.
‘Mine. Mine. He belonged to me,’ Lirah said. ‘What do you want me to say, De Lancey? I had no idea who the father was.’
‘Was it Gargarin’s?’ De Lancey asked again.
‘I hardly saw the babe,’ she said. ‘And even if I had, do you think I would have seen a resemblance from a newborn. “Ah yes,” ’ she mocked. ‘ “Here is the chin of the King’s favourite banker or the eyes of his favourite cousin.” ’
There was a strained silence. A reminder of what Lirah was forced to be all those years.
‘More, Arjuro,’ De Lancey said. ‘We need more.’
‘The Priests of Trist asked me that night to name the boy because I was gods’ touched and they weren’t,’ Arjuro continued. ‘A child named by one who is gods’ touched is blessed all their lives.’ Arjuro swallowed. ‘I knew this babe could not stand out in the world, so I gave him a name with no meaning, from a place with no meaning.’ Arjuro stole a look at Froi. ‘I called him Dafar of Abroi. He was smuggled into the kingdom of Sarnak where the Priestlings of Trist had a godshouse despite the Sarnak worship of the Goddess. After the random burning down of the Sarnak godshouse four years later, the boy disappeared from our lives.’
Froi’s breath was caught in his throat.
‘I am now sure that the child came from the palace and not the Citavita,’ Arjuro said.
‘A moment ago you said the Priests had no idea where he came from!’ De Lancey said. ‘Why would you change your words?’
‘Because Olivier the impostor,’ Arjuro said, pointing to Froi, ‘has just informed us that my brother claimed to have smuggled a child out of the palace. It could have only been your son, Lirah. Perhaps, without him realising, it was Gargarin’s son. You would not have known that then. But we can only guess it now. Our young impostor’s resemblance to my father is quite extraordinary.’
Arjuro’s eyes met Froi’s and Froi could hardly breathe. Lirah. Not cold Lirah who had despised him from the moment she first laid eyes on him. Not Gargarin.
Froi stumbled to his feet. ‘I’m not from this place.’
Blood sings to blood, Froi.
Lirah’s body was rocking, her expression one of horror.
‘Lirah?’ Arjuro asked. ‘Who passed your messages to Gargarin when you lived together in the palace? Who was your go-between?’
Lirah couldn’t find the words to speak.
‘Lirah!’
She shook herself out of her stupor.
‘The Sixth Advisor’s boy,’ she said quietly. She stopped, agape, and Froi watched Arjuro nod.
‘Rafuel,’ she gasped. ‘Little Rafuel with the cats.’
‘A sensitive boy,’ Arjuro said. ‘Smart, though. He was shouted down daily by his father, by everyone whose path he crossed in the palace. It’s how he befriended my brother. He reminded Gargarin of who we once were. And do you want to know something else? In the early days of my imprisonment when there was trust between my brother and I, Gargarin was my messenger to the Priests. He was the only person to have known where they were hiding. Where to keep a babe safe from the palace.’