Froi of the Exiles

‘Come,’ he said to both of them.

From across the room Froi felt De Lancey’s eyes follow them.

‘It’s best that you keep your mouth shut, Lirah,’ Arjuro said, shoving his way through the crowd.

‘It’s best that I take my leave, Priestling,’ Lirah said coldly.

‘It’s not safe for you amongst the street pigs, Lirah,’ Froi snapped. ’Don’t be a fool.’

‘It’s no safer here,’ she said quietly as they reached the door where De Lancey of Paladozza stood, blocking Froi’s path.

‘Would you like to know who has taken refuge in this very godshouse?’ De Lancey asked Froi, smoothly.

Froi ignored him, stepping aside and following Arjuro and Lirah into the dark corridor. They stopped a moment as Arjuro lit the lamps that lined the wall. But De Lancey was on their heels, followed by four of his Guard. Froi saw a flash of fear cross Lirah’s face, heard Arjuro’s curse as the Priestling grabbed Lirah’s hand, leading her to the steps which would take them to the levels below.

‘Stop a moment,’ De Lancey ordered.

‘Remember whose place this is, De Lancey,’ Arjuro warned over his shoulder.

De Lancey reached them and gripped onto Arjuro’s robe to stop him, but the Priestling viciously pulled away, catching the Provincaro in the face with his elbow. In an instant, the four guards slammed Arjuro against the wall and Froi heard the crack of the Priestling’s head against stone.

Froi felt the pounding of blood in his brain chanting at him, replaying the events of the last day. There were too many voices and images in his head. Quintana’s face the day before. Gargarin’s instructions. Lirah’s bitter tirade as he dragged her out of the castle. Those tossed from the balconette, the King’s body, the fury of the crowd in the godshouse hall. Suddenly he grabbed De Lancey by the throat, snapping the man’s wrist and hearing his quick intake of pain. And then the four guards let go of Arjuro and charged for Froi. And in that confined space where Priestlings once prayed and studied and died, he used fists and palms, smashed heads against stone walls, broke bones, bit flesh and spat it out. ‘You’re a weapon, Froi. The best we’ve ever created,’ Trevanion had told him once. And when De Lancey’s men were writhing in pain at his feet, Froi’s blood cried for more, his breath ragged, his feet dancing around them, wanting them back on their feet. He wanted to do it again.

But Arjuro was there blocking his path. ‘Leash it,’ Arjuro hissed. ‘Leash it.’

Froi couldn’t leash it. He didn’t know how, and that knowledge made him want to weep. He tried to count. But couldn’t remember the right numbers. He hammered a savage fist to his temple over and over again until Arjuro gripped his face between his hands.

‘Take a breath.’

‘I can’t remember my bond,’ Froi whispered hoarsely.

In his head, Froi counted in Lumateran and then Sarnak, but the numbers meant nothing, led to nothing. Arjuro studied his face and then looked down to see Froi’s fingers dance with every number he tried to speak aloud.

‘Este, dortis, thirst …’ Arjuro began counting quietly in Charyn.

Froi’s heart fell. All those times, even as far back as three years ago when he first arrived in Lumatere and they gave him his bond, Froi had used the numbers of the Charyn language without even realising.

Blood sings to blood, Froi.

Froi closed his eyes and took in a deep breath.

An important rule of the bond was: never break a bone if Lumateran lives are not at risk.

He opened his eyes to see De Lancey nursing his wrist. In the flickering light, he could see Lirah’s face.

‘They’re becoming hysterical in the hall,’ she said coolly. ‘They think the street lords have entered.’

De Lancey caught one of his guard’s eyes and gestured him towards the hall. A moment later, all four men reluctantly limped away.

‘Take Lirah’s hand, Olivier,’ Arjuro said quietly. ‘The steps are steep.’

‘Yet he’s not Olivier,’ De Lancey said, ‘are you? The lastborn from Sebastabol is in the library downstairs with my son, burying the ancient books in case the street lords enter and destroy them.’ De Lancey’s eyes met Froi’s. ‘The real Olivier claims to have spent the last few weeks held captive in the caves outside Sebastabol.’

Arjuro’s breath was ragged as he looked at Froi, shaking his head with regret. ‘Bit of truth would have helped.’

‘You ask him for truth, Arjuro?’ De Lancey said. ‘When you’ve been interested in no truth but yours.’

Arjuro pointed a finger at De Lancey. ‘And what was your truth?’ he said through clenched teeth. ‘What was Gar’s? That my brother didn’t murder the Oracle? That you didn’t send your messenger to betray me? Did you know the farrier left behind a family, De Lancey? Did you ever give them another thought?’

De Lancey’s eyes met Arjuro’s and Froi saw something flare up between them. History was history, he once told the Priestking. Why couldn’t it stay in the past? All this hatred between these two men could only mean that once there had been so much love.

‘The Oracle and the child were already dead. That’s Gar’s truth!’

Lirah pushed the Provincaro away with all the fury she could muster. And he winced from the pain, nursing his hand. He couldn’t disguise his anger and disgust.

‘Oh, we care about children now, do we, whore?’ he sneered. ‘After you tried to murder your own?’

Arjuro grabbed De Lancey’s injured wrist and snapped it back into place. De Lancey gasped from the pain.

‘Ask the Serker whose child it was Gargarin tossed from that window,’ Arjuro said. ‘She should know. It was hers.’

‘The child belonged to the Oracle,’ De Lancey said. ‘Born dead. It was what Gar swore to me.’

‘Yet he told this impostor that the child was smuggled out of the palace,’ Lirah said, looking at Froi bitterly. ‘So who are we to believe, De Lancey? A liar or a liar?’

Arjuro stared at Froi, shocked by the words. ‘When did Gargarin tell you that?’ he asked huskily. ‘When?’

‘Today. Before the street lords took him away,’ Froi said.

‘But he told me the babe was born dead,’ De Lancey argued. ‘Gargarin swore he was forced to toss a dead child into the gravina.’

‘My son was born with a mighty voice,’ Lirah said fiercely, a tremble in her words. ‘And Gargarin tells you both lies. In one breath, a dead child. In the next, a smuggled lastborn. Do you believe the gods conjured up a spell and made his brother see our worst nightmares?’

‘Come,’ Arjuro said quietly. But he pointed a finger at De Lancey emphatically. ‘Not you. And bind that wrist.’

They left De Lancey standing alone in the dark corridor. Arjuro lead Lirah and Froi to the tiny marble steps that spiralled down. But De Lancey was a hard man to lose.

‘So whose bastard is this lad, Arjuro?’ he called out from the top of the steps. ‘Yours or Gargarin’s?’

Lirah gasped. Froi swung around to look up, almost tumbling down the narrow steps.

‘The person I was swiving eighteen years ago hasn’t the capacity for childbirth. Curse or no curse,’ Arjuro said coolly. ‘Does he, De Lancey?’ Arjuro continued down the stairs, refusing to look back. There was a ringing in Froi’s ears and when they reached the landing, his legs buckled under him. Arjuro forced him to sit, resting his back against the wall and pushing his head between his knees.

‘Breathe, idiot boy. His words are false. It’s pure coincidence.’ But Froi heard doubt in Arjuro’s voice.

‘That face can’t be pure coincidence, Ari,’ De Lancey said, suddenly behind them. He reached over Arjuro’s shoulder and grabbed Froi’s face, but Froi leapt to his feet and shoved them both away.

‘Who do I resemble?’ Froi hissed. There was silence.

Arjuro looked away.

‘Who?’

‘The most base of beasts born to this world,’ Arjuro said sadly. ‘My father. But I see my father’s face in half of Charyn.’

Froi sucked in a breath.

‘He cannot possibly be Gargarin’s son,’ Lirah said coldly. ‘I was the only woman he had.’

De Lancey gave a short laugh of disbelief. ‘Don’t you think it’s strange, Lirah, that you can believe Gargarin is