turning our women into whores.’
‘But if a son comes from the Princess, wouldn’t your people despise his tainted blood?’ Lucian asked.
Rafuel turned to Tesadora. ‘What do you believe? That one is born evil or raised evil?’
‘Why ask me?’ she snapped.
Rafuel shrugged. ‘Because you seem the type to have an opinion about such things.’
She looked away. ‘No child is born evil,’ she said quietly.
‘And I’m presuming that you and your men know exactly who the honourable regent to the heir will be?’ Lucian asked.
Rafuel nodded, grinning, trying to make himself comfortable. ‘We do indeed. He has a fiercely smart mind and is the fairest of men. All he needs is convincing that his place is in the palace.’
‘And does this paragon of virtue have a name?’ Lucian asked.
‘He exists. That’s all you need to know.’
Rafuel nudged Lucian and the idiot Charynite’s good humour was contagious. ‘Be reassured, Mont, tonight you travel to the capital with our lad.’
‘Our lad?’ Lucian asked. ‘Froi’s ours, Charynite.’
But Lucian grinned all the same and even Tesadora seemed happy at the news. He hadn’t realised how much he missed Froi’s visits up to the mountain. The boy had worked harder than any other these past three years, perhaps because he had the strongest wish for the Queen’s goodwill. Lucian imagined Isaboe and Finnikin’s joy as Froi rode into the palace village. Trevanion and Perri and the rest of the Guard would drag him away to find out what they could about the death of the Charynite King, but Lucian knew that deep down everyone would be relieved that Froi was returning home unharmed.
‘There are my lads,’ Rafuel said, excitement in his voice. The seven men stood huddled together.
‘I can’t see Froi with the riders,’ Tesadora said, as the horsemen came closer. She snaked through the reeds, within a breath of the stream.
‘Come back, Tesadora,’ Aldron whispered.
The closer the horsemen rode, the more silent the valley dwellers became. From his vantage point, Lucian could see it in the way Kasabian and Cora and Rafuel’s men and everyone else stood, their bodies rigid.
‘Do you recognise any of the riders, Rafuel?’ Lucian whispered.
Rafuel did not respond. Closer and closer came the men and Lucian feared they’d cross the stream. The order was that if any Charynite other than Phaedra crossed the stream, the Monts would see it as an attack on Lumatere.
‘Rafuel?’ Tesadora whispered.
The prisoner’s silence made Lucian uncomfortable. He could see by the expression on Rafuel’s face that he recognised no one amongst the newcomers.
There were twelve men in total. They dismounted and, in the eerie silence that followed, Lucian watched them shove through the camp dwellers.
‘They’re searching for someone,’ Lucian whispered.
Rafuel shook his head slowly. ‘I don’t recognise them, but they’re certainly not palace riders, so we have nothing to fear.’
‘Then who could they be?’ Lucian asked.
Rafuel shrugged. ‘The Priests have spies in places that I don’t even know. We had one or two inside Lumatere for the first year.’
‘
‘Rest assured,’ Rafuel said, ‘the hidden Priests of Charyn and the army they have built for Tariq will never be a threat to you.’ But his voice had lost its humour. It was laced with fear. Rafuel’s eyes fixed on the horsemen as they began to surround his men.
‘Oh gods,’ Rafuel said, his voice anguished.
‘What?’ Lucian asked.
‘They’re here for my lads.’
Aldron motioned them to silence. They watched as the leader of the horsemen paced the path before the camp dwellers, the sword in his hand pointed back at Rafuel’s men.
‘We’re searching for a man named Rafuel of Sebastabol,’ he called out. ‘The leader of the seven traitors who planned the murder of our king.’
Rafuel was muttering under his breath. Praying. From where Lucian lay, he could see that Rafuel’s men were doing the same while the camp dwellers stared at the seven men, confused. Rafuel’s lads had only made themselves known these last weeks. Tesadora had said there was talk amongst them all that a Charynite had taken a dagger to Japhra, but the camp dwellers had no idea who and they especially never suspected he belonged to the quiet seven, who were all scholars and kept to themselves.
‘I repeat, we’re searching for Rafuel of Sebastabol.’ The voice of the horseman was coarse and ugly and its threat chilled Lucian to the bone.
The man’s hand suddenly snaked out into the crowd and grabbed Kasabian by the neck, shoving him down to his knees, standing behind him with a sword across his throat. Cora cried out.
‘Stay back, Cora. Stay back,’ Kasabian instructed his sister.
Lucian elbowed Aldron, staring at him helplessly. Aldron shook his head bitterly. ’This is not our fight, Lucian,’ he whispered.
‘They’re going to kill an innocent man,’ Lucian said.
‘This is not our fight, I say.’
Rafuel suddenly stumbled to his feet.
‘I’m Rafuel of Sebastabol.’
Yet it wasn’t Rafuel’s voice that rang out, but one from across the stream. Both Aldron and Lucian dragged Rafuel down before he could be seen.
‘No,’ Rafuel whispered in horror. ‘No, Rothen.’
Lucian discovered later that the young man was a scholar from the province of Paladozza. He was of Rafuel’s age with a dark trimmed beard and a shaggy head of dark curls. Lucian had watched him speak to Phaedra this last week. Instead of cowering, she had been animated. It had angered Lucian for some reason. The leader of the horsemen looked back to where Rothen stood with his hand raised. Kasabian was shoved aside as the leader walked back to Rafuel’s seven men and grabbed Rothen, dragging him to the stream, forcing him to his knees.
‘If you are to arrest us for treason,’ they heard another of Rafuel’s men say with great urgency, ‘then you try us in a court of Charyn law, by the seneschal of the Citavita. That’s the law.’
The leader of the horsemen stared back at the speaker. Everyone watched in terrified silence.
‘And who are you?’ the horseman asked, pleasantly.
‘My name is Asher of Nebia,’ the man said, and Lucian could hear the tremble of fear in his voice.
The leader shoved Rothen away and walked towards Asher of Nebia.
Lucian heard Rafuel’s sigh of relief.
‘Smart man, Asher,’ Rafuel whispered.
‘Asher of Nebia,’ the horseman said. ‘My name is Donashe of the Citavita, and let me tell you this, friend. There is no seneschal of the Citavita. The Citavita is dead. The King is dead. So when my men and I came across the King’s riders pledging to pay ten pieces of gold for the body of every traitor responsible, then that’s the only law I care to follow. And if they promised me twice that amount for the head of Rafuel of Sebastabol, then who am I to say no?’
In an instant he grabbed Asher by the hood of his robe and dragged him to the stream amidst the screams and shouts from those around them. With both hands, Donashe of the Citavita forced Asher’s head into the stream while the scholar’s body thrashed violently.
Lucian heard a cry behind him and turned back to the novices and the Mont girls, who were clutching each other in terror.
‘Up the mountain,’ he hissed to them. ‘
When he turned back, Asher’s body lay still in the stream. Donashe of the Citavita stepped back and held up a finger.
