Froi of the Exiles

Phaedra raised herself onto trembling feet.

Donashe stared at them both. ‘Why would you allow your wife out of your sight, Mont?’

Lucian bent and grasped Phaedra’s arm, dragging her onto the horse.

‘She claims the blood of her people in the valley sing to her each day and if I don’t allow her to come down the mountain, then she gives me grief.’ Lucian placed his arms around Phaedra. ‘Let us say that I’m a very indulgent man and my Little Sparrow is most convincing.’

With that, Lucian steered the horse towards the stream.

‘Then we look forward to speaking to your Little Sparrow tomorrow,’ the horseman called out, ‘about the wellbeing of her people.’

Phaedra cried out at the threat in those words. She looked back to where the camp dwellers stood.

‘That was a warning, Luci-en. About what he is going to do to these people.’

‘Not your concern,’ he said.

‘It is my concern,’ she cried. ‘I’m a Provincaro’s daughter. It is our duty that we protect those not born with our privilege.’

They didn’t speak for most of the journey up the mountain, but his grip around her was tight and she felt the tremble in his body.

‘I saw it all,’ he said, as if he could no longer contain it. ‘I saw it all and did nothing.’

What would his father have done?

The first person Lucian could see when he reached his village on the mountain was Rafuel crouched in the dirt with his head in his hands, weeping. The Charynite was surrounded by Tesadora and Aldron and Tesadora’s girls. The Monts who had been there to see the prisoner off were here to see him return. They watched in tense silence.

Lucian could tell they had been told of the day’s events, for they all seemed shaken. He lowered Phaedra to the ground and a moment later Yata was there with a blanket around the girl.

‘I sent one of the lads to the palace,’ Yata said. ‘Let’s hope the Guard will arrive tomorrow with instructions.’

‘What happened, Lucian?’ his cousin Yael asked.

‘Are we at war?’ another called out.

‘I don’t understand,’ Alda said. ‘What are those Charyn riders doing in the valley, Lucian?’

He looked at Rafuel and then Aldron. ‘I think it’s safer for him to be back in the cell.’

Aldron shook his head. ‘He’ll just find a way to smash his head apart against the stone wall.’

No one knew what to say about the Charynite. He was weeping, chanting the names of his lads over and over again.

‘I don’t understand,’ Jory said, staring down at Rafuel. ‘Tell him to stop.’

But Lucian understood. He grabbed Jory and dragged him to the younger lads who followed Jory day in and day out.

‘See these seven, Jory,’ he asked, fury in his voice. ‘Well, imagine you were on one side of the stream hiding, while on the other side of the stream someone slaughtered your lads and cousins, right in front of you. And there was nothing you could do, Jory, because we were holding you down to stop you from being slain yourself.’

Lucian then grabbed Phaedra.

‘Lucian!’ Yata warned.

‘And see this woman, Jory,’ he said, turning Phaedra around gently and revealing the strange lettering on her neck. ‘This woman is just like our queen. Marked as a slave to do things we don’t want to imagine happening to our own.’

Lucian pulled Jory towards Phaedra. ‘Treat her as you would beloved Isaboe, Jory. Follow her everywhere she goes. Down the valley and across the stream. Everywhere. And if any man touches her, Mont or Charynite, you put a sword through his heart. Do you hear me?’

Jory stared at Lucian and then at his father. His father nodded.

‘Take your pardu’s sword,’ Yael said quietly.

Lucian looked around, searching for the older lads.

‘I want one of you in every tree in that valley. Not concealed. I want those animals to see us. I want them to know that if they dare slaughter anyone on our land, they die.’

And then he walked to Rafuel, gripping him by the arm. Lucian pulled him to his feet and took the Charynite to his home.

That’s what Saro of the Monts would have done.

Chapter 27

In a mostly deserted village outside Jidia, Froi broke into a stable. He needed a horse and this dusty village of sunken empty wheel ruts and a wind that cried out its grief seemed his only option. Despite what these people had possibly endured, Froi’s necessity was greater and he felt little remorse at what he was about to take from them. That, in itself, brought him relief. He had become too soft in the palace and needed to find the ruthless warrior inside that Trevanion and Perri marvelled at.

‘You’re probably best not doing that,’ he heard a voice behind him say. Froi hoped the man wasn’t holding a weapon. He was desperate to get home and a man with a gentle voice was going to get in his way.

He turned to see a couple standing at the entrance of the barn. They were perhaps in their middle years, but it was hard to tell. Reed thin from the sorrow of life, they leaned against each other as though nothing else could hold them up but the other.

‘It will get you no further than half a day’s ride away,’ the man continued. ‘He’s an old thing, Acacia is. Belonged to our boy and refuses to die.’

Froi sighed. Why did everyone in Charyn seem to have a story in their eyes? And when had he started caring?

‘Have you come from the Citavita?’ the man asked.

‘No,’ Froi lied. ‘From Alonso.’

Both the man and woman studied him cautiously. ‘We watched you arrive, lad. You came from the south, not the north.’

Don’t let me hurt you, old man. Don’t let me hurt you both.

He knew he could easily fight these people and win. If he wanted the horse, he could take the horse. He had the power, regardless of who owned the stable. Power was everything. Until he realised that law belonged to the street thugs who had brought him up on the streets of Sarnak’s capital. Not Trevanion. Power, the captain had told him, meant nothing whether in someone’s home or their village or their kingdom or their palace. Respect and honour meant everything.

‘Can I beg of you a place to sleep in your stable, then?’ Froi asked. ‘And a plate of food? I’m good for a day’s work and if your second field isn’t weeded soon, you’ll have planted for nothing.’

So Froi worked alongside the man and woman all day. They were a quiet couple and like many of those Froi had met in Charyn, there was a sadness in their whole being that was years in the making. It was in the way they walked and toiled. It was in their silence and it was in their words. They grew barley and broad beans and cabbage. Not to trade, but to survive. The soil was poor from little rain, much the same as the rest of the kingdom outside the walls of the provinces. There was no future for them out here. Froi wondered what had happened to the rest of the villagers. He counted eight cottages in total but could see that it had been quite some time since they were lived in.

The man named Hamlyn asked him about his family, but Froi didn’t respond.

He could have lied to himself and said that he had thought little of Quintana, Lirah, Arjuro and Gargarin these past few days, but he didn’t. He had thought of the four of them every moment. But he was too close to home for regrets and he owed them nothing.

That night he waited on the porch for his food, but none came until Hamlyn stepped outside with an expression of irritation on his face.