‘No,’ Rafuel whispered in horror. ‘No, Rothen.’
Lucian discovered later that the young man was a scholar from the province of Paladozza. He was of Rafuel’s age with a dark trimmed beard and a shaggy head of dark curls. Lucian had watched him speak to Phaedra this last week. Instead of cowering, she had been animated. It had angered Lucian for some reason. The leader of the horsemen looked back to where Rothen stood with his hand raised. Kasabian was shoved aside as the leader walked back to Rafuel’s seven men and grabbed Rothen, dragging him to the stream, forcing him to his knees.
‘If you are to arrest us for treason,’ they heard another of Rafuel’s men say with great urgency, ‘then you try us in a court of Charyn law, by the seneschal of the Citavita. That’s the law.’
The leader of the horsemen stared back at the speaker. Everyone watched in terrified silence.
‘And who are you?’ the horseman asked, pleasantly.
‘My name is Asher of Nebia,’ the man said, and Lucian could hear the tremble of fear in his voice.
The leader shoved Rothen away and walked towards Asher of Nebia.
Lucian heard Rafuel’s sigh of relief.
‘Smart man, Asher,’ Rafuel whispered.
‘Asher of Nebia,’ the horseman said. ‘My name is Donashe of the Citavita, and let me tell you this, friend. There is no seneschal of the Citavita. The Citavita is dead. The King is dead. So when my men and I came across the King’s riders pledging to pay ten pieces of gold for the body of every traitor responsible, then that’s the only law I care to follow. And if they promised me twice that amount for the head of Rafuel of Sebastabol, then who am I to say no?’
In an instant he grabbed Asher by the hood of his robe and dragged him to the stream amidst the screams and shouts from those around them. With both hands, Donashe of the Citavita forced Asher’s head into the stream while the scholar’s body thrashed violently.
Lucian heard a cry behind him and turned back to the novices and the Mont girls, who were clutching each other in terror.
‘Up the mountain,’ he hissed to them. ‘Now. No horses. Run and don’t let them see you!’
When he turned back, Asher’s body lay still in the stream. Donashe of the Citavita stepped back and held up a finger.
‘One,’ the Charynite announced. ‘According to our source, there are six more led by Rafuel of Sebastabol.’
Rafuel tried to raise himself again, struggling as Aldron pinned him down and Lucian kept a hand to his mouth.
‘You’ll get us all killed,’ Lucian whispered. ‘Our women, too. Is that what you want?’
Only then did Rafuel stop and when both Aldron and Lucian were certain their prisoner would not try to surrender himself again, they let go of their hold and continued their blood-chilling vigil.
Lucian could see Kasabian through the reeds and he knew from the quick flicker of his gaze across the stream, Kasabian could see them. Although not the oldest of the camp dwellers, the man was a quiet leader of sorts and had made a point of becoming acquainted with all the camp dwellers. Lucian’s heart sank. Did the man expect him to act on their behalf or stay hidden?
‘So let me ask again?’ Donashe’s voice rang across the valley camp. ‘Where is Rafuel of Sebastabol?’
‘I am Rafuel of Sebastabol,’ Rothen said. ‘Take me and get your gold. The rest of these men are Priestlings. Not traitors. These people are landless. They care not for the politics of their kingdom. They want a scrap of dirt to call their own!’
Donashe of the Citavita grabbed Rothen’s face and stared at it long and hard. ‘I think you’re lying, friend. You’re not fair enough to be from Sebastabol. I think you’re hiding your leader somewhere in this camp.’
‘There were eight of us,’ Rothen said. ‘One took a dagger to a Lumateran woman’s throat and was banished by the leader of their Monts. His name was Rothen and he’s halfway to Desantos by now.’
Donashe shoved Rothen away and grabbed another one of the men, slight in build and the youngest by far.
‘Faroux of Paladozza,’ Rafuel choked out hoarsely as the Charynite horsemen sliced the lad from ear to ear. ‘Let me stop this, Lucian. Please. I beg of you.’
It took Aldron and Tesadora’s help to hold Rafuel down. For one so slight, he fought like a demon, weeping with silent despair. Lucian had seen his father die before his eyes, but he couldn’t think of anything worse than seeing Finnikin or Froi or his Mont cousins being slaughtered while he stood and did nothing.
Later, when he tried to explain it to his yata, he spoke of the fear he saw in the eyes of those young men who knew that death was upon them. Fighting a battle to the death seemed a natural way for a warrior to die. It was the way Lucian’s own father had died. But waiting for death? Knowing the inevitable? That day innocent men died in front of Lucian’s eyes. They died savagely. Some were cut down with a dagger to the gut, others with a blade to the throat. Each time, Donashe of the Citavita asked for the leader. And each time, Rothen swore he was Rafuel of Sebastabol.’
‘Where is Rafuel of Sebastabol?’ Donashe asked when the sixth man lay dying at his feet. Rothen dropped to his knees, holding his companion in his arms.
‘Forsake me, you bastard gods,’ he prayed, ‘but do not forsake beloved Charyn!’ He was cut down within moments.
Beside Lucian, Rafuel wept quietly. ‘I need to call out their names to the gods. I need to call out their names.’
‘Open your mouth and they will kill you next, fool,’ Lucian said quietly.
Lucian caught Aldron’s eye and he could see the Queen’s guard was shaken by what they had witnessed. Death was death. That it had taken place this close to the Lumateran border would set the kingdom on edge.
‘Rafuel?’ Tesadora whispered. ‘What in the name of Sagrami are they doing?’ Her expression was a mask of horror and sadness. Lucian watched two of Donashe’s men line the seven bodies up across the edge of the stream.
But it was what the other horsemen were doing that sent an icy finger down Lucian’s spine. Screams were heard as the youngest of the women were dragged to where Donashe stood and forced to their knees, side by side. Each girl was searched for the sign on the napes of their necks. The sign of the lastborn, Rafuel explained.
When Donashe failed to find what he was searching for, the girls were pushed away and Lucian heard cries of relief. Until the next girls were pulled from the arms of crying mothers and helpless fathers.
‘They’re searching for lastborn women,’ Rafuel whispered, his voice broken. ‘Which can only mean Quintana of Charyn is dead.’
Tesadora gripped Lucian’s arm. ‘We have to do something.’
Suddenly Rafuel caught his breath, his eyes meeting Lucian’s.
‘What?’ Lucian asked.
‘Phaedra!’ Rafuel whispered hoarsely.
‘She’ll know to keep her head down,’ Lucian said.
‘No, you don’t understand. They’re looking for lastborns, Lucian. Phaedra is the only lastborn in this valley. Most other lastborn girls are in hiding. Their fathers and mothers knew this day of weeping would come.’
Lucian stared across the stream, searching for Phaedra amongst the camp dwellers. ‘Why would Sol of Alonso not have hidden his daughter?’ he asked.
‘He did,’ Rafuel said. ‘He made a pact with an enemy leader eighteen years ago to protect his daughter from this very moment. He sent her to Lumatere.’
Phaedra watched from where she knelt beside Florenza of Nebia. As a lastborn, she had known that this day would come, and had always told herself she’d be brave. Perhaps it was the wish of the gods for Phaedra to be taken by the men of the palace to create the first. But after what she had witnessed this day, Phaedra could not imagine the gods sanctioning such cruelty and horror.