Froi of the Exiles

‘One,’ the Charynite announced. ‘According to our source, there are six more led by Rafuel of Sebastabol.’

Rafuel tried to raise himself again, struggling as Aldron pinned him down and Lucian kept a hand to his mouth.

‘You’ll get us all killed,’ Lucian whispered. ‘Our women, too. Is that what you want?’

Only then did Rafuel stop and when both Aldron and Lucian were certain their prisoner would not try to surrender himself again, they let go of their hold and continued their blood-chilling vigil.

Lucian could see Kasabian through the reeds and he knew from the quick flicker of his gaze across the stream, Kasabian could see them. Although not the oldest of the camp dwellers, the man was a quiet leader of sorts and had made a point of becoming acquainted with all the camp dwellers. Lucian’s heart sank. Did the man expect him to act on their behalf or stay hidden?

‘So let me ask again?’ Donashe’s voice rang across the valley camp. ‘Where is Rafuel of Sebastabol?’

‘I am Rafuel of Sebastabol,’ Rothen said. ‘Take me and get your gold. The rest of these men are Priestlings. Not traitors. These people are landless. They care not for the politics of their kingdom. They want a scrap of dirt to call their own!’

Donashe of the Citavita grabbed Rothen’s face and stared at it long and hard. ‘I think you’re lying, friend. You’re not fair enough to be from Sebastabol. I think you’re hiding your leader somewhere in this camp.’

‘There were eight of us,’ Rothen said. ‘One took a dagger to a Lumateran woman’s throat and was banished by the leader of their Monts. His name was Rothen and he’s halfway to Desantos by now.’

Donashe shoved Rothen away and grabbed another one of the men, slight in build and the youngest by far.

‘Faroux of Paladozza,’ Rafuel choked out hoarsely as the Charynite horsemen sliced the lad from ear to ear. ‘Let me stop this, Lucian. Please. I beg of you.’

It took Aldron and Tesadora’s help to hold Rafuel down. For one so slight, he fought like a demon, weeping with silent despair. Lucian had seen his father die before his eyes, but he couldn’t think of anything worse than seeing Finnikin or Froi or his Mont cousins being slaughtered while he stood and did nothing.

Later, when he tried to explain it to his yata, he spoke of the fear he saw in the eyes of those young men who knew that death was upon them. Fighting a battle to the death seemed a natural way for a warrior to die. It was the way Lucian’s own father had died. But waiting for death? Knowing the inevitable? That day innocent men died in front of Lucian’s eyes. They died savagely. Some were cut down with a dagger to the gut, others with a blade to the throat. Each time, Donashe of the Citavita asked for the leader. And each time, Rothen swore he was Rafuel of Sebastabol.’

‘Where is Rafuel of Sebastabol?’ Donashe asked when the sixth man lay dying at his feet. Rothen dropped to his knees, holding his companion in his arms.

‘Forsake me, you bastard gods,’ he prayed, ‘but do not forsake beloved Charyn!’ He was cut down within moments.

Beside Lucian, Rafuel wept quietly. ‘I need to call out their names to the gods. I need to call out their names.’

‘Open your mouth and they will kill you next, fool,’ Lucian said quietly.

Lucian caught Aldron’s eye and he could see the Queen’s guard was shaken by what they had witnessed. Death was death. That it had taken place this close to the Lumateran border would set the kingdom on edge.

‘Rafuel?’ Tesadora whispered. ‘What in the name of Sagrami are they doing?’ Her expression was a mask of horror and sadness. Lucian watched two of Donashe’s men line the seven bodies up across the edge of the stream.

But it was what the other horsemen were doing that sent an icy finger down Lucian’s spine. Screams were heard as the youngest of the women were dragged to where Donashe stood and forced to their knees, side by side. Each girl was searched for the sign on the napes of their necks. The sign of the lastborn, Rafuel explained.

When Donashe failed to find what he was searching for, the girls were pushed away and Lucian heard cries of relief. Until the next girls were pulled from the arms of crying mothers and helpless fathers.

‘They’re searching for lastborn women,’ Rafuel whispered, his voice broken. ‘Which can only mean Quintana of Charyn is dead.’

Tesadora gripped Lucian’s arm. ‘We have to do something.’

Suddenly Rafuel caught his breath, his eyes meeting Lucian’s.

‘What?’ Lucian asked.

‘Phaedra!’ Rafuel whispered hoarsely.

‘She’ll know to keep her head down,’ Lucian said.

‘No, you don’t understand. They’re looking for lastborns, Lucian. Phaedra is the only lastborn in this valley. Most other lastborn girls are in hiding. Their fathers and mothers knew this day of weeping would come.’

Lucian stared across the stream, searching for Phaedra amongst the camp dwellers. ‘Why would Sol of Alonso not have hidden his daughter?’ he asked.

‘He did,’ Rafuel said. ‘He made a pact with an enemy leader eighteen years ago to protect his daughter from this very moment. He sent her to Lumatere.’

Phaedra watched from where she knelt beside Florenza of Nebia. As a lastborn, she had known that this day would come, and had always told herself she’d be brave. Perhaps it was the wish of the gods for Phaedra to be taken by the men of the palace to create the first. But after what she had witnessed this day, Phaedra could not imagine the gods sanctioning such cruelty and horror.

Her only reprieve was that no girl in this valley had the mark of the lastborn. Phaedra had checked them all herself. No girl but her, and here she was on her knees, five women away from whatever it was that Quintana of Charyn had been called on to do for all these years. The last will make the first. What if there was nothing left of the spirit of the last to give to the first?

The men were almost upon her when the leader of the horsemen looked up across the stream. Phaedra could only see Kasabian and Cora from where she knelt and on a day when she didn’t think hope existed, she saw it in their eyes.

‘Introduce yourself, stranger,’ the leader of the horsemen ordered.

‘I’m no stranger,’ her Mont husband said, astride his horse. ‘I’m Lucian of the Monts, the custodian of this valley. State your business here, Charynite.’

She hadn’t realised until that moment that she had always enjoyed the sound of her Mont husband’s voice. It was strong and gruff and it spoke with little nonsense and a good deal of substance.

‘Regardless of whose valley it is, these people are ours and we do as we’re ordered,’ Donashe said.

‘Ordered by who?’ Lucian asked. ‘The palace?’

The man hesitated.

‘State your purpose, Charynite. Is this palace business?’ Lucian demanded, pointing to where Phaedra and the others knelt. ‘Are these girls palace business?’

‘We’re searching for our lastborns –’

‘Lastborns?’

‘We’ve come from the Citavita, friend,’ the man said, trying to keep a civil tone. ‘These are uneasy times in Charyn. We’re collecting any lastborn to ensure their safety.’

Lucian nodded, watching the man closely.

‘Wise of you, Charynite. I would do the same to protect the young women of my kingdom. I invite you to take any lastborn you can find. But you have the wife of a Mont leader, who also happens to be cousin of the Lumateran Queen, there before you.’

Lucian clenched his teeth. ‘On. Her. Knees.’

The Charynite stared at him with disbelief.

‘Your wife?’

Lucian pointed down to where Phaedra knelt.

‘Why would your wife be a Charynite in the valley, Mont?’

Lucian trotted his horse around the horseman to where Phaedra knelt and held out a hand.

‘The first step to peace between Lumatere and the closest province of Charyn was the betrothment of myself and the Provincaro of Alonso’s daughter.’