Chapter 20
Life in the Citavita each day began with a hanging. One by one, the King’s close advisors, physician, banker and anyone else the street lords found hiding in the King’s solar were dragged out into the marketplace where a crowd would gather around a makeshift hanging gale. The onlookers would jeer and chant and clap with a frenzied glee that had little to do with enjoyment and much to do with malevolence. It had been a week since the events in the palace and every day Froi held his breath the moment the drawbridge was lowered, wondering who the next victim would be.
Those from the Citavita who weren’t part of the vicious crowd or the never-ending stream of people shuffling their way out of the capital, stayed hidden in their dwellings, fearful of what it would all mean. ‘Lad,’ they’d whisper, their heads suddenly appearing from rooftops. ‘Lad, what’s happening in the marketplace? Will they come for the merchants next?’
During the first days, Froi exchanged his doublet jacket for loose-fitting trousers and a tunic as well as a cap that covered his hair and came close to covering his eyes. But the wool of the tunic itched against his skin, so he stole a flannel undershirt. Although it was a relief to leave Olivier of Sebastabol behind, something inside of him couldn’t help wondering how much he looked like the old Froi. The thief. Street scum.
Most days he saw Lirah and Arjuro in the crowd. Arjuro wore his cape and cowl and reminded Froi of the sketches in the Priestking’s books showing the spectre of death who visited a plague-ridden Lumateran village hundreds upon hundreds of years ago and left no one alive. Standing far enough away from Lirah and Arjuro were De Lancey and his men. Froi had discovered through talk around the Citavita that the gold had arrived safely from the provinces and the Provincaro of Paladozza was waiting for the release of Gargarin before he and his men took their leave.
Apart from his mornings at the hanging gale, Froi spent the rest of his days searching for the man named Perabo, who had once tried to warn Froi about Quintana’s fate. In his memory, he saw the scene over and over again. Quintana had stepped towards Perabo, but some sense of duty had made her return to the palace with Froi. Froi wished that Perabo had yanked her out of his arms. He wished that the lastborns had been there, all their weak strength combined, holding Froi down so Quintana could escape.
In the second week the street lords began to hang the King’s extended family: cousins, uncles, aunts. Froi watched an entire bloodline disappear from existence as the days passed. As yet, Gargarin had not been released and Quintana had not been hanged, and on a particularly sickening day when the rope half cut off the head of the King’s third cousin from Jidia, Froi looked away, and Arjuro caught his eye. The Priestling pointed to the road leading down to the bridge before walking away with Lirah.
Froi fought the urge to follow. Despite having to talk himself out of returning to the godshouse each day, he felt a pull towards them. Perhaps he had felt that pull from the first moment he clasped his eyes on these damned people.
Regardless, he trailed Lirah and Arjuro down to a cave house he recognised as the soothsayer’s dwelling. The two stopped outside and Froi knew they were waiting for him.
‘Where have you been?’ Lirah asked, her voice harsh.
‘I don’t answer to you or anyone else in this kingdom,’ he said coldly.
Arjuro entered the cave and Froi and Lirah followed. It was small, one room only, with stems and saplings hanging from the ceiling and a smothering odour that seemed to be trapped in the cave walls. In the corner was a grubby bedroll and in the centre of the space was a large pot of water in which the soothsayer was stirring a foul- smelling substance amongst leaves and petals.
He thought of what this wretched woman had done to Quintana year after year, and realised he wanted to hurt her, could easily kill her with his bare hands. But his bond to Trevanion and Perri stopped him.
But Lirah of Serker had no such bond. She grabbed the woman by the hair, shoving her head into the pot of water. Froi watched the soothsayer thrash, struggling under Lirah’s strong grip. He saw the fury and hatred on Lirah’s face.
‘Do you like the feel of that?’ Lirah said.
‘Froi,’ Arjuro said, somewhat calmly. ‘Stop her, please.’
‘Why would I want to do that, Arjuro?’ Froi said, his heart beating fast at the satisfaction of what he was watching.
‘Because I’d like to know a thing or two and that may not happen if Lirah kills our only source of information.’
Froi sighed and stepped forward, grabbing Lirah’s arm and dragging her back. She struggled against him, and although she had strength, Froi easily overpowered her.
The soothsayer collapsed onto the ground, gasping for air, and Froi couldn’t help imagining the child Quintana was, struggling for the same filthy air, year after year.
Arjuro walked towards the woman and stooped, contempt in his expression. When she regained her breathing, the soothsayer struggled to her knees and spat in the Priestling’s face.
‘Oh, the gods’ blessed,’ she mocked viciously. ‘Aren’t those from the godshouse mighty now, Priestling?’
Arjuro wiped the spittle from his face. ‘These two are here to kill you and I am here for answers,’ he said. ‘So what if we make a deal, old woman? You tell me what I need to know and I may just spare your life.’
‘That’s not your decision to make,’ Lirah snapped, struggling to free herself from Froi’s hands.
‘Answers,’ Arjuro repeated. ‘Why did the King order the murder of the male child born to the palace eighteen years ago?’
‘No male child was born to the palace,’ she said.
‘On the night of Quintana’s birth.’
‘There was only one babe born that night and she’ll be hanged soon enough.’
Froi knew she was lying. The woman hardly made a pretence of it. Her eyes met Froi’s and she inhaled deeply, as if in a rapture.
‘And if the King did order the murder of a child,’ she said, her voice drowsy, ‘what makes you think he told me?’
Lirah pulled free of Froi’s arms and gripped the woman by the throat. ‘He was frightened to piss without consulting you.’
Froi placed an arm around Lirah, pulling her back once more. The soothsayer leaned forward, her face an inch away from Lirah’s.
‘Spit in my face and I will tear out your tongue,’ Lirah threatened.
‘Oh, there’s the Serker savage,’ the old woman said, closing her eyes and inhaling. It was beginning to sicken Froi. ‘I smell those of Serker. Waiting. It’s what I can do. Smell the dead. And you have the smell of the dead on you, Lirah of Serker. Because you’ve been there amongst them.’
Froi felt Lirah shudder.
‘Do you know what happens each year I lead our abomination to the lake of the half-dead? Of course you’d know, Serker whore. You saw them yourself that time you tried to drown the child. The way the dead clambered onto the shores, screeching out their pain. They want to go home and unless the song is sung to lead them there, they will never have peace and nor will Charyn.’
‘What is she talking about?’ Froi asked.
‘Those slaughtered in Serker died voiceless,’ Arjuro said. ‘Their names were left unspoken. Only the gods’ touched standing on Serker soil can sing them home to their rest.’
Froi felt Lirah tremble again. Through all her talk of Serker savages, Froi could sense Lirah grieved for her people.
The old woman inhaled again.
‘I used to hear that the wild young Priestlings would travel to the marshes to search for the reed of righteousness. They’d crush it, cook it over a small flame and inhale the scent, and in the euphoria, they would see the gods.’
