Froi of the Exiles

‘Someone’s already beaten you to that one, whelp,’ the Priestling said, taking the road south.

He was going home. Home, he thought for the tenth time that day, travelling down the mountain of rock. Home, where foreign blood had become family to Froi and where men were strong and virile, not all twisted and broken without a clue of how to defend themselves, or reeking of ale or wine or whatever it was that helped Arjuro endure a day. Home, where no one judged him. Not even the Queen, who had every reason in the world to judge him. Lumatere was everything Froi wanted to be, whilst Charyn was a reminder of everything he despised about himself. That unwanted pathetic street urchin who had begged for food, the surly boy who had sung his song for the rich street pigs of Sarnak and allowed himself to endure so much depravity just to survive. Weak boy. Stupid, useless boy. Froi wanted to kill that boy he had been. If not for Lumatere, he would be nothing and have no one.

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?’