that another can best him.’
He ignored the ‘we’.
‘So Bestiano believes … that perhaps he can sire the firstborn if you are indeed the …’ He shrugged, not knowing the word to use.
‘Vessel,’ she contributed. She studied him.
‘We thought you were sent for one purpose,’ she said, ‘but now we realise you were sent for another and, as per usual, the gods refuse to give us warning of their plans in advance. So if you are asking me whether I believe the last will make the first, then yes, I do. Now more than any other time. You and I are the last. It’s written all over you. It would make matters much easier if you did what you had to do.’
‘And the other lads?’ he asked awkwardly. ‘Before me.’
‘What about them?’
‘Were they kind?’
She thought for a moment. ‘Well, you know them all except for the third from Nebia, but we don’t talk about him.’
‘Why?’
A strange expression crossed her face. ‘They say he’s in a madhouse, you know.’
‘Because he was frightened by the palace?’ Froi asked.
She shook her head. ‘Not the palace,’ she said quietly.
Was the insipid lastborn from Nebia frightened by the Princess abomination of Charyn? Froi read it all there in her expression. Not self-pity, but self-loathing. Is that what she thought Froi’s reluctance was about?
‘I’m not scared,’ he said, refusing to look away.
‘Nor was Tariq.’ Her expression softened. ‘He was my betrothed and my first. He was supposed to be the one and only lastborn to share my bed. His father was my father’s heir if a son was not produced, but then Tariq’s father died suddenly when we were fifteen and the people on his mother’s side smuggled him out of the palace. They suspected someone was trying to poison him.’
She gave him a bitter smile.
‘That’s how a whore was born,’ she said. ‘Without Tariq to fulfil the prophecy, you lastborn lads of the provinces had to do.’
‘I know the lads feel that they let you down,’ he said, not knowing any such thing. Rafuel had mentioned that the lastborns were acquainted and corresponded.
‘Grijio constantly writes about it,’ Froi lied, ‘and Satch goes on and on every time I see him and Tariq –’
‘You’ve seen Tariq?’ she asked, surprised.
Froi gave himself a mental beating. Of course, you haven’t seen Tariq, you idiot. He’s in hiding.
‘I’m only imagining what Tariq thinks through his letters …’
‘To Grij?’
He nodded. ‘Grij passes on everything Tariq writes. You know what he’s like.’
‘Very discreet, as I remember,’ she said.
‘No one’s discreet when it comes to me,’ he boasted. ‘I could charm the truth out of the goddess of secrets.’
‘There’s no such thing as the goddess of secrets.’
He prayed to the goddess of fools that it was the end of the conversation.
‘You’re the last of four lads,’ she said, her eyes piercing into his. ‘So, yes, Olivier, she does know what they think of her out in the provinces,’ she added coldly, repeating his words to Gargarin on the balconette.
‘Eavesdropping is rude,’ he said.
She stared and he matched it, refusing to look away.
‘I’ll make a pledge to you, Princess or Reginita or whoever you choose to be today,’ he said. ‘Let’s call it a … bond. That when you invite me to your bed, for reasons other than a curse or someone else’s demands, then perhaps I will – what is it we Charynites like to call it? – plant the seed.’
‘Tariq and Grij and Satch warned me of you,’ she said bitterly. ‘ “Everything is a jest to Olivier,” they said. But they promised me a lad of worth. “You can trust him with all your might, Princess,” they told me.’
She shook her head and Froi saw sadness.
‘Oh, to go a day in my life not lied to by the gods or so-called friends.’
When the sun rose, he wasted no time. The moment Gargarin and his brother completed their morning ritual of staring at each other across the gravina, Froi crept out of Quintana’s bed.
He climbed over the balconette and gripped onto the protruding granite, one hand at a time on the ancient stone, his legs dangling. When he reached the end of the stone he took a moment to survey the distance between himself and Arjuro of Abroi, who now stood at the balconette of the godshouse, watching. Froi stared into the abyss below and shuddered. Slowly he lifted himself, his mind trying hard to control the shake in his legs until he was standing on the thin piece of granite. Before he could lose his nerve, he leapt across the gravina and gripped hold of the ledge at Arjuro of Abroi’s feet.
The Priestling seized him by the scruff of his neck and pulled him over the latticework of the balconette and Froi lay there for a moment. When he looked up, he saw Gargarin’s face with an unkempt dark beard. It seemed even stranger in contrast to the fair skin both brothers shared.
‘I’ve never seen two men with the same face.’
The Priestling grabbed Froi’s hair and pushed back his head for a closer look. His breath reeked of ale and Froi could see it had been some time since he had bathed. But before the other man could hide it, Froi saw the same expression of horror he had witnessed on Gargarin’s face.
‘Where did they find you?’ Arjuro of Abroi rasped.
‘Depends on who you think I am.’
‘You’re shit from Abroi.’
‘Charming,’ Froi muttered. ‘It’s a pleasure meeting you, as well.’
Arjuro’s intense study of Froi was done in silence.
‘You know what they say about you over at the palace?’ Froi asked slowly, raising himself to his feet, although his heart was still pounding from the leap.
‘Couldn’t care less what they say about me over at the palace.’
‘You’re a fool to return to the Citavita and dangle yourself in front of the King.’
A sinister smile curled Arjuro’s lips. ‘I knew something was coming. Didn’t want to miss it for the world.’ He gave Froi another appraisal before walking inside.
The room was large and rectangular. On the far side was another window that allowed in an abundance of light. Froi had heard it was called the Hall of Illumination and he could understand why. Through its brilliant light he could see the walls were covered with strange writing that did not resemble any lettering known to Froi. The black of the ink was a stark contrast to the white of the wall.
In the centre of the room was an altar, but apart from a table close to the window facing the palace, the room was bare. Froi imagined that once there would have been many long benches filled with scribbling Priestlings awed by the wonder of the Ancients’ books. It was in this room that Arjuro cut a lonely figure.
Arjuro sat down and stabbed at a piece of cheese with his dagger. He took a swig of ale from a jug. ‘What do you want?’ The question was followed by a burp.
‘Quintana speaks of you fondly and I just wanted to make your acquaintance.’
‘Never met her in my life.’
‘Well, she seems to think you have.’
‘And she seems to be the maddest girl in Charyn, so who are you going to believe?’
It was where the two men of Abroi differed the most. In the way they spoke. Gargarin was clipped and cold and quiet. Arjuro grunted, barked, growled. Froi found himself understanding Arjuro better than his brother.
He studied Arjuro’s face, fascinated. It was Gargarin, but not Gargarin.
‘Staring’s rude,’ Arjuro said.
‘So is speaking with your mouth full and not sharing your food,’ Froi responded.
Arjuro pushed forward some bread and handed him the bottle.
‘At this time of the morning?’ Froi asked.
‘At any time of the day, I say.’
