‘Well, firstly, I’m not quite the last of my kind,’ Arjuro said. ‘There are many hidden Priests and Priestesses in Charyn, mostly in the mountains outside Sebastabol. Secondly, you can’t take me home as though I’m some kind of puppy, and thirdly, I’d rather live on rodents for the rest of my life than live in Lumatere.’
‘Well that’s rude,’ Froi said. ‘I’ll not offer again. And I meant that you’re the last of the Priestlings, not Priests.’
‘Another irritating fact,’ Arjuro said. ‘I’ll be forty-three in the spring. Do you know how demoralising it is to still be called a Priestling?’
Froi tried not to smile, but couldn’t help himself. There was silence again, but he was getting used to it. Back in Lumatere, Froi was the instigator of silence. Here he was the one who always seemed to end it.
‘The song you were singing? What was it?’
Arjuro looked up again, his expression sombre.
‘It’s the song of the dead. If it’s sung by the gods’ touched, sometimes the soul of one who is lost may be able to return home.’
‘Home?’
‘Wherever they came from. When a Charynite dies, their people call their name out loud for the gods to hear and then the gods allow the souls to enter a sphere within the city or province. So the living and dead live side by side. But if their names are not called out loud, the gods have no idea where they are and the souls are lost.’
‘That’s what the soothsayer said,’ Froi said. ‘About the ghosts of Serker.’
Arjuro nodded. ‘Their names were never called out. They never will be, because too many of them died and no one has a record of all the names. Serker was razed to the ground.’
‘Who were you singing to?’
‘I can feel restless spirits in these parts.’
Arjuro began to sing the song of the dead again and his voice was so deep and pure that Froi could imagine the beauty of him as a young Priestling, charming the world, loved by the handsome De Lancey, spoiled by the Oracle, adored by his brother. In his song he sang names that sounded strangely familiar, and when Froi heard the name Mawfa, he knew that the Priestling had memorised every one of those tossed from the palace balconette or hanged at the gale.
‘Can you not sing for Tariq?’ Froi asked quietly, after the song was sung.
Arjuro shook his head. ‘Tariq belongs to Lascow. He doesn’t want to be kept in the Citavita. He wants to return to his mountains.’
Froi shivered at the thought that if he was to die and they called out his name, he would have no idea where his spirit would belong.
‘What is your plan, Arjuro?’ he asked. ‘The truth this time.’
Arjuro shrugged. ‘First I’ll find out what that fool brother of mine is up to and then I’ll probably head to the Sebastabol Mountains.’
Froi was confused, but that was nothing new when it came to Arjuro.
‘What’s Gargarin got to do with anything now?’ he asked, trying to keep the curiosity out of his voice.
‘Do you honestly believe he’s gone to Paladozza?’
Froi nodded, surprised by the words.
‘Despite our years apart, I can pick my brother’s lies in an instant.’
‘Then where is he?’ Froi asked.
‘Is that excitement I hear in your voice?’
‘No,’ Froi snapped, but his heart was beating hard. ‘Go on.’
‘Very rude to speak with your mouth full.’
‘Hmm, pity my family weren’t around to sit me down and teach me how to behave proper.’
Something flashed in Arjuro’s eyes. He reached into his pack and retrieved a bottle, holding it up in the light from the fire.
‘Mead, not wine, but it will have to do.’
Arjuro took a swig and handed the bottle to Froi.
‘Where is he?’ Froi asked quietly, despising himself for wanting to know.
‘He could still be struggling down this gravina,’ Arjuro said. ‘I travelled after you and didn’t come across him. He probably stayed a while in Upper Charyn, deliberating. He likes to deliberate, my brother does. When we were boys he’d spend hours and days deliberating about whether it was safe to escape from my father.’
A rare flash of pain crossed Arjuro’s face at the memory.
‘And in the palace prison I can assure you he deliberated for eight years.’
Arjuro’s eyes met Froi’s. ‘As we speak, he’ll be deliberating about whether he should have explained that he ordered his son home to Lumatere because he wanted him safe, or whether his son will despise him for the rest of his days if the words remained unspoken.’
His son. Froi had never been anyone’s son, although at times he had sensed a father in Perri. Even Lord August, after a good day’s work, would gather his sons and Froi together in thanks. Something inside Froi’s gut twisted at Arjuro’s words. Oh you fool, Froi. You’ve always wanted to be someone’s son.
Arjuro smiled sadly. ’He’s probably wondering about whether it’s better to trust his instincts.’
‘What do you think his instincts are telling him?’
Arjuro shrugged. ‘Does it matter? I’m going to follow his example, Dafar.’
Froi shuddered at the sound of that name.
‘I’m going to tell you to go home to Lumatere and not look back,’ Arjuro said gently.
Froi held a hand out for the bottle, took another swig. ‘I’ve only come this way for my weapons.’
‘Good.’
Froi nodded, handing the bottle back to the Priestling. ‘But do you want to hear what my instincts are telling me right now?’ He didn’t wait for Arjuro’s response. ‘My instincts tell me that Lirah took Quintana to the only place that has ever been safe to her and that Gargarin is searching for them. He needs absolution. That’s what I’ve discovered about him these past few weeks. You see, Gargarin returned to the Citavita to tell you and Lirah the truth and then to kill the King. He failed at all three.’
Froi’s instincts were good. He could tell. Arjuro stopped, mid-swig.
‘He’s heading towards the cave you both claim as yours,’ Froi continued, almost cheerfully. He liked being right. ‘The one where you hid the Oracle and where I first saw Gargarin’s scowling face. Where he took Lirah and you took De Lancey once upon a time when life was joyful.’
Arjuro gave nothing away.
Froi continued. ‘Lirah mentioned the cave. You mentioned it. In between getting his bones broken and being imprisoned, Gargarin mopes in the cave. De Lancey fantasises about the cave.’ Froi shook his head, mockingly. ‘If those frescoes could talk, they would blush from what they’ve seen the brothers of Abroi get up to in that cave.’
Arjuro was silent, but after a moment Froi saw his mouth twitch.
‘Still shocks me that you’re not as stupid as you look, runt.’ Rain fell throughout the night making their journey down the gravina even more difficult than when Froi had climbed it weeks before with Gargarin. Arjuro cursed and grumbled for most of the time and if Froi didn’t know every Charynite curse word when he set out that day, his companion had introduced him to most by late afternoon.
When rain came pelting down again they crawled into the closest cave, its ceiling too low to stand. Arjuro sat for most of the night at the entrance of the tiny space, brooding.
‘My brother’s an idiot,’ he said, refusing to lie down. ‘He’s probably dead at the bottom of the gravina, stacked on top of the rest of those bodies they tossed down.’
Later, Froi was awakened by the sounds of voices, but then he heard nothing and thought he had imagined it.
‘What are the chances of someone other than Gargarin being down here?’ he asked Arjuro in the dark, knowing the Priestling was awake.
‘Apart from Lirah and the girl, probably none. This isn’t exactly the fastest way to the rest of the kingdom. People only come down here to catch trout and I don’t think anyone in Charyn feels like fishing at the moment.’
The world was silent again and it was at such times that Froi missed Quintana most. Missed the solace he felt as they lay beside one another. He fell asleep thinking of their last night together in the palace, when her legs had wrapped around him and he had heard the cry in her voice as she buckled against him. ‘Again,’ she had whispered. ‘Again.’