years their descendants settled above ground in the kingdoms of Charyn, Lumatere and Sarnak. The rock people of Lumatere were fair in skin and gold of hair, much like Grijio of Paladozza and Hamlyn and Arna of Jidia. Froi had grown up amongst those in the Sarnak capital with the same colouring. Had they come from the same Sendecanese who had hidden in these caves in the past? Was it why Finnikin’s people settled themselves on a rock and not the Flatlands or mountains? He thought of Quintana who looked different from everyone Froi had come across. She was every colour of Charyn stone. Flecks of browns and greys and golds.
Outside the caves and back at the base of the gravina, Froi couldn’t help but marvel at how it had taken him half the time to travel back to where he had begun his journey. He wondered what else the caves could offer those who were desperate not to be found. He waited until early morning to make his way to the others, praying they would still be there. He was more than half a mile upstream and could see only three of Bestiano’s riders. He figured they would have had no clue about where he was this last week. Perhaps they had become lazy. But not too lazy. They wanted Quintana. Bestiano wanted her. She was his only way back into the palace and to power. Bestiano’s capture of the King’s true assassin, the King’s own treacherous daughter, would bring him some kind of credibility amongst some of the Provincari. Despite everything that had taken place between them, Froi was her only chance of survival. If Quintana, Gargarin, Arjuro and Lirah had left the cave or been caught by the riders, Froi would search for them and not return to Lumatere until he knew they were safe.
Later that morning he crept through the entrance of their cave. When he was satisfied that the branches and bracken were back in place, he turned, only to see Lirah wielding Gargarin’s staff at his head. Froi ducked and something flashed in her eyes. Was it relief that he wasn’t a rider? Or relief that he had returned?
‘You got lost, did you?’ she asked coldly.
They stared at each other for a long time and Froi felt the anger return.
‘Not what you wanted, am I, Lirah?’ he spat out. ‘Not what you dreamed of?’
‘I never wanted and I never dreamed,’ she said quietly, taking the pack from his hand. ‘So don’t presume you know what passes through my head.’
She walked away, but turned when he didn’t follow.
‘I think it frightens her more when you’re not around than when you are,’ she said. ‘Come.’
There were no hugs or tears on Froi’s return. Only hostility. Quintana was cold and Arjuro plain grunting rude. Gargarin refused to look at him, his head bent over his wretched sketches of water troughs and whatnot. In the centre of their cave, Froi emptied his pack. He saw their eyes widen when the bread and cheese and bacon appeared before them and wondered how long it had been since they last ate.
‘You think we’ll forgive you, just like that,’ Arjuro said, keeping his distance.
Froi retrieved a bottle of mead from his pack. ‘As I don’t believe I did anything that requires forgiveness, I’ll merely hand this over for you to swill in silence.’
‘You’ve been gone six days,’ Gargarin shouted, finally looking up and throwing his pages across the cave. ‘Six days! We thought you were dead!’
Froi was surprised by his outburst. Lirah merely picked up the scattered papers, shuffling them together. Quintana was staring at the food. She looked pale and drawn, the dark circles under her eyes even more pronounced.
‘Eat,’ Froi ordered. But still she refused to step closer.
‘Who gave you all this?’ Lirah asked, kneeling beside Froi, pages in hand.
‘A couple on a farm beyond the gravina,’ he said, breaking some bread and placing a piece of cheese inside. He held it up to Quintana, who gazed at it hungrily. When she refused to take it, he bit into it, chewed, swallowed and held it out to her again. This time she took it.
‘I tried to steal a horse and they let me stay a night or two.’ He looked at them, nodding. ‘Good, honest people. They treated me like they would a son,’ he added, his tone emphasising the last part.
Arjuro took a swig of the mead, wiping his mouth with satisfaction. ‘Who would have guessed? He’s a needy little thing, isn’t he?’
For a long time there was only the sound of chewing and grunting. Froi watched them all, a strange sort of peace coming over him.
‘I know how to get to Jidia without the riders seeing us.’
Everyone stopped chewing and stared.
‘The steps of Jidia,’ he said.
Gargarin shook his head with disbelief.
‘It’s a myth.’
Froi waved the map in front of his face.
‘Not according to this map. We’re going to have to take a chance and leave here. The cave is half a mile downstream. If we travel in the dark in the early hours of the morning, we should be safe.’
‘I say it’s a mistake,’ Gargarin said. ‘We could be following a trail that does not exist and end up creating a prison for ourselves in those caves. Starving to death at that.’
‘Always the optimist,’ Arjuro muttered.
Later, Froi and the others lay, trying to sleep. All except for Quintana, who still sat upright, fighting to stay awake.
‘I dreamt,’ Quintana said. ‘Two nights past.’
Whilst the others murmured their acknowledgement, as though they had become used to her ramblings, Froi’s heart began to hammer in his chest.
‘I dream between sleep and wakefulness,’ Quintana continued indignantly.
‘I, for one, would like to have the opportunity to sleep now, so I can dream,’ Arjuro said, drowsy from the mead.
Gargarin made a sound in agreement, but Froi kept his eyes on Quintana, the light from the flames making her look ghostly, even fragile.
‘What did you dream about?’ he asked, and he couldn’t keep the gruffness from his voice.
Quintana held up a thumb and two fingers, a question in her eyes. It was the identical gesture Lirah had captured and painted on the wall of her prison all those years ago.
Froi crawled out of his bedroll and picked up Gargarin’s quill and papers. He tried to get closer to her, but she hissed like the cats he had seen on the streets of the Sarnak capital, protecting their litter from the daggers of hungry men.
‘Froi,’ Lirah warned from her bedroll.
Froi began to draw. ‘I dreamt of this,’ he said when he finished the sketch, holding it up. ‘I dreamt …’
He felt his face warming up.
Suddenly the others were wide awake and looking his way.
‘You dreamt what?’ Gargarin asked ‘What have you drawn there?’
Froi held it up over the light of the fire.
‘I dreamt she was drawing these letters on my body,’ he mumbled.
He felt four sets of eyes on him, three sets looking at him questioningly. ‘Didn’t you say nothing intimate took place between you two?’ Gargarin asked, suspiciously.
‘Didn’t say that at all,’ Froi said, on the defensive. ‘What makes you think something did take place between us?’
Arjuro made a rude sound. ‘It’s in your voice, you little snake.’
Lirah was looking at Quintana as suspiciously as Gargarin had looked at Froi. ‘I thought you said he pleaded illness and lack of interest each time,’ she said.
‘Well, he did,’ Quintana said indignantly. ‘But on the final night he was up for swiving and I was reassured once again that the gods had sent him to break the curse.’
‘We don’t use that word, Princess,’ Gargarin said politely.
‘I use it all the time,’ Arjuro said. ‘One of my favourite words, actually.’
Froi didn’t think there’d be any sleep tonight, judging from the idiotic conversation.
‘What made you so sure he was sent to break the curse, Quintana?’ Lirah asked, patiently. ‘Why not the other lastborns?’
‘It’s written all over him. Have I not said that over and over again, Lirah?’ Quintana asked, annoyed.
Froi shuddered. There were too many signs to ignore now. Hamlyn’s dream of his son. Quintana’s strange
