Froi of the Exiles (40 page)

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.

‘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
.’

He woke to a sound and realised he had groaned aloud.

‘Think of an ice-water bath,’ Arjuro mocked from where he sat. ‘It always kills any desire in me.’

Early next morning they heard the sound of shuffling along the path outside the cave.

Arjuro made a strange bird-like sound and Froi could have sworn that there was excitement on the Priestling’s face.

‘You haven’t spoken to him for eighteen years and you still share a whistle?’ Froi whispered.

‘Nothing wrong with a whistle.’

Froi chuckled. ‘You would like Finnikin of Lumatere. He has a passion for whistles. One for his wife. One for his hound. One for his daughter. One for his father. And then there’s the one for when he’s merely enjoying the day.’

A moment later they heard the birdsong return.

Froi crawled out of the cave. Gargarin was sitting low behind a rock ahead of them, as though trying to avoid being seen by someone further down. Gargarin turned, held a finger to his lips and beckoned Froi over, not even questioning what he was doing there. Gargarin pointed down into the gully. Froi saw the cave where he had hidden his weapons, marked by the image of the fan bird. But further down, where the stream passed Gargarin’s cave, he saw horses.

Froi pointed up and quietly climbed to a higher rock. From there he saw the palace riders instantly. At least ten of them had set up camp downstream from Gargarin’s cave.

‘Not good,’ he said when he climbed down. ‘They’re here for something and I don’t think it’s us.’

‘Have you seen Lirah and the girl?’ Arjuro asked, joining them.

Gargarin shook his head. ‘But I saw two men watch our cave for some time.’

Gargarin said the ‘our’ unconsciously. ‘Then your man arrived, Froi.’