Before Froi on the bridge were the last of those who had decided to leave the capital, including Gargarin and Arjuro. Arjuro kept a distance between himself and his brother, and Froi easily caught up with the Priestling.
‘Where will you go?’ he asked Arjuro quietly. Gargarin had made it abundantly clear that he was going to join De Lancey in Paladozza and that Arjuro and Froi were not invited.
‘Osteria is said to be beautiful at this time of the year.’
Froi knew the Priestling was lying.
The bridge ended and the crowd travelled north on the road that ran alongside the edge of the gravina. Most of the day the people were silent, and Froi knew their bodies were hunched under the weight of knowing that they were leaving their home and had nowhere to go. He couldn’t help turning to look back, time and time again, until the rock of the Citavita was a blur.
They reached the three roads that crossed in Upper Charyn, and most took the path east to Sebastabol or Paladozza. A handful continued on the road north that would lead them to the provinces of Jidia or Desantos. Froi’s path was back down the wall of the gravina to collect his weapons.
When the last of the Citavitans had disappeared, Froi still waited with Gargarin and Arjuro. Perhaps a part of him was waiting for something more.
But Gargarin’s stare was cold. ‘You deserve all the calamities of this world and the next if you ever return to this cesspit of a kingdom,’ he said, before leaving in the direction of the crowd and not looking back once.
‘Thank you for your time,’ Froi shouted after him. ‘It’s put to rest some idiotic romantic notions!’
Gargarin didn’t stop, nor did he turn around.
‘Bastard!’ Froi shouted. ‘Curse the day you were both born,’ he shouted at Arjuro as well.
‘Someone’s already beaten you to that one, whelp,’ the Priestling said, taking the road south.
He was going home. Home, he thought for the tenth time that day, travelling down the mountain of rock. Home, where foreign blood had become family to Froi and where men were strong and virile, not all twisted and broken without a clue of how to defend themselves, or reeking of ale or wine or whatever it was that helped Arjuro endure a day. Home, where no one judged him. Not even the Queen, who had every reason in the world to judge him. Lumatere was everything Froi wanted to be, whilst Charyn was a reminder of everything he despised about himself. That unwanted pathetic street urchin who had begged for food, the surly boy who had sung his song for the rich street pigs of Sarnak and allowed himself to endure so much depravity just to survive. Weak boy. Stupid, useless boy. Froi wanted to kill that boy he had been. If not for Lumatere, he would be nothing and have no one.
Except it was only when Froi had come to Charyn that he realised there had been nights in Lumatere when he felt loneliness beyond imagining. Not once had he felt its intensity here in Charyn. Because you were busy in Charyn. You had too much to do. But he knew he was fooling himself. And now, under this full moon, on his way back to his beloved home, Froi felt the ache of loneliness return. But he fought back the feeling, making plans for the morning instead. He would retrieve his weapons and then he’d travel to the province of Jidia and pick up a horse. He’d ride two days, he told himself, not even stopping for rest. The sooner he returned to Lumatere, the better for him. He knew the excitement would return the moment he left the outer region of Alonso. There, Lucian’s mountains would appear in the distance and Froi would understand what it meant to be home.
After a moment or two of lying down and staring at the stars, he allowed thoughts of Quintana to enter his head. No matter how hard he tried to fight it, she seemed to be there all the time. Usually, she was asking a question of him in her indignant tone. Sometimes he would feel her cold stare of annoyance. Other times the savage would growl low in his ear, a sound from a place so primitive that it thrilled him each time.
He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but then he heard a sound. Not just of the nocturnal world, but something human. A humming. He had seen the last of those from the Citavita head east and knew it couldn’t possibly be any of them. Twigs crackled and he stood listening before following the sound, and then his nose. The strong smell of roasting meat – a gamey smell, hare perhaps – permeated the air.
Up ahead was a small incline off the main path. Froi climbed towards it. He heard a soft song being sung, a prayer-like warble so beautiful in pitch that it made him stop a moment. For, despite all the horror he had endured on the streets of the Sarnak capital because he knew how to carry a tune, the sound of this song made him want to weep from the pure beauty of it. He climbed further up and looked over the incline into a cave where he saw the figure of a man hunched over the small fire.
Arjuro.
‘I was told that the Osterian border lay south,’ Froi called out.
Arjuro’s body jerked in surprise, but after a moment the Priestling went back to stoking the fire, not even bothering to turn.
‘This is south,’ Arjuro said, pointing to where he sat. ‘South of that cave. South of that rock.’
‘You’re a fool not to have gone, Arjuro.’
‘Then come and join me, Abroi’s youngest fool.’
Froi couldn’t help smiling.
He sat before the fire and Arjuro held out a morsel. Not hare, but some kind of rodent.
‘I heard Gargarin tell you to pack some food,’ Froi said, trying to keep Gargarin’s reprimanding tone out of his voice.
Arjuro feigned a moment’s thought, his fingers at his chin for emphasis. ‘Hmm, what was I doing when he told me that? Ah yes, I think I was too busy ignoring him.’
Perhaps Froi’s strangest sadness this day was that the brothers weren’t travelling together.
‘What are you doing here, Arjuro? You can’t stay hidden at the bottom of the gravina. There’s nothing here.’
‘Just the way I prefer it,’ Arjuro said. ‘This last month of sharing everyone’s breathing space and stench has driven me quite mad.’
Froi saw the truth on Arjuro’s face. He had no place to go. Suddenly he was overwhelmed by fierce emotion for this bitter man. Blood sings to blood. Rafuel’s words were never so true.
There was silence for a time as they ate, the fire illuminating the remoteness out here in a world that seemed forsaken by all. Froi found himself clearing his throat.
‘Well… I have connections,’ he said. ‘In Lumatere.’
‘And you’re telling me this, why?’ Arjuro asked.
Froi felt foolish, but he spoke the words anyway. ‘I can take you home with me. The Queen may grant you sanctuary because you’re the last of the Priestlings. I heard them say it once. That the first people they’d allow into Lumatere were those who were the last of their kind.’
Arjuro studied him in the flickering firelight and Froi had to look away. It was all too intense for him. It wasn’t like the moments of disappointment and reprimand or approval from Trevanion and Perri. They kept emotion out of their stares. Arjuro didn’t.